He couldn't help staring at her. He couldn't help thinking how her breasts had felt against his chest, about the softness of her thighs stroking his hips. And he must have worn those thoughts like a loud red hat because she moved toward him, then on top of him. Aaron, in dread, retreated onto the mattress. He licked his lips nervously and she retraced the wetness with her tongue. Aaron was nearing panic.
"Listen, Miss Roscoe."
"Greta. But I forgive you. You're allowed to forget once."
"No, there's something, Miss Roscoe."
Aaron couldn't manage another word, and lay helplessly beneath her with his hands curled against his chest. He felt the suppleness of her body reverse. There was a moment of stillness, then Miss Roscoe extended on her arms to look down at him. Her eyes grew teary. Then icy.
"I see," she said, and pulled away. She stood and Aaron struggled to sit. They were separated by an endless, bottomless silence. Aaron couldn't look at her. Finally, he heard her chilled voice say, "That's all right, Mr. Shane. No charge."
He met her eyes, finding his conviction. "You don't understand. Greta..."
"Miss Roscoe. We'll both be more comfortable with Miss Roscoe." She swiped at her damp lashes as she turned, then strode to the common door, opened it and slammed it shut behind her. Aaron stared at the door for a moment, then pressed his forehead into his hands.
"Shit." A lively rap upon wood startled him, and he looked up at the common door before realizing the knock came from the one to the parlor. He knew who it was and felt bitterly disappointed. "Come in, Aridite." The angel did, and Aaron added sullenly, "Why would you knock, anyway?"
"I thought you might prefer privacy."
Aaron jumped from the bed, his fists clenched. "You thought? The hell you did. You knew. You set this whole thing up, from the very beginning." He waited on an answer, glaring at the angel. Aridite smiled. It was more than Aaron could bear. "You aren't really an angel, are you? You're a demon. This is Purgatory, after all. And in Purgatory, our lost souls are free game, aren't they? Satan got to us before God, you snatched us right off Mr. Fielding's lawn before our bodies were cold. And I let you lead us in like starving strays. Oh, I should've known. I'm the priest, I should've known. You had us predestined to fail."
"You've come to this conclusion just because of a tiff with Greta?"
"If I weren't a priest I'd pummel you back into Hell."
Aridite smiled devilishly. "Would you, Aaron? Would you like to do that?"
"By all that's holy."
"Well, what's stopping you? 'If I weren't a priest'," the angel taunted. "The Reverend Mr. Shane mustn't pummel, not even demons. He must keep everything in check. Especially passion, any kind of passion, you have to set an example, show people how to smother that nasty passion. Sometimes, even the passion for God." Aridite took one step forward. "But what do you suppose? If you don't pummel, don't scream, don't laugh like the demented; if you don't dance, don't make love, don't wail in grief like a wolf, how do you feel passion for God? How do you do that?" Aridite grinned like a gargoyle. "Eh, Aaron, boy?"
Aaron felt something pop in his temple and the only thing he was aware of was his hands wrapped like steel around Aridite's neck. He squeezed and squeezed, and felt a rush of hot elation when the face above his hands contorted as if in pain. Yet, Aridite made no move in defense. Aaron would not let go, not even when his victim sank to the floor. He was still squeezing when the angel's limbs flopped onto the carpet. For a moment, he was barely aware of anything but the soothing sound of his own breath. Then he realized he was looking into the face of a murdered angel. He cried out and snatched his hands from Aridite's neck as if the contorted visage had bitten him.
What have I done? And this time the question was the child of horror. His next anguished thought was to sink to his knees and lose himself in desperate prayer. But before Aaron's legs could buckle, the angel blinked, stretched, and pulled himself up.
He said to Aaron, sympathetically, "Are you all right?"
Aaron stared, drained of all emotion. "No."
"Come on. Come, sit down."
"Why did you do that to me?" Aaron let himself be led to the sitting area at the hearth. "Dear God, why would you be so cruel?"
"Well, I would have rather not." Aridite pressed him at the shoulders until he sat, then did the same. "But you needed a swift kick in the heart. How did it feel to kill me?"
"Don't. Please. Don't taunt me."
"I'm not taunting you. I'm very serious."
"What on earth are you expecting me to say? It felt hideous."
"Did it? Did it feel hideous when you were in the act, or was that afterward?"
"Aridite, to murder so maliciously. It's hideous."
Suddenly the angel's expression changed from kindly to stern. "Stop it. I'm not asking these questions because I want to know. You're not lying to me, you're lying to yourself. Now, once again. How did it feel to kill me?"
Aaron stared at the angel, then he swallowed, and said, "It felt good."
"Good? Just good?"
"No, Powerful. Incredible. In a horrid way every bit as awesome as when..."
Aaron was startled to feel his eyes begin to burn, warning him of tears. He blinked quickly and gained control. The angel's expression now seemed disappointed.
"I'm sorry you did that," he said, motioning to Aaron's eyes. "You still have a lot to learn about releasing, but you have been through quite a bit already. Listen to me. When I let you kill me, I expected you to feel everything that you felt. The rush of elation, of pure unrestrained passion." He leaned toward Aaron intently. "Didn't it feel amazing, even when you'd realized what you had done, couldn't you still feel Life forcing its way through like a tidal wall? You couldn't stop it, could you? The closest you could come to stopping it was to deny it. And the only thing denial does is force Life into another channel. Usually a darker, more terrifying one. One that can kill."
Aaron had been listening raptly, but he shook his head. "You can't be telling me it's all right to take a life simply to feel alive. I can't accept that."
"No, of course not. You're missing the whole point. Do you want to come forward?"
"Yes, you know I do."
"What do you suppose that means?"
"I...it means getting to Heaven."
"All right, we'll use that term. What does that mean, getting to Heaven?"
Aaron opened his mouth, but to his amazement couldn't reply. For the first time, he realized he didn't know what that meant. He sank back into the chair, fascinated with the question. Aridite smiled, as if Aaron had done something right at last.
"Good," he said. "You think on that."
"He doesn't have time to think about anything." Miss Roscoe was standing at the common door, her face as unforgiving as her tone. She was dressed in the black silk and lace. "It's time for his funeral reception."
Chapter Sixteen
Masks
"Father Shane," Marshall was saying, as he took the old man's hand.
His face was a perfect mask of sympathy and common grief. Such a deceptive character was her brother. Reluctantly, Greta had to admire his technique. It was a talent, it really was, and for the first time since she had known the slimy worm she could see how people let themselves be hoodwinked by him.
Mr. Shane's father looked up at Marshall from his wingback chair, church matrons hovering like fretting blackbirds. On the small table beside the elder Shane's chair sat a plate of untouched food and an empty sherry glass. From the rheumy look in the old man's eyes it had been emptied often. One of the matrons scanned the untouched plate as if she'd force it into the elder Shane's hands. The younger Shane seemed genuinely charmed by the attention given his father.
"Oh, that's Mrs. Krieger and Mrs. Bennett," he said, affectionately. "Altar Guild."
Greta leveled a stare that chastened him. She knew she had no choice in his being there, but she wasn't going to endure conversation with him. Besides, the elder Shane was rising, mum
bling something about stepping into his study for privacy. The two sentry matrons went for his arms to help, but the old man shook them off.
No one seemed to think it odd that the elder Shane and Marshall were off for a private chat. But why would anyone? These were two men who had suffered a mutual tragedy. The gathering watched them walk arm-in-arm to the elder Shane's study. Greta, Mr. Shane, and Aridite passed through the door as it closed.
Inside, the elder Shane jerked his arm out of Marshall's grip before the door clicked shut. He fished a square white envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to him without a word; the note that Enderly had tucked in with the money. Obviously accustomed to the arrangement, Marshall matched Father Shane's contemptuous silence. He examined the integrity of the seal's glue, then tore the envelope open, and read the note.
His attitude was no different than Greta had witnessed numerous times herself, yet Greta found him particularly unnerving this time. She understood why, much as she wished she didn't. She was realizing that his contempt was a mask, as much so as his affected concern for the old minister minutes before. Mask upon mask upon mask, burying whatever was authentic in him. Had she ever seen Marshall's true face?
Greta had begun to ponder this when Marshall's expression plummeted into shock, and she saw something in his eyes she hadn't believed could exist there. The moment was brief, though, and Marshall recovered his usual mien. But not before the elder Shane had time to see what Greta had. He gave a derisive 'huff' as he turned to his desk.
"Well. It's nice to know there's some human feeling in there somewhere."
The old minister sat heavily in the leather chair and looked up at Greta's brother. He did not invite his guest to sit, and Marshall didn't move to do so.
Marshall said, "Tell him that I hardly think it's appropriate to continue at this time after all that's taken place." His expression did not betray him again.
"You're talking to the wrong man, Mr. Fielding."
"Are you no longer courier?" The elder Shane didn't reply, and apparently Marshall took the silence to mean he was. "Please inform him of my recommendation. Tell him how strongly I feel about the imprudence of this matter. But assure him it's not due to any personal consequences of these late…" The elder Shane was staring sullenly at the blotter on his desk. Marshall's face colored with exasperation, then he moved to the desk. "Are you paying attention? Here, I shouldn't chance it, but he'll understand under the circumstances. I don't want you botching this."
Meaning, apparently, that Mr. Dubenshire discouraged written communication returning to him. To filter his own missives through Enderly, then someone like Father Shane, must seem a reasonable risk to him. But the inability to control what his cohorts might put in writing, unwitting or otherwise, must be another matter altogether. With tense gestures, Marshall lay the note on the desk and reached over to the elder Shane's stationary.
"I wish you'd at least try to buck up. I've suffered a great loss, too, you know."
Guessing at the cunning of Mr. Dubenshire, Greta was certain his note to Marshall would reveal nothing she could use. But she was not about to miss the chance, no matter how slight. She moved to Marshall's side and read the note he had been given: There is no change in plans. We remain on schedule. Perhaps Fate was with us in this matter. Your first purchase was a loss, but the second in storage will create much better results. Transaction two days hence. Your reward will increase to reflect your loyalty through all this and compensate for your empty inventory.
Greta looked at Mr. Shane at Aridite's side. Her voice almost failed her, when she said, "They're going to kill Tess."
"I don't see how you can know that," Mr. Shane said. "The note was in code."
He was pacing the parlor of their flat. It had been Aridite's suggestion to go there, and the angel had to take them himself, for Greta had been too distraught to focus. She was calmer now, but Mr. Shane's tone grated against her nerves.
"The code is easy if you know what I know," she retorted. "It hardly takes a genius to put it together. Oh, what an idiot I was. They weren't going to implicate me in a murder. They were going to include me in it; a murder-suicide. And now the plan has shifted to Tess. Two days. We only have two days."
"Miss Roscoe, this is all speculation."
"Greta, Aaron, you're going backward," Aridite said. He stopped as if thinking that over. "Which may be a good idea. Aaron's confused, Greta. He didn't witness what you did. Why don't you show him?"
"I don't know what you mean," she replied, sharply.
"Well, it's a skill you haven't learned yet, but the fundamentals are in place. You can 'look around' the past, as well as the present. And you can take Aaron with you."
"I don't want to take him anywhere. I don't need him to understand anything."
"But you do. Greta, look at me." She set her jaw and took a short breath to prove she didn't want to listen anymore, but acquiesced. Aridite raised his eyebrows as if to ask if she was paying attention. "What have I suggested so far that hasn't been beneficial?"
She couldn't bear to answer the question. "Just tell me what you have in mind."
Aridite turned to Mr. Shane. "Aaron, come here, please."
"There's no reason I can think of to make Miss Roscoe…"
"I'm not talking about reason, Aaron. Would you please come here?"
Greta refused to look at Mr. Shane as he walked over, but she was intensely aware of him as he sat next to her. Damn him. Damn me. I was a fool to think he was unique. The dual image of his face--ardent, then disgusted--washed into her mind and overwhelmed her. But she forced herself into control, pinched off the ache in her throat, and focused her attention on Aridite.
"All right, Greta, you're going to take Aaron with you looking around, so offer him your hand."
"Oh, please."
"Just close your eyes and do it. You don't have to like it if you prefer not."
Greta clenched her jaw in rebellion. Nevertheless, she steeled herself, closed her eyes, and jutted her hand in Mr. Shane's direction. When she didn't feel him reciprocate, she shook it impatiently at him.
"Come on, Mr. Shane, let's not take Eternity."
A moment more and she felt the warmth of his palm in hers. His fingers curled around her hand and Greta very nearly hated him for the hypocrisy of his touch. She did not curl her own fingers over his.
"Well enough," the angel conceded. "Now, Aaron, close your eyes, too. Relax, take some deep breaths. You know the way that works best for each of you, so go to the place where you can begin to look around."
It wasn't easy at first. Greta was distracted with the touch of Mr. Shane's hand, her anger and heartache. But gradually, she grew accustomed to his touch and talked herself into putting her pain aside for the time being. Looking around was the best way to help Tess, and that must come first.
Once done, Greta was surprised how easily she again envisioned the river's edge, how pleasant a journey it was, in spite of the priest tagging along. And he was there grasping her hand as they stood on the riverbank letting the breeze hold them a moment. Then Greta began searching the opposite bank for Marshall's house.
She saw it nestled behind a curtain of trees before them, and she said, "Let's go," before releasing his hand and wading across the river.
The current worked with her. When she and Mr. Shane emerged from the waist-deep water, they were perfectly dry. Greta opened the front door. She felt night close around her, because it had been nearly midnight when she'd heard the particular conversation she was to share with Mr. Shane. Up the stairs to the second floor they climbed, Greta leading the way to Marshall's rooms. Just as she had done two nights before that ill-fated party she tip-toed to the door jamb. She caught hold of Mr. Shane's sleeve and urged him in front of her that he might hear. There were muffled voices, one Marshall's, and muffled laughter, then very earnest conversation.
Suddenly, Mr. Shane said, "Let's try something. Let's see if we can intrude on this past altogether."
<
br /> He marched right into Marshall's rooms, Greta following. Cigar smoke veiled the hunter green and dark oak décor, its heady trail leading to the elaborate hearth. These had been Burgess' private chambers years ago. The only major change was the hearth, now converted to the latest luxury, gas flames licking at iron logs. And there stood Marshall, languidly puffing away with his guest, Carroll Enderly. Marshall was running a thumb across the intricate relief of the hearth's ceramic facade.
"Is all you need to do," Enderly was saying, his voice low due to the gravity of the subject. "Keep her occupied until the hour, then take her to her rooms. We should have him in position by then. He and his wife read together before retiring to their separate quarters, so we have no choice, but to wait them out. But once our men are away with him he won't be missed 'til morning." He took a long draw from his cigar.
"Even if she doesn't suspect, she'll put up a fight as soon as that door opens," Marshall said, still examining the ceramic.
"Just get her there. If she gets nervous, bully her with Tess. You're always saying how well that works. Dixie and Odell can handle her. She only needs to be held until the chloroform takes effect."
Enderly examined his cigar before crushing it upon the mantle's ashtray. "Marvelous smoke, Fielding. I wish I could stay and finish."
Marshall brought his attention to his guest. "I'll have a box delivered to you."
"Why, thank you. Don't worry about anything. Anything else before I'm off?"
Marshall looked across his chambers and drew on his own cigar as if to avoid speaking. He shook his head in reply. His guest strode toward the door then, and just as he opened it, Marshall found his voice.
"Oh, I am curious," he said, nearly as smoothly as if firming up a business commitment. "How will this be done? Poison? Sedative?"
Enderly smiled. "Of course not," he said, partially closing the door and dropping his voice an octave. "A gun against here," he pressed a finger to his breastbone, "and in the mouth, eh?" He shifted his finger, sticking it between his teeth, then removing it. "Messy, but a solid guarantee." Greta was so transfixed by Enderly's chilling nonchalance that his laugh made her start. "Look at you. Squeamish, are you?" Enderly's expression became sober. "But how can I forget; poison is more your fashion, isn't it? Well, you won't be watching it happen, anyway. Just make sure you have her here, have her apartments ready, then get going to your alibi. We'll bring along some of his clothes and some personal items, make it all very authentic. All right, then thanks again for the excellent smoke. Don't bother to show me out."
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