Confession (12 page)

 

FOURTEEN

Friday, August 2, 6:00
P.M.

L
uke wasn't sure why he'd come. A phone call would've been more efficient, and he had no doubt Faith would do her best to persuade his brother to recant that damning confession without more prompting. Yet here he was, lounging on Faith's sectional, waiting for her to return from the kitchen with his beer. He tore his gaze away from the kitchen door, but his thoughts remained on Faith.

He pictured her smiling, leaning over to hand him a cold bottle. Her sleek red hair would fall loosely over her shoulders, and her collar would gape open . . . just enough for him to glimpse the tops of her lush breasts. He might even get a peek at a nipple. Their hands would brush. She'd look at him a moment too long before casting a glance around the room, then he'd touch her cheek, turn her face back to him, and drag her into his lap.

And that would spook her for damn sure.

He remembered their first meeting at the gallery. Faith had been standoffish. He'd worked hard and finally managed to put her at ease. Her smile had opened. Her posture had softened. The space between them had grown smaller and smaller until they were separated only by a vanishing layer of highly charged air. Then he'd reached out his hand to touch her, and just like that, she'd disappeared. So no. As much as he'd like to take her in his arms the moment she walked in the room, as much as he'd like to show her how good they could be together, he couldn't chance it.

He needed Faith to convince Dante to recant. Until then, he'd keep his hands off. But once she succeeded in that—­and she
had
to succeed or else there'd be no hope for his brother—­he intended to make good on his word.

When I see something I want, Faith, I don't apologize. I just go get it.

So who was he kidding? He knew exactly what he was doing sitting on Faith's couch. He dusted his hands together, got to his feet, and went to wait for her by the window. If she leaned over him, he'd wind up doing something he'd regret. Sensing her approach, he turned to face her.

“I only had a light. I hope that's okay.” Faith touched his shoulder, then handed off the beer.

She'd poured it for him into a frozen mug, and the frosted glass nearly froze his palm. Good. He could do with a little cooling off. From this distance, he could smell that fresh-­flower scent on her skin, and he willed her to back up a little.

Instead, she came closer.

“Light's perfect.” He licked ice off the rim of the mug, then took a slug. The beer burned his chest on the way down, and he sputtered out a cough.

Smooth, Luke. Real smooth.

He didn't care for small talk, so he jumped right in. “I know I've been a jerk up to now, Faith, but I promise I'll do better in the future.”

Her eyes opened a bit wider. “No worries. I turned your brother in to the police. It's only natural you'd be angry.”

“You did what you had to do.” He should've told her that from the get-­go. Instead, he'd blamed her, made her feel worse than she already did. “When I heard my brother had been arrested and accused of murder, I couldn't think straight. But like I said, I get it now, and I came to thank you for agreeing to talk with Dante. If anyone can make him see reason, get him to recant, it's you.” He took another sip of beer, slowly this time. “You seem to be the only person he actually trusts.”

“You're a good brother, Luke.”

He didn't deserve the admiring look she was giving him, but he definitely liked it. “I'm not perfect. Hard to believe, I know.”

“Oh, it's not hard at all.” Her tone was teasing. “I wasn't laboring under the impression you were anywhere close to perfect. But what you've done for your brother is admirable. Even for brothers raised together, it'd be difficult for one to give away half his inheritance to the other. But that's exactly what you're doing for a man you haven't seen in almost twenty years—­a man you barely know. Right now, the whole world is against Dante, but you're standing by him, and you won't let him turn you away no matter how hard he tries.”

“Dante doesn't know what's good for him. I barely trust him to choose his own breakfast, so no, I can't let him face a murder charge alone.”

“A lesser man would breathe a sigh of relief and wash his hands of the whole matter the moment his brother refused his help.”

He shook his head, uncertain if he should disillusion her. What if she heard him out and decided he was more toad than prince? On the flip side, if he won her heart—­and it seemed her heart might be the very thing he was after—­based on a lie, that would be worth nothing to him. He needed her to see the man he truly was, not the man she wanted him to be. “When I was a kid, I begged my father to send both Dante and his mother, Sylvia, away.”

Faith's body stiffened, and she quickly smoothed away a fleeting frown.

“I don't feel good about it, but it's true. When I was five, our housekeeper, Sylvia gave birth to Dante. Once it came to light that he was my father's son, the tension between my parents became unbearable. For nearly a decade after, if my father entered a room, my mother would walk out. I don't know how many times I caught her crying in secret. Then one day I had enough of seeing my mother cry, and I begged Dad to get rid of them. Sylvia and Dante lived in small guesthouse we called the casita. I thought if they left the ranch, things would go back to normal.”

“So your father sent them away?” Faith asked softly.

“Not that day, no. But later, a month or so maybe, my father came and told me Dante was leaving for good.”

“Only Dante? Not his mother, too?”

Saying this out loud was harder than he'd anticipated. “It was early morning.” He tried, but he couldn't keep his voice from cracking. “A policeman came to our house. He stood in the kitchen and talked with my father a long time. That afternoon, Dad explained what had happened—­Sylvia had died in an accident. She'd been drinking, and her car went over a railing on a mountain pass.”

Faith's eyes flickered up as if she were trying to remember something. “Dante told me his mother died in a car accident, but he never said anything about your father's sending him away that same day.” She shook her head slightly. “You'd think he'd have told his therapist something like that.”

“Maybe it's too hard for him to talk about. You hadn't been treating him very long.”

“Long enough for him to confess murder.”

“Long enough for him to give you a
false
confession to murder. The things he confessed to you are in his head, whereas this really happened. So it's not the same at all. Anyway, the point is I wanted Dante and Sylvia out of my life. Out of my
family.
And suddenly they were gone. My father sent Dante away that very same night. He wasn't even allowed to attend Sylvia's funeral.”

“I can hardly believe your father sent Dante away the same night his mother was killed.”

“Heartless bastard.” He jerked his hand, and beer sloshed over the side of the mug. “Even I knew that wasn't right, and I was just a selfish kid.”

Her sigh was heavy, and he wondered again if telling her the truth had been the right the thing to do. But he'd kept his family's secrets far too long. Besides, the more Faith knew about the family, the more likely it was she could help his brother. “So you see, I got my wish. I never wanted Sylvia to get hurt, but the result of her death was that I got everything I asked for. Suddenly, I was an only child, the center of my parents' world. My mom and dad stayed together. Without Sylvia and Dante around as a constant reminder of my father's infidelity, they were able to tolerate each other until I left for college. I got everything, and Dante got nothing. It was almost as if my father erased them. Like Dante and Sylvia never existed.”

“The fact that you resented Dante when you were a child, and for very understandable reasons, doesn't diminish what you're doing for him now.” Her expression hadn't altered during the entire conversation. She still thought better of him than she should.

“I'm only doing what's right, so don't give me too much credit. Nothing I do will ever make up for what my father did to Dante, or for my own selfish part in it. But I have to try because I'm all he has left.”

Like he'd imagined earlier, Faith held his gaze a moment too long, then cast a glance around the room.

His hands itched to touch her. He headed back to the couch and made a production of choosing a coaster for his beer. She sat down beside him—­too close. He gripped his fingers together tightly and changed the subject. “I've decided we should have a security system installed in your house—­on my dime. After all, you're helping with the case, and a woman shouldn't—­”

Now
her expression altered. He found what he read as her
miffed face,
adorable—­and he wasn't the type of guy who found things adorable. “I don't need you to pay for a security system. I'm already shopping for the best deal, and I can handle this myself.” She fiddled with the hem of her blouse. “I don't think you came here to thank me at all. I think that was just an excuse to check up on me.”

He had indeed wanted to check up on her. “Busted.” He grinned. “I'm checking up on someone all right, but not you. I wanted to see how my good friend, Chica, is doing.”

In immediate response, a howl came from the other room. Then, Chica herself, looking a good five pounds heavier already, trotted into the room and plopped at his feet. “Good girl.” He leaned down and scratched behind her ears.

Faith's smile returned. “The vet says she's a genuine miracle dog. She's not only getting fat and happy, but she should be able to carry her pups just fine.” Her enthusiasm showed in both her voice and her hand gestures. “And I can tell you I didn't want to have to break the news to Tommy if there weren't going to be any puppies. He's already picking out names.”

“Tommy's the kid next door, right?”

“Right.” Faith's phone-­messaging alert sounded. She pulled her phone from her pocket, and said, “Speak of the devil, look at this cute pic I just got of Tommy making the rounds with Chica.” Her brow drew down. “Says contact unknown. Maybe Tommy's mother got a new phone.”

She passed him her cell, and sure enough, there was a small boy with a big grin on his face and a tail-­wagging Chica by his side.

The message alert sounded again, and Faith took her phone back. “Tommy's so—­” Her voice broke off midsentence. Her hand opened, and the phone slid to the floor. She grew so still, he couldn't tell if she was breathing or not.

With one arm, he pulled her against him, and with the other hand he picked up her cell. “It's going be okay, babe.”

“No. It's not going to be okay,” she said in a strangled voice.

He tightened his hold on her, glanced down at the cell, and found himself unable to look away, unable even to blink. There were now two images, both from the same unknown contact. The first was the picture of Tommy and Chica. The second photo showed a bloodied boy with his hands and feet bound. Luke's heart stopped, then started again when he recognized the photo of Kenneth Stoddard.

The Saint's first victim.

Keeping his hand steady, he eased his own cell out of his pocket and hit speed dial. An operator picked up. He took a long, controlled breath. “Luke Jericho for Detective Johnson. Tell him it's urgent.”

 

FIFTEEN

Thursday, August 8, 2:00
P.M.

F
aith sat down at her desk, with Scourge across from her for their two o'clock session. She was slowly getting back to her routine, a run in the mornings, work in the afternoon, which meant either seeing her lone patient or visiting primary-­care docs to introduce herself and leave her brochures. In the evenings—­a Krav Maga class, or a good hard workout at the gym. But she was still having trouble sleeping, and that horrible photo sent to her cell had only made matters worse.

Her brow tightened. Detective Johnson had taken the report but hadn't seemed impressed. After verifying that Tommy was okay, and that he didn't recall anyone's bothering him or taking his photo, Johnson had promised to interview the rest of the neighbors but had not yet gotten around to it. At least the police had stepped up the patrol in Faith's neighborhood. But not only did Johnson say he didn't think there was any danger, he'd actually implied she might've somehow sent those photos to herself . . . for attention! She let out a long breath and mentally shook herself. This wasn't the time to dwell on her own problems, this was the time to focus on her patient.

Bouncing a pen between her fingers, she studied Scourge. He'd been on time for therapy as usual, dressed in a crisp white linen shirt and tan slacks as usual, greeted her politely as usual, and his eyes flitted around her office in a frenzy—­also as usual. His outer perfection seemed an attempt to contain an inner chaos she discerned only by his eyes. If he lost a cuff link, or heaven forbid a shoelace came untied, she suspected it would send him hurtling over the edge. Scourge wasn't just tightly wound. He was a bomb with feet, just one tick shy of exploding.

This was their third session, and things were going nowhere fast. Despite the fact that Scourge had easily mastered the deep-­muscle relaxation technique Faith had taught him, he was completely unable to remain composed when presented with the most innocuous stimulus. Last session, she'd helped him achieve a state of profound relaxation. Then she'd presented him with what she believed to be a remote and safe representation of blood: a paper scribbled in red crayon.

He'd practically levitated off the seat in a full-­blown panic attack.

Bottom line: Systematic desensitization therapy wasn't working.

Her pen bounced faster. The dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the pitiful way he picked at his nails signaled a man in genuine distress. Of note, too, was the long-­sleeved shirt Scourge always wore and kept buttoned up to the collar. It was hot outside. No air-­conditioning in her office, just that whirring fan, so he didn't need extra layers in here.

He's hiding something under those long sleeves.

A myriad of possibilities came to mind. At the top of the list: pickers sores. Scourge's obsessive-­compulsive personality traits predisposed him to picking not only his nails but his skin as well. Or perhaps he was hiding track marks. Quickly, she discarded that hypothesis—­he hadn't exhibited any signs of substance abuse, and an addict would never be able to maintain such a highly organized lifestyle. Self-­inflicted scars from past suicide attempts?
Maybe.

Her body tensed. “How's your mood?”

His eyes rolled back in his head. He twisted a hair around his finger and yanked it out. “My mood would be perfectly fine if I didn't have all this blood running through my veins. How much longer is this cure going to take?”

She had no idea. “Been sleeping?”

Bleary-­eyed, he merely shook his head. This man needed relief, and he needed it now. She wasn't a fan of anxiolytics—­antianxiety agents—­for phobias, because while the drugs provided temporary relief, they did nothing to correct the underlying problem and often led to dependence. In this situation however, maybe tranquilizers could buy her the time she needed to cure Scourge's hemophobia, which was proving to be quite resistant to behavior therapy.

She scribbled out a prescription for oxazepam and handed it across the desk. Deliberately, she gave him a week's supply only, just in case he decided to swallow them all at once. “This'll help you sleep.”

“Thanks.” Relief flashed across his face, lasting mere moments before his eyes began roving the room once more.

“Scourge . . .” She truly hated to call another human being by that moniker, but for whatever reason, he seemed to be highly attached to a name that had not been provided by his parents. A few times, she'd questioned him about the origin of the nickname, but he hadn't been forthcoming. “Scourge, you've done a great job with the deep-­muscle relaxation, and I think that will be a good tool for you to have in your arsenal. But—­”

“It's not working,” he said dryly.

“We need to try something different.” She closed one eye, considering. Participant modeling would be just as slow and somewhat more cumbersome than systematic desensitization. So scratch that.

“I saw someone on
Dr. Phil
who got cured by flooding. How exactly does that work?”

Thanks a bunch, Dr. Phil.
“Flooding exposes you to your feared object all at once, in a big way. At first, it's terrifying, but eventually your adrenaline response burns out. Flooding doesn't always work, but when it does, it works quickly.” She shook her head. Flooding was a popular, well-­established technique, but . . . “I don't think it's right for you.”

His expression brightened. “I think it is. Where would we get the blood? Maybe I could cut myself.”

“No.” She kept her voice even, despite the troubling nature of his response. “Fake blood, like the kind in the movies, is what's generally used, but as I said, flooding isn't right for you.”

“I don't want fake blood. I prefer the real thing.” His eyes stopped flitting around the room and fixed on her in a way that made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

She clenched her pen hard and dropped it onto the desk. “Scourge, has there ever been a time in your life when you felt . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she gulped a breath. “Have you ever felt attracted to blood?”

His body canted forward. His mouth curved into a half smile. A sheen of sweat formed on his brow. He pressed his index finger to his lips like a child guarding a secret. “Why certainly
not,
Dr. Clancy.”

The way he said her name, drawing out each syllable, that little high-­pitched lilt at the end, gave her a creepy, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She mentally shook herself back into therapy mode. This man needed relief, and it was her job to help him. “You have to admit some affinity for blood, though. I mean, you were working as a phlebotomist.”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“I mean that can't be a coincidence. First you're drawn to blood, and then you're repelled by it. There's more going on here than a simple phobia. I'm sure of it. Suppose there's some factor that draws you to blood, but that same factor is responsible for your fear of blood. Like a switch that flips on and off.”

“What kind of factor?”

“A past trauma. Maybe a childhood memory.”

“I'm telling you, I've never been drawn to blood.” He smiled a half smile again, and she knew he was lying.

There had to be some way to get around his defenses. “Have you every heard of personal constructs?”

“No.” He yanked another strand of hair.

“According to personal construct theory we all have unique constructs that organize our world in meaningful ways. For example, in my world, love and hate may be opposites, but to another person, indifference might be the emotion that operates in opposition to love. In any case, when we're challenged by a stressful event, change often comes in the form of what's called a slot change. We simply slide to the opposing pole of our personal construct.”

“Sounds like psychobabble to me.”

“But it's not, and you're smart enough to understand what I'm saying. Think about the radical atheist who suddenly finds religion. He doesn't become a believer in moderation, he becomes a fanatic about his new belief system, just as he was previously fanatic about his
disbelief.
”

“Because he's fanatic by nature. I do see your point. There's only one problem.”

She leaned forward, waiting.

“I'm not a blood fanatic. I've never been attracted to blood.”

“I see. Mmm hmm.” She stalled, gathering her thoughts. Scourge had an unnatural attachment to blood, an obsession perhaps. Only he didn't want to admit it. Perhaps if she could uncover the traumatic event that led to his obsession, she could alleviate the shame surrounding it and effect a cure. “We're done with behavior therapy—­and that includes flooding. We need to dig deeper to get to the root of your problem.”

“If I agree to the movie blood, then could we try flooding?”

Scourge was too unstable for an extreme technique like flooding. If she doused him with fake blood in his current, fragile state, it might even precipitate a psychotic break.

Too dangerous.

She firmed her voice. “We need a deeper therapy.”

“Like dream analysis.”

“Exactly, along with some other methods. The root of your fears is buried deep within your psyche, and we have to dig it up to get you well.”

“That's going to take a long time.” His knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of his chair.

“Perhaps, but the tranquilizers I've prescribed will help you, and the sooner we get started, the sooner you'll get permanent relief. I'd like to start by giving you some tests.”

“Ink blots. I've seen those in the movies. They seem unscientific to me, and I don't think I'd like that.”

In his own way, Scourge was quite psychologically sophisticated, and yet that only seemed to make her job more difficult. “The inkblot test is called a Rorschach, and yes, that's one of the tests I'd consider, but we could start with something else if you prefer.”

“I don't see how taking a psychological test will do any good. You said flooding works fast. All I need is to be exposed to blood, lots of blood, and then I'll be cured. I don't want to waste my time with inkblots and dreams. I want the fast way.”

“No you don't. You want the fastest way that will help you
without making things worse.
I won't put you in jeopardy like that, so let's move on.” She went around to the front of her desk and stood beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that should've come naturally to her. Yet somehow, with Scourge, she felt uneasy, as if she were reaching for a fanged creature who might turn and strike her down without warning. Forcing herself to maintain contact long enough to offer him some comfort, she felt his body begin to tremble beneath her palm. “I need to find out how your mind works. That's my job. You've asked for my help, and I need you to trust me in order to do that job.”

“Just ask me whatever you need to know straight out. I'm not a liar.” His voice rose an octave. “Veracity. You can trust in my veracity.”

Scourge had the oddest way of dropping ten-­dollar words into conversation. “Look. I'm not doubting your veracity.”

“Then cut the bullshit.”

And then at other times his phraseology strayed to the common side. “It's not bullshit. I believe you're being as truthful as you're able to be. After all,
you
came to
me.
You want to get better. You're motivated to be truthful.”

“Exactly.”

“But . . .” She bent down and tried to look him in the eyes. He averted his gaze. “Everyone has psychological defenses. Unconscious barriers we build up to protect ourselves from sad or frightening or shameful things. These tests are simply a way to get around those barriers.”

“Kind of like psychological truth serum.” He looked up, and his eyes pierced through her. “Let's just hope the truth turns out to be something you can handle, Dr. Clancy.”