Something Wrong (A Lauren Lamb FBI Thriller—Book Three) E-Book

Kate Bold

• Herausgeber: Lukeman Literary Management
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Lauren Lamb FBI Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 261

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Former FBI agent Lauren Lamb, teamed with an exorcist and helping the Vatican solve inexplicable murders, is stumped when she investigates the death of a woman found in France with a mysterious religious mark on her arm. At first glance it seems like a killer is at work. But as Lauren is met with one dead end after another, she must wonder: is something greater at work? "This is an excellent book… When you start reading, be sure you don't have to wake up early!" —Reader review for The Killing Game This is book #3 in a new series by #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Kate Bold, whose bestsellers have received over 1,500 five star ratings and reviews. A page-turning and harrowing crime thriller featuring a brilliant and tortured FBI agent, the series is a riveting mystery, packed with non-stop action, suspense, twists and turns, revelations, and driven by a breakneck pace that will keep you flipping pages late into the night. Fans of Rachel Caine, Teresa Driscoll, and Robert Dugoni are sure to fall in love. Future books in the series are now available. "This book moved very fast and every page was exciting. Plenty of dialogue, you absolutely love the characters, and you were rooting for the good guy throughout the whole story… I look forward to reading the next in the series." —Reader review for The Killing Game "Kate did an amazing job on this book and I was hooked from the first chapter!" —Reader review for The Killing Game "I really enjoyed this book. The characters were authentic, and I see the bad guys as something we hear about daily on the news... Looking forward to book 2." —Reader review for The Killing Game "This was a really good book. The main characters were real, flawed and human. The story went along quickly and wasn't mired in too many unnecessary details. I really enjoyed it." —Reader review for The Killing Game "Alexa Chase is headstrong, impatient, but most of all brave with a capital B. She never, repeat never, backs down until the bad guys are put where they belong. Clearly five stars!" —Reader review for The Killing Game "Captivating and riveting serial murder with a twist of the macabre… Very well done." —Reader review for The Killing Game "WOW what a great read! Talk about a diabolical killer! Really enjoyed this book. Looking forward to reading others by this author as well." —Reader review for The Killing Game "Page turner for sure. Great characters and relationships. I got into the middle of this story and couldn't put it down. Looking forward to more from Kate Bold." —Reader review for The Killing Game "Hard to put down. It has an excellent plot and has the right amount of suspense. I really enjoyed this book." —Reader review for The Killing Game "Extremely well written, and well worth buying and reading. I can't wait to read book two!" —Reader review for The Killing Game

Leseprobe

S O M E T H I N G

W R O N G

(A Lauren Lamb Mystery—Book 3)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eleven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); and the LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

LAUREN LAMB SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMETHING KNOCKING (Book #1)

SOMETHING CALLING (Book #2)

SOMETHING WRONG (Book #3)

SOMETHING DARK (Book #4)

SOMETHING TO HIDE (Book #5)

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

NOWHERE PURE (Book #8)

NOWHERE SOUND (Book #9)

NOWHERE SANE (Book #10)

NOWHERE TRUE (Book #11)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

PROLOGUE

She sprinted across the field, sobbing, not daring to turn around. Her dress billowed around her in the cool air, and she used one hand to lift it off the ground, fearing that she might stumble on the train as she ran across the field.

The bells chimed behind her, and she wondered how long it would be before they realized she was gone. She thought she might have been better off trying to hide until someone else arrived so she could ask for help.

Too late now. She had run, and now she had no choice but to keep running and hope she could escape before it was too late.

Her eyes stung as her mascara ran into her eyes, driven there by the sweat that streaked down her forehead even as tears ran down her cheeks. She had no idea how far she’d run or how long she’d been running. She’d read somewhere that the cathedral’s bells could be heard up to five miles away, but she had no idea if that was true or not. She only knew that she needed to keep running.

She looked over her shoulder and couldn’t see anyone behind her. That was a mistake. She looked forward again, but not in time to see the hole in the ground. Her foot fell into the hole, and she fell forward with a cry, hitting the ground hard on her left shoulder.

Pain jolted through her spine to her toes and up to her gums. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth to stifle the cry that came to her lips, so what came out was a soft keening wail instead of a scream. She held her injured shoulder to her chest with her other arm and rolled over onto her back, sobbing with the pain and fear.

Don’t stop, she thought. Not here.

She rolled to her knees and slowly got to her feet, then continued running. Her lungs burned, and the stitch in her side intensified until it was nearly as painful as her injured shoulder.

Still, she kept running. She could still hear the wedding bells behind her. She wasn’t far enough away. Not nearly.

She was too disoriented to be fully aware of her surroundings. If she was, she would have realized that she was putting more and more distance between herself and civilization, more and more distance between herself and any chance of help.

She was too frightened to think of that. All she could think about was getting away.

She reached an old dirt road that led to a farmhouse in the distance and picked up the pace. She could reach it in a few minutes. The people there would help her. They had to.

She began to sob again, a kernel of hope intensifying her desperation. Just a little farther. Just a little more, and she would be safe.

She stumbled again but this time managed to keep her feet. She looked up, and when she did, she saw him standing in front of her, a crazed grin on his face. She screamed and veered to her left, reaching with her hands as though grabbing for an unseen hand.

She didn’t reach that hand, but another hand gripped her shoulder like a vise and yanked her back onto the road. She turned wild eyes up toward her attacker. He grinned at her and raised a long spike over his shoulder. It gleamed brightly in the moonlight.

“No!” she shrieked. “Please!”

The needle came down. She shrieked again.

Then she fell silent.

CHAPTER ONE

Lauren stood in front of the altar and stared at the image of Christ on the cross. Jesus looked down on her, his face twisted in anguish, but his eyes filled with love.

Pain and love. Suffering and redemption. Sin and forgiveness. The endless dichotomy of Christianity. We are all sinners, but we can all achieve righteousness through God. We all suffer, but Christ’s love will redeem us. We are all fated to an eternity in Hell, but should we submit our will to God, He will rescue us from that fate.

She had once believed all of those things without question, accepting the words and assurances of her teachers. Then God had proven Himself a liar, allowing his servants to suffer and die regardless of their worship of Him. She had left the church and never looked back.

Not until now.

It wasn’t God’s love that brought her back. He still seemed to her a cruel God, one more desirous of the fear and servitude of humanity than the love and joy He promised.

Still, if He was cruel, there were others far crueler.

Novi te, perfide. Prodigus.

Non diu nunc, prodigus.

I know you, prodigus. Not long now, prodigus

Prodigus. Latin for prodigal. Both times she had encountered allegedly possessed women—first in Cepagatti while she and Father Emilio investigated the deaths of nuns and second in New York when they had investigated the murders of several clergy, they had called her that name. The reference was clear. She had left the Church and left God. Now she was working for the Church, and while she might not believe in God, she still served Him. Not that she believed that, but that was what those who still believed would feel.

So it didn't really mean anything that those two ill women had called her by that name. They didn't need to know anything about her that she didn't volunteer. Even if she didn't volunteer, it was easy to guess that she didn't believe, and probably not all that hard to tell she struggled with that disbelief.

Still…

Quomodo exlamavit! Clamat adhuc!

How he screamed! He still screams!

She tried to tell herself that it meant nothing, that it could apply to anyone. The woman at the occult house in New York hadn’t mentioned Kevin’s name. She hadn’t mentioned anything about how he died. She simply said that he was screaming in Hell. That could mean anything. Everyone had dead male relatives and friends. She could tell anyone that “he” was still screaming. It didn’t mean she knew about Lauren’s murdered fiancé.

Still…

She sank slowly to her knees, her hands folding in front of her, the muscle memory of her years as a nun moving her body without conscious thought. She stared at the image of Christ on the cross in silence, hands clasped and knees bent, for several minutes without saying anything.

Then she spoke. “Lord.”

She fell silent after that one word, listening to her voice echo off of the walls. The church in Arezzo was small. It barely sat three hundred people, smaller than some conference rooms she’d sat in while she worked for the FBI.

Empty as it was at three in the morning, it seemed as large as St. Peter’s Basilica.

She took another breath and said, “Lord. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know about this whole demon thing. I don’t even know if you exist or not. I can’t imagine that demons exist, and if they do, I can’t see them being this Hollywood horror movie thing they seem to be. It’s got to be fake, but…” she paused, trying to think about what to say. It had been years since she’d prayed, nearly a decade. She realized that she didn’t know how to pray anymore. She knew the rosary still. God knew she had heard it enough since moving to Italy.

At least, if He was real, He knew. The jury was still out on that.

“God, just… keep me safe. Keep Father Emilio safe.”

She fell silent again, and when she couldn’t think of anything else to say, she stood up. She started to leave, then remembered. “Amen,” she said.

She felt a bit of peace after that. Not a flood, but a trickle. Enough that she didn’t regret praying, even though she felt silly after it.

She was glad for the break after the case in New York. The past two months had been a welcome reprieve from the stress of the cases in Pescara and New York. No demons, no murderers, no questioning who or why she was, just enjoying her simple life working in her vineyard and visiting her boyfriend, Enrico.

Was he her boyfriend? They hadn’t officially established their relationship. In fact, Lauren had asked if they could take things very slowly. She still mourned her fiancé, Kevin, slain by Fiero, the one serial killer she hadn’t caught when she worked for the Bureau.

Still, there was no doubt that her feelings for Enrico grew stronger every day, and no doubt that he was worthy of her affection. He was a good man, a kind man, strong and handsome and very patient. Maybe one day, when she was fully healed mentally and emotionally, she could allow him to have all of her heart and not just the bits and pieces she gave him now. Maybe she could—

Her phone rang, the sharp tone echoing harshly through the silence of the church. Lauren jumped and cried out, then reddened as she realized what had happened.

At least no one was here to see me, she thought wryly. Who the hell is calling me at this time of night anyway?

When she pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at it, she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. She and Enrico weren’t at the point where a three-fifteen a.m. phone call would be appropriate. That left only one possibility.

She braced herself for the news she knew she was about to receive and answered the phone. “Lamb.”

“Lauren,” Father Emilio’s voice replied. “I’m sorry to wake you. I’m outside your house. There’s an urgent case. The Vatican has already secured our flight. We must leave within an hour. Do you need help to pack your bag?”

Lauren closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m not at home,” she said.

There was a slight pause. “I see. Please pass my apologies to Enrico.”

She reddened and said, a little sharply, “I’m not at Enrico’s either. I’m—” she sighed, “—I’m at the church.”

“Oh?” Father Emilio replied, his voice perking up. “Really? That’s wonderful news!”

Lauren sighed again. “If you pick me up and take me home, I can pack within twenty minutes. Or, if you want, I can walk over.”

Her house was only a half-hour walk from the church, and Arezzo was an exceptionally safe town, so she didn’t mind the walk. In fact, she might prefer it, if only because it would delay the grilling; she knew she would have to face Father Emilio's hands. Father Emilio had made no secret of his mission to bring Lauren back into the Church. He was no doubt gleefully imagining Lauren on her knees, begging God for forgiveness and acceptance back into His arms.

She thought uncomfortably that she had come dangerously close to doing just that.

“No, no,” Father Emilio replied. “I will be there in three minutes. Fernando?”

She didn’t hear the young driver’s reply, but a moment later, Father Emilio said, “Wonderful. We’re on our way. Please, finish praying. The flight is a private charter. It will wait as long as necessary.”

“I’m not praying, Father,” Lauren said, once again more sharply than she intended. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

“Of course, of course,” he said brightly. “If you say so.”

She could just imagine the twinkle in his eye. She hung up and sighed again.

She would never hear the end of this. Ever since she had agreed to work with Father Emilio for the Vatican, investigating crimes with a possible supernatural element, the old priest had been dogged in his efforts to bring Lauren back into the Church’s arms. Lauren endured these efforts, but she didn’t enjoy them.

Well, too late now.

“This is what I get for going to the church to pray,” she grumbled.

***

The car weaved rapidly through the winding country roads. They were taking the back way to the airport. Lauren wondered at that. There would be no commercial flights for three hours at least. Perhaps Fernando simply liked driving through the narrow roads. He certainly moved the big German sedan like a sports car.

“May I ask what you were doing at the church so early?” Father Emilio asked mildly.

“No,” Lauren said, lips thinning.

“Of course, your prayers are between you and God," he said genially, "However if you felt a need to confess or needed advice, I am a priest.”

“Really?” Lauren replied drily, keeping her eyes stoically ahead. “I didn’t realize.”

“Lauren, I am not teasing you,” Father Emilio said. “I am overjoyed that you are seeking God again.”

“I’m not seeking God, Father,” Lauren replied irritably. “I was taking a walk, and I stopped to rest a moment.”

“Do you often take walks early in the morning?” he asked.

“I have nightmares, Father,” Lauren replied. “You know that.”

“Perhaps God will hear your prayer and provide relief for your nightmares.”

“I wasn’t praying.”

“Right,” he said cheerfully. “Of course.”

Lauren sighed. “Do we have any information on the case?”

“Three victims,” Father Emilio replied. “So far. All young women between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five. All in the Provence region of France.”

“That’s good,” Lauren replied. “I’ve always wanted to see France.”

“Are you joking?” Father Emilio asked. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“Nevermind,” Lauren answered. “Go on. Three victims, you said?”

“Yes, all young women between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five.”

“Cause of death?”

"A deep puncture wound to the heart in all three cases," Father Emilio said, "from a nail or an all or some similar instrument. Something very sharp but with a very narrow profile.”

“Not a misericorde?” Lauren asked.

Their last killer, the insane police officer Kenneth Anderson, had killed his victims with a misericorde, a thin dagger coincidentally of French origin designed to slide through gaps in plate armor. Or rather, he had convinced his victims to kill themselves.

“No, the profile is round, like a nail,” Father Emilio repeated. “It could be a knitting needle, an aul, a large nail, a spike or some similar instrument.”

“I see,” Lauren replied, “Any wounds on the wrists or ankles?”

She meant it as a joke, but Father Emilio’s words took the humor out of it. “No, but they were crucified.”

She turned to him in shock. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” he said, and his expression was serious. “They were all crucified upside down after death and left at the side of the road.”

Lauren stared at him in disbelief. It occurred to her that she shouldn't really be surprised. They couldn't just deal with a normal garden-variety killer. It had to be some sort of nutcase and probably a religious one. Then again, she was working for the Vatican, and she and Father Emilio were only called for cases that had a religious overtone.

“Who called it in?” she asked, meaning who asked for their help.

“Father Pierre Saint-Denis,” he said, “an old friend of mine.”

Lauren smiled slightly. “You have an awful lot of old friends, Father.”

He shrugged, “I’m a friendly man.”

“Okay, so Father Pierre called us, but on whose authority are we investigating? We can’t just show up and start looking.”

"Actually, we can," Father Emilio corrected, "that the Vatican has authority to usurp local jurisdictions in cases they deem to be spiritual in nature."

“The Vatican has self-declared authority,” Lauren replied, “the local jurisdictions might not feel the same way about it.”

“Well, in this case, they do. We’re in Europe, Lauren,” he replied, once more using her Italian name. “Church and State are not separated to nearly the same degree as in America.”

Lauren had a load of arguments on both sides of that claim, but she set them aside for now. “So the police have asked for us.”

“They have asked for a consultant to determine if this crime is religious in nature. That is where we come in.”

“All right,” Lauren said, “what do we know about the victims besides their gender and ages?”

“All three were found in wedding dresses.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “They were killed on their wedding nights?”

“They were killed in wedding dresses,” Father Emilio said, “or else dressed in wedding gowns after death. I don’t know if they were killed on their wedding nights yet.”

“Okay,” Lauren said, processing that. “Anything else?”

“I believe that there is a spiritual element to this,” Father Emilio replied. “I don’t think the upside-down crosses are simply a signature or a distraction.”

“Of course not,” Lauren said drily. “Why would this just be a crazy person? It must be demons.”

“I didn’t say it was demons,” Father Emilio protested, “only that there’s a spiritual element. Lauren, if you want me to be honest with you, you can’t shut down my opinions every time I offer them.”

Lauren took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. So why do you feel there’s a spiritual element?”

“The Petrine crucifixions,” he replied. “It is a symbol of humility in the Christian faith. Saint Peter asked to be crucified upside down as he didn’t believe himself worthy to die the way Christ died. In occultism, of course, it has been perverted as a symbol of evil, a crude profession of believing in the opposite of Christ and His message.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Lauren replied, “but nothing else? No marks or notes?”

“The coroner’s report is not finished,” Father Emilio replied.

“Not for any of the victims?”

“No. All three were killed within the past week.”

“Jesus,” Lauren whispered.

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain,” Father Emilio corrected sharply.

“Sorry,” she said, “it’s just… disturbing.”

“Yes. The police, as you might imagine, are very concerned. They’ve tripled their patrols and encouraged residents to remain inside with their doors and windows locked. If they must leave the house, they are encouraged to do so in pairs or groups.”

“Your friend told you this?”

“Yes. He is the parish priest in Avignon. The most recent victim was found less than three miles from his church.”

“Avignon,” Lauren repeated. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“It was once the seat of the papacy,” Father Emilio explained, “for a brief period in the fourteenth century.”

“I see,” Lauren replied.

“So,” Father Emilio said, “What were you doing in the church?”

Lauren sighed. “I’m going to take a nap, Father. Wake me when we’re at the airport.”

“Of course,” he said, “Get all the rest you need.”

His tone told Lauren that he was aware she was simply deflecting the subject, but he allowed her to feign sleep without further comment.

CHAPTER TWO

Lauren gazed out the window as the plane descended toward Marseille, awed by the beauty of the landscape unfolding below her. The coastline of Marseille was marked by steep, craggy cliffs topped with green meadows and broken up by narrow inlets that shimmered under the light of the dawn. Behind her were the snowcapped peaks of the maritime Alps. Ahead, the lush, rolling hills of the Provence countryside. It reminded her much of the Tuscan countryside, though here the hills were broken up more by rivers and short but steep mountain ranges. It was a wild country but an inviting one.

The charter plane banked for its final approach, and Father Emilio said, “There will be a car waiting to take us to Avignon.”

Lauren continued to enjoy the breathtaking view, but she had to ask, “Why are we landing here and not Avignon?”

“Father Saint-Denis is meeting us here with the representative from the Gendarmerie,” Father Emilio explained.

“This isn’t a Police Nationale case?” Lauren asked.

“Avignon is a reasonably-sized city,” Father Emilio explained, “but not large enough to justify a Police Nationale presence. Don’t ask me why. The French are strange people.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “That seems a bit of a generalization, don’t you think?”

Father Emilio shrugged. “I’m only repeating a sentiment that Father Saint-Denis has offered many times. If you prefer, though, I’ll say they are simply different.”

Lauren smiled slightly. At times like this, Father Emilio reminded her much of her father, a true old-fashioned Italian, kind-hearted and generous but set in his ways. Then again, all old men were set in their ways. That was a truly universal attribute.

“How does the Gendarmerie feel about the Vatican's involvement?" she asked.

“I assume they accept it,” Father Emilio replied, “since we’re here. I don’t know how happy they are. If you’ll forgive me another generalization, the French very much prefer to handle their own problems without interference from foreign entities. Don’t be surprised if they are somewhat displeased to see us.”

“I’ll live with that,” Lauren said, “but will they work with us?”

“I’m sure they will,” the father replied. “No one likes to see their countrymen murdered. They’ll put up with whatever they need to if it means finding the person or persons responsible and bringing them to justice.”

“I thought you said the victims were women?”

The Father sighed and said, “Perhaps I’ll take a sensitivity course when I get home so I can know how to phrase things in a manner acceptable to you.”

Lauren lifted an eyebrow. “So grouchy,” she said.

“I haven’t had my coffee yet,” Father Emilio explained.

Yep. A true Italian.

The plane touched down, and as promised, an elegant black sedan waited for them when they landed. Lauren’s eyes widened in appreciation. The Gendarmerie spared no expense when it came to the comfort of their investigators, it seemed.

Father Saint-Denis was a tall, ruggedly handsome gentleman, perhaps ten years Father Emilio's junior, with a full head of hair that retained a great deal of its natural reddish brown. His eyes were a crystal blue that reminded Lauren of Enrico’s. His smile was equally handsome but more closely resembled the kindly gaze of Father Emilio than the roguish grin of Enrico.

He embraced Father Emilio and said in perfect Italian, “It’s wonderful to see you, Emilio. It’s been far too long.”

“It has,” Father Emilio replied. “I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Me as well,” Father Saint-Denis replied. He turned to Lauren and extended a hand. “You must be Miss Lauren Lambi. Emilio has told me much about you. It’s an honor to finally meet you in person.”

Lauren debated correcting his use of the Italian name and decided to let it go. “It’s a pleasure,” she replied in Italian.

The Gendarmerie office standing next to Father Saint-Denis coughed. Unlike Saint-Denis, he was short and barrel-chested with a wrestler’s build. His features were squashed and thick, and his eyes were a dull brown—dull in color but not in perception. They flicked back and forth between Lauren and Father Emilio and quickly assessed the two of them. His piercing, observant gaze and the relaxed tension with which he carried himself—like a snake coiled to strike—suggested to Lauren that he had military experience. The Gendarmerie was technically a military organization, Lauren reminded herself. Perhaps they all had the same bearing.

He extended a strong, hairy hand toward Lauren, and when she took it, she nearly winced at the gorilla-like strength in his grip. She smiled and said in accented French, "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Lauren Lamb.”

“Adjudant Francois Arnaud," he replied. "We can speak Italian if you prefer.”

“Nonsense,” Father Emilio interrupted in surprisingly elegant French. “We are in your country. If Miss Lauren is comfortable in the language, it will make things easier for us to converse in French.”

Francois nodded curtly and gestured for them to enter the vehicle. Lauren reached for the rear door, but he lifted a hand to stop her and said in a perfectly businesslike tone. “The lady, of course, may sit in the front.”

Lauren bowed her head slightly. “Thank you.”

She would have preferred to ride in the back with Father Emilio, but she didn’t want to offend the inscrutable policeman. She allowed Francois to get the door for her and thanked him again. Once the others were seated—Francois in the driver’s seat—they started toward Avignon.

On the drive, Francois filled them in on the details. “The latest victim was Marie Delacroix, a twenty-one-year-old student of Aix-Marseille University. She was to be married at the cathedral but fled prior to the ceremony. She was found hanging upside down on a cross a few miles from the cathedral in a wheat field. The owner of the property contacted us when he found her.”

“How tragic,” Father Emilio mourned. “To be murdered on her wedding day.”

“It was not her wedding day,” Francois corrected. “It was the night of the rehearsal.”

“Ah,” Father Emilio replied. “Still, very tragic.”

“And the cause of death was confirmed to be a stab wound from a nail?” Lauren asked.

“Yes,” Francois confirmed. “But I shall allow the coroner to provide you with the details.”

“I’d prefer to hear everything you know now,” Lauren said.

The corners of Francois’s mouth turned up slightly. “There were four wounds in total: One to the heart—the killing blow—and the three nails used to fasten the body to the cross: one in each wrist and one through both feet. The body was dead for less than an hour before it was nailed to the cross. You know already that she was crucified inverted in the Petrine manner.”

“Yes,” Lauren said. “Any sign of sexual assault?”

“The victim was sexually active as recently as a few hours before her death. No physical sign of coercion, but we’re not ruling out sexual assault or rape.”

“DNA?”

“No matches in our database, but that only means that the perpetrator is not registered in our system.”

“Any suspects?”

“The betrothed, of course, but that is simply common practice in these cases. There are no real leads yet. We interviewed him along with the other members of the wedding party. They seem distraught, of course.”

“What is your opinion of him?” Lauren asks.

Francois shrugs. “It’s too soon to tell. Typically when someone murders his or her lover, it’s due to jealousy, but all insist that there is no other woman or man.”

“Well, they would insist that at a wedding rehearsal.”

“Sure,” Francois said. “Of course, they would."

“Were any unusual markings found on the victim?” Father Emilio asked, “Or on her clothing? Any unusual items found on their person?”

“None,” Francois replied.

“Any increase in the presence of animals?” the Father asked. “Cats or dogs? Birds, perhaps?”

Francois turned and frowned at the father. Father Saint-Denis shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I believe that father is wondering why the Vatican was called,” Lauren asked, casting a sharp look back at Father Emilio, who wore the signature scowl that always filled his face when he was thinking hard about something.

“We did not call you,” Francois said, “Father Saint-Denis called you. However, my superiors with the Gendarmerie agreed that we could use your expertise.”

His tone was perfectly professional, but Lauren could see slight tension in his shoulders. No doubt, he wasn't happy about being told that he needed the help of the Vatican, especially now that Father Emilio had asked him questions that labeled him as a kook.

Lauren knew the father wasn’t a kook, but she wished, as she had many times before, that he would be more prudent with revealing his beliefs.