“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Crowder. It’s unbecoming.”
“You disliked me from the beginning. Now you’re using this as an excuse to persecute me.”
He laughed incredulously. “Persecute you? My best friend is dead.”
“He was my best friend too.”
“He was your benefactor, Crowder. Not your peer.”
I had the sense of floating above my body. This was worse than I’d imagined. Infinitely worse. Did Patterson mean to press charges? Had he already shared his suspicions with the police?
“What are you doing there?” Patterson asked, frowning. “That supposed to be some kind of joke?”
I stared back at him, perplexed.
“I would think,” he said, enunciating each word savagely, “you would strive to repair the damage you’ve done to your career instead of alienating your superiors.”
“What are you—”
“Your hand,” he snapped, nodding to where my hands rested in my lap.
Or where I thought they were resting.
I stared downward, completely at a loss for words. I’d thought I’d replaced the cruciform letter opener on the stand beside me. Evidently, I’d failed to do so. At some point in our conversation, I had begun digging into the skin on the back of my right hand with so much force that the letter opener had punctured my flesh, burrowed under the thick blue vein in the middle of my hand, and had punched through the skin on the other side.
Blood was spurting from the dual wounds.
Pain flooded through me.
Hissing, I jerked my hand up and stared in horror at what I’d done to myself. The gilded letter opener waggled as my injured hand jittered in the air. Blood streamed down my forearm.
Apparently realizing what he was seeing was no parlor trick, Patterson uttered a muffled oath and lunged to push the Call button on his phone. “Tammy,” he barked, “send for a nurse!”
I scarcely heard him. The pain in my hand was worsening by the moment, whatever diabolical anesthetic I’d been under rapidly fading.
Tammy’s voice came back, high and fraught with panic, “You want me to call the hospital?”
“The convent, Tammy. Send for Sister Rebecca.”
Yes, I thought, Sister Rebecca. I’d seen her often but had only been treated by her once, a few years earlier when I’d come down with pneumonia. I had no doubt she’d be able to patch me up in the short term.
Yet what of the long term? The ramifications of what just happened assailed me, made my vision swim even more than the blood loss did. That Malephar could so cunningly access a weapon was disconcerting. What terrified me to a far greater degree, however, was the demon’s ability to blunt the pain so thoroughly that I had no idea whatever that I had injured myself.
A rough hand seized my wrist. I glanced up at Patterson. The senior priest was even taller than I remembered. I was over six feet tall, yet Patterson dwarfed me, his sturdy shoulders twice as wide as mine.
He scowled down at my quaking hand. “Why on earth did you—” He compressed his lips. “Hold still. I don’t know if removing it is the right thing or not.”
“Maybe we should wait for Sister Rebecca,” I suggested.
“You don’t want that thing in your hand,” Patterson said. “Hold still.”
And before I could protest, he grasped the letter opener with surprisingly steady fingers. When he began to draw the dagger out, I sucked in breath and jerked involuntarily, but he clamped my wrist tighter, rendered movement impossible. His large brow creased with concentration, Patterson slid the blade out of my hand, my blood instantly spurting with renewed vigor.
I moaned, tottered to my feet. Patterson tossed the letter opener aside, slapped his free hand over the drizzling wounds. I crumpled and sank into the leather chair, only partially aware of the way Patterson loomed over me, endeavoring to staunch the flow of blood. I half-expected him to utter soothing words, to assure me everything would be okay, but Patterson remained grimly silent. At least he was trying to help me. A few minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have guessed he’d make such an attempt. Perhaps it was akin to the Hippocratic oath; Patterson’s devotion to his holy vows prevented him abandoning anyone to physical suffering, even a person he detested.
At some point, the mousy secretary entered, and after a few gruff words from Patterson, she exited and returned bearing a white towel, with which Patterson swaddled my hand. I glanced at her, noticed how her skin had gone an unhealthy green, and ventured a smile. She smiled back, looking not at all reassured. I couldn’t blame her. With a cursory scan of my surroundings, I realized the area around me resembled a slaughterhouse. Or a violent crime scene.
My thoughts jumped to Danny Hartman.
Where was he right now?
Were Liz and the children safe?
The thought revived me. I bucked against Patterson who, though unprepared for my resistance, nevertheless kept me pinioned to the sodden chair with little effort.
“Keep still,” he commanded.
After what seemed an age, Sister Rebecca bustled into the office and set about examining me. She tensed when she removed the dripping scarlet towel. Without looking at Patterson, she said, “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
“Discretion is sometimes necessary,” he said, moving away from us. “How would we have explained his wounds, Sister Rebecca? Claimed it was a gruesome accident?”
Her eyes flicked to mine. “How did it happen, Father Crowder?”
A wave of affection rolled through me. In truth, I’d always harbored a bit of a crush on Sister Rebecca. Though she was a decade-and-a-half my senior, she was a vivacious, attractive woman. Her curved cheekbones and full lips were at once motherly and beguiling. Her lustrous black hair, at the moment drawn back in a ponytail, made me thankful the nuns of St. Matthew’s no longer wore habits. As she turned my hand over, bending each of my fingers in turn, I found my eyes drifting to her navy blue dress. She bent forward to get a closer look, and the dress yawned open. I could see her plain white bra beneath. Not particularly revealing, but the breasts it contained were round and firm.
“Hey,” Patterson said, giving my shoulder a rough shake.
Flushing, I peered up at him.
“She asked you a question,” he snapped.
I looked up at Sister Rebecca, whose cheeks now shone with faint maroon splotches. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t hear you.”
Her tone was neutral. “I asked how this happened.”
“I think I need to lie down,” I said.
She glanced at Patterson, then to me. “Would you rather do that here or in the red room?”
“The red room,” I said.
Patterson spread his arms. “Am I supposed to clean this mess up?”
Sister Rebecca helped me to my feet. As she did, she flashed what might have been an admonishing frown at Patterson. “I’ll send a custodian over shortly. First, I need to make Father Crowder comfortable.” She slung my arm over her shoulder, began shepherding me toward the door.
“Comfortable,” Patterson repeated.
“You don’t want him to be comfortable?” she asked.
Patterson looked like he’d scented something foul. “Take him.”
I didn’t look at Patterson again as I hobbled with Sister Rebecca out of the office.
¨¨¨
Sister Rebecca sat across from me on a rattan chair she’d drawn up in the red room.
“You’re lucky you didn’t sever this,” she said. I followed her gaze, saw her examining the thick, wormy vein that threaded its way up the back of my hand. “Had you sliced it open,” she explained, “you’d have lost a good deal more blood. As it is, you’ve almost certainly perforated it.”
“I appreciate your help, Sister Rebecca.”
She grunted. “Call me Rebecca. The ‘Sister’ ages me.” She scrutinized my face. “How much have you slept since the other night?”
I wondered what she knew of the exorcism, or more im
portantly, what she’d heard. She certainly didn’t project the same brand of belligerent accusation that Patterson had, but she wasn’t her normal, cheerful self either. Willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, maybe, but not without a plausible explanation.
I wasn’t in any condition to provide one.
I leaned against the couch back, blew out beleagured air. “I don’t know. Maybe eight hours total? Probably less.”
She looked disappointed, but apparently didn’t think it prudent to press the issue. “You need rest. Would you like a ride to your cottage, or would you rather sleep here?”
The thought of my cottage reminded me of last night’s near-death experience, and I realized with a jolt that I hadn’t even cleaned the place up yet.
“I’ll sleep here,” I said.
She searched my face. “I suppose I can wait to hear your story. But I’ll need to stitch this up before you begin sawing logs.”
I glanced at her, surprised at the colloquialism. “Where are you from, Sister?”
She rose, stepped over to the end table at the foot of the couch. On it was a plain black bag that zippered down the center.
“Indiana,” she said. “A small town called Lakeview.”
“The one in the news last summer? The supposed werewolf outbreak?”
She pursed her lips. “Foolish sensationalism.” She resumed her spot in front of me. “Now hold still.”
She produced a small bottle of white cream, into which she dipped a cotton swab. She began to dab the cream around my twin puncture wounds, and though the contact made my flesh ache slightly, in short order the throb in my hand began to abate. As she extricated a needle and thread, I studied the red room, so called because of its lurid red paint. Located along the northern end of the basement corridor and illuminated by daylight windows and a trio of lamps, it had long been used as a sort of recuperation place for those who were too queasy to drive home or for others who simply needed a quiet spot. It had formerly, Father Sutherland had once explained, been painted the same drab gray as the other rooms in this section of the basement. But at Father Sutherland’s request, it had been repainted in this gaudy scarlet because, in his words, “The color stirs the imagination.”
Now, in Rebecca’s intoxicating presence, I found his words unnervingly accurate.
Her legs, I noticed, had encroached on either side of my right thigh, so that my knee was nudging her skirt up a little. It was a modest skirt, but the combination of her seated position and the pressure from my leg had conspired to ruck up the hem past its accustomed reach. I couldn’t help but note how firm and pale her thighs were. Muscular, smooth. She obviously shaved frequently, or at least she had in the past twenty-four hours.
I winced as the needle pierced my flesh.
She paused. “Would you like some more numbing cream?”
I suppressed a shudder, shook my head. “It’s fine. The pain isn’t that bad.”
She eyed me impishly. “Liar.”
“No really. I’ll survive.”
“Typical,” she said, and continued to work. “Would you like something to help you sleep?”
I knew I should remain watchful, and I was eager to check in on Liz, but I’d instructed her earlier to be vigilant and to contact me should anyone stop by—especially Danny. That had stopped her, of course, but so emphatic were my entreaties that she agreed to call me before letting him in.
“Father Crowder?” Rebecca said, her voice tight.
I tensed. Looked down at my free hand.
Which was stroking Rebecca’s thigh.
Sucking in breath, I jerked my hand away, mumbled an awkward apology. Her face had gone the same hue as the walls, but she nevertheless continued to sew up my wound. Soon, thankfully, she finished working on me, and I thanked her, apologizing once again.
Rebecca nodded, gave me a look I couldn’t interpret, and slipped out the door.
I lay back, heart thumping. Malephar, it seemed, could seize control of me whenever he wished. Thank God I’d noticed my hand on Rebecca’s leg before it delved any higher.
I lay back, mortified at what had happened. It took me a long time to drift off, but when I did, my slumber was so deep and dreamless that I didn’t awaken until late afternoon.
Groggy and cursing, I hurried out of the red room and exited the church.
Chapter Seven
I hustled back to my cottage, furious with myself for my breach in etiquette with Sister Rebecca, and just as egregiously, for my lack of time management. It was approaching six PM, and night would soon descend on the city.
I had vowed not to go to the authorities about Danny, and I planned to remain true to that vow. Not out of allegiance to the infernal presence lurking in my breast, but because I yearned to protect Liz and her kids. According to Malephar, they would be safe as long as I abided by our pact. That the demon was the very incarnation of deceit was not lost on me, but what other choice did I have?
I ripped open my front door, twisted on the lamp. Surveyed the room and saw it was as I’d expected.
Blood everywhere.
I wasn’t in the mood to clean it up, and besides, there was no advantage in undertaking the gargantuan task now. The blood had long since dried to an ochre crust, and it would take hours to remove all of it.
I didn’t have hours.
Okay, I told myself. Do what you’ve always done when you’re overwhelmed by too many tasks: compartmentalize.
I nodded, closing my eyes.
First, there’s Liz. Is she safe?
Yes, I answered. At least, she’s safe for the time being.
I believed Malephar would warn me if Danny moved on her and her children because if Malephar didn’t, he and I would be right back to where we were last night. If Liz died, I’d have no reason to live—beyond stopping Danny from killing again.
Malephar must know this, intimate as he was with my psyche.
But was it in Malephar’s power to prohibit Danny from making good on his threats?
This question troubled me greatly. Just how vast were the demon’s powers? How far could his intelligence reach? Did he really know what Danny was doing at the moment? And if so, how could he stop Danny from killing Liz?
Maybe he can’t, I reflected. Maybe he doesn’t have any idea where Danny is, and his promise to keep Liz and her kids safe is as empty as his soul.
Dammit. I moved on to the next question.
What were my obligations now? Before my catastrophic failure in thwarting the Sweet Sixteen Killer, I had vowed to fight evil by harnessing my unique “gift.” Yet the demon had triumphed over me, had proven his supremacy. Twice today I had been manipulated by Malephar. Now, Father Patterson—already an adversary—likely believed me insane. And Rebecca…
I didn’t want to think about Sister Rebecca right now.
Because that would require thinking of other people, a nasty voice whispered. You’re worried about you, Liz, her kids—your own little circle. What about the rest of the city? What about the killer on the loose, the one who makes John Wayne Gacy look like a philanthropist? You’re the only one who knows the Sweet Sixteen’s identity, the one person who can put a stop to this madness. Are you really going to allow your allegiance to Malephar prevent you—
It’s not allegiance!
—from saving Danny’s future victims?
I stood in the foyer of my cottage, the blood beating in my temples. The atmosphere here was oppressive, sweltering. I had to escape, if nothing else to clear my swirling thoughts.
I turned and grasped the doorknob to go outside.
Froze.
What if Danny decides to finish what he started? I wondered. What if he’s not interested in Liz at all?
What if he’s on his way over to kill you?
This, I realized, was far more sensible than anything I’d considered thus far. I was the only one who knew Danny’s secret. What if he was on the porch, grasping a firearm this time rather than a knife? Yes, it was still dayl
ight, and true, there were other cottages on the quiet rectory road. But if anyone had access to a silencer, it would be a policeman. All Danny needed to do was shove the gun in my belly, empty it into me, and no one would be the wiser.
So go out the back door.
You mean the door through which Danny escaped last night? The one you never locked?
Oh God, I thought, my terror escalating.
What if Danny was already in the cottage?
Crime-fighting priest indeed. You can’t even defeat one man!
I fancied I could hear stirrings, imagined the ragged huff of the killer’s breath behind me. In a panic, I tore open the front door, lurched outside, and smashed straight into a large figure—Oh God! Danny!—and then I was scrambling away from him, breath clotting in my throat, and nearly overbalancing on the porch. I leaped awkwardly into my yard, stumbled toward the road. What a fool I was, what a weak, hapless fool, and Danny was shouting at me now, his voice deeper than normal. Footsteps sounded behind me. I was nearly to the road, shooting glances left and right for some bystander, anyone who could rescue me from my murderer.
“Father Crowder!” the voice behind me shouted. “You gotta talk to me!”
I kept fleeing, in the road now. I’d bypassed my car even though I was clutching my keys. The voice behind me called again, closer this time, and I realized with confusion that the tone was pleading rather than threatening. In fact, it hadn’t even sounded like…
I halted in the middle of the road, glanced over my shoulder.
It wasn’t the Sweet Sixteen Killer.
It was his brother.
¨¨¨
Shoulders slumping, I ambled toward my Civic.
Ron Hartman was smirking and shaking his head, his wise guy routine already annoying the hell out of me. “You were really spooked, Father. I thought you were gonna keep right on going until you hit South Wacker Drive.”
“Leave me alone, Ron,” I said, completely enervated. Though I was glad it wasn’t Danny, Ron was near the bottom of the list of people I wanted to see.
Ron approached my Civic from the passenger’s side. “I know we didn’t hit it off the other night, but we still went through a lot together, didn’t we?”
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