by Kay Hooper
Samuel remembered few details of the next few hours, but he remembered a broad, coarse-featured face in which small eyes burned cruelly. And he remembered his mother’s glee, her laughing encouragement, as the john held him in one giant paw and literally ripped the worn, too-small clothing from his body.
He could hear her laughter even now, echoing in his mind. Hear the john’s hoarse grunts of sadistic pleasure. And he could feel his body ripping, tearing, feel the warm blood and the white-hot shimmering blaze of pure agony that had crackled across every nerve ending his small body possessed.
And then . . . nothing.
A darkness unlike anything he had ever known or imagined surrounded him, enfolded him in warmth. He felt strong. He felt calm. He felt cherished. He felt safe.
Samuel had no idea how long that had lasted, though judging by what he found when he woke up, it was hours at least.
The room was warm when he woke, which surprised him because the sort of motels his mother chose invariably had heaters and air conditioners that hadn’t worked in years, and this particular hovel was no exception.
The room was warm, and he was warm, and at some point he must have braved the stained and moldy bathtub, because he was clean and dressed. He wasn’t even sore, which surprised him a lot because he was always sore and that john had been so big—
Samuel saw him then. The john. Pinned to one wall of the room like a giant, ugly-ass butterfly in somebody’s collection. He was bloody. Very bloody. He looked surprised.
The knife his mother always carried was buried to the hilt in the john’s left wrist, and the knife Samuel had stolen for himself months before was likewise buried in the john’s right wrist.
Neither would have supported the huge man’s weight if not for the thick piece of wood protruding from the center of his chest, clearly driven into the wall behind him. It was a table leg, Samuel realized, from the rickety old table that had sat near the door.
He turned his head just far enough to see that the tabletop lay on the floor, upside down. With all four legs missing.
The room was utterly silent, except for his own suddenly audible breathing.
Slowly, Samuel turned to look at the wall across from where the john hung and saw his mother. Like him, she hung suspended, spread-eagled and pinned in place.
She looked surprised too.
One of the table legs, split neatly in half, pinned each of her wrists to the wall. Another table leg, also halved, had been driven through her legs just above her ankles.
The fourth and final table leg, whole, was driven into her body between her breasts, buried so deeply that only a few inches were visible enough to identify what it had been.
It looked like she had bled a lot; thick reddish stains coated the peeling wallpaper below her wrists and legs, and the short skirt she wore was no longer pale pink.
Samuel stared at her for a long, long time. He thought he should probably feel something, even if only relief, but all he felt was a kind of indifferent curiosity.
It must have taken a lot of strength, he thought, to have pinned the huge john to the wall. And he knew his mother, knew how ferociously she’d fight to defend herself. So it would have taken somebody strong to do that to her. Somebody really strong.
Her eyes were open, he realized.
Open—and white. No color at all.
When he looked at the john, he saw the same. Eyes open. But totally without color.
Weird.
He still didn’t feel anything and for a long time just sat there looking back and forth between the two dead bodies. Eventually he got up and dragged his mother’s old duffel bag from inside the closet. Since they never unpacked, his few bits of clothing and her things were still in it. He dumped all the contents on the bed, then picked out his own things and put them back in the duffel.
He raided the bathroom of its meager supplies of threadbare towels and tiny shrink-wrapped soaps and put those in his bag. He found on the floor the man’s pants and emptied the pockets, finding a big switchblade, a few coins, a couple of crumpled receipts, and a wallet. The wallet had several credit cards and a surprisingly thick wad of cash.
Samuel hadn’t spent more than a week at any one time in school, but when it came to money, he could count. Twenty-seven hundred dollars.
It was a fortune. It was enough.
He put the money and the knife in the duffel, then added to it the far-less-princely sum he found in his mother’s secret hiding place. Less than two hundred dollars.
He put the last of her cigarettes in the duffel, weighed her lighter in one hand for a moment, then set it aside and zipped the bag closed. It was heavy even with so little in it, but he was strong for his size and lifted it easily. He picked up his mother’s lighter and went to the door, pausing only then to look back at the bodies.
He wondered idly what had happened to their eyes, because that was just weird. Really weird.
Then he shrugged it off, life so far having taught him that if the answer wasn’t obvious, it was probably best left alone.
The lighter was the kind you didn’t throw away, the kind with a lid that opened and a wheel that turned and sparked off a flint. He opened the lid and turned the wheel with his thumb, and for a moment he just watched the small flame. Then he tossed the lighter to land on the floor near the bed, where an ugly, stained bedspread lay crumpled.
Immediately, it began to burn.
Adam Deacon Samuel unlocked the door and left the motel room, closing the door behind him. He turned right, because it seemed as good a direction as any other, and started walking. He never looked back at the burning building.
He was ten years old.
Tessa struggled to breathe.
Pain. Awful, soul-rending pain that wasn’t only physical but emotional as well. Pain that washed over her in waves, each one greater than the last.
And darkness. A darkness so black it was almost beyond comprehension, so black it swallowed all the light and reached hungrily for life. Reaching . . . grasping . . .
She could hear herself trying to breathe, hear the jerky little pants, but every other sense was turned inward as she grappled with the pain, tried to dull it.
Hurt . . .
Mute it.
Hurt . . .
Deflect it.
Hurt . . .
She tried to feel her way through the horrible darkness, beyond it.
It seemed impossibly difficult for the longest time, for what seemed eons, until finally, faintly, she became aware of other things besides the continual burning pain.
Sensations. Emotions. Fragmented thoughts.
. . . the poor thing . . .
. . . must get away . . .
. . . should it feel so good?
. . . have to get away . . .
. . . joy . . . utter joy . . .
. . . why did he kill them?
. . . it won’t happen . . .
. . . why them?
. . . have to get Lexie out of here . . .
. . . it can’t happen . . .
. . . if that’s what heaven is . . .
. . . escape . . .
. . . he takes . . .
. . . takes . . .
I’m hungry.
Her eyes snapped open, and Tessa stared fixedly at the stall door. That last bald statement, stark in the darkness, gnawing in its hollow desperation, echoed inside her mind. For no more than a heartbeat or two, she had the sense of an emptiness so great it was almost beyond her ability to grasp.
And then it was gone. All the other emotions, gone. The bits and pieces of thoughts, gone. The overwhelming pain was gone.
She was safely protected, once again, behind her shields.
Tessa drew a breath and felt her hands slide down the cold tile, felt the ache in her arms that told her she had been literally pushing against the walls of the trap she had felt in her mind.
I see you.
Hard as she tried, Tessa couldn’t decide if that clear statem
ent, that amazingly strong presence, had been positive or negative. She thought it was not the same “voice” that had declared its hunger, because that voice had definitely come out of the darkness.
I see you.
Who saw her? Who was able to reach her like that? Able to reach her mind, semiguarded though it had been, and deliver that simple, clear statement?
She got to her feet, shaky, and automatically flushed the toilet before leaving the stall. She went to one of the sinks and stared at her reflection in the mirror, only then aware that her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes red-rimmed.
It might, she supposed, look like grief.
But the trickle of blood from one nostril would not.
Tessa got some tissue and wiped away the blood, conscious now that her head was throbbing and she was chilled to the bone. Neither of those things was something she had ever experienced before while using her abilities.
Had her own efforts caused it, leaving her vulnerable to damage from the sheer force of the energies in this place? Could it be that simple, that—relatively—unthreatening?
Or had it been a specific attack, force directed at her?
She didn’t know.
But either possibility was frightening.
When she was sure the bleeding had stopped, she splashed water on her face, then dried it with a paper towel, wondering how long she had been in here. Not as long as it seemed, surely, or else Ruth would have been knocking at the door.
Right on cue, a soft knock fell.
Tessa gave her reflection one last look, squared her shoulders, and then went to open the restroom door.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be so long.”
“Oh, no, child, no need to apologize.” Ruth’s sharp face softened, and she reached out to pat Tessa’s shoulder. “I should be the one to say I’m sorry, to have upset you.”
“It wasn’t you, honestly. Just . . . I just felt overwhelmed for a few minutes. It happens sometimes.”
“But less and less often. I know, child. I’m a widow myself.” “Then you understand.” She managed a smile, wondering if it ever got any easier, pretending to be something she wasn’t.
“Of course I understand. Everyone here understands, believe me. We’ve all faced loss of some kind. Grief. Pain. And we’ve all found solace here.”
As the older woman took a step back, Tessa came out of the restroom and joined her in the vestibule. She was just about to say something about still being unsure, knowing it would be viewed with suspicion if she seemed to give way and give in too suddenly, when three other people appeared from inside the church, paused near the front doors, then came toward them.
“Oh, dear,” Ruth murmured beneath her breath.
The obvious cop was the young woman, hardly more than a girl, really, who wore her crisp uniform with an entirely visible pride. But the man on her right was also a cop, if Tessa was any judge, even though he didn’t wear a uniform. At least a decade older than the young woman, he was casual in dark slacks and a leather jacket worn over an open-collar shirt. No tie. In fact, the shirt looked somewhat rumpled.
He looked somewhat rumpled.
His square jaw was shadowed by a faint beard that probably needed shaving more than once a day, and his dark hair looked as though fingers or wind had ruffled it in the very recent past. But there was nothing untidy or careless about that level, darkeyed gaze.
Oh, yeah. Definitely a cop.
Tessa looked at the third person, a tall man with wide shoulders and the most coldly handsome face she had ever seen on something not made of actual stone. He had thick fair hair and pale blue eyes, and even though he was expressionless and without the pleasant, eerily serene smile worn by practically every other person she had seen here, he unquestionably belonged.
With an effort, Tessa pulled her gaze away from that hard face.
“Hello, Mrs. Gray,” the male cop greeted her. His tone was probably meant to be polite, but nature had given him a rough, gruff voice that rumbled slightly and made his words somewhat abrupt.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Have we met?”
“Not officially. I’m Chief Cavenaugh. Sawyer Cavenaugh. I knew your husband.”
Oh, great. That’s just great. Because I never met the man.
Five
SAWYER WASN’T all that surprised to find Tessa Gray here in the Compound and within the church. A woman in her situation—newly widowed, alone in a strange town, and quite wealthy in terms of property and business—was just the sort of potential church member who would have been on their radar from the day she arrived in Grace.
Possibly even before she arrived.
He had intended to warn her but had wanted to give her a week or so to settle in here. And then people had begun going missing, anxious relatives had been calling him, and bodies had turned up. Warning Tessa Gray about the aggressive recruiting practices of the Church of the Everlasting Sin had simply fallen down his list of priorities.
He was sorry about that now.
She’d been pointed out to him in town, from a distance; up close, she looked even more vulnerable, more fragile. And also very attractive.
With a slight, strained smile, she extended her hand, saying, “I’m sorry, Chief Cavenaugh. Jared didn’t say much to me about Grace or the people he knew growing up here. He told me he left for college and never came back.”
“No, as far as I know, he never did. We weren’t close,” he felt compelled to add, “so we didn’t keep in touch.”
Extremely attractive.
Don’t be a jerk and hit on your dead childhood friend’s widow when he’s barely in the ground, Sawyer chided himself, holding that delicate hand as gently as he could manage—and very aware of DeMarco’s silent attention. And don’t provide the ghoul with his amusement for the day.
Even so, he heard himself saying, “Call me Sawyer, please.”
“Thank you. I’m Tessa.”
Sawyer forced himself to release her hand, very reluctantly. “If there’s anything I can do to make things easier for you, Tessa, I hope you’ll let me know.” Idiot. Could you sound any more awkward?
“I appreciate that,” she responded, grave now.
Belatedly, Sawyer introduced Robin Keever to the others, and then Ruth Hardin introduced Reese DeMarco to Tessa.
So now we all know who we are.
Sawyer didn’t know why, but he couldn’t seem to shut up the sarcastic voice in his head. It was, actually, a bit unnerving.
“The chief had some questions,” DeMarco told Ruth. “What we heard was true. There was another body found in the river this morning.”
“Oh, how awful.” Ruth shook her head. “Do they know who it was?”
“The chief seemed to feel we might know that.”
“That we might know? Why?”
“Because of Ellen, I gather.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” DeMarco said dryly.
The chief sounds like a moron.
Ruth looked at Sawyer. “Poor Ellen. We do feel that we failed her, Chief Cavenaugh.” She sounded genuinely troubled. “If we had only known how upset she was—”
“Mrs. Hardin, no one here even reported Ellen Hodges missing, something I find surprising since she was clearly in the river at least a few days before her body was discovered. Nor has her husband or daughter been reported missing, despite the fact that neither can be found.”
“Chief, our church is hardly a prison. We told you—showed you—that Ken and Wendy’s clothing and other things are gone. That the family car is gone. Obviously, whatever caused Ellen to take her life—”
“She did not commit suicide,” Sawyer said.
Ruth’s chin jutted stubbornly. “I know what I believe, Chief. I’m very, very sorry Ellen couldn’t find what she needed in our church, in us, but I am absolutely convinced that no one here had anything to do with this tragedy.”
“Yes,” Sawyer said. “I know you are.” But no
t all of you are convinced. At least one of you knows otherwise.
He glanced at Tessa, a little surprised that she was so still and silent, and even more surprised when he caught her gaze for only an instant and saw an unexpected sharpness lurking in those big gray eyes.
Huh. Maybe not so vulnerable, after all?
“In any case,” DeMarco said, his tone still dry, “excepting the Hodges, we’re all present and accounted for, as I told the chief.”
Ruth nodded. “Absolutely. Everyone was at morning prayers today.”
“As I’m sure you’ll all swear,” Sawyer muttered.
“Of course. It’s the truth.”
I wish I could see something unexpected in her eyes. But, no. She believes what she’s saying. She always does.
“I’d still like to talk to Reverend Samuel.”
“The reverend is at his afternoon prayers, Chief. A very important private time of quiet and meditation for him, especially before evening services. And you don’t, after all, have any evidence connecting the unfortunate person found today in the river with any of us or our church.” DeMarco’s smile was hardly worth the effort and never came close to warming his eyes.
Robin cleared her throat and shifted her slight weight just a bit.
She could stand a little inscrutable right about now.
“I have plenty of evidence,” Sawyer said stubbornly, “connecting Ellen Hodges to all of you and this church. And while I’m sure Mrs. Hardin is completely sincere in her beliefs, my job requires me to explore that evidence.”
“Which you have done,” DeMarco countered.
“It’s an open case. A death under mysterious circumstances.” “Mysterious?”
“She didn’t drown,” Sawyer said. “She didn’t die of a heart attack or a stroke. She wasn’t shot or stabbed or hit over the head. But she is dead. And I will find out what happened to her.”
Yeah, toss a gauntlet at his feet. That’ll probably work out just great.
“I’m sure you will, Chief.”
