Ritual Sins

by Anne Stuart

  The old lady couldn’t move. She could only glare at him.

  “You’ve spent the last twenty years telling everyone I killed your precious Jackson, but you’ve never been able to prove it. And you’ve never really known for sure, have you, Granny?” He used the term mockingly.

  He came closer. “Well, guess what? That old son of a bitch, and I mean that literally, was trying to blow his brains out that day. I came in and he had that damned shotgun in his mouth. He was so goddamned drunk he didn’t know what he was doing, and I was going to sit there and enjoy myself, watch as he splattered his brains all over that house.

  “But then he saw me. And I guess he must have figured he ought to take me with him, because he started to point the gun at me. And I knew if I didn’t do something damned fast it wold be my brains for wallpaper.

  “And you know something, Esther? I didn’t want to die. God knows why, but I’ve always had an amazing capacity for life. So I grabbed the gun and just blew that cocksucker away. Just like you thought I did.”

  Esther’s shriveled mouth worked in impotent rage, but apart from one clutching hand, she couldn’t move.

  “Tell you what,” he said softly. “Say hi to Jackson for me when you meet up with him in hell. It won’t be too long now.”

  He should have felt purged when he left that house of death, with the old woman lying there. Cleansed, rejuvenated. Instead he felt like shit. He hadn’t finished what he’d come to do. He’d accomplished more than he’d ever thought—nailing Rachel Connery, retrieving his stash of money, settling his accounts with the old harridan who still visited his nightmares.

  But he still had one more thing to do.

  It was night. The jet was stuck on the runway in Mobile, waiting for the fog to lift. Rachel stared out the window, watching the rain run down the layered glass, ignoring her own hollow-eyed reflection. There was always, she thought, the unspeakable possibility that she could get pregnant. Or AIDS.

  She wasn’t sure which disaster she’d prefer. If Luke Bardell had AIDS then he was doomed along with her, and dying was a small price to pay for a suitable revenge. If it came to that.

  She wasn’t particularly in the mood to die. She’d been a suicidal adolescent, but not a very adept one. She’d always taken just enough pills to make herself throw up, cut just deep enough with the razor to make it hurt. You couldn’t even see the faint white scars crisscrossing her wrists unless you looked closely. And she did her best not to let anyone get close enough to look.

  She wasn’t quite sure when the desire to kill herself had left her. She’d missed it at first. When things got really bad she could always weave elaborate fantasies about her own death, and it made the world fade into relative unimportance.

  But she’d lost it somewhere along the way. Suicide was no longer an option—she had to face the mess she made for herself.

  And that was another unpleasant realization. She much preferred to blame other people, particularly her family, for the things that went wrong with her life. She seemed to have lost that ability as well, though that had left her more recently. She was coming to the unpleasant, unacceptable conclusion that she was responsible for her own life. Stella was dead. So was the past.

  Still and all, she thought, she’d rather be dying than pregnant. Than be carrying Luke Bardell’s bastard.

  She didn’t want children, she told herself. They got hurt too easily, and she couldn’t stand to see a child of hers wounded. If she had a child she wouldn’t be able to do a damned thing to keep her safe but love her, and that wasn’t enough.

  Or was it?

  She couldn’t remember when she last had her period—it was an inconvenience she tended to ignore. It might have been two weeks ago, it might have been longer. Of course she’d done nothing about birth control. Why should she, when she’d had no intention of ever having sex again, with anyone.

  So much for good intentions. She wasn’t going to think about it. About lying beneath him on the hard mattress, clinging to him. Crying.

  On second thought, maybe death wasn’t such a bad idea after all. At least then she wouldn’t have to live with the demoralizing memory of her defeat.

  That’s what it had been, of course. And that’s what he had wanted. He hadn’t wanted to have sex with her. He’d wanted to finish her off, to show her just how helpless she was against the likes of him.

  He’d done an excellent job of it. She could still feel his rain-slick, sweat-slick body against hers. Feel the hard metal side of the van as he shoved her up against it. She could still feel a faint tremor shimmering through her body at the thought of what had happened next.

  People didn’t get pregnant from a one-night stand. Or one afternoon stand. She was borrowing trouble, when she already had a plateful. If this goddamned plane would just get off the runway and take her out of this godforsaken state, then she’d be all right. She wanted to go somewhere cold.

  It was too hot and muggy in Alabama. It was too hot and dry in New Mexico. She wanted snow, she wanted to wrap herself in sweaters and down comforters and keep herself safe.

  It was a little late for that. Rather like locking the barn door after the horse was stolen. She’d known Luke Bardell was trouble the first moment she laid eyes on him, and if her usual defenses had been working right she would have kept her distance. Concentrated on keeping herself safe, and the hell with vengeance and money.

  But she hadn’t. She’d let anger, grief, and an anonymous letter make her forget everything she’d worked so hard to protect. And now her life was in tatters.

  Right now she wasn’t sure what she was going to do. Find someplace and see what she could do about healing. About putting her defenses back together, protecting herself from the harm Luke Bardell had done to her.

  When she was feeling stronger, colder, fiercer, she would make a list. A plan. She would decide what she wanted from the messiah of the Foundation of Being, whether it was money or revenge or simply exposing him as the fraud he was. And she would go after that goal, and accomplish it, with no further distractions.

  After all, how bad was it? So she’d had sex with him. Twice. So she hadn’t been physically ill. That wasn’t saying much.

  All right, it was more than that. He’d been able to make her respond the way she’d never imagined, and she hated him for it. Because she already craved that feeling again, and it made her vulnerable.

  But in the long run, maybe it would do her good. Maybe, eventually, she’d find a decent, loving man who would be a partner to her. Maybe she could live a storybook life in a white cottage with a picket fence and two point three children and a minivan.

  And maybe pigs could fly.

  She didn’t want life in the suburbs, and she certainly didn’t want a man. Despite Luke’s efforts to convince her otherwise.

  He’d simply been able to bring about a normal, physiological reaction that she hadn’t experienced before. She could learn to bring it on herself—most women did. It was perfectly natural, and there was no reason she had to make a federal case out of it. Luke was used to manipulating other people, emotionally, physically, sexually. She should have realized just how dangerous he could be.

  She knew now. She wouldn’t go anywhere near him unless she was completely invulnerable, fortified against his insidious charm. He probably thought he’d managed to drive her away forever. He probably hoped he had. It was a small price to pay for twelve million dollars—one afternoon of enforced sex with an angry woman.

  But he was mistaken if he thought he’d won so easily. This war was far from over. She would be back, stronger than ever. And she would win.

  She suddenly realized the plane had started moving, taxiing down the runway. She gripped her armrest and closed her eyes, breathing a small sigh of relief. She wanted to get out of Alabama. She wanted to get away from her memories.

  But most of all, she wanted something to eat.

  Luke Bardell, savior of the world, prodigal son of Coffin’s Grove, Alabama,
leaned against the side of the ancient van and stared at the old house. He was smoking another cigarette, even though he didn’t really want it. That was one blessing in his otherwise disastrous life—he just plain didn’t have an addictive personality. He could smoke a pack of cigarettes in one day flat and then not even care the next day. He could drink one hundred proof whiskey from a bottle for weeks on end and switch over to mineral water at the retreat without a twinge. He could bang everything in sight and then settle in for a long stretch of celibacy with no great hardship.

  Except, maybe, for Rachel Connery. He was already missing her. Wanting her. Lusting after her, which was damned stupid, considering she was so inexperienced in bed. He thought making her come would be enough of a triumph. Now he wanted to push it further than that. See if he could get her to make love to him. Climb on top and take him, maybe use her mouth …

  He shoved himself away from the van with a muttered curse. If he had any luck left in the amount allotted to him by a disinterested creator, then she’d be long gone and he’d never have to see her again. Which would be the best possible thing for both of them.

  He still had the scent of her on his hands. He could still feel her arms around him, hear her strangled cry of completion and despair. Hell, he’d probably screwed up her life more than she had his. She thought she knew who she was. He’d just taught her she didn’t know shit.

  She was one hell of a woman, he had to grant her that. Every time he thought he’d won, she’d come back with a new piece of ammunition. He’d be a fool to think she’d stop now, just because he’d managed to nail her. And his mama didn’t raise no fools.

  There were a couple of gas cans by the back door—he’d put them there several days ago. Dusk was closing down around him, and the mosquitoes were getting nasty. He took the cans, walking through the old house, sloshing the gas as he went.

  He spilled some in his old bedroom, where he used to hide under the bed when Jackson would come looking for him. He spilled some in Jackson’s bedroom as well, where the old man used to lie, drunk and snoring, with his fragile, frightened young wife beside him.

  He drenched the bloodstain on the parlor floor. He could still see Jackson’s body lying there, bits of brain and bone sticking to the wall. He’d stunk—his bladder and bowels had automatically emptied moments after his death, and Luke had just stood there, staring at the man he’d hated beyond reason. The man he still hated.

  He dumped the empty can, then wandered back out to the van, humming under his breath, an old hymn his mama had taught him. “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.”

  The engine started right up. It was well tuned—Coltrane saw to that when Luke wasn’t there. Still humming, he put it into gear and jammed his foot on the accelerator.

  He smashed through the front of the house, through one of the empty window frames, knocking down decrepit walls, until the van finally came to a stop against the chimney. He sat there for a moment, dazed, then climbed out of the van. Leaving everything behind.

  “What a fellowship, what a joy divine, leaning on the everlasting arms …” he sang softly, pushing his way through the wreckage of the old house. He stopped at the broken doorway, looking back. “Safe and secure from all alarm …” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled pack of cigarettes, the ancient Zippo that had once belonged to an old, old friend.

  “Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.” He let his voice rumble through the gathering dusk. He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and stared into the dark house. And then he tossed the lighter inside.

  He’d kind of hoped for an instant conflagration. The fire smoldered, then ran along the line of spilled gas. The place didn’t explode until he was almost half a mile up the road.

  He was on the third verse by then, the words emblazoned in his memory. The mosquitoes gave him wide berth, and the sun set low on the horizon. He was walking away from Coffin’s Grove, and he wouldn’t be back.

  Maybe now he could rest in peace. With Jackson’s house consigned to the fiery flames where Jackson no doubt resided already. Sent there by his stepson’s loving hands.

  “Safe and secure from all alarm,” he sang out loud, and the buzz of the mosquitoes sang counterpoint.

  PART THREE

  SANTA DOLORES, NEW MEXICO

  18

  “It’s about goddamn time you got your ass back here,” Calvin greeted him.

  Luke leaned against the door, shoving a hand through his hair as he stared at the little man. Calvin worried too much about him, he knew that, but there hadn’t been much he could do to stop him.

  “Anybody ask about me?” he said, pushing away and walking into the living area of his supposedly ascetic retreat room. The wall of television monitors shimmered in the shadowy light of the room, and he headed straight for the black refrigerator, grabbing a cold bottle of beer.

  “What do you think?” Calvin demanded. “I’ve been fighting them off in droves. Several of the Grandfathers want to discuss financial strategy with you. Catherine wants to talk to you. Bobby Ray is whining about missing you. Everybody else wants to sleep with you.” He stared at him with growing suspicion. “But you’ve already taken care of that little problem, haven’t you? Who was it this time? Anyone I know?”

  “Jealous?” Luke said lazily.

  “Not particularly. You’re not my type,” Calvin shot back. “Why the hell didn’t you change out of those black clothes? What if someone had seen you?”

  “Then I’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle,” he said recklessly, draining half the bottle of beer and staring blindly at the security monitors.

  “You may be willing to throw this all away, but I’ve put a lot of hard work into the last seven years. I’m not about to let it go up in a puff of smoke because you’ve gotten bored. Speaking of which, you stink of cigarettes.”

  Luke leaned back. “I’m planning on taking a shower.”

  “Who did you sleep with?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I want to make sure it isn’t some fool waitress who’ll show up claiming to be pregnant and then I’ll have to get rid of her. That sort of thing gets too damned dangerous.”

  Luke looked at him. He was tired, foul-tempered, and horny. It had been a week since he’d left Coffin’s Grove, a week thinking about going after Rachel. He hadn’t, but he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind either. Calvin wasn’t improving his mood any.

  “Have you gotten rid of anyone before?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

  Calvin’s shrug should have been convincing. “Your paranoia’s gotten out of hand, Luke. You seem to forget, everyone around here thinks you’re the next messiah. Except for Stella’s nasty little daughter …” He stopped, and his dark face paled slightly. “No,” he said flatly.

  “No, what? No, you haven’t gotten rid of anyone?”

  But Calvin wasn’t about to be derailed. “You didn’t sleep with Rachel Connery. Tell me you weren’t that goddamned stupid and self-destructive.”

  Luke slouched in the comfortable chair, stretching his dusty, black-clad legs in front of him. “All right, I won’t tell you,” he said, draining the beer.

  It took Calvin a minute to pull himself together. He came over and sat down at Luke’s feet, looking up at him out of deeply troubled eyes. “Why, Luke?”

  Luke just shook his head. “Hell, I don’t know. I can give you a dozen reasons but none of them is the right one. Maybe it all boils down to the fact that she was there when I needed to get laid.”

  “Where?”

  “Coffin’s Grove.”

  “Shit! Are you out of your fucking mind? What was she doing there?”

  “What do you think? She was trying to find out some new way to destroy me.”

  “Sounds like you gave her perfect ammunition.”

  Luke stretched back and closed his eyes. “She would have found her own. Besides, you don’t seem to have much faith in me. Maybe I fucked her so well she’s now
madly in love with me.”

  “Maybe. If she were like most women. Knowing her, she probably still wants to kill you.”

  Luke found he could manage a small, cold grin. “Probably,” he agreed.

  “So where is she now? Telling the newspapers about it?”

  Luke shook his head. “I doubt it. I expect she’ll be showing up here sooner or later.”

  “The Grandfathers aren’t going to like hearing about this. Sometimes I think they’re just as in love with you as everyone else around here is.”

  “Except you, Calvin.”

  “Except me,” he said flatly. “We’ll have to do something about her. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You tried before. You do anything again and I’ll break your scrawny little neck.”

  “Isn’t that getting a little intimate? I thought you usually shot or stabbed your victims.”

  “You’re annoying me, Calvin.”

  Calvin snorted in profound disapproval. “What are you going to do about her? Are you going to let her destroy everything we’ve worked so hard for?”

  “Maybe,” Luke said dreamily.

  He could feel Calvin’s frozen fury. Calvin was the only one who dared get angry with him, but somehow the charm had begun to wear off.

  “I won’t let you do that,” he said.

  Luke looked at him, very calmly. “You can’t stop me,” he said. And he closed his eyes again.

  He hadn’t wanted to return to Santa Dolores. It had taken him more than a week to make himself return, a week he’d spent bumming around the southern part of the country, drinking too much, smoking too much, too damned angry and horny to even bother jerking off. He had no idea where Rachel Connery had disappeared to, and he didn’t care.

  At least, he didn’t think so.

  He was so damned weary of the life he’d made for himself. He was sick and tired of saintliness and celibacy, he was sick and tired of feeling responsible for the hundred or so gullible souls who flocked to the meditation center and loaded the coffers with their disposable income. Siphoning off a generous proportion was too damned easy, and now Calvin had started making demands as well. Demands he didn’t particularly feel like meeting.