A Murder of Saints: A Novel

PROLOGUE

Come on over here, little girly. Have a seat right here!

The echoing, nightmarish words swirled inside the girl’s young mind, swelling up and drifting back out to a black sea like a menacing tide.

Daddy D wants to show ya something!

Sophie Fields blinked the memories away furiously as she stood uneasily upon the peak of her parent’s roof. Her toes clenched and curled inside her small shoes, and she heard the soles of her sneakers scrape on the grit of the shingles. In her hand was a small note, something she’d scribbled with crayons just moments before making her way to the roof. Tears streaked her pale face, and dark, brown hair matted her cheeks in tangles.

She felt ashamed and tormented, her very soul wrenched into a tangled knot. The same relentless nightmares terrified her every single night.

She was at his house, sleeping on the floor. He was an elder at the church her family had gone for years. Her whole life, as a matter of fact, at least until Daddy D had done what he did.

Her dreams haunted her, all the way down to the smallest details: the hardwood floors, the adjoining tiled floors, the game room with the billiard table and dart boards, the swimming pool, the tennis courts. And the dark bedrooms. It was there—in her dreams—where she would open her eyes, and there he would be. Standing over her, a sick grin polluting his deceivingly charming face. Perfectly manicured fingers attached to soft, weathered hands would reach for her out of the dark. His shadow-smeared face would begin to emerge from the inky abyss, scarcely masking his repugnant perversion.

Come to Daddy D, darling! I wanna show you something!

Mercifully, she would awaken at that point, but that mercy could never cover the screams or stop the cold sweat that would burst forth from her goose-pimpled flesh. She was always relieved at waking, but she always dreaded the inevitability of slumber. Creeping ever closer to her, relentless and unstoppable; she would, after all, have to sleep sometime. And when that time came, when exhaustion overcame her and she could hold her eyes open no longer, he would be there. Even more frightening was the thought that perhaps her dream might not start from the beginning, though so far it always had. But what if?

What if?

That great and terrible question lingered over her, an ever-present torment in times of despair. She dreaded the thought that her dream might pick back up right where it had left off.

She shuddered at the thought.

Sometimes, she thought that was the worst part of her waking, unending nightmare. What happened next. After his sick grin. After his perverse glare. After the hands stretching out from the gloom.

I wanna show you something!

The part after all that was too frightening for her to relive.

Of course, when she was honest with herself she knew that even that wasn’t the worst part of the nightmare. No, the truth was that the most horrible part of the whole thing was they weren’t really nightmares at all. At least not in the traditional sense. Most nightmares were mere fables, unreasonable fears that transformed into fictions in the night. Little more than that. Those at least could be reasoned away, comforted by the loving arms of an understanding parent.

But the dreams that were tormenting her did not come from childish phobias of the dark and spook stories of boogeymen creeping under beds. These memories were real, manifesting the real horrors of her real life.

His name was Damien Smith. The much-loved and respected church elder with a secret lust for the unmentionable. Yet he had walked away from the whole thing, his integrity intact. It was more than her twelve-year-old mind could stand.

Damien had had help, too. She’d heard the rumors, the whisperings, the hushed remarks. Damien Smith, untouchable behind the hedge of elders standing in absolute unity and assurance. The pastor, too, absolutely convincing in both his sermons and his impassioned defense of Smith. And, of course, there was money, that great arbiter of freedom. Daddy D had plenty. They had covered up the whole thing. Paid off everyone that could be bought and made the two families that wouldn’t take the money—who had the integrity to refuse to be bought—look like bitter, mean-spirited malcontents. Made to look like utter fools; self-seeking, divisive, trouble-makers with a briar up their craw, grasping at anything they could to make the church look bad. Almost as if they were doing Satan’s work. It was as sick as it was ironic. Yet her family’s story was true. Every ugly detail. But, as is so often the case with such things, none of that mattered. To the world, and, more importantly, to the residents of Longview Texas, the leadership of Glorious Rising Church were saints. And now, it was over. Her family was one of only two who’d had the backbone to stand up to the church leadership and refuse the money. They’d put their trust in the law. In the system. Truth and justice.

She thought about one of the scriptures she’d been taught in that den of lies.

The truth shall set you free.

Only it hadn’t. Truth had never made it into the light of day. In fact, the only thing that did see the light of day was the twisted fabrication the pastor and elders had spun to the congregation, the media, and to the judges. They’d smugly sold their fabrication, and heaped contempt on any who dared to challenge it.

Yes, it was all over. It was time to move on. The other family had. They’d picked up and moved, far from all the lies, hurts, manipulation, and backstabbing.

Sophie’s family, however, couldn’t afford to do the same. They simply didn’t have the means. But Longview wasn’t a tiny town by any definition. Easy enough to avoid people on a day to day basis. Plenty of places to shop and eat. No real reason to worry about bumping into any of those people, and even if you did, it was easy enough to turn around and go the other way. It was perfectly reasonable, and entirely necessary. But the pain—the horror—wasn’t going away. She couldn’t deal with it any longer.

She shuffled closer to the edge of the roof, and saw her big brother in the yard. Little Charlie, as people liked to call him, was kicking a soccer ball around the yard, going this way and that, oblivious to his sister’s whereabouts. His dark hair, almost black, hung past his ears and danced about his head as he moved. His bucked teeth—their parents had been discussing getting them fixed before the business with Daddy D came to light, but afterward seemed to have totally forgotten about—were exposed behind lips that were pulled back in concentration as his brown eyes focused on the ball. He was already tall, despite his nickname, and ropey muscles bulged under tight skin on his arms and legs.

A soft, whimper of a smile braved her face for just a moment before being swallowed whole by her angst.

Charlie had been the only one she could totally trust. The only one who really grasped the depth of her pain. Their parents cared, of course, a great deal, but they were so hurt, so emotionally destroyed themselves, that they were unable to be there for her. At least not in a meaningful way. The way she needed. The way little Charlie had. Only little Charlie wasn’t enough.

Their quaint little neighborhood, a small subdivision filled with cookie-cutter houses with only slight variations in brick and siding and landscaping, was a typical lower-middle-class setting. The small street that ran between the rows of homes curved back around to her right to more of the same homes on the next street. Cars were parked here and there in driveways and a few on the street itself. A few of the driveways had basketball goals in them, some freestanding, some atop garages, while others had none of this. Yards were littered with bicycles and skateboards, left behind when children had abandoned them to run into their houses for snacks, sweet tea, lemonade, or watching the afternoon ball game on TV.

It was the picture of the American dream.

Sophie snapped—as if out of a trance—as her fears and despair rushed back on her. Fresh tears surged from her eyes. Tears for the death of their once God-centered family, which had shattered into a thousand pieces.

But Charlie…

She loved her big brother deeply. She thought about how he’d held her in his arms, for hours sometimes, as she wept openly, unable to face the pain and humiliation of what that horrible man had done to her. Charlie had stroked her hair and rocked her, telling her it was all going to be okay. She had almost believed him, too. She wanted to believe him. More than anything.

But it wasn’t okay. It just wasn’t true. Nothing was ever going to be okay so long as Daddy D could enter her nightmares every night. Not even Charlie could fix that.

No. She couldn’t deal with it anymore. Everything she had been taught about God had to be a lie. She had tried to believe, but her belief—her faith—had failed her.

How could this happen to me? To my family? To God’s people?

How cruel would a God have to be to let such horrors befall her? He was supposed to be her strength and her shield. Yet, she’d been shielded from absolutely nothing.

She inched closer, nearing the edge of the roof. The rain-gutter caught her eye, desperately in need of attention and cleaning. She supposed her family would never touch it again.

Reaching the edge, her foot slipped slightly on the shingles. It made a gravely, scraping sound.

Charlie heard it and looked up. His face transformed from a look of care-free indifference to one of abject terror instantly.

"What are you doing, Sophie? he screamed at her as he stumbled back a few steps to get a better view. You’re going to get hurt!"

Sophie smiled at her brother, brushing her wet, matted hair off cheeks that had begun to glow pink. She sniffed and choked back her tears. She shook her head.

I’m going to be free, Charlie, she said with an unfamiliar finality.

Charlie was becoming visibly frantic. His face paled to the color of skim milk.

What do you mean? he screamed.

She shook her head slowly.

You can’t understand, Charlie. He didn’t do it to you!

Finally, Charlie stopped backing up and stepped toward the house.

"I know, baby girl! I know! But this won’t stop him! This won’t fix anything! His eyes darted around the yard at nothing for a moment, and then went back to her. What about me? What about Mom and Dad?"

She shook her head again, tears streaming from her eyes.

Mom and dad, they…they don’t understand. They’re so angry. I need them, Charlie! So much! But they’re just…gone. Charlie gasped. His eyes frantically searched hers, desperation permeating from them.

But I haven’t, he said, his body shaking. I haven’t forgotten! I know Mom and Dad are angry, but not at you! They care, Sophie! They love you! I just know it!

She nodded. I know they do, Charlie. I really do. But I…I can’t take this anymore. No more.

Fear seemed to quake from Charlie in waves. He took another step forward. He stumbled, as though he had to fight to keep his footing.

God hasn’t forgotten you, he piped at her, his voice cracking.

Sophie stopped nodding at that, and began to shake her head angrily. Instant rage covered her face.

No! she screamed. "God is DEAD!"

Charlie shrank back at her words. His face drained of what little hope may have been there, and tears filled his eyes. He was having no effect on her, and she thought he was starting to see that.

And there was nothing that he, or anyone else, could do to stop her.

But… she continued, pausing to gulp back her tears and lock eyes with her brother, Daddy D isn’t.

She jumped.

When their eyes locked, Charlie was seized by horror. This horror exploded into full-on terror as she threw herself head-long from the roof. As if it were slow-motion, her little frame flipped upside-down in the air in a quick arc. It was so fast, yet seemed so slow. Her hair blew back and streamed behind her, as if a gentle summer breeze were brushing her face. Her eyes were closed. Her arms were outspread, palms turned up.

She looked so…peaceful.

Then her face—so sad, but smiling now—rushed into the driveway.

Her head cracked loudly on the concrete. Sick, sharp snapping sounds pierced Charlie’s soul as he watched her little body twist in ways it was never meant to go. It was an image that would be seared into his mind forever.

Charlie screamed, collapsing to his knees, tears bursting from his eyes like rain.

He forced himself to his feet and staggered towards her a few steps, seeing a pool of scarlet collect around her head. He could smell the metallic tang of blood—his little Sophie’s blood. He got sick.

Her head was twisted around backwards, and her mouth hung open. Lifeless eyes, still wet with tears, stared into Charlie, beyond him, at nothing. The note, the crayon note, lay in her limp hand.

She wasn’t crying anymore.

He fell to his knees, shaking with horror. His heart felt like it had been ripped into a thousand pieces. His fists clenched white, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms, drawing blood. His eyes stung, and he felt as though he were choking. He realized he wasn’t breathing. With a monumental effort, he wrenched his lungs free from their prison and drew in a horrible, rasping breath.

Little Charlie looked to the sky and screamed.

1

TWENTY YEARS LATER…

H arry Fletcher wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath.

He stood outside a rather large but rundown house in a rough part of town wearing his usual attire: slacks, a button up shirt and tie, with the omission of his sport jacket and the addition of a dark blue Kevlar vest. At forty-one years old, he was still in decent shape, though his midsection was beginning to get the middle-age bulge. Still, at least the bulge had not yet begun to roll. He even retained most of his lightly salted, brown hair, though it wasn’t as thick as it once had been, and he maintained a thick and neatly trimmed mustache.

Fletcher was a Detective, First Grade for the Longview Police Department. He was surrounded by a group of other officers, some dressed in similar attire, others in more traditional uniforms. They had just been tipped off that Jimmy Mitchell, a lowlife of the lowest order, was hiding out at 5235 First St.

They were gearing up to execute a raid.

Fletcher took stock of his gear, making sure he was ready. He had to be ready when dealing with Jimmy Mitchell. This scumbag had been arrested for suspicion of sexual assault of a minor. After his arraignment, the judge ordered his bail at five hundred thousand dollars. Jimmy wasn’t going to be able to come up with the money for bail, so he had jumped the officers as they were taking him back to his cell. He managed to relieve one officer of his gun, knocking him senseless, and shot the other. Quickly retrieving the handcuff keys from the stunned officer, he freed himself and proceeded to beat the poor man to death with his own expandable baton. A chase had ensued, but Jimmy managed to slip away.

LPD began an area wide search, with Channel Seven News highlighting it on Crime Stoppers. Two days later, Fletcher and his partner, Marvin Gaston, were leading a small group of officers in the raid at the home of Natalie Jenkins, Jimmy’s on-again, off-again girlfriend.

Fletcher winked at his partner and gave a signal to the other officers to let them know they were about to go in. One officer around the side of the house signaled to an officer at the back door. Fletcher racked his pump shotgun and Gaston cocked the hammer of his revolver.

They were ready.

Fletcher gave the go signal and kicked in the front door. He heard the rear door splinter as it too was kicked in. His partner rushed in the open door, his gun raised. Fletcher was a second behind him, his shotgun up, the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder. There was no one in the front hallway.

His partner yelled, Clear!

Somewhere near the back of the house, Fletcher heard a voice yell the same thing as he and Gaston made their way down the hall towards the living room that was connected through a doorway on the left. Old pictures hung crooked and covered in dust on the walls of the hallway. Fletcher could hear a TV blaring up ahead in the living room.

Shit.

The TV volume was loud, making it difficult—no, impossible—to sort out what was going on. Noise like that could be fatal, Fletcher knew, robbing an officer of one of his crucial senses. Whatever was going down, it was impossible to tell by listening.

Gaston got to the doorway and dived into the room without hesitation. This behavior always bothered Fletcher. It was reckless. The kind of thing that got people killed. Fletcher might expect this from an over-zealous rookie, but Gaston should know better. Hell, he did know better. Being a bachelor, as Gaston was, seemed to make him careless.

Fletcher hated that.

His worry though, as usual, was uncalled-for. The room was clear. This time. Gaston turned off the TV, silence filling the auditory vacuum.

Clear! he announced.

Fletcher had begun to think they may have gotten here too late when he heard movement coming from an upstairs room. Fletcher’s eyes met Gaston’s, who then bolted past Fletcher and up the stairs. Fletcher bounded close behind. Ahead of him on the stairs, Gaston paused for a quick peek around the corner, then rolled into the hallway with his gun raised. Fletcher moved past him into the upstairs hallway, surveying the layout with his twelve-gauge leveled.

There was a brief moment of strained silence as their muscles tensed and their eyes strained to open wider than they were meant to. They were listening hard, waiting. Waiting for whomever had made the sound to show themselves.

Then, suddenly, someone burst across the hallway from one room to another in a blur.

Freeze! Police! Fletcher shouted, but was met with only silence.

They crept down the hallway, cautiously, nervous energy flowing off them in waves. The floor creaked ever so quietly with each step. Fletcher’s face beaded with sweat. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He looked over at his partner and saw that he was likewise transfixed in the moment. Unlike Fletcher, though, adrenaline made Gaston even more aggressive. Fletcher could see it in his partner’s eye. That gleam. That singularity of focus. He had seen it all too often in their years together on the force.

Don’t! Fletcher hissed at his partner. I mean it! Just wait for the others!

He pulled his radio off his belt and started briefing the other officers in the house of the situation. No sooner had he started the transmission, Gaston rushed down the hall toward the door where the blur of a person disappeared.

For fuck’s sake! Fletcher blurted across the radio before he could think to release the mic.

Fletcher snapped the radio back on his belt as he ran after his partner. As he hustled after him, he saw Gaston round the doorway of the room and vanish inside.

Freeze! Gaston’s voice boomed.

Fletcher rushed faster, quickly glancing into the room across the hall from Gaston before spinning around to face him. He could see his partner commanding Natalie Jenkins to put her hands up and get on her knees. She was complying, ever so slowly, but laughing maniacally as she did so.

You’re so dead, cop! she laughed. Jimmy’s gonna light you up!

She continued laughing as she laced her fingers together behind her head and dropped to her knees. Gaston moved across the room, holstering his weapon, and began cuffing the lunatic woman.

Fletcher moved to the doorway but didn’t enter. His eyes were focused down the hallway, searching for any sign of movement.

It was then that he heard a very distinct clicking sound, the sound any cop or person familiar with guns knew.

It was coming from the room Gaston was in. The one Fletcher was still just outside of.

As he looked back in at Gaston, everything seemed to slow. His gaze met Gaston’s, who was just coming up from securing the cuffs on Natalie, and Fletcher could see that he had heard it too.

Then Gaston looked just to the side of the doorway where Fletcher was. As Fletcher followed his gaze, he saw a closet door opening. The door, opening toward him, swung in a steady arc. He couldn’t see who was behind that door, but he knew.

It was Jimmy Mitchell.

Fletcher’s eyes swept back to Gaston. He started to open his mouth to tell him—to scream at him—to get down.

But he was too late. Gaston sighed, saying only one word. That one word didn’t sound frightened or even surprised. Only disappointed.

No.

A shot rang out like thunder in the night. A flash of flame licked into the room, searing the moment into Fletcher’s mind forever. A small red dot appeared on Gaston’s forehead. A splash of blood and brain matter sprayed across the wall behind him, sticking to it like some demented piece of modern art.

Gaston collapsed, unceremoniously.

Fletcher screamed at the top of his lungs as he swung his shotgun at the door. He fired. The twelve-gauge blast exploded through the door. A hole the size of a basketball appeared in it, accompanied by a splash of blood.

Jimmy Mitchell stumbled out from behind the door, his left arm shredded with pellets and streaming blood. He was raising the gun in his right hand as Fletcher racked another shell into the pipe of his shotgun. Jimmy shot, catching Fletcher squarely in his shoulder. Blood sprayed on the door frame and Fletcher fell to the ground with a loud grunt. Jimmy leveled the gun at Fletcher again and fired, but this time the bullet just missed him, slamming into the wall above his head and blasting splinters in every direction. Stunned, Fletcher tried to raise his own gun with one hand, fumbling with it, trying to ignore the symphony of pain screaming from his shoulder.

Jimmy stumbled forward, collapsing to the ground on his knees. Blood gushed freely out of his arm and upper thigh. Fletcher was still struggling to raise the shotgun at Jimmy.

Stop! Fletcher screamed.

Jimmy, slowly raising the pistol again, started laughing.

STOP!

Natalie had fallen on her chest behind Jimmy, her hands cuffed behind her back, her face speckled with Gaston’s blood. She was laughing again now, louder than ever.

Fletcher could hear the officers below clambering up the stairs. They would be too late. It was going to be up to him to get control the situation—fast—or he would be dead.

He pulled the shotgun up again, sliding his right leg underneath it. Raising his knee up, he steadied the weapon at Jimmy’s chest.

Give it up Jimmy! It’s over, just drop it!

He could hear the other cops coming. They were only seconds away.

Jimmy grimaced, then smiled sadistically. He had no intention of being arrested or going back to prison.

His smile receded back to a grimace as he raised the pistol up, quicker now. Fletcher screamed.

And fired.

The twelve-gauge roared. Flames and searing pellets blasted squarely across Jimmy’s chest, and it erupted in a shower of blood. In that same moment, Jimmy fired another round, this one ripping through Fletcher’s left thigh. Fletcher winced as blood spat onto the floor and Jimmy’s body sailed backwards across the room, smashing a bloody and grotesque hole in the drywall before falling face first to the floor.

In that moment, the rest of the officers burst into the room. Spreading out, they began securing the scene. Natalie Jenkins was no longer laughing, but screaming hysterically for Jimmy to get up.

Kill these pigs! she wailed.

Jimmy didn’t move. Jimmy Mitchell would never move again.

Fletcher pushed away the officer checking him and began to crawl across the room toward Gaston. He dropped his shotgun, using his right arm and leg to push himself forward. His left arm was tucked up close to his side, his left leg dragging limply behind. Smears of blood followed him across the room as he pulled himself to Gaston.

Finally reaching his partner, he began to cry. To sob.

He clutched his partner’s hand one last time, searching into his eyes. Searching for that gleam he had seen so many times.

The gleam was gone.

2

SIX MONTHS LATER…

H arry Fletcher pulled into the LPD’s parking lot off Cotton Street. He stepped out of his truck, a mid-sized pickup, locked it, and shuffled towards the front door.

Fletcher was tired. He hadn’t been sleeping much the past few months since the disastrous raid on Natalie Jenkins’s house when his partner had been killed. Since then, he had not paired up with anyone else. He vowed to his Captain he would work alone for the remainder of his years on the force. The Captain had snorted at this, telling him for the time being that was fine, but as soon as he found someone reliable with half a brain in their skull, Fletcher would most certainly be paired up again.

This aggravated Fletcher, but so far it had been an empty promise. Six months along, he had yet to be partnered up with anyone.

Don’t make too many waves, they’ll leave you alone.

He reached the steps and bounded up them two at a time—a technique he used to help keep his leg strong after getting shot—to the front door of the Department. It was a warm day for October and Fletcher felt stuffy in his suit. In the short distance from his truck to the door, he could already feel impending sweat threatening to crop up on his back.

He opened the door and felt a blast of cold air conditioning. He soaked it in for a moment, relishing the retreat of perspiration under his clothes, then ambled towards his office. Sounds of clicking keyboards and ringing phones filled his ears. He could hear the squeaking caws of casters in desperate need of oil rolling this way and that, most often supporting the load of people heavier than they were ever meant to endure. Occasional squawks of radio transmissions from patrolmen floated through the air, and muffled conversations between colleagues rounded out the mild cacophony of a completely normal day at the office.

As he strode quietly on his way, his mind went to Gaston. He often thought about his deceased partner. He enjoyed remembering him, but the way he had been remembering him…that was hell. The memories weren’t of good times. Never the two of them at the bar sharing a pitcher of beer, or at a Department bar-b-que. Nothing like that. What consumed Fletcher’s mind when he thought of his partner was drenched in blood and spattered brains. Dead eyes with no smart-ass gleam in them.

Screaming.

He had been having nightmares of those last moments before Marvin died. And it always ended the same way, sparing nothing. The flash of the gun. The smattering of gray-matter art. His partner’s single, disappointed word.

No.

He pushed the memory (nightmare) away from his mind as he rounded the corner to the Detectives’ office. He went to his desk, dumping keys in a pile on top of paperwork, and sat down. Exhaling, he leaned down and turned on his computer. It whirred and beeped and booped. A fan kicked in loudly, rattling in its carriage. It was an old thing—not what it used to be—working hard to wake up.

While it was booting up, he leaned back in his chair, looking around the room. He exhaled again—he seemed to be doing this more and more lately—and laced his fingers behind his head. As he surveyed the familiar and as-yet-still-unpopulated area, his eyes went to the back of the room where the Captain’s private office was.

He snapped up in his chair with a start. Someone was in the office with the Captain. The door was closed so he could hear nothing, but there were smiles back and forth and the shaking of hands.

The Captain was hiring a rookie.

The guy was young, maybe thirty, thirty-one at most, probably right out of the patrol car, and appeared to be in impeccable shape. He looked like an average height, perhaps five feet ten inches, and dark brown hair was perfectly styled atop his head in a spiked-up fashion that had become common amongst younger people. Yet, the kid still managed to look professional. Even his smile was perfect, Fletcher could see, the teeth inside it nearly sparkling when exposed.

Fletcher felt ill. This was it. His new, reliable partner had finally arrived, as the Captain had promised. What was worse was the kid was in textbook perfect shape. This made Fletcher feel self-conscious. Not that Fletcher was