Authors: Lisa Jackson
Devious (30 page)
He knew what she meant. The sexual acts, more dark than loving in Camille’s descriptions, didn’t fit with the man who helped the sick in hospitals, spent time with children in St. Elsinore’s orphanage, gave of himself to help build homes for the needy here in New Orleans after Katrina and in other places as well. Her lover had been strong. Sexual. And, it seemed, had a sadistic bent that was more cruel than kind.
Frank O’Toole?
But who really knew what a person was capable of?
Outwardly normal, inwardly twisted and dark.
He’d once seen a picture of a prim little churchgoing woman in her fashionable skirt and suit jacket. Her hair had been a blondish white and perfectly coiffed in the little-old-lady helmet style, her smile as sweet as Georgia peaches. She had to have been pushing eighty. But the next shot was of her naked, tattoos and piercings over every inch of her skin, her nipples pierced, her pubic hair shaved, her look turned raggedly sexual. It wasn’t her placing body art all over her body that he found so odd; it was the fact that she’d allowed the picture to be taken and placed on the Internet.
Maybe it had been Photoshopped.
Maybe she hadn’t allowed it.
Maybe her head had been put on someone else’s body.
It didn’t matter. The image stayed with him and reminded him that no one really knows what goes on in someone else’s head. Otherwise, why would there be so many confused neighbors who couldn’t believe the man next door had been a wife beater, a pedophile, or a murderer? Too many times he’d witnessed people convinced that the accountant next door had been the perfect neighbor.
So Frank O’Toole, priest or not, could certainly be the man who liked to bind Camille’s wrists to an iron bed as he poured oil over her body and the man who had found ways to keep her aroused far into the night with objects that tickled, delighted, and caused just a tiny bit of pain. O’Toole could be the lover who had spread her arms and legs and flogged her back, getting hard before thrusting into her from the rear, waiting as she arched up to him, her desire more acute with the threat and sizzle of torment. He could also be the man who would ultimately be proved to be Camille’s killer.
“Sick son of a bitch.” Valerie rinsed out her glass, absently patted Bo’s head, and walked into the living room, where she sat in her favorite chair. She looked up at Slade still seated at the table. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick. “For doubting you. For taking her word over yours.” She laced her fingers and unlaced them again. “I was wrong.” Her voice was an awkward whisper.
He should walk across the room and pull her to her feet. He imagined tipping her head back, brushing the hair off her cheek, and kissing her eyelids as he murmured platitudes and accepted her apology, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Not when everything between them was raw and unspoken.
The easy thing would be to pull her body next to his, lift her off her feet, and carry her into the bedroom. In his mind’s eye, he saw her naked beneath him, anxious and hot, lifting her hips to his as he thrust into her. Her hair would be wild on the pillows, dark with sweat, her breasts full, dark, incredible nipples erect and waiting for him to take them into his mouth and kiss and nip at them.
Her legs would wrap around him, and she would gasp with an ache so deep that her throat would catch as he grabbed her buttocks and forced her tighter against him.
He knew that making love to her now would be a wild, frenzied act intent on washing away the pain, of reaffirming their lives while Camille would never again wake to a warm June morning.
He drained his beer and climbed to his feet.
“I think we both need to get some sleep,” he said, leaving the bottle on the table, not taking a step closer to her. “We should be at the police department around eight.” He walked to the door and hesitated. “We both have a lot to think about.”
Bo was on his feet, tail swinging slowly, head cocked. “Stay,” Slade said to the dog but ignored his own compelling urge to remain in the cozy little cottage. With his wife.
Oh, hell.
With one last look at Val, Slade managed a bit of a smile, then opened the door and screen before stepping into a night as thick and dark as an oozing pool of warm, black tar.
“
I
t’s time,” the voice prodded. “Hurry.”
I
t’s time,” the voice prodded. “Hurry.”
Sister Asteria slipped out of the room, a giddiness running through her bloodstream at the thought of what was to be. She picked up the folds of her long dress, lifting the hem so that her bare feet could hasten down the hallway, through pools of blurred light from decrepit sconces.
Elated, almost drunk, she stumbled a bit but caught herself and made quick tracks down the back stairs, where she’d been steered.
“He’s waiting.”
Yes!
She hurried forward, feeling a sharp prodding that kept her moving. At the doors, she stopped, suddenly unsure.
She hurried forward, feeling a sharp prodding that kept her moving. At the doors, she stopped, suddenly unsure.
“Now!” The voice was insistent. Demanding. “Go on!”
Deep inside, beneath her odd, fast-ebbing elation, she felt the first tremor of fear, a worry scratching at her brain, a tiny reminder that what was happening was wrong, so very wrong.
Remember Sister Camille,
the voice warned from somewhere in the nether-reaches of her mind. But she ignored it, concentrated on staying upright as she shoved open the doors and burst into the night. Here the moon was bright, the night close, the scent of gardenias mingling with the heavy smell of the earth. The pebbles of the path were rough under her bare feet, but she didn’t care, couldn’t really feel pain. It was almost as if she were floating as she proceeded through a gate that was open, as if someone had been waiting for her.
the voice warned from somewhere in the nether-reaches of her mind. But she ignored it, concentrated on staying upright as she shoved open the doors and burst into the night. Here the moon was bright, the night close, the scent of gardenias mingling with the heavy smell of the earth. The pebbles of the path were rough under her bare feet, but she didn’t care, couldn’t really feel pain. It was almost as if she were floating as she proceeded through a gate that was open, as if someone had been waiting for her.
Her groom. Of course.
Joseph!
She conjured up his handsome face, imagined what it would be like to kiss him again . . .
No, wait. Not Joseph. That wasn’t right. Or was it? She was confused for a second, the moonlight suddenly off-kilter. Why wasn’t she in the church? And if she wasn’t marrying Joseph, who would be waiting for her at the altar?
Christ! You’re marrying Jesus, the Son of God. You’re a nun!
Of course.
She tried to reclaim the feeling of well-being that had captivated her earlier, but it was fast escaping, leaving a sudden dawning realization that she’d been duped, probably drugged, in its wake.
But how?
“This way.” The disembodied voice nudged her around a corner and through another gate that was also ajar. When it creaked on rusted hinges, she realized she had entered the cemetery, where tombs, stone sepulchers that rose from the ground, loomed around her. A sinister breeze skittered through the whitewashed tombs, tugging at her dress and rattling the branches of the surrounding trees. Spanish moss danced ghostlike from the gnarled branches, and she heard a voice hiss against her ear, “Your sins have come to bear . . . all your sins, Sister Asteria.”
“No!” She tried to scream but made no sound.
Terror raked its claws across her soul.
“You’ve made a mockery of your vows.”
Oh, dear God.
“Wait,” she tried to say, but her voice was hushed, mute.
“Move.”
Stumbling forward, Sister Asteria prayed for mercy as fear consumed her. The blood in her veins was like ice. Frigid. Congealing. Reminding her that she deserved this punishment.
The memory of poor Sister Camille’s fate seared through her brain as a crow cawed his plaintive, mocking cry before flapping off to the dark heavens.
Asteria trembled, her skin scratching against the tattered fabric of the bridal gown, her fate sealed. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she thought of escape, of turning around and dashing through the tombs, of screaming out for help.
But she couldn’t.
Her voice was silenced.
By her sins.
This was what she deserved.
She knew about Sister Camille, had heard that she had died wearing the same kind of dress. Camille’s death had been a warning, one she hadn’t heeded.
Father, help me, please,
she silently prayed, tripping again. When she caught her balance, she felt the knife at her back, prodding her forward through the crypts and tombs. She knew her attacker, or thought she did, though the figure draped in black was unclear.
she silently prayed, tripping again. When she caught her balance, she felt the knife at her back, prodding her forward through the crypts and tombs. She knew her attacker, or thought she did, though the figure draped in black was unclear.
Her heart thudded wildly, bidding her escape. She wanted to run, but her legs would hardly do her bidding. It was all she could do to stay on her feet.
As the oldest daughter of seven, Asteria had always done what she was told.
Had never questioned.
Never balked.
From the time of her first Communion, her faith had been supreme, and throughout her life it had wavered only once, for a short while. She cringed at the memory.
Joseph.
She’d been a silly girl, barely sixteen and swept away by an older man, twenty-four at the time, or so he’d claimed. What Joseph Allard hadn’t mentioned was his wife and daughter.
To think she’d fallen in love with a married man . . . Her own sin made her sick. When the truth had come out, she had rebuked him mercilessly. She’d been horrified that he’d lied to her and wouldn’t hear any of his lame excuses about being “unhappy” or “trapped” in a loveless marriage.
She had refused to see him again. Within the week, while his wife and infant daughter had slept, he’d slipped into the garage with the doors shut, sat in his car, and turned on the engine.
Having learned of the affair, Joseph’s wife had blamed Asteria for making her a widow, and a penniless one at that without his income. Even his small life insurance benefits had been invalidated because of the suicide.
Asteria had felt vile. Upon graduation, she had reaffirmed her decision to enter the convent. She’d put all her romantic fantasies aside and dedicated her life to Christ.
But she hadn’t realized she would meet someone like Father Frank O’Toole, a man of God. Her heart wrenched as she thought of him. So handsome, so virile, so . . . everything.
And so, so, wrong.
Had Satan tempted her again?
Oh, no, no . . . not with Father Frank.
And yet here she was, slightly dizzy, wearing the bridal gown, knowing she was going to have to pay for her sins in this cemetery, here among the boxlike tombs that stood like hulking beasts aboveground.
Her heart pounded, threatening to explode in her chest. As her fingers twined in the beads of her rosary, she felt her veins throbbing in fear.
How had she come to this?
She let out a sob and felt the tip of the knife slice through the flimsy dress to prick the skin at her side. Cold steel against her hot, frightened flesh. She tried to scream but failed and felt warm blood oozing down her rib cage. “No,” she whispered, her heart pounding in her eardrums.
“Scream and I’ll condemn your soul to hell!” the voice assured her. “Now get moving!”
She hurried forward, picking her way through the tombs, obeying as she’d been taught. Her thoughts sped to her mother and father, still young by most standards, in their early fifties and still tending to her youngest siblings. Images of all six of them flitted through her mind, but it was Marie, the youngest, whose face came to her. Barely eight, with freckles, curly hair, and eyes a deep, somber brown, she and Asteria were the most alike in appearance and conviction to God, even though Marie was still too young to really understand her faith.
“On your knees,” the rough voice ordered as she reached a grave where a sculptured angel, wings spread wide, scowled down at her from atop a tomb. Blocking the moon, the statue’s face was shadowed, its expression hidden. “Here!”
Asteria was pushed hard.
She fell to the ground, gravel cutting through the dress, slicing into her knees. “What are the wages of sin?” the voice demanded.
What?
Fear skated on tiny blades over her skin.
Fear skated on tiny blades over her skin.
“For the wages of sin are . . .”
Oh, God! “Death,” she squeaked as terror screamed through her body. Silently, her voice now having abandoned her completely, she began to pray.
Our Father who art—
A noose was cast over her neck.
No!
Fight, Asteria! You have to fight! There’s no one to help you!
She tried to rise, but the thin, strong loop around her throat tightened quickly, cutting deep into her flesh.
Panic surged through her, a screaming redness flashing before her eyes.
Fight! Run! Get the hell away from this psycho!
She tried to scream. To breathe.
Her fingers clawed at her neck, searching for purchase, trying to yank the vile garrote free.
Oh, please, Father, please, save me,
she thought wildly, all the while struggling. She flung one arm through the air while the other dug at her throat, trying to loosen the cutting noose. Her lungs were on fire, her brain screaming in pain. Blackness pulled at the edges of her consciousness, and, as if from far away, church bells began to clang.
she thought wildly, all the while struggling. She flung one arm through the air while the other dug at her throat, trying to loosen the cutting noose. Her lungs were on fire, her brain screaming in pain. Blackness pulled at the edges of her consciousness, and, as if from far away, church bells began to clang.
Oh, no . . . please . . . Savior, please . . .
She was spinning, pinned down by the crushing pressure in her chest. Her soul clung to her body for a last second before, as if rising above her body, she saw her attacker twisting the garrote, forcing the sharp, steely cord into her flesh. From above, she watched as spots of blood bloomed at her throat, small garnet gems that glistened and spread. Her body bucked, then went limp.
Zzzt! Snap!
In that instant she slipped away, floating upward, thinking in dissociated, fragmented thoughts that the bright flash that exploded before her eyes was the one so many people spoke of, the light that leads upward. Oh, God . . . The blackness came over her again, a thick, murky cloud that absorbed her pain, quieted the terror.
She was dying.
She knew it . . . brokenly, her thoughts random.
But one question cut through her brain like a hot knife through butter.
Would the gates of heaven be open to her?
Or, as she feared, would she be cast into the very bowels of hell for all eternity?
Psssst!
Lucia’s eyes flew open.
No! Not again!
Not before she could leave . . .
Her heart clamored, and despite the cool, slight breeze wafting softly through her open window, she was sweating, her scalp wet from perspiration. She clutched the sheet and thin blanket covering her body and prayed she was mistaken, that she hadn’t heard the unearthly voice, the rasp of a demon against her ear.
“Please, Father,” she whispered, her body so tense she could hardly draw a breath. In her mind’s eye, she saw the image of an angel, arms uplifted as if reaching for heaven. “Not another . . .”
But she knew in the very primal part of her, the thin slice of her brain where fear and hope collided, that she was being forced again into a new and dark horror.
The midnight bells were tolling, soft and plaintive in the night.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
With a feeling of panic, she rolled to the side of the bed, grabbed a habit from her closet, then tossed it over her head. The second the skirt hit the floor and her arms were through the sleeves, she snagged her rosary off the bedpost with trembling fingers and, praying softly, followed the preordained path.
She could almost smell the evil that lingered, the scent of demon spoor as repugnant as it was earthy and seductive, as she hurried out the door of her room and down the dark tunnel of a hallway to the stairs.
She didn’t expect to meet anyone, but as she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with Sister Edwina. “Oh!” Lucia said, clutching her chest. “What’re you doing up?” The communal restroom and showers were in the opposite direction.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Edwina said. “And you?”
“Come with me. It’s too hard to explain.” She tugged on the other nun’s habit and kept moving, not wanting to think too hard, not daring to try and confide in Edwina. “I . . . I think something’s wrong.”
“You think?” Edwina repeated skeptically. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Come on.” Down the stairs she flew, without a glance behind her. “Hurry!” The slap of the taller nun’s footsteps on the stairs told her that Sister Edwina was following. Vaguely she wondered why Edwina, fully dressed in her black habit and veil, was wandering through the hallways, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. Nor did she want to consider all the possible reasons.
“Where are we going?” Edwina demanded.
“I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
“Wait a second. You don’t know what you heard, where you’re going but—”
“Just follow me, okay?” Lucia snapped. She wasn’t usually bossy, but tonight, oh, sweet heavens, she had to be. As for her sanity, even she was beginning to doubt it. But she kept hurrying forward. She hoped she was wrong—oh, please, let her be mistaken—that the voice she’d heard was only her imagination, but the hairs lifting on the back of her arms told her differently.
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