Sander didn't hesitate. “Anything.” The caressing finger stopped, and Sander crushed Paul's jaw in his hand. “Anything...” he showed even, white teeth, “...under the sun."
Paul's muscles exploded as rage, brighter and hotter than the demon's, ignited in his brain. His hands went around Sander's throat. He drove Sander back, back, and back, his feet stuttering, until Sander's head bounced against the kitchen wall.
The demon drank Paul's rage, flooding him with frustration. Paul felt the warning. He just didn't care. He set his legs, his body crushing Sander against the wall, his hands crushing Sander's throat.
"Kill me...” Sander's face purpled and his eyes bulged. “...and you have ... two ... days."
Two days. It sounded like a fair trade to Paul's rage-maddened brain. Two days of freedom before the ritual went uncompleted and the demon overwhelmed him. Two days of freedom and an eternity trapped in the demon sounded like heaven, compared to forever as Sander's immortal companion.
He had lost so much. He couldn't give Sander Wald everything he had left. He increased the pressure on Sander's throat, saw Sander's eyes roll back into his head.
Forgive me, Kate.
And then the prison bars cracked.
Paul looked out the window to see that the light had gone from the sky.
Pain impaled Paul as the demon shattered its prison and began clawing and chewing its way to the surface of his skin. Paul dropped to all fours, gagging. More pain, as Sander Wald kicked him in the ribs. He toppled and skidded on the kitchen floor, curling around himself, trying to find some protection from the both assaults. The demon burst through his skin, arching Paul's body, flooding his mouth with coppery hot blood. He cracked in half. The demon folded him, rolled him up, just shards of bone and fractured, inside-out flesh. He slid gratefully into the prison, thankful for the sudden cessation of pain, for the suspended nothingness.
The demon's eyes took over, and Paul saw Sander Wald gone to black-and-white harshness, staring at the final transformation. The demon pulsed hot and cold with rage and terror. It skittled back, flowing around the toppled chair to coalesce into the tiniest form it could underneath the protection of the tabletop.
Through the demon's eyes, Paul could see the hatred in Sander's expression as he took a step forward and spat. “It's always you, isn't it?"
The demon cowered, but Paul surged. Get him to say your name! Your name! Your name!
Sander Wald jumped forward, his hands out. The demon shrank away. Sander laughed, a hollow, empty sound, and turned. Paul listened, heard the footsteps, heard the slam of the door, heard the purr of the Mercedes’ motor. He saw nothing but the kitchen floor as the demon huddled there, frozen with terror.
* * * *
A gun. Oh, God. Kate closed her eyes for a moment, reaching inside for strength. This, she hadn't anticipated. “Ellie, can I come in?"
"Kate.” Ellie sobbed the word. “She said I had to do it."
"She was lying, Ellie. You don't.” Kate gave her cell phone to Sister Olivia, whispering, “There's a number in there, listed under ‘Ellie Hospital'. Ask for Dr. Shaheed, let her know that Ellie's suicidal."
The sister took the phone and instantly flipped it open.
"When did you call the police?” Kate asked.
"They should have been here already."
"Shit.” When the blue lights and sirens arrived, Ellie would assume they were coming to take her, to force her to testify.
Raising her voice from a whisper, Kate said, “Ellie? I'm coming in the room, okay?” Without waiting for confirmation, she slipped inside the door.
Ellie pressed the barrel of the gun against her jaw line.
Kate stopped just a few steps inside the room. “Bad day, huh?"
Ellie rolled her eyes. Tears ran down her face. “I talked to one of the doctors today, and he said I should testify."
Kate gritted her teeth. It was the natural reaction when faced with the situation: Ellie should testify. She wanted to grab Ellie and shake the courage into her.
"If I testify, he'll kill me.” The word managed to convey exactly what Ellie had seen her husband do to his rival's daughter. Faced with that, a bullet in the head would be the way Kate would choose to die, too.
"You don't have to testify.” If she could make Ellie understand that option, make her believe it, Ellie wouldn't have to choose tonight between being raped and murdered and shooting herself. Kate had to make her see that alternative. “One call, Ellie, and I can have you somewhere he won't find you. In two weeks, you can have a new driver's license and a new name. You can be an accountant, if you want."
Ellie laughed, a jarring sound that grated down Kate's spine. Ellie didn't, couldn't believe that she had that chance.
"If I don't testify, he won't go to jail.” Ellie stated the obvious in a blank whisper, talking more to herself than Kate. Guilt. Ellie felt the pressure to do the right thing, felt the pressure of the greater good. But she was just too terrified. “If I don't testify, he won't go to jail, and he'll kill me. If I do testify, if he can't kill me, someone will for him.” Tears coursed down Ellie's face, dropped onto the barrel of the gun.
"Ellie, you can hide. He won't be able to find you.” But even as she said it, Kate recognized it for the half-truth that it was. Ellie's husband might be able to find her. As long as he lived, Ellie would always look over her shoulder, would never truly be safe.
"Even if I kill him, someone will take revenge.” She said it so coldly that Kate felt the stirrings of real panic. “There's no way out."
Kate risked a step forward. “There is a way out, Ellie, I promise you. Just give me the gun."
Ellie pressed the barrel against her cheek, gripping the gun possessively, her only means of control. Her only source of comfort and power. She wasn't giving it up. It should be me she's holding on to, not that gun. But she had been out of cell range. She had been in a car, having her shirt ripped off, like some teenager.
"Oh, God, Ellie, I am so sorry. About all of this, about everything.” Kate hugged herself, reaching for some transcendental help, strength, and cleverness that weren't natively hers.
Finally, for the first time, Ellie looked at Kate. The gun moved away from her cheek. “You don't have to be sorry, Kate.” Ellie spoke as if Kate were a child, her tone steady and gentle. “I could have left him a million times, but I didn't. I liked having the money, I liked having the jewelry. For a while, it made me feel safe."
Kate froze inside. These were hard revelations. Ellie had stripped off self-deceptions. She was seeing things almost but not quite clearly. Kate's sense of impending doom deepened. “Ellie, none of this is your fault. You were his victim."
Ellie kept talking in that same gentle voice, looking through Kate instead of at her. “And after a while, we were just doing business. He'd hurt me. Then he'd bring me a new fur coat or a new necklace. Payment in full."
From Kate's memory burst an image, a necklace in a jewelry shop, the delicate gold links each cradling a diamond.
"I could have walked out any day, sold it all at a pawn shop.” Ellie's voice dropped to a whisper. “I could have left. But I didn't."
How could she explain to Ellie that she really couldn't have left? How could she explain the insidious power of an abuser like her husband, who didn't just bruise her skin, break her bones, and rape her? Her husband had stolen her soul, piece by piece, hurt by hurt, taking away her ability to choose, her ability to walk out, to escape. To explain that now would only highlight Ellie's helplessness and powerlessness, would only make that gun all the more important to her. Kate needed Ellie to hate that gun as much as she did.
"Ellie, listen to me. Ellie. Ellie!” Kate forced her to look and to see her, pulled her out of her madness. “If you do this, he wins. He doesn't go to jail, and he wins absolutely. As long as you are alive, he's scared of you.” You have the power to make him fear, Ellie. Use it instead of the gun. “As long as you are alive, you can hurt him with just a couple
of words."
"But I'm afraid!” Ellie's voice wailed the words. Tears gushed down her face. “I'm too afraid."
"It's okay to be afraid!” But she knew it wouldn't help to hear. Ellie had lived her life afraid, cowering under the thin shield of furs and jewels and money. What soul she had left was not strong enough to continue living in fear of her husband, without the sick trade-off of hurt and reward. “I'm afraid all the time, Ellie. Everyone's afraid."
"You're not afraid,” Ellie accused.
Kate barked out a laugh. “Are you kidding? Today I found out that I'm so afraid of life I don't know my favorite ice cream flavor.” She paused, latching on to some shred of hope. “What's your favorite ice cream flavor, Ellie?"
"Fudge swirl.” She said it without thought, without hesitation.
Live for fudge swirl.
Through the windows of the office came the ghostly flashes of police lights. Ellie raised the gun.
Kate held out her hand, palm up. “Now come on, Ellie, you knew they'd have to come."
"They're going to make me testify."
"No, they just want to make sure everyone stays safe."
"Safe?” Her voice rose and cracked on the word.
Oh, shit. “Ellie, please don't. Put down the gun, please. Please!"
Ellie pressed the barrel to her temple, both hands on the grip, one finger poised on the trigger. “I don't know how to be safe."
Another terrible truth. “But you can learn, Ellie. I can teach you."
"I don't deserve,” Ellie gritted out the words, “to be safe."
And now they had reached the pit of self-loathing that lay at the bottom of who Ellie was. Kate had a chance, a narrow chance, but a chance.
"You deserve to be safe and a lot more, Ellie.” She saw the expression of denial sneer across Ellie's face. That's okay, I expected it. “If you didn't deserve it, I wouldn't be here. I think you're worth it, Ellie. If you didn't deserve it, this whole place wouldn't exist.” She raised her hands to take in the Good Shepherd. “Sister Olivia wouldn't be here to help you if you didn't deserve it.” Kate tried to drag Ellie out of the pit of her self-hatred, let her see that she was loved, was supported, that she wasn't alone and worthless.
"He hurt you,” Ellie whispered. The gun had not moved. “He hurt you because of me."
Kate fixed her eyes on Ellie's face. “I think you're worth a few bruises."
A gentle smile curved Ellie's mouth, so sad that Kate felt her heart break. “I don't."
Ellie pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twelve
Kate had never seen anyone die before. She'd only ever encountered the clinging residue of violence: the bruises and the tears. And this time, the body.
She sat in the lobby of the Good Shepherd, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Despite its weight and the sticky heat of the shelter itself, she still lost control to shivers. Waves of chills hit her, setting her teeth to chattering. Her muscles ached from them.
She had given her statement to the uniformed policeman at the scene, and again to the tired-looking detective in a wrinkled suit. The medics had pronounced her physically unharmed but suffering from traumatic shock.
Shock. An understatement. Her emotions threw themselves against the walls of her heart like lunatics. One moment, she was oily with guilt for not preventing Ellie's death. The next, she was gripped with irrational anger. If Ellie hadn't already shot herself, Kate would have wanted to kill her.
A medic stooped down on his heels and offered her a cup of coffee. “Will you be okay? Should you call someone to drive you home?"
Kate wrapped her hands around the steaming paper cup. Bitter steam wafted into her face. She closed her eyes against it. “I can make it."
The medic made a noise in his throat—agreement or disagreement, Kate couldn't tell. When she opened her eyes, he was gone, and they were carrying out the shiny black bag with Ellie in it.
Sister Olivia followed the gurney. She paused beside Kate. Kate put the untasted coffee and the blanket aside, stood up to meet her.
The tall Sister merely smiled sadly and gripped Kate's arm. She did not say anything stupid.
"I'm done with all of this,” Kate said, marveling at how cold and calm her voice sounded.
"That's a shame. You're good at what you do."
Kate felt her mouth quirk in a not-so-nice smile. “I may be good at it, but it's not good for me.” She looked at her watch, discovered with surprise that it was 2:30 in the morning. Four hours to dawn.
"Thanks for your help, Sister Olivia.” She and the sisters of the Good Shepherd had worked together since the moment Kate started her career. She had known other members of the order in all the other cities she'd worked.
"Thanks for your help, Kate Scott."
They shook hands in a strange, somber ritual, and Kate went to her car. Part of her mind was aware enough to warn her that the detachment she felt was a symptom of her shock, and that sometime soon the comforting distance would collapse and she would be inside the horror and terror.
She pointed her car toward Bonaventure.
She'd never seen a person die before. The life-force that had been Ellie: there, and then gone. No transition. There, and then gone.
The freeway was deserted, damp from rain that had finally started to fall. By the time she reached her exit, it was lashing down from the sky, plinking against the roof, slapping the windshield.
I should go home. Logical processes seemed far away, too, floating together with her emotions, receding into the fog. Go home. Take a hot bath. Warm some milk. Go to sleep. Yet when the car stopped moving, she found herself parked at the curb outside Paul's house without a memory of making all the necessary turns. The driveway was empty; the Mercedes missing. The windows were all dark. Kate sat for a moment in the car, in a bubble, high above everything.
He isn't here. I should just go home.
Instead, she got out of the car and stood looking at his house while the rain poured down. When droplets fell from her hair onto her nose, startling her, she made her way to the porch.
Dripping and shivering again, she pushed the doorbell button. The old-fashioned chime echoed inside the house. No one answered.
She lifted a fist and pounded on the door. She didn't feel the impact of her hand against the wood.
She looked around. There was an old rocking chair on the porch. I'll sit in that, until he comes back.
But just as she turned from the door she heard the click of the latch. The door swung inwards a few inches, as if in invitation.
Kate hesitated, staring into the seam of darkness between the jamb and the slightly opened door. She waited: for a voice, for a hand to pull it open further, for anything. A chill crawled up the nape of her neck.
The door creaked open another inch. Kate jumped back, her heart stuttering. “Paul?"
Her memory danced back to this morning—was it just this morning?—when she had asked Paul why he hadn't come out of the house—was it just last night?—when she had arrived on his porch in a state. He'd said he couldn't, but he'd never told her why.
The inky blackness beyond the door offered no answers. Deep inside the thick blanket of clouds, thunder rumbled. The wind gusted, rattling the porch roof. Rain prickled against Kate's back.
Go or stay. Dawn was too long a wait. She looked over her shoulder, at the wind-driven rain pummeling the trees and the sidewalk. The wind drove a sheet of it into her face. Go or stay.
Hesitantly, she lifted her hand and, with just the tips of her fingers, pushed the front door open all the way. Nothing jumped out to get her. The entry room was lit by a small emergency light in the ceiling. She saw a tiled floor, a credenza against the left wall, stairs leading upwards. Other than that, she saw only shadows. She stepped inside.
"Paul?” Her voice fell flat in the silence.
The wind gusted and the door banged shut. Kate whirled, then laughed a little, to let off the tension. The same wind that had blown open the d
oor had blown it shut again. No one was here. She was alone in Paul's house.
Oddly, she found the silence and the emptiness soothing. At home, Vanessa and Gwen would be swarming on her with questions and comforts and solicitation, and that would collapse the distance separating her from fear and anguish and anger. She wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
Besides, this was the place where Breakfast Paul lived. Other than their trip to Mapleton, Kate had never known him outside Café Foy. If he wasn't telling his secrets, maybe she could find a few answers for herself. Anything was better than thinking about the way the whole room had shuddered when Ellie pulled that trigger.
Kate began to explore. On her left, the first open doorway led to the kitchen. She groped along the wall until she found a light switch. When the overhead light chased away the shadows, Kate felt her shoulders relax from tension she hadn't known was there.
Her nose twitched. Something smelled strange. On the table she saw an open wine bottle and a pile of crushed flowers. She lifted one of the browned and bruised petals and sniffed. She ran her finger down a cracked and splintered stem.
Lightning flashed outside the window. The kitchen light flickered. One ... two ... three ... four ... She got to six before the thunder rolled, throaty and deep.
Had Paul sent the flowers or received them? The stems and petals gave no answer, so she continued her exploration.
Across the hallway from the kitchen was a closed door. She expected a bathroom or a closet. What she found, when she clicked on the light, was an artist's studio.
Paul never told me he could draw.
Canvases tilted on easels. Sketches papered the floor. Three sketches were tacked to the wall near the door, sketches of the same man. Kate didn't recognize his features, but he was handsome in a hard way. In one picture, he stood in a garden surrounded by faceless people in top hats and feathered headpieces. In another, he roamed the narrow streets of some European-looking old city. And in the last, he stood at the top of the stairs of Paul's house—just outside the studio—wearing a well-cut suit with wide lapels straight out of the seventies.
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