Claude was made a present of her uterus, while George Belwether received a lung. Mrs. Barker, who'd thrown away her insulin at Catherine's behest, was presented with a bladder. Mr. Winkler, who'd poured his nitroglycerine tablets down the drain, ended up with a matching set of breasts. And still they thronged about her, eager to participate in communion.
Sonja watched as Catherine Wheele dispensed chunks of her body like an indulgent grandmother handing out Halloween candy.
When the last of the phantoms had received its due, Wheele turned and stared at Sonja with empty sockets, the eyes haying been parceled out long ago. She stood there, waiting for Sonja to come and take her pound of flesh. Sonja wondered how much of the faith healer was actually left inside the shell that stood before her. Surely there wasn't much: Zebulon had been doling out fistfuls of gray matter at the end. She looked at the army of ghosts as they milled about the room, each fondling its own souvenir. She shook her head and stepped toward the door. Her desire for revenge had disappeared, leaving a heaviness in the pit of her stomach.
Wheele resembled a hideous scarecrow robbed of its stuffing. Her skin hung like an emptied sack. Zebulon's essence oozed from the empty sockets like a cheapjack jinni attired in otherworldly polyester. He hovered near the ceiling, scowling at what remained of his wife.
The hollow woman tottered, bereft of the supernatural energy that had sustained the illusion of life. She raised scarlet fingers to her blind face, the lower jaw dropping in a parody of a scream. There was no sound since she no longer possessed larynx or lungs.
How much did he leave? Just enough to know what had been done to her, that's all.
Catherine Wheele collapsed like a dynamited building, toppling into herself. The ghosts flickered, their faces dripping as they began to melt. Sonja Blue watched as Zebulon Wheele, Claude, and the Skaggs elate ran together like candle wax. Within seconds the room was ankle-deep in viridescent muck. The ectoplasm's phosphorescence was already waning, and within an hour the stuff would be indistinguishable from fungus.
Sonja stared at the carcass sprawled amid its own viscera. Wheele's body was unmarked, except for the mutilation to the head. The medical examiner was going to have a hell of a time explaining this one as suicide.
Wexler lay on his back in the grass, one hand clutching the embroidered polo player over his heart. His feet were bare and a pair of shoes lay in the grass alongside him, the expensive leather ruined by the dew. His face was pulled into a crude parody of the classical Greek comedy mask. He reminded Sonja of the nameless hobo thrown into the racquetball court.
She shifted her burden as she bent to retrieve the keys to the BMW. Wexler refused to let go. She brought her boot heel down on his hand. The sound of breaking fingers brought a smile to her face.
She had to hurry. The cops would be there soon. She glanced over her shoulder at the mansion. She could detect a glimmer of the fire in the downstairs windows.
She unlocked the trunk, placing Claude's body inside. She'd made an improvised shroud from one of the drapes in the study. She'd used the other to start the fire.
It would be better, in the long run, that no questions be asked as to the exact nature of Wheele's demise. Mysterious deaths were one thing, inexplicable deaths another.
Sonja paused once more before sliding behind the wheel of Wexler's car. It was almost dawn and the morning air redolent with the smell of death.
The TV anchorman, his hair styled and face unmarred by frown lines or crow's feet, smiled into camera number one.
"… and congratulations to the zoo's newest proud parents!"
The smile dimmed, but did not fully disappear, and the anchorman lowered his voice to indicate the next item was serious.
"The city's police and fire departments continue to be baffled by what is being called Mad Night. Early this morning, during the hours between midnight and dawn, the city and its surrounding suburbs were plagued by an unprecedented number of violent domestic disturbances, suicide attempts, rapes, street fights, and outbreaks of arson. At least fifteen people are known dead and forty-five reported injured during the early-morning chaos.
"In a related news item, authorities are investigating what is being described as a 'Guyana-like spectacle' at the estate of controversial televangelist Catherine Wheele. The carnage was discovered early this morning when the city fire department responded to a three-alarm fire at Wheele's exclusive Jonquil Lane address. Details are as yet unclear, but Mrs. Wheele is believed to have perished in the blaze. Also listed among the dead is noted pop-psychologist and lecturer Dr. Adam Wexler, author of the best-selling Sharing, Caring, and Swearing.
"Well, so how's the weekend shaping up, Skip?"
"Looks like a doozy, Fred, with almost no chance of rain."
* * *
EPILOGUE
« ^
Children begin by loving their parents.
After a time they judge them.
Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.
—Oscar Wilde
Sonja Blue stood among the monuments and watched them put Claude Hagerty in the ground.
It was drizzling and the rain served to muffle the words spoken over the casket. The coffin rested above the open grave on a machine that would lower the loved into the cavity with the press of a button. Besides the sad-faced minister reciting the burial prayer the only other mourners were an elderly woman Sonja guessed was an aunt and a couple of former co-workers.
Sonja quietly studied the old woman clutching a damp bouquet of Kleenex. She kept shredding and reshredding them as she stared at her nephew's casket.
Would his aunt appreciate the fact that she'd climbed the fire escape to Claude's apartment, all the way to the fifth floor, his corpse slung over her shoulder? That she'd tucked him in bed? No, probably not. She turned the collar up on her jacket and squared her shoulders against the rain.
Perhaps she'd done him a greater disservice in death than she had in life. If she'd left him among the smoking ruins of Wheele's mansion, at least he'd have had a decent crowd for his send-off. Atrocity victims are always popular. But that would have led to questions about exactly what a lowly orderly was doing at the home of a famous religious leader, and Sonja could not allow that.
"Ms. Blue?"
She'd been so involved in her thoughts she didn't hear him until he was at her elbow. She turned, a bit too swiftly, and glared at the little man in the dark suit. A taller, younger man in chauffeur's livery stood behind him, holding an umbrella.
The little man in the dark suit faltered, his eye contact sliding across her polished lenses. He coughed into his fist.
"Ahem, Ms. Blue, my name is Ottershaw. I represent the interests of my employer, Mr. Jacob Thorne. I have been instructed by Mr. Thorne to give this to you"—he produced a business envelope from his breast pocket—"and to inform you that, while he greatly appreciates the efforts you have taken on his behalf, he hopes you understand that he wishes to never see you again."
Ottershaw handed her the envelope and, having relayed his message, turned and walked toward a limo parked on the narrow road that wound through the cemetery, the chauffeur following him.
Sonja slit the seal on the envelope with her switchblade. It contained a cashier's check drawn on the family bank. She stared at the zeroes for a while, then at the limousine.
The windows were tinted black, but she could make out two figures huddled on the backseat. Ottershaw… and Thorne.
He's as guilty as Wheele. He told her to kill you. And you know he's the one who told Wheele where you were after you left his apartment. He probably even ordered Claude's death.
"Yeah, I know that."
Is that it? Are you going to stand here and let him get away with it?
The chauffeur started the car and the limousine pulled away, Thorne's profile a darker blur behind the glass.
Claude's funeral was over and none of the mourners stuck around to see him lowered into eternity. A cemetery worker operating a small e
arth-mover scooped fresh dirt into the hole.
Sonja stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her jacket and began walking toward the gates of the graveyard, threading her way through the field of the dead.
"What do you expect me to do?" she asked the Other. "He's our father."
* * *
About the Author
Nancy Collins is the oldest of four children, born and raised in Arkansas. She now lives in New Orleans, Louisiana, and is working on her second novel.
* * *
FEAR IS ONLY THE BEGINNING…
GHOUL by Michael Slade. The bodies were all the same. First they had been stripped naked. Then the blood had been drained from them while they were still alive. Then their hearts had been cut out. The police looked for a psycho killer. The press screamed that a vampire was loose.
But they were wrong. It was worse..."An advanced course in Psycho Horror… convulsively terrifying… I couldn't put it down!"—Alice Cooper
LIFE PENALTY by Joy Fielding. Her child is murdered—and when the police fail in their investigation, a mother's grief turns into a searing quest for revenge. Daring him to strike again, she embarks upon a spine-chilling search through a dark and dangerous underworld… where only one of them can come out alive…
WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS by Jonathan Kellerman. A child molester's suicide. A brutal double murder. A hidden network of perversion in high places. And a terrified seven-year-old girl who could put it all together… if child psychologist Alex Delaware could help her remember. "A compelling, exceptionally exciting thriller!"—The New York Times
BLOOD TEST by Jonathan Kellerman, the Edgar Award-winning author of WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS. Child psychologist Alex Delaware and detective Milo Sturgis scour the human jungle of California health cults and sex-for-sale haunts for a kidnapped child whose chances for survival plummet with every passing day… "A relentlessly intelligent thriller!"—The New York Times
VICTIMS by Dorothy Uhnack. When a pretty young nurse is murdered, beautiful, savvy policewoman Miranda Torres thinks it's just another example of urban violence. But was this just big-city indifference or something even more sinister? "Gripping!"—Kirkus Reviews
NO LESSER PLEA by Robert K. Tanenbaum. A vicious double-murderer has already slipped through the cracks in the system once, and now handsome DA Roger Karp won't rest until he gets a guilty plea. But Mandeville Louis laughs at the law, and even in the security of a mental hospital his killing spree is not over yet… "Tough, cynical, funny"—Booklist
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