Page 46 of Go First
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Healing Hands Ankh em Maat Spiritual Centre sat on the edge of Back Cove, an old, now-scruffy former fishermen’s chapel, squatting beside a low-slung slab of fancy stone and glass that was either an avant-garde dental clinic or the HQ of a fancy lawyer.Red and blue strobes from the cruisers fractured in the puddles by the kerb.
Kate flashed her badge and ducked under the yellow tape, holding it up, unsuccessfully, for Marcus to follow.The scent of incense hung stubbornly in the air—sandalwood and something sharper—just faint enough to be unsettling.
Inside, Desiree, already zipped into her Tyvek suit, turned toward them, her dark locks caught back in a careless bun that was far too stylish to be accidental.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite crime fighters,” she said, eyes lingering on Marcus a beat too long.“You clean up nice, G-man.”
Marcus managed a weary grin.“You’re seeing me after three cups of coffee, Dez.Peak grooming hour.”
“Don’t spoil the illusion.”Desiree handed him a clipboard and then, with a conspiratorial wink, addressed them all.“Victim’s a Sister Dorothy Kane.Time of death: roughly midnight.Still waiting on final numbers, but rigor puts it close.More things: no sign of forced entry, no pizza box like before, they don’t have CCTV—I’m serious— and route of entry not yet examined due to y’all know.”
Fortunately, they all did know what she meant byy’all know.It meant that everyone knew there was not enough.There was not enough leeway, not enough ink for the printer, not enough gas, training, support, recognition, pencils, teaspoons in the kitchen, dialogue.Not enough people for the job.Yet they were all still here.They showed up anyway.And that was what it meant.
Kate crouched beside the sheet-draped body.The pale, lined face that emerged looked oddly serene, as if the last breath had left her mid-prayer.
Desiree pointed with a gloved hand.“Injection site just behind the left ear.There’s some redness and swelling—mild allergic reaction to the baclofen-sedative cocktail.Could’ve slowed absorption, maybe prolonged the sedative effect, but not enough to change outcome.”
Kate noted it down.Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“Struggle?”he asked.
“Couple broken nails on her right hand,” Desiree said.“Nothing major—just enough to say she didn’t go quietly… It’s a shame.Sister spent some dollars on those claws.”
She reached for a small evidence bag and passed it to Kate.“Found in her left hand.Thought you’d want first look.”
Inside the plastic sleeve lay a sheet of creamy paper, folded once.A single line of script marched across the page.Kate’s eyes flicked over the words; her pulse ticked up.One was a Bible reference.The other was a sentence, of sorts.It said: two years, two months.She read both silently, the letters dark as dried blood, her thoughts fluttering.
Behind her, Poppy—brought along for crime-scene experience— had already crouched at the far wall, flashlight beam playing over the baseboards.“There’s a basement,” she called.“So I’m guessing there’s a basement window.”
“Which means?”Marcus asked.
“Killer could have left traces, could have found an entry-point,” Poppy said.“I’ll go search the alleyway outside, he might have left a print.Or an envelope with his name and address on it,” she added, with a grin.
Marcus straightened, scanning the chamber.Gold-painted lotus capitals lined the walls; hieroglyphs winked from mosaics.He spotted a woman sitting stiffly by the altar—mid-fifties, iron-gray hair swept into a chignon, a long white stole draped over a simple linen dress.She clutched a beaded cord so tightly her knuckles blanched.
“You’re Beverly Locke?”Marcus asked.
She inclined her head.“I’m- IwasSister Dorothy’s assistant.”
Marcus moved closer, lowering his voice.“Can you tell me a little about her… and about this place?”
Beverly exhaled slowly, the beads sliding through her fingers.“We were Episcopalians, once.Ordinary people with ordinary pews.And good friends, me and her… we used to be in charge of the flowers and the old folks’ luncheons.Then Dorothy lost her child—her only one.After the funeral she began to… see.Visions, she called them.”She sniffed loudly and fell quiet, almost as if she’d forgotten they were there.
“Visions of what, Mrs Locke?”Marcus asked, gently.
“Miss,” she corrected him.“I was married to this place.”She gave a very faint chuckle.“Almost married to Sister Dorothy, too.”She shifted in her chair.“The Sister’s visions told her mankind had wandered from the true path; that all our religions were fragments of one pure faith that existed before Egypt, before Babylon.She said traces survived—in the rites of the Nile, in the chants of Babylon, in Judaism and Christianity, Hindu ceremonies.All of them… b-broken mirrors of the original light.”
Her voice trembled, but her gaze stayed steady.“She was given a mission.To lead us back.And she was gifted—she could heal hearts, soothe minds.People left here lighter.For a fee, yes,” Beverly added, catching Marcus’s raised brow.“But what’s a few dollars for a candle, for a vial of oil?Better that than a bottle or a crack pipe.Wouldn’t you agree?”
Marcus gave a slow nod.“Did you believe her visions?”
Beverly’s mouth tightened into something like a smile.“Belief is complicated, Agent Reid.But Sister Dorothy made people feel better.Sometimes that’s the only miracle anyone needs.”
A commotion flared near the entrance.Two uniforms were barring a man in a tailored charcoal suit from stepping past the tape.Poppy was observing at the top of the alley, notebook in hand, spectacles almost falling off the end of her nose.
The man’s sandy hair was slicked back, and he wore the expression of someone used to talking his way into places.