by Lisa Jackson
“Let’s just start with this one to begin with,” she suggested, trying to smile and feeling her lips tremble.
He gave her a look that was hard and tender at the same time. “You need to see a doctor.”
“I’ll be all right, really.”
He touched her near the elbow, and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Sure you will, once you suffer through an emergency room experience, get X-rays, and have some doctor prescribe painkillers as he stitches you up.”
“I’m not going to the hospital, Cole.”
He flashed her a grin. “I hate to tell ya this, darlin’, but right now you’re going to go wherever the hell I take you.”
“Bastard,” she grumbled.
“That’s me.”
That night, the Voice was clear.
And angry.
Rising above the irritating little squeaks of the others who infiltrated his brain with their wheedling demands.
“There is another you must sacrifice soon,” God told him, and he trembled on his bed, sweating, thinking of Eve. Was it her turn? Would she be one of those that God had chosen? Closing his eyes, he conjured up her face. So perfect.
Now, as a woman, she was beautiful.
Then, as a child, she’d been elusive.
She was the one he wanted.
God knew how much he wanted her. Wasn’t his lust for her the very reason the Voice had first come to him?
“Who, Father?” he whispered anxiously, his fingers curling over the edges of his quilt. “Who is to be taken? Tell me, and I will do Your will.”
He closed his eyes and concentrated. So soon after the others, he was to do the Lord’s bidding again. To take up his knife once more. To slay those who had so obviously infuriated the Almighty. This was his mission, his quest, for hadn’t the Voice promised if he did as he was bidden that he too would be deified?
Deified!
He would someday sit next to the Father in heaven…. Tears filled his eyes at the thought. He just had to do the Voice’s bidding, to follow His instructions, to wash away his own sins…
Please, please, may it be Eve’s time.
“There are those who sin,” the Voice said harshly. “Under the guise of innocence they walk the earth, guiding others, pretending righteousness, feigning faith. They are the worst of sinners, hiding behind their sanctity, and they must be sacrificed, their artifice exposed to all. Sacrifice this one first and take the second…”
“Take the second? Take her where?”
There was only silence.
“Father?” he cried and wondered fleetingly if, as his mother had said, he was insane. Hadn’t that been what the doctor had diagnosed, the nurses had suggested, the nuns had pitied and prayed about?
And yet the Voice of God was real. It spoke to him. Had It not named him, called him the Reviver? Told him he would be deified? No, he could not doubt. He must believe.
“But Eve,” he finally said. “When will it be Eve’s time?” He’d seen her today at the hospital, lured there as he’d known she would be. Our Lady of Virtues belonged to her. To him. Soon, he thought, anticipation sliding through him. “Father?” he asked, hoping beyond hope that it was finally her time.
There was no answer, just the tomblike quiet of his room.
God was angry with him.
He knew it.
He’d been too bold.
“Thy will be done,” he said aloud.
Trembling with excitement, he rolled off his bed and fell to his knees. Bending his head, folding his hands over his mattress, he eagerly awaited his instructions, anxiously considered what would be his mission.
And God told him.
CHAPTER 20
“Come here,” Eve said as Cole tucked her into the bed, her bed, high in the turret of her house.
He smiled down at her and shook his head, his dark hair catching in the light from the bedside lamp. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” She felt so good. Better than she had in a long time, and Cole, damn him, was as handsome as ever. She felt so protected at the hospital with Cole standing beside her, helping her through the admissions process…She sighed happily and patted the bed beside her.
He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her forehead. “Listen, Eve, this is not for lack of wantin’, y’know. But I think we should wait until you’ve got all your faculties.”
“You’re turning me down.”
“Uh…” A dimple showed in one cheek. “Let’s just say I’m taking a rain check.”
“I thought you said you wanted to take care of me…to protect me.”
“I do and I will.”
“But you won’t sleep with me? You don’t want to make love to me?”
“You’re twisting my words. I need to call Montoya and Bentz or Deeds or someone and tell them about what we found at the asylum—”
“But I want you to stay with me,” she said.
“Sure you do. You’re feeling no pain now, all due to artificial means. But I’d feel a whole lot better about this if you weren’t on a cocktail of happy pills.”
“Come on, Cole,” she said, sticking out her lower lip. A part of her realized she had lost her inhibitions because of the drugs she’d been given; the other part of her didn’t care.
“You’re no fun.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove what?”
She lifted an eyebrow and stared up at him. “Just how fun you are.”
She let her teeth sink into that lower lip and heard him groan. “You’re a bad woman, Eve Renner.”
“Am I?”
“And I love ya.” With that, he kissed her, his lips fitting against hers so perfectly that she felt as if she were floating. She opened her mouth and felt his tongue play against her teeth before sliding inside.
Her bones melted as his hands skimmed her body, slowly caressing her arms and ribs then touching a breast.
“Oooh,” she moaned and knew it was his undoing.
All restraint was lost.
His kiss deepened, his breath hot and hungry, his body stretched out next to hers. He was careful…. She was aware that he was moretender than she remembered him being. He cradled her as he kicked off his jeans and tore off his shirt and settled the length of his body against hers, bare skin to her nightgown.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked one last time as he pushed an errant curl from her forehead then tugged her nightgown down, exposing one breast. With a quicksilver touch, he traced the areola of her breast with one finger until she squirmed.
“Absolutely.”
“Really?” He kissed her nipple then breathed across it as she watched him in the lamp’s golden glow.
“Mmmmm.” Her abdomen collapsed against her spine as his hand traveled downward, bunching up her nightgown, strong fingers exploring the lace of her panties.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
“Cole! Please…”
“You got it, darlin’.” He yanked the panties downward, nearly ripping them as he pulled them over her feet, and then he kissed her in the most intimate of regions, his lips and tongue tasting her, his breath curling hot and wild deep within.
Perspiration sheened her skin, and deep inside she felt an ache that begged to be released. The fingers of her good hand twisted in his hair as the first ripple poured through her, a cascading wave of pleasure that was as warm as it was intense. She bucked upward, wanting more, so much more…and Cole didn’t disappoint.
He prodded her knees apart then pulled her up to meet him as he thrust inside. She gasped, her good arm holding tight around his neck, her head pressed so tightly against his strong shoulder muscle that she could barely breathe. She kissed the spot where his neck joined with his shoulder, and he groaned, moving faster, deeper, until he leaned back and pulled her atop him, still moving, still thrusting, still touching the most sensitive part of her. Faster and faster, deeper and dee
per.
Eve, already floating, felt as if the world were spinning, a world only big enough for the two of them.
“Cole,” she whispered, barely able to speak. “Oh God, Cole…” The next wave hit her so hard she shuddered and was still shaking when she felt him stiffen beneath her and then, with a hoarse cry, release himself.
She fell against him and, entwined, lay with him in her bed high above the city. It felt so right to be with him, she wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let the rest of the world in, wouldn’t question what they’d done.
At least until the morning.
Vespers was long over and the moon had risen above the walls of the convent. Stars winked in a vast array. Usually this midnight darkness in the cloister wrapped around Sister Rebecca like Christ’s robes. Most often this hour of the night was a time of calm and strength for Sister Rebecca, a moment when she would seek the solitude of the garden, where she could reflect on the day that had passed and pray for the morrow. As Mother Superior, she felt great responsibility and even greater unworthiness.
The air was scented with magnolia and pine, the night quiet aside from the rhythmic hoots of an owl hidden in the darkness. It was here that she’d sat so often on the edge of the fountain, watching the water spray upward only to cascade down upon the statue of an angel, hoping that her own sins would be washed away.
Oh, were it so.
But there were too many secrets.
Too many sins.
And soon all of her perfidy would be exposed.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross over her bosom, her fingers brushing the chain that held her glasses. She was tired, her life’s struggle of over eighty years had exhausted her. It was time for her to be called home. First, of course, there was confession—confession to sins she’d not revealed for, oh, so many years.
She stood, heard her old knees pop, and stiffly walked toward the door that she’d left ajar to let in the night’s cooling, fragrant breeze. With some difficulty she walked down the long hallway, where the lights were turned down to a feeble glow, reminiscent of a time when only candles had illuminated these old, hallowed corridors.
The chapel door creaked as she opened it, and she reminded herself to ask the caretaker to oil its hinges. Then she slipped into the nave, moving slowly along the central aisle toward the chancel, her fingers touching each of the backs of the wooden pews as she passed.
This was a small place of worship and, despite its cold stone floors, soaring ceiling, and imperious tracery windows, a cozy chapel where Sister Rebecca had always found solace and repose. The hours she’d spent praying on her knees, her fingers moving easily over the time-smoothed beads of her rosary, had been too many to count, but tonight that feeling of tranquility had given way to restlessness.
She knew why.
Terrence Renner was dead.
Murdered by some poor soul who had wielded a knife, if the newspaper stories were to be believed. Sister Rebecca had known Renner well in the years he’d been employed by the hospital. An arrogant man and not without his own private demons, but to be murdered? Brutally slain?
Staring up at the crucifix, at Jesus’ serene face and bloody crown of thorns, she crossed herself again then settled into a pew. Praying, searching her soul, she felt a darkness steal through her. There had been a time when she’d thought all of the evil was behind her, that the old hospital would be sold and razed to be replaced by a modern assisted-living facility. Naively she’d hoped that the scandals and secrets that had swept through the halls of the asylum would be buried deep within its rubble, never to be revealed, never to see the light of day.
But her dreams had been shattered, the police having held up the demolition of the building indefinitely. Because of all the questions about Faith Chastain, though the poor, tormented woman had died twenty years earlier.
“Father, forgive me,” she whispered.
Through the quiet of the night she heard the chapel bell toll, sounding off the hours.
Midnight.
There was no reason to tarry. She should leave the chapel and go to her quarters even though she knew sleep would, again, remain elusive.
The product of an impure conscience, she reminded herself. It had been less than a year since the last spree of killings. That murderer, the serial killer behind those heinous crimes, had stalked through these sacred halls.
Once he had been exposed, it had been Sister Rebecca’s hope that, finally, she would find peace again. Freedom from the pain of the past.
Of course, that expectation had proved impossible.
Yes, the police had eventually pulled up stakes, leaving Our Lady of Virtues’s reputation besmirched and pieces of crime-scene tape still flapping in the breezes, a reminder of the atrocities that had occurred on the hospital grounds. But it was the memories that truly remained, the memories that haunted.
Sister Rebecca had prayed that the scandal was finally over, but she knew, deep in her heart, it never would be. And now the new murders, not only Dr. Renner’s but Royal Kajak’s as well, both of whom had been a part of Our Lady of Virtues, only proved her worst fears true.
She shivered in the church, a sudden premonition sliding through her soul. She realized that the reign of terror which had held everyone associated with the decaying hospital fast in its grasp was far from finished. The serene period of the last few months had been only a lull, a short time of peace meant to trick all of those involved; the proverbial calm before the storm.
Shattered by two brutal murders.
No doubt a new evil had been unleashed.
One that was, most likely, worse than the last.
“God be with us,” she whispered, the marrow of her bones turning to ice.
Should she go to the police?
Tell them what she knew? The secret she’d borne for three long decades?
God would let her know. She had to pray, to trust in Him.
“Father, please, please guide me,” she whispered, genuflecting before leaving the chapel and crossing the cloister again. As she passed beneath the overhang, she heard the sound of a crow cawing and told herself it was not an evil omen, not the heralding of Lucifer. Besides, she didn’t believe in such idiocies; her faith was much too strong.
But as she passed by the fountain, she thought she heard the sound of leather scraping against flagstones. A footstep.
At this hour?
Surely not.
She had to be imagining things. Her worries getting the better of her.
Nonetheless, her heart began to beat irregularly and she cast a glance backward, scanning the shadows not illuminated by the moon’s pale light.
Nothing.
Silently scolding herself, she kept walking while she murmured a familiar prayer, her footsteps moving faster than they had in a decade. “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
Another telltale scratch of a sole against stone.
Every muscle in her body froze. She gathered her breath. Perhaps she was being tested.
Turning, she saw no one. Nothing. Just the trailing flowers in the hanging baskets swaying in the breeze—
A dark form, lightning quick, flashed by, seen only in the corner of her eye.
“Who is there?” she whispered, her skin crinkling in premonition, her voice wheezing as her lungs grew tight. “Show yourself!” Was it her imagination? A trick of shadow and eerie light? Her peripheral vision deceiving her? Swallowing back her fear, she slid a hand into her pocket and twined her fingers in the beaded strands of her rosary.
Fear not, the Lord is with you.
She turned toward the convent door. She was just imagining things. An old, foolish woman whose guilt was eroding her common sense.
In that instant, he sprang.
Out of the darkness.
A huge, shifting shape that landed against her back.
His weight was impossible to bear, and she started to crumple. Tried to scream, but a big gloved hand covered her mouth.
>
No!
No, no, no!
She felt her spine crushing as he held her fast from behind.
His other arm arced upward in front of her face. In his gloved hand, a long blade caught in the moonlight.
Help me! Someone, please help me! Oh dear God, please.
Terrified, Sister Rebecca tried to scream, to bite, to fight, but his strength was overpowering.
He struck.
Fast.
The blade sliced downward.
Deep into her chest.
She gasped, gurgled, toppled to her knees. Her mind swirled, pain burning deep in her soul. Who would do this? She tried to see his face, but the darkness hid it. Her voice failed her, and she watched, unable to move, unable to warn anyone of the hideous terror that was to come.
He slipped through the open door of the convent as she felt her lifeblood ooze onto the smooth, timeworn stones.
He wasn’t finished.
There would be more killing.
And the secrets she’d tried so desperately to conceal would be exposed.
Father, forgive me, she silently prayed as the fog and darkness pulled at her consciousness, for I have sinned.
The sounds of the night, the lapping of a slow-moving stream, the rush of wind through the leaves of the trees, the rattle of a train rumbling on tracks not far away, were obscured by the thrum of blood rushing through his veins and the exhilarated pounding of his heart.
He’d killed the old nun, just as the Voice had said. He’d had to leave her bleeding out while he entered the convent because he thought he’d heard someone approaching, had expected to have to take care of the intrusion, but the hallways of the convent were empty. Quiet. Still.
Assuring himself that he was alone, he returned to the body and, using the old woman’s finger, wrote upon the cloister wall in blood then pulled out his portable tattooing machine and quickly embedded a number in her forehead. He hated having to do such a rough job. He needed more time, but time was never a luxury. He could only do his best work, his artist’s work, on his own body.
He finished quickly then crept through the undergrowth, following the footpath, his blood still singing through his veins. He wasn’t done with his mission; there was still another to deal with, but the head nun, the Mother Superior, had been dispatched.