Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Jack Kerley 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover design and typography © Blacksheep-uk.com
Cover photographs © David Wile/PlainPicture.com (Main Image): (Bible) © iStock.com: (candles) © Francois Dion/Gettyimages.com
Jack Kerley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007493692
Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007493708
Version: 2014-11-29
Dedication
To Floyd and Addie Richardson –
And the house where the trains rolled by
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by J.A. Kerley
About the Publisher
1
Miami, April
“I’m putting in the last of Christ’s blood.”
Raoul Herrera studied the slender needle for a long moment, assured himself it was the right choice, then bent forward, his skilled fingers guiding the needle into flesh, adding a bright highlight to a plump drop of red dripping from a thorn. Herrera dabbed a cotton ball in antiseptic, blotted his client’s scapula, then leaned back and studied his work.
“Done,” he said.
Herrera flicked off the instrument and admired the most fantastic tattoo he’d ever created, a masterwork of detail that had stretched his talent to its limits, making him develop new ways of adding depth to color, motion to stillness, beauty to horror.
Yet all the tattoo consisted of was the back of a head. Not inked on the back of a head, an illustration of the back of a head.
The client had entered Skin Art by Raoul six weeks ago. The tattoo artist was alone in the back room, sanitizing equipment and preparing to close for the evening when he’d walked into the reception area. Though the door rang when opened, the bell had not sounded. Yet a man stood in the center of the Oriental carpet, utterly still, eyes staring into Herrera’s eyes, as if knowing the precise space the tattooist would occupy.
Herrera’s heartbeats accelerated. There was nothing but night outside his window and the neighborhood was dangerous in the dark. He kept a .38 pistol in back and Herrera mentally measured his steps to the gun.
“I’m closed,” he said.
The man seemed not to hear. He looked in his mid-thirties, hard-traveled years, lines etched into his angular face, his eyes tight and crinkled, as though he’d spent a lifetime squinting into sunlight. He was small in stature, wearing battered Levis and a faded Western-style shirt with sleeves rolled up over iron-hard forearms. His face was small and flat and centered by a nose broken at least once, the hair a tight cap of coiled brown that fell low on his forehead and gave a simian cast to his features. His eyes were the color of spent briquettes of charcoal.
“I said I’m done for the day, man,” Herrera repeated. “Come back tomorrow.”
Again, the man seemed deaf to Herrera’s words. Work-hardened hands unfolded a sheet of paper and held up a richly detailed illustration of Jesus inked into a man’s bicep, a work by Herrera that had been featured in a tattoo artists’ publication.
“Did you do this?” the man said. “Do you claim it yours?”
“It’s my work. Why?”
“It ain’t quite real yet, is it?”
Despite his uneasiness, Herrera felt his ability challenged. “You won’t find better, mister. Not that I figure you could afford it.”
The man balled the page and tossed it to the floor. “It ain’t there yet. It looks like Him. But He ain’t in it.”
Meaning Jesus.
“Use the door, mister,” Herrera said. “I’m closed.”
Eyes locked on to Herrera, the man turned to the sign switch and flicked off the neon display. He pushed the door closed and set the lock. Herrera inched closer to his gun. The man lifted his hands.
“I mean you no harm. Look here …”
The man eased a hand into his pocket and produced a roll of paper money. He crossed to the artist, took Herrera’s hand and pressed the roll into his palm.
“Count it up.”
Herrera did. Over five thousand dollars in fresh, clean bills.
The new client pushed through the beaded curtain to the work area in back and the tattoo artist followed. The man withdrew his tails from his pants, unbuttoning the shirt and throwing it to the floor. He turned to display his back, wide at the shoulders, narrow at the waist. When he moved, the muscles twitched with sudden electricity, as if hidden power had been awakened. The man sat in the tattooing chair and stared over his shoulder at Herrera.
“Turn a mirror so I can see. This time you gonna get it right.”
Herrera shook his head. “That’s not how it works. I make drawings. Get your approval.”
The man closed his eyes and retreated inside his head. After several long moments he nodded. “That makes sense.”