Chapter 9

The light was cold. Almost blue. Fluorescent tubes behind a frosted panel, humming at a frequency that made his teeth ache.

Then the smell hit him.

Disgusting. Sharp. Chemical. At first it was distant — just a hint at the edge of awareness. Then it grew closer, stronger, until the stench became unbearable, filling his nose, his throat, his lungs.

Mark sneezed, turned his head, tried to push away whatever was burning under his nostrils.

He opened his eyes.

He was lying on a narrow cot in a bright, sterile room. Pale green walls. A window with blinds, half-closed. The light was too bright, too cold, making everything look washed out and sickly.

Silas stood over him, a smirk on his face, holding a cotton swab soaked in ammonia. The priest’s face was a mess — scratches and bruises, like he had crawled through a thorn bush and then slammed into something hard.

Mark coughed. Then he remembered. The wall. The blood. Peter.

“Pete?” He tried to sit up — and managed, barely. His arms shook. His head pounded. The room tilted for a moment, then settled. He grabbed his head anyway, just to be sure it was still attached.

“He is fine. Still sleeping.” Silas found a chair and collapsed into it, stretching out his legs. He reached into his pocket, felt around, then pulled his hand out empty — disappointed. “You helped a lot. Thank you.”

The priest leaned back against the chair — and immediately hissed, doubling over.

Mark sat up a little straighter, testing his head, rolling his neck. His clothes were clean. No bloodstains. Everything hurt in a vague, general way, but nothing felt broken. He had been worse.

He looked at his left arm.

Thin, ragged lines — some solid, some broken like dashes — ran across the skin. They did not look like fingernail scratches. More like thorns. But there were no thorns in Peter’s room. Only Peter. The blood. The symbols.

He ran his fingers over the marks. They were real. They hurt.

“What happened?” he asked. “Or should I not ask?”

Silas smiled tiredly. “Well, unless you secretly plugged him into a wall socket and pumped a sea of blood into the room without me noticing — no. You should not ask.”

Mark scratched the back of his head. Somewhere deep down, he had made peace with it. Not belief — not exactly — but acceptance. At least he had been able to help this time. A little. He wanted to believe that.

He did not ask what the orderlies had seen when they came running. Something told him they had not seen anything at all. Maybe just some burnt-out lightbulbs.

“The sketch?” Mark asked.

Silas pulled a crumpled, red-stained notebook from somewhere and held it out. On the page — a man’s face. Drawn fast, but professional. Skilled.

“Run it through the database,” Mark said, nodding. “I am just not sure how we tie it to the case. Without an obvious motive, we will not get a warrant.”

Silas smiled crookedly, pushed his glasses up his nose, and stood. “That does not matter anymore. I can find him through my own channels. But if you really want to help…”

Mark paused. He sat on the edge of the cot for a moment longer, staring at the floor. The tiles were white, the grout gray. Nothing special. But his head was still heavy and his legs were not entirely steady.

He let out a long breath, rolled his shoulders, and waited until the room stopped spinning.

Then he stood up.

Without a word, he headed for the door, already reaching for his phone.

“What, could not stay in bed?” David asked, meeting his partner at the door. “And who is the handsome one with you?”

Silas raised his eyebrows. David’s humor always came out ambiguous — he could pay a compliment that left you wondering what you had done wrong and what was coming next. Or the opposite. The way he said handsome — with a certain pointed interest — sounded strange. But the priest’s nerves were steady. He sized up the situation quickly and just made a small sound, half snort, half laugh.

Mark stared at his partner. David had met Silas before — at the church, at the precinct. But there was no recognition in his eyes. No flicker of memory. And yet he did not seem surprised that Mark had shown up with some random stranger. David had long since stopped questioning his partner’s eccentricities.

“I slept enough.” Mark dropped into his chair and booted up his computer. “Any news?”

“We have got a suspect.” David waved a sheet of paper — pleased with himself. “Popped up out of nowhere.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Out of nowhere?”

David leaned back in his chair, enjoying the moment. “The church had security cameras. Not inside the main hall — those were mysteriously off that night — but the parking lot, the side entrance, the street. We pulled the footage this morning.”

He slid a glossy still image across the desk — a dark figure, face half-turned, climbing out of a black SUV.

“A visitor. Three nights before the murder. Walked the perimeter of the church. Stayed for about twenty minutes, then left.”

Mark studied the image. The face was hard to make out, but the build was distinctive.

“That is not enough for a warrant,” Mark said.

“No. But then we talked to the homeless guy who sleeps behind the church’s heating duct. He remembered the fancy car. Remembered the man. Said he smelled like cologne and fruit.” David pulled out another sheet. “And forensics found a partial print on the altar — not the priest’s, not any of the regular parishioners. Ran it through the system. Came back with a match. Our man was arrested for vandalism ten years ago. Drunk, broke a window. They printed him then.”

Mark let out a slow breath. “So he is in the system.”

“Nowhere near enough for an arrest,” David admitted. “But enough to bring him in for questioning. And enough to get us looking at him.”

He tapped the file. “From the Ammann family.”

Mark raised his eyebrows. “The furniture factory? The store chain? I know the father.”

“We need the older son. Jan.”

David flipped the cover open with a theatrical flourish.

Mark froze.

The face staring up from the photograph was the same one Silas had pulled from his battered notebook. The same man Peter had described. Tall. Light eyes. Wood and sweets.

Behind him, Silas made a strange sound — half grunt, half laugh — and placed his notebook next to the file.

“Well, well,” David drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Somebody owes me twenty bucks.” He picked up the notebook with two fingers, turning it toward himself, studying the very familiar face. “Where did you dig this up?”

“Witness statement.” Mark grimaced at the memory.

David raised an eyebrow. “Good. So how do we nail him? Murder is not tax evasion. You cannot just pin it on him and walk away.”

“I do not know yet. But we found his prints at the church. Not just anywhere — on the altar. And on the victim’s clothes, along with this substance.” David pulled out another sheet — a long, intimidating chemical formula with an unpronounceable name — and shoved it under Mark’s nose.

“You are kidding.”

“It is a specialized polishing compound. Very rare. Expensive. Only a few places use it — like the Ammann factory, where they make luxury furniture.” David shrugged. “They can afford the good stuff.”

“May I?” Silas reached for the file, holding his fingers to the edge.

David looked at Mark, questioning. Mark gave a small nod.

The file slid across the desk into Silas’s scratched-up hands. He winced, shifted his shoulder awkwardly, and started studying the contents — leaning in close, his prominent nose practically touching the pages, his glasses perched on the end of it. David and Mark watched him for a moment, then looked at each other, then both stared at the mop of disheveled curls bent over the plastic cover.

Behind the partition, someone shouted. Chairs scraped. A heated argument broke out. The captain appeared in his doorway and shouted over everyone — louder. Two phones rang at once. Someone ran past calling for Art. The whole place suddenly boiled over with noise and motion.

And the three of them sat there, tucked behind a flimsy opaque plexiglass wall covered in papers, scraps of notes, photographs, watching as one of them studied the file on Jan Ammann.

“What is he looking for?” David whispered — theatrical, tragic.

“No idea.” Mark shrugged. “Silas?”

“Found it.” The file slapped back onto Mark’s desk, open to a property listing. “This warehouse. We need to check it.”

“What makes you so sure?” David frowned, staring at the hundred-and-first line on the list — just an address.

“He needs a large space. Plenty of room. There will be substances — the things that keep the blood from clotting. And equipment. You will see.”

Mark stared at the address. Then at Silas. Then at David.

“Did you pick him up from the psych ward?” David demanded.

“More like the other way around.” Mark rubbed his bandaged arm. “Can we get a warrant?”

David waved a hand in front of his partner’s face. “What planet are you on? You want me to go to the captain — who will personally commit me to that same psych ward — and ask for a search warrant for a suspect’s warehouse? A suspect we have not even interrogated yet? We do not have a motive. And our evidence is the word of some random stranger?” He shook his head. “A week. Minimum. And that is if Ammann does not lawyer up and walk out of his interview tomorrow. After the captain finishes screaming.”

Mark and Silas exchanged a look. David was not wrong. But Mark trusted the Hound’s instinct.

David stood up. “All right. Let us see what I can do.” He glanced toward the captain’s door. “Go see a doctor. And do not show your face here tomorrow. You are at home. Resting. Like a good little schoolboy. Today and tomorrow. I did not see you. Just call me.”

“I will tell you about my dreams,” Mark said, clapping his partner on the shoulder. He shook David’s hand, grabbed his jacket, and slipped out of the office, pulling the lingering priest along with him.

Outside, Silas fell behind.

Mark turned. The priest was wincing, grimacing, moving carefully — like someone trying not to straighten his back all the way.

“You are hurt?”

Silas made a vague gesture with his hand. “Just needs a wash and a bandage.”

“Then why the hell did not you say anything? We drove right past the hospital.”

“I do not need a hospital. It is not that bad.”

Mark got behind him and looked.

The dark fabric of Silas’s jacket was soaked through — dark and wet — and not from sweat.

From Peter, Mark thought. There was no gunshot wound — nowhere to get one in that room. But the blood was still flowing, thick and fresh, like someone had torn a chunk out of the priest and it had not bothered to stop.

“You are still bleeding.”

Mark glanced at the sky — gray, low, spitting rain. The kind of miserable weather that made everything harder — and ran through his options.

“If you will not go to the hospital, come to my place. I have got everything.”

“No.” Silas closed his eyes for a moment, then pulled himself upright. “My place. Regular medicine will not help. You giving me a ride?”

“Fine.”

With every step toward the car, Silas’s gait grew stiffer, heavier, like his legs were turning to wood. By the time they reached the passenger door, Mark was practically holding him up. He eased the priest into the seat, glanced at his face — gray, waxy, wrong — and shut the door.

Then he walked around to the driver’s side, got in, and started the engine.

“Which way?” Mark asked, glancing at the priest.

Silas gave him the address without opening his eyes — a street name, a number. “Just drive. I will tell you when we are close.”

Halfway there, Silas began to fade fast. His face went pale — not just pale, but gray. His lips turned the color of ash. He turned in his seat, bracing his shoulder against the backrest, and closed his eyes.

Mark thought the priest had lost consciousness — but when the car braked in front of the grim little mansion, Silas’s eyes snapped open. Cloudy. Unfocused. But open.

“Which one?” Mark asked.

“Right here.” Voice was weak, but clear enough.

Getting out of the car took two tries. The first time, his legs buckled. The second time, he grabbed Mark’s outstretched hand and hauled himself upright, swaying like a drunk. Some of the scratches on his face had started bleeding again — thin red lines seeping through the dried crust, fresh blood mixing with the old.

Mark banged on the door with his foot — no time for niceties.