Confession

by Carey Baldwin

  Fastest way down.

  An instant later, she saw the floor coming toward her. She stuck out her hands to break the fall and catapulted to her feet. Her body was a collection of throbbing muscles and aching bones, but that was nothing compared to the urgent voice in her head.

  Hurry.

  Scourge might be back any minute.

  Gun!

  There, at the bottom of the steps. The Glock had tumbled down, too. Thank heavens it hadn’t discharged. She stuck it in the back of her pants.

  She saw a door to the right and ducked inside. Too dark to see. She decided against searching for a light. “Is anyone in here? Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  Hurry.

  She moved on. In the next room, the light was on. Curtains flapped. A breeze cooled her burning cheeks. A couch, magazines, and cups littered the floor, and rope—­lots of it—­cut into pieces was scattered everywhere. Two things were notably absent: blood and bodies. Her chest felt as though a constricting band had burst open, allowing her heart to beat freely again.

  Luke must have rescued at least one of the men.

  Next she flung open the door to a downstairs office and was greeted by muffled cries. To her right, a man in a wheelchair was bound and gagged with duct tape. “Mr. Donovan, I have to get you out of here now,” she said, and rushed to his side, ripped off the duct tape. “Can you walk?”

  He shook his head. “Back injury,” he rasped the words and drew a deep breath of air.

  His hands and legs had been tied, and his injury was a blessing in at least one way—­she could wheel him out now and work on the ropes later. From the corner of her eye, she noticed an open door on the other side of the room, and that jogged her memory of the home’s blueprint and what had happened to the Clutters.

  The basement.

  “Is anyone down there? Anyone home beside you and your wife and children.”

  He sputtered, then started to cry. “My children. My wife.”

  “They’re safe.” They had to be. “Is anyone else in the house?”

  His chin trembled. “No.” His eyes flicked to basement door. “He-­he was going to take me down there, but he changed his mind.”

  The injury must’ve been recent. Scourge wouldn’t be expecting to have to carry or wheel the man down to the basement, so he’d taken the easy way out and bound him in this room instead. Clearly, Scourge followed whichever parts of the book were convenient and tossed the others aside, which was good for her and good for Mr. Donovan. It would’ve been far more difficult to get him up those basement stairs. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  She released the hand brake and heaved. The chair rolled forward, and she worked her quads to gain speed and momentum. Out of the office, down the hall, around the corner. They were almost to the front door.

  Crack!

  Her muscles jumped. She looked up to see Scourge lounging in the front doorway, his body leaning against the frame, his shotgun pointed straight up.

  “Hello, Dr. Clancy. I’m glad you could make it. I wanted you with me, and now here you are.”

  Her heart boomed in her ears like a stereo with too much bass, muffling his words. His oily smile made her gag. Steeling her legs, she gripped the chair to stop her hands from trembling. For one crazy second, she thought about charging Scourge with the wheelchair, or drawing the Glock from the back of her pants and facing off with him, gun to gun. She bent at the knees, gritted her teeth, but then a strange calm overtook her.

  His advantage was a shotgun and the will to use it. Her advantage was her wits.

  She should try those first.

  “I’ve scared you speechless it seems.” Scourge tilted his head sympathetically.

  Mr. Donovan was crying softly.

  Before speaking, Faith let out a long breath to steady her voice. Focusing on the distorted face in front of her, she told herself to see Scourge as a man in pain, a man in need of help and not some monster with a gun.

  Then an image of Nancy Aberdeen and her prizewinning cherry pie came back to her, and she knew she couldn’t do it. All she could see here was a villain of the worst sort. Devoid of empathy, she was going to have to fake it.

  “Run, Scourge. Run now.” Sounds wooden. Next time do better.

  “No need for that, Dr. Clancy. We have plenty of time. Your friend is locked in the barn. He can’t get out, or if does manage, it’s going to take a while, and we’ll be . . . finished by then.”

  “Run while you still can, Scourge. The police know everything. They’ll be here any minute.” She released her grip on the chair and extended her hand. “I care about you, Scourge; I don’t want to see you hurt. Please run, run now,” she said, suppressing the need to retch.

  He leveled his shotgun at Mr. Donovan. “If you’d been able to convince the police, you’d never have come on your own.” He shrugged. “You and your boyfriend. I mean.”

  She jerked her head up. “Leave now.”

  “Absolutely not. You’re starting to irritate me, Dr. Clancy. Maybe we should stop chatting and just get started.”

  Summoning every ounce of cunning in her body, she said, “We can put a stop to this right now. I can help you.”

  “You already have helped me. You cured me to kill again.” He wagged the gun at Mr. Donovan.

  “And I’ll help you again. Put the gun down right now, and I promise you I’ll convince a jury you’re insane. Not guilty by reason of insanity.” She stepped to the side of the chair, then in front of it, blocking Mr. Donovan with her body. “You’ll walk away a free man. I can sell that to a jury, Scourge, but only if you put the gun down now.” Her arm snuck around her back, and she gripped the handle of the Glock, slowly inching it from her waistband.

  “What a lovely offer, Dr. Clancy, but I won’t be needing it because I’m not going to get caught.” In one long stride, he came to her, and before she could stop him, he’d grabbed her right arm and wrenched. She tried to hang on to the gun, but the crushing pain of his fingers gouging her wrist caused her muscles to go slack. Her hand opened, and the gun slid to the floor.

  He smiled. “The good news is I’ve saved my best rosary for you, and I just happen to have it on me.”

  She’d dropped the gun.

  Luke had trusted her with his own weapon, given her his one advantage, and she’d wasted it. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe.

  “Today’s your lucky day, Dr. Clancy.” Scourge kicked the Glock across the room, dropped her wrist, and pulled a rosary from his pocket. “Sister Cecily gave this to me, and now I’m giving it to you.” He twisted his arm and let the rosary wind around it like a bracelet.

  A flash of headlights, the sound of wheels screeching up the drive made both of them jump.

  The police.

  “They’re here, Scourge. Time to take my advice. You listened to me before, and I didn’t steer you wrong.”

  “I’m not going to surrender, and I’m not going to trial, so take your offer and—­”

  “Then let him go.” She slid her gaze to Mr. Donovan. “You have nothing to gain by keeping this man.”

  “Nothing to gain except my freedom. Sorry, Dr. Clancy, but the two of you are my ticket out. I need living hostages, and, you see, I lied before when I said I’d locked your friend in the barn.” A sadistic smile cut across his cheeks. “Luke’s already dead.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. He was lying. He’d lost control of the situation, and now he was trying to hurt her any way he could. In her mind, she pictured punching him with her fists, kicking him in the groin, gouging his eyes, but she held perfectly still, didn’t move a muscle while she waited for her hatred to die down enough for her to fake a civil tone. “I’m your ticket to freedom. You don’t need two.”

  For the first time, his eyes flickered with something aki
n to reason. His chin thrust forward. He was listening.

  “In fact, you’ll never get away if you try to take both of us. You can’t hold me at gunpoint and wheel him out at the same time.”

  She’d expected the police to do something—­anything by now. What the hell was going on out there? Did they know the Saint was here and holding hostages, or were they still under the impression this was a simple wellness check?

  “You can wheel him for me,” Scourge said.

  “All the way to Mexico? That’s where you’re headed isn’t it—­like Perry? Do you have a treasure map like Perry, too?” Oh God. She’d let sarcasm slip into her tone.

  His eyes snapped. “You’re right. A man who can’t walk is a liability. I’ll shoot him now.”

  “No!” She spread her arms and widened her stance. If Scourge wanted Mr. Donovan, he’d have to shoot her first.

  “Get out of my way! You’re making me lose my temper, and you’re not going to like it if I lose my temper.”

  “You want a living hostage? Do as I say.” Through gritted teeth, she bit out the words. She didn’t know what the cops were doing out there, but she wasn’t leaving her fate, or this innocent man’s, to someone else.

  “You’re not the one in charge here. I’ve got the gun.”

  “But I’m your ticket out. And if you so much as look at this man again, if you so much as say one more cruel word to him, I won’t cooperate. I’ll force you to shoot me. You can’t manage a man in a wheelchair, and you’ll have no more ticket. Tickets aren’t free.” The last thing she wanted to do was look at Scourge. She squared her eyes with his. “The price of your ticket is Mr. Donovan’s life.”

  Another set of headlights flashed.

  Backup!

  Scourge gaped at her a split second. Then jerked his shotgun. “Over here. Hands in the air. Slow. No sudden moves.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me? I believe we’ve covered the fact you need me alive.” She sucked in a breath. “I’m taking Mr. Donovan back to his office, so he can lock the door from the inside. He stays here. Once he’s locked safely in his office, you and I walk out this door together. You’ll be holding me at gunpoint, naturally. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  Luke hurled himself down the hill, aiming straight for the farmhouse. Not so much as a pitchfork would stand between him and the devil when he got there, but he had to get to Faith, and he had to get to her now. His muscles still coiled and humming, his vision as sharp as it had ever been in his life, he plowed an easy path through the brush and cut out into the open.

  He could see the Donovan place up ahead. A lone patrol vehicle in the driveway.

  The wellness check.

  His arms and legs worked furiously until he’d reached shouting distance of the cop car. An officer crouched beside the vehicle, radio in hand, pistol drawn. He must’ve called for backup because from somewhere behind Luke, headlights suddenly lit the road.

  “Gun! He’s got a gun!” Luke prayed the officer wouldn’t turn and fire on him in confusion. “Up at the house!” He panted and held both hands high in the air to show he was unarmed. Then, like a punch to the gut, a realization hit him—­the officer would detain him. The police would need time to sort out the good guys from the bad guys, and Luke with his six-­foot-­four build would be viewed as a serious threat. Making a sharp change in direction, he zipped past the patrol car.

  “Police! Freeze!”

  The words carried plainly in the wind, but Luke didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He waved his hands high over his head, fingers stretched wide and called as loudly as he could. “Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed. Civilians in the house!”

  “Police! Freeze!” The command repeated close behind him. The officer was giving chase, but whether because of instinct or information from Johnson, he wasn’t firing on Luke.

  He kept running.

  About a yard from the house, he saw the porch light flicker on, then off, then on again. He pulled up short and from his peripheral vision, he saw two patrol officers do the same. Faith appeared in the doorway, hands high in the air, just as his had been. Relief so intense it hurt washed over him. He grabbed his knees and kept breathing.

  Faith was alive.

  Then his heart and his breath stopped at the same moment. The barrel of a shotgun was stuck in her back. As Faith took another step forward, Scourge appeared behind her.

  Both officers had pistols trained on Scourge and Faith. “Police! Drop your weapon!”

  With his shotgun, Scourge pushed Faith down the steps. “Dr. Clancy and I are going for a ride. I’m afraid I’m going to need to borrow someone’s car. My truck’s a ways down the road and not too fast.”

  “Drop it now, asshole,” the police officer barked back.

  A painful spasm shot through Luke’s legs, but he stayed crouched and at the ready. Sucking in deep lungfuls of air, he fueled his body with oxygen.

  With flat eyes, Scourge stared past the officer.

  Something was wrong. The expression on Scourge’s face was so . . . indifferent.

  Luke’s hands squeezed at his sides. He had to get Faith out of the line of fire, and soon. A laugh from Scourge . . . and Luke knew.

  Suicide by cop!

  One. . .

  Scourge’s shotgun swung toward the officer.

  Luke had meant to go on three, but that was shot to hell now.

  Two!

  He charged in from the side, knocking Faith to the ground just as the pop, pop, pop of gunfire rang out. A minute later, his ears were ringing, and he felt Faith’s back heave beneath his chest.

  “Luke, Luke are you okay?” she cried out, and he rolled off her, looking up to find an officer staring down at him.

  “Helluva nerve, buddy. What’d ya say your name was again?”

  “Luke Jericho!” Faith grabbed his neck and clung on tight, just about choking the life out of him—­and all he could think was he hoped to hell she never let him go again.

  THIRTY

  Sunday, August 18, 3:00 P.M.

  Scourge Teodori, the Santa Fe Saint, was dead. But Faith’s pulse still rushed at every unexpected noise, her gaze still darted around every room she entered. Just now, she’d checked the corners of her kitchen and the space beneath the breakfast table. The sensation of danger lurking in the shadows hung in the air like the damp musk of an approaching storm, raising chill bumps on her arms and keeping her nerves on high alert.

  Scourge is dead.

  Faith shaded her eyes against the glare coming in through her kitchen window and reminded herself that the Donovan family was safe, and so was she. It was time to resume a normal life—­one that included wonderful Luke and did not include sitting across the desk from a serial killer. And, with all the publicity surrounding the rescue of the Donovan family, Faith expected she’d finally be able to scare up some patients and pay back her loan to the bank.

  As it turned out, Scourge had no family or friends. At least none the authorities could track down. Closing her eyes, she dropped her chin to her chest. She’d heard from Detective Johnson that a Sister Cecily from St. Catherine’s school had offered to provide a mass and burial in the event no family came forward. Johnson was checking into the legalities of turning Scourge’s body over to someone other than a relative but said he thought that in the end, the state would welcome the chance to spare the taxpayers any further expense on the Saint’s account.

  Ironic.

  Isn’t that what Scourge would say? Faith felt quite certain he would hate the idea of a mass and nuns praying for his soul. Her head jerked up, and her eyes flew open. She hadn’t the slightest interest in intervening on his behalf. Scourge would have a proper Catholic burial, and she would think of him no more. Wiping clammy hands on the sides of her jeans, she took a deep breath. Eventually, she would think of him no more. For now, she would have to set
tle for getting on with her life as if she’d already forgotten.

  All day yesterday and today, she’d been busying herself doing exactly that—­by cooking. Humming off-­key, she applied the last label: GREEN BEAN CASSEROLE, AUGUST 18, to the final Tupperware container and packed it in with the others. No thanks to Torpedo, who’d failed to keep a protective detail in place for Tommy while Luke and Faith traveled to Amarillo, Tommy had come through his encounter with Scourge with only a broken leg and an assortment of scrapes and bruises. Faith’s security system had been installed this morning, and she’d happily paid extra for Sunday hours.

  Faith’s care package for the Bledsoes was overflowing with zucchini bread, beef Wellington, and homemade cinnamon rolls. Anything and everything that might make life a little easier on Angie Bledsoe while Tommy recovered from his surgery. Her heart squeezed as she lifted the box and headed for Tommy’s house, Chica at her side.

  “Wait here, girl,” she whispered to Chica, then climbed the front steps. Before she could knock, Angie threw open the door and ushered her inside.

  “More? But where am I going to put all this food?”

  Faith shrugged. “If you can’t fit it in your freezer, I can bring it over in smaller batches. I just thought this way you’d have more variety at your fingertips.”

  Angie sorted through the box. “Oh, good. You brought more mac and cheese. That’s my—­Tommy’s—­favorite. What’s that yummy sauce you put on it?”

  “Gruyère. I’ll show you how to make it sometime if you like.”

  Angie stopped unloading the box. “I’d like that, Faith. Maybe you could join us for one of these awesome dinners sometime.”

  She’d like that, too, very much. “Sure,” she said, and pulled her lower lip between her teeth, careful how she broached the next topic. “Chica’s home from the hospital, too. I’m very grateful you took the time to make sure she got to the vet once Tommy was safe.”