Page 15 of Deadly Secrets
He did a fist pump and said a silent, “yes” before taking off at a jog for his Jeep.
The locals were right—the place reeked of being cursed.
If only I believed in such things.
Of course, Brooke had seen some weird stuff in her career studying religion, politics, and ancient cultures. Curses and black magic were pretty much present in every civilization and culture.
Two-dozen miles southeast of San Diego, the site was a ghost town—a sad, broken place where a mass killing had occurred. As the midday sun beat down and warmed her head, Brooke could see the desert shimmer, heat rising. In those shimmers, she saw the faces of those long dead. In the too-still, weighted air, she swore she heard the wails of their spirits.
Roman stood beside her, quiet and reverent, as if he saw and heard the same.
Although her hand automatically moved to make the sign of the cross, she stilled it. Her days of Catholicism were over. Years of studying different religions and civilizations had cemented her belief in the idea of a oneness that all living things shared, but she no longer believed there was one omnipotent God as depicted by Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. If there was, He had an amoral sense of humor.
But this place…it was so disturbing that she made the sign of the cross anyway. To protect herself as well as to honor those who’d died here.
Several hodgepodge structures stood in a semi-circle, listing to their sides, the duck cloth used as window and door coverings torn and dirty. Small pits, dug deep into the sand and rock, showed signs of old fires. Broken bowls and pots were scattered here and there, along with empty pop bottles, woven rugs, and a rusted out vehicle or two.
Turning to look north, she took a couple steps away, shaking off the goose flesh riding her skin. The dirt road they’d driven in on cut through scrub brush, funky shaped acacias, and mesquite trees created by Mother Nature’s winds.
In the distance, hills and mountains formed a bowl around them, the nearest incorporated village was over six miles away.
“How did he find them?” she wondered out loud. “How did he hook up with them out here?”
“It took a while, but we traced a lead to the St. Paul Fountain of Hope Mission. He probably heard about this place from some of the folks who hang out there. A few may have come through here at one point or another. He offered to help, was brought here to perform services, and after a few months, convinced the folks to drink the Kool-Aid.”
Drink the Kool-Aid. A reference to Jonestown and the cult leader who’d convinced his followers to drink poison.
Taking a deep breath and bracing herself, she walked over to the center of the camp where a large circle had been laid out with boulders. A meeting place? In her mind, she saw the people each taking a seat on one as they listened to The Reverend preach.
Now the man was long gone, having taken more lives. To what end? It seemed his goal was to cleanse Southern California of nonwhites. The groups he targeted had little access to the news and often didn’t speak English. As desperate as they were, they were easy to befriend and brainwash into doing what he wanted.
The memory of her childhood friend flashed across Brooke’s mind. Aleisha and her parents had been good people, so kind and happy, until the night a religious fanatic had killed all three of them.
Because of the color of their skin.
Roman’s shadow appeared next to her, short under the noonday sun. “You okay?”
“You said there were sigils?”
He touched her elbow, guiding her over the rough terrain as he walked her closer to the boulders. “He laid the bodies inside this circle, heads in the center, feet facing out toward the rocks.”
She saw the drawings now, the edges of some fuzzy and messed up from the rains, wind, and sun. Definitely a ritualistic killing, but why the rocks? Why hadn’t The Rev drawn sigils on their foreheads in keeping with his MO?
Moving closer to one of the more detailed versions, she set her hands on the large boulder and leaned over to get a better look.
Four lines formed the sigil, but the design was wrong. A new chill swept over her skin and her stomach did a somersault. “This isn’t the same sigil he used on the people at the church. This one is similar, but different.”
Roman bent down next to the boulder, the sun glinting off his shorter hair turning it from licorice to one shot through with underlying strands of graphite. He’d trimmed up his beard, too, the whole effect making him look more mature but still as sexy as ever.
His T-shirt today was an ice blue, his tattooed arms a sharp contrast. His jeans were worn in all the right places, a pair of colorful Converse shoes peeking out from the cuffs. “He leaves a different mark at each scene.”
A wave of lightheadedness snuck up on her. She’d felt the same thing last night, but today’s sigil hit even closer to home. “Did he carve anything onto their bodies?”
Roman shook his head. “Just the rocks.”
Heat engulfed her. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. At the base of her spine, though, sat the cold prick of fear. “What about the moon photo? Was that here?”
Her voice sounded too strained, almost hopeful. She’d convinced herself last night that it couldn’t be him.Confirmation bias. A term often used in scientific circles meaning the tendency to interpret new evidence as confirmation of one’s existing beliefs. She’d convinced herself last night that the sigils were different enough, it couldn’t be the same man who’d killed Aleisha.
