by Joanne Fluke
“Now, Bishop Donahue, just put that down and we’ll talk about it. You must be terribly cold. We’ll go back to Holy Rest, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”
Bishop Donahue’s eyes gleamed insanely. Her words had no effect. There was a heavy branch at her feet, and Sister Kate snatched it up. She swung it as hard as she could, hoping to knock Bishop Donahue off his feet. If she could hold him off for just a short time, someone would hear the commotion and call for help.
The bishop staggered back and laughed. It was the most chilling sound Sister Kate had ever heard. She swung again, and the sharp bark on the branch tore at his face. He was bleeding and injured, but nothing seemed to stop him.
Sister Kate saw the crucifix rise again. She swung with all her strength, trying to blind him with the sharp point of the branch. Then the night exploded in a sudden burst of light and Sister Kate knew she had failed.
Archbishop Ciminski stood in Sister Kate’s open doorway and stared at her neatly made bed. She was gone.
“The chapel?”
The two men hurried down the hall. There was an empty space on the chapel wall where the crucifix had been.
“You’d better show me the bishop’s room.”
Steve followed the archbishop up the stairs. Bishop Donahue’s room was empty. They checked the other rooms and found that Sister Cecelia was missing too.
“Let the police handle it, sir. We’ll be as discreet as possible.”
Archbishop Ciminski looked old and defeated.
“It was the television. I gave it to them for Christmas. At first Bishop Donahue got upset with the coverage of WinterGame, but then he seemed to adjust. I just never thought he might—”
“I’m bringing a man over to stand guard in case they come back.”
“Certainly. I’ll stay here myself. It’s the least I can do.”
Steve had the guard let him out. He ran across the street and pushed his way through the crowd.
Doug was standing near the goalie’s cage, eating a hot dog. Steve grabbed his arm.
“Come with me, Doug.”
They walked away from the crowd to a spot where they couldn’t be overheard.
“See that yellow brick house across the street? Pick up a partner, and get over there right away. Archbishop Ciminski’ll let you in. That’s where our bishop lives. If he comes back, cuff him, but be careful. He’s dangerous.”
“You were right. I knew it.” Doug flashed a quick grin. “Okay, Steve. You can count on me.”
Steve hurried through the crowd to the snack booth. Judith and Toni were working.
“Judith? I need to see you for a minute in private.”
Judith looked puzzled, but she hopped over the counter and led the way to her car. It was parked directly behind the snack booth.
“I want you to round up Louise, Margaret, and Michele right away. You have to stick together for the rest of the night. Go to Margaret’s house after the game so I’ll know where to reach you. Are Danny and Ken still on the job?”
“Sure. They’re in the stands with Louise, selling buttons. What’s going on, Steve?”
“Send someone over to get them. Tell them to stay with you for the rest of the night. Our killer’s still out there, and I’m going after him.”
“Oh, my God!” Judith’s face turned white. “Michele’s not here, Steve. She took a taxi to your apartment an hour ago.”
Steve swallowed hard.
“Just do what I told you, Judith. I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 23
There was a squad car idling in the parking lot, and Steve jumped in. He put the car in gear and used the radio to dispatch all available units to search the area for a bishop and two nuns. The bishop was armed and dangerous. He just had time to call for a backup at his home address before he turned in at the Oaks, red lights flashing.
A light was on in his living room. Steve saw the broken window as he ran through the snow, gun drawn.
“Michele!” Steve pounded on the door. “Michele, are you all right?”
“Oh, thank God you’re here.”
Michele pulled him inside and locked the door. She had his gun in her hand.
“He was here, Steve. Your killer bishop. He—he broke the window and stuck his hand through, and I—I hit him with my slipper.”
Michele pointed to the high-heeled slipper on the floor. It was covered with blood.
“He cut the phone line, so I couldn’t call for help, but I—I’ve been waiting for him. I would have blown his head off if he’d come back. Honest to God.”
“Where did he go, honey? Did you see?”
“Out through the courtyard. There was an awful racket, Steve. I—I was afraid to stay here, but I was too scared to go out there alone.”
“Thank God for that. Sit right here, Michele, and keep that gun handy. I called for a backup, and it’ll be here any minute. I’ve got to check it out.”
Before Michele could stop him, Steve was gone. She stared at the closed front door and shuddered as she remembered the crazed look in the bishop’s eyes. She was more afraid for Steve than she was for herself.
Pete whimpered, and Michele made up her mind. She ran to the closet to get her boots. Steve might need help, and two guns were better than one.
Steve picked up the trail of blood at the base of the window and followed it into the courtyard. There was a crumpled figure in the snow by a bank of shrubbery.
“Jesus!” Steve shivered as he bent down to look. It was a nun. Her head was smashed in. Steve stopped and listened. The night was quiet and peaceful. It was a hell of a contrast with the bloody corpse in the snow.
More blood led to the snowbank by the big pine tree at the far end of the courtyard. Steve was cautious as he followed the trail. He stepped over a small rise and found another body. A second nun. If the bishop was still here, he was alone.
Steve moved slowly as he circled the big pine. It was full and huge with an overhang of branches that dropped down to snow level. He’d played under a tree like that when he was a kid.
That was it. Steve moved a little closer. The overhang was the perfect hiding place for an injured and desperate man. Where was his backup? He sure as hell wasn’t going in there alone.
It was as silent as a tomb when Michele stepped outside. Even the wind had stopped blowing. She saw Steve at the far end of the courtyard, circling the big pine tree.
Michele’s eyes were drawn to the three low bushes to the left of the pine. One looked much thicker than she remembered. Someone was crouching behind it. The branches were moving, and there was no wind. She had to warn Steve.
She opened her mouth to yell, but the words were frozen in her throat. Michele watched in horror as a figure in black lunged at Steve.
“Behind you! It’s him!”
Michele’s shout was enough to throw off the bishop’s aim. Steve ducked, and the crucifix whistled past his ear. He rolled and tried to get to his feet, but the bishop was fast. Another swing, another roll, and Steve managed to regain his balance. There was no time to shoot. The bishop’s reflexes would carry through even if Steve managed to kill him.
He charged the bishop and grabbed his arm as he brought the crucifix down again. Steve knew he was strong, but the bishop had the strength of insanity. They grappled in the knee-deep snow for what seemed to be an eternity.
Michele ran across the courtyard and got as close as she could. She tried to aim the gun at the bishop, but he was too close to Steve. There was nothing she could do but watch in dread as Steve began to tire.
Suddenly Michele remembered her best friend in high school and how she used to go to confession every Wednesday night.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”
Bishop Donahue turned to look at her. His eyes clouded, and he hesitated, confused by the familiar phrase. It was the advantage Steve needed. With the last of his strength he forced the bishop’s arm down and tore the crucifix out of his grasp.
“Ad m
ajorem Dei gloriam!”
Bishop Donahue’s voice was loud and condemning. He lunged toward Michele, and Steve pulled the trigger. Michele looked down in horror as the bishop fell at her feet.
Steve knelt to feel for a pulse. The bishop was dead. Then Steve gathered Michele in his arms.
There was the sound of sirens in the distance, and Steve looked down at Michele. She was dressed in nothing but a see-through nightgown.
“That was brilliant, honey. Here. Put on my parka. You must be frozen.”
Michele looked down at herself in surprise. She had put on her boots, but she’d forgotten all about anything else.
“Oh no! I forgot my coat!” Michele’s teeth were chattering so hard she could barely speak. Suddenly she was terribly cold.
“Hurry, Steve. Zip it up quick! My mother’ll be here on the first plane if she ever hears about this.”
Steve picked her up in his arms and ran toward the apartment. He just managed to make it inside before the squad car pulled up. He was grinning as he placed Michele on the heated water bed, parka and all.
“I’ll call your mother myself and tell her all about it. That way she might have time to make it here before the wedding.”
A mild-mannered car salesman . . . a womanizing
bartender . . . a beloved minister with a devoted
family. Except for the fact that each of the murder
victims is male, Minnesota police can’t find a
connection between the crimes. But that’s because
what links them can’t be seen with the naked eye . . .
Losing everything can make a person do crazy
things. No one knows that better than Connie
Wilson. The shock of suddenly losing her fiancé,
Alan, in a car accident, is almost too much to bear . . .
Until Connie comes up with a plan to stay close to
Alan forever. And she’s finally found just the man
to help her. There’s only one thing standing in her
way: his wife. She’s smart, beautiful, and has
exactly what Connie desperately needs.
Connie will just have to be smarter, more
seductive—and stay one step ahead
of a detective who’s as determined to save her as
Connie is to destroy her . . .
Please turn the page for an exciting
sneak peek at
Joanne Fluke’s
EYES
coming in May 2016
wherever print and ebooks are sold!
PROLOGUE
Alan Stanford’s smile disappeared with his last bite of turkey. It had been a pleasant Thanksgiving meal with his parents and his younger sister, but Alan’s time was about up. He’d promised his girlfriend, Connie Wilson, he’d make the big announcement when dinner was over, and the traditional dessert was about to be served.
Alan’s hands started to shake as the maid carried in the pumpkin pie. It was lightly browned on top and still warm from the oven, the way his father, the senior Mr. Stanford, preferred. When the maid presented it to his mother to slice, just as if she’d baked it herself, a wry smile flickered across Alan’s face. It was doubtful that Mrs. Stanford had ever ventured as far as the kitchen, and the thought that his impeccably groomed, silver-haired mother might put on an apron and roll out a pie crust was patently ridiculous.
Rather than think about the words he’d soon have to utter, Alan considered the hypocrisy of etiquette. One praised the hostess for a delicious dinner, even if it had been catered. And one always called the daughter of a colleague a lady, whether she was one or not. The term “gentleman” referred to any man with enough money to make him socially desirable, and an estate was simply a home with enough land to house a condo complex. All the same, etiquette might save him some embarrassment tonight. There would be no scenes, no tears, no recriminations. After Alan had informed the family of his decision, his father would suggest he and Alan retire to the library where they’d discuss the matter in private.
“This is lovely, Mother.” Beth, Alan’s younger sister, was dutifully complimentary. “And I really do think it’s much better warm, with chilled crème fraîche.”
Alan’s mother smiled. “Yes, dear. Your father prefers it this way. Another piece, Ralph?”
“Just a small one.” Alan’s father held out his plate. “You know I’m watching my cholesterol.”
Alan waited while his mother cut another piece of pie. Nothing ever changed at the Stanford mansion. His father always said he was watching his cholesterol, and he always had a second serving of pie. Every Thanksgiving was exactly the same, but Alan was about to change the order of their lives. By this time next Thanksgiving, there would be two more guests at the oval table. The rules of etiquette were clear. They’d be obligated to invite his wife and son.
There were three bites remaining on his father’s plate, perhaps four if he ate all the crust. Alan knew how a condemned man felt as his father’s fork cut and carried each bite, one by one, to his mouth. The white linen napkin came up, to dab at the corners of his father’s lips, and Alan took a deep breath. He’d promised Connie. He couldn’t delay any longer.
“I have an announcement to make.” Alan’s voice was a little too loud because of his effort not to sound tentative. “Connie and I are getting married.”
There was complete silence around the table. It lasted for several seconds, and then Beth gave a hesitant smile. “That’s wonderful, Alan. Isn’t that wonderful, Mother?”
“Oh . . . yes.” His mother’s voice was strained, and Alan noticed that all the color had left her face. He could see the lines of her makeup, the exact spot where the edge of the blush met the foundation. “Yes, indeed. That’s wonderful, dear.”
Was it really going to be this easy? Alan turned to look at his father. The older man was frowning as he pushed back his chair. “Superb dinner, Marilyn. Alan, why don’t you join me in the library for cognac?”
It wasn’t an invitation; it was an order. Alan slid his chair back and stood up. Then he walked to the end of the table to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother. Dinner was excellent.”
“Coming, Alan?”
His father looked impatient, so Alan followed him to the second-floor library. He accepted a snifter of cognac, even though he wasn’t fond of its taste, then waited for all hell to break loose.
“Sit down.” Alan’s father motioned toward the two wing chairs in front of the fireplace. A fire had been laid. As it burned cheerfully, it gave off the scent of cherry wood. Naturally, the fire was real. The fireplace was made of solid river rock; no expense had been spared when his grandfather had built the Stanford mansion.
Alan’s father took a sip of his cognac and set it down on the table. He then turned to Alan, frowning. “Now that we’re away from the ladies, suppose you tell me what that was all about.”
“Connie and I are getting married.” It was difficult, but Alan met his father’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Father. I don’t expect you to approve, or even understand, but I love Connie and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”
Ralph Stanford sighed and then shook his head. “Now, son . . . I’m sure she’s a fine girl, but you can’t be serious about actually bringing her into our family.”
“I’m very serious.” Alan managed not to drop his eyes. “We’re getting married next week, Father. It’s all arranged. Of course we’d be delighted if you’d come to the wedding, but Connie doesn’t expect it and neither do I.”
Alan’s father sighed again. “All right, son. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to this, but I see that I have no other choice.”
Alan watched as his father walked to the antique desk and opened the center drawer. Ralph Stanford’s mouth was set in a grim line as he handed Alan a typed report in a blue binding.
“Read this. There may be some facts about your intended that you don’t know.”
Alan’s hands were steady a
s he opened the binder and started to read. Everything was here, from Connie’s illegitimate birth to her mother’s years on welfare. The investigator hadn’t mentioned the name of Connie’s father. That was too bad. Connie would have liked to know. But the report went into detail about the man Connie’s mother had married, how he’d abused her and forced her into prostitution to support his drug habit, how she’d been an alcoholic.
It was a wonder that Connie was so kind and loving, coming from a background like hers. Alan sighed as he read about how her stepfather had repeatedly molested her, had even offered her to his friends.
Alan knew all about Connie’s past, how she’d run away the night of her fifteenth birthday, lived with a series of men, worked in a topless club as a dancer, and finally saved enough money to finish a secretarial course. Alan had met Connie at work, when she’d come in as a temporary replacement for one of the secretaries. She’d agreed to move in with him only after she’d told him the story of her life.
When he’d finished the last page and closed the report, Alan handed it back to his father. Then he waited. The ball was in his father’s court.
Ralph Stanford cleared his throat. “Well, son?”
“Don’t pay him, Father.” Alan managed not to grin.
“What?”
“Don’t pay this detective. He left out the part about Pete Jones, the truck driver Connie lived with for almost a year. And he didn’t find out about the job Connie took in a massage parlor on lower Hennepin.”
“You knew about all this? Still you want to marry this woman?”
Alan smiled. His father looked utterly deflated, the first time Alan had seen him like this. “It’s not a question of wanting to marry Connie. I’m going to marry her. And nothing you can say will stop me!”