Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(40)
His attention was innocent at first. A kind word spoken when nobody else could hear, a soft brush of his hand against my back while we filed past him into whatever room into which we were being directed, a well timed compliment on the days when the bruises were new and fresh. It wasn't long until he'd asked the question that didn't require a response. The marks and bruises, cuts and scrapes were the only answer he'd needed.
I was being groomed, my innocent mind being made to believe that someone cared. My mind didn't stay innocent for long.
"You can't speak a word of the sin that I've pulled from your body. What would your father think if he knew?"
The best method of trapping a victim and forcing their silence is to make them believe that they, too, were dirty. The music director had been the first smudge of dirt against my skin or inside my body-the priest following shortly after.
Much like the method used by the men who'd abused me when I'd been too young to understand, that method was how I'd trapped Gentry at my compound, and it's why, a week later, he walked his brother into the parish with an expression of guilt written across his face.
"Gentry," I greeted him, my voice solemn and resigned. Turning my gaze to his brother, I inclined my head, "Sheriff Holmes. It's good to see you."
Whereas Gentry was tightlipped and solemn after sobering up to realize what he'd done, his brother was aggressive, a take charge personality whose only weakness was his kin. "Father Hayle. I hear we have a problem in our town."
A practiced smile stretched my lips. "I assume Gentry told you about the trouble we had the other night. Perhaps we should go into my office to discuss it."
The two men followed me silently down the hall that led to my office. Taking their seats just as quietly, they waited patiently for me to round my desk, sit down and face them with a blank expression. I didn’t need to say a word to start the conversation. Sheriff Holmes had enough to say to fill the silence of the room.
“I want to know your take on what happened at the compound you maintain in the neighboring town. What is that place? Why do you have it? And where are you finding these possessed people like Gentry claims?”
My lips stretched into a slight frown, my forehead wrinkling with the dismay I hoped both gentlemen would believe I felt. “I don’t own the compound. It’s registered to a religious organization and was given to me for my use. You see, I assist the group of devout people who live there in order to escape the reality of the wicked world in which we live. They are people who have true faith in God, but have found it difficult to avoid the poverty and violence implicit in this world. I provide them with my presence, my blessings and my sermons on days I’m not required to perform duties at the parish.”
Twelve years ago when I’d taken the money I received as hush money from the parish I attended as a child, I’d purchased the compound and refurbished it to suit the needs of the family I was in the process of growing. However, knowing that I would eventually want to work in the shadows of society and not be known as Jericho Hayle, I’d started a business enterprise in another country, listed the business as a religious organization in the states and then filed all the necessary papers in such a way that the trail would never lead back to me. Knowing little about taxes, and not wanting to deal with any accountants face to face, I ensured that no money was made by the organization and filed the appropriate paperwork yearly. Signing under an assumed name, I’d managed to keep the compound running while preventing a paper trail that would be easily followed back to me. I wasn’t concerned with Sheriff Holmes discovering the truth that I owned the facility. I’d dotted every I and crossed every T to prevent such a discovery.
“The family, as they refer to themselves, are humble people, Sheriff. They’re meek and afraid of the outside world. The compound is somewhat of a shelter for them. They grow their own food, sew their own clothes, raise and educate their own children, and do so under the oversight of the Almighty. That’s how such a place has existed for twelve years without becoming well known. You’re welcome to look into all the county paperwork regarding the property, if you’re so inclined.”
Reaching up, he tugged at his well-groomed beard, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. Much like his brother, Gentry, he had a focused and intense gaze, his skin tanned by the sun and wrinkling from age. There wasn’t a speck of grey in his hair that peeked out from below his hat, and it was obvious he kept in shape for someone of his age. I assumed chasing down criminals for a living helped maintain his physique.
With a gruff voice, he answered, “I will look into it, but the ownership of the facility is not my concern. I’ve known of the building since I oversee the county police work, but I never understood how many people lived there.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I folded my hands together over the smooth surface of my desk. “It’s like I said: they’re quiet and they don’t cause problems. It’s more than can be said for other individuals freely roaming our town and the neighboring towns around us.”
“Which leads me to my other questions. Gentry tells me he had to-“ His voice trailed off and I assumed it had to be difficult for a sheriff to admit openly that his brother committed cold-blooded murder. “That he had to kill a man who was possessed by the Devil. How often does that happen?”