“What happens now? Same thing next Sunday?” asked his brother.

“Right now, I just want to get some sleep,” answered Grant.

X

He got about three hours.

When the phone rang, it was 4:15. By the time Grant picked it up, he was wide awake. Nothing good ever happened at 4:15 in the morning.

Especially when one was a commander at Scotland Yard. “Grant here.”

The first thing he noticed was the faraway hiss and ever-so-slight delay that signaled the call wasn’t local. “Commander Austin Grant?”

The next thing was the voice. Officious—yes. British—no.

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name’s Frankel. Detective John Frankel, NYPD. Sorry to wake you; I know it’s early there.”

“That’s all right, Detective. How can I help you?”

The question was easy enough. He had a sinking feeling about the answer.

“I got pointed in your direction by reports that came over the homicide wire about a series of murders you’ve had there in England. Throats slashed. Marks carved on foreheads.”

“Yes,” replied Grant. “That would be my investigation.”

“Well, I’ve got a DB here with the same MO.”

“DB?”

“Sorry. Dead body. Guess you have different terminology over there. My victim was impaled on a cross above the altar in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

Grant felt his mouth dry up. “By any chance, is your victim a priest?”

“Father Adam Peters. He’s been at Saint Paddy’s for over forty years.”

“And the marking on the forehead. A capital I and capital V—like a Roman numeral four?”

Grant heard the detective’s intake of breath on the other end of the line.

“A number. That answers a few questions. We thought maybe someone was trying to spell out something—like a name.” Frankel cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose this is a lucky guess on your part?”

“No. Not lucky.” Grant sighed. “Not lucky at all.”

Part One: Little Town Blues

PART ONE

Little Town Blues

Chapter 1

1

Grant hated heights.

He blamed it on the family cat and Everett. His younger brother had let Frisky slip out the door and the pet had promptly chased a bird up a giant elm. The next thing nine-year-old Austin knew, he was climbing after him and up fifty feet in the air. When he reached the top, Frisky was back on terra firma and Austin was holding on to the tree for dear life. Yelling, he lost his grip and dropped twenty feet before grabbing a branch, where he swung until his father rushed out to rescue him. Young Austin ended up blubbering uncontrollably all night. The tears subsided the next morning, but the feeling of nausea and panic he’d suffered when up on high returned again and again.