Sacred Secrets A Jacody Ives Mystery (Jacody Ives Mysteries) Read online

  SACRED SECRETS

  A Jacody Ives Mystery

  LINDA S. PRATHER

  Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

  Published by: Linda S. Prather

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  [email protected]

  Copyright © 2010 by Linda S. Prather

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  COVER: Linda S. Prather

  Other Books: The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

  REFERENCE PAGE

  PAPA LA DAS - Name used to refer to the Devil.

  Piasa Bird (pronounced Pie-a-saw), is a local legend in the Alton, Illinois area. In 1673 Father Jacques Marquette, in recording his famous journey down the Mississippi River with Louis Joliet, described the "Piasa" as a birdlike monster painted high on the bluffs along the Mississippi River, where the city of Alton, Illinois now stands. According to the diary, the Piasa "was as large as a calf with horns like a deer, red eyes, a beard like a tiger's, a face like a man, the body covered with green, red and black scales and a tail so long it passed around the body, over the head and between the legs."

  The creature was given its name by the Illini Indians, "The Piasa", meaning a bird that devours men.

  Marie Laveau - The most famous, and one of the most powerful voodoo priestesses in New Orleans History. Born in the 1790’s, details of her parentage and origins are uncertain. Moving to New Orleans in her youth, Marie was raised as a devout Catholic. She was a feared and respected figure adept with charms and potions of all kinds.

  To Caleb Gavin Fuson. Born December 7, 2008. Died December 7, 2008. A precious moment in time.

  A GRANDMOTHER’S POEM

  In just a short moment,

  you became the softness

  beneath my smile.

  In just a short moment,

  you became the twinkle

  in my eyes.

  In just a short moment,

  you were my dreams

  of the future.

  The things we would do

  The things I would teach you

  The things you would teach me

  In just a short moment we shared

  A lifetime of love.

  And then you were gone,

  To sleep with the angels.

  SPECIAL THANK YOU

  To my son, Charles W. Prather, Jr., for writing and sharing the poetry contained in this book, and for encouraging me to write poetry.

  Bob Evans Restaurant, Somerset, Kentucky, for all the coffee and that table in the back.

  My friends and family, especially Coby, who have put up with my mood swings and darkness, and Joyce Coomer for all her encouragement and pushing.

  "Rough wind, that moanest loud

  Grief too sad for song;

  Wild wind, when sullen cloud

  Knells all the night long;

  Sad storm, whose tears are vain,

  Bare woods, whose branches strain,

  Deep caves and dreary main, -

  Wail, for the world's wrong!"

  Percy Bysshe Shelley

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  PROLOGUE

  Moonlight glinted off the scalpel.

  Lydia moistened her lips and swallowed, flinching at the pain. Her throat was dry, raw from her screams.

  “Please. . .” she whispered.

  Thud, clink, thud, clink, thud, clink. The shovel dug in rhythm to the voice. The singsong rhyme.

  “Dig the hole, dig it deep, give the worms something to eat. I like the livers and the hearts, the worms can have the other parts.”

  Thud, clink, thud.

  Tossing the shovel he knelt beside her, gently brushing the long blonde hair from her face. “Shh. . .,” he whispered.

  Insane giggles filled the night as the scalpel slashed through bone and sinew.

  The sapphire-blue eyes dimmed, fading as her body jerked and her lips parted.

  “Please. . .,” she whispered

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  CHAPTER 1

  Destiny.

  A path that could not be altered except by the one who walked it. And few chose their own.

  Billy Dawson did not walk the path he desired, but the path that had been chosen for him thousands of years before by his ancestors. A path he had always been sure of. Until now.

  “He’s a good man.”

  Her voice intruded on his thoughts as he maneuvered the Blazer around the sharp curves.

  “It’s not my fault, Miss Charity. You know that.”

  Billy could feel her presence, just as if she were sitting next to him. Feel the piercing dark eyes boring into him. She knew where he was going. What he was going to do. She even knew who he was--or what he was.

  “It ain’t right.”

  The sadness inside him deepened as he felt her drift away from him. He’d been alone since the death of his grandfather. Ostracized from society. Walking a path that few would understand, and most would hate him for.

  Perhaps that was their bond, he thought. Miss Charity had turned her back on society. Created a new world for herself. An enigma that no one understood. And because they didn’t understand her, they feared her.

  Billy understood her. The beauty of her tortured soul, torn and ravished by life. The pain. Much like the pain of the tormented souls that cried out to him in the late night hours. Seeking justice. Or simply seeking peace.

  Choices had to be made. Sacrifices.

  Coming into another curve Billy shifted his right foot, letting off the gas pedal, allowing the vehicle to gradually slow. His gaze drifted to the leather satchel on the seat beside him. His destiny. His grandfather had been so proud when he’d killed the buck. They’d worked side by side for days as his grandfather explained every stitch, each design, so that one day Billy could make the satchel for his own grandson. Pass on the gift.

  He’d been too young to understand why his grandmother had turned away from him, hands clenched at her side, eyes brimming with tears. She had known. Even then she had known this day would come.

  “He’s a good man.”

  Billy cursed softly and turned his attention back to the road. He had no choice. Day by day the shadows grew darker. Heavier. More menacing. Evil was coming and there was only one way to stop it. That was why he was here. Why he’d come here two years ago.

  “Please. . .,” she whispered.

  Rolling down the window Billy sniffed the air hoping to clear his mind. Shut out the whispers. Winter was approaching. He could feel the wetness that clung to the breeze. An early snow would fall tonight. A thick blanket of white that would cover the blood soaked ground upon which he must stand. Blood that even now called to him.

  “You cannot save them.”

  The driveway to the old cabin loomed in front of him and Billy turned the Blazer slowly up the path. He couldn’t escape his destiny anymore than he could escape the whispers on the wind, or his father’s voice. Every aspect of life was just a moment in time. And time was endless. Here is where it began. Here is where it must end.

  Pulling to the edge of the cabin Billy parked the Blazer. The moon was
full, and beautiful. An azure-tint surrounded its edges. A perfect night. Perfect in every aspect--except he was here to call down death.

  Stepping out in the crisp night air Billy removed his clothing, folded it neatly and placed it inside the vehicle. He too had known this day would come. The origins of the ritual he was about to perform went back thirty thousand years. Passed from fathers to sons. He’d performed it many times before. But it had been different then. He’d known for certain there was no good to destroy.

  His skin glistened in the moonlight as he flexed his shoulders, enjoying the sensation of cold wind on his bare skin. The feathery touch of soft mist. Reaching into the Blazer he removed the satchel and shook his head as he tried once again to clear his mind of Miss Charity’s image. She was the closest thing to a mother he’d ever known. He would miss her.

  Sighing heavily, Billy walked to the medicine wheel he’d prepared earlier. Choices. Sacrifices. You couldn’t stop destiny.

  Waiting until the moon reached its highest point Billy removed the items from the bag carefully. Placing the ceremonial bowl at his feet he filled it with sage and lit it, standing quietly as the smoke surrounded him, purifying his body. Raising his hands he prayed. “Make my heart pure that I might walk in balance and harmony.”

  Inhaling the smoke he waited for his mind to clear, body to relax, spirit to soar.

  “Dammit, he’s a good man!”

  An image of his grandmother passed before his eyes, replaced almost immediately by the image of his great-grandfather, smiling patiently. “There is a way.”

  An ancient chant reverberated inside his head. A forbidden chant.

  Picking up the sacred drum of his grandfather Billy drummed the ancient melody as he danced clockwise around the wheel, beginning and ending in the east. Creating a perfect circle. Standing in the center he raised his hands to the heavens. “Eternal spirit, earth-maker, pain-bearer, life-giver, source of all that is and all that shall be, I call upon the elder. Hear me.”

  Fear rose inside him, choking him. His movements no longer his own he felt his arms float downward, head tilt back, eyes close. He became the wind, the trees, the earth beneath his feet. The joy of life. The pain of death. Sweat ran cold against his skin. His heart pounded.

  “My son, what have you done?”

  Falling to his knees Billy gasped for breath. His father’s voice had pulled him back, but his body was still on fire. Every muscle, every nerve screaming out in agony. He understood now why his father had forbidden him to perform this ritual. Why it was no longer taught. There was no way to be sure. No absolutes. And the price. . .his great-grandfather had not told him the price.

  Moving slowly Billy reached for the satchel, every movement sending a fresh ripple of pain through his muscles as he pulled the pipe from the satchel. He held it for a moment, feeling its power, drawing on its energy to give him strength to stand. The pipe was the most sacred tool of his ancestors. Possession was an honor. An honor he would now lose. If he survived.

  Hands trembling he opened the tobacco pouch, filled the pipe, lit it and inhaled deeply. The pain subsided as he breathed out small puffs of smoke, acknowledging the seven directions. The choice had been his. He’d done it for Miss Charity. She had suffered enough in this world. He could not bring himself to cause her more pain.

  Raising the pipe above his head he began the prayer song, uttering the chant he’d learned from his great-grandfather. His voice rose. High. Clear. Sweet. A melody without music. A song without words.

  The moon disappeared behind the clouds as the forest fell silent.

  “It is done!”

  The voice was old. Unfathomable. Fear kept his eyes closed, but he could hear the rushing, whistling sound in the distance as the wind rose and snow began to fall. The wolf howled as the medicine pipe disappeared from his hands.

  Eager to be elsewhere, Billy gave thanks to the spirits, closed the circle and repacked the satchel. The air no longer felt crisp. Even the interior of the Blazer felt icy as he quickly donned his clothing and slammed the door against the wind.

  The pain was now just a memory. One he would relive many times in the days to come. Glancing at the ridge he pulled the vehicle into gear. Soon the Shaman would dance his prayers. A man would die. A heart sacrificed to right a wrong. The dreamers would dream. An ancient battle would begin.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Everyone has secrets. Things they hide within the dark depths of their minds. Darkness spurred on by evil intent. They believe themselves safe, secure in the knowledge their secret is hidden far from prying eyes. But that’s never enough for the darkness. It soon grows hungry. A hunger fed only by fear. Silent screams. The rapid beat of hearts. Death.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  CHAPTER 2

  “Please . . .,” she whispered.

  Gavin McAllister rolled over and flipped on the bedside lamp. Sitting up he ran a hand through his thick black hair and sighed heavily. He hated the nightmares. For the past three years he’d been forced to live with the Mother’s Day killer haunting his dreams. Now, if the dreams were right--and they were always right--evil had claimed another victim.

  It was only four a.m., but the night was over for him. Rising he walked to the window, parted the drapes and stood looking out over the silent streets of Richmond. It was quiet now, but soon traffic would be moving. A cacophony of horns, voices mumbling platitudes or shouting curses would rise from the streets as thousands of people rushed frantically to get to the very last place they really wanted to be. Jobs they hated. Or perhaps returning to bleak, empty structures of houses that were no longer homes.

  The girl was already dead. He knew that in his heart. Still, there was something she wanted. Something she needed from him. He closed his eyes, seeing her, hearing the whispered plea for life. The sound of prayer in the dark still night.

  Unanswered.

  His fingers curled inward, tightening into fists. What good were his dreams if he couldn’t save her? Couldn’t save any of them. Occasionally he could find and put an end to the evil. But it never ended. For each one brought to justice something more vile took its place. Something bolder. Stronger.

  Kahil Gibran had said, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

  Gavin’s mirthless laugh broke the silence of the early morning hour. If that quote were true then Jacody Ives must be one of the most massive characters ever created.

  Gavin turned to gaze at the finished manuscript, “Pool of Tears”. Not his best work, but the character, Jacody Ives, bore fresh scars. Constant reminders that justice came with a price.

  Letting the drapes fall back into place Gavin turned on the light and headed for the kitchen. The thing he needed most was thick black coffee. The one thing he didn’t need was to dwell on Jacody Ives. That would only pull him into the shadows of his own fractured psyche. His own evil.

  His readers believed that Jacody Ives was merely a fictional character. But Gavin and those closest to him knew that wasn’t true. Jacody was always close, vigilant for a sign of weakness. A moment when the darkness overcame Gavin. The pain cut to the core.

  Rob had told him the differences were subtle. Evil was like that. It wasn’t something you could see. It was soulless. The greatest magician. True master of disguise. Lying hidden in the murky depths of secrets buried in the cavernous trenches of the psyche.

  Silence. Secrets. Wasn’t that what had created Jacody in the first place? His silence. His secret.

  “Please . . .,” she whispered.

  Wounds opened. Gavin gripped the sink, struggling to control the memories as his body trembled with rage.

  Miranda.

  A ragged sound escaped his lips as his body jerked in spasms of emotional pain. He’d kept the memories buried. Caged. But now his tormentor stood outside that cage, laughing as Gavin twisted away from the jagged spears--only to find there was nowhere to go. No place he could escape the mem
ories. The soft delicate sound of her laughter. The flashing beauty of her smile. The limpid pools of her deep green eyes, darkened in passion. The way light played on her auburn curls.

  Her still lifeless body. Bloody, battered and broken.

  The keening wail of a dying animal filled the room as the darkness won, pulling Gavin beneath the surface to the very pits of his own hell.

  Jacody Ives smiled, flexed the fingers still gripping the sink. Evil attracts evil. He’d heard its call in the nightmare. He would answer. There’d never been any other choice for him. Evil knew his name.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  CHAPTER 3

  “You sure this is where you want to go, miss?”

  Katie O’Connor sat gaping at the magnificent building in front of her; mind trying to grasp what her eyes told her was impossible.

  “Is this 1210 Chantilly Lane?” She asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then that’s where I’m supposed to go.” Handing the cab driver a twenty, Katie quickly opened the door and stepped out of the cab. “Can you pick me up in forty-five minutes?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Katie couldn’t take her eyes off the building. She felt as if she’d been transported thousands of years back in time. How could she possibly have lived here the majority of her life and not known it existed. And why had Dr. Wagner never mentioned it to her. He of all people knew her passion for art, her love of gothic architecture. For years it had been the only thing that kept her alive. Gave her hope.

  The house was a scaled-down replica of the mid-fifteenth-century house of Jacques Couer, right down to the two fake balcony windows with life-size statutes of a male and female servant leaning out to peer down on the street.

  “Impossible,” Katie whispered, opening the gate as she mentally noted the small modifications from the original gothic appearance. It still contained the traceried window, although the tower was missing, as was the second larger entrance which had been designed for horses to enter the courtyard.

  Katie felt excitement course through her blood. Time was short, but finding this, seeing it--surely that was a good omen. She couldn’t wait to meet the owner. See the inside.

  “Ms. O’Connor?”

  “Yes.”

  The door had opened as Katie pressed her finger against the much too modern doorbell. She felt immediately drawn to the young man in the doorway. His tawny brown eyes seemed to sparkle and his smile was infectious, causing her to smile in return.