by Eva Charles
My leg is tethered to the foot of the massive altar, but my hands are freed. I watch my fingers wiggle slowly. They seem to belong to someone else.
My hands have not been free since—since I was taken captive. But I’m not elated, as I would expect to be. It’s as though my emotions—my reactions—have been muted.
Virginia and I follow Jesus’s commands carefully. We prepare the altar with fresh cloths and add three long leather straps, which are hidden underneath.
“You will be strapped to the altar tomorrow, while I anoint you with my seed.” My brain is slogging. The thoughts are disconnected and floating in slow motion.
Father Jesse sits on the high-backed, cushioned seat reserved for priests during Mass. There is a basin of water and a Purificator—the white linen cloth used to wipe the chalice, near his feet. “Kneel before your Lord and Master, Magdalene.”
I kneel immediately. “Remove my shoes, and wash my feet.” My hands move to do as he asks. But it’s as though they are disconnected from the rest of my body. “Now dry them.”
When I’m through, I sit back, still on my knees. “Bring Magdalene the nard, Gigi.”
She gingerly places the alabaster jar with the perfumed oil into my hands. “You will anoint my fingers,” he says. “For tomorrow, I will use these fingers in sacrifice. I will probe your body and satisfy myself with your flesh. It is my reward before I die for mankind. You love your Lord, don’t you, Magdalene?”
“Yes,” I murmur.
Jesus smiles. “Now my feet,” he instructs. “Then wipe them with your hair, as written in the scripture.”
It wasn’t Mary Magdalene, Jesus. It was Mary of Bethany who wiped your feet with her hair. Don’t you remember? I want to remind him, but I don’t. Instead, I rub the earthy oil into his feet and lower my head to wipe away the excess with a handful of my hair.
“Get the hell away from her, you animal,” a familiar voice booms from the nave.
While I’m still on my knees, Jesus stands so abruptly, I fall back.
“How did you get in here?” Jesus demands.
The man approaches. I know him. But I’m not sure. “Get away from her,” he says in an outraged voice, “or I’ll kill you on the altar where you pray in blasphemy.”
“Magdalene,” Jesus says calmly, holding me in front of him. “The devil has come to wrest you from your Savior.”
“Her name is Kate,” the devil says.
Kate. Her name is Kate. Why is that so familiar?
I freeze in place. Kate. My name is Kate. Smith. Is he really here, or am I dreaming? How would he know where to find me? My name is Kate. I step away from the priest. The man steps closer. He looks like Smith. I hug myself. But what if he is the devil? “No! Get away!” I shout at him, hurrying back to Jesus. The big man stops.
“You are a saint, Magdalene,” Jesus murmurs. “He is the devil. Stay with Jesus. I’ll protect you.”
“Kate,” the man says gently. “I talked to Fiona this morning, she needs you in Boston.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Jesus says. “The devil is full of trickery.”
The big man is getting closer, and Jesus is stepping back from me.
“Kate,” he says, handing his gun to me. “You can save yourself.”
I snatch the gun from him with a trembling hand and take several steps away from them both. I wave the gun between them. Jesus and the devil.
“Give me the gun,” Jesus says. “So I can protect you from the devil, Magdalene.”
“I trust you, Kate,” the devil says.
“Gigi, go get the gun from Magdalene.” She doesn’t move. “Go,” he says harshly.” She begins to walk toward me, but in just three steps she falls to the ground with a thud, screaming and gripping her ankle. It’s bleeding.
It’s as though she’s been shot. But I didn’t hear anything, and I don’t see anyone. I’m the only person with a gun. It’s the devil’s trickery.
“He’s going to hurt you, Magdalene. Just like he hurt Gigi. They’ve come for me. I’m not ready to go. My work on Earth isn’t done. Don’t let them take me. Shoot him. Shoot the devil.”
I turn toward the devil. “It’s going to be okay, Kate. I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
In a heartbeat—I swivel, cock the gun, and take the shot. The boom reverberates throughout the church. The recoil takes me to my knees, and instantly, Smith is behind me, stripping the gun from my trembling hands. We watch the priest writhe, and gurgle his last breath on Earth.
“You killed him,” Virginia shrieks, draping her body over his. “You murdered Christ.”
I collapse into Smith’s arms.
48
Smith
Delilah drags me out of Kate’s room when the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner arrives to collect evidence for the rape kit. “If she wants you to know what happened,” Delilah says, “she’ll tell you. In her time.”
“She can’t be alone in there.”
“I’ll stay with her until Fiona gets here. We can call Gabby, if she prefers, or if you think it would be better. It’s her story to tell, Smith. You don’t get to learn the details by overhearing them. Not if you ever expect to be the man in her life.”
“Fine,” I snap. “Go. But give me your weapon. It was fired.”
“I didn’t take a single shot,” she says. “Although I considered shooting you when you gave her your gun.”
I ignore the last remark. “Who shot Virginia?”
“I’m not sure. It came from up top. I didn’t detect any movement. But I couldn’t leave my position. You gave a delirious woman your weapon. What the fuck, Smith?”
“You never saw anyone?” I ask.
“No. I went right over there when that bastard excuse for a priest was laying on the ground. But whoever took the shot was long gone. I checked with Josh. He didn’t come into the building until later. The FBI showed up not long after. That team was assembled quickly, maybe someone came inside before the rest got there and didn’t want to be caught violating protocol.”
I nod. “Maybe. Go be with Kate.”
“I’ll take good care of her. No one’s going to hurt her without getting through me.”
Not a soul leaves Kate’s room for two hours, except for the nurse in search of a warm blanket. It’s Charleston, at the end of July. The only explanation for a warm blanket is—the fuck if I know. The nurse assures me she’s holding up well. But that’s all she’s willing to say.
Soldiers are good at waiting. That’s mostly what we do. But I’m climbing the walls right now. Blaming myself at every turn. I knew there was something wrong with that priest. I knew it from the first moment I laid eyes on him with Kate. But I let it happen. I glance at the door hoping Delilah’s nurturing skills are cutting it—and wonder if I should call Gabby. But I decide against it.
There’s someone else who might be better to help Kate. Someone who has had decades of experience comforting young women who lost everything.
“Smith,” a groggy voice says when she answers the phone. I didn’t even give the late hour a second thought. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Sorry to call at this hour and scare you.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“A friend of mine was captured and held hostage for almost a week. We’re at the ER now. She’s got friends, but her mother died when she was a baby. It seems that if a woman ever needed her mother, it would be now. I’m wondering if you can come to Charleston. She could use your help.”
“How is she?”
“Physically she appears to be okay. But—a week in captivity is a long time.”
“She must be a very special friend.”
“Yeah. But I managed to be one of the bad guys in this mess.”
“When do you want me?”
“Give us a couple of days. I’m sorry, again, for waking you up.”
“I’m glad you did. Sometimes a sincere promise to do better,” she says softly, “with some real effort behind
it, goes a long way to mending fences. Especially when it’s accompanied by a big man groveling.”
Although I can’t picture it, I suspect my father has done a fair share of groveling over the years. “I’m not sure this is salvageable.”
Before the first light peeks over the horizon, Gabby and JD are at the hospital, along with Lucinda and all my people. Fiona is here, too. JD had his plane waiting in Boston so we could get her here as soon as we had Kate.
Her father refused to come. With all his law enforcement connections, he never lifted a finger to find Kate. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, and drag his sorry ass here, but he’s still drunk and cursing his daughter. He’s on my list of people to deal with later.
The FBI and the Charleston police questioned me extensively, wanting to know how Kate got my gun. They stopped when I vowed to take out a billboard and sue their asses for every dead woman buried on the church property.
I never use my father’s connections—not for myself. Never. But I remind every one of those bastards that he was head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and there will be hell to pay for every sonofabitch who knew something that might have stopped the carnage. That pretty much shut them all the fuck up, especially the police.
By the time I’m allowed to see Kate, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to be discharged. She’s dressed in clothes that don’t match, but they’re hers. I am overwhelmed with emotion. I don’t remember ever feeling this way. We almost got there too late. But somehow—somehow—she managed to survive a week. Physically, anyway.
“Hi,” I say, gently, taking a seat next to her on the bed. “Someone brought you clothes.”
“Josh. Delilah sent him over to my house. Thank you for rescuing me,” she says so softly, it’s almost a whisper.
“You rescued yourself.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, Kate. You’re done apologizing to me—to your family—to the entire damn world. But I have plenty of apologizing to do. Not now—but when you’re up to hearing it. I have a lot to say.”
“Why did you give me your gun? I could have killed you. I haven’t stopped thinking about it the entire time I’ve been here.”
“I wanted you to know that we’re a team. That I trust you. And I wanted you to know you could save yourself.”
“What if I had killed you? I was drugged. I didn’t know for sure if you were real, or part of a dream, or a delusion, or—I could have never lived with myself.”
“I didn’t think about the last part—at all. Maybe that was wrong. I just wanted you to know—”
The door opens and a doctor comes in. I get up and offer to step outside. Not because I want to, but because Delilah is right. This is Kate’s story to tell, when she’s ready.
“Stay,” she says. “Please.” Stay. Such a small word, but it fills me with hope.
“You’re dehydrated,” the doctor says, “but the fluids we gave you will help. Your skin already looks better. Just as the preliminary bloodwork showed, you had drugs in your system when you arrived. I expect you were also given things that we can no longer detect.” My chest is closing in and I want to go find that priest and kill him again.
“The CAT scan’s negative,” he continues. “If you don’t have someplace safe to stay tonight, I can admit you. Offer’s still open. Otherwise, you’re good to go. Follow up with a primary care doctor in a couple days—we found you one, and I would highly recommend mental health services. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’d like to go home,” she says. “I have a friend staying with me for a few days, but thank you.”
“You bet. I’m going to finish up the paperwork, and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
When the doctor leaves, I sit back down next to her on the bed. “Can I hold your hand?” I ask.
She looks at me with gut-wrenching sadness, and nods. I cradle her hand gently in mine. I want to squeeze, but I don’t. “We’re not sure if there was anyone else involved. It’s not safe for you and Fiona to be at your house until we finish putting the pieces together.”
“King,” she says. “It sounds far-fetched. But the priest called Virginia ‘Gigi.’ Do you remember what Judge Sorlin said about Gigi?”
I nod. “They’ve questioned her. Petey is King’s son. He had sex with her when she was underage. There was some kind of botched abortion attempt, and the baby was born prematurely. Sorlin was a member of St. Magdalene’s at the time. The priest took her in, and she’s been there ever since.”
“Father Jesse has only been there for ten years.”
“Priest before him who retired. He wasn’t a psychopath, just an asshole. Creighton had some trouble in the seminary, and in his first parish. They thought putting him at St. Maggie’s—a dying parish, would keep him out of trouble. He kept King’s secret.”
“I’m so numb and exhausted,” Kate says, hanging her head. “I don’t have the energy to summon any anger, but I’m sure I’ll get there.”
“Everything in time.”
She gazes up at me. “Did they kill Fenny?”
I suck in a breath. “Yes, according to Virginia. There are so many layers. Some of which are still being unearthed. We don’t have to do it all today.”
She sighs, taking back her hand and placing it on her lap. “I’m not up to any more right now.”
“I want you and Fiona to stay at my place. I’ll stay next door at the security office. There are beds there—we’re set up for overnights.”
“I don’t think I should go back to Sweetgrass.”
I ignore that comment. “Gabby wants you to stay in the main house. It’s definitely more comfortable, but I thought you might like some space.”
She twists her fingers nervously.
“I can set you up, and Fiona if she wants, upstairs at my place. Or she can take one of the bedrooms downstairs.” Even though I mean every word, I grapple with the next part. “You don’t need to be in my bed tonight, or tomorrow, or ever, if that’s not what you want. The invitation to stay at my place isn’t contingent on anything.”
She’s quiet, struggling with her thoughts. “I’ll stay upstairs with Fi,” she says after a little while. “We’re used to sharing a room. You don’t mind staying downstairs?” There’s a knock on the door, and Fiona pokes her head in.
“Just checking,” she says, coming into the room. Kate smiles at her. It’s a weak little smile, but it’s promising. Apparently, she hasn’t said much to Fiona about what happened, but just having her around is comforting for Kate. I can see it.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” I say to Kate. “Do you need anything before I go?” She shakes her head.
“Smith,” Kate calls. I turn. The concern in her voice seeps into my chest. “Please don’t go too far.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”
49
Kate
Fiona went back to Boston this morning. We clung to each other and cried when she left.
I’m sure she was disappointed I didn’t confide in her more while she was here. I couldn’t find the words. She didn’t push, and Smith hasn’t, either. Although we really haven’t had much time alone, and we won’t for another few days because his parents are visiting.
I hear his mother in the kitchen making dinner. I should go down and see if she needs help, but I’d rather hide up here.
Neither of Smith’s parents have said a word to me, but I’m sure they know all about what happened. It’s awkward. Although, it’s not just that. My relationships with older women have always been strained, with well-meaning souls trying to make up for the mothering I missed, or maybe they were just trying to curry favor with my dad. Either way, I’ve learned to shy away from them. Lucinda is one of the few exceptions. She’s content with friendship.
As the clattering of pots becomes louder and more frequent, I decide staying up here isn’t an option.
“Hi,” I say when I get to kitchen. �
�Do you need some help?”
“I’d love some help.” She glances at me with a quick smile before going back to pounding chicken cutlets. “Thank you for letting me use your kitchen. I’m not much of a woman of leisure, and as pretty as it is here, I like to be useful. I was planning on breaded cutlets and a big salad for supper. It’ll be light enough to have blueberry crisp for dessert.”
“It’s not my kitchen, but I know it pretty well. Do you have everything you need?”
“I went to the grocery store this morning but forgot the ice cream. On purpose.” She waggles her brows at me. Her eyes are light brown with gold. Same as Smith’s. “Figured it would give my husband something to do this afternoon. He likes being idle less than I do.”
She washes her hands and brings me a bag of green beans and a colander. “You sit right there and keep me company.”
I start to trim the beans with a paring knife from the counter and notice her side-eying me. “Kate, don’t feel you need to trim those beans fancy because I’m here.”
Fancy? “This is how I normally trim them. Is there another way?”
She takes a bean and snaps off the top. “They’re not as pretty or even this way, but they taste the same, and there’s something satisfying about snapping the damn things.”
She goes back to mixing breadcrumbs and spices, and I give her way a try. She’s right. There is something satisfying about snapping the heads off.
“I’m sorry you’re staying at the main house. I’m sure you would have liked to stay here with Smith.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she says in a stage whisper, with the gleam of fun all over her face. “It’s so much nicer over there. It’s like staying at an exquisite bed and breakfast run by people you adore. And it gives me a chance to cuddle with Gracie. My children are scattered everywhere, and we don’t like to visit too often. They’re entitled to their own lives, but I miss my granddaughters when I don’t see them. They grow so fast. Do you have siblings?”