by Sandra Brown
"You've demonstrated your faith and loyalty, Brother Dale. Far beyond my expectations."
Dale Gordon, speaking to Brother Gabriel by phone from his room, shivered with delight. His throat was tight with emotion. "Thank you."
"And you're absolutely sure that Gillian Lloyd has been properly sanctified?"
Brother Gabriel had a real way with words. The reporters on Dallas TV were calling his mission "an act of seemingly unprovoked violence." Gillian Lloyd's sanctification had made all the local midday news shows. They showed video of her house with policemen going in and out. They showed the gurney bearing her body being wheeled down the front walkway toward the waiting ambulance. It had torn a bright yellow blossom off one of the chrysanthemum plants at her front door when it was pushed past.
The reporter standing on Gillian's street with her house in the background had termed his mission a vicious homicide. But the reporter didn't understand. Few would understand that it was necessary for Gillian Lloyd to be ki... sanctified.
"Yes, Brother Gabriel, she was sanctified."
"Did she suffer?"
"No. I was swift and sure, as you instructed, as you promised I would be when the time came. I felt the strength and sense of purpose you said I would feel."
"You've done well, my son."
Dale Gordon blushed hotly with pride. No one had ever called him son before. His father had disappeared before he was born. Mother had called him many things, horrible things. Never son.
"Give me an account, Brother Dale. I want to share it with the disciples here in the Temple."
The Temple! Brother Gabriel was going to praise him to the disciples who'd actually earned the right to live with him in the Temple!
The words tumbled from him. Never had he spoken so eloquently. With the same precision with which he'd carried out his mission, he briefed Brother Gabriel on it. He enhanced the basic facts with small details so that Brother Gabriel would realize how attentive he'd been to his task.
"To the best of your knowledge, you left no clues?" "No, Brother Gabriel."
He didn't mention touching the drinking glass in the kitchen. It wouldn't matter anyway because he'd never been fingerprinted by police. Even if they found fingerprints, they couldn't be traced to him.
Nor did he mention writing on the walls. That had been a last-minute inspiration, one he'd thought of all by himself. Mother had always used ugly words. They were very effective to make a person feel low and worthless and deserving of harsh punishment.
He reasoned that Gillian Lloyd deserved to be hurt and insulted with ugly words. After all, she had tempted him beyond his ability to resist. It was her fault he had committed the sinful act of mortifying his flesh. With her so near, lying naked on soft sheets, he couldn't help himself from touching his nasty thing and rubbing it until it got hard. He didn't tell Brother Gabriel about that, either.
"Excellent, excellent." Brother Gabriel's melodic voice was like a soothing hand stroking his head. "Because you've done so well, I'm giving you another assignment."
If Dale Gordon hadn't already been lying in his bed, cradling the knife stained with Gillian Lloyd's blood, he probably would have collapsed from joyful disbelief. "Anything for you and the Program, Brother Gabriel."
"That's the kind of enthusiasm I wish all the disciples had." Dale Gordon's pale body turned pink with a flush of pleasure. "What do you want me to do for you?"
"Not for me," Brother Gabriel said with his characteristic humility. "For the Program."
"Certainly."
"I caution you to think about it carefully before you accept, Brother Dale. It's a very difficult mission this time. Harder to carry out than the sanctifying of Gillian Lloyd."
Pulsing with a rare sense of power and self-confidence, Dale Gordon boasted, "I can do it, Brother Gabriel. Whatever it is. Give me a mission, and I'll do it. Gladly!"
CHAPTER 9
"Can I get you anything, Melina?"
"No, thank you."
Jem looked at her more closely. "Are you tired of everyone asking you that?"
"A little," she admitted with a small smile "A soft drink isn't going to help. But I appreciate your vigilance and concern for my well-being."
"No one knows what to say or do."
"I understand. Because I don't know what to say or do, either. I'm numb."
They'd arrived shortly before the appointed time and had been instructed to wait for Lawson in a small, cramped room adjacent to the Capers—Crimes Against Persons—Unit of the DPD. Groups of desks were clustered in the large room, but none of the personnel could claim an individual office.
Lawson had arranged for this room to be available to them. The furniture was uncomfortable, the atmosphere claustrophobic, but at least the room afforded some privacy. Already she was weary of people watching her with the covert, careful scrutiny given to someone whose stability is unpredictable.
Jem's eyes were red from weeping, and there were other signs of his distress. Ordinarily his ego and self-image were firmly intact. His air of superiority often put people off. This morning, however, he looked haggard and unsure. In deference to the situation, his conceit was taking a day off.
He reached for her hand and chafed it between his own. "Your hands are cold. Just like Gillian's. Her hands were never warm. I teased her about it all the time."
She swallowed a sob, refusing to let herself fall apart in such a dismal place. "I can't imagine my life without her, Jem."
"I can't, either."
"But she was in your life for only one year. She was with me from the moment the cell divided. She was like a part of me. She was a part of me."
"I can imagine how you feel."
Actually he couldn't, but she wasn't going to conduct a contest to see whose grief was more severe.
"Did you notify her office?" he asked.
"Unfortunately, they had already heard it on the news." "Jeez, that's tough."
"They were devastated, but eager to help. Some of them even beat me back to the house."
Before Lawson left to contact Christopher Hart, he had asked Lewis and Caltrane to drive her home. Jem had offered to take her and stay with her, but she really wished to be alone, so she had accepted a ride in the squad car.
Much to her dismay, however, word of the murder had spread quickly and already so many friends, neighbors, and associates had arrived to offer condolences that there was barely space for Caltrane to park at the curb.
The group of mourners followed her inside, where they congregated in the living room. One of the realtors said, "I don't know if you know this, Melina. Yesterday Gillian secured the biggest deal she'd ever negotiated."
"Actually, she told me about it over lunch. For an ad agency, wasn't it?"
The young woman nodded. "We toasted her with cheap champagne before she left the office yesterday afternoon. She seemed so happy. On top of the world. Invincible. Little did she know..." Unable to finish, she collapsed in tears and had to be comforted by a coworker.
The refrain became familiar. Gillian Lloyd was highly respected and well liked. At least it seemed so, judging by the number of people who either came by or called to pay their respects and inquire about funeral arrangements.
Funeral arrangements. How could she even think about it?
Their parents had had the foresight to make those arrangements as part of their wills. Gillian and Melina had chided them for being so obsessed with death, and teased that such a preoccupation was macabre. But their parents' attention to detail had turned out to be a blessing. They had died within three months of one another, their father's coronary following their mother's pancreatic cancer. In each case, all that was required of the twins was some necessary paperwork. They hadn't been burdened with having to make deadline decisions while grieving.
Now the thought of planning her sister's funeral service was daunting. "I can't make any definite plans until the coroner releases the ... her body," she told the people who inquired. "I don't know when
that will be. And I suppose Jem should have some input."
Gillian's friends and associates seemed as surprised as she to learn of the unannounced engagement, although it was inappropriate to gossip about that in the same discussion with funeral plans. They registered astonishment, but tactfully refrained from fishing for information.
Mainly, it was impressed upon her that, although she was Gillian's twin and her suffering would be incomparable, she wouldn't be suffering alone. She had a support group she could rely on.
"If you need me, Melina, call."
"Melina, please call if you need anything."
"I'm here for you. You know I lost my sister in a car accident last year. The suddenness of it is so cruel. Please call if you want to talk."
For all her friends' good intentions, she didn't know how anyone could possibly make her feel better. She had made them feel better by assigning them small tasks so they would feel useful. While coffee was being brewed and the telephone was being manned, she excused herself to shower and dress. Moving toward the bedroom, she heard them speaking in soft voices about how well she was doing, how admirably she was holding up.
Bullshit. On the outside she might appear to be a citadel of emotional fortitude, but on the inside she was crumbling. She turned the shower on full force. Then, with the hard spray to cover her moans of anguish, she let herself go and sobbed until her chest was sore from the contractions. In the tile enclosure where no one could hear her, she wept bitterly for her loss and for her complicity in the tragedy.
Temporarily spent, she had stepped from the shower and made a stab at applying makeup, which was futile. She cried it off almost immediately. She dressed mechanically. Each small task was performed by rote. She moved as though obeying the instructions of an invisible hypnotist, automatically doing what she knew needed to be done.
She couldn't fathom having to make even the simplest decision, or reasoning through a problem, or going about the most routine daily business. Would she ever be able to lay her head on a pillow and simply fall asleep, or eat a meal for the pleasure of tasting it, or attend a party, or exercise, or laugh? Would life ever hold any enjoyment for her again?
Not as long as her twin's death went un-avenged.
Now, seated in this stuffy room in police headquarters, she silently repeated to herself the vow she had made aloud to her reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier: Her sister's death would be avenged, no matter the cost to herself, even to her last breath.
Hatred for the killer smoldered like a nugget of coal inside her chest. She'd never been a vengeful person. She could honestly say she'd never hated anyone. Disliked, yes. Sometimes intensely. But she'd never hated another person on this level. She had never wanted to watch another human being stop breathing. The enmity she felt for this faceless, unnamed murderer was so fiercely felt it frightened her.
"Did you have a client today?"
Jem's question roused her from her malevolent thoughts. "Luckily, no."
"And you've got people to take over for you?"
"Fortunately. I notified them that I'll probably take several weeks off. They're checking our schedule and making adjustments. It'll be all right. The business won't suffer."
Jem bounced the tips of his fingers together in agitation.
"Melina, I can't believe ..."
"What?"
"I can't believe that Gillian pulled a stunt like that. That she impersonated you and went in your place last night. It doesn't sound like her to be that reckless and impulsive. It sounds like—"
"Like something I would do," she said, finishing for him. "I didn't mean it in a critical sense."
"It's all right. I blame myself. If I had it to do over again, I never would have suggested it."
"Had Gillian ever done it before?"
"I told you. When we were kids."
"But she'd never taken over a client for you?"
"No, that was a first."
"Why last night?"
"No particular reason, Jem. It was a lark, an idea that occurred to me spontaneously over lunch."
But he wouldn't take her explanation at face value. "Was it so she could meet that Christopher Hart character? Did Gillian want to meet a celebrity? An astronaut? What?"
"It wasn't him. It was—" "Never mind," he interrupted. "I don't want to talk about it."
"It was a silly, childish notion for which I take full responsibility."
"It might have been your idea, but Gillian was responsible for her own actions. She could have said no."
Her temper snapped. "Don't be angry with her! At the time, it seemed like a harmless prank. How could she know it would get her killed?" She yanked her hand from his and stood up. "Excuse me."
"Now I've upset you."
"I'm not upset, I'm pissed."
"Melina—"
"Her death is just a little too fresh for me to listen to criticism of her, Jem."
Chastened, he ran his fingers through his hair. "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. I know you blame yourself. I shouldn't have touched that nerve."
"I've got to get out of here."
"Where are you going? You can't leave. We were told to wait here for Lawson."
"I'm not leaving the building. I'm only going to the ladies' room."
"I'll walk with you."
"No," she said, waving him back into his chair. "Stay, in case Lawson comes. Tell him I'll be right back."
"You're sure you're all right?"
"I'm all right."
But of course she wasn't anywhere near all right. In the bathroom she bent at the waist and propped her elbows on the rim of the basin, rubbing her forehead and trying to massage away a blasting headache that had developed after her hard crying jag in the shower.
Several minutes later a policewoman came in. "Ms. Lloyd?" She straightened and turned around.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but Detective Lawson wanted you to know that he's here. They're waiting. Whenever you're ready."
"I'm on my way."
"Are you okay?"
She nodded. "Thank you."
"Take an extra few minutes if you need them."
"I'm fine." An extra few minutes weren't going to make any difference. Smiling feebly and falsely, she gathered her handbag and left. At the water fountain, she paused to shake two analgesic tablets from a tin she located in the bottom of her handbag, then leaned over the fountain and washed them down.
When she turned around, she came face-to-face with Christopher Hart. He was standing only a few feet away from her. "Hi."
"Hello."
His half smile was private and sympathetic. He moved toward her but was halted midstride by a man who approached with a writing tablet. "Colonel Hart? Corporal Crow." They shook hands. "Heard you were coming in today. I'm part Indian, too. Choctaw Could I please get your autograph for my kid? He's nine. A real space nut. What I mean is, he's interested in it and all."
"I'll catch you later, okay, Corporal? Before I leave. Right now, I'm late for a meeting with Detective Lawson."
"Oh, sure thing. Sorry to... you know, interrupt."
"No problem. I'll be happy to sign an autograph for your son after our meeting."
The man shuffled off, embarrassed.
Chief turned back to her and shrugged with chagrin. "I'm sorry about that. Sometimes they pick the wrong time."
Then he covered the distance between them in two wide steps and came so close, she could smell fresh autumn air and sunshine on his black leather jacket. He had carried the outdoors in with him. Before she realized what he was about to do, he brushed his thumb across her chin.
Reflexively, she yanked her head back.
"You dribbled some," he said, showing her the drop of water on the pad of his thumb. He rubbed it dry and dropped his hand to his side. "Melina, I..." He looked away from her for several seconds, then looked back at her. "Jesus, I don't know what to say to you. I'm sorry about your sister."
"Thank you." She would have ended it t
here, but he continued in a low, stirring voice.
"After last night, would you have ever guessed that our second meeting would take place in a police station?" He shook his head in perplexity. "I don't understand what's going on here. I don't know why you sent this detective looking for me, or how I fit in. Until I do, I'm making no judgments. But regardless of all that, I want you to know that I'm so sorry for what happened to Gillian. It's horrible." He raised his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry as hell about it. That's all I know to say."
Despite her best efforts not to cry, tears filled her eyes and spilled over.
"God, I'm sorry." Placing his arms around her, he pulled her flush against him and pressed his lips into her hair.
The contact with him caused two distinct involuntary reactions: She caught her breath in a quiet gasp. And her posture stiffened.
But he seemed not to notice either, because, with a suggested intimacy, he tenderly kissed her temple. "This must be awful for you. I hate it, hate it for you."
"Anytime the two of you are ready."
They broke apart and turned. Lawson was there, looking square and rumpled. And curious.
Chief followed Melina into the room, which was already crowded with Lawson; Alan Birchman, who was the attorney NASA had retained to accompany him; and another man, who was introduced to him as Jem Hennings, Gillian Lloyd's fiancé.
Chief murmured his regrets. Hennings acknowledged them with a cool, curt nod that might have puzzled Chief had he not been busy wondering why Melina was acting like a stranger.
Although, under the circumstances, she was entitled to behave any damn way she pleased. She had lost a loved one to a violent and bloody crime. He wouldn't have blamed her if she beat the walls with her fists or tore out her hair. The shocking news she had received this morning justified any mode of behavior. So if her reaction was to withdraw and remain aloof, he could accept it.
On the other hand, he wanted to convey his sympathy. He wanted her to know how sincerely sorry he was for what had happened. But she seemed determined not to look him in the eye. She hadn't since they'd entered the room.
Lawson was giving Birchman the details the investigators had compiled so far. The lawyer, whom Chief had met only a few minutes earlier, was a distinguished-looking man with silver-rimmed eyeglasses, a three-thousand-dollar suit, and a port-wine-stain birthmark on the left side of his face that spilled down onto his neck. They'd barely had time to shake hands and exchange business cards in the lobby on the first floor before they had boarded the elevator.