Dark Hunger Read online

  “Yes.” Annabelle licked her dry lips. “Have you seen anything suspicious?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you know of anyone here suffering from PTS?”

  “Not right offhand,” Emily said. “Of course, there are a couple of mentally impaired men and a junkie or two who stop by for meals.”

  “What about any other visitors?” Annabelle asked. “Maybe someone who looked like they didn’t belong?”

  “That’s hard to say,” Emily said. “We’re not judgmental here. We get folks from all walks of life, from all socioeconomic levels, with a variety of problems. We don’t turn anyone away.”

  “Of course not.”

  Emily’s eyebrows pinched together as she thought. “The only other visitor we’re had lately was that televangelist Reverend Narius. He came by and offered to pray with individuals.” She paused. “He said he was in town and is speaking at the First Baptist Church tonight.”

  Annabelle considered him for a moment. Some preachers had been known to brainwash their followers. And in some ways the reverend fit the profile of a serial killer. She’d researched him a few months back for a story. According to her sources, he’d been raised in a strict religious family and was a religious zealot. In fact, he might have a God complex. He liked public attention and had spoken in Savannah after the bombing, offering prayer sessions at local churches.

  Serial killers often entrenched themselves in a crime scene or stayed to watch. And what better cover than to offer solace to the victims’ grieving family members afterward? Reverend Narius also made visiting the homeless part of his mission. He planned to travel worldwide to wipe out sinners.

  A bead of perspiration chilled her neck. No, he’d done too much good in the world, saved lives and donated to charities. She couldn’t possibly look at him as a suspect.

  Quinton ignored the rancid odors of unbathed skin, sweat, and urine as he combed through the shelter, listening to conversations and probing people’s minds. Some talked about the food, the weather, and the deaths the last few days, while others seemed lost in their own world of turmoil.

  Jagged moments of their past lives, their jobs and broken families, the craving of booze or pills, splintered their tumultuous thoughts. He dug deeper, searching for someone who might be planning suicide, but the only thoughts of death he picked up were those of some of the elderly, who seemed to be looking forward to reuniting with lost loved ones.

  Remembering the sickly pallor and sightless white eyes of the Savannah bomber, he studied each individual for signs of possession. Two or three people struck him as virtually brain dead, but he lingered beside them and realized they were simply too drugged and disease-ridden to think clearly.

  Annabelle finally said her good-byes and approached him. “Did you learn anything?” he asked as they headed to the car.

  “Just that Reverend Narius stopped by and offered private prayer sessions.”

  “So he could have hypnotized or drugged one of them when they were alone, and no one would have suspected a thing?”

  Annabelle nodded grimly. “What about you?” Annabelle asked. “Did you learn anything?”

  “No. I didn’t sense that the killer was here either.”

  “Is that part of your supernatural power, too? You sense things?”

  “So you believe I have supernatural powers?”

  “I don’t know,” Annabelle said. “I’ve never believed before. But… I saw you move that beam.” She narrowed her eyes. “What else can you do?”

  A smile curved his mouth. “Sometimes I can read minds.”

  Her mouth gaped open. “You read minds?”

  His smile widened, teasing her as they got in the car. “Yes.”

  She settled in her seat, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Have you been reading my mind?”

  He twisted a strand of her hair between his fingers. “You want me, but you don’t trust me. And you’re afraid of what I am.”

  “That’s not mind reading,” she said. “Naturally I’d be wary of you. You’re an assassin, and what else… I don’t know yet.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not going to hurt you, Annabelle.”

  You will if I let you get too close.

  “You’re right,” he said, reminding himself that he had no place in his life for a relationship. Not with his job.

  And not with a demon attack.

  As if she realized he had indeed read her thoughts, she shifted to look out the window, shutting down in front of him.

  He didn’t blame her. He wouldn’t want someone in his head any more than he wanted anyone in his heart.

  They drove in silence to the veterans hospital on Bee Street, parked and went inside. The place resurrected memories of Quinton’s own hospital stay after injuries he’d sustained in the military. The smell of pain and suffering, the sound of silent cries and horrors filled his head as they made their way to the administrator’s office.

  A woman in her forties with copper-colored hair greeted them, and Quinton identified himself and explained the reason for their visit.

  “We need you to look at your list of outpatients, consult with therapists, and see if you can pinpoint a name for us.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Ms. Duffy said. “You believe someone is preying on a man with PTS or a homeless person, somehow convincing them to commit murder?”

  “It’s a theory,” Quinton said. “And we don’t have much time. We expect the bomber to strike again tonight at midnight.”

  “But you’re talking about violating these veterans’ privacy. And the numbers alone are impossible.”

  Quinton ground his heel into the thick carpet in frustration. “I understand that. But at least speak to your team of therapists. See if a name jumps out as someone suspicious. Someone who already is exhibiting signs of violence or who is suicidal.”

  She sighed and tapped her pen on the cluttered desk. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Has Reverend Narius visited the hospital?” Annabelle asked.

  The woman pursed her mouth. “Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He held chapel early this morning.”

  “Did he counsel anyone privately?” Quinton asked.

  She shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. But you can’t possibly think the good reverend would hurt one of the veterans? He’s trying to save their souls.”

  Quinton frowned. Was he? Or was he a demon in disguise, using religion as a way to weave his way into their psyches and steal their souls instead?

  Annabelle considered another theory. “Ms. Duffy, do you have any doctors or psychiatrists conducting research here with the patients?”

  “What type of research?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe someone researching Alzheimer’s or memory problems. Or perhaps a doctor who uses hypnosis in his therapy? Or someone studying mind control?”

  Ms. Duffy closed her eyes, pressed two fingers to her temple as if to massage an ache away, then opened her eyes and frowned. “I’m not going to impugn any of the doctors or therapists who work here for some ridiculous speculation on your part.” She stood abruptly. “Now, if you come up with something concrete to show me or a warrant, please come back.”

  “We’re just trying to stop another attack,” Quinton said.

  She fidgeted with the ruffle at the neck of her blouse. “I understand and I really want to help you. But again, I have protocol to follow.”

  Annabelle sighed and pushed her business card into the woman’s hand. “We understand. But if you come up with a name or see or hear anything suspicious, please call.”

  “Confer with your staff and see what they tell you,” Quinton said. “We’re not the bad guys here, Ms. Duffy. We’re trying to save lives. I think you’d want that, too.”

  “I do want that,” she said sharply. “Or I wouldn’t be working here.”

  Annabelle thanked her, and Quinton followed her through the corridors to the outside.

  “Well, that got us nowhere,�
�� Quinton muttered with a curse.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Annabelle said. “We planted the seed of doubt. She’ll start thinking. And she may come up with something for us.”

  “I just hope it’s in time,” Quinton said as he glanced at his watch.

  Fear crawled up Annabelle’s spine.

  Only a few hours until midnight. And they had no idea where the bomber would strike, or who the one pulling the strings would use for the attack.

  The next few hours Quinton and Annabelle combed the streets, the market area, the Battery, visited the main hospital, and talked to locals in the cemeteries and parks. Quinton used his power to listen to people’s thoughts, searching for signs they might be dealing with a demon.

  He also checked in regularly with the local police and the Homeland Security agent, but the day was wearing on and they still had nothing.

  As they parked at the Citadel stadium and walked up to the entrance, Quinton touched a railing, hoping for a premonition. Concentrating, he closed his eyes and allowed his senses to take control. Vultures soared overhead, the sound of their hungry cries shrill in the midst of the crowds gathering to tailgate for the game.

  But he was only one man. And the noise of the crowd, the excitement, the anxiety of the undercover police and agents, all created a mass of emotions, blocking out details.

  “Are you okay?” Annabelle touched his arm gently.

  He nodded then looked at her and saw the same frustration mirrored in her eyes.

  They were no closer to finding a viable suspect.

  And he couldn’t share his fear that the perpetrator might not be an average Joe this time but a demon.

  “Detective Barbaris was right,” Annabelle said, rubbing at her sore rib. “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “We’re doing everything we can,” Quinton said. Although he wondered if that was true. He was still behaving like an agent, a military spy.

  If a demon was behind these attacks, Homeland Security, the local police, and logic alone might not be able to solve the crime.

  He needed help from someone who understood demons and the demonic world.

  Vincent and his wife, Clarissa.

  No. He still didn’t know if he could trust Vincent. For all he knew, he might be orchestrating this as a trap for him.

  But the monks? The ones who’d warned him about demons from the beginning.

  Maybe they would have answers.

  He would contact Father Robard, the one who’d encouraged him to document the demons in the Deadly Demons book. He could tell him if Vincent was really his brother. If he could be trusted.

  Or if Vincent was a demon himself.

  Trust no one. Everyone is the enemy.

  He couldn’t forget that rule of combat.

  But contacting Father Robard meant traveling back into his past. To a dark, lonely place he thought he’d left behind.

  The military had trained him to compartmentalize. To endure torture, punishment, deprivation, and repress emotions in order to do his job.

  Even when the darkness pulled at him, he’d learned to channel it into destroying the enemy. The ones preying on innocents.

  Killing them triggered no remorse. No guilt. No regret.

  And kept the balance within him. The monks had taught him the importance of that balance.

  Maybe they would be able to help now as well.

  Maybe they’d be able to tell him how to recognize the demon, and how to destroy him when he did.

  He stepped aside and searched through his address book, then punched in Father Robard’s number. When he answered, the man’s familiar voice brought a sense of comfort. The monks had been the only family he’d ever known.

  “Quinton. It’s been a long time. I’ve been waiting on your call.”

  A vulture soared above the stadium, making Quinton tense. “I need to ask you something important. Who brought me to you?”

  “Your mother,” Father Robard said quietly. “It was a sad day for her and she was most troubled by her decision, but she had to give you up to protect you.”

  “Was I alone?”

  Another pause. “No, you had a twin. Your mother warned us of the dangers and we separated you early on.”

  “What dangers?”

  “You don’t remember my teachings?” Father Robard asked. “My warnings about the demons that would one day come for you?”

  How could he forget? “Yes, I do remember. And recently a man named Vincent contacted me. He claimed he was my brother.”

  “Yes, Vincent is the oldest of the Dark Lords, the one who knew your father and just how evil he was.”

  “So it’s true that he’s my brother?”

  “Yes. What else did he tell you?”

  Quinton relayed the story Vincent had shared about his mother’s death. “Is it true?”

  “Yes. And since your father took over the underworld, we’ve felt the rumblings below, have been praying non-stop for the innocents, and for you and your brothers.”

  “Then I can trust this man Vincent?”

  “Trust? I’m not certain. As far as we know, he hasn’t succumbed to his dark side. He even defeated the god of fear a few months ago, which was a good sign. The medium he married feeds his goodness. Zion was not pleased. He has sent a demon to win you.”

  “The Death Angel?”

  “Yes. Be careful. Stay strong, my son. And use your power to stop him.”

  Laughter bubbled from the Death Angel’s demonic chest.

  Torturing the Dark Lord was pure pleasure.

  He raised his bald head and screeched to the vultures nearby, calling them to antagonize Quinton and the reporter.

  The Dark Lord was struggling over whether or not to accept his destiny. He’d listened to those damn monks.

  Fools. They might be God’s soldiers, but they would lose.

  Zion was too strong.

  And the Dark Lord was starting to care for the woman.

  He would use that against him.

  Quinton had promised to protect her. Would he join Zion’s side if it meant sparing her life?

  Soon they’d put him to the test.

  And Zion would win.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Have you found anything?” Quinton asked Detective Barbaris.

  The cop shook his head, his expression worried. “Security is all over the city. We had bomb dogs search the entire Citadel stadium. Your chief and one of our officers are stationed in the security office now watching the feed.”

  Quinton nodded. The fans were pouring toward the stadium, excited and oblivious of the fact that their game might draw a crazed killer.

  But calling off the game would give the bomber too much power. And what if they were wrong? What if there was no attack?

  They had no concrete lead on a terrorist cell or a location for an attack.

  “Let’s review the security tapes,” Quinton said.

  Annabelle followed him, and for the next two hours they studied the cameras.

  “I feel helpless,” Annabelle said quietly.

  He squeezed her arm. “We’ve done everything we know to do. Security is all over the place.” But the threat of one lone bomber slipping through undetected was very real.

  Annabelle sighed and rubbed her forehead. “He may be at the coliseum or even at the church where Reverend Narius is.”

  “True,” Quinton said. “Unless Narius is part of this.”

  Annabelle’s cell phone jangled, and she quickly answered it. “Yes, Annabelle Armstrong.” A pause. “All right, Ms. Duffy, we’ll check out those two names.”

  “What?” he asked as she disconnected the call.

  “Ms. Duffy said she spoke with two of her therapists and gave me the names of a couple of patients they were concerned about.”

  “Really?” Quinton said. “What about her strict rules and patient confidentiality?”

  Annabelle frowned. “If anyone asks, we didn’t get this information from h
er.”

  “What about these men made the therapists think they might be suspect?”

  “The first one, Tobias Longfellow, has been suicidal for weeks. And the second, B. J. Rutherford, is bipolar. When he’s in his manic state, he leaves home and lives on the streets.”

  Quinton nodded and took her arm. “Let’s check them out. Maybe we’ve finally got a lead.”

  Annabelle’s heart raced as they drove toward the Isle of Palms where Tobias Longfellow resided. Finally, they might have a clue.

  Grandiose two-and three-story mansions lined the coast, and Tobias’s house was an impressive beachfront antebellum with wraparound porches on three levels.

  Three rings of the doorbell, and a woman wearing a maid’s uniform answered.

  Quinton flashed his ID and Annabelle introduced herself. “We’re looking for Tobias Longfellow.”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not here.”

  “Where is he?” Quinton asked.

  “His brother came this afternoon and drove him to his place. Mr. Longfellow has been depressed lately, so Mr. George thought it would do him good to stay with him for a while and help with his business.”

  “Can you call and verify that he’s there?” Quinton asked.

  The woman frowned. “Why would I do that?”

  “We just want to make sure he’s safe,” Annabelle said.

  Her hands fluttered to the collar of her uniform. “Is there some reason he wouldn’t be?”

  “Just check,” Quinton said in a commanding voice.

  She looked irritated and worried but hurried to get the house phone, and dialed the number. “Yes, Mr. George, I’m calling to check on Mr. Longfellow. How is he?”

  Relief softened the lines on the woman’s face as they conversed. Tobias was obviously safe—not the man they were looking for.

  The housekeeper disconnected the call and gave them a smug smile. “Mr. Longfellow is doing fine.”

  “Thank you.” Annabelle took Quinton’s arm and pulled him down the steps toward the car.

  “Where to next?” Quinton asked as he started the engine.

  She gave him the address of an apartment building on the outskirts of Charleston, and he raced toward the address. A few minutes later, she spotted the run-down building and sighed.