Silent Night

by C. J. Kyle

Chapter 44

  SIMON WAS ANATOLE’S son.

  Miranda’s head swam with this new tidbit of information as she watched the priest strip Simon of his pants. She could see now that Simon’s hands looked to be bound behind his back, and as he turned his head, his gaze caught hers, frightened and wide and as confused-looking as she felt.

  “Peter, I don’t . . . understand,” he pleaded as Anatole lifted one of his legs and pulled his pants from it.

  “Shh, my son. Don’t you see? I’ve completed every rite to ensure my sins . . . your illegitimacy . . . could be righted. It’s all going to be okay now.”

  “You’re a fucking murderer!” Miranda bellowed, terror reaching into the furthest reaches of her soul to bring that scream forth.

  Anatole spun on her. “Murderer? I do God’s work. Killing you will be the only murder on my hands. The rest were condoned, no, commanded by God. I can only pray He’ll forgive me for moving forward early to ensure it is complete. You forced my hand, following me to Christmas. My son should have the privilege of his sacrifice falling on Sunday—God’s day—like the others, but because of you he won’t!”

  “Yo-you’re my friend!” Simon screamed, trying to turn on his side. But whatever bindings Anatole had placed on him kept him still.

  “No. I am famil— Yes . . . yes, that is it!” Anatole reached heavenward as though he’d plucked an answer from the sky, and Miranda caught a glimpse of a ripped section of his frock, crusted with blood. He was wounded. “If I don’t kill her . . .” He began his rambling again. “Then there is no sin on my soul when I join you. I’ll be as pure as you’ll be. You’ll kill her. I can cleanse you once it’s over. Make certain her death doesn’t stain your soul. Don’t you see?”

  He really was fucking insane. Miranda could barely keep up, her head spinning, throbbing. The knot at her back slipped. Just a little more . . .

  She was trying to piece it all together. Had it been guilt that had driven Anatole to murder? Did he really believe that by killing people for their sins and recreating the holy sacraments he was doing God’s work?

  The knot slipped. The pressure around her chest eased. Miranda nearly gasped in relief but bit her lip to keep quiet. The less attention she drew to herself, the better. If she could just catch Anatole off guard . . .

  TUCKER DREW HIS weapon and cut the cruiser’s engine halfway down the road leading to the cottage. As quietly as possible, he and Finn crept toward the window that flickered with light—candles?—and saw a figure hunched beside a heating unit beneath the shutters.

  Lisa.

  She heard them, her little body crawling on all fours in their direction until she crumpled at his feet. He knelt beside her, checking for injuries. “I’ve got an ambulance on the way, Lisa. I need to get them out. Finn will stay with you.”

  “Just go, I’m fine. Miranda’s fine. For now. But someone else is with them—”

  “Must have Anatole,” Tucker said.

  “Anatole,” she said. “It’s him. He has her.”

  Tucker frowned, his gaze fixated on that damned window. “Anatole?”

  “Yeah, he has her, Tucker. Go get her.”

  Then the other person inside must be Simon. Shit.

  “I got her,” Finn said. “Just go.”

  He hated seeing Lisa like this, but not knowing what Miranda was going through inside, he ducked low and ran, stopping only when he reached the windowsill and could see inside.

  ANATOLE UNTIED SIMON and pulled him into a sitting position. It was obvious the man was weak, possibly drugged, by the way he swayed on the altar. Anatole pulled something dark from his pocket and held it toward Simon.

  A gun.

  The bile returned to Miranda’s throat. She gagged it back down when Anatole took a long, curved knife from the floor of the altar and handed it to Simon.

  “Now don’t be foolish, my son,” he said, aiming the gun at Simon’s head. “Finish her quickly and we can be done with it. Go. Now.”

  Simon stared at her, his hand shaking beneath the weight of his weapon. “I—I can’t. Peter, please.”

  “I am your father and you will address me with respect!” Anatole roared, jabbing Simon’s temple with the barrel of the gun. Then he calmed—a calm so eerie that Miranda broke into a cold sweat. “It’s not so hard really. The first cut, I admit, I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to have been chosen. But God will grant you the strength you need. She is nothing more than butter for the rolls upon which you shall feast with Our God in Heaven, my son.”

  Simon started toward her, a million apologies in his eyes. She couldn’t tell if he meant to save his own life or hers, but either way, he seemed to know the same fact she did. They were both going to die here tonight if one of them couldn’t figure a way out.

  TUCKER COULD BARELY see past the two candles about six feet from the window. Whatever Lisa had been able to see, he wasn’t as lucky. The position of the moon had shifted behind the trees, the little bit of light they’d had all but gone now.

  He thought he’d heard something just below him, but at this angle, he couldn’t see what. It was too damned dark inside, but it wasn’t like he could just shine his flashlight through the dirt-crusted window.

  It was killing him—the not knowing. What if she was already dead?

  No. No way was he letting any of this happen. He crouched lower, duck-walking toward the rear of the building in search of a door.

  “I CAN’T DO this!” Simon’s voice had developed a new strength, and his glazed eyes became a bit more focused. Whatever he’d been drugged with was apparently wearing off.

  “No,” she whispered. “You can’t. And you don’t have to.” She glared at Anatole before returning her gaze to the sickle-shaped blade. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, Anatole. You think God wants this? That He wants you to force your son to murder? God is watching you. God is judging you!”

  “Yes,” Anatole said, the pistol shaking only the slightest bit. “And He is proud.”

  “J-just shoot me,” Simon said, the knife falling to the floor at his feet. He dropped to his knees, hung his head as though he expected to die execution style.

  Miranda sobbed, terrified of what might happen next. If Anatole would just put the gun down, she would be willing to take her chances . . .

  Anatole fired a shot and Simon screamed.

  Chapter 45

  THE SOUND OF gunfire pressed Tucker low into the snow, his hands over his head as he listened, waiting, his heart beating so fast, he was getting dizzy.

  Miranda.

  A deep scream followed the sound, but Tucker couldn’t tell who it might belong to. He had to find a way in.

  He’d been foolish not to expect a gun. Just because the victims hadn’t died from a gunshot wound didn’t mean Anatole hadn’t had a gun on him in case things got sticky. Christmas wasn’t exactly a Kevlar town, but it wasn’t his life Tucker was worried about.

  He found the back door locked. If he broke it down, there’d be no hiding his approach. There had to be another window, something. He checked the far side of the building and was further discouraged. The only window on that side was boarded up.

  He’d instructed the ambulance to come in quietly, to save their lights for their trip off the property, and to park as far away as possible. Now he was probably going to have to blow his own cover in order to get his ass inside to save Miranda and Simon.

  MIRANDA’S EARS RANG and the cloud of gunpowder filling the room burned her eyes. Her watery gaze shot to Simon. He lay before her, his hands gripping his foot. Blood spilled between his fingers.

  “You’re going to be all right,” she whispered, praying it would be true. She shifted her gaze. Anatole was pacing again. Rambling as he looked at the ceiling.

  Something brushed her ankle and she nearly screamed. Simon held out the long silver blade. She gripped it in her shaking hand, and waited until Anatole turned his back to her. When Anatole dropped to his knees and raised his hands in prayer, Miranda l
unged.

  The knife cut deeply into his arm. Anatole howled in pain; the gun fell to the floor. She grabbed it, holding it awkwardly in her left hand. Before she could form a plan, Anatole grabbed her leg, pulling her off balance. She crashed to the floor, the wind knocked out of her, both weapons falling from her grasp.

  “Grant eternal rest unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine. May her soul, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.” He straddled her, his hands closing around her neck. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

  Miranda spread out her hands in search of either the gun or the knife. If she died tonight, she would do her damnedest to take him with her.

  Her fingers touched cold steel, but she couldn’t grasp the gun. Spots danced before her eyes. Her lungs screamed for air. Blackness shrouded her. Her fingers locked around the barrel. With the last of her strength, she swung. The butt of the gun slammed against Anatole’s temple. He collapsed against her.

  Miranda struggled to free herself from his weight. Blood oozed from the gash on his temple. His breath was shallow, but he wasn’t moving.

  Pushing to all fours, she crawled to Simon. “We have to run. Can you stand?”

  “Yeah, I’ll . . . He pushed himself up to his feet, hobbling on his one good foot, the other bloody and shattered. “Just go. I’ll slow you down.”

  He wasn’t wrong. But she couldn’t just leave him behind. If he wasn’t fast enough, Anatole could wake and finish what he’d started. She should kill Anatole. Shoot him where he lay. He’d caused so much pain. So much death.

  She thought of Bobby, raised the gun.

  Then lowered it again. She wasn’t a killer. She couldn’t . . .

  Rushing to the bag by the altar, she dumped the contents on the floor. Folding the white, silky robe, she wrapped it around Simon’s foot, then used the sash to hold it tightly in place.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, brushing his damp hair from his eyes.

  “So sorry. I—I didn’t. I couldn’t . . . I stabbed him . . . when he took me. He came for me at my shed and I . . . I stabbed him. God, I wish I’d killed him!”

  She glanced at the door. “We’re going to be okay.”

  Simon gave a tentative test of his foot, but it was no good. “Jesus, just go.”

  Anatole stirred, and as he started to push himself to his knees, Miranda pointed the gun at him and all doubts of her capability to kill dissolved in a rush of rage.

  She fired.

  Click.

  Her blood ran cold. The gun was out of ammo. She looked fervently around for the knife, but could see very little on the floor in the darkness.

  “Listen to me,” she whispered to Simon. “If I run, he’ll chase me. Stay in the corner. He’ll have no choice. Understand?”

  “What if he catches—”

  “Just stay hidden until he runs after me. Then go as quickly as you can to the road, or the trees . . . wherever you can hide . . . and stay there. Don’t let him find you. I’ll be back for you. Understand?”

  Anatole was moving again. He gripped his head, his murderous gaze locked on her.

  She looked at Simon. “I’m not leaving. I swear I’ll be back with help. Just go when he follows me.”

  When he nodded, Miranda took a deep breath.

  Then, she ran.

  TUCKER MADE IT back to the front of the house, determined to burst in regardless of what it cost him. He had to get to Miranda. He hadn’t heard anything since the gunshot and there was no telling . . .

  As he approached the front door, it burst open and Miranda came flying out, running like the devil was at her heels. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but another figure stumbled out behind her.

  Miranda shot past Tucker without even noticing him. He chased after her, biting down on his tongue to keep from hollering out her name. If she didn’t realize he was there, neither did Anatole. Tucker wanted to keep it that way.

  He took the path to the right of her, desperate to get in front of her where he could make her see him without Anatole being the wiser. When she stumbled into the clearing ahead, he holstered his weapon, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her tightly to his chest, covering her mouth and silencing her scream. “Shh, I got you.”

  When she sagged against him, he removed her hand. She spun in his arms. “Tucker, it’s Anatole,” she whispered.

  “I know. I know, babe.”

  Anatole broke into the clearing and Miranda screamed.

  Tucker shoved her behind him and slid his gun from its holster. “Peter Anatole, you’re under arrest. Put the gun on the ground and place your hands behind your head.” He flipped the safety off. “There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt.”

  “You tried to kill me,” Anatole snarled, his gaze looking through Tucker to Miranda. He jerked the slide, ejecting a bullet and reloading the chamber. “If you do evil, be afraid, because I am the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon those that do evil.”

  “Well then.” Tucker raised the gun. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 46

  THE AMBULANCE LIGHTS whirled in a blur of red and white. Miranda huddled under the blanket the paramedics had provided and watched as they carted Anatole’s bagged body into the back of one of the vans. A man was dead. She should feel something. But she was simply glad to be alive.

  Other than her bruised and battered body, the only real harm done had been to her psyche and her heart. She’d been right all along. No one had believed her, and had even gone as far as to make her doubt herself.

  Simon lay in this ambulance with her, and sitting on the tailgate was Lisa, her forehead being bandaged while Simon’s foot was being examined. He glanced at her from his gurney.

  “So many people hurt. Because of me.”

  “No, Simon—”

  “We’re taking him to Knoxville,” a paramedic said. “He’s going to need surgery.”

  Lisa and Miranda were helped out of the ambulance, and they stood shoulder to shoulder until the lights disappeared.

  Lisa gripped her hand, and there were no words to express how grateful Miranda was that she’d actually made a friend here in Christmas. Lisa had dragged her wounded body behind Miranda, had followed a madman to a secluded place to help her. She would never forget that, not if she lived a whole other lifetime.

  “How’re ya holding up?” Lisa asked, tentatively touching the bandage wrapped around her leg. The dashboard had sliced it up pretty bad, and her head had looked like a slab of beef before the paramedics had bandaged it.

  “I’m—I’ll be okay.” She pointed toward the second ambulance. “I think they’re getting tired of waiting on you.”

  Lisa sighed. “They’re taking me to Sevierville on Tuck’s orders. Have him bring you by when he’s finished here?”

  “I’ll do that.” On impulse, she gave Lisa a tight hug. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t know how—”

  Lisa returned the hug. “We’re friends. That’s what friends do.”

  Miranda watched the ambulance drive away before searching for Tucker again. There were so many people that she couldn’t find him in the chaos. She hadn’t seen him since he’d carried her to the ambulance.

  She sat on the hood of the nearest squad car and cradled her head in her hands. This place was going to forever hold bad memories for her, but the thought of leaving him now, after all this . . . What if it was only just beginning to get good between them? What if this was supposed to be the start of something amazing? Did location really matter? She’d told him she was leaving as soon as the Rosary Killer was stopped. But did she have anything calling her back to California?

  She was still trembling when a pair of boots filled her vision. Lifting her head, she smiled at Finn while looking over his shoulder to see if Tucker was close by. She still didn’t see him.

  “You okay?” he asked, surprising her with a hug. She let him hold h
er, took comfort in his strong arms though they weren’t the arms she wanted around her.

  “I’m fine. Where’s Tuck? I need to see him.”

  “On the phone with Detective Langley in Dayton. He wanted him to know what was going on right away so they could get started on getting your brother out as soon as possible.”

  Was it really going to be so simple? She pictured Bobby’s face when he found out the news. She sobbed against Finn’s chest, felt him release her, then hold her again. But this time, his arms felt right. She looked up and found Tucker smiling down at her, his fingers gently rubbing the small of her back.

  “Tell me again that you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She pulled his head down and kissed him. His warm lips chased away the last of her fear. “Guess there’s something to be said about running like a little girl.”

  His arms tightened almost painfully around her waist. “Nothing wrong with running unless you’re running from something good.”

  She smiled and played with a button on his uniform. “It’s just . . . I’ve dedicated the last year of my life to this. To proving Bobby’s innocence. What am I supposed to do with myself now?”

  “I have a couple of ideas.”

  “I bet you do.” He bent and kissed her again, this time so feathery soft it tickled. “For now, can you just get me out of here?”

  Tucker released her and slid his hand into hers, guiding her away from the cruiser she was sitting on to his.

  “I just don’t get it,” Tucker said. “How was killing Simon going to erase Anatole’s sin of having a kid?”

  “I think Anatole was trying to cleanse his son of his illegitimacy by inducting him into the church, completing the rite—holy orders. I guess his sick mind thought that would free them both from sin. He was rambling about Abraham. I think he saw himself that way. Sacrifice your own son to prove how much you love God. But I think he had to perform all of the rites to feel as though Simon’s death completed some sick ritual. He brought Simon here. Made sure he had a job. I’m guessing with Bobby locked up, Anatole was all Simon had, so he came. That was all Anatole was waiting on before starting the killings again.”