Confession (17 page)

“Luke?”

“Sorry, I guess I should've made an appointment.”

Faith waved a come-­in. “No need. You're not interrupting anything. I'm hardly in high demand. I've visited every primary-­care doctor in town, handing out my brochures. I've offered free consultations. Same-­day appointments.” A frustrated sigh stopped her words.

Closing the door behind him, he entered, then circled her office. First time he'd been here. First time he'd seen this part of her life. His eyes closed as he drank in the scent—­her scent—­filling the small space. “It takes time to grow a new business, Faith, I'm sure psychiatry is no different.”

“I'm sure being the doctor who treated the Santa Fe Saint isn't attracting droves of patients to my door.” Her hand flew to her mouth.

“No worries. I'm not offended.” What she said was true, and he had no problem with her telling the truth. Faith had acted exactly as she should've in regards to Dante. It was his brother's own words that had created this mess—­not Faith's actions.

By now, he was the furthest thing from angry at her. Despite everything terrible that had happened, because of Faith, these past weeks had been a glorious jumble of color. There was the vibrant red of first attraction, followed by the deep black resentment over Dante, next came the cool blue of understanding, and now—­some mystifying color he couldn't name. Couldn't begin to replicate even if he had a full palette of paint and a brush in hand. Of course, his brother was the true artist. He was merely a gallery owner who appreciated but could not create beauty.

“Luke?”

He raked his fingers through his hair. He'd come here for a reason hadn't he? “There may be a witness in the Saint case.”

Faith's expression tightened as she waited for him to continue.

“Four years ago, a kid in Amarillo, a friend of the Saint's first victim, gave the police a description of a man he saw with his friend, Kenny Stoddard. The file's gone to shit. There's virtually nothing left of the witness's statement, but Torpedo's got his address.”

“When do we leave?” If she'd given any thought to their encounter in the limo, you'd never know it by her demeanor now. But maybe that was only because this was her office, and she wanted to stay professional. He hadn't expected her to fly into his arms or anything, but a little eyelash batting, maybe a coy smile would've been nice.

“I need to take care of a few loose business ends, but I should be able to leave sometime tomorrow. I don't mean to impose, but as a psychiatrist, you have certain, interpersonal skills that might be of use in interviewing a witness.”

Seemingly pleased, she smiled. “Well, I hope I can be of help.”

And besides, he wanted to be near her . . . all the time. He wasn't sure how, but she'd snuck into his heart. Whenever he had a free thought, she appeared from nowhere. Her guileless face, her lush voice—­her fists, raised and ready to put up the fight of her life. He wanted this woman like he hadn't wanted a woman in a long time . . . maybe ever.

“Luke?” This time he heard exasperation in her voice. She checked her watch. I'm happy you stopped by, but really, if you're just going to stand there, I should prep for my patient. I have an appointment in half an hour.”

“Sure. Like I said, I should've called. Maybe I'll do that.”

“Pardon?”

“Call.” He cleared his throat. “All right if I call you tonight? To firm up the details and discuss strategy.”

“Of course.” She opened and closed a drawer, twisted her wristwatch. “This trip . . . we'll keep things strictly professional, right?”

He could see her now in the backseat of his limo, dress hiked around her waist, thighs open, waiting for him. He groaned. Maybe aloud. “Yes, let's keep things strictly professional. My thoughts exactly.”

 

TWENTY-­TWO

Wednesday, August 14, 4:00
P.M.

T
he way Scourge's shoulders hunched when he entered her office, the way his limbs seemed to drip at his sides, made Faith think he might simply melt into a puddle on her new, stain-­resistant carpeting. He walked as if his bones had been extracted, leaving nothing to pin his muscles and skin into the shape of a man. Both his whitened complexion and the guarded look in his hyperemic eyes warned that one wrong word from her might vaporize him altogether.

Her shoulders tensed up around her ears. Blowing out a slow breath, she lowered them. Today, she must be especially gentle with Scourge, choose her path with the utmost caution ,or else she might send him off to Never-­Never Land. He'd hadn't ever seemed quite this fragile before.

“Shouldn't there be a couch in here or something?” he muttered, eyeing the leather chair pulled near her desk.

“This place isn't for napping.” She got up, motioned for him to sit, then dragged an ottoman around for his feet.

“But what about for dreaming?” he asked, his voice near a whisper.

“Dreaming is allowed. In fact, it's encouraged.” Faith squeezed his arm, then seated herself in her usual place behind her desk. Up close, the circles under his eyes seemed even darker than before—­so dark she could almost believe he'd painted them on. She tried to make eye contact but couldn't. “Scourge, has something happened since our last therapy session?”

His eyes darted frantically about her office. “I'd rather not say.”

“Your call, of course, but since you're here to get better, you might want to reconsider.”

“I'd like to talk about it. I
need
to talk about it, but . . . I'm afraid you'll be angry with me, Dr. Clancy.”

“That seems highly unlikely, but suppose I did become angry. Wouldn't be the end of the world, now, would it?” She scooted closer to the edge of her chair.

Confusion flitted across his face. “What do you mean?”

“I'm just saying it's no big deal if I get angry with you. That's just life. We'll both get over it.”

He blocked his gaze with his hand to keep her from reading his expression, leaving her wondering what generally happened in his world when someone got angry.

Tugging a loose thread on his shirt, he shifted in his seat. He was dressed in long sleeves again, and again, she wondered what he was hiding underneath. Today, however, was not the day to inquire. She forced her gaze to the bookcase, hoping Scourge would find her less intimidating if she didn't look directly at him. He needed breathing room, or more accurately, talking room.

“You're a very good doctor, and I should've listened to your advice. I'm truly sorry for disobeying you.”

Disobeying her? She hadn't a clue what he meant by that, and she wished he'd stop apologizing and get to the point. “Hmm.”

“You remember we talked about that flooding therapy. I thought if I immersed myself in blood, I'd see there was nothing to fear, my adrenaline would eventually wear out, and I'd be cured of my hemophobia fast.”

Her body canted forward, not liking where this was going. “We also talked about the fact that flooding would be too stressful to undertake at this point, that it might do more harm than good.”

“I suppose you'll think me hebetudinous then when I tell you what I've done.”

She waved him off. “You don't need to impress me with big words. I know you're smart, even without the vocabulary lesson. I wish you didn't feel you had to work so hard to get ­people to like you.”

“Certain ­people do like me,” he said. “I used to have friends . . . but they've all gone away now.”

She was two steps behind him, still trying to recall what hebetudinous meant. Stupid? Foolish? Oh, dear. The light finally dawned.
She
was the hebetudinous one for not putting out a stronger don't-­try-­this-­at-­home disclaimer. “Scourge, please tell me you didn't—­”

“Yes. I did.” He clapped his hands together in a theatrical gesture. “I flooded myself.”

“And are you feeling any better?” The answer was obviously not, but she thought she'd let him tell it his way.

For the first time since he'd entered the room, his eyes sought hers. “I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

She got up and went around the desk, rested her hip against it. “It's okay. I'm not mad at you.”

“You're really not mad?” The quiver in his voice made her heart constrict.

“Not even a little. You were desperate to get relief, and so you tried something you thought might help you get well. You made a mistake, yes. But you survived, and now you've learned something.”

“I barely slept last night, and when I did, I had terrible dreams.” He covered a yawn and rearranged his legs on the ottoman, crossing and uncrossing them at the ankles. “Maybe I shouldn't have used real blood.”

“You—­you used real blood.” Alarm bells blared in her head. Her hand went to her throat.

A satisfied smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Ha! You should see your face.” His smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “It wasn't
human
blood.”

She shuddered.

“It was pig's blood. I got a friend, a butcher, and he's got buddies at the slaughterhouse. That's how he got the blood. I asked him to surprise me, so he rigged a bucket of blood to dump on my head when I pulled the shower curtain open. Now I'm thinking that if only I'd used movie blood instead, if I hadn't made my friend get the pig blood, nothing bad would've happened.”

All she could think of was that scene from
Carrie.
Luckily, Scourge didn't have telekinetic powers . . . as far as she knew. “What bad thing? What happened when the bucket fell?”

“I went berserk. Completely and totally berserk, and then I blacked out. When I woke up I didn't remember what I'd done—­still don't—­but I had a quite a situation on my hands.”

“I can imagine.”

He smiled an oddly superior smile. “I'm sure you can't.”

Seconds ticked by. She didn't want to press too hard, but knowing how he'd handled the trauma would help her gauge his progress. “I assume the situation you're referring to was a very messy bathroom.”

“Oh, it was a mess all right.”

“Were you able to clean up the blood?”

His eyes flashed. “I'm not dirty.”

“Of course not. But given your hemophobia, I'm wondering how you managed to handle all the blood.”

“It wasn't easy, but I took care of most everything. I cleaned the floor, the sink, the mirror . . . I did leave the shower, though. I wanted to clean it, but it was too hard, I was afraid I might black out again, so I just pulled the curtain closed instead. Anyway, I don't have to look at the blood anymore.”

This was a disaster, and the least she could do was help him take care of the bathroom. “I can help you find someone to go out and clean it up for you. Then you won't have to worry about it anymore.”

“No!” The urgency in his tone surprised her. “I always clean up my own messes. I'm not lazy. I'm not dirty. You want to help me? Then cure me. Once I'm cured, I won't need you anymore, and I can get rid of . . . my problem.”

“I don't think it's wise to allow that blood to stay in the tub. It might stain the porcelain. Who knows what kind of bacteria will form, and imagine if someone stumbled on a tub full of blood. They'd think there'd been a murder or something.”

Again, an inexplicable a smile lifted his lips, then disappeared so quickly she thought it might have been nothing more than a nervous tic. “Then you better cure me fast because I won't have someone poking around my bathroom, cleaning up my messes.”

“Your call.” She waited, but apparently he didn't wish to discuss this further.

He closed his eyes, and his jittery legs stilled. His head lolled back in the chair. “I had a dream last night.”

He'd brought up dreams earlier, when he'd first come in, then again later. This made the third time. This dream was important.

“Shall I tell you about it?”

“If you'd like,” she said, keeping her voice neutral, not wanting to show him her curiosity.

“I dreamt I was back at school. Remember I told you I lived at St. Catherine's School for Boys until ten years ago.”

She occupied her hands with a pencil though she had no plans to spook him by taking notes. “I remember. You didn't like it there. One of the nuns in particular.”

“Sister Bernadette. She was in my dream.” His back slid down into the chair, pushing his feet near the end of the ottoman. Apparently, he really needed that couch.

Faith recalled Sister Bernadette clearly. According to Scourge, she'd beaten him with a flashlight on more than one occasion after he'd wet the bed. She wasn't certain she believed the whole story, but she was certain
he
did, and that was all that mattered.

“It was Sister who gave me my name, you know—­Scourge.”

She hadn't known, and the fact that he'd finally revealed the source of his awful nickname signaled increased trust, maybe even an impending breakthrough. “Tell me more.”

“I dreamt I was deep in the woods, miles from the boys' dormitory. It's like I'm right there again, now. My thighs are burning because I walked all the way with Sister Bernadette on my back. Then I laid her out on the soggy ground beneath a hulking ponderosa pine.”

Such detail. Could this be it? Maybe this dream would bring his fears to the surface and allow him to conquer them once and for all. “Mmm hmm.”

“A bright rim of moonlight encircles her face. Black robes flow around her, engulf her small body and blend with the night. Her face, floating on top of all that darkness, reminds me of a ghost head in a haunted house.”

His voice rose, and his words rushed faster and faster. “I draw back, and I pull out my pocketknife and press the silver blade against her throat. I am not a shadow. I twist the knife so that the tip bites into the sweet hollow of her throat. I'm not afraid of going to hell.”

His eyes squeezed tight, and his back arched.

“It's okay, Scourge, it's only a dream. I'm right here.”

Writhing in the chair, he covered his ears with his hands. “I don't want to remember the rest. I don't want her to say those words.” He made a choking noise. “But I need to remember. I can't go on like this. I can't let Sister Bernadette win. She's trying to keep me from doing my work. But I won't let her stop me now. Not when I've come so far. Not when I'm so close to the grand finale.”

His agitation increased with each passing second. Faith watched his body, alert for any sign he might injure himself but allowing him his space. At last, his mouth opened and a hoarse cry came out. “Yes. I remember it all, now. Sister Bernadette gurgles, and her eyes roll back in her head. She screams at me while she's dying. Over and over she screams those words:
The blood of the lamb will wash away your sins.
And then blood flows from her neck onto my hands. I run and run and run until I find a stream.”

She pressed her eyelids with her fingertips, trying to gather her thoughts. “Say again, please.”

“The blood of the lamb. I have to get it off my hands.” He rubbed his hands together frantically, pantomiming his story.

“Slow down a minute.” She reached out, touched his hands, and felt his arms relax slightly, then tense again. “You said that in your dream, you killed Sister Bernadette.”

“Yes.”

“Her blood is on your hands, and that frightens you.”

“Yes. I have to get it off. I have to get the blood off or else . . .”

“Or else what?” At last, she was about to learn the answer to the mystery. What was it about blood that made Scourge's heart race and his head spin to the point he could no longer function?

His eyes rolled back in his head, and his whole body jerked. “I don't want the blood of the lamb on me. I don't
want
to be cleansed of my sins. I have to get the blood of the lamb off my hands before it washes me clean. I want to go hell. I
need
to go to hell.” His arms and legs flailed. “Now Wilhelmina's blood is on me. Like the holy lamb's blood, like Bernadette's. Get it off me!”

Wilhelmina? Oh yes, the woman at the lab. Realization jolted through her. Wilhelmina must've called up his memories of Bernadette, the nun who'd terrorized him at school. In his mind, her blood had become Bernadette's blood. Faith squeezed his shoulder. “It's only a dream. You're okay. All you have to do is wake up.”

His eyes flew open, and he bolted upright in the chair. She placed her fingers on his wrist, monitoring his pulse. “Breathe, Scourge. You can do this. Use the deep breathing to help you through this.”

He nodded. His chest heaved, then filled with breath, released the breath, then filled again. His pulse normalized.

“It's only a dream. I'm here for you, Scourge. Sister Bernadette will never hurt you again.” She retrieved a bottle of water from her small fridge, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to him. “Now you say it.”

“I'm safe now. Sister Bernadette can never hurt me again.” His hand twitched, and the water fell to the ground, spilling on the carpet. “She can't hurt me. Is it really true?”

“It's really true.” Faith heard the catch in her voice as she answered.

Scourge climbed out of the chair. “I'm feeling better now. I think I'll clean up my mess.”

“Don't bother.” She waved her hand at the water beading on the stain-­resistant carpet. “I'll take care of it.”

“No.” His strange laugh echoed around the room. “I mean the blood in the tub. I think I can clean the blood up now. It's like you said, Sister Bernadette is dead. She can't hurt me ever again.” He looked at her with widening eyes. “Is it possible I'm cured?”