Confession (4 page)

He should put a stop to this right now. This subject was too painful for his mother, and she was far too vulnerable at the moment. But the harsh words kept coming, despite the hurt welling in his mother's eyes. Dante had suffered too much, and not even for his mother's sake would he gloss over it. “I will not honor my father's legacy of injustice. I want Dante here at Gran Cielo, back with this family, where he belongs. I'm sorry if that hurts you, Mother. Please believe me when I tell you that's not my intent.”

She shook her head. “Don't worry about me, Luke. I never blamed the poor child . . . I never blamed Dante, for your father's infidelity. I wish your brother only the best. But I do worry about his odd behavior, and I don't think it's wise to force things. Dante's made it clear he doesn't want to live in the main house, which says to me, he's not as ready as you are to become one big happy family.”

“He wants his privacy is all.” Luke didn't mention he'd found Dante with a prostitute shortly after he'd moved back to the casita. The incident had made both brothers uncomfortable, and Dante had since taken his amorous adventures off the ranch. He'd often disappear for a ­couple of days at a time, and Luke speculated he was with prostitutes, but he didn't pry.

“This business of splitting your inheritance with Dante doesn't seem wise. Your father wanted to make sure his entire estate went to you, or else he wouldn't have put all those clauses in his will to try to stop you from sharing with your brother. What if Dante ruins the family businesses?”

His hands tensed into tight balls, and he struggled to keep the frustration out of his tone. How like his father to try to control everyone else, even from the grave. How unlike his mother to take his father's side. “The day-­to-­day operations are mostly overseen by others—­”

“Not the ranch. Not the gallery.”

Her words echoed all his private doubts—­doubts he'd shoved aside as if they were bullies who wanted to do more harm to his troubled brother. “They're as much Dante's to ruin as mine. According to my lawyers, those nasty clauses Dad put in his will are unenforceable. The estate belongs to me, and I can do whatever the hell I want with it.” His fist came down on the table hard enough to bounce a fork onto the floor.

His mother covered her mouth with her hand, but not before a sharp cry escaped her lips.

He could be a real a jackass sometimes. “I'm sorry, Mother.”

“No. It's just I didn't hear him come in.” She pointed over his shoulder, and Luke turned to find a uniformed policeman standing in the room, hands out in front, palms up like he was offering them an olive branch.

Luke scraped his chair back and rose with deliberate calm.

His mother's face drained of color. The last time he remembered a uniformed cop at Gran Cielo was twenty years ago, and then to deliver very bad news. “How can I help you, Officer?”

The man planted his hands on his hips. “The chief asked me to come out here as a courtesy to the family. Your brother, Dante Jericho, was taken into custody yesterday afternoon.”

Luke drew a deep breath, bracing himself. “That's impossible. He would've called me.”

“Believe me, we encouraged him to do so. But your brother insisted he had no one to call. And . . . he's waived his right to counsel.”

“What the hell do you mean he waived his right to counsel? He can't do that.” Luke clenched his fists at his side. No one was going to railroad his brother. Not without a fight from him.

“Again, we encouraged Mr. Jericho, your brother I mean, either to retain an attorney or allow the court to appoint one for him. And not just out of respect for your father. The chief and the DA want everything by the book on this one. Nobody downtown wants your brother to walk because we didn't do our job. Maybe you can convince him he needs representation.”

Luke already had his cell out of his pocket, poised to make the call to his corporate lawyers. Whatever Dante had done, if Luke's attorneys couldn't help him, they'd be able to recommend someone who could. “What are you holding him for? Be specific please.”

“Like I said, the chief wanted you to know before the news hits the papers. Your brother's psychiatrist turned him in to the police.”

“His psychiatrist? Faith Clancy?” He gripped his phone tighter. “What's Dante done?”

“First, he told his shrink, then he signed a confession down at the station.” His eyes came level with Luke's. “Your brother's the Santa Fe Saint.”

 

FOUR

Sunday, July 21, 2:00
P.M
.

SANTA
F
E
S
A
I
N
T
C
L
A
I
M
S
F
O
U
RTH VICTIM.

Scourge Teodori prowled his studio apartment, digging his fingers into his wavy black hair, pulling it until his scalp burned. Afternoon light swept in through the big kitchen window, and a shadow dogged his steps across a polished maple floor that smelled faintly of lemon oil. While he lapped the room, he ruminated on the article in the day-­old
Gazette.

With his Fourth victim, The Saint has grown careless. A source close to the Santa Fe District Attorney's Office revealed new clues found at the scene may soon lead to an arrest.

That was yesterday. But today, there'd been no further mention of the Saint.
New clues? Grown careless?
Scourge prowled and perseverated. His sneakers squish-­squished. The refrigerator rumbled. In one corner of his apartment stood a single bed, covers pulled coin-­bounce tight, a white sheet folded down to cuff a navy blue spread. A thin pillow in a freshly ironed case lay flat above the sheet cuff. The white of the pillowcase was beginning to dim, and he added a bottle of bleach to his mental grocery list. He considered sitting on the bed, but the thought of mussing the covers made his throat itch. Carefully, he lifted the pillow and removed the book that lay beneath his head while he slept. He kept the book under his pillow night after night, wishing he could absorb its lessons by dream osmosis.

Carrying the book beneath one arm, he made his way to the kitchen, where he pulled a shake out of the freezer and set it on the counter to thaw for an afternoon snack. The shake was his own special blend: egg yolk, barley, whey, a garlic clove, two teaspoons of soy sauce, and a block of tofu. As always, he recited the ingredients to keep the recipe safe in his memory. Like crossword puzzles, memorization was good exercise for the brain. He liked to avoid writing things down whenever possible. He wasn't lazy, and he admired that quality in himself . . . and in others. For example, suppose a waiter took his order without writing it down—­he would give that waiter an extra tip because he respected servers who were not hebetudinous.
Hebetudinous,
meaning:
slacker,
was on his list of vocabulary words for the day.

Hebetudinous
,
perseveration
,
imperious
—­all good words to have in your hip pocket.

Before taking a seat at the table, he went to his calendar, marked a black X over today's date, and counted the days until the fifteenth of August.

In exactly twenty-­four days, he would fulfill his destiny.

Once seated, he placed the book on the table next to the newspaper and squared the corners of both. His gaze ricocheted back and forth between the book and the newspaper. Both called to him with an intensity that made his eyes water and his stomach churn. First, he traced the raised gold letters of the book title with his index finger, then dragged that same finger over the smooth, cool newsprint.

. . .
New clues found at the scene may soon lead to an arrest.

His pulse thudded relentlessly in his ears like footsteps following him down a dark alley. The air in the kitchen grew thin and unsatisfying. He inhaled a sharp, lemon-­scented breath. Of course, the article might be a bluff, one of those planted stories used to draw out a criminal and trick him into making a mistake. It was a well-­known fact the cops often used the media as part of their strategy to catch a killer, or even as a temporary means of mollifying the public in high-­profile cases—­like this one. He heaved out a breath, loosening his constricted chest, but on the inhale, his lungs clamped down again.

With only twenty-­four days remaining until The Big Kill, he made the sign of the cross and vowed not to let anything or anyone stop him. But . . . suppose the story wasn't a trick. Suppose the cops really did have evidence that would lead them to his door.

Why leave those damn beads?

The voice was scratching at him again, and the footsteps were thudding in his ear.

Those beads are going to get us caught.

“Shut up.” A spasmodic cough followed his words, and he pounded his chest with his fist. He'd heard all the arguments, and they were not without merit, but he would not get caught. He needed the rosaries. He had to help his victims get into heaven, the way they were helping him get into hell. He wasn't so cruel as to chance leaving the poor souls in limbo.

By the book.
He tapped the book, his blueprint to hell, with his forefinger.

That's how this must be done. His targets were a means to an end, part of a carefully-­thought-­out plan, only . . . he didn't intend to wind up hanged. The book was to be admired and emulated but not copied without thought. Certain necessary corrections, adjustments to the course outlined therein were in order. Unlike Perry, Scourge would get it right. Perry had tried to commit the perfect crime.

Scourge would actually do it.

He'd rewrite the book's ending, live to a ripe old age, and make the most of enjoying life as a free man on earth—­because there would be no reward for him in heaven. There would be no heaven, period.

Not for someone like him.

He pulled his hair until his scalp burned to life again.

I am not a shadow.

His friend, the voice in his head, was wrong about the rosaries. Scourge would not be caught. He'd studied the book long and hard, and he knew all the mistakes that had been made in the past. He wouldn't repeat those mistakes. He wouldn't take on The Big Kill until he'd mastered the art of the
small kill.
He'd already succeeded with four practice victims, one for each Donovan, and he wasn't done perfecting his technique. He'd not be caught unprepared.

He'd not be
caught,
period.

He'd found another one to practice on now. She didn't fit the profile, but so much the better for throwing the police off course. Not that the authorities had a clue how he selected his victims. They had no idea that what tied his victims together was the book. The cops were too focused on the rosaries to figure things out. His chest puffed up.

No bullshit police-­planted headline was going to alter his course.

No voice was going to tell him how to handle his business.

Twenty-­four more days.

His breathing grew easy. Rising from the kitchen table, he placed the book under his arm and carried it to the bed, slipped it back under the pillow. Then he pulled open the nightstand drawer, where a pamphlet lay beside a black velvet bag. At the first touch of velvet against his fingertips, his pulse began to pound in his ears again. Turning his palm up, he stared at the blue veins snaking beneath his white skin. He could see the black blood whooshing inside them. His head went light, and he flexed his hand open and shut until his head cleared. He grabbed the pamphlet and unfolded it. Inside was a headshot of a young woman with sad green eyes and long, flaming hair. She wore clear gloss over tempting red lips.

Open to new patients.
Accepting most insurance plans. Call for a free initial consultation.
Faith Clancy, MD. Psychiatrist.

His breath hissed out through his teeth. He didn't need a shrink, and he considered it an insult that his doctor had given him the pamphlet and suggested he call one instead of testing his blood for toxins as he'd requested. He only kept the pamphlet because he liked imagining the reasons for the sadness in the woman's eyes and because he liked looking at her picture. Last night, he'd dreamt about her red mouth. He swallowed with difficulty and passed his hot palm over his hardening dick.

He might not need a shrink, but he did need more practice.

Practice makes perfect.

Just this once, he would indulge his urges and practice on someone who could give him pleasure. He dropped the brochure, then lifted the velvet bag and pulled its drawstring open, allowing the contents to fall into his hand.

Pop, pop, pop.

Electricity shot through his palm and up his arm as he curled his hand around the beads.

Good.

He had plenty of rosaries.

 

FIVE

Monday, July 22, 6:00
P.M.

A
s she steered her Toyota Corolla onto Calle De La Cereza, Faith's shoulders lowered, and her hands loosened on the steering wheel. It'd been a tough ­couple of days, what with having to turn Dante over to the police, and she couldn't wait to soak in a hot bath and sip a crisp Zinfandel. Her head felt heavy. Her arms felt heavy. Her skin weighed her down like a suit of armor. She smiled to herself at the thought. This was just how she liked to end her day—­dog-­tired.

Somewhere around the time of Grace's death, Faith had discovered that if during the day she worked her muscles to the point of exhaustion, her troubles wouldn't keep her awake at night, and ever since making this blessed discovery, she'd stuck to a routine. Most mornings she rose at five for a six-­mile run. One night a week, she attended a Krav Maga class—­this at her brother-­in-­law's insistence that she learn to defend herself. Other evenings, she hit the gym for a round of heavy weightlifting, then followed that up with a warrior-­level spin class. Half measures were not enough to overcome her insomnia, and that suited her fine, because in her heart she'd always been an all-­or-­nothing kind of girl—­just like Grace.

By the time Faith's head hit the pillow at night, no matter how much she longed to review and recycle her list of problems, her physical need for sleep was too great. She'd trained her body to outsmart her brain, and it'd been years since she'd needed the sleeping pills that had threatened to become an addiction after Grace died. There were other benefits to Faith's exacting regimen as well. She never felt lonely—­or rather she did, but was simply too tired to care. She'd grown accustomed to her isolated ways, the comfortable if unexciting rhythm of her routine. Solitude had become an old and trusted friend, one to be welcomed with open arms rather than shoved away.

Admittedly, she still thought wistfully of her old life in Flagstaff. But two years ago, Danny had remarried, and she knew it was time to let go. He wasn't her brother-­in-­law anymore, not really, and the last thing he needed was his dead wife's baby sister intruding on his newly wedded bliss.

But Santa Fe was growing on her, and this in large part because of her lovely adobe bungalow on her lovely tree-­lined street. Despite its name, Calle De La Cereza was lined not with cherry trees but with radiant crabapple. The stunning pink flowers of spring had recently given way to clusters of bright red miniature apples the neighborhood children simply could not resist. Never mind that the flavor turned their happy little faces into sour pusses every time. With exhaustion rolling off her body in waves, she let up on the accelerator, scouring the landscape for said neighborhood children, who always seemed to be looming around every curve in the road.

Home at last, she pulled into her carport and killed the engine, stepped out of her car, and lifted her hand in customary greeting to the little boy hunkered down on the sidewalk a few yards away. The boy, however, didn't return her wave or her smile. A frisson of disappointment rippled through her. Little Tommy Bledsoe was part of her quiet routine. Every evening when she returned home, she waved and smiled to him, and he waved and smiled back. She and Tommy were friends. Not the kind of friends who hung out together, but the kind of friends who had an unspoken agreement they could count on each other for a cheery wave and an I've-­got-­your-­back smile. At least that's how Faith viewed it.

Tommy and his mother, a hardworking woman who looked to be about thirty going on fifty, lived in the two-­bedroom bungalow next door to Faith. She'd learned from her single visit to the Bledsoe home that the floor plan was identical to hers, only reversed. Both homes had identical adobe exteriors painted a brilliant terra-­cotta red that screamed:
Welcome to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment.

Viga tails extended beneath the flat roofs, and square windows were framed with heavy wood and shuttered in bright blue. High arches loomed over the front doors, making the tiny homes appear midsize. The only differences a casual observer might note between the two houses were the ten-­speed bicycle leaning against the side of the Bledsoe residence and the small garden filled with cutting flowers in Faith's front yard.

Flowers were her weakness, and she loved to fill the house with the most fragrant kinds cut fresh from the yard. She had another overflowing garden in the fenced-­in backyard and a water bill that would've gotten her booted out of the Sierra Club if her membership hadn't already been canceled for nonpayment.

Faith was just about to head inside for that bath when the image of her young friend's slumped posture and downcast eyes came back to her. She turned and headed over to say hello. Tommy was ten, possibly eleven, and he was
that
kid. Every neighborhood has one, a child who never seems to be included in the after-­school games of Frisbee or street hockey and rarely gets invited to birthday parties. This particular block was filled with school-­age kids, and the parents liked to put out Child-­at-­Play signs—­yellow plastic figures sporting jaunty red caps and waving warning flags that said
SLOW
.

Tommy's mother had little to worry about since Tommy usually hung on the sidelines, only wishing he could be in the street mixing it up with the other children. So finding him sitting alone on the sidewalk was nothing new. But today, Faith could sense something wasn't right. Although he was rarely called to join in the fun, he typically wore a hopeful, prepared expression that signaled he was ready to step in at any moment, just in case someone more popular got called inside for dinner or homework.

Today, however, Tommy's chin was tucked to his chest, his expression dejected. He hardly seemed to notice the lively game of tag taking place in the yard across the street. As she approached, he didn't bother to look up. And there was something else. Crouching beside Tommy, its nose nudging the boy's armpit, was a spotted dog that resembled a bag of bones covered in dusty fur.

Her body tensed as she assessed the situation, but quickly relaxed when she noted the dog's docile nuzzling of Tommy's axilla, neck, and face, not to mention the mewling noises more akin to a kitten's than an adult canine's. By now she was close enough to see tears dripping down Tommy's nose, hear his sniffles. The animal's nuzzling accelerated in an urgent attempt to comfort the boy.

“Hey-­a.” Faith tried her wave and cheery smile again, but Tommy still didn't look up.

The dog, however, gave her a doleful look and whimpered at her, perhaps looking to her to help buck up Tommy.

“Where'd ya find this fellow?” Faith knelt on the grass and scratched behind the dog's ears. More whimpering, then a vigorous tail wag.

“Chica's a
she.
”

Faith gave Chica the once-­over and soon decided Tommy was right. Despite the bony rib cage and lack of subcutaneous fat, the dog's belly bulged. Could be bloating secondary to the obvious malnutrition, but when Faith examined the dog's swollen belly, she could clearly feel the cause. Chica was pregnant. And starving. Probably also flea-­ and tick-­infested. Poor Chica. Her hand swooped over the short polka-­dotted fur and found denuded areas. “You're right. Chica is most definitely a she. Where'd ya find her?”

“She followed me home from school today. She wants to be my dog.” Chica wagged her tail and licked a fat tear off Tommy's cheek.

“I can see that.”

A screen door slammed. Faith turned her head and watched Tommy's mother scurry down the front steps and out to meet them. Mrs. Bledsoe slowed her pace once she saw it was only Faith chatting up Tommy and Chica.

“Still not here?” Tommy's mom stuck her hands on her hips and made a raspberry noise with her mouth.

“No, ma'am,” Tommy whispered.

“I called animal control nearly an hour ago.” Mrs. Bledsoe filled Faith in. “Guess I better call them again.”

At that, Tommy jumped to his feet and threw his arms around his mother's waist, burying his face in her apron. “Please, Mom. Please don't let them take Chica away.”

With a firm but gentle hand, Mrs. Bledsoe untangled her son from around her middle. “She's sick, Tommy. Lord knows what diseases she's carrying. For all we know, she could have rabies.”

Chica wagged her tail, and this time her butt got in on the action.

“She doesn't have rabies, Mom. Anyone can see that. Rabid dogs don't make friends with you. They growl at you and foam at the mouth. Don't you remember Old Yeller?”

“Well, maybe she doesn't have rabies then. But she's got the mange for sure.” Mrs. Bledsoe's voice dropped. “I'm sorry, Tommy. I know how much you want to keep her, but we can't afford a sick dog. I'm sure some nice family will adopt her.”

Chica was scrawny, mangy, covered in nicks and cuts,
and
pregnant. Despite her winning personality, adoption didn't seem the most likely outcome after animal control transported her to the shelter. Faith did a quick mental calculation of what she had left in her bank account. With no money coming into the practice as of yet, she'd been living off the start-­up loan the bank had given her. She had just enough funds remaining to pay office rent and live frugally for six months.

If she was careful.

If she didn't take on any unnecessary expenses.

No doubt she could scrape up the money for pet food and a doggie bed, but judging from Chica's debilitated yet expectant condition, the vet bill alone could run thousands of dollars, and that was definitely more than Faith could afford.

Biting her lower lip, she rose and looked down at Chica. Chica gazed up at her with a hopeful, please-­choose-­me face—­the doggie version of the look Tommy usually wore—­it was the kind of heart-­melting expression that went to work faster than a hot match on a tick's rump.

If push came to shove, she supposed, she could always look for a second job. She'd moonlighted in the ER to pay bills during med school, and she knew hospitals always needed someone to work the graveyard shift. If her loan ran out before her practice took off, so be it. She could manage perfectly well.

Mrs. Bledsoe, on the other hand, was a single parent with too much on her plate already. She couldn't be expected to take on another hungry mouth to feed. Especially when that hungry mouth had puppies on the way.

Tommy'd gone back to crying in his hands. His whole body shook with muted sobs.

“I'll take Chica,” Faith said, and immediately felt right and warm inside.

Mrs. Bledsoe's eyebrows shot up. Her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “Why on earth would you do a thing like that?”

Faith shrugged, then winked at Tommy. “I could use a good watchdog, and besides, sometimes I get lonely all on my own.” That last bit sort of slipped out, and she realized there was more truth to it than she'd like to admit. “It'd honestly be swell having someone to come home to at night.”

The expression on Mrs. Bledsoe's face went from disbelief to confusion, as though she couldn't quite figure Faith out. “But, I don't think
this
dog—­”

Faith tapped her chin with her index finger and addressed Tommy. “Of course, I'd need someone to help me with Chica. Someone who could maybe walk her for me while I'm at work. Someone who could keep an eye on the puppies when they're born and help me find them good homes.”

“Puppies!” Tommy yelped. “I knew there were puppies. I just knew it. I can walk Chica. I can help with the puppies.” Tommy bounced on his toes, then flew around the yard in a circle, arms out, airplane style, before coming in for a landing back on the sidewalk and hugging Chica's neck.

“We'll have to get her healthy first, of course. Until the vet gives me the okay that she's safe and disease-­free, I'll handle everything. But, if your mother says it's okay, Chica will still be your dog. You found her. You named her, and its only right you help make decisions about her toys and her diet. She'll live over at my house, but you can visit anytime you want. As long as it's okay with your mom. We can't forget your mom's the boss.”

“I-­I suppose that would be all right.” Mrs. Bledsoe eyed her sideways but raised no objection, and even helped Faith load Chica into the backseat of her Toyota. She'd have to hurry if she was going to make it to the vet before they closed for the night. “I'll let you know what the doctor says, Tommy.”

As Faith pulled into the street, she smiled, knowing Tommy was back to sitting on the sidewalk watching the game of tag across the way, his hopeful, prepared expression in place. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Mrs. Bledsoe put her hand on her son's shoulder, then lift the corner of her apron and swipe her cheek.

In the backseat, Chica started to pace. The weak kitten noises she'd been proffering changed first to low growls, then to full barks. “I didn't know you had it in you, girl. But don't worry, you'll see Tommy again soon.”

Faith eased her foot on the brake until the car came to a gentle stop. A quick glance in the rearview mirror verified no cars were coming, so she turned fully around to check on her new friend. Chica's tail stood at attention. She pawed the side window, her claws clattering against the glass. Faith's body tensed as she looked past Chica toward her house. A man with black hair appeared in her kitchen window, then ducked out of sight. Her foot came off the brake, and the car lurched. Heart racing in her chest, she stomped the brake and reached for her phone.