"Yes?"
''Have you ever noticed any of the gargoyles missing?"
''You mean ...?"
"Is it possible that the thing you saw flying is a gargoyle? That maybe a few of them aren't really made of stone?"
Montoya crossed himself, the fear in his eyes unmistakable. ''They breed," he said, so softly John could barely hear him. ''There are many more now than when I first came here."
''I was told that Sister Elizabeth sculpts them as memorials to sisters who have died."
"That's what they say, but I don't think so. The nuns, they look the same as they did when I first came here. They don't age. They don't die, except by accident. And when they do, more gargoyles appear."
"What kind of accidents? Have many died?"
Montoya peered around in the growing darkness. ''Yes, many. New ones, usually, ones that don't fit in. They have accidents."
"You mean, they're murdered?"
''Please, speak softly, Sheriff. There are ears everywhere."
He nodded. "Can you answer the question? Were they murdered?"
"I didn't say it, you did. Many die here, many disappear."
"Besides the nuns?"
"Students run away, they say. I'm sure a few do. And my men sometimes leave without a word. They just disappear, and usually, it is out of character for them."
"What do you think happens to them?"
"I don't know. I try not to think of such things. It's dangerous. I should go now."
"Wait. There's something else."
"What?"
"Are you Sara Hawthorne's friend?"
Carlos's eyes opened wide, then slitted. "I know her. She used to be a student here."
The man tried to keep a neutral expression, but John could read his terror. ''I'm concerned about her safety," he told Montoya. "She's a friend of mine. I expected to see her several days ago, but she never showed up."
"She is here. Her car is in there." He nodded toward the garage.
''Can you tell me how to find her? I have to talk to her."
"It might be trouble if they see you with her."
"Where's her room?"
"On the third floor of the dormitory building. But you can't go in. They'll stop you." He hesitated. "Do you want to see her tonight? Now?"
John nodded.
"I'll get her. I can say I need her to move her car. Go back inside the garage and wait."
"Thank you. I won't forget this."
John turned and entered the darkened building, leaving the door open. He watched Carlos Montoya trot across the lawn and wondered how the man lived with all the fear inside him.
Sixty-eight
Sara sat alone in her room, picking at a plate of cheese and crackers and fruit that she'd forced herself to prepare. She wasn't hungry, hadn't been since the night she'd been raped. She'd passed the time in a daze, teaching her classes, then returning to her room, not wanting to be around anybody.
She looked at the little bottle of Valium sitting on the table by a can of Pepsi. Richard had given them to her, and she knew she was abusing them, but didn't really care. That's because you're abusing them, idiot! She reached for the bottle, then drew her hand back. She had to stop relying on them.
She remembered the rape in every detail, right down to the fact that it was ridiculous. She even remembered running from her room to get Kelly but then her memory clouded. Richard said she'd evidently fainted. One of the sisters had found her lying in the hall and taken her to the infirmary.
When she woke up, she was in one of the five beds that comprised the tiny hospital ward. Richard sat beside her, holding her hand. He told her how they'd found her and that he'd examined her and tended to her wounds. He confirmed that she'd been raped, but no real damage had been done. He had, he said, given her something to help her relax.
When he'd asked her for the identity of her attacker, she'd told him it was a ghost. She'd just said it outright, and he'd squeezed her hand and told her she was in shock. It could only be one of a few people, assuming her attacker was male: Basil-Bob Boullan, or one of the gardeners. She said it wasn't any of them. He told her there was no evidence of semen, so it might have been one or more of the girls, though he personally thought that the physical education teacher, Esther Roth, who was also her neighbor, was the most likely culprit. Roth, he told her, had an extensive collection of marital aids and a borderline personality. Lenore Tynan had complained to the Mother Superior about advances she'd made toward her. Sara hadn't argued. What was the point?
The next morning, Richard told her that Esther Roth had confessed, and that the police had taken her away. She would have no more problems. And that was the end of it, except for the bottle of Valium that had helped her keep from thinking about anything.
Every time a pill wore off, as one was doing now, she started to relive the horror, the sheer terror and humiliation. What had happened? She knew it wasn't Esther Roth who'd attacked her, and she couldn't shake the notion that it had something to do with Richard Dashwood. But what? The thing that had attacked her was the same thing that had led her to the Falls, that had frightened her in the shower. Probably the same thing that had come after Kelly. Was it a revenant, as Kelly thought? It was just all too much. Sara reached for the bottle, unscrewed the lid, and shook a pill into her hand.
Someone rapped sharply on the door. Startled, Sara's hand shook, hitting the bottle, sending the Valiums rolling everywhere. "Damn."
"Miss Hawthorne?"
She recognized Sister Bibi's voice. ''Coming." She looked at the pill in her hand and let it drop with the rest, then went to the door and bent to remove the rubber wedge. Then she saw she hadn't even bothered to use it. What the hell's wrong with me?
She opened the door a few inches and peered out. "Yes?"
"Carlos is downstairs. He needs you to move your car. It's blocking something."
She nodded. "Tell him I'll be right down."
Closing the door, she slipped off her robe, trying not to look at the ugly bruises on her legs as she pulled on a pair of jeans and her penny loafers. She gingerly slipped on a bulky V-neck sweater that would hide her lack of a bra- her bitten breast was still inflamed and anything tight was sheer torture. She hunted for her keys, finally found them in her coat pocket, then left her room. Walking down the hall, she tried to clear her mind, tried to concentrate, and by the time she met Carlos at the entry, she felt like some of the cobwebs had been swept away.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Sara," Carlos said as they walked across the lawn. "I wouldn't if it wasn't important."
"I'm glad you bothered me, Carlos. You kept me from doing something stupid."
He glanced sideways at her but said nothing.
"Why are you here so late?" she asked as they entered the garage.
"Because of me," came a voice from the darkness.
"John!"
He stepped out of the shadows, and she fell into his arms. "John! I'm so glad to see you!"
"Sara, are you all right?"
She nodded, her head tucked into his shoulder. His arms tightened around her, and she couldn't suppress a cry as her sore breast was crushed against his chest.
He let go of her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said, trying not to cry. The emotions she'd denied all week were right on the surface, threatening to break free.
"I'm going to go home now," Carlos said.
She'd forgotten about him. "Carlos, thank you," she managed.
''My pleasure. See you later."
They heard a motorcycle start then hum away. "Come on," John said. "Let's get out of here."
"There's no place else to talk."
"I mean, let's leave the abbey. My car's by the gate. I'll bring you back later."
She knew that if she left with him, he'd see her in brighter light. The sweater, though bulky, was low-cut and he'd spot the bruises near her neck. But he already knows. He arrested Esther Roth. ''Okay."
"Have you eaten?"
&
nbsp; ''Not lately," she said. He put his arm around her waist and she moved away. "I don't want the girls to see us," she told him. The truth was, it hurt too much.
In the police car, tie put on his seatbelt and started the engine. He glanced at her. ''Better buckle up."
''Oh, sure." She tried to smile as she pulled the belt across her chest with one hand and held it away from her body with the other.
''What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"You know."
"No, I don't. Tell me."
"Your department arrested Esther Roth."
"What? Who's Esther Roth?"
"The P.E. teacher." She stared at him. "You didn't arrest her?"
"Sara, I haven't arrested anyone from St. Gertrude's and neither have my deputies. Who told you I did?"
"Richard. The sisters. They told me."
''They lied. What was I supposed to have arrested her for?"
Tears overflowed, spilling hotly down her cheeks. ''Let's go," she said, her voice shaking. "Let's get the hell out of here."
He looked at her a long moment, then nodded and started driving. She couldn't stop the silent tears, and they didn't speak again until they were safely on Apple Hill Road. "We'll go to my house, okay?"
"I don't want Mark to see me like this." She wished she'd taken a Valium; she felt like a sniveling idiot.
"He's having dinner at the Parkers'. They won't bring him home before nine o'clock."
"Okay. Your house."
They soon pulled into his driveway and she couldn't even bring herself to open the door and get out. Intellectually, she knew the shock was coming back; she felt the chill on her body, the numbness behind the tears as John opened the door and helped her out, then escorted her into the house.
"Come on," he urged. "Sit down." He put her on the couch, then brought a box of Kleenex and set it on the coffee table.
"Thanks." She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. "I feel so stupid. I'm acting like a baby."
"You're acting like someone who's undergone some kind of trauma."
Laughter bubbled up from under the tears. "Trauma?" She heard her voice, the incipient hysteria within it, but couldn't help herself. "Trauma? I guess you could call it that." She put her hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter.
"What did Esther Roth do to you?"
"Nothing!" She spat the word. "They said she did it. They even said she hit on Lenore Tynan. The woman's a horrible creature, but she didn't do it."
"Sara," he said, gently turning her toward him. "Tell me."
She saw his expression change as he caught sight of the bruises at the edge of her sweater. "Did someone beat you up?"
"Oh, God." She couldn't hold back the hysteria any longer. "Oh, God. No, John, no one beat me up." She laughed uncontrollably.
"Sara! Get hold of yourself!"
He tried to take her hands, but she yanked them away. Everything the pills had dulled was rushing back and she was feeling emotions she should have experienced a week ago, not now, not in front of John. Hurt and anger filled her. Outrage.
"What happened, Sara? I can't help you if you don't tell me." His eyes pleaded with her.
"Tell you?" she growled, jumping to her feet. She was out of control now, and she didn't care. "Hell, no, I'll show you!"
She turned away and yanked the sweater over her bead, then turned back to face him. "Here's what happened! I was raped."
He was on his feet in an instant, his eyes wide, jaw open. "Sara, my God! Who did this to you? Why didn't you come to me?" He stared at the bite on her breast, then looked into her eyes, searching.
"It wasn't a who, it was a what. A ghost raped me. A ghost. What do you think I should do, give you a description of something that had no face, no form? How could I report that? It's ridiculous."
''You could have talked to me- you know that."
Her anger transformed into sadness as she looked at him. ''I couldn't talk to you. I passed out and woke up in the infirmary, and I've been taking Valium ever since. I was about to pop another one when Carlos called me. You don't have any, do you?"
"No, and you don't need them. You've got me now."
She bit back tears.
"Who examined you? Dashwood?"
''Who else? Fortunately, I was unconscious, but he said there wasn't any sign of semen, and that probably Esther Roth and her dildos attacked me."
"You need to see a real doctor."
"The hell I do. I'm fine."
''The bite looks infected." He moved closer and put his hand near the breast, but didn't touch it. "I can feel the heat an inch away. Let me call Dr. Cutter. Human bites are very dangerous."
"You're not hearing me, John. This isn't a human bite. It's a ghost bite."
John placed his hands on her upper arms, carefully avoiding the bruises. ''We both know about their ability to fog the mind. They've probably made you think the rapist was a ghost so that you couldn't identify him."
Frustration and sadness nearly overwhelmed her. "No, John. I don't remember what made me faint- that's foggy, as you say, like it is for you with your brother. I remember I was going to Kelly's room- I was going to take her and leave- and then, there's just the haze. But l remember every detail of the rape. Every detail."
He nodded slowly. "I believe you," he said, though she could hear the uncertainty in his voice. He made a half-assed attempt at a smile. "The bottom line is, I can't bring in the bastard who did this to you because I can't handcuff him." His words broke the tension and she put her arms out to him, the shock and hysteria flowing away as wrenching sobs shook her entire body. He held her as if she were made of eggshells and let her soak his shirt with her tears. She had no idea how long they stood there like that, but finally the sobs lessened and with that came release. ''Thank you," she whispered. She felt drained and purified and she knew she loved him. ''Thank you."
He kissed her chastely on the forehead. "You're welcome." He bent and picked up her sweater, then led her to the couch. "Would you like me to draw you a hot bath?" he asked, as he handed her the sweater.
"Yes, I'd like that very much." The thought of relaxing in a tub made her smile. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed bathing at leisure, without fear. She heard water running, and when he returned he was carrying a plush navy robe. He handed it to her. "If you need me, just call. I'll be right here."
''Thanks." She took the robe and walked down the hall to the bathroom. The tub was modem, slightly oversized, with bubble jets frothing the water. Heaven. She undressed and stepped in, easing down into the water.
As the warm bubbling water massaged her sore muscles, she sighed and relaxed for the first time in a long while. She was safe here, she thought, and it was a wonderful feeling. No Lucy, no Richard, no ghosts.
But could they find her here? She touched her neck, realizing she hadn't had Minerva's charm since the attack. Had she been wearing it that night? She tried to remember, and thought perhaps she'd left it on the night table. She hadn't seen it since. It's silly, anyway. She shivered despite the warmth of the bath.
"John?" she called.
Instantly she heard footsteps coming up the hall. "Yes?" he called from outside the door.
"Please come in," she said, slipping down into the water to hide her nudity.
He slowly opened the door and walked in, his eyes averted. "Do you need something?"
"You. Sit down. Keep me company, please?"
He looked at her face, carefully keeping his gaze above her neck as he sat on the broad edge of the tub. "My pleasure."
"You're a knight," she told him.
''What?"
''A white knight, rescuing me from the castle, remaining chivalrous at all times. I feel so safe with you."
"I'm not sure that's a compliment."
"Oh, it is." She brought her hand out of the water and took his, kissed the back of it. ''It most definitely is." Butterflies flew into her throat and she swallowed them back down. ''Would you care to join me?"
He d
idn't answer for a long time. "Yes, I would. But we should wait until you're not so sore, don't you think?"
Sara nodded, giving him a disappointed look.
"Would you like me to wash your back instead?"
''Yes." She picked up the round sponge and the bar of soap, put the two together, and rubbed, building up a lather. ''Here you are."
He look flustered, then stood up. "I didn't do the laundry," he said sheepishly. "I have to wear this shirt again tomorrow."
"Take it off." She smiled.
He grinned. ''If you can, I can." A slight blush on his face, he unbuttoned the tan uniform shirt, undid the buttons at his wrists. He turned as he took it off, and she admired the broad shoulders and the muscles in his back.
"You must work out," she said, as he hung the shirt over a hook on the door.
"A little," he said, "but not like I should." He turned toward her and she liked what she saw: a flat stomach, moderately developed pecs, and muscles in his upper arms that were impressive but decidedly not of the gaudy Stallone variety. His chest was bare except for a modest thatch of reddish-brown hair that trailed down his abdomen and disappeared beneath his belt buckle. She felt passions stirring within her and was surprised and pleased. She'd thought that after her experience last week, she'd never want sex again. She wanted it very badly but wondered if it was a reaction to all the stress she'd experienced
He sat behind her and rubbed the sponge in lazy circles over her back, then set it aside and used his fingers on the back of her neck and spine, pressing gently but firmly against the stiff muscles, never once hitting a bruise.
Finally, his fingers pushed over the front of her shoulders. ''That's wonderful," she told him.
He moved around to face her, used the sponge to soap one of her arms, then the other. Then he massaged each one in turn until all the stiffness had left her. She moved up higher in the tub so that her breasts bobbed at the surface, then she saw his expression and remembered the wound. She dropped lower in the water.
He picked up the sponge. "How about a leg?"
She lifted one, enjoyed the friction of the sponge as he soaped her feet and legs, stopping just above the knee. Then he began the slow, steady massage, spending ages on her foot before kneading her calf muscles. Again, he stopped at her knee, even when she lifted her leg farther out of the water. He moved to the other foot instead.
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