Blood of the Wicked by Leighton Gage Read Free Book Online Page B

It means the town is growing.”
    The clerk sounded as if someone had told him to say that to visitors, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. He was a young fellow, probably not more than twenty-one or twenty-two, with the flat nose, jet-black hair, and coppery skin that betokened Indian blood. He and Hector were the only two people in the lobby.
    Hector leaned one elbow on the counter. “Where’s the church?”
    “Which one?” the Indio said with a touch of pride. “We have lots of churches, senhor. There’s Santa Mari—”
    He had his fingers out in front of him, his thumb extended upward, ready to count the rest of them off, but Hector cut him short. “The one the bishop was coming to consecrate.”
    “Ah,” he said, his hands falling to his sides. “That would be the new one, Nossa Senhora dos Milagres.”
    “Who’s the priest?”
    The clerk looked blank. “Senhor?”
    “The priest at Nossa Senhora dos Milagres. What’s his name?”
    “That would be Father Gaspar.”
    “New in town, is he?”
    “Oh, no, senhor. He used to be at Santa Cecilia’s on the Rua Governador Quercia, but it’s closed now. They’re going to tear it down and put up a school.”
    “Where do I find this Father Gaspar?”
    The clerk reached to one side and pulled a street map of downtown Cascatas from a nearby stack.
    “We’re here,” he said, circling an intersection with a red ballpoint pen. “And the church is . . . here.” He made a cross. “Father Gaspar lives next door. You can’t miss it.”
    THE CLERK was right. You couldn’t miss it. The priest’s house was three stories tall and had an enclosed garage. It was built of the same red brick as the church, an obvious annex to the much larger building.
    The young man who answered the doorbell had tawny skin and reddish-brown hair that hung low over his forehead. He had a single earring, a nose that showed signs of having been broken more than once, and mismatched lips. The upper one was thin and the lower one fleshy. He was wearing white duck pants, an open-necked white shirt, and a white jacket. His black shoes were highly polished. His manners weren’t.
    “Got an appointment?” he said, before Hector had a chance to utter a word.
    “I’m here to see Father Gaspar.”
    The young man raised his eyes and sighed. “I didn’t think it was to see me, so I ask you again. Have you got an appointment?”
    “No, but—”
    “Then call and make one.”
    He started to swing the door shut, but not quickly enough. “Hey,” he said, “get your foot out of the—”
    Hector didn’t wait for him to finish. “Tell Father Gaspar that it’s police business.”
    The door swung open again, relieving the pressure on Hector’s foot.
    “You’re a cop?”
    Hector nodded. “I’m a cop. Federal Police.”
    “Prove it.”
    “Jesus Christ,” Hector said, but he reached for his wallet. “We don’t take the name of the Lord in vain around here,” the young man said, reprovingly. He studied Hector’s ID. “You got a business card in there?”
    Hector fished one out and handed it over.
    “Okay, wait here. And take your foot out of the door.”
    Hector did, and the surly servant slammed it shut.
    A few minutes later the servant was back. This time he swung the door wide, led Hector toward the back of the house, and ushered him into a room where a fat man in a black cassock was waiting for him. Limpid brown eyes stared at Hector from beneath bushy eyebrows.
    Hector took the hand he was offered. The priest exerted only the slightest pressure before he let go.
    “Father Gaspar Farias,” he said.
    “Pleased to meet you, Father. Hector Costa, Federal Police.”
    Completely bald, Father Gaspar had slightly protuberant eyes, a wide mouth, virtually no neck and a double chin. His head seemed to be out of proportion to the rest of his body. He reminded Hector of a huge frog.
    The priest’s study was a high-ceilinged room lined with bookshelves. A rustic dining table had