by Lisa Jackson
But soon it wouldn’t matter.
Just another day or two at the most.
Then he’d get rid of her.
He felt a little tinge of satisfaction at that. After she’d served his purpose, she’d be of no use to him. Then he’d take care of her.
But, now, as the night thickened around him, he had to concentrate on this task. Finally, after waiting and planning so long, he would extract some well-deserved vengeance.
It would be an intricate two-step as he’d had to adjust his timetable. No more stretching things out. He couldn’t trust the kid and he was running out of patience, couldn’t wait for the ultimate goal.
Tonight would be full of surprises…
His gaze trained on the street in front of a small, well-kept cottage, he saw the familiar car approach and park in its usual spot.
So predictable.
The car’s engine died, the headlights dimmed and the driver climbed out quickly, almost as if he sensed the danger of lingering in any place too long. He hesitated, took a quick look at his little house, then turned and walked quickly toward the church.
Obviously “Father” Oliver had some sins to confess.
The Beast—that’s what the kid called him, he’d heard her whisper it when she’d thought he was out of earshot—smiled to himself, expectancy building.
It was better when his victims felt a little spasm of fear, when they sensed their precious time on earth was about to be cut short.
Somewhere nearby an owl hooted.
Bats flew from the tall bell tower, winging overhead.
The target didn’t notice, just kept walking swiftly, almost jogging, as if he was desperate.
And afraid.
Head down, intent on his own thoughts, the target hurried to the church steps and fiddled with a large key ring.
Traitor.
The Beast squinted through the darkness where the only light was a sickly pale illumination from a few lampposts scattered along the paths that cut across the watered lawns of the mission. Even the glare of headlights from passing traffic was muted, filtered by the dense bushes and trees sheltering the grounds.
It was perfect.
Licking his dry lips, he felt the zing of anticipation, could envision the blood being spilled, the flames climbing the walls, the crackle and hiss of the fire as it met the oozing red liquid.
Slow down…Take your time. It’s not finished yet.
As his next victim walked through the portico, then unlocked the door and stepped inside St. Benedictine’s Church with its tiled roof and stucco walls, he watched.
Waited.
Readied himself.
After a full five minutes had passed since the thick door had closed, the Beast reached into his small pack and withdrew his knife. His gloved fingers surrounded the hilt and he felt the weight of it in his palm.
A perfect weapon, one that could be used as a threat, to urge a person to bend to his will, or for the act of killing itself.
No one else entered or left the church.
Another two minutes passed and the bells, counting off the hour of midnight, began to peal. One, two, three…
He started moving, slinking through the shadows.
Four, five, six…
While the church bells rang, he used their dulcet tones to cover the sound of his own footsteps. Quickly he crossed the grass, exposing himself for a few short seconds as he made his way to the church.
Seven, eight, nine…
Breathing irregularly, his heart pumping in wild expectation, he stepped onto the portico, his hand reaching for the huge door handle.
Ten, eleven, twelve…
And then it was time.
A surge of adrenaline raced through his body.
At the stroke of midnight he opened the door to St. Benedictine’s Church. With silent footsteps he slipped inside.
The day had been excruciating.
Lies. Perfidy. Adultery. Cruelty. And murder.
Sins teeming and abounding around him while he spent time with his mother and siblings. To offer solace. To provide comfort. But there had been none of that, nor had there been much time for bereavement and grief and murmuring of prayers for safety and sanity. Oh, no…
Oliver’s stomach lurched, threatening to give up its contents as he recalled the visit at the old house on St. Marie Avenue.
There had been talk, all in hushed tones, about what was to be done. How to “handle the situation.” Oliver quivered inside, knew that what was being planned was so very wrong. And yet he didn’t have the strength of character, the conviction for the truth and love of Christ that would help him persevere, so he’d retreated here, to his sanctuary, the church where he so often prayed for a courage he would never know.
The weight of falsehood pressed hard against his soul. Swallowing hard, he knew it was time to end the lies, to tell the truth, to stand tall and let the scandal, the punishment, begin.
He, of course, would be denied ordination, perhaps even excommunicated for his sins, but his soul needed washing. Cleansing.
He was weak.
Oh, Holy Father, so weak.
Perhaps death was the only solution, he thought, lighting several candles and watching the small flames flicker and burn. If he confessed his sins, prayed for absolution, the Father might still allow him into heaven. He was, after all, a forgiving God.
Surely death would be better than this perpetual torment on earth. He’d tried before…But now…Could he commit a mortal sin? Who would receive his confession? Who would absolve him before he died? Father Timothy?
Father, please…Help me.
Listening to the peal of the church bells, he dropped to his knees on the hard stone floor of the church with its high ceilings, tall stained-glass windows depicting the stations of the cross and the altar. The scent of burned incense sweetened the air, mingling with the odor of his own nervous sweat. He needed guidance and penance, a means to see clearly his path, a way to be absolved of so many sins. Deftly, he made the sign of the cross, felt the weight of the rosary in the deep pocket of his jacket. “Forgive me, Father. Please, I beseech you, help me find the strength to stop this.” He fought a spate of tears and the darkness that pulled at the corners of his consciousness. Depression and fear vied for his soul and he was so tired, so weary from the burden of sin he’d carried for three long years, that he didn’t know if he could go on.
He thought he heard the scrape of a shoe behind him and he glanced about. His eyes and ears strained, but no one was entering. He was alone, just nervous, worried about what he had to do. The candles seemed to shift a bit. He saw a mouse dart beneath one of the pews and slip into a tiny crack in the wall. He was imagining things again. Jumping at shadows. Letting the paranoia slip into his life.
Don’t go there. Don’t give in to the fear, the hatred. Remember Neville, the one who was your other half, whose image was identical to your own, but whose psyche was so different.
Oliver began to weep at the thought of his twin.
Stop it, show some spine, some strength of character. Do not fall apart, do not let Satan control you, do not let the weakness send you away, to the hospital, to a place where dreams are broken and lives are destroyed.
He remembered Our Lady of Virtues from his childhood. The darkness that oozed through the hallways, the secrets behind the locked doors, the resident, ever-present evil that stalked all those who had the misfortune to reside in those darkened corridors.
“Deliver me,” Oliver prayed, shuddering inside, once again a frightened little boy. The sound of the ringing bells stopped suddenly, the church again thrown into a dark silence that was pierced only by the sound of his own breathing, the heavy beat of his heart.
Nervously, he slid his fingers into his pocket and extracted his rosary with its worn, well-used beads, hoping to find the comfort it usually brought him. He took a deep breath as he prepared to whisper the prayers that were forever a part of his daily life. His fingers wrapped familia
rly over the crucifix of the rosary and again, he made the sign of the cross. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth…”
Tears of regret filled his eyes as his lips moved and he looked up at the statue of Jesus on the cross. So immersed was he in his prayer that he didn’t notice the soft rush of air as a door opened, was deaf to stealthy footsteps approaching, didn’t realize someone had slipped into the church for a singular and deadly purpose, didn’t begin to understand why tonight, like Christ before him, he was to die for the sins of others…
Chapter 25
Dani’s heart was beating crazily. Her lungs burned and her legs stung where they’d been slapped by berry vines and stickers as she ran down the trail. She had no idea what time it was or how long it had been since she’d escaped, but she had run until she could run no longer, her body screaming for rest. She had shin splints from going downhill, but she kept pushing forward, trying to get as much distance between herself and the cabin. The farther she got, the more likely she would make it to safety.
Keep going. Just keep going! Gritting her teeth she never completely stopped, sliding a couple of times, stumbling on loose rocks, but fortunately never falling or twisting her ankle. Hurriedly, she swept the beam of the flashlight in front of her, keeping as fast a pace as possible, but she was gasping, the only thing keeping her going now was the adrenaline pumping through her blood.
She didn’t know if it was better to run under the cover of darkness, hoping he didn’t see her flashlight, or if, after daybreak, she could make better time, see what was ahead, but be visible herself.
Surely she’d lost him.
Certainly now she was far enough away from him that he wouldn’t find her.
And yet she remembered his steely determination, the way he did his exercises naked on the floor in front of the fire, sweating profusely, his skin shining with perspiration, his dark hair soaked and in strands, the scars on his back slick and gleaming.
He would never give up.
Not until he found her.
Not until he used her for whatever perverted thing that was on his mind.
That kept her going, running, hurtling down the hillside, following the trail until her head was pounding and her lungs felt as if they would explode. Gasping, she finally stopped at a fork in the scrawny little trail. Listened hard. Straining to hear past the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. Leaning over, hands on her knees, taking in big gulps of air, she tried to relax and get her bearings.
The stars were no help…The North Star meant nothing to her. Which way was to safety? She had no idea.
Her breathing slowed.
Sweat ran down her nose, dripping on the dust at her feet. She was so thirsty she could barely breathe.
“God help me,” she whispered and thought of her dad. Where was he? And Mom, oh, man, if she could just tell her mother one more time that she loved her. Tears clogged her parched throat and she felt about to break down completely, but she couldn’t let herself. Being a crybaby now, dissolving into self-pity wouldn’t help a darned thing. She had to keep at it.
Faintly, she heard the sound of bells. Church bells. Tolling through the valley below, but far in the distance. Her heart leapt. She straightened, searching the darkness. Where there was a church there were people; she was zeroing in on civilization! She forced her eyes toward the sound and though brush and trees were in her line of vision she thought she spied lights, a town. Far below. Really far below.
Crap!
How could she get there? She couldn’t just barrel through the forest, she had to stick with a trail or she might come across an impossible cliff. Her progress would be slower and she’d risk the chance of getting lost, running in circles. Though her father had taught her a little about navigating by the stars, she could make out only Venus, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper and the North Star, but it wasn’t enough, she wasn’t confident to go traipsing though the dark woods where vines and loose rocks and roots could trip her.
So she stuck to the trail and at every fork, she picked the path that seemed to head downhill, though twice she’d taken an upward-swinging trail, planting footsteps in the dust, then creeping back through the brush, careful not to leave any trace, turned downhill again. It was a simple, probably useless ploy that wasted time, but she hoped beyond hope that she might confuse the Beast when he started chasing her.
She didn’t doubt that he would take off after her. He had a purpose for her, something to do with her birth mother, but she had no idea what it was. Something bad. It chilled her to the bone to think about what his plans were, for she knew he was evil. Malicious. And crazy. Obsessed with the people whose pictures he kept framed on his mantel. She reached inside her pocket, touched the one she’d stolen and wondered about the woman in the snapshot. Was she married? Did she have other kids? Why couldn’t she have kept Dani in the first place? That particular thought had an ugly edge. She loved her dad and mom, the people who’d raised her, with all her heart, but still…She had dozens of questions for this woman. The flashlight’s beam was failing, but she started forward again, jogging, trying to put as much distance from the cabin as she could. She couldn’t imagine his rage if he caught up to her, this weirdo who got off on peeing in the fire. Didn’t want to think about it. She couldn’t let that happen. No matter what.
“I have to talk to Oliver,” Shannon said, pushing back her chair. The legs scraped against the kitchen floor as she climbed to her feet. She ignored the remaining three slices of pizza congealing in the box on the kitchen table.
“It’s after one,” Travis pointed out. Still seated at the table, he was finishing a beer, staring at the drawings Paterno had left behind. He was getting nowhere fast. Inside he was still reeling, his guts twisting in the aftermath of hearing Dani’s voice.
He’d been through a lot in his life. Hell, he’d been through enough for two, no, make that three lifetimes, and he wasn’t yet forty. But this…knowing that his kid was out there somewhere in the darkness, alone with a vile, malicious murderer, held against her will and enduring God-only-knew-what nearly broke him.
Yes, he was determined to find her.
Yes, he’d personally rip the killer limb from limb and damn the consequences.
Yes, he’d never give up.
But damn it, yes, he was scared to the very bottom of his soul. Fear was his constant companion. Time seemed to be flying by at a breakneck speed. Frustration made him want to climb the walls.
Not listening to his objections, Shannon was already punching numbers on the cordless phone. “Priests are on call 24/7,” she said, walking past the pen where the tiny pup was curled up and sleeping soundly, yet making little whimpering noises, the result of a puppy dream.
The other dog, Khan, was lying under the table, eyes focused on Travis as he hoped for a handout.
“Damn!” Shannon slammed down the phone. The pup let out a yip but didn’t awaken. “Oliver’s not answering.”
“You could have left a message.”
“If my brother ever hauled himself into the twenty-first century…But Oliver prides himself on being the last holdout. No answering machine. No voice mail. No caller ID. No…nothing.” She rotated her head and rubbed the kinks from her neck. “He should’ve studied to become a monk.”
“I think a priest’s close enough,” Travis offered and noticed how tired she looked. Her skin was pale, dark smudges were visible under her eyes, and she winced a little when she lifted her arm over her head to stretch. “You should take a break. Get some rest. Go to bed.”
“Why? So I can toss and turn all night, hear that tape run through my brain until dawn? Worry myself sick?” she asked, pinning him with an intelligent green gaze. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Don’t you have medication that’ll help you sleep?”
“I can’t be a zombie,” she answered.
“I just don’t want you to kill yourself.”
“I won’t.” Finished with her impromp
tu stretch, she punched numbers on the phone again. “Come on, Oliver. Wake up.”
“Maybe he’s not home.”
“Where would he be?” she asked, then looked over at him and rolled her eyes. “All right, point taken,” she said, hanging up and sighing. “Even priests, or soon-to-be priests, have their own lives.”
“So why are you so hell-bent to talk to him tonight?”
“Because earlier today I blew him off.” She looked suddenly guilty. “He tried to talk to me at Mom’s house. There was obviously something troubling him, I could read it in his eyes, but before he could tell me what was on his mind, Robert came into the room and Oliver clammed up.” She frowned, tiny lines appearing between her eyebrows. “To tell you the truth, I was glad. Didn’t want to get hung up in some kind of heavy conversation. Wanted to escape.” She glanced out the window to the night beyond. “But now…” Her lips pursed into a thoughtful frown. “…Now I think he might have had something important to tell me, something he was desperate for me to know.” She leaned one hip against the edge of the counter. “Oliver had just come in from outside, from that conversation where my brothers were whispering about the family birth order and whatever it was being Dad’s fault.” She walked to the table and picked up the drawings. “It felt so clandestine that I have the feeling that whatever it was must be tied into what’s going on with Dani and the fires, maybe even Mary Beth’s murder.” She tapped on the number six on the half-finished star drawing. “Swear to God, Oliver knows something and he was trying to tell me about it today.”