As Father Brown walked back to the house, voices and shadows from the basement caught his attention. The voices were not loud, but someone was angry.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” seethed a voice. “We’ll never get it done in time.”

“It wasn’t like I did it on purpose,” replied the other renter. “Cocktail is supposed to drop by. Let’s see what he says.”

“Cocktail will be pissed at us for cooking outside the room. He won’t help. More likely he will rat us out. What do you think the bikers will say when we only deliver half the meth? They’ll kick our asses!”

Father Brown let out a small gasp. Did he say meth? Lord no — He stepped onto the lawn, knowing his footsteps would not be heard as he crept up to the basement stairwell. The yard light illuminated him from behind, so he crouched down to minimize his shadow on the house, while straining to listen over the noise of the fan. He knew he could scoot away unseen around the side of the house if either renter approached the basement door.

“Calm down. It was an accident,” a voice from the basement pleaded.

“Calm down! Fuck you, calm down.”

“It was me who dropped it.”

“You think Satans Wrath will understand? They’ll kick the shit out of us. We’ll be lucky if we don’t end up like Harvey.”

Father Brown sadly realized his fears were true. Gabriel will be upset, but the police will have to be —

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw a shadow loom large on the back of the house in front of him. He spun on his heels and stared wide-eyed at the silhouette of a man who stood over him. The man was holding a cement construction brick high in the air with both hands.

Time slowed down for Father Brown. His jaw slackened and his mouth hung open in fear. He locked eyes with the man for what seemed like an eternity, but remained silently transfixed, as if resigned to his fate. He saw the first downward arc of the brick and his brain registered the sound of crunching bone.

Seconds later, Father Brown’s body, now prone on the grass, received six more blows to the head. The brick dispensed a rivulet of blood up the perpetrator’s chest and face with each upward motion. Other arcs of blood splashed high onto the back of the house. Upon impact the brick sprayed more blood in all directions. The added blows were not necessary. Father Brown was dead from the first blow before his body even crumpled to the grass.

It was what happened to Father Brown’s body next that revealed the real danger to Gabriel, Noah, and Faith as they slept upstairs in their beds.

Chapter Two

It was nine o’clock in the morning when Corporal Connie Crane, from the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team, arrived at Gabriel’s home and parked. She was the first member of I-HIT to arrive, but six uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers were at the house.

As Connie stepped from her car, a young woman started her car and pulled out with tires screeching, causing Connie to step back.

“Hey!” yelled Connie. “Did you see that?” she asked, turning to a Mountie who was standing near the front gate.

“I saw,” replied the Mountie, “but under the circumstances, I —”

“She even had a little kid in the car,” interrupted Connie.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied. “Her kid was one of the kids in the daycare here,” he added, gesturing with his thumb toward the house. “You’re Connie Crane from I-HIT, right?”

“We’ve met?” asked Connie. Her anger dissolved when she understood the young woman’s instinct to protect her child and leave in haste.

“Didn’t meet,” continued the Mountie, “but I saw you at a murder of some guy in Coquitlam River Park last year. As I recall, you had a partner by the name of Dallas. A blood-splatter expert. You’ll need him here.”

“He’s on his way. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

“We all look alike in uniform,” he smiled. “My boss is out back. He can fill you in.”

Connie went to the back of the property and recognized a sergeant sitting in a patrol car in the rear alley. He motioned for her to join him.

“Hi, Bert. What have we got?” asked Connie, as her eyes scanned the lane. She was glad to see that yellow crime-scene tape had already cordoned off the alley.

“What do you mean … we?” smiled Bert. “This one is a homicide for you.”

“You seem definite.”

“You could try to write it off as suicide, but it won’t be easy,” said Bert, with a hint of sarcasm. “Bludgeon your brains out in the back yard with a concrete brick, after which you drag yourself down a set of stairs into a basement suite and lock the door behind you. Oh, yeah, the brick is also in the basement.”

“Guess we — I can rule out suicide,” replied Connie.

“Where are the rest of the troops?” asked Bert. “Thought they would be here by now.”

“They’ll be tied up for another couple of hours. There was another gang hit this morning.”

“Another goddamned gang hit? I didn’t even hear about it.”

“Too many now to get much news coverage,” replied Connie. “So in the mean time, what can you tell me about this vic?” asked, Connie, with a nod toward the house.”

“No gang member, that’s for sure. A retired priest. Living —”

“A retired priest?” reiterated Connie, unconsciously fondling the gold crucifix dangling from her neck inside her blouse.

“Yeah. He was rooming and boarding here. The owner, Gabriel Parsons, is a widow and lives here with her two children. She also runs a small daycare out of the house. Only three or four kids at a time. I talked to her briefly, but decided to leave the real interview to you.”

“How did the call come in?”

“Gabriel said she was taking the garbage out at about seven-thirty and the first thing she noticed was a missing concrete brick out of the row of bricks lining her driveway. She turned and saw the sprays of blood up the back of her house. She dropped the garbage and headed back to her house. Along the way she saw the pool of blood and brain matter beside the basement stairwell. She ran back in the house and knocked on Father Brown’s door to tell him. When he didn’t answer she called 911. First member on the scene tried a key that Gabriel gave him for the basement door, but the lock had been changed. He kicked open the door and saw the body inside with a pulverized head. He didn’t go in, so your crime scene is intact.”

“Positive it’s the priest?” asked Connie.

“Wearing pajamas and a blue silk bathrobe with a dragon. Gabriel said it was his.”

“Did Gabriel look at the body? What was her response?”

“No. She waited at the top of the stairs. Started crying and broke into hysterics when she realized who the vic was. She’s not crying now … probably gone into shock.”

“What prompted the priest to go outside dressed like that?” mused Connie.

“Gabriel said they’ve had a problem with winos sleeping under the cedars in her yard. Father Brown used to roust them on occasion.”

“You thinking it was robbery? Doesn’t make sense if he was wearing a bathrobe.”

“I’ve got more. Gabriel rented the basement out about a year and a half ago to a guy who owns a janitorial company. She copied down his driver’s license. The name given was a Bob Rimmer. I checked it out. The name, address, and driver’s license number are all bogus.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Gabriel says Rimmer … or whoever he is, wasn’t around much. He told her he owned the company, but two other guys by the names of Joe and John were the ones who were always coming and going. She never knew their last names, but thinks she could identify them. Joe is around thirty, slim, with short red hair. John is a little younger, muscular build, and a shaved head. She barely remembers Rimmer, but, as she recalls, he was around forty with collar-length dark hair. She says everyone tended to work nights and she seldom saw them.”