Page 29

FAITHFUL SHADOWS

SEAN

The scent of old wood, candle wax, and incense hit me like a wall as we stepped into the dimly lit church. Saint Augustine's—a massive gothic structure that looked like it had been plucked straight out of Dublin and dropped into this backwater American town. Stained glass windows filtered the afternoon sunlight into colorful patterns across worn pews, while overhead, ancient chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings like sleeping metal spiders.

“Jaysus,” I muttered under my breath. “Place looks like it's straight out of a horror flick.”

Beside me, Cade shot me a disapproving look. Always the respectful one, even after everything we'd seen. Everything we knew about what lurked behind the veneer of religion.

“It's a church, Sean,” he whispered. “Show some respect.”

“Yeah, yeah. Churches, respect, hallowed ground. I get it.” I ran a hand through my hair, scanning the empty sanctuary. “Still doesn't change the fact that four poor bastards who prayed here are now dead with their eyes burned out.”

The place was empty except for a lone priest near the altar, arranging flowers with careful precision. He must have heard our footsteps echoing on the marble floor because he turned, offering a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was older, maybe mid-sixties, with thinning gray hair and thick glasses that magnified his pale blue eyes.

“Welcome to Saint Augustine's,” he called out, voice warm but tired. “I'm Father Thomas. Are you here for confession? I'm afraid evening mass isn't until six.”

We approached the altar, and I reached into my jacket, pulling out the fake badges we'd been using. Credentials from the Center for Investigation of Theological Discrepancies—a completely bogus organization that sounded just official enough to open doors.

“CITD,” I said, flashing the badge quickly before tucking it away. “I'm Agent Tennant, this is Agent Smith. We're investigating a series of murders. All victims were members of this congregation.”

Father Thomas's smile faltered, his fingers nervously adjusting his collar. “Yes, terrible business. Martin, Joseph, William, and now Zac. Faithful men, all of them.”

“We need to know if you've noticed anything . . . strange,” I continued, watching his face carefully. “Unusual visitors, odd behavior among the congregation, anyone showing particular interest in these men.”

The priest hesitated, eyes darting between us, then finally nodded. “I can give you a list of our regular devotees. Perhaps you'll see a pattern I've missed.”

He disappeared into a back room off the sanctuary, leaving us alone among the empty pews and watchful saints. I glanced at Cade, who was scanning the church with that intense look he got when he was onto something. Not just observing—searching.His eyes lingered on the altar, then moved to the stained glass, then the confessional booths.

“What are you picking up?” I asked quietly.

Cade shook his head slightly. “Not sure. But there's something here. Something . . .” He trailed off, his hand unconsciously moving to his chest, where I knew the mark lay hidden beneath his shirt.

“Your spidey sense tingling?” I tried to keep my tone light, but worry gnawed at my gut.

Before he could answer, Father Thomas returned with several printed pages in hand. “Here's our membership list, with attendance records for the past six months. I've marked those who've been most regular, and those who participated in our special events.”

I took the papers and started reading through the names, searching for patterns, connections, anything that might point us toward potential victims—or whoever was doing the killing.

Cade leaned over my shoulder, frowning. “The ages,” he said suddenly.

I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He tapped the paper with his index finger. “Most of the men murdered were in their thirties or forties. Martin Reeves was forty-two, Joseph Daniels forty-five, William Thornton thirty-eight, and Zac Moore forty-three.”

I glanced back at the list, catching on quickly. “So we're looking for men in that age range who attended the prayer revival.”

“And who've shown increased religious devotion in the past few weeks,” Cade added.

Father Thomas cleared his throat. “If it helps, Brother Michael's prayer revival was particularly popular with our male parishioners. He spoke of rediscovering masculine spirituality, of men reclaiming their role as spiritual leaders.”

“Brother Michael,” I repeated, the name tasting sour on my tongue. “The visiting monk. Where exactly did he come from?”

The priest's brow furrowed. “A monastery in Northern Turkey, he said. He had letters of introduction from the diocese. Everything seemed in order.”

“I'm sure it did,” I muttered. Forged papers were easy enough to come by in our line of work. We'd used plenty ourselves.

Scanning the list again, two names jumped out at me. Edward Hayes, forty-one, and Daniel Whitmore, thirty-nine. Both had attended every service in the past month, both had participated in the prayer revival, and according to Father Thomas's notes, both had recently volunteered to lead new men's prayer groups.