Magdalene

by Moriah Jovan

  Rude.

  A calculating smile spread across his face. “You’re a mercenary bitch, Sister Hollander,” he said conversationally. “I like that about you.”

  “Don’t you want to make sure your daughter’s okay first?”

  “She’ll be fine,” he said dismissively. “She knows better than not to be.” He rocked back on one heel and swept me with a glance, head to toe and back again. “You’re beautiful even when you’re filthy and in rags. Maybe more so. Right now, my car. How much?”

  “Four million dollars.”

  He scoffed. “I can’t come up with that kind of cash right now and you know it. Is that what Mitch is paying you? He’s no cover boy and can’t be so good you’d fuck him for free.”

  I arose calmly, approached him until I was nose to nose with him. I pressed close against him, slid my hand up the inside of his thigh. His breath caught, but still managed to look smug. I cupped his balls through his pants, caressed his growing (and impressive) erection. Stroked him until his nostrils flared and his breathing quickened. “I,” I whispered, “would pay Mitch for the privilege of fucking him,” and squeezed.

  Hard.

  He yelped and fell to the floor, curled up and clutching his manparts.

  A nurse rushed to his aid, but he couldn’t speak and I doubted he would admit to having had five long fingernails dug deep enough into his cock and balls to sever the nerves. (I hoped.) An orderly helped the nurse get Sitkaris into a wheelchair and looked at me askance.

  I examined my blood-red manicure.

  Cruel.

  “Cassie,” Trevor croaked. I turned and realized he’d seen and heard the whole thing. I felt my face flush and I opened my mouth to try to repair the trust I’d just broken, but he gave me a crooked grin and slurred, “You’re awesome.”

  I stared at him for a split second, then chuckled. “And you’re on drugs. Go back to sleep.”

  After an enthusiastic application of soap and hot water to my talons, I left Trevor’s room to keep tabs on Sitkaris, who was lying in his own cube, growing lethargic on painkillers. I smirked every time I strolled by. He could do nothing but weakly snarl until he, too, went to sleep. The nurses watched me suspiciously. They were pretty sure I’d done something to the man, but didn’t know what and couldn’t prove it, hadn’t heard any accusations of assault from the wounded, and didn’t know whether to call the cops or not.

  At three, Sheldon appeared and made a stir as he strode through the emergency room with the confidence of a man used to protecting people. Of course, Sheldon, at six-six, pitch black, bald, and gorgeous, tended to make a stir everywhere he went.

  I slipped into Hayleigh’s room and helped her back into her clothes.

  “Hayleigh,” I whispered. “The man who’s taking you to Gordon, my ex-husband— He’s my bodyguard.” That confused her, but it didn’t matter. “His name is Sheldon. He’s saved my life twice. Trust him the way you would trust Bishop Hollander, all right?”

  She nodded frantically, uncertain but willing to take the risk.

  I distracted the nurses by peeking in on Sitkaris while Sheldon helped her limp out of the common area, his big body shielding her from detection. She stumbled, but Sheldon caught her, and once they were out of the nurses’ sight, he swept her up into his massive arms and moved swiftly to get her out.

  At three-thirty, the radiologist came to deliver the news that Trevor’s CT was normal and he was cleared to go home. It was four by the time I hit the Walgreen’s drive-thru pharmacy, got him home, and tucked into bed.

  He was almost asleep when his head hit the pillow. I pulled his covers up to his chin. Brought him a glass of water. Sat on the side of the bed and smoothed his hair back a little, wondering what it would have been like to raise a boy child. I didn’t dare hum, as he was in enough pain already.

  My throat clogged up when, just before he dropped off to sleep, he sighed,

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  * * * * *

  Oil and Tears

  It seemed to Mitch that his life was crumbling around his ears, but it would’ve whether he’d married Cassandra or not. He would rather it happen when he had someone strong to lean on, who was as close as the edge of his bed, than handle it alone, his only real support a thousand miles away.

  He parked next to Cassandra’s car and headed into the house, up the stairs, opened Trevor’s door. There he was, his precious son, splayed out on his stomach, snoring. He entered the room and touched the boy’s face.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, unable to say more for fear he would break down.

  He left the door open when he exited the room, a long-discarded practice from when he and Mina were hypersensitive to every snuff and sniffle their children made during the night. He didn’t need to; he simply found it reassuring to do so. He jogged down the hall to his own room to find a beautiful woman clad only in a pair of black lace panties walking around his bedroom turning off lamps, humming to herself.

  “How is he? What’d the doctor say? What happened?”

  She looked at him, surprised. “He’s in bed, sleeping.”

  “I know. I checked there first.”

  “You didn’t have to come home early. I have everything under control.”

  Mitch stared at her, then away. Now that most of his fears were put to rest, he had to shift gears, to think, to remember, to capture the oddity of what she’d said.

  She was still talking. “...uised ribs, concussion. The doctor said he’d be fine, but he needs to stay home and rest for a couple of days. If I had my way, it’d be a week or more.” Mitch was fading in and out of the conversation as he tried to process her incredulous story. “...can deal with that motherfucker or I can, but it needs to be done.” He knew that, but he couldn’t think. “...set it all up to get to you, but he’s simply gone too far. Made that poor girl do such a thing— Trevor was doing seventy. If he hadn’t been so aware, so prepared for what she might do, both those kids would’ve been killed.”

  A hand clamped around Mitch’s chest. He’d declared war on Greg by confronting him about his part in the Jep Industries embezzlement scheme, and Greg was perfectly happy to engage him in that war, as he’d expected.

  What Mitch hadn’t expected was that Greg would go so far as to put lives in danger to win. In a way, he could see why he might risk Trevor, but Hayleigh too? Was he that evil?

  Mitch! Listen to me. What he’s doing to the sisters in this ward—

  Louise, who would do that? What’s in it for him?

  He enjoys it, Mitch. That’s what I’m telling you.

  You say he engages in these elaborate schemes, but there’s very little payoff for all that work. What is it? What’s he getting out of it?

  It’s just for his personal amusement, to set it all in motion and watch it play out when everybody’s at each other’s throats. Then they all go to him to vent and get comfort, and he just plays them a little more.

  I just don’t get how that’s enough motivation. People need more than that.

  Or maybe they didn’t.

  But Greg had twenty-five years’ worth of motivation to go after Mitch, starting with his preempted marriage to Mina, then losing his job at Jep Industries along with all the stolen cash, and his inability to get past Mitch on his climb up the church ladder.

  More power with which to play his games.

  The damage Greg could do as a bishop...

  Mitch shuddered.

  “Mitch?”

  He focused on her fully then. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Trevor said he called the mill and left a message. Obviously you got it because you’re here. But I was home. He knew that and called me. I saw no reason to wait until someone could pull you off the line when I could deal with it.” She studied him, her head cocked to one side. “Are you angry with me?”

  He shook his head to clear it. “I don’t—know. I’m not used to this. Somebody just...taking care of something without me, without some kin
d of authorization or...check writing. I thought— I went to the hospital as soon as I got the message and... He was just...gone. They said his mother took him home, but— Uh, his mother is— And then I find out he might have—”

  “He has a concussion. That’s all. He’ll be fine.”

  “But I— I wasn’t there for him. Again.”

  Cassandra sighed and tugged at the sleeve of his coverall, and he went to the bed when she nudged him that direction. He sat, disoriented, feeling as if he had left a task incomplete and couldn’t figure out where he’d stopped. “Talk to me,” she whispered, sitting close beside him, rubbing his arm though he was still wearing his greasy clothes.

  “I, uh...” He slumped over, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging down. He had no context for this. “I don’t know what— I wasn’t there for my kid. But somebody was. Immediately. It’s...strange. I’m not mad. I’m— I don’t know what I am. I’m going to have to learn to get used to this. It’s easy when I— When you and I are—”

  “Fighting?”

  He nodded. “I can...think. It’s focused. Right now, everything’s so scattered and I’m— Confused.”

  She said nothing, but continued to caress his arm, not in a sensual manner, but caring, her touch sympathetic. He turned his head to see her hand, slim, with long narrow fingers, so soft and feminine.

  Strong.

  She belonged here, but she planned to leave in a year, so what did it mean? What would he do without her?

  But he sighed and said nothing because that was the deal. Nagging her to stay would be cheating and it would only drive her away sooner.

  “I’ve never had this,” he said again, low, afraid of how vulnerable it made him feel, how weak.

  “I know,” she whispered. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  He looked back at her sweet yet sophisticated face, as guileless as always. No wonder half her clients had had fantasies of marriage. “You...understand?”

  “Oh, yes. All those years with Gordon. Fighting him. Ignoring my girls’ demands. Trying to instill some discipline and failing. Fending off Rivington, who wanted me, felt entitled to me. Then I met Nigel.” She pursed her lips in thought. “If he had come to me and said, ‘I want to help you,’ I would’ve refused. But he came to me and said, ‘I want your husband, and this is what you will do so I can have him.’ It was easy for me to take his help.

  “But, say, my assistant. Susan. She insists on doing things for me and it’s...weird, this girl who just wants to do little things for me. Not because I sign her paycheck or because it’s part of her job, but it’s— It’s like she sees some weakness in me and she wants to take care of me. I hate it, but I let her because it makes her happy.

  “And Sheldon. He knows my favorite music and makes sure it’s playing. Knows what I read and makes sure I have the newspapers I need in the car. Knows how I take my coffee, knows what gossip to pass along to me, what information and disinformation to spread and to whom. He always asks me if there’s anything more he can do for me, any errands I might need doing that he can. I asked him once to get my dry cleaning and now he coordinates with my housekeeper to take it in and pick it up. None of that is part of his job. It...embarrasses me how he goes out of his way to take care of me, when he doesn’t have to. All he has to do is keep me alive. Watch over my children.”

  Mitch nodded slowly.

  “You serve everyone, Mitch. Who serves you?”

  She wasn’t asking about his family, immediate or adopted.

  You haven’t had a minute to yourself in twenty years.

  Mina’s voice.

  “No one,” he murmured.

  “There’s power in that, isn’t there?”

  Yes, there was.

  “And to be served is to have power taken from you, to allow it to be taken from you.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “I would like—” She cleared her throat. “Would you think about not working the Sunday shift at the mill anymore?”

  “Why?” But he didn’t have to ask. Not really.

  “Just a step in that direction, Mitch. Not a big one.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. If I’d been home tonight, I could’ve—”

  “We both would’ve. But there was no need. You came home because Trevor was more important than whatever you hope to accomplish by casting ingots once a week.”

  “I like casting ingots,” he muttered, knowing he sounded like a sullen little boy, and grew annoyed when she became amused at him for it.

  “Let me take care of you,” she murmured. “That’s why I married you, after all.”

  He stared at her, wondering if she realized what she’d just said, but she arose and headed to the bathroom. “Get undressed,” she tossed over her shoulder, then he heard the sound of water running into the oversized tub.

  Mitch looked down at the floor, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he looked at the clock. Four-thirty. His son had a concussion. Shouldn’t he be more worried?

  But no. Someone with strength and resources had taken the initiative to tend Trevor for him, had handled the situation beginning to end, had made sure his son was safely home and drugged and tucked into bed—

  Someone used to taking charge and getting things done: fast, rude, possibly cruel.

  Exhaustion enveloped him suddenly, and he might have collapsed back on the bed if she hadn’t caught him and pulled him to his feet. He heard nothing but the soft rasp of a zipper, the rustle of fabric, as he let her undress him.

  Finally he stood nude in the middle of his bedroom with his nude wife. Tired. Dizzy. He simply followed when she led him into the candlelit bathroom and obeyed when she pointed to the bathtub. He hissed at the heat of the water under all those bubbles, but climbed in anyway. He would’ve relaxed, but her hand on his back stopped him and she climbed in behind him.

  She pulled him back against her body until he was up to his chin in hot water and bubbles, his head resting between her jaw and shoulder. Her hands caressed his stubbled chin and cheeks, kneaded his shoulders, swept down his chest and massaged there, then up again to his throat and neck. She massaged his temples with her thumbs.

  “Sleep,” she whispered.

  So he did.

  * * * * *

  High Voltage

  April 13, 2011

  Wednesday, Mitch dropped into his desk chair to deal with the morning’s most pressing business so he could lock himself in his lab and forget the world for a while.

  “Hollander!” Tracey said as soon as he picked up. “I was wondering when Cassie would let you in on her nefarious plots.”

  Cassandra had done what Mitch couldn’t have done without opening himself and the Church up to legal repercussions. She hadn’t said a word about it to give him plausible deniability, but she hadn’t counted on Trevor, who’d spilled the beans simply by asking where she’d stashed the Sitkaris women.

  But Cassandra had stayed frustratingly mum and blown Mitch a teasing kiss before ducking into the plane that would take her to Alabama. Mitch waited until she was in the air before heading to Louise’s house to demand an explanation.

  “She didn’t,” Mitch grumbled.

  “Cassie’s a brilliantly sneaky bitch. Payback’s hell, ain’t it?”

  Mitch grunted. “Tracey, you know I have to be kept in the loop, and she’s made it very clear she’s not going to tell me anything.”

  Nigel chuckled. “The ladies are fine. Gordon’s pampering them shamelessly, and I have a shrink friend who owes me a favor or six, so she’s been by to check on them, talk to them a little bit. Did you call one of your compatriots? We’ve never had a random Mormon bishop knock on our door before.”

  Thank heavens. “That was the first thing I did after Cassandra’s co-conspirators ’fessed up,” Mitch said. “He and his leadership need to know the situation in case Sitkaris figures out where they are and shows up to make trouble.”

  “He sat and talked with them a good long while. Th
anked us profusely. Gave us his phone number and said he’d be by Sunday to check on them, bring them your communion—what is it?”

  “Sacrament. We don’t want them to show up at church in case Sitkaris has friends there, which is entirely possible.”

  “How do you know this bishop isn’t one of them?”

  Mitch felt a humorless smile curl his mouth. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Ah. Okay. What’s the news there?”

  “Not a peep out of him. It makes me nervous.”

  Tracey made some vague noise of understanding. “Now, when the girl and her mom are a little more stable, you may want to think about sending them to Kansas City. Get them out of the vicinity and around people who don’t mind getting blood on their hands.”

  It was a good idea, but he’d have to make sure Amelia was amenable to it. Whisking two traumatized women away in the middle of the night to get them out of danger was one thing. Orchestrating their lives was an entirely different thing.

  “In the meantime, Sheldon’s been hanging around getting fat and happy on Gordon’s cooking, and your big bouncer friend—Luis? from Cubax?—popped up and said you’d asked him to coordinate schedules.”

  “Yup,” Mitch said tightly.

  Tracey paused. “Rest easy, pal,” he murmured. “We got your back.”

  Mitch cracked a genuine smile for the first time in days. “Thank you.”

  He sat for a long time after he’d hung up, his elbows on his desk, his fingers steepled against his mouth.

  The situation with the Sitkaris family wouldn’t have him this wound up if Greg weren’t so quiet about it. It’d been three days since Cassandra had sent Hayleigh to New York, and two since Prissy and Louise had packed Amelia up and driven her there themselves.

  Last night at church had been quiet, routine. He’d expected Greg to show up and blow Mitch’s office door open, but that hadn’t happened. Neither had he filed an insurance claim against Trevor. That bothered him the most. Then again, Mitch should’ve known better than to expect (hope for) a frontal attack, even in the form of standard operating procedure for a car accident. Greg didn’t work that way.