Rafe?”
“What’s wrong?” Rafe asked.
“Nothing.” She smiled at the two scientists. “Dr. Fielding, don’t leave without Skye, okay? She gave me the keys to her truck.” She held them up.
Rafe snatched them from her hand. “You don’t have a license.”
“Yes I do. Just not in the States.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, so it’s expired, but I know how to drive better than you.”
“I’m driving. Skye doesn’t need any more trouble.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
Rafe thanked the men and left them to science. He had the information he needed-only he wasn’t quite sure what it meant yet. He walked out of the room with Moira. “Learn anything?” he asked.
“Plenty. I’ll fill you in on the way. You?”
“I think I know how the demon is operating.”
She stopped walking as they reached the main doors. “That’s huge! How?”
“The brain stem is the most primitive part of our brain. The most basic part, and the most important. The amygdala is bigger than it’s supposed to be in the victims, and it’s feeding off an increase of blood to the brain stem. The amygdala is responsible for human emotional responses. What if the demon takes away something-a barrier of some sort, a biological or spiritual control valve? That explains why these people have no restraint. And it explains the basketball player in Santa Louisa.”
“Chris Kidd? How?”
“He didn’t act on his impulses.”
“We don’t know that he had them. He was marked, but maybe it hadn’t manifested yet.”
“What if he was fighting the impulse? What if the process was somehow incomplete or imperfect and Kidd was resisting? What if his conscience was stronger than the others, and he fought back? His blood vessels ruptured. That didn’t happen to the others.”
“So what does that mean, Rafe? If someone doesn’t fight the urge to act on envy or lust or pride, they kill someone and then die? If they do fight the urge, they still die? Where does that leave us? Tilting at windmills?”
Rafe didn’t have the answers. “I don’t know.”
“Well, Don Quixote, that certainly makes me sleep better at night,” Moira said as she walked out of the morgue.
“Moira-wait.”
She stopped but didn’t turn around. Rafe put his hands on her shoulders. “What had you so freaked when you saw me in there?”
“Freaked? Not me.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
“Okay, fine. The corpses were creeping me out. Satisfied?”
“That just means you’re human.”
“Oh, joy.”
Rafe turned her to face him. “Give yourself a break. You’re not superhuman.”
She mocked surprise. “What? You mean I have to give back the cape and golden lasso?”
He smiled and touched her chin. “I didn’t say you weren’t a superhero.”
He’d said it to make her feel better, but she turned away. “I’m not.”
“Moira-”
“Dammit, Rafe! Look what we’re up against. I don’t see this ever ending.” She shook her head, then looked at the blue sky. “I hate this! If God wanted to help us in this battle, He’d leave clearer instructions.”
“We just need to figure them out,” Rafe said.
“I’d rather have a rule book, thank you very much.” She glanced back at him. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“Velocity. It’s a club in West L.A., and so far, it’s the only connection between all the victims. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch the demon before anyone else dies.”
SEVEN
“There’s nothing for you here,” Detective Grant Nelson told Skye after the autopsy was complete. “If we learn anything more, we’ll let you know.”
Skye bit back her anger. Antagonizing this homicide cop wasn’t going to win her friends. She needed him on her side. Or at a minimum, to not stand in her way. “I’d appreciate it,” she said, keeping her voice calm.
“Where’s your cult expert?” he asked, shooting his partner a sly grin.
“Getting air,” Skye said. “She’ll be back shortly.”
“I have to get back to work,” he said, glancing at his BlackBerry with a frown. “But I’ll call.”
Jeff Johnston, his rookie partner, gave her a warmer goodbye and said in a low voice out of Grant’s earshot, “His bark is worse than his bite. I’ll make sure he lets you know what’s up with these deaths.”
“Thanks.”
When she was certain the detectives were gone, Skye went back to where the pathologist Fern Archer was sewing up the body of George Erickson, the swinger.
“Nelson made it clear I couldn’t talk to you without him in the room,” Fern grumbled.
“That’s fine; I don’t want to talk to you about his case.”
Fern smiled widely. “What can I do for you, then?”
“A favor? If you get another body with a similar mark on it, would you call me?” Skye put her card down on the stainless-steel table behind Fern.
“Sure.” Fern bit her lip. “You think this really is a cult?”
“Of a sort. These deaths are somehow connected to the bodies in Santa Louisa.”
“My boss is signing the death certificate as a cardiac arrest.”
“But you said there were no signs of heart failure.”
“I said heart
“But you don’t have the toxicology reports back.”
“We have the prelims. We have a lab right here, can run standard screens 24/7. No drugs, low alcohol, no common poisons. And there’re no signs of trauma, aneurysms, anything that could be a contributing cause. But then I heard that my boss is talking to your coroner about the dead guy’s brain. Want to clue me in?”
Fern had been more than helpful, so Skye told her, “Dr. Fielding found something unusual about the brain stem, and wanted a second opinion. Dr. Takasugi was very kind to help.”
“And?”
“And they’re not done.”
“Don can be tight-lipped sometimes,” Fern grumbled.
“I’ll let you know if anything interesting pops up.”
She grinned. “Thanks.”
Skye resisted the urge to smile. She liked the petite black girl-she was spunky and held her own against the arrogant Detective Grant Nelson. “If you ever want to move out of a big city into small-town America, let me know.”
Fern beamed.
Skye added, “Seems that the victims have only one thing in common: they were horny men.”
