Danny tipped his head. “Let me guess. That’s when Johnson tossed you out.”
“No. He was very patient right up until I said that something feels unfinished—like it’s not over yet. Then his face turned purple, and he showed me the door.”
“What does Luke think?” Danny asked evenly.
“Luke thinks I’m having some sort of posttraumatic stress reaction. He thinks I’m experiencing natural anxiety, and I’m looking for an explanation as to why I still feel fearful even though Scourge is dead.”
A low laugh, then Danny said, “Now everyone’s a shrink. But, that sounds right to me.” He scratched his chin. “Still, I wouldn’t dismiss the feeling altogether. If your hunch is based on some detail you’ve forgotten, you’ll remember it eventually. That detail is like a word on the tip of your tongue. Relax. Stop trying so hard, and eventually, it will come to you. Once it does, go back to Johnson and make him listen.”
There was a knock on the door.
Faith answered, and Katie barreled in, nearly knocking her to the ground with her hug. “Aunt Faith. Aunt Faith. I love you!”
“Katie. Katie. I love you more!”
A long time passed before Faith and Katie stopped hugging. When they finally broke apart, Danny’s new wife, Sky, took a quick turn. “Good to see you, Faith. I know Katie and Danny will try to hog you while we’re here, but I hope you and I can steal some time for shopping and girl talk.” Sky beamed at Faith. “I’m dying to hear about your new man.”
Faith’s cheeks grew warm. “You mean . . .”
Another knock sounded, then Luke, carrying three bouquets of gardenias, let himself inside. The sweetest fragrance filled the room as he handed a bouquet to Sky and Katie, then tried to hand the last one off to Danny. Laughing, Faith intercepted the final bouquet for herself. “New man? You must mean Luke Jericho.” Then her heart cracked open. “Luke,” she said, “I’d like you to meet my family.”
THIRTY-TWO
Saturday, August 24, 5:00 P.M.
Luke drew Faith’s eye like the last morsel of chocolate on a dessert platter. Amidst the buzzing throng at the art gallery, she could tell which ladies were Santa Fe royalty by their Dolce and Gabbana frocks belted with turquoise. Their male counterparts she knew by their Armani shirts adorned with bolo ties. Luke boasted the same garb, but one glance was all she needed to pick him out from across the crowded room.
The way he held one shoulder slightly higher than the other; the way he bent one leg at the knee when he was concentrating had become as recognizable, as essential to her, as her own heartbeat. His back was to her, so she took her time, raking her gaze across his broad shoulders and down his arms, where the hard contours of his muscles strained against the sleeves of his best silk shirt.
Luke.
Luke had been planning this art gala to benefit the Big Brothers and Big Sisters of Santa Fe for the better part of a year. Proceeds from all works sold would go to the charity, and a large and very generous crowd was in attendance. When the event coincided with Dante’s release from jail, Luke came up with the brilliant plan of including Dante’s works in the exhibit. What better way to reintroduce his brother to society than as a gifted artist rather than a demented serial killer. Town gossips had been flaming about Dante since his arrest, and Luke knew it was a risk to show Dante’s work here tonight, but that was exactly why he’d insisted on doing so. Luke wanted his brother to know he wasn’t ashamed of him. He wanted to celebrate Dante’s talents in a big way.
Faith glided to Luke’s side and slipped her hand in his, studied the painting he was studying. For a long time, they stood together in silence, letting the intensity of the piece in front of them suck them inside its strange, foreboding world. Of all Dante’s works, this mixed-media was the best she’d seen, the one that evoked the most emotion. Tilting her head, she cocked her front foot back on its stiletto and focused all her attention on the dark forest depicted in the painting. The greens and browns and watery textures seemed so familiar, so real she could practically smell the musk-soaked night. Suddenly, a restless beat began drumming in her ears, slowly at first, but then picking up speed, beating fast and hard, like rain falling on a canopy of trees. Dropping Luke’s hand, she shook her head slightly, then cupped her ears, but the beat only played louder.
There was something troubling about this particular painting, something sinister about its inky woods with rivulets of water cutting through layers of moss and dead fronds on the ground. With a hypnotic rhythm still drumming in her ears, her gaze honed in on a patch of moonlight illuminating flat eyes. The eyes belonged to an old woman—a faint, nearly translucent image on the canvas—which must be why she hadn’t discerned her form until this moment. Black robes flowed around the woman, blending seamlessly into the night. Her face seemed eerily disconnected from her body, floating in a starless sky.
A ghost head.
A shiver hummed down her spine.
In her mind, she heard Scourge’s grotesque whisper:
In my dream, we’re deep in the woods, miles from the boys’ dormitory, and my thighs are burning because I walked all this way with Sister Bernadette on my back. Now I’ve got her laid out on the soggy ground underneath a hulking ponderosa pine. A bright rim of moonlight encircles her face. Black robes flow around her, engulf her small body and blend with the night. Her face, floating on top of all that darkness, reminds me of a ghost head in a haunted house.
A ghost head.
As she let herself be drawn deeper into the wooded scene, her stomach clenched, flushing acid up the back of her throat. This reminded her of Scourge’s dream—a dream so detailed, so powerful, she believed it had to be real. She swallowed down the bitter taste in her mouth. This painting held that same power. It was almost as if the artist—as if Dante—had been with Scourge in the woods that night, as if Dante had recorded the murder of Sister Bernadette in his mind and later reproduced it in this painting.
But that was impossible.
She passed a hand in front of her face, waving away the horrible thought.
“Your fascination fascinates me.” Luke said, making her jump back. One high heel collapsed. Her ankle twisted. She barely managed to keep her balance.
She’d been so lost in the painting that she’d forgotten where she was. Now the pain in her ankle pulled her back to reality. This painting was a work of art, the source of which was Dante’s undeniably brooding imagination. There was nothing more to it than that. Her breathing slowed, and she raised her hand, touching the notch of her throat where her pulse throbbed hotly against her skin.
In therapy, she’d ventured so deep inside Scourge’s head, it was understandable that at times she’d see the world through his eyes. He’d described what she now believed to be the very real murder of Sister Bernadette to her in such sickening detail, she worried she’d never be able to see the world the same way again. She doubted she’d ever be able to free herself entirely from the vile images that had been burned into her brain, courtesy of Scourge Teodori. A hard sigh escaped her lips. According to Dr. Caitlin Cassidy, the weight of Scourge’s diseased thoughts would grow lighter and more bearable with time.
Please let that time come soon.
This was not how Faith wanted to view the world or the people around her—with suspicion and dread. One person, though, she knew she could trust. Seeking the comfort she’d come to find in Luke, she turned to him. “Sorry. I’m afraid my mind was somewhere else. What’d you say, again?”
He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, sending a frisson of electricity across her skin. “I’ve been trying to tell you for the longest time, Clancy. You’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever known.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Seeing your mind far away like that makes me want to crawl inside your head and eavesdrop on your thoughts. I want to go to that faraway place with you. I have since the fir
st moment I laid eyes on you.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” she said, a little more sharply than she’d intended. Being inside another person’s head wasn’t a picnic in the best of cases, and in the worst of cases . . .
Her mind was wandering again. She jerked her attention back to Luke. She could never forget that evil existed, but Luke reminded her of all that was good. He gave her the strength to move forward.
“The first time I saw you,” he said, “you were standing in front of this very piece, wearing that same white-hot blue dress with that same intense look on your face, your mouth pulled sideways, just the way it is now. You couldn’t take your eyes off Dante’s Dark Woods, and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And now here we are again, only now I can touch you, and you won’t disappear.” He lifted her chin with his thumb. “Promise me you won’t disappear, Faith.”
Her breath released in a rush. “I promise.”
A moment ago, she’d been staring at this painting, feeling as though she stood witness to a murder in progress. And a trace of a tremor still ran through her arms, but just knowing Luke wanted to stand by her side made her shoulders feel lighter, the world less heavy. Luke was here with her, and he’d provided her a perfectly good explanation for that sick feeling of déjà vu she’d had—a perfectly good explanation that had nothing to do with the Santa Fe Saint or Sister Bernadette’s murder. The tightness in her chest all but vanished. “So that’s why this scene seems so familiar. I’ve actually seen this painting before—the first time I came to your gallery.”
“The day we first met.” He nodded, then continued, “Believe it or not, as evocative as this painting is, it’s one of Dante’s earliest pieces.” He rested his cheek in his palm. “I think he actually started on this one while he was still at St. Catherine’s. Can you imagine? I really think it’s his best work.”
The sensation that her entire world was about to irrevocably change replaced her momentary sense of relief. When she turned back to Dark Woods, she could feel its bleakness chill her skin, taste its poison on her tongue, see its evil wafting from the canvas in greasy black waves. Unable to look away, she leaned closer. Now she saw that the old woman lying prone on forest floor clasped a string of beads. Faith briskly rubbed her hands against her sides, trying to brush away the tingling in her palms. She closed her eyes, reopened them one at a time, wishing the image away. But the beads remained.
The rosary remained.
“Clancy, are you listening to me? Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Luke’s tone seemed more amused than angry.
“Of course,” she murmured, and stumbled back, her ankle throbbing in protest. She looked up at Luke, tried to focus on the warmth in his eyes, tried with all her might not to let her gaze return to Dark Woods. But it was no use. The woman in the painting called out to her, a desperate soul begging for help. As she gazed in horror, the black-and-white brushstrokes swirling across the canvas no longer seemed abstract, open to the viewer’s interpretation. The subject of this painting was perfectly clear to her now, and she couldn’t unsee it—a nun sprawled lifeless beneath a hulking ponderosa pine.
Yet . . . it was possible she’d misheard . . . wasn’t it? Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “W-where did you say Dante painted this?”
“At St. Catherine’s School for Boys. Our father claimed he sent Dante away to that awful place to straighten him out, to socialize him and teach him right from wrong. Dad said that if Dante kept heading down the path he was on, he’d wind up in jail or worse. But I know the truth. My father banished Dante from our lives because his presence at the ranch was a constant reminder to my mother and me that, for years, Dad had been living a secret life. Once Dante’s mother died, there was no one to stop my father from turning his back on Dante. Dad tried to persuade mother and me that Dante had no moral compass, but we both knew it was really my father who didn’t know right from wrong.”
His words floated around in the air, and it took her extra time to hear and process them. She braced her hand on Luke’s strong shoulder.
Dante was sent to St. Catherine’s School for Boys.
Depending on the years he attended, he might have known Scourge. And that meant it was possible he’d been in the woods with Scourge that night. It was possible Dante had witnessed Sister Bernadette’s murder.
It was even possible Dante had been more than a witness.
But . . . Scourge never mentioned a partner.
She shuddered.
The voice.
More than once, Scourge had referenced a voice—a voice that issued commands and had opinions all its own. She’d assumed the voice had been an auditory hallucination . . . but what if it hadn’t been? After all, Scourge’s dream probably wasn’t a dream at all, but rather a true memory. Maybe the voice wasn’t in Scourge’s head at all. Maybe the voice belonged to a real person. The same way she remembered Scourge’s voice in her head, Scourge might remember his partner’s.
His partner.
Feverishly, she scanned the painting.
And then her breath stopped.
There!
She gripped Luke’s shoulder tighter. In the corner of the canvas, she could make out two boyish figures escaping into the trees.
Two boyish figures.
Her knees threatened to buckle, but she couldn’t allow herself to give in to fear. Locking her legs, she imagined a steel rod running through her spine, forced herself to breathe, slowed her racing thoughts.
Luke unclasped her hand from his shoulder. “You learn that grip in Krav Maga, darlin’? Maybe we can try some of those moves out later night, but right now, I have to go. The mayor just came in. I’m going to go politic a little, then hit the guy up for a massive contribution to Big Brothers and Big Sisters.”
“Luke, I have to tell you something.” Shock steadied her voice, numbed her fear.
But Luke had spotted Dante across the hall and was gesturing him over. “Can it wait till after the mayor?”
Dante was all smiles as he headed toward them.
“Yes.” She tiptoed up and kissed Luke’s cheek, let her fingers trail across the nape of his neck. If she was right about Dante, the news would crush this beautiful man. This man who’d brought her heart to life again. “It can wait.”
When Dante was close enough for Faith to catch a whiff of his camouflaged whiskey breath, Luke said, “I think you’ve got a fan in Faith, she can’t take her eyes off this painting of yours. Keep her company for me for a minute, will you?”
“Of course, brother. Anything for you.” Dante gave Faith an extravagant bow, then grazed her cheek with his fingertips. “I’m at your service, madam.”
His touch left her wanting to scrape slime from her skin.
As Luke strode away, Dante said, “You do seem uncommonly interested in my painting. Why is that, Dr. Clancy?” His lips curled up to reveal his teeth in something closer to a snarl than a smile.
Her eyes jerked involuntarily to the spot on the canvas depicting a rosary in a dead nun’s grip, then her hand went to her own necklace.
Stupid.
Too late to escape Dante’s notice, she stuffed her hands in her pockets.
Dante’s gaze went to Dark Woods, then flicked to her face. She didn’t want to look up at him, but she couldn’t let him intimidate her. Raising her chin high, she matched his stare.
An eternity passed. He watched her with such intensity his pupils threatened to black out his eyes. “Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?”
She didn’t drop her gaze. “Should I be?”
“Always the psychiatrist. Answering one question with another question. Never revealing your true feelings. I find that rather tiresome, really. I can’t imagine what my brother sees in you.” Dante turned his back and stalked away.
Frantically, Faith scanned the room for Luke. But the crowd was too t
hick and the air oppressively hot, almost suffocating. She put her hand on her chest, forcing herself to breathe, and hurried to the door, still searching for but not finding Luke. Checking back over her shoulder to be sure Dante hadn’t followed, she ducked out of the gallery.
Faith’s feet flew over the sidewalk, carrying her away from the gallery and toward her office. She needed time to think. Maybe she was reading too much into things. Maybe she was projecting her own memory of Scourge’s dream onto the painting. After all, no one else around her seemed to see a dead nun in Dark Woods. Yes. She was projecting. That’s all it was.
But a sick feeling still sat like a piece of rotting fruit in the pit of her stomach.
Dante started this painting at St. Catherine’s School for Boys.
That was not her projecting. That was a fact.
Dante attended St. Catherine’s.
Scourge killed Sister Bernadette at St. Catherine’s.
She was sure of it.
Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?
As much as she wished it weren’t true, she knew—and Dante knew she knew. He’d been present in the woods that terrible night. Had he been a witness, or an active participant in the Sister’s murder?
Had Dante been the voice that commanded Scourge: Do it! You want to make it into hell, don’t you?
Then slowly, understanding dawned—not like the rising of the sun, but like its eclipse. A black curtain fell across her heart. Scourge never mentioned a partner because he wanted to protect that partner. Just like Perry Smith wanted to protect his partner, Dick Hickock. Before his execution, Perry Smith took the blame for all the murders, claiming Dick never pulled the trigger on any of the members of the Clutter family. Perry said he didn’t want Dick’s family to suffer, so he changed his story to accept full responsibility. She drew up short and spewed undigested hors d’oeuvres onto the sidewalk.
Scourge planned to re-create the Clutter family murders in order to guarantee himself a place in hell, but there was a reason he’d chosen that particular path. Like Perry Smith, Scourge had spent time in a Catholic school. Like Perry, Scourge was small and ridiculed for wetting the bed. If Scourge was to be taken at his word, and she didn’t know if she could or not, he’d been beaten with a flashlight, just like Perry. Scourge had taken on the role of a cold-blooded killer, in part, because he’d become overidentified with Perry Smith, even to the point of combing his hair the same way and branding his body with the same tattoos.
Confession Page 28
