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Skye said and led the way back to her Bronco.
    “What are you thinking?” Martinez asked.
    “There was so much wrong with that conversation I don’t know where to start.”
    “She assumed Rafe Cooper was dead.”
    “Exactly. And she didn’t ask who else had been killed, if we’d caught the suspects, nor did she seem fearful of her mother’s life.” Skye paused as they climbed into the truck. “You said the bishop kept Corinne Davies on the payroll. Why did her daughter think she’d been fired and needed to find a job?”
    “Perhaps the bishop is keeping her on payroll until she finds something,” Martinez suggested.
    “Hmm.”
    “You think she was involved?” Martinez asked.
    “I’m not making any assumptions at this point, but I can hardly wait to speak to Corinne Davies. I’d like you to do a deeper background check on mother and daughter.”
    Skye turned the ignition. “Let’s go check in with Rafe Cooper’s doctor.”

Chapter Four
    A NTHONY SAT AT R AFE’S bedside, praying over him, concentrating so hard that he was oblivious to everything else, trying to figure out what had happened.
    If only it were that simple. If only he’d been blessed with second sight, like some of the others. If only he could reach into Rafe’s mind and see what had happened…
    He admonished himself for his futile plea. As Father Philip often said, accept the gifts you have and don’t covet the gifts of others.
    As a young child, he had found it difficult to understand what advantages he would have in the ongoing war. He’d been sheltered by the monks because of his strong empathic ability. He sensed good and evil in both people and things. When he was young, overwhelming waves of negative emotion nearly destroyed him; it was only with age and training that he learned to control his senses.
    Now, his ability served him well as a demonologist. And sitting here, at Rafe’s side, he knew there were no demons inside him, nothing evil that kept him comatose. Only emptiness, a void, as if Rafe were already dead.
    “What happened in there, Rafe?” he whispered.
    Perhaps the coma was Rafe’s way of dealing with the tragedy. Where had he been during the slaughter? Had he witnessed it? Had he listened to it? Had he been somehow trapped by the demon? Why had he been spared? What had caused him to collapse at the altar?
    So many questions, and Anthony had no answers, and likely wouldn’t until Rafe woke up.
    Anthony was six when he first met Rafe. He’d instantly bonded with the child who radiated goodness.
    But there had always been questions. Rafe was older than most, abandoned at the monastery at the age of three instead of infancy. He’d been dying until Father Philip laid hands on him. He had scars no one could explain, as if he’d survived a brutal battle, though he was still a toddler.
    By the time the boys of St. Michael’s reached puberty, their gifts had been revealed. Demon hunter, psychic, healer, among others. For Anthony, it was his recognition of good and evil, his empathy, his ability to purge demons from inanimate objects like buildings. But as for Rafe—his gift was still unknown. At the age of twenty-one Rafe had decided to serve as a priest. He’d been sent to America because Father Philip sensed it was right. Yet ten years later, Rafe had still not received the Sacrament of Holy Orders. It was as if God Himself was pushing him in another direction, Rafe had told Anthony on more than one occasion.
    “I go through the ceremony and I can’t say the words. Something holds my tongue.”
    “Why didn’t you call me sooner, Rafe?” Anthony whispered. “I would have dropped the world for you, my friend.”
    Anthony reached for Rafe’s hand and stared. His right hand was in a cast, his left bandaged. He pulled Rafe’s chart from the end of the bed and read.
    Three broken fingers on his right hand and a shattered wrist. Fingernails on six fingers half torn. Wood slivers embedded in the tips, down to