Page 26

The devil lived in a church. Not metaphorically. Ella had dealt with enough religious zealots to know the difference. Adam Canton, their new suspect, kept an apartment above First Light Assembly on Wexford Street according to his file, and Ella intended to find out if that's where he planned his executions.

Ella parked across from First Light Assembly and felt that strange sense of temporal displacement churches always gave her. Some peculiar weightlessness of being simultaneously reminded of childhood and mortality. Ripley manifested at her window and tapped on the glass.

When she got out, she nodded across the street at the power station. ‘There it is.’

The Granville South Power Station loomed like a concrete fortress on the opposite side. Construction equipment clustered around its perimeter while workers in hard hats scurried between trucks. A dull, droning sound came from somewhere, like nature's tinnitus. A chain-link fence adorned with 'AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY' signs separated the holy from the industrial. Power station and church. Two visions of Granville's future staring each other down across fifty feet of asphalt.

‘Is a church worth killing over?’ Ella asked.

‘Men have killed for less.’

‘True.’

‘I read the reports while you were at City Hall. They’re going to knock down First Light Assembly to expand the power station. I’d be pissed too. Rather see a church than a power plant.’

‘You ready?’ Ella asked, momentarily forgetting that all Ripley had was the clothes on her back. No badge or gun for her.

‘I got a fist and heels on my boots. I’m ready.’

They headed towards the church entrance. The graveyard that fronted First Light Assembly wasn't large – maybe forty headstones arranged in uneven rows, like bad teeth in an aging mouth. Ella registered details automatically; her brain couldn't help it. Dates going back to the 1890s. Names weathered into illegibility. Fresh flowers on only one grave; bright yellow chrysanthemums defying December's palette of grays and browns. If the power plant extension happened – and it seemed it had already begun – Ella wondered if the bodies underneath her would be dug up.

A cloud passed overhead, briefly dimming the already reluctant sunlight. The temperature seemed to drop five degrees in that momentary eclipse, and Ella felt goosebumps rise along her arms

The church's entrance loomed ahead – massive oak doors beneath a stone arch inscribed with words nearly worn away by time and weather. Ella could make out only fragments: ‘...LIGHT UNTO...’ and ‘...PATH.’ The right door stood slightly ajar.

From this close, the building's disrepair became evident. Mortar crumbling between stones. A gutter hanging askew along one edge of the roof. Ivy that had once been decorative.

‘If Canton cared so much about this place, you’d think he’d take better care of it.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t care about it. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to start killing,’ Ripley said. ‘Do we knock?’

Ella pushed the door. ‘God’s house is always open.’

‘An open door’s an invitation.’

Her heart rate spiked as she stepped inside. A foyer greeted her, and it smelled like every church Ella had ever known. A bulletin board sagged with expired announcements. Someone had tacked up a Christmas program schedule, maybe the last Christmas schedule this church would see.

Beyond the vestibule, the sanctuary opened up. Late morning light pierced stained glass windows in cylinders of orange and blue and green. The nave stretched forward to an altar draped in purple – Advent season, Ella remembered from childhood Sundays when her aunt had still believed church might fix what was broken in her niece. A wooden cross hung suspended above, but there was no Jesus in sight. No crown of thorns. Just geometry stripped to its barest symbolism.

‘Adam Canton?’ she shouted. ‘FBI. Show yourself.’

No response.

Ella's hand hovered near her weapon as she advanced down the center aisle. The place felt deserted, but her instincts hummed with that familiar warning frequency. Empty spaces were never truly empty. They waited to be filled. ‘You see a back door on your way in? ’

‘No. You?’

'No. There must be another entrance, though. I doubt Canton comes and goes through the oak doors.'

‘Then if he’s here, we need to block him off.’

Ella scanned the periphery. A dry baptismal font stood to her left. Confessional booth on the right. Hymn books with cracked spines lined the back of each pew. At the front, beside the altar, a small door presumably led to auxiliary spaces. Offices, classrooms, storage. Perhaps the stairway to Canton's apartment above.

‘Check out the windows,’ Ripley said, nodding toward the stained glass. ‘Bit on the nose, isn’t it?’

Ella followed her gaze. The nearest window depicted an angel with a flaming sword standing guard over what Ella figured was Eden's gate. Adam and Eve cowered in the foreground, shame-faced and newly aware of their nakedness. The next window showed what Ella guessed was Sodom and Gomorrah in flames.

‘Gotta get your inspiration from somewhere. Come on, let’s find Canton’s apartment upstairs.’

Ella reached the altar and paused. A Bible lay open, and some of the verses were underlined in red. She leaned closer, careful not to touch. The open passage was Revelation 18.

Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and has become a dwelling place of demons, a prison for every foul spirit, and a cage for every unclean and hated bird!

Ripley joined her at the altar, her eyes flicking to the Bible, then to the door beside it. ‘Someone's been busy with their homework.’

‘It amazes me someone wrote this thing.’

‘It amazes me someone reads this thing.’

Ella turned her attention to the door beside the altar. It was unassuming – plain wood with a simple brass handle. No sign indicated what lay beyond, but instinct told her it might lead to the answers they sought.

‘Pastor Canton?’ she called one last time, giving due diligence to announcement before entry. ‘If you're here, we need to speak with you. It's important.’

‘Either he’s not here or he’s ignoring us.’

‘Either option is cause to go upstairs.’ Ella grabbed the door handle, turned and opened up into a narrow hallway. There were two doors, one on either side. Both were hanging open .

She slid up to the first door and peered in. It appeared to be a small office – desk, chair, filing cabinet. Nothing remarkable except its emptiness. No computer. No papers. Nothing to suggest the daily business of saving souls had happened here anytime recently.

The second door revealed a Sunday school room. Child-sized chairs arranged in a semi-circle. Felt boards with cutout figures of Jesus and disciples. Crayon drawings of arks and floods and burning bushes taped to walls.

‘Just an office and Sunday school.’

‘Where the magic happens,’ Ripley kept her voice low. She was already at the end of the corridor. ‘Here. Staircase.’

Ella rushed over, surveyed it. The center of each step was dust free. ‘We might be in luck.’

Ripley went first, treading quietly. Ella counted the steps as she ascended. It was a habit born from years of thinking about escape routes. Fourteen steps. Steep pitch. Narrow treads that would make running down them a gamble with gravity. The staircase curved halfway up, then straightened for its final approach to a landing. A single door waited at the top: solid wood with chipped green paint and a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head.

At the top, she paused, listened. No sounds from the other side. No deadbolt. No security measures at all, which struck Ella as odd for someone so focused on sins and judgment. Maybe Canton figured God was protection enough.

One knock. ‘Adam Canton. FBI. Open up.’

Silence answered.

Ripley tried her luck. She hammered and shouted, ‘Canton, we need to speak with you.’

Nothing.

‘Your call,’ said Ripley.

Ella weighed her options. Protocol demanded a warrant or probable cause, but protocol didn’t account for a killer with a divine timetable. If Canton was their unsub, every minute they delayed was another minute he might be preparing his next brand. It was better to apologize for trespassing than to find another body at their feet.

She tried the handle. It turned without resistance. She exchanged glances with Ripley, who nodded and positioned herself to one side of the doorframe. Ella nudged the door with her shoulder and went in Glock-first .

‘Canton?’ she called again. ‘FBI. We're coming in.’

The apartment revealed itself in increments: first a slice of living room with faded furniture, then a kitchenette visible through an archway. Ella skirted along the walls until she reached a tiny hallway. There was a door on either side and another at the end.

Her first stop was the bathroom, and bathrooms always told the truth. Kitchens lied and living rooms posed, but bathrooms revealed. Adam Canton's was surgical in its cleanliness, not a stray hair or damp towel in sight. It existed in a state of such pristine emptiness that Ella found herself checking the toilet tank for hidden evidence

‘Nothing,’ she called to Ripley, who was searching the living room.

The bedroom came next. Another exercise in absence. A single bed and a nightstand boasting a leather Bible. A closet of identical black shirts and clerical collars hung with such perfect spacing that Ella briefly wondered if Canton measured the distance between hangers.

Only the final door remained, centered at the hallway's end. Unlike the others, this one bore scratches around the keyhole – evidence of frequent locking and unlocking. Ella tried the handle.

Unlocked.

She pushed inside.

The shock wasn't immediate. It built like a wave gathering force offshore, rising as her brain processed what her eyes were seeing. Every vertical surface; walls, the backs of doors, even portions of the ceiling – bore photographs of Rebecca Torres.

‘What the f…’

Torres laughing with city council members. Torres kissing her husband on their lakeside deck. Torres slid into the passenger seat of a car. Torres at fundraisers, at restaurants, at the salon. Torres through the windows of her home.

‘Uh, Ripley…. Get in here.’

Her partner appeared next to her. She peered inside. ‘Wow.’

‘What the hell is this?’

‘Someone has a thing for Rebecca Torres.’

Some images bore the crisp clarity of professional equipment; others the grainy texture of smartphone telephoto lenses. The collection spanned seasons – Torres in sundresses and winter coats, in morning light and evening shadow.

Time crystallized in Canton's murder shrine. Ella couldn't tear her eyes from the mosaic of Rebecca Torres's life. Torres laughing. Torres arguing. Torres unaware she was performing for an audience of one. The photographs created a timeline of surveillance so meticulous it could only be born from obsession or hatred, or that particular toxic cocktail where the two become indistinguishable.

Ripley said, ‘We need to find Canton. Now. I’ll call Westfall, get his boys on the search.’

‘Tell him to get cops here, in case Canton comes home.’

As much as Ella wanted to dissect this murder shrine, every second spent here was time spent letting a killer roam free. The priority was to find the man behind this mess, then she could worry about the rest later.

Ripley pressed her phone to her ear. ‘No signal.’

‘Call him outside. Come on, we don’t have time to hang around.’

They bolted from the room, Ella leading the way down the stairs, her mind six steps ahead of her feet. She was already planning the manhunt, mentally positioning officers at Canton's known locations, calculating how quickly they could establish surveillance on his potential next victims.

They burst through the narrow hallway with its Sunday school room and vacant office. The sanctuary waited beyond, its stained glass throwing kaleidoscope patterns across empty pews.

Except something was different on the return journey.

Ella's hand moved to her weapon before her conscious mind registered why.

The sanctuary wasn't empty anymore.

A figure stood at the altar. Male. Medium build. Dressed in black pants and a clerical shirt with white collar. His back was to them as he gazed up at the wooden cross suspended overhead.

Ella drew her weapon. Ripley fanned out to her right, creating a tactical angle despite her unarmed status.

‘Adam Canton? Hands where I can see them.’

The figure at the altar didn't startle. Didn't flinch. Didn't show any reaction that evolution had programmed into human beings when confronted with sudden threats.

‘Canton? I won’t ask again.’

The man revealed himself by degrees. First a profile, then three-quarters view, finally full face. His features were ordinary to the point of invisibility. The kind of face that cashiers would forget the moment he walked away.

And he definitely matched the mugshot imprinted on Ella’s retinas .

The colored light from the stained glass windows behind him fragmented across his face in a mask of fractured saints. The effect was cubist perfection. One eye bathed in martyr's red, the other in prophet's blue, his mouth bisected by a shaft of golden light that made his smile seem to float independent of his face.

‘Hands. Up. Now.’ Each word a separate island in the ocean of churning adrenaline.

The man complied.

‘Finally,’ he smiled. ‘You found me.’