by John Manning
“Publish or perish, dear, you know it as well as I do.” Angela was insistent, and as much as she hated to admit it, Ginny knew she was right.
For her next book, she decided to do a study of sightings of the Virgin Mary…but after getting started on the research and visiting a few of the places where shrines now stood—as well as a trip to Los Zapatos, Mexico—she stalled out on the book. She went on to write other books, but then Eric got sick, and her marriage crumbled, and Ginny, depressed and desolate, had finally fled to the wilderness of Lebanon, still unable to finish the book she had been working at on and off for twenty years.
Dan Rosen, her editor, was very understanding. “Ginny, after all you’ve been through, the last thing I want to do is push you to finish something that you aren’t ready to finish.” The Sacred Feminine was still selling well for them, and Ginny knew she remained an asset to the company. “Take your time,” Dan told her. “Just keep me posted on your progress.” He extended the deadline for her, and would extend it again two more times. Now the third extended deadline was coming up in March of next year, and Ginny had written little more than she had when she’d gotten the first extension.
She walked into the living room, pulling off her sweater and throwing it across the sofa as she turned her computer on. “Damn, damn, damn!”
Ever since Eric got sick, nothing has gone right.
But even as the thought crossed her mind, Ginny knew she was making excuses, yet again using Eric’s death as a scapegoat. Failing to finish the book was her own fault. Eric had been dead for two years now. She’d blown off the deadline, asked for more time, and played on the sympathies of her agent and her editor. She couldn’t play that card anymore. The truth was, she didn’t have the slightest idea how to write the damned book. Sometimes she considered just paying the advance back and washing her hands of the whole mess. There was no shame in just being a college professor.
That is, if she kept her job now that Gregory was making things difficult for her.
But what else was there? All her hopes for the book were fizzling. I couldn’t even get Bernadette deSalis to talk to me, Ginny thought, staring at her computer screen, her face reflected in the monitor.
In the month or so since Gayle Honeycutt had dropped that bomb on her—a local visitation, complete with stigmata—Ginny had gotten nowhere with the girl or her family. Whenever Ginny called, Mrs. deSalis hung up on her. Thanks to Gayle’s fucking article, Mrs. deSalis considered Ginny “anti-Christian,” and wanted nothing to do with her. She’d tried stopping by, but usually only found one of the deSalis boys at home, and they’d just grumble that they “didn’t know nothing.” Once, she’d lucked into Mr. deSalis, who Gayle had thought her best bet. The poor man’s eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“I’ve researched these kinds of cases, Mr. deSalis,” Ginny had pleaded. “Maybe I can be of some help.”
The man had just sighed. “I knew word would get out. I’m sorry, Dr. Marshall. I refuse to let my daughter become a freak in the eyes of the town.”
“She’s not that at all,” Ginny said. “If I could just talk with her…”
“My wife won’t allow it,” Pierre deSalis told her. He seemed so tired, as if all his life force was spent. “And what my wife says goes—at least concerning Bernadette.”
Ginny felt that if she could just get in to meet Bernadette deSalis, she might find some new motivation, some new inspiration, to restart her book. But what avenue was left open to her? She couldn’t exactly barge into their house—or wherever the girl was being kept—and demand Bernadette talk to her.
Bernadette, Ginny kept thinking. Just like at Lourdes.
She stood, turning away from her computer and pouring herself a glass of wine. A leave of absence, she thought to herself. That’s what I need. There’s no way I can continue here under Gregory’s threats to control my classes. Maybe that’s the handwriting on the wall. Get out of here now—go back to Hammond and finish my book.
A semester off would be just enough time for her lawyers to build a case against Gregory for breach of contract.
She took a sip of wine. Could she do it? Really walk away from teaching? What choice was Gregory leaving her?
She had just about decided to call Angela and talk it through with her when her doorbell rang. Odd, Ginny thought. I never have visitors here.
Probably a salesman, or a Jehovah’s Witness, she told herself, setting her glass down on the counter and heading toward the door.
But when she opened it, the man she saw standing there was someone she recognized…from very long ago…
“Dr. Marshall?”
She looked at him, trying to place his face. He was Latino, with dark black hair shot through with streaks of gray, and he seemed a little stocky, though it could have just been the heavy gray overcoat he had buttoned up the front. He wore black slacks over black leather hiking boots, and his big almond-shaped eyes were warm and soft.
“Yes?” Ginny asked. “May I help you?”
“You do not remember me,” he said, and smiled. “But then, I should not expect you to after so many years. And we only knew each other so very briefly.”
His English was lightly accented, and he spoke it perfectly in cadence. There was something about the smile—and then it hit her. Ginny’s jaw dropped.
“Father Ortiz? From Los Zapatos?”
“Ah, you do remember. I am glad. May I come in? I would like so much to speak with you.”
“Yes, of course,” Ginny said, stepping aside as he entered. I certainly never thought I’d see him again.
“Thank you for receiving me unexpectedly,” he was saying. “I wanted to call but your number is not listed, and I did not want to wait to reach you tomorrow at the college.”
Ginny couldn’t imagine what caused his urgency. “Sit down, Father,” she said. “May I get you anything?”
He removed his coat and draped it over a reclining chair. “No, thank you,” he said as he sat down. “It is good to see you, Dr. Marshall. The years have been very good to you.”
Ginny blushed, running a finger through her hair. “Oh, please, you’re far too kind.” She sat down opposite him on the sofa. “Now, for heaven’s sake, tell me what you are doing here in Lebanon.”
He stared off over her shoulder for a moment. “Dr. Marshall—”
“Please. Ginny.”
“Ginny.” Father Ortiz smiled again. “I will start by apologizing to you for not saying an appropriate good-bye to you in Los Zapatos. The archbishop was very insistent that the girls and I get to Mexico City immediately.”
“No need to apologize, Father.” Ginny laughed again. “I certainly understood—the nosy American researcher was hardly a priority, especially when the archbishop calls.”
He shifted in his seat. “I have, you know, followed your career with great interest—and a little pride, I must confess—since then. I have read your books, and they are very interesting.” He made a short laugh. “Of course, the official Church position is that you are a heretic, but I know many of my fellow brethren in the Church have read and debated your works.”
“Well, that’s all I ever wanted. To bring about discussion.”
He leaned forward, winking at her. “And you needn’t worry, Ginny. I am not here to convert you or lecture you—unless of course you want to recant and come back into the embrace of Mother Church? No?” He laughed again as Ginny sat back in her chair, a tight smile on her face. “I thought not, but it never hurts to ask, as you say in this country.”
Ginny’s smile turned warm. “But none of this explains why you are here tonight, Father, or what was so important it couldn’t wait until the morning.”
He studied her for a few moments. “Why did you never publish the book you were working on in Los Zapatos?”
It was Ginny’s turn to shift uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m still working on it.” She glanced over at her computer, then back at Father Ortiz. “
Funny you should ask about it. I’ve been sitting here tonight trying to figure out how to move forward on it.”
“I’ve always anxiously awaited that particular book, Dr.—er, Ginny.”
Ginny found his gaze and held it. “Why did you come here, Father?”
He cleared his throat. “I understand you have been trying to see Bernadette deSalis?”
Ginny narrowed her eyes. “And how did you know that?”
He laughed. “Ah, God knows everything—and perhaps He whispered it to me? No?” He made a bridge of his fingers. “I am acquainted with the deSalis family. I was brought in when the local bishop learned of her experience. And so I have interviewed her extensively.”
“You’ve moved up pretty far in the church hierarchy from your humble days in Los Zapatos, Father. You’re here to investigate the sighting.”
He nodded. “I suppose some consider me now an expert. But it is you, Ginny, who are the real expert. You would be doing me a huge favor if you interviewed Bernadette, and compared her story to those of other girls you have studied.”
“I don’t understand,” Ginny replied. “In Los Zapatos, you wouldn’t let me anywhere near the girls who saw the Virgin. And now, you’re offering to let me interview Bernadette.” She leaned back in her chair. “Come on, Father, what gives?”
“Suffice it to say, Ginny, that Mother Church has her reasons.” He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Will you come?”
“Well, of course I’d like to interview her. Is it true she also has the stigmata?”
Father Ortiz nodded. “There is much to discuss when you come.”
“Terrific. When?”
The priest rose from his chair. “I will call tomorrow and make the arrangements. I wanted our first meeting to be in person. I wanted to see for myself if you were still the good, honest woman I met in Los Zapatos.” He smiled. “Thank you, Ginny.”
Ginny walked him to the door. “Thank you, Father.”
He turned to look at her, and his face was grave. “Save your thanks for after you have spoken to Bernadette, Ginny. You may not be so grateful after you hear what she has to say.”
What he meant, she didn’t understand—but it didn’t matter. Somehow, the fates had intervened and given her a second chance on the book. She watched Father Ortiz walk down the stairs into the night, then picked up the phone to call Angela.
This could justify another extension, she thought, refilling her glass of wine.
30
Tish Lewis had become very good at hearing things in the dark.
She had learned to discern voices, even at a great distance, from somewhere far off in this place where she was being held. The voices drifted through cracks in the wall, seeped in through the floorboards above her head. Tish had determined she was in a basement, and from the voices she heard, she believed she was still on the Wilbourne campus.
That’s Dean Gregory’s voice, Tish had realized a few days earlier. And that’s his wife. And that’s the nurse from the infirmary, Poppy Cochrane…
They were chanting. Exactly what they were chanting, Tish couldn’t make out. But it was some kind of ritual. The same kind of ritual during which she’d heard her roommate Joelle scream some time before.
They killed her, Tish thought.
Dean Gregory and the others killed Joelle.
Even worse.
They had drunk her blood.
They were drinking blood out there. Two phrases had floated down to Tish’s ears quite clearly: “Take this and drink” and “The blood is our life.” It had taken Tish a long time to decipher what they were saying, but now it was clear. Each person said it in turn. Each time she heard it, Tish retched.
The horrible truth had dawned on her. They were passing around a cup and drinking the blood of girls they had killed.
But they’re keeping me alive. Why?
Twice every day, the red-robed figure brought Tish bread, vegetables, and water. They’re keeping me alive, Tish reasoned, so they can kill me, too, when the time is ready.
And drink my blood.
They probably expected her to go mad in her cell. And who wouldn’t, trapped in this place, so small, so dark? The only light filtered through the small slats above her head, a dim, dusty, golden light that allowed Tish to make out the rough contours of her hands, of the metal pail she used as a toilet, and the walls that enclosed her. Crawling around the earthen floor, Tish had estimated her cell was almost square, about five feet by five feet. No bigger than a closet. They expected she’d go mad in such a small space. They expected her to lose her mind, so when her time came, she wouldn’t be able to fight them, wouldn’t be able to put up a last-ditch defense of her life.
Well, Tish though to herself, they’re wrong. They hadn’t reckoned on dealing with a strong-willed Southern girl.
She kept her wits by thinking. Constantly thinking. Listening for sounds, and identifying them. That’s a refrigerator coming on above me, she realized. That’s the creak of a floorboard. That’s the opening of a door. She learned to listen so carefully that she could determine how many people were in the house, walking above her, each of their footsteps having a different sound.
And she listened for voices. Some she didn’t know, but she forced herself to listen and examine each one. She identified four.
Dean Gregory. Mrs. Gregory. Nurse Cochrane. And that new woman on the board of trustees, Nancy Wallison, who’d spoken to Tish’s civics class just last month…
Joelle had been right. They were all in on it—whatever “it” was.
There was a familiar creak outside the locked iron door. Tish’s ears perked. She knew what it was, and the rumble in her stomach confirmed it. She was like a caged animal whose body had come to expect food every day at the same time. It was mealtime for Tish. The red-robed figure was descending the stairs into the basement. Tish counted off the seconds in her mind, and right on schedule came the second sound, when the figure jangled its keys outside the door.
In seconds, the iron door was swinging open, and the figure, robed and hooded, its face always hidden, carried a tray in.
The figure never spoke, but Tish had learned to study it carefully. By now, because Tish had reverted to silence, they must have thought she was mad. But her mind was clicking away, storing away any data that might prove useful later.
Whoever’s under that robe moves slowly, Tish thought. Stout. Maybe even fat. I could outrun it given the chance.
The figure placed the tray on the floor. Tish bent over it, eating the bread like a dog might, tearing it apart with her teeth, not using her hands. All the better to make them think she had regressed.
The figure bent—with some difficulty, Tish noticed—to retrieve the pail. Tish watched as the figure left the cell, clanging the door behind. Tish took a sip of water from the large mug that had been brought to her. She knew it took only a few seconds for the figure to return with the pail, having emptied it presumably in some nearby toilet. If Tish were ever to make a move, it would have to be when the figure came back through the door at that point. That would take it the most by surprise. But how?
For now, Tish decided to bide her time, but she couldn’t wait much longer. Who knows when they planned to make her their next victim?
The figure came back inside. Instead of setting the pail back down as it normally did, it stood over Tish for a moment looking down at her.
Tish, playing crazy, looked up at the figure with animal eyes.
“Pitiful slut,” the figure spoke, the first time Tish had heard its voice. “Useless creature.”
Then the figure set the pail down on the floor and left the room, clanging the door shut behind.
And Tish, her ears so sharply attuned, knew immediately who was under that robe.
Oostie.
Their good matron, Mrs. Oosterhouse.
Immediately, Tish had to pee. That often happened after drinking. As she pulled down her ratty, dirty jeans to squat over the pail, she felt encou
raged.
I could take Oostie, she thought. I could totally take out Oostie.
But then she felt something sharp sticking in her thigh. She winced, looking down. One end of the pail’s metal handle was coming loose. In the very dim light, Tish studied it. It broke off in her hands. Its edge was sharp—very sharp. Just a slight touch to her fingertip had drawn blood.
With a little effort, she secured the handle back to the side of the pail. It might come undone again, but she thought it would hold long enough for Oostie to carry it out of the room to dump it one more time.
But it would also serve as a weapon—a very sharp weapon—providing Tish was fast enough and strong enough.
And she had every intention of making sure she was.
31
Billy Honeycutt looked at his watch. Sue was late for their date.
He was sitting on a bench in the center of town. It was getting close to five, and Sue had promised to be there by four thirty. Billy hated the fact that he couldn’t just pick her up on campus. Those archaic rules of Wilbourne prohibited visitors except during very specified hours, and then only on weekends. Every minute Sue was late cut into the time they could spend together, given that the campus curfew was nine o’clock on a weekday night.
Billy sighed. He liked Sue. Liked her a lot, in fact. But he had thought dating a college girl would be a little more glamorous than it was. When he was dating Heidi, he was the Big Man at Lebanon High, strolling around town with his arm around her. Heidi was considered the foxiest girl in Lebanon, and Billy had nabbed her.
And now here he was, sitting on a bench all by himself in the middle of the afternoon.
Still, Sue was a breath of fresh air to him. Heidi would pout if Billy didn’t kiss her right away. She was always trying to out-whore her friends by wearing short shirts to expose her belly button, pretending to be Britney. But Sue seemed oblivious to the whole game of sex. Billy liked sex—no question about that—but Sue was sophisticated. She came from Manhattan. For her, Billy reasoned, sex was just part of the mix. It came when it was supposed to. No need to flaunt it.
