The man started the car. The engine roared to life with a dangerous and romantic growl that new cars didn’t possess. Rachel glanced sideways to catch his profile. If he noticed, he gave no indication as he backed the car out of its spot, palming the enormous steel steering wheel.
“I’m famished,” he said. But he said nothing else as he drove down the hill through the fog. He did not glance at her, but minded the foggy road. He did not try to steal a peek at her or make small talk. It was a relief. Old guys always asked about her studies and immediately launched into how much they loved and knew about the subjects. Lame.
The silence was exactly what Rachel always wished for when in circumstances with a man of his age, on a bus, or train or plane, a doctor’s waiting room. When a man mistook a random glance from her as an invitation to speak to her, speak at her, and continue to speak at her even when she answered his pestering questions with a flat yes or no and refused to meet his eye again, turned back to her cell phone or her book, all her mind screamed was: Stop. I am not sleeping with you because you ask me my name and where I’m from, if I have any siblings. Just. Leave me the fuck alone.
Which is just what he was doing.
Leaving her the fuck alone.
He was beyond that. It was as if he knew that’s exactly what she wanted. Needed. Knew women enough, respected them enough, to know they wanted respect, not come-ons, and if they did want a come-on, there would be no mistake about it.
He tapped an index finger on the steering wheel and looked out the windshield as Rachel took in the old car’s metal ashtray, the buttons to the AM/FM radio jutting out like black teeth. The massive green metal glove box door in front of her knees.
The wipers crept across the windshield.
He piloted the car surgically around a nasty curve.
In town, he parked across the street from the Wild Panther. The rain had picked up, a deluge. He grabbed an umbrella from the backseat and strode around and opened the passenger door, holding the umbrella for Rachel. As they dashed across the street, they were nearly struck by an SUV as silver as the fog itself, its horn blaring before it sped off. It gave Rachel a start, and the man, too. He escorted her into the inn, the slight pressure of his hand at her lower back.
Inside, Rachel laughed and shook the rain from her hair and went to the bar to place an order for her burger. The man followed, ordered a scotch, sipped it.
“What’s your name, anyway?” Rachel said.
“What would you want with my name?”
“So I don’t have to keep thinking of you as The Stranger.”
“Maybe I prefer you think of me as The Stranger. Much more mysterious.” He held out his hand. “Bryant Hale.”
Rachel shook his hand. It was smooth and cool.
“And you’re Rachel,” he said.
Rachel pulled her hand away, out of his, her heart knocking hard in her chest. How the hell did he know her name?
“The girl at the coffee shop called out your name, when your coffee was ready,” he said, and smiled.
“Right,” Rachel said. “Of course.”
The bartender brought Rachel’s boxed burger to her. Rachel could barely lift it, she was so weak from fear. No one at the coffee shop had called out her name. Her friend had said. Your daily Red Eye.
Before Rachel could get her money from her backpack, the man broke out his wallet and handed the bartender a $100 bill. He seemed to want Rachel to see the money. He turned back to her. “Sure you have to go to that lecture?” he said.
“I need to go,” Rachel said, furious and disappointed with herself for engaging this stranger. You imbecile, she thought. All she wanted now was to see Felix, get home as soon as possible after her lecture and get into bed and let her sweet boyfriend hold her.
As Rachel started away, the stranger’s fingers grazed her fingers. She yanked her hand away and headed straight for the closest exit at the side of the building.
Just before she headed back into the fog, she turned quickly and, with the stranger working at his scotch in profile to her, snapped a quick photo of him on her phone.
Ten minutes later, she was still shaking when she boarded the shuttle and sent her father a text with the stranger’s photo. U know him?
She wanted to cry. The heft of the gun in her backpack felt like an anvil. Like the one in her stomach. What had she been thinking? Buying a gun? Taking lessons? Planning to meet Preacher? Engaging with this stranger? Trusting him? She could barely trust herself, her own thoughts and instincts. She’d see if she could sell the gun back to the shop owner. Then she’d tear up her parents’ murder file. Tear it up and burn it and never look at it again and try to scrub her mind of what she’d read and seen. Had she lost her mind? It felt like it. No. Not quite. Worse. She’d lost herself. No more. She wanted no part of it anymore. Any of it. Especially the gun. It was of no use in her backpack. It was a danger.
Rachel hurried to the Gihon River Inn, shivering as she climbed the stairs. She ducked into her room, where she took the gun from her backpack and hid it under the bed, sighing with relief to be rid of it. It was of no use unless she had it in her hands at all times. If that freak stranger came anywhere near her, she’d scream her god damned head off and kick him in the balls.
She texted Felix: Headed 2 lect B home str8 away Promise XXX
Rachel was still shivering as the shuttle climbed the hill. Not from being damp or cold. She shivered wondering, How did he know my name?
78
Preacher sat at the table. His blood roared in his head as he waited for the knock on the door, his eye on the pink stationery, the cursive with its loops and curls as feminine as a woman’s curves or the scent rising from the paper itself. He read the letter, again and again.
Smiled.
In his darkest fantasies he’d never imagined one of them coming to him. Reaching out to him in such a manner. Believing she could understand him. That she knew him. Could save him. Yet, in prison, he had received letters from many of them. Dozens. Women wanting to help him. To be with him.
Save him.
He stared at the book on the table. The Bible.
Words.
Words words words.
Yet more.
Salvation.
Freedom.
He’d read the words. Learned them, recited them, behaved in the way they instructed, the good ways.
There were many terrible ways in this book, but these passages, he believed, showed how weak some of us were, how we had to fight to resist the terrible ways. He did not have to fight. He was stronger than that. He had always been stronger than that.
How easy it had been. They all thought he was a fraud. That he was not truly saved. They saw him as the beast, the monster, saw him as they saw fit. Even when he did them favors and told them the truth, gave it to them straight, like he had on the phone with Rath, they did not want to accept the truth. The unforgiving bastards. He smiled. He had to keep his old temper in check. Be better than that. Be godly.
Before, he’d thought to be godly was to use his power, like the God of old, vengeful and spiteful and merciless, wielding a power of violence and ruin.
He’d learned.
He was not sorry for his past sins. He was saved. Forgiven.
Real power was to resist those urges, rise above them. Power was the truth.
The truth.
The book was the truth. Yet people did not want the truth. Franklin Rath did not want the truth about the type of woman his sister had been. Franklin Rath did not want to hear the truth about who his daughter was, and he did not want his daughter to know the truth.
But she would. And soon. Preacher had given Rath enough time to tell his daughter the truth, and Rath had failed.
Now, Preacher would tell her. How good that would feel. To lay it bare. How freeing. To see what the truth did to them both.
It was up to them to face it. Accept it. Learn from it. Or let it crush them. If Franklin Rath and his daughter were destroye
d by the truth, it proved only that they were weak. He could not help that. Even if they wanted to kill the messenger.
Preacher hoped Rachel would eventually accept the truth. He dreamed of it. Dreamed she would come to him as his daughter one day.
As soon as this visit was over, he would go visit Rachel, go visit his blood child, and tell her who she was. Who he was.
The knock he’d waited for came at his door.
He stood, his pants down around his ankles, erection straining. He needed to gain control of his terrible self. Demonstrate real power.
He tucked himself in and pulled up his pants, left his shirt out, to drape and conceal himself, and went to answer the door to receive his Love.
Her eyes shone when she looked up at him, shone just to be in his presence. She did not look how he’d imagined, and he had to fight to hide his disappointment. He’d hoped she’d be more . . . tempting. Harder to resist. She was his first test.
“I’ve looked forward to this more than I can say,” she said, her breath shallow, wanting.
She would do. For his first test. But first he needed to find out if anyone knew she was here. Anyone knew she’d been in contact with him, had planned to come here. He’d not heard a car pull up. Had she walked all this way? Or been dropped off? Knowing they were alone would make it harder for him to resist. Test him as God would have him tested.
“Come in,” he said.
He let her go up the stairs in front of him. Her long raincoat hid her body, and he clenched his teeth against the temptation of his Terrible Self. There was time for all that if that is how it went. If he failed this first test. Proved weaker than he thought. He might need to be tested many times. There was time to get it right.
He had all the time in the world.
But he needed to be safe, make sure the sorry thing had not told anyone. If she had, the test would be too easy, and he would need to let her go. A loss, but a small one. There were others.
“Through here,” he said at the top of the stairs, pointing at the kitchen’s swinging doors straight ahead.
She went through the doors.
He felt sick at his living conditions, three chairs that did not match one another, and a table that did not match any of the chairs. He had swept the place, though, washed his few dirty dishes, and put a tablecloth on the table. A paper tablecloth, but still, a tablecloth.
All for show—she’d not be around long, either way—but still the disgust was there.
“I apologize for the state of things.”
“The Lord does not judge us by material worth,” she said.
He pulled the chair out for her and stood behind her, breathed in the scent of her hair. His erection strained, and she had not even taken off her coat yet. They had not even begun.
“Take off your coat, be comfortable.”
“I am,” she said. “Very.” She lowered her coat off her shoulders, draped it over the back of the chair as she looked back at him, her eyes on him, unable to hide the lust even as she pretended she was here to do the Lord’s work. Let her pretend. Let them both pretend and play the game. Play their roles. Let the Lord test them.
His cock leaked.
She had to know what she was doing to him. How she was testing him. She knew. She knew. They all knew. He was not mistaken. Was she leaking, too? She had not come for the Lord.
Her breathing was deep and unsteady, her chest rising and falling beneath her dark blue dress.
She sat.
He sat opposite her.
She gave him a shy smile, but her eyes were hot with wickedness. He knew the look. Knew her mind was hot, too, with nastiness. He knew.
This was going to be good. Still, he needed to know if anyone knew she was here, if she’d told anyone about him, about this. He’d hate to have to let her go and not be truly tested. But how could he ask her and not scare her off?
She gazed at him, drank him in, his face. Her breathing grew heavier. It was not his imagination.
She unbuttoned the button at the throat of her dress.
“I came alone,” she said as if she knew his thoughts. “I came alone in the trust of the Lord. And to prove my trust to you.”
He could smell her sweat. It disgusted him even as it aroused him. This was good. A real test. The truth would come from it, and that was all he could ask. Was he man or beast?
“No one knows I’m here,” she said. “Only the Lord. And the Lord will keep me safe. I know you will not harm me. You are not a beast. You are a man. A real man.”
His pant leg grew damp. His erection fierce.
He could smell her sex from across the table.
“You know I want to be good. I do not want to sin. And I know you are good. You do not want to sin,” she said. “But.” She swallowed, unbuttoned the next button of her dress. A hint of dark red revealed. Her bra. Or an underthing. “It’s hard. Isn’t it? Isn’t it hard?”
Yes, yes it was hard. Hard. Painful. Torture.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. It’s hard.”
“Hard to be good. Hard not to sin. Hard to control yourself.”
He nodded, swallowed. The slut. Coming here all alone. Teasing him knowing who he was and what he’d done. She was sick. Filthy. And she was his. All his. She deserved whatever she got. The tease. He’d make it slow. Make up for lost time. All that lost time. He’d eat her fucking alive.
“I want to do things to you. With you,” she said, her voice shaking, a whisper, trembling. “Things I know I should not do. I must not do. Awful. Sinful acts against my nature. But with you . . . I cannot help myself. I cannot stop myself.”
“Don’t stop yourself,” he growled.
Yes, he’d eat her fucking alive. He’d tear her hot living flesh with his teeth. He’d go further than he’d ever gone before; he’d cut her and slice her and then he’d chop her into fucking pieces and bathe in the pieces in his tub. He’d dump her remains in the woods to feed the coyotes. Grind up her bones.
She stood.
He flinched, not expecting this.
She was a brave one.
Dumb as mud. But brave.
She walked over to him.
Stood before him, undid a third button.
The scarlet showing.
For a moment he thought—
She touched him.
His shoulder.
Softly.
He recoiled.
No one touched him like that.
Ever.
No one.
Who did she think she was?
Who did she think was in charge here?
“Shh,” she said. “I know what you need. I know what the beast in you needs to do to me.” She whispered as if she couldn’t breathe. “But I need to get what I need first.”
She came around behind him, fingers trailing the flesh under his chin, his throat, to the back of his neck, his skin hot where her fingers touched him, as if lit on fire. She pressed her thumbs deep into the flesh and muscle back of his neck.
Fuck. It was good. She was good. She was evil.
He’d not been touched like this in—forever.
Never had he been touched like this in his life.
Never had he known this.
He was going to—
She bit his neck.
He felt a hot quick pain.
No.
She bit again.
No.
He wasn’t being bit.
He was being stabbed.
79
“That guy’s sort of a creep, isn’t he?” the woman sitting next to Rachel said as they filed out of the lecture hall.
The woman wrapped a blue wool headscarf around her tousled hair and tucked its end down into her coat. She wore no makeup but still had a striking, powerful presence.
“Some people might think the material is creepy.” Rachel laughed. “But the lecturer himself seemed dull. I was disappointed.”
“No.” The woman laughed, too, and touched Rachel’s arm. “Not the lect
urer. I agree. Zzzzzz. Boring. I meant the man from earlier, the one pestering you. The old creep.”
Rachel didn’t know if the woman was talking about the stranger or how she’d know about him.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I was in the SUV that honked at you, the one you crossed in front of, before you and that creep went into the hotel together.”
“That was you.”
“Tah dah.” The woman smiled. “Though sorry I startled you earlier. The fog. I didn’t see you at first.”
“Why do you call him a creep?”
“He is, isn’t he?”
Rachel paused. “How do you know?”
“Oh boy. Let me tell you.”
They exited with the throng to stand under the overhang of the lecture hall. The rain was blowing sideways, in sheets. The woman snapped her umbrella open. Rachel pulled up her wet coat collar.
“Share my umbrella to your car,” the woman said, hoisting the umbrella over them both. “I’ll tell you all about that bastard.”
“I take the shuttle.”
“Please. That’s insane. You’ll float away before you reach the shuttle. It’s the least I can do for nearly running you down earlier. We make a mad dash on three.”
Rachel looked out at the rain.
“Ready,” the woman said. “One. Two. Three.”
They were soaked by the time they got to the SUV. But at least the vehicle was comfortable. As the woman waited for the windshield to defog, Rachel’s seat warmed right up. It sure beat the shuttle.
“So. Why’s the guy a creep?” Rachel said.
The woman started the car and backed out, drove out of the lot toward Campus Hill. “Let me guess. He played Mr. Remote. Mr. Aloof. So much so you started to find it, if not attractive, mysterious, alluring.”
“I guess, yeah, how—”
“And you kept bumping into him at odd times in odd places. Turn around in the coffee shop and, poof, what do you know. There’s Mr. Aloof. Again. And surprise, he’s still being aloof. Pretending he doesn’t recognize you. Pretending he doesn’t see you. Pretending you don’t exist. The Great Pretender. Except. It never struck you he was pretending, because he’s so good at it and you’re—”
Names of Dead Girls, The Page 27