The Sinners of Saint Amos: The Full 3-book Boxset

by Logan Fox

  PING goes the laptop.

  My heart’s about to give out, but then my fingers brush the plastic cover. It shifted, but it’s still there.

  The laptop’s whirring, but nothing else is happening. How slow is this thing?

  I can’t stop myself.

  I turn and look at the clock.

  It’s five past eight.

  I deflate like a balloon, my shoulders sagging as I let out a relieved sigh.

  What the fuck are those condoms doing in the drawer?

  I squeeze my eyes closed. What did Apollo say about this device? Did the computer have to be on all the way, or just powered up? He said I didn’t have to do anything, just plug it in, but when?

  I guess it doesn’t matter. Sooner rather than later, right?

  My fingers have turned into foot-long sausages. I drop the cap and spend several billion tick-fucking-tocks trying to get the stupid fucking drive into the stupid fucking slot.

  When it finally slides into place like a greased pig, I glare at it.

  No wonder people throw computers and shit against the wall. I’m stinking of sweat, never mind those fucking mothballs.

  The screen starts spitting out letters.

  Shit.

  Shit!

  Was this a virus or something? Was that the Brotherhood’s plan all along? But then I actually read the messages, and calm down a little. The computers in the library would spout shit like this too. Checking this, allocating that.

  Normal. It’s all normal.

  My gaze is inexorably drawn back to the clock.

  Seven minutes past eight.

  Fuck.

  I drum my fingers against the laptop’s plastic frame. The Windows logo pops up, accompanied by a too-loud set of chimes that I’m sure Jasper heard back in our room.

  Christ, I’m breaking out in hives.

  Ten past eight.

  This is ridiculous. There’s no way a computer can take this long—

  A bright blue desktop pops open. Twenty or so folders and files scream for my attention.

  I have no idea if the drive is doing its thing, but I can’t be bothered with it right now. I have about three minutes before I need to shove this thing back in its bag.

  Three minutes to prove that Father Gabriel is a good guy.

  Three fucking minutes.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Zach

  My timing was off. Instead of the five to seven minutes I’d thought it would take Gabriel to make his way down to the classroom. He gets here in three minutes.

  Three fucking minutes.

  Did he run track or some shit?

  I think I’m hearing things when his shoes thump up the stairs. I barely get to the other end of the hall before he clears the stairs. My heart beats so loud in my chest, I’m shocked Gabriel doesn’t first stop to investigate the sound.

  He races down the passage, a dark shape against the shadows. I’ve left the lights off to make it seem no one’s been here yet except Cass.

  Hopefully, Cass heard him coming.

  Muffled voices reach me. I make my way down the stairs, race across the downstairs hall, and then come up the other side where Gabriel entered.

  By the time I skid to a halt outside class 2C, I’m panting.

  I flick on the light, flooding the classroom white.

  Gabriel is on the floor. The chair Cass had been standing on lies on its back a yard or so away.

  “Father?”

  Gabriel shifts at the sound of my voice, but he doesn’t look up. My chest is so tight, I can barely breathe. I like to think that I’m intelligent and cautious, but I just realized I’m an impulsive fucking idiot.

  Cass isn’t moving.

  With the lights on, the ligature marks around his neck are too bright, too red, too fucking real.

  “Did you call Timothy?”

  Of course I hadn’t. Cass was supposed to tip over the chair as Gabriel walked in. He’d be hanging for seconds before Gabriel brought him down.

  Unless he slipped.

  Unless he actually did break his fucking neck.

  Unless the sick fuck let him choke to death as he watched, because he’s known all along about us, known we were watching, and he was waiting for just the right moment, the perfect opportunity to—

  “Brother Zachary!”

  I flinch, tearing my eyes from Cass’s slack face.

  “Call Timothy.” Gabriel doesn’t shout. In fact, he sounds calm as fuck.

  My fingers are numb as I slide my phone from my pocket. I make the call, and speak the words, but it’s as if it’s all happening to someone else.

  Gabriel lays Cass on the floor and starts doing CPR. When he presses his mouth to Cass’s, something inside me snaps.

  “Don’t!” I snarl, falling to my knees beside Cass’s limp body. I shove Gabriel away, dimly aware that I’m doing this all wrong, so fucking wrong, but I can’t stop.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  I close my mouth over Cass’s and breathe into him, feeling his chest rise under my palm.

  Once. Twice.

  Start compressions.

  Ten.

  Twenty.

  Thirty.

  Gabriel sits back on his heels. His phone is out. He’s talking to someone, but fuck knows who.

  It’s all over.

  He knows.

  And I don’t give a fuck because I’m losing Cass.

  Already lost him.

  Fuck.

  Fuck!

  “Stay with me,” I yell before breathing into his mouth again. Once, twice. “Stay the fuck with me!”

  My ears whine like a buzzsaw. Cass’s chest feels too spongy under my stacked palms, like I’m pushing down on a mattress and not my brother’s chest. I will the force of every push to draw air back into his lungs, to massage his heart, to do whatever the fuck it was CPR is supposed to.

  “Breathe!” I yell.

  Gabriel’s hand comes into view. For a sickening moment I think he’s going to pull me away, to tell me I have to stop, that Cass is already dead. But instead he simply grabs the edge of Cass’s t-shirt and draws it down his stomach.

  Covering the countless cigarette burns scattered over his skin.

  Marks I made.

  Pain I inflicted.

  My cheeks are wet, and I know I shouldn’t be crying for some random student in front of Gabriel, but fuck knows how I’m supposed to stop.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m so fucking sorry.

  I wish I could take back every nasty word I ever said to you, every fucked up thought, everything.

  Every-fucking-thing.

  “Zachary.”

  I’m staring at my meshed fingers as I shove down Cass’s ribs. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven—

  “Zachary!”

  I look up Gabriel, my face twisted with rage, with pain, with defeat. His eyes narrow, and his mouth thins into a stern line. “Stop.”

  “Fuck you,” I growl out.

  Gabriel’s eyes dart up to his hairline. “Brother Zachary—” he says, reaching for me.

  “Fuck, stop,” someone croaks. A hand slaps weakly at my wrist. “Stop!”

  I sit back and end up falling the last few inches onto my ass. Cass rolls onto his side, wheezing and gagging like I’d stuck my fingers down his throat. He puts a hand on his chest where I’d been doing the compressions and moans like a gutted pig.

  “I heard something give,” Gabriel says quietly. “You might have cracked a rib.”

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I scramble up, whipping my hands through my hair. The skin of my face is cold, tingling, two sizes too small. “I’m sorry,” I hear someone say. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “Go wait outside, child,” Gabriel says.

  Blood whines as it races through my veins. “Cass—Cassius, I’m so sorry.”

  “Zachary!”

  My eyes dart back to Gabriel. His face is pale, his mouth a hard, trembling line. He po
ints at the door. “You’ve done enough. Go and wait outside.”

  It feels like I’m dragging my legs through concrete to get to the door.

  I’m barely outside a moment before I hear running feet. Brother Timothy shoves me aside when I don’t move, and falls down beside Cass, a paramedic’s jump bag dropping to the floor by his knees.

  “Cassius, can you hear me?” Timothy demands, grabbing Cass’s shoulders and shaking him.

  “Yes, fuck. Stop that, would you? It hurts. God.”

  I step back further and further, until I can’t hear Cass’s voice.

  I broke him.

  I brought him back, but then I broke him.

  The fuck is wrong with me?

  My shaking hands curl into fists as I turn and force myself to walk away. There’s nothing more for me to do here.

  Like Gabriel said, I’ve done enough.

  I’ve done enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Trinity

  A green light starts blinking on the device. I should take it out and shut down the laptop so I can put it back under the bed, but I can’t. I’m frozen to the spot—faced with an email my brain doesn’t seem capable of processing.

  Dearest Gabe,

  I wish you had never left Redmond.

  I know it’s been months since we last spoke, and it seems I only ever contact you when I need something, but I truly hope you understand my reasons.

  I know you are busy at the school, and you made it very clear that I shouldn’t contact you again…but Keith needs your help.

  We need your help.

  Things have progressed to a stage where I’m not sure I can keep this marriage together any longer.

  My intention is not to guilt you into replying. I understand that there’s a chance you might not even see this email. But I hope you do.

  You’ve saved my marriage countless times before. I hesitate to ask, but can you save it again?

  Can you bring us back to God’s glorious light?

  We need you, Gabe.

  Keith most of all.

  Please.

  Monica.

  The fire pops, breaking me from my trance. I whirl around to look at the clock. Quarter past eight.

  I press the laptop’s power button. It starts shutting down as I yank out the drive and hike up my skirt to slip it behind my underwear again.

  A noise reaches me from the passageway outside Gabriel’s room. So faint, it could have been my imagination, but I’m not taking any chances. Whether the drive had enough time to copy everything it needed, I don’t know.

  I slam closed the lid and pull out the cable, shoving the laptop back in the bag before winding up the cord as I trace it back to the power outlet.

  Was that a door opening?

  My heart knocks against my breast bone. I’m seconds away from puking with nerves.

  I break off the tip of my nail when I pull out the power cord. I kick the side of the nightstand, shoving it back against the wall with my foot.

  Tossing everything in the bag, I zip it up and crawl under the bed.

  I can’t bear going all the way to the back.

  You’re taking too long!

  Fuck. I crawl out again, jump to my feet, and spin to face the door on the other side of the apartment.

  Then I remember to breathe, and let out a massive sigh of stale air.

  I tug my dress straight as I hurry back to the fireplace, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the bedroom is in the same condition I found it.

  I hiss in pain when my ass hits the chair. Despite the cushioning, I felt that impact all through my body. I shudder as I try to ignore the pain, and gently shift into a more comfortable position.

  What were you doing while I was gone, Trinity? Who, me? Just been sitting here the whole time. Sitting here, watching the fire.

  God, my heart’s pounding. I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, and then use both hands to swipe the sweat from my hairline.

  Crackle, pop, grumble.

  Caught between a hungry fire and an angry thunderstorm.

  Shit, it’s hot in here.

  I get up again, scanning the bedroom again as I pass. Dear Lord, I hope I didn’t fuck this up. I open the window and stick my head into the wet, chilly air.

  Better.

  Lightning fractures the sky, and a few seconds later a muted crack rumbles around Saint Amos.

  I check the clock.

  Twenty minutes past eight.

  Damn it! I could still have been going through his emails. It only took me a minute to find the one my mom sent. Father Gabriel—Gabe?—is super organized. His emails were all sorted into folders. Accounts, Personal, Redmond, Bishop, To-Do, Unsorted, Spam, Sent, Deleted.

  Mom’s letter had been the tenth one in the personal folder. I guess it says a lot that the entire folder only contained a little over thirty emails. But although Gabriel likes to pretend he doesn’t have a personal life, judging from my mom’s email, he’s had his nose stuck in our family’s affairs for a long time.

  His guidance?

  If she only knew the shit the Brotherhood was accusing Gabriel of.

  Oh, wait. She’ll never know. She’s dead.

  There’s no warning. One minute I’m glaring out at the black thunderstorm—the next everything blurs with angry tears.

  I push away from the window sill and stalk back to the fire. Trinity the Wimp is yelling at me to stop, but I shove her in a mental closet and lock the fucking door.

  Wine sloshes over the rim of the glass when I rip it off the side table. I tip my head back and swallow it all down in one go. Then I pour myself another from the decanter.

  I even stare at Gabriel’s pack of cigarettes for a moment, wondering if they’d help suppress the sudden swell of immutable fury roaring through me, but I dismiss the thought.

  Weed. That’s what I need.

  I drain my glass, and press my hand to the back of my mouth as I pause, waiting for everything to come right back up again. It’s red wine—what a fucking mess that will make of this pretty carpet.

  A bitter laugh bursts out of me instead. I consider drinking straight from the decanter but then I remember I’m not a fucking animal so I pour myself another glass.

  “That’s enough, child.”

  I gasp in shock, spilling wine over my hand and—yup!—ruining the pretty fucking carpet. Spinning around, I stare at Gabriel with a slack mouth as he comes closer.

  He takes the glass from my hand and urges me into the chair before perching on the arm. His head dips as he massages the back of his eyelids and lets out a long sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” I blink up at him, my hand reaching for him before I can snatch it away again.

  That doesn’t go unnoticed. Gabriel’s eyes latch onto my hand where I keep it pressed into a fist in my lap. The shadows on his face seem to deepen.

  “I’ll have to reschedule tonight’s dinner.”

  For a second, I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about.

  “Oh, this?” I nod, licking my lips. “Yes, of course.” My tongue feels like it’s growing thicker inside my mouth. Starting to regret the wine now, even if it did put out the fire raging inside me.

  You can soak shit in alcohol, but ultimately that just sets the stage for a world-class explosion.

  “I know I allowed it, child, but you shouldn’t drink in excess. Or at your age.”

  Irritation flickers inside me, threatening to ignite my earlier anger.

  Yeah, and a celibate priest shouldn’t have condoms in his fucking drawer, but here we are.

  I think I’m going to puke.

  I stand, making contact with Gabriel on my way up. In an effort to veer away from him, I stumble over my own feet. If he hadn’t caught onto me, I’d probably have fallen into the hearth.

  His hand is on my hip. Strong fingers dig into my flesh.

  Into the drive hidden behind my underwear. He frowns, and moves his thumb over the device. I twist awa
y from him, blinking furiously as I try to sober the fuck up.

  “I have to go,” I state, holding up a finger. “But can—may?—I use your bathroom first?”

  He frowns hard, and reaches for my hip again as he gets to his feet. “What is that?” he asks.

  “Bathroom!” I yelp out, and then hurry away from him. I saw another door leading off his bedroom—it’s either a walk-in closet for the hundred-plus clerical robes he needs, or it’s the bathroom.

  It turns out to be a bathroom.

  I slam the door shut behind me, and because of that I don’t make it to the toilet. Instead, I puke into the basin.

  This is a new record for me. The most I ever puked was that time Mrs. Brady undercooked the hot dogs at the church fete for handicapped people back when I was sixteen.

  I half-expect Gabriel to come inside and hold back my hair like Reuben did.

  But he doesn’t.

  I spend a few minutes making sure there’s nothing left to come out, and then a minute more splashing cold water on my face.

  Unfortunately, the purge did nothing to sober me up. I stumble out of the bathroom and have to hold onto the wall as I study the back of Gabriel’s head.

  He’s at the window, staring into the darkness.

  He turns his head a little, but then straightens again. “Do you need me to help you back to your room?”

  My spine stiffens.

  We need your help.

  “No,” I say icily, crossing my arms over my chest despite how that makes me sway. “I’m p’fectly fine.”

  Besides the slurring, of course.

  “I like to think I’m blameless, child.”

  It takes me a second to focus on him. “Wha’?”

  He sighs, closes the window and turns to face me. There’s a cigarette in his hand, and he drags at it till the coal glows red as Satan’s horns.

  “You asked if your parents were good people. And they are, Trinity. Truly…they are.”

  He walks up to me, a sad smile on his face. “But they’re not blameless, and neither am I.”

  His hand is on my shoulder. I don’t like it there, but I don’t want him to stop talking. “What are you sayin’?”