Most of the crowd followed suit, and for the first time since the investigation into Camille Renard’s death had started, Montoya felt as if the real Frank O’Toole was finally emerging.

As the parishioners lowered their gazes, Montoya also noted that Valerie Houston and her husband weren’t in the gym, and other people he’d seen earlier were missing, though some could be in the restrooms and the office adding up the bids from the silent auction.

Brinkman was covering the office, Zaroster and two undercover cops the hallways. He, Bentz, and the two priests were keeping the crowd in the gym, but he knew around any nook or corner, in any corridor or bell tower, Father John could be lurking.

Waiting.

And there would be more victims who would suffer his deadly wrath.

While Father Frank O’Toole led the congregation in prayer.

Slade found her shoe.

Dripping wet from his mad dash outside, he raced to the north staircase, and just as a collective gasp went up from the gymnasium, he located the open door propped by a sling-backed high heel belonging to Val.

Damn!

How the hell had she opened the door? And why were the lights out? Hadn’t he told her to stay put, made her swear she’d wait for him?

Well, it figured . . .

A bad feeling stole over him, but he stopped himself from yelling out to her, sensed that there was trouble. Serious trouble.

Soaked to the skin, he kept his lock picks in his hands and noiselessly descended the stairs just as he heard the sound of sirens, screaming through the stormy night, their shrieks piercing and getting louder as emergency vehicles approached.

Good!

Get the hell here, he thought frantically as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Rather than risk the overhead lights, he found a lighter in his pocket and switched it on, the tiny flickering flame casting the gloom of the basement in shifting, uneasy shadows.

Again he heard the wail of sirens.

Get here fast! For the love of God, get the fuck here fast!

Heart trip-hammering, nervous sweat prickling her skin, Val managed to follow the beam of the flashlight as it washed across crates and cement walls. The weak beam showed in trembling blue light the cracks in the foundation, the collection of forgotten artifacts, furniture, and memorabilia as they descended even farther, through an archway and two sets of doors.

At every turn, she thought she would be discovered, and she wondered, as the temperature lowered and they walked down yet another set of stairs, where they were going.

Deeper and deeper beneath the orphanage, to a point where the corridors became tunnels, the cement of the walls changing into roughly hewn rock.

Val tamped down her fear, but as the temperature dropped, she began to sweat even more, her nerves strung as tight as piano wires, her heart beating a nervous, irregular tattoo, the pistol clutched in her fingers.