by Debra Webb
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” His wife rubbed her hands together and grimaced.
The pain. He understood. She suffered so. Perhaps that was her punishment for failing to do her wifely duty.
“It’s necessary,” he insisted, forcing his faulty heart to dispel the selfish emotions.
Deborah shook her head. “The only necessary thing, Christopher, is for you to find a way to stop her. She’s going to keep digging until she finds something.” His wife’s worried gaze settled on his. “You know she won’t give up. Something has to be done.”
Her words were far too true, but he did not want to hear. Movement in his peripheral vision distracted him. He frowned, inclined his head to the right so that he could see past his wife. His niece hovered just beyond the doorway. “You should go back to bed, Tamara.” She was always lurking about like that. No matter that Christopher had attempted to cleanse her of her impurities...she would no doubt turn out to be a whore just like her mother.
Deborah twisted toward the girl. “Stop eavesdropping, child, and go back to bed.”
Tamara slinked off to the stairs. She had no one else in this world. Only him and Deborah. Christopher had taken a solemn oath to guide her in the Lord’s path. He could not fail in the task. That would only add to his mounting shortfalls.
If...things took a turn for the worse, what would Tamara do? What would Deborah do?
“That girl is into something,” Deborah charged. “I caught her sneaking back into the house at quarter of one this morning. That’s twice in as many weeks.”
Worry heaped heavy onto Christopher’s already burdened shoulders. “Was she with her friends?” Dear God, could his wife do nothing to help herself and her sister’s child?
Deborah untethered her long braid of hair in preparation for arranging the meticulous bun she always wore, her once nimble fingers struggling with the effort. “She won’t say. Apparently she thinks just because she’s eighteen now she doesn’t have to answer to me. I think she’s running with the Pope girl. You know that child is wild. You’re going to have to do something, Christopher.” Deborah arched an eyebrow. “About both those worries.”
What did she expect him to do?
He shook his head before dropping it in shame. “What else can I do?”
“I don’t know,” Deborah exclaimed, then paused and buried her emotions. “But you have to do something. I’ve done all I can to help you already. More than I should have,” she charged. “The rest is up to you.”
His wife turned sharply and padded out of the room.
She was right, of course.
Christopher closed his eyes and repeated the petition for forgiveness.
He was to blame.
So many had suffered already.
Surely God would not continue to punish those who were innocent.
What was he thinking?
The Old Testament was filled with far too many examples of exactly that for Christopher to dare doubt.
He pulled on his coat, picked up his keys, then reached into his pockets for his gloves but decided he did not deserve that comfort. His hands should be exposed to the harsh cold while he clasped them in prayer. His grievous errors warranted far worse.
Driving to the chapel, he viewed his village as if for the last time. His flock trusted him, depended upon him to ensure that God’s blessing showered upon them and their homes. And he had failed. His failure would shed a bad light on his Heavenly Father. An unforgivable sin.
By the time Christopher reached the rustic chapel tears had dampened his face. If only those salty fluids were acid. Perhaps the scars from the burns would ensure he never fell short of his faith again. Even that was not punishment enough. His eyes should be plucked from his head.
To blame his wife and his niece was the coward’s way out. Christopher was not a coward. Sin had confused him, twisted his mind. He was, after all, only human.
Emerging from his car, he made the cold, lonely journey toward the chapel.
He would pray long and hard, until his knees and hands stung from the cold and went numb.
He would kiss the icy stones where her blood had spilled.
To attain forgiveness, he would do anything his dear Lord required of him to stop this heinous chain of events.
He prayed that somehow his merciful Father would see fit to give him a second chance. Christopher would not fail again. He would be strong.
Pausing to catch his breath, he reached for the hand railing before ascending the steps.
He paid no heed to the snow and ice beneath his soles. If he fell, it would be nothing less than he deserved.
Pain would be a welcome punishment.
Punish me, Father, he implored, and give me peace.
The smell of death remained in the air.
The ache in his chest swelled, pressing against the weak organ there.
As his boot rested upon the final step, his eyes widened and his breath deserted him.
Pale flesh splattered with the deep crimson of blood. Letters scrawled in that same lethal hue. He drew back, lost his balance, and tumbled all the way to the ground.
The impact against the frozen ground forced a grunt from his hoarse throat.
“No, no, no, no!”
His wail echoed through the surrounding woods. Haunted his very soul.
Fresh, hot tears streamed from his sinful eyes. He scrambled onto his hands and knees, crawled to the steps. He dragged himself up each tread, his body trembling with denial, seizing with agony.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he reached the top once more and prayed fervently that his impious gaze had deceived him.
“Please, please,” he whimpered. “Please...no.”
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Terror apprehended his throat. His scream strangled him.
This was his doing. His punishment!
His sinful desires had brought this plague upon his neighbors.
Christopher covered his face with his hands and howled in misery.
It was him. It was him. It was him.
Yet his heart continued to beat...
...and hers did not.
Chapter 23
7:15 A.M.
A persistent vibration rattled her eardrums.
Sarah pulled the covers over her face.
Another buzz of hard plastic against harder wood.
She jerked the covers down and picked up her cell phone.
Conner.
The last person on earth, besides maybe her shrink, she wanted to talk to again in this lifetime.
At least before eight.
She dropped the phone and sat up.
If she had a cigarette she would smoke it.
Even after two years of nicotine abstinence.
That damned vibrating hum started up again.
She glared at the screen.
Conner.
If she didn’t answer he’d probably just show up at her room. Then she’d probably want to drag him into her bed.
He definitely didn’t need to show up here.
She pushed the hair out of her face and accepted the call. “Newton.”
“I’m waiting for you in the parking lot.”
The mere sound of his voice prompted an instant recap of last night’s lapse into temporary insanity.
“I’m not interested in breakfast, Conner. Call me in a couple of hours.”
“Sarah.”
She stilled. He rarely called her by her first name.
“We have to get down to the chief’s office.”
The silence that followed made her gut clench.
Then she knew. Oh, hell no.
“Alicia’s body was found this morning,” he said flatly, confirming the conjecture squeezing the air out of her nicotine-deprived lungs.
“I’ll be right down.”
Sarah slammed the phone back onto the table.
Fury detonated deep, deep in her belly.
“Son of a bitch!” She grabbed the
same jeans she’d had on yesterday. Tossed through the drawer for her hooded sweatshirt, dragged it over her head.
“Son of a bitch.” She tugged on socks and her Converses.
When she’d grabbed her phone and her bag she hit the door.
“Damn it all to hell.” She took the stairs two at a time.
She didn’t slow to see if the innkeeper’s daughter, Melody, might be at the registration desk. Later.
Barely out the door the wind hit her head-on, sending her body temperature plummeting.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. She’d forgotten her damned coat.
“Screw it.”
She hopped in the passenger seat of Conner’s Jeep. “Who found her?”
“Reverend Mahaney.”
What the...? His niece’s accusations echoed in Sarah’s ears. She started to demand the time of discovery when Conner asked, “Where’s your coat?”
“Forget about it. Let’s go.”
He hesitated.
“Let’s go, damn it!”
He held her gaze half a second then turned his attention to getting them the hell out of here and over to the chief’s office.
But in that ephemeral instant he looked directly into her eyes she saw the agony. As pissed off and upset as she was about this, he knew this girl, knew her family. He, like everyone else in Youngstown, was devastated. Sarah thought of Rachel Appleton...there were no words to describe how she must feel.
Sarah closed her eyes and banged her head against the headrest. This place wasn’t that big. How long could this go on before the cops identified the killer?
Forever.
Just like last time.
She thought of Rachel Appleton again and Sarah’s misery sharpened. She had to do something.
...I’m glad you’re here. Rachel Appleton had said that to Sarah...when everyone else wanted her to go.
Sarah’s jaw clenched. She would find the truth. For Alicia and her family. For Valerie and hers.
The parking lot at the Public Safety Office was packed with reporters and probably locals wanting to hear the facts. Conner parked up the street.
Sarah climbed out.
“Let’s go this way,” he suggested as he set a course leading between two buildings. “We’ll cut over to the next street and go around back.”
“Good idea.”
She hustled to keep up with his long strides. They made it to the rear entrance of the Public Safety Office without being spotted—an outright miracle.
The deputy posted at the door to ensure only authorized personnel entered greeted Conner then sent a disapproving glare at Sarah.
“She’s with me,” Conner said bluntly.
The deputy didn’t like it, that was clear, but he nodded and let them pass.
Though Sarah was thankful to have gotten inside without time-wasting complications, Conner’s automatic assumption that he had to take care of her grated. Like showing up to pick her up this morning. And asking about her coat.
A phone call would have sufficed. She could have driven here. Could have talked or bullied her way past the guard.
She would set Conner straight. Later.
Cops were rushing from office to office in the small police station. All six phone lines appeared to be ringing. Sarah glimpsed Karen Brighton and a couple other deputies she’d seen before and a lot of them she hadn’t. Reserve deputies, Sarah surmised. Not the first sign of a fed. She thought of running into Lex August and her gut clenched again.
Two city councilmen she recognized entered the conference room. She elbowed Conner and pointed in that direction. He headed that way.
Before they reached the door, the chief’s booming voice competed with the bustle. So did Mayor Patterson’s hushed cadence.
Conner let Sarah go in first. To say that the tension in the room upped about twenty notches would be an understatement. Six sets of eyes glared at her with the same disdain as the back entrance deputy’s. Those scornful gazes belonged to the chief, the mayor, and all four of the other village councilmen. This morning she was no longer a tolerated nuisance. She was an unwelcome intruder.
“Ms. Newton, this is a closed briefing,” Willard barked. “You’ll have to get your information at the next press conference just like the rest of the general public.”
“Chief,” Conner spoke up, “we—”
The mayor held up a hand. “Conner, we’ll talk later. Right now, Ms. Newton has to go.”
Conner looked from the chief to the rest, eyeing each in turn, before doing an about-face and walking out.
In the corridor Sarah stopped him. “You should stay. I can walk to the inn. It’s not that far.”
He glanced back at the door.
“You need to be in there,” she urged. She wanted to yell, Don’t be stupid! Get the story. Fill me in later. But she said none of that.
“You didn’t wear a coat.”
More of that whole protective-guy syndrome. “I’ll be fine.” She backed away a couple of steps. “Go before you miss something.”
He dug into his pocket and snagged his keys. “Take my Jeep.”
She shook her head. No more allowing him to do that thing he was doing right now. She was a big girl. She didn’t need some guy taking care of her. “Call me later.”
“You want my coat?” he called after her.
Sarah didn’t turn around.
This was way too intense.
She just kept going.
Outside she didn’t acknowledge the deputy on guard duty. He’d likely already gotten word not to let her back into the building and was feeling an ego rush at the idea that he’d been right to question her arrival.
Taking the same route she and Conner had used, she avoided the crowd of reporters in front of the Public Safety Office. She took a moment to get her bearings. Back to Main Street and then left. Follow it directly to the inn. She should have brought her car.
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
Taking off without her coat was even dumber.
Determined not to be cornered by roving reporters or any damned body else, she strolled down to the harbor and stuck with the small back streets and parking lots. If she stayed on that path she would avoid the traffic on Main as well.
The docked schooners groaned, shifting with the gentle undulation of the water. Sea gulls chatted in their high-pitched language, floated down close to the water and then soared up and away. The wind bit her skin through the sweatshirt. She pulled up her hood but it didn’t help much. Since her trip to the chapel the morning of her arrival her Converses hadn’t really dried out. Her new gloves were in her coat pocket—back in her room.
It was cold, damned cold.
Her cell phone vibrated once to let her know she had a voice mail. She checked the screen. Her shrink. Three missed calls from her already. Sarah hadn’t called her back as ordered. The doc wouldn’t be happy.
Definitely not in the mood for that.
“I told you the cops couldn’t catch the devil.”
Sarah spun toward the voice.
Matilda Calder leaned against the rock wall of the public restrooms, a half-smoked cigarette tucked between two fingers.
“You did.” Sarah walked toward her. “You heard about Alicia, I guess.”
The girl took a deep drag from her cigarette. Sarah watched with more interest than she cared to admit, even to herself.
“She was dead even before she disappeared.”
“Why do you say that?” Sarah waited while Matilda blew out a lungful of smoke.
“He picked her out way before she went missing. Just like he picked out Valerie.” She glanced toward the dock and a couple walking hand-in-hand. “They just don’t want to see it yet.”
“He being the devil? That’s what they don’t want to see?”
Matilda nodded. “He’s here.” She took a final drag and tossed the cigarette. “He’s always been here. They hold onto their old stories about maidens jumping from cliffs and ghost brides walking the shore, but th
ey pretend he doesn’t exist.”
“You’ve seen him?” Sarah tried not to put the girl off with her skepticism, but she needed her to be more specific. Was she talking about a person? Or an entity?
Matilda held Sarah’s gaze for a long moment as if contemplating how she wanted to answer that question, then she said, “I can’t point him out to you, if that’s what you’re asking. But I feel him.” Her eyes tapered as she studied Sarah’s. “Can’t you?”
Sarah’s defenses locked into place. “You must have your suspicions?” Keep the focus on her.
She stared at the cigarette still smoldering on the ground. “Sure. I got my suspicions.”
Anticipation lit in Sarah’s veins. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.” Don’t let her see the deception. This kid was good.
Matilda glanced around. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. No one would.”
Just say it, kid! “I’m not like the people here, Matilda,” Sarah urged. “You can trust me.” She resisted the need to move closer. Stay still. No sudden moves.
The girl’s lips tightened. “Rich people can get away with anything.” Her gaze bored straight into Sarah’s. “Even murder.”
Rich people? “Do you mean Pope? Jerald Pope?” He lived near the chapel. He was definitely rich. He had a daughter around the age of the victims. Had Valerie and Alicia stolen her glory at some point?
“Maybe.” Matilda ground out the cigarette and kicked the butt aside. “My mom says he’s a freak.”
“You know those are bad for you.” Sarah would have been remiss if she hadn’t said as much even as she suppressed the temptation to ask what that last statement meant.
The girl shrugged. “I’m eighteen. It’s not illegal in this state.”
Not the point, but. “I understand there was a break-in at your house the other day. Is your mom okay?”
Matilda moved her shoulders up and down with that massive dose of indifference only teenagers could dredge up. “We got nothing important for them to take. I’ve got all the good stuff hidden.”
“Good stuff?” Sarah felt for this girl. She had no one looking out for her. Sarah had bought her own big chunk of real estate in that lonely state.
“My grandmother’s spell and incantation books.” Matilda shrugged. “Stuff.”