Snake Skin (2 page)

"She's fine. Worried about missing
soccer."

"It's time," Fletcher called to her.

"I've got to go. Love ya. Bye." Lucy hung
up, pushing all thoughts of her family aside, locking them away
safe and sound.

She searched for that calm again. No luck.
All she found was an electric current of adrenalin sparking her
skin.

One last check in the mirror that she looked
the part: large dangling earrings, clunky ugly choker, too-small
Lyrca tanktop, tight fitting black stretch jeans, way too much
makeup, big hair teased and sprayed to an inch of its life, and
three-inch high heel boots.

Typical trailer trash mom doing whatever it
took to make ends meet, that was her. Except for one small
detail.

She slid her wedding band free and completed
her final ritual. A quick kiss for luck, smearing the ring with her
too-bright lipstick, then she carefully placed the ring in the
change section of her real wallet inside her real bag.

She climbed out of Fletcher's Blazer and
slowly spun around for him.

"Wow. You look good," he said as he
approached from the side of the SUV. Fletcher wasn't a tall man,
was reedy thin as if he forgot to eat sometimes, with the permanent
squint of someone who spent most of his waking hours staring at
computer monitors. Lucy shot him a glare and he stammered, "I mean,
you look, er—"

"Everything ready?" she asked him.

"Yeah, sure, I think."

She folded her arms across her chest,
interrupting his appraisal, and he looked up, flushing. "I mean,
yes, I'm ready."

It was time. Lucy crossed the parking lot to
where the battered Caravan with tinted windows waited. The macadam,
soft with heat, grabbed onto her boot heels, giving her one last
chance to change her mind.

She wasn't changing her mind. She peered
into the back seat, scrutinizing the still form buckled into a
booster seat. She circled the van. Checked from every angle. A
girl, sleeping, dressed in her Sunday best, slumped in the seat,
streams of golden curls tangled and askew, concealing her
features.

Lucy got into the van and turned on the
ignition, cranking the AC. It was even hotter than yesterday,
already eighty-three degrees according to the bank thermometer.
Pittsburgh's idea of Indian summer. "Okay, Katie Mae, it's just you
and me, kid."

The men had changed the meeting place at the
last minute. She hadn't liked that, but it happened. Not too
surprising given what they were meeting for. Now it was an old
water pumping station off of Route 60. Her team had already done
their recon, said the building had been bought by Walter, their
main target after standing empty for a decade.

By the time Lucy arrived, the AC had only
begun to cool the inside of the van, leaving her clammy with
half-dried sweat. Two other cars waited in the gravel parking lot—a
beat up Pontiac sedan and a Ford 350 pickup. The white-washed
concrete building was on a wooded lot with a stream running along
the east side, rusting pipes tunneling through the building's side
wall down to the water.

A crudely forged steel cross perched on the
roof's peak—a call to worship or a lightning rod? Then she noticed
the hand carved wooden sign hanging over the front door, one end a
little lower than the other—Lucy itched to straighten it—reading:
Church of the Holy Redeemer.

A church?

She worked her jaw from side to side,
ligaments crackling with tension. A church.

These guys were full of surprises. Nothing
much she could do about it except hope this was the last one.

She left the van running and locked the door
behind her. The only obvious luxury the Caravan had was the keypad
door lock. In her line of work, it wasn't a luxury, it was a
necessity. She touched the window, her fingers tracing Katie's
sleeping form. Anxiety resurfaced, splashing through her gut, a
trout caught in a net. Another deep breath reined it in.

She wasn't expecting trouble. She'd had
meetings like this before—so many, she'd lost count—and had never
had any trouble.

That didn't mean she wasn't prepared. A
short-barreled Smith and Wesson .32 concealed in her denim jacket.
Single working mom type of gun.

Tugging her jacket into place, shifting her
shoulders until she felt her .32 nestle against her ribcage, she
walked towards the building. The cornerstone read 1923, the windows
were arched and mullioned with carved keystones overtop of each.
Back then even a lowly pumping station received an artisan's
attention, she guessed.

The door, an arched slab of wood, popped
open while she was still ten feet away. A bearded man, thin, with
wire-rim glasses, wearing black slacks and a starched white shirt
buttoned all the way to the top collar button, emerged. "Sister
Ruby?"

"Yes." She stopped a few feet shy of the
entrance. He stood directly beneath the crooked sign. "Are you
Walter?"

"I am."

"I'm not sure about this—I mean, a
church?"

"Would you like to see our facilities?" He
spread an arm open in invitation. Despite his formal tone, his
accent was strictly country, rolling in cadence just like the hills
surrounding them. He was working hard to play a role.

Lucy's jaw spasmed, sending a shock wave of
pain down her neck and spine. On the phone Walter and Henry had
been very explicit in what they wanted. But now Walter was acting
like she was here for a prayer meeting.

"Where's Henry?"

"Pastor Henry is waiting for us downstairs.
Getting everything ready for Katie's visit." His voice snagged on
Katie's name, a tiny thrill there. She relaxed a tiny bit,
reassured by the slip in his facade. "Where is the child?"

"Sleeping in the van. I left the engine on.
It's too hot to leave her in there without the AC running."

He nodded his approval. "Mind if I take a
quick peek?"

"Of course not. That's what we're here for.
Just don't wake her—I want her fresh when you and Henry are
ready."

His tongue darted free, kissing his top lip
for an instant before disappearing again. He walked past her, his
gait stiff with anticipation, and peered inside the van window at
Katie. "My, she's even lovelier in person. You must be mighty proud
of her."

He returned to Lucy's side and opened the
church door. The middle finger of his right hand was missing, a
mass of scar tissue contorted his palm. Playing with fireworks? Or
something more deadly?

"Shall we go inside and finish our
preparations?"

She crossed the threshold, fingering her
choker as she looked around. The room was maybe twenty by thirty,
whitewashed walls, white linoleum floor, white ceiling. The only
color came from a stack of grey folding chairs standing against one
wall and a dark wood cross hanging from the ceiling at the far end
of the room. To the right was a set of concrete stairs going down.
Walter crossed over to the stairs.

Lucy stalled. "What kind of church is
this?"

He stopped on the top step and turned back
to her. "We're a Pentecostal denomination. Small but actively
recruiting." He followed her gaze as she glanced around the empty
space. "We don't do a lot of sitting during our services. Not once
the good Lord starts moving in us."

She had to fight to hide her cringe. Two men
arranging for a private visit from a four-year-old little girl in a
house of worship, and Walter acted like this was perfectly
acceptable. Lucy had dealt with some major weirdos in her time, but
the creep factor here was at an all time high. She swept the
thought aside along with the emotions that ran with it. The
business at hand required all of her focus.

She followed Walter down the stairs. Each
footfall vibrated through her, jarring her to her core, unleashing
her fear.

Her father once told her there were only two
true emotions: fear and love. His words haunted her at times like
this. She loved her family, was constantly in fear that she might
not be able to keep them safe.

But that fear wouldn't stop her from getting
what she came for. She hoped that, God forbid, if her own child
ever needed help, someone would do the same for Megan.

The chill scent of earth, mildew, and metal
long exposed to water filled her nostrils. Sharp, nasty, the stench
of dirty, wet socks shoved into a hamper for too long.

At the bottom of the steps was a heavy
wooden door with hinges as thick as her fist. Pipes lined the wall
beside the door, traveling towards the outside wall and the stream
beyond. Walter heaved the door open and gestured for her to precede
him.

Again she paused just inside the door,
looking around. It was an antechamber, half the size of the room
above them, poorly lit by a few smudgy glass block windows high up
in the wall across from her. Pipes of various sizes, bristling with
valves, covered the wall beside her, converging into a rectangular
pool dug into the floor, maybe eight feet by ten. The air smelled
worse here. Small things crawling away in dark, dank corners to
die.

She couldn't tell how deep the pool was—some
kind of retaining area? Maybe for testing the water? Surely they
didn't use it for baptisms—the wall that she could see was slimy
with algae but enough water lined the bottom to paint the walls
with reflected light.

A man emerging from a doorway leading to
another room on the far side of the pool grabbed her attention. He
was dressed like Walter and carried a black leather Bible, using
both hands. Pastor Henry.

"Did you see the girl?" he asked Walter, his
gaze flicking off Lucy as if she were a scrap of trash the wind had
blown past.

"Yes. She's safe in the van. A little
angel." Walter still stood at the door. Lucy had no choice but to
move further into the room so that he could swing it shut behind
them. His voice had gained a singsong quality, his anticipation
revving up.

"Before we go any farther," Lucy said,
taking control of the situation, "I want to get everything clear.
First, I need the rest of the money. We agreed on two thousand
dollars up front, another thousand when I got here."

"You'll get your reward, never fear," Henry
said. "All we want is the girl."

"Where's your camera?" Lucy looked around.
This was feeling wrong on so many levels. Were they planning to
double cross her? She curled her arms around her chest as if she
were cold, slipping her hand inside her jacket, grabbing the
thirty-two. "You said all you wanted was to take pictures. That's
what we agreed on. No touching."

"That's what we said," Walter confirmed. He
was still behind her, blocking her exit.

She stepped backwards, closer to the pool,
so that she could keep them both in sight. As she did, she felt
more than heard a strange vibration. Rattling in the pipes?
Whatever it was, she didn't like it, it made it hard to
concentrate. And she needed to concentrate.

The men stood on opposite sides of the pool.
She had no idea who or what was behind the second door, the one
that Henry had emerged from, and tried to angle herself to keep it
in her periphery. "Do you want more? We can arrange it—if you have
enough cash."

Henry's smirk made it clear that he wanted
much more than photos. He stepped into the room, skirting the edge
of the pool, to stand shoulder to shoulder with Walter. Between her
and the door she came in through.

The water in the pool shimmered, bouncing
light over the white walls. There was something wrong about that,
there was no breeze in the room, so what was making the water
ripple? A circulating pump? Was that the source of the strange
buzzing noise?

"What exactly do you want?" she asked,
refusing to be distracted by the sparks of jade colored light
dancing across the walls or the eerie hum that made the hair on her
neck stand at attention. Both men kept their hands in plain sight,
but their faces now shared identical expressions of lust.

"We want to save Katie's soul, Sister Ruby,"
Walter said.

The door beside her opened. Lucy whirled to
keep it in sight as well as the two men. It meant putting her back
to the pool. The movement released a fresh cascade of adrenalin and
anxiety. Something about that pool wasn't right. It felt more
dangerous than the two men.

A woman emerged from the rear room, shutting
the door behind her before Lucy could see what lay beyond. She wore
a simple gray dress—home made? Her hands were empty, clasped before
her as if in prayer. "Is she here yet? My baby, has she come
home?"

"What the hell is going on here?" Lucy
demanded, her voice booming against the concrete walls.

"Pastor Henry and Sister Norma lost their
daughter recently." Walter spoke as if he were teaching catechism
to a particularly dim student.

The rear door opened again, this time
releasing another man and two more women. They stood, watching in
silence. Waiting.

Norma kept walking towards Lucy, her face
upturned, seeking the sun, the truth, something. Whatever it was,
she seemed to think Lucy had it. She stretched her arms out in
front of her. "Please, where is my baby?"

"Lady, I don't know what you're talking
about." Lucy made a judgment call. "The deal's off. There won't be
any play date." The last words emerged loud, adrenalin giving them
extra emphasis.

The thudding noise of the church door being
shoved open answered her use of the code word. Lucy allowed herself
to relax. Her team was on top of things.

"No!" Norma screeched across the space
between them, her body moving faster than her words. "You can't
take her from me!"

Lucy drew the thirty-two. "FBI. Stop right
there."

Too late. Norma plowed into Lucy with the
force of a linebacker. Lucy and Norma flew backwards. Into the
pool.

Lucy smacked into the concrete bottom,
landing on her left side and skidding across a scant inch or two of
water and algae. She brought her gun hand up, barely managing to
hang onto the thirty-two. Not that it was doing her any good. Norma
landed on top of her, knocking Lucy's breath away, clawing at
Lucy’s face.