And Perry was nothing without Dick.
Of course Scourge had a partner.
Scourge was nothing without Dante.
When Dante confessed to being the Saint, he left Scourge to carry out his master plan on his own. No wonder Scourge came unglued and developed a crippling fear of blood.
He’d never killed on his own before.
Bolting down the sidewalk, she crashed into a man carrying a bag of groceries. Oranges, apples, and potatoes flipped out of the bag and rolled down the sharp incline of the street. A kid let out a whoop at the splatter of eggs exploding onto the sidewalk, then gave chase to the fruit.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Faith yelled, barely glancing back at the man who’d lost his groceries and now stood shaking a fist at her.
Her heel caught a crack in the sidewalk, wrenching her already pained ankle. She threw out her hands to break her fall, and her palms scraped the ground. As she catapulted upright again, she cast another glance over her shoulder. No one was following her—not Dante, not even the man with the spoiled groceries.
Get it together. Breaking your neck won’t accomplish anything.
Deliberately, she slowed her steps, threw back her shoulders, tried to blend in with the tourists on the busy street. She stopped and feigned interest in a bouquet of gardenias from a street vendor. The pungent fragrance of her favorite flowers somehow distracted the panicked part of her brain, and reason seeped in, albeit a little at a time.
A block from her office, she ducked behind the corner of a building. Keeping an eagle eye out for Dante, she slipped her cell out of her clutch and speed-dialed Luke.
Straight to voice mail.
Not a huge surprise. Luke didn’t usually carry his cell at gallery functions. He liked to lavish his undivided attention on patrons of the art. “Call me. It’s urgent,” was all the message she left Luke. Dante might intercept her voice mail, and there was always a chance he didn’t realize she’d put the pieces of the puzzle together.
Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?
Yeah. Right. Dante had no idea she was onto him.
Despite her slowed pace, her breath came in hard pants. Her heart ticked in her ears like a metronome set too fast by a sadistic piano teacher. She had to call the police—now. But she still remembered Detective Johnson’s scorn when she’d told him she thought Sister Bernadette had been murdered, and that things were still unfinished.
If she called Johnson now with yet another turnaround—and that based on her personal interpretation of an abstract painting and a single menacing comment from Dante—Johnson would be slow to act. And she couldn’t blame him. Not really.
But there was someone she could call.
Special Agent Atticus Spenser had given her his card and told her he had the power to make things happen, and she still carried his card inside the back of her cell-phone case, so she could be sure to find it quickly. She snapped her phone out of its case, plied Spense’s card out, and entered his number.
“Spense here,” a deep voice answered on the first ring.
“Special Agent Spenser?”
“Dr. Faith Clancy. Talk to me.”
Her number was blocked, but she didn’t bother asking how he knew it was her. He was FBI. “Dante Jericho. Dante Jericho is the Santa Fe Saint.” She had no intention of burying the lead in small talk.
“Nope. We got DNA says that’s Scourge Teodori. But while you’ve got my attention, please explain yourself.”
She threw a hand over her racing heart. “Right. Scourge Teodori is the Saint. But he’s only one-half. Dante and Scourge are, that is they were, a team. There’s this painting . . . look, I know it sounds crazy, but Dante painted a picture depicting the murder of a nun. Scourge described the same murder to me in therapy in the guise of a dream. Turns out Dante attended St. Catherine’s just like Scourge. Can you check to see if both men were at the school at the same time? I believe Scourge and Dante cooked up the idea together to replicate the Clutter murders.”
“Say no more, Dr. Clancy. I got it.”
“You do?” She’d been too excited to explain things clearly.
“Scourge Teodori and Dante Jericho are Perry Smith and Dick Hickock wannabes.”
Thank the lord for Special Agent Atticus Spenser.
“Think hard. Does Dante know you suspect him?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Probably.”
“Where are you? Can you get someplace safe until I can get someone to you?”
“I’m near my office on—”
“I know your office. Go now. Lock your doors. Keep your cell on. I’m still in Phoenix, but I’ll call back to let you know who’s bringing you in. Do not call anyone. Do not open the door for anyone until I give you the go-ahead.”
“But I have to warn Luke.”
“The only thing you have to do is stay out of sight. I’ll warn Luke. You’re to go straight to your office and lock the door. Don’t tie up your phone.”
She nodded.
“Stop nodding and hustle.”
Pulse pounding in her throat, she rounded the corner and raced up the stairs of her office building. When she reached her office door, her shaky hands made it hard to fit the key in the lock, but she finally managed. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her and flipped the dead bolt in place. Whirling around, she searched the dimly lit room. With the window shade drawn, only a scant amount of light edged inside. She debated whether or not to open the shade. It would let more light in, but she’d be visible through the window if Dante had followed her somehow. If she kept the shade drawn and turned on the lights, Dante would know she was here, too.
At least she’d locked both entrances to her office before going home last night. She’d made that a habit ever since the first time Dante followed her here from the gallery.
The thought of that day, the day he’d confessed, set not only her pulse but her head pounding.
Why did Dante confess?
He clearly didn’t intend to go down for the Saint’s crimes. Despite his early protestations, he’d instructed Torpedo to enter a not-guilty plea, and in the end, he’d proven more than anxious to be set free. It simply made no sense.
Unless . . .
Dante’s confession was his get-out-of-jail-free card.
Her hands clenched. That son of a bitch had used her.
By now her eyes had adjusted from the outside brightness. She could see perfectly. Cell in hand, she moved forward.
Creak.
Her shoulders jumped.
What was that?
Silence. And then . . .
Thud.
A small gasp escaped her lips, and her heart slammed into fifth. Dante leapt out from his hiding place behind her desk. Then she screamed, long and loud.
“Oh dear, now I’ve gone and frightened you again. You’re a jumpy one aren’t you, Dr. Clancy?” He leveled a pistol at her. “If I were you, I’d stop screaming.” The pistol jerked. “Now.”
She heard a soft pop. A muzzle flashed, and a burnt odor filled the room. The glass covering her framed diploma shattered. The cylinder on the tip of Dante’s gun was a silencer, suggesting cold-hearted premeditation on his part. He must’ve known she’d put things together eventually, and he’d been prepared.
Forcing herself to look directly at him, she stuffed down her screams. Tried to slow her breathing. Dante had every advantage but one. He didn’t know help was on the way. All she had to do was stall him until that help arrived. “How did you get into my office?” Not like she didn’t want to know.
He clucked his tongue. “Really, dear, is that the most pressing question you have for me? Not: Are you going to kill me here or do it elsewhere?”
She shrugged.
“All right then. I’ll tell you anyway. I’m going to kill you elsewh
ere and dump your body where it will never be found. Along with the other whores. Of course, if you give me any grief, I’ll have to improvise—do you here and move your body later. So don’t give me any grief.”
Other whores. He’s killed others, not just the Saint’s victims.
Her tongue felt swollen, and her throat closed. She gulped air, and her throat opened again.
Stay calm. Help is on the way.
All she had to do was stay alive one more minute. Then stay alive another. She could manage that. Wishing she still had her pink pepper spray, she patted her beltless waist.
No pepper spray, but letter opener in the desk drawer, globe on the bookshelf, Taser hidden in the plant stand.
Stay alive one more minute.
Dante had always enjoyed talking. Perhaps he’d like to unburden himself a little before traveling. He was egotistical enough he’d surely want her to know how clever he’d been. He’d want her to see all the brilliant ways he’d outsmarted her. Well, she’d give him an open invitation to explain his superiority to a mere mortal like her.
“How’d you get in, Dante?” Her tone held real fear, and she dusted in a bit of deference. He wanted to watch her squirm, and she knew it. Careful not to overplay it, she let her voice quiver a bit more. “I’m absolutely certain I locked both doors.”
“So you did, my dear. But you see I’ve had a set of keys to your office since the day you moved in. I lifted a set from your landlord, had a copy made for myself, and replaced the originals.”
She drew in a sharp, shocked breath. He’d been stalking her since before she moved into her office. “But why?”
“Because I had my eye on you. My friend Scourge showed me your brochure. I believe you know my good friend, Scourge Teodori.” One side of his face squashed up. “Make that knew my friend Scourge Teodori. He was quite fascinated by you, and I thought, why not? She might be just the ticket I’ve been looking for. And as it turned out, you fit the bill perfectly—greener than grass with no patients, no real experience to draw upon. You made a perfect foil for my plan. And what a bonus to learn you were all alone in the world with no one to miss you or protect you.”
She’d known it was no coincidence that both men had wound up in her office. Only she’d assumed Scourge had found her from the publicity she’d garnered when she turned Dante in. But it was the other way around. Scourge found her first, through her brochure, then Dante latched on to her as a means to an end. “I suppose I ought to be flattered you chose me, but I’m afraid you only picked me because you thought you could play me.”
“I did play you, dear. Scourge had it in mind to make you the Saint’s next victim—I guess he was tired of watching me have all the fun with the ladies. He wanted a little of his own before he retired to the beaches of Mexico. But I had other uses for you, so I made him wait. Scourge also wanted to take Jeremy out, but I convinced him the kid was more useful as a living suspect. So you see, I saved two lives—yours and Jeremy’s—you’d both be dead right now if I hadn’t needed you. Aren’t you going to say thank you?”
“Thank you.” She cast her eyes to the floor in a show of submission, much like a housecat who rolls over and plays dead for the family dog. On the way to her toes, her gaze fell on her watch.
Ninety seconds.
He hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. Why settle for a minute? She was going for another ninety seconds. Amazing how when your time is so short, every second expands into a lifetime. She wouldn’t waste it or take it for granted. She’d use her time to remember her loved ones, Luke, her niece—Katie, and Danny and always, always Grace. She’d also use her time to scheme—a multitasker to the end. “You mentioned you had your own plan? I assume you don’t mean killing the Donovans.”
“No. Though I wouldn’t have minded sticking around for that. The idea of killing the perfect family always appealed. I’d rather have killed my own, but I liked Scourge’s idea, too.”
“I see.” She was back in therapy mode, and strangely enough, Dante had fallen easily into the role of patient—a patient with a pistol.
“The problem with Scourge was he was simply too slow. He wanted to plan for years, then practice and practice, with more years between kills, mind you, before taking on what he called The Big Kill. He wanted to wait for the ten-year anniversary of Bernadette’s death. Can you imagine? I simply didn’t have that kind of patience. Besides, he wouldn’t shut up about hell and purgatory and fucking Truman Capote. Scourge was not all there. But you already know that.”
“Hmm. So the whole In Cold Blood thing, the Perry and Dick thing, that was only Scourge’s obsession?”
“I went along with it for years. Scourge was a handy guy to have around; he handled most of the mundane details of our trade, and I rather enjoyed the way he looked up to me. I did my own thing in between our Saint kills, of course.”
“The whores, you mean?”
“Scourge just kept getting crazier and crazier on me. The way he insisted we had to leave the rosaries on the bodies to save their souls. Bodies don’t have souls—dead or alive. There’s no saving something that doesn’t exist. He’d spend a good thirty minutes saying a rosary over a corpse. Those goddamn rosaries were going to get us caught sooner or later. When I couldn’t persuade Scourge to stop with the religious crap, I decided to ditch him.”
“And that’s where I came in.”
“You’re brighter than I thought you’d be, Faith. Too bad that’s not going to save you.”
She waited.
He sighed and glanced around, as if growing impatient with the conversation.
She needed to keep him talking. “Tell me about your plan.”
“You’re so smart, why don’t you tell me?”
She gestured toward her desk. “I’m tired, do you mind if I sit down while we talk?”
Waving his pistol, he shook his head. “So you can stab me in the back with that letter opener? I found it and got rid of it. If you look around, you’ll notice that big glass globe is gone, too.”
Tears stung the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away. He hadn’t mentioned the Taser. Maybe he hadn’t found it. She continued on, as if two-thirds of her arsenal hadn’t just been obliterated. “Your plan—let’s see if I can guess. You wanted to get rid of Scourge and escape blame for the Saint’s murders all at the same time. So you decided to confess—to me. You knew that, by law, I had a duty to warn. You knew I’d have to turn you in whether I believed you guilty or not.”
“Very good. And don’t forget the green-as-grass part.”
She tilted her head. This, she wasn’t so sure about. “You studied up on personality disorders, then . . . you role-played a depressed man with a schizotypal personality disorder.” That’s why she hadn’t been able to diagnose him. He was playing at being at one thing, but his true psychopathic traits occasionally broke through and knocked her off course. “You figured an inexperienced psychiatrist like me wouldn’t know the difference. You figured I’d think you were too ineffective to pull off an organized-murder scheme. You figured I’d figure your confession resulted from paranoid delusions. Well played.”
His eyes glittered as he spoke. “Exactly. And then you’d begin the fight to set me free. Meanwhile, the Saint would kill the Donovans while I remained in custody. I’d be turned loose, free and in the clear. Afterward, I’d find Scourge and get rid of him, put his body with my whores. The trail for the Saint would grow cold, and with no more rosary killings, eventually the authorities would stop caring about catching the Saint.”
“Why not just kill Scourge to begin with and go on about . . . your business?”
“Too boring. I like danger—I crave danger. And I wanted to be cleared as a suspect. That way, if evidence of the Saint’s crimes ever led back to me, no one would pay attention. The only thing that nearly went wrong is that Scourge developed th
at absurd blood phobia. I guess he was just too damn scared and weak to keep going without me—until you cured him, of course. I really don’t know what I’d have done without your help, dear.”
His words chilled her bones all the way to the marrow. Dante was right. She’d cured one serial killer of a blood phobia and been an unwitting accomplice to another killer’s master plan. Well, guess what? She wasn’t going to let Dante get away with another murder. Not hers. Not anyone else’s.
She looked down at her watch again.
Four minutes.
She faked a backward stumble, put her hands out like she’d grown faint, and nearly lost her balance. She wound up one step closer to the front entrance, and to the plant stand, which might or might not still contain a Taser.
“Take off your shoes.”
“What?” Was this a foot fetish or some other sick game?
“You had your shoes off the last time.”
“When? What do you mean?” But she remembered. This was Dante’s way of showing he was in control. Apparently, holding her at gunpoint wasn’t enough. Next he’d want her cell.
“Toss me your cell.”
She did as he commanded.
“You had your shoes off the day I confessed. So take them off now. We’re going to play another little game. Only this time, the end is going to be different. This time I’m going to confess to you, and then I’m going show you just exactly how bad a man I am. Dying’s not going to be the worst thing that happens to you today. Are you afraid of me, now, Dr. Clancy?”
She could see the bulge in his trousers. He was getting off on her fear.
Confession Page 29
