Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(39)

"They were photographing my brother. It wasn't until my brother stole some of the pictures and took them to my father that he believed Jericho's claims." Sad laughter fell over my lips, grief stricken breath beating in and out of my lungs. With flashes of the torment I saw in the grainy, black and white images, I fisted my hands and closed my eyes. "Even after being presented with the evidence, my father did nothing to stop the sexual abuse."

Timothy picked up the photos, his face twisting in revulsion before sliding them under the letter my father had written. Out of sight, out of mind, I guessed, but this particular crime wouldn't go away so easily.

"Why did you bring this to my attention? Did you want me to find out?"

"I thought you should know in case your brother ever contacts you. After the allegations were made, he was quietly asked to walk away from the Church, paid a significant sum to keep his mouth shut and never mention it again." His fingers drummed over the desk just inches from the confession and photos. "Have you see your brother lately?"

I couldn't understand why he cared. "Why does it matter?"

He sighed. "I was hoping you would know where he could be found. I've been quietly looking for him."

My gaze snapped to his. "Why?"

Fingers drumming again, the sound was a quick succession of taps that ended as abruptly as they began. "How much do you know about your father's death?"

My brows pulled together with confusion. "That he died of old age. I don't fucking know. I just heard that he'd died when the executor of his estate contacted me. That was all I cared to know and I never dug any deeper. You told me yourself he was sick, that he gave you these confessions while dying."

His lips pulled into a thin line. "I never told you that your father was sick. I simply said that he'd made the confessions because he knew he was close to death."

Stilled by the implication of his words, the tight fist of my hand released, my palm rubbing over my jeans to dry the clammy sweat. "Are you saying my brother killed my father?"

"I can't tell you what happened, Jacob. All I know is that he knew he was going to die and he was found dead at the base of the stairs in his home. The back of his head had been dented in from blunt force trauma."

It didn't upset me to hear my father had died violently, not in the slightest. But what did worry me was why this priest was so interested in finding my brother. I didn't need the authorities digging too far deeply into my brother's activities. That particular problem was mine alone.

Snatching the confession and photos from the desk, I dropped them in the metal box and slammed the lid. "Can you find the priest and music director? Will the Diocese admit where they were transferred?"

Nodding his head once, his voice was morose when he agreed. "Of course, Jacob. I can do that. But it will take time. Can you come back here in a week to give me time to dig around?"

Frustration was choking me. The last thing I wanted to do was spend a week in this city. "Yeah. I can do that."

It was too important to find out exactly what my father had confessed.

"I'll see you in a week's time, then. But if you feel the need to come to me sooner, the parish's doors are always open."

I highly doubted I would step foot inside this place any sooner than was absolutely necessary. Refusing to say as much, I stood and stormed out of his office.





ELIJAH


When I was a young man, I'd learned through personal experience how easy it is to take advantage of a person or situation. Sometimes it was something as simple as stumbling into a place at a time when some other person is doing something they shouldn't. Other times, it took coercion, a simple method of attracting a victim by learning how easily they could be victimized.

Victims aren't so difficult to find. They're everywhere you look while walking down a crowded street. The inferior, the weak minded, the forgotten who stand on the sidelines just hoping that somebody would one day see them as more than just a pathetic stranger struggling to get by. One must be careful though, not all outcasts are looking for companionship. You have the find the ones who are truly lonely, the ones who are outcasts by force rather than choice. Those who are unloved when all they crave is the love they've been refused.

Growing up, I was one of those weak minded. Lack of love wasn't my issue. It was more of too much love, too much attention, too much protection by a strict and uncompromising hand.

Often I'd arrive at my local parish ready and willing to escape the walls of my childhood home, but carrying with me the markers of my unfortunate circumstances. It didn't matter what I said or did, what I believed or how I behaved, the old man always found a reason to worry about my eternal soul. He left his mark on every square inch of my body, small bruises, small splits in the skin, the occasional bump that swelled into a painful reminder of what my punishment had been.

On timid feet, I'd walk the interior of the parish donning the white choir robe all members wore, the length covering my scrawny legs, but the sleeves never quite enough to hide my arms.

The music director would notice the bruises, his eyes darting between the sheet music on his stand and me. When first I'd joined to lift my voice to the highest power, he'd assigned me a spot in the back, eventually moving me forward through the weeks and months until I was the student standing directly in front of him. He'd recognized the victim easily enough, a boy with no support, no champion, no protector to whom he could run.