Possession fa-5

by J. R. Ward

  “Well. You’ve got answers for everything, haven’t you.”

  “I’m just telling the truth. Do with it what you will.” G.B. checked his watch. “Listen, I’m sorry to say this, but I have to go to a job in about a half hour.”

  “Where you working at?”

  “It’s a funeral. Maybe you know the girl? She was murdered a little while ago—Sissy Barten?”

  The detective pushed a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Yeah. I know who she is.”

  “You find out who did that yet?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” G.B. looked down. “Her family asked me to sing. I guess they’d heard me at her graduation from high school the year before—a friend of a friend got in touch with me, and like I was going to say no? It was horrible what happened to her.”

  “What happened to Jennifer Espie was pretty horrible, too.”

  “How was she killed, by the way?”

  “That’s another thing I’ve been thinking about. May I see your hands?”

  “Sure.” G.B. stretched them out palms down, then palms up.

  There was nothing on them. But then, he used that pair of workman’s gloves, the kind that were rated for handling chemicals. Thick gloves, very thick—and they’d run up his forearms.

  They were in the Hudson River now.

  “Do you want to take samples or something?” he asked.

  “Interesting idea to bring up. You watch a lot of CSI, by any chance?”

  “No,” he lied.

  “Jennifer was killed in a violent way.”

  Yup. He’d walked down with her and taken her all the way around to the back exit, the one that was triple-locked, had no windows anywhere near it, and was practically in the next zip code from anyplace anyone usually was. The gloves had been in his back pockets, one jammed in each side, and she hadn’t even balked at the fact that he’d had them with him. He’d turned out the light, and talked to her until she’d given in to him; then he’d pivoted her around like he was going to fuck her from behind…

  And slammed her face-first into the wall. Boom! Splash! Blood everywhere. And then he’d done it again, and again, and again…

  Messy, very messy.

  But he’d had to get it all out. In situations like that, when he’d done things just like that before, he’d always found that the violence was a purging—and the further he went with it, the cleaner he felt afterward.

  When she was no longer twitching on the floor, he’d caught his breath, and had to start thinking. Yeah, he’d remembered to bring the gloves, but kind of like a session of really good sex, he tended to be a little spacey for a while afterward.

  Next move was to get the fuck out of there—and clean the fuck up. That was how he’d ended up in that workroom … where the brunette had come to him.

  The sex had been awesome, actually. What he was hoping, though, was that she had headed out of town right afterward—and that Jennifer’s murder didn’t go further than the local press.

  What he really didn’t need was her connecting any dots for the CPD. And finding him with no shirt on in a room full of bleach fumes the night that some chick was killed in the basement?

  “Would you let me?”

  “I’m sorry?” he said, refocusing.

  “Take samples from under your nails?”

  “Sure. Absolutely.”

  The detective knocked on the table and stood up. “This won’t take long. We’ll get you out fast so you can be at that funeral.”

  “Thanks—and if you need anything else, just holler.”

  “Oh, I will.” At the door, the detective paused. “You’ve got quite a following here in Caldie.”

  “I’m just trying to make it, like anybody else.”

  The man nodded. “If you decide to go out of town, or out of state, give me a call, will you?”

  G.B. forced his brows to frown. “Am I a suspect or something?”

  “Just consider it a courtesy at this point, okay?”

  With that, G.B. was left alone in the bald little room. As his heart rate increased, his first instinct was to jump up and pace around, but he knew better. There were cameras in the corners.

  Cameras that caught everything—

  “Well … what do you know,” he whispered to himself, a kind of awe coming over him.

  He was going to get away with this, after all. In spite of those stairwell cameras that he hadn’t known about—and which should have been as big a problem as that brunette for him.

  Fate, however, had smiled upon him, hadn’t it. When he’d been in that workroom, before the brunette had come and found him? He remembered the lights flickering—and he was willing to bet his life on the fact that there had been some data loss associated with the power surge. Because this detective with the sharp eyes would have led with any record of G.B. and Jennifer going down those stairs together.

  Which they had done right before he’d killed her.

  Yeah, no “courtesy” for an out-of-town trip if the cops had that kind of evidence—he’d be in fucking custody.

  Something had definitely happened to that security camera in the stairwell.

  And thank God.

  It was without a doubt his savior in all this, he thought with a smile.

  Chapter

  Fifty

  So many people, Cait thought as she looked around the narthex of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  For the past two hours, she had stood on the periphery, watching the ceaseless tide of mourners funnel in. She hadn’t been to many of these kinds of services, fortunately—but she knew enough to recognize the shift in demographics: The younger the person in the casket, the larger and more diverse the crowd. When the elders passed on, usually there was only what older friends were left, with the few young being those of close familial relationship.

  Not in Sissy Barten’s case.

  There were people of all ages—children, teenagers, lot of college students, some of whom Cait recognized and hugged. There were young families and middle-aged people, and then the older spectrum as well.

  Almost all of them stopped by and looked at Sissy’s drawings and paintings, as if using the work as a conduit to connect themselves with her.

  No open casket, or so Cait had been told—and she was glad for that. This was hard enough without having to see Sissy—and maybe that made Cait a wimp … but she’d read the CCJ articles on the nature of the killing. Gruesome. Very gruesome.

  “Thank you so much for this.”

  Cait jumped and turned around. Sissy’s mother was right at her elbow, the woman looking about a hundred years old.

  “For what—oh, bringing her art?” Cait shook her head. “It’s my privilege to.”

  “Will you join us for the burial? At Pine Grove?”

  “Of course. Absolutely.”

  “My husband would like to leave all of this in place and then collect it after we’re finished at the cemetery, if it’s okay with you? We’ll take the art home.”

  “I have some portfolios that you can use and keep—they’ll make sure everything is protected.”

  “Thank you.” The woman reached out and took Cait’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “You were her favorite professor. She spoke of you constantly.”

  Cait’s eyes flooded with tears. “Thank you for telling me that—she was a tremendously talented person, and so wonderful to be around. I’m just … terribly sorry.”

  “We are too.”

  The pair of them hugged, holding on to each other for a moment that lasted an eternity. And then someone came up to talk to Mrs. Barten, and Cait stepped out of the way to dab at her eyes.

  So hard. This was just so damned hard.

  Peering to the side, she looked through an old pane of glass into the body of the church. Down the long nave, the pews that had been empty when she’d been here the day before were stuffed with people, heads turning this way and that as they chatted with the folks around them. Even out here
, she could hear the chatter, the occasional coughs, the shuffling of countless feet, the creaking of old wood as more seats were taken.

  Staring down that vast aisle, she found herself locking on the altar again, and as she focused on the figure of Jesus upon the cross, and the incredible stained-glass windows all around the statue, she thought of her parents.

  True believers. They had made the commitment to their religion with their hearts, minds, and souls, their faith transforming the complex mixture of mythology and history of the Bible into a living, breathing dictate for everything they did.

  She’d resented them for it, but had never thought any deeper than that about her feelings … or theirs. But standing in the front of the church, having stared at all those grief-stricken faces, she wondered for the first time if maybe her mother and father’s mission to bring relief and guidance to people like these wasn’t somehow a good thing.

  Take out the “maybe.” In fact, they had told her countless times how they just wanted to help—that was what drove them.

  Cait hadn’t listened. She’d been too hurt to try to see anything from their point of view. Now, though … if she’d had a way to do anything to improve this sad occasion, if there was anything she could say or do to bring forward any help … she’d do it—

  “Cait?”

  Cait recoiled as her name was—“G.B.?”

  “Hi. This is a surprise.”

  As he leaned in for a hug, she wrapped her arms around him. “What are you doing here?” What, like she was a gatekeeper or something? “I mean, I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you know Sissy?”

  He pulled back and shook his head. “The family asked me to come and sing.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice of you.”

  He did as she had, leaning to the side and searching the crowd on the far side of the glass. “Lot of people.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  Her eyes went over him quickly. His long hair was pulled back and tied at the base of his neck, his suit and tie black, his button-down white. His shoes were polished, and he smelled like he was fresh from the shower.

  He looked as good as he always did.

  His blue eyes swung back around to her. “I got your message yesterday. I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Oh, listen, with what happened at the theater, I can imagine things have gotten complicated.”

  “They even called me down to the station for questioning.” As her eyes bugged, he shook his head. “They’re doing it to everyone. It’s crazy—but you know, someone’s dead and they have to find out who killed her.”

  Another funeral, Cait thought. For another family, another segment of the community.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. It’s just been an exhausting twenty-four hours.”

  “I can’t even imagine. Listen, I haven’t read the paper or been online since it happened—who was she?”

  “Nobody important.” He winced. “What I mean is—”

  “No, I know what you meant. And good Lord, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  He smiled at her. “You’re the best—and I’m going to take you up on that.”

  Instantly, a shaft of guilt went through her. But come on, now was not the time to tell him that they were on friends-only status. Or to focus on anything but Sissy and her family.

  “Where are you sitting?” he asked, nodding to the church proper.

  “In the back somewhere. I’m going to the burial, too.”

  “So am I. You want to ride over together?”

  She nodded. “Yes, please. That would be great.”

  He kissed her cheek and then walked off, going through the double doors, and striding forward to the front—where he talked to a couple of men who were wearing robes.

  She probably should find a place to sit. They’d be starting soon.

  Just as she passed over the threshold, something along the far left caught her eye. It was the janitor she’d seen the day before, still dressed in his mucky green overalls. He was looking right at her, his old face wearing such sorrow on it, it seemed as though he knew Sissy personally, too.

  He lifted his hand in a wave, and after Cait returned the greeting, the janitor turned away, walking along the far edge of the pews, staring over the assembled masses as if mourning along with them. And then he did the strangest thing. At the front of the church, he slid in beside a young girl who was maybe fourteen or so—who had long straight blond hair just as Sissy had.

  Had to be Sissy’s sister.

  Guess he was a personal friend of the family’s.

  “Excuse us,” someone said from behind her.

  “Oh, sorry.” Cait moved aside so that a woman with a stroller could get by.

  When Cait glanced up again … the janitor was gone.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Sissy only half heard the words, and what did register was filtered through some kind of echo-chamber effect, the syllables repeating endlessly, overlapping one another until she wasn’t sure exactly what had been spoken.

  Standing on the lawn of the great cathedral, she felt like the ghost she was, the few stragglers who were arriving for her funeral not noticing her presence—or that of the angel who stood beside her.

  She had debated whether to come or not. When Chillie had pitched the newspaper on the front porch this morning, she’d had no intention of reading it—but when she’d unwrapped the thing, she’d seen her own picture below the fold.

  And learned the when and where of her own funeral.

  Adrian had insisted on coming with her, and she’d been glad, actually. The ride on his Harley had done a lot to clear her head—although all that improvement had gone right into the crapper as soon as they’d pulled up to the church she’d gone to most every Sunday of her life. And then she’d started to recognize the people who were coming up the broad walkway to the front entrance: Her old babysitter with her husband and her baby in a stroller. Her choir teacher from elementary school. The people who lived across the street.

  She’d thought that seeing her parents and her sister would be the worst part. And that was probably the truth—so how much harder was this going to get?

  “I want to go in,” she said. Except her feet didn’t move.

  “Here.” A huge forearm butted into her peripheral vision. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Sissy ended up holding on to the angel’s huge biceps for dear life as the two of them entered through the open doors.

  “My pictures …” she whispered, looking around.

  About a dozen pieces of her art were mounted on easels in a semi-circle around the foyer, the pastels and ink drawings and oil paintings all ones she had done as part of her art major.

  “Oh, my God, I remember doing this last fall.” Walking over, she stood in front of a depiction of the Caldwell bridges that she’d painted in the rust-colored hues of autumn. She’d completed it right on the shores of the Hudson, had sat there in the sunshine for two hours with the canvas and her palette and a conviction that life lasted forever—and wasn’t that a good thing.

  A sudden flare of organ music suggested the service was about to get started.

  Pressing on, she overrode a strange terror and walked through the narthex’s double doors into the body of the church. Everything was just as she remembered, which was a shock of sorts. Regardless of what the calendar said, she was still convinced she had been gone for centuries.

  From that moment on, autopilot took over, some inner metronome driving her footsteps forward, left, right, left, right. When she got to the front, and saw her parents and her sister, she stopped.

  “Here, take this,” Adrian said gruffly.

  As a red do-rag was pressed into her hands, she wondered why she needed it—but that was when she found out she was crying: Tears were streaming down her face, falling to the floor of the church.

  “You can go sit down if you
like.”

  Sissy wheeled around, expecting to see some late arrival hustling for a seat and the person at the end of the nearest pew moving aside to accommodate them. Instead, it was a janitor she didn’t recognize, an old guy in a dark green jumpsuit.

  And he was looking directly at her.

  “Go on, there’s a seat over there for you.”

  “How can you see me?” she blurted.

  “Because you’re here,” he answered gently, like that was self-evident. “Go on now, and sit.”

  She looked over to where he was pointing, and immediately shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

  “It’s there for you, Sissy. Sit.”

  The chair he wanted her to use was the gold leafed one that was set between the Virgin Mary’s side chapel and that of John the Baptist. Raised up on a pedestal, it had a red velvet cushion, and filligreed woodwork, and was the closest she’d ever gotten to any kind of throne.

  Ever since she was a young girl, she had always wanted to sit down in it—even if just for a heartbeat. But of course, there had always been a wide satin ribbon tied across that seat, a clear warning to all that it was a work of art, not something functional.

  Certainly not for a little girl. Or a big one, at that.

  Today there was no ribbon tied between the curling arms.

  “It is for you.”

  The janitor put his hand on her shoulder, and instantly the most incredible sense of calm came over her, every painful nuance of this dissipating … replaced by a profound sense of love for all the people who had come for her and her family.

  So much love, forming the foundation of the agony within the congregation, but also providing the only uplift that was available.

  Following the janitor, Sissy went over and stepped up onto the platform. As organ music crescendoed, she sat in the chair, placing her hands gently on the golden arms. And it was strange, in a way … this felt proper, not foreign.