Sinner

by Ted Dekker

  He put his arms around her waist, pulled her against him, and kissed her deeply.

  She returned the affection. His heart was pounding in his ears, flooding him with such a strong desire to love her, to protect her, to hold her that he thought he might do something rash.

  Time seemed to stall.

  He pulled back, disoriented.

  “Well,” she said, wearing a coy smile. “Was that me? Or was that you?”

  “I . . . You. Both, maybe both. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “I think you did.”

  “Maybe you should put your glasses back on,” he said, turning away.

  “I don’t know how much of that I can handle.”

  He felt himself blushing. He’d tipped his hand, hadn’t he? Was that really how her voice worked? Persuading others to do what was really inside of them to do rather than something against their will?

  It was all a bit dizzying.

  “I like you too, Billy,” Darcy said. “Just so you know.”

  He didn’t know what to say. So he kept his mouth shut and walked back to the couch.

  Darcy slid onto the seat opposite him. “Now what?”

  They spent the afternoon catching up, respecting each other’s boundaries, yet breaking down the past with a freedom Billy hadn’t felt for a long time. That one kiss had melted thirteen years of ice that had barred him from realizing just how close he and Darcy really were.

  They had been taken into a monastery as infants, two of thirty-six orphans who’d been rescued from various parts of the world and brought to Colorado, where a group of priests led by David Abraham had brought them up in the ways of virtue, protecting them from any form of evil. Noble savages, sequestered away as unknowing participants in an experiment between primitivism and morality. The overseers had known all along that a terrible kind of evil waited in the tunnels below the monastery.

  Billy had been the first child lured into those tunnels where he’d discovered the ancient books responsible for these unique gifts. And Darcy had been right by his side. The consequences of writing in the pages had been disturbing enough for Billy to spend a lifetime hiding from, but the worst of it could still lie ahead.

  “Marsuvees Black isn’t dead,” Billy said.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “You said you feel a snake in your gut, waiting to come out?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So do I. And I think it’s him. I think he’s alive and after us.”

  “The Catholic Church is after us,” she said.

  “Could be. Or it could be Black, masquerading as the church.”

  She hesitated, not ready to abandon her conviction that the church was living up to its reputation by trying to squash them.

  Billy glanced at the clock. “Six o’clock. Kinnard should be here.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  KATRINA KIVI looked at the slip of paper the man named Johnny had written the address on: 1549 Inspiration Canyon Drive. The bus had dropped her off at the end of the street, a good ten-minute walk. Johnny whoever-he-was lived on the edge of the old district in one of the wood-frame houses that still stood.

  Kat had finished her first day at the shelter and hit the road at five, but not before finding out more about the man who’d mysteriously appeared, broken up the fight with Asad, and then vanished.

  Tobias, an Indian janitor at the shelter who liked to talk, had filled in a few blanks. Johnny wasn’t a priest, not technically, no. But he often wore a collar and nobody seemed to mind. They called him Father Johnny or Padre Juan.

  According to Tobias, Johnny was a quiet man who volunteered every other week, usually in the kitchen or cleaning up in the rec hall.Never to be seen without them glasses, said Tobias. Never.

  Johnny had become somewhat of a legend around the halls of the shelter after subduing two armed men during a robbery a few months earlier. Bravest nut Tobias had ever seen. Spread his arms like he was some kind of savior, walked right up to them speaking in that low voice of his and then, bang!, he had both of them flipped over on their bellies, squealing like pigs. He shoved the guns into his belt like a man born with holsters in his skin and hogtied them in ten seconds flat using an extension cord from one of the lamps.

  Father Johnny.

  Kat had spent the last five hours rehearsing every possible angle of her ostensibly simple predicament, and best as she could figure it, she was toast. The judge could reverse her previous order, but there was no reason for her to do so. Nevada’s violence laws were some of the strictest in the nation. Three strikes and you’re out. End of discussion.

  This was Kat’s third strike. She was out. There was a jail cell in Clark County with her name on it. Four to a cell. The idea had grown uglier as the hours ticked by. She’d never actually considered the possibility that it could come down to this. One lousy fight, a justified one at that, and here she was.

  The idea made her palms sweaty.

  Kat stopped on the porch and looked around. Streets were empty, large lawns, brown lawns. Not exactly your typical suburban neighborhood settled by rich Indians or Arabs like so much of the city. But not poor, either.

  She lifted her hand and was about to knock on the door when a faint moan drifted to her on the wind. A sob. From behind the neighbor’s house?

  It came again, a cry and then a strange grunt that sounded angry. No one on the street that she could see.

  Kat stepped off the porch and crept to the corner of the house. Then around and down the wall. A tall fence bordered the backyard, but the wooden gate was wide open. She stopped in the opening and studied a grassy lawn, at the end of which stood a white shed with a red roof.

  The sob came again, from the direction of the shed, she thought. This time it was joined by a soft thump.

  Three soft thumps, something hitting wood. Still no sign of anyone except for this one lonely voice crying softly on a slight breeze.

  She almost returned to the front door, but the next cry was so sharp and laced with pain that she felt compelled to rush to the aid of whoever was in such trouble.

  Kat hurried across the lawn toward the shed, one of those ready-made ones you could buy at Home Depot if she had to guess. She eased her head around the corner and blinked.

  A blonde woman dressed in jeans and a sleeveless red blouse kneeled on the dirt, facing the shed’s back wall, forehead pressed against the siding. A soft moan escaped her gaping mouth, though there were no tears that Kat could see.

  This was the crying she’d heard. The woman was softly thumping her forehead on the shed in anguish.

  The sight pulled at Kat’s chords of empathy and terrified her at once. The woman looked clean and well groomed, not abused or hurt.

  Kat pulled back, undecided about how to proceed. She could ask the woman if she needed any help, but anyone hiding like this obviously wanted privacy more than help.

  The wail continued, and Kat thought she might start to cry herself. What kind of man was this Johnny? Maybe she’d gotten the wrong house.

  She ran back to the gate and turned back to the shed. The afternoon seemed unnaturally quiet except for the sound of the woman’s moaning.

  “Hello, is there anyone back there?” she called out.

  The crying stopped immediately.

  “Hello? Is this Johnny’s house?”

  For a moment only the breeze blew, and then barely. The woman stepped from behind the shed. A genuine smile spread across her mouth.

  “Hello, you must be Katrina Kivi. I was just getting some work done.” The woman walked toward Kat, exhibiting no sign that she’d been crying and beating her head against the wall.

  “My name’s Kelly.” The woman stuck out her hand and Kat took it. She had blue eyes, the haunting kind that women who’d been around the block typically had, though she couldn’t be older than thirty.

  “Johnny told me all ab
out you. Come on, he’s been expecting you.”

  Kelly stepped past Kat and led her back around to the porch, through the front door, and into a living room filled with antique furniture.

  The whole thing was downright freaky, Kat thought. But the woman had the right to her own privacy, she supposed. Kat had her own struggles that she wanted to keep to herself, and she wasn’t interested in nosing about Kelly’s business.

  “Have a seat,” Kelly said.

  “No thanks, I’ll stand.”

  Kelly’s brow arched. “Really? You’re not staying?”

  “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “Probably because you’re in a jam, if I know Johnny. And I do.”

  Kelly smiled. The woman was pretty enough. Even confident, despite the shed incident. For all Kat knew, Johnny had taught her how to hog-tie gunmen.

  “You’re his wife?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I see you’ve met my fiancée,” a voice said from behind. Johnny walked in, as blond as Kat remembered. He’d changed into khaki cargo pants and a loose black T-shirt. Still wore the same glasses, framed in black, like the glass itself. The expensive, stylish kind.

  “Hello, Katrina.” He took her hand like a gentleman and shook it once. “You hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  “Eat anyway. You need some meat on those bones. You got tapeworm or something?”

  “I’m not a pig,” Kat said. “That a crime?”

  “Not the last time I checked.”

  “You always so frank?” Kat asked.

  “I speak my mind,” he said. “That a crime?”

  She was beginning to like him. “Not the last time I checked.”

  “Next time you check, it just might be. Kelly, could you get the pizza out of the warmer?”

  “She didn’t want to sit,”Kelly said with a slight smile. Then she retreated into the kitchen.

  “Sit,” Johnny said, sitting on the sofa. He rested his feet on a large leather ottoman that doubled as the coffee table.“Mind the furniture, it’s not mine. Came with the house.”

  Kat sat on the edge of a chair, elbows on her knees. “Would you mind telling me why I’m here?”

  “I was under the impression you were in trouble. Something about a judge who plans to throw you in jail.”

  “Assuming that incident is—”

  “Too late,” Johnny said. “It’s already on her desk.”

  Kat stood. “What? You said you could help me! You know very well that the moment she sees that footage, I go down.”

  “Yes, I do. Sit.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “I assume it’s because you’re toast. Please . . . sit.”

  Kat eased to her seat, confused as to his intentions. “Okay, stop being so cryptic here. Why did you give me your address?”

  Kelly came in with a large Pied Piper Pizza box and three bottles of water.

  “So that you could break some bread with my fiancée and me,” Johnny said. “We’d like to know how serious you are about getting our help.”

  “I defended myself from a guy who was trying to beat me to a pulp,” she snapped. “I wasn’t knocking off a casino. You really think I deserve to go to jail for that?”

  He took a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box, took a bite, wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and then gestured toward her. “Have a piece.”

  But she was too frustrated to consider her hunger.

  “I’m not the one who decides if you deserve to be locked up. We have judges for that. They look at all the evidence, your priors, and your attitude, put it all on their scales and make a judgment. In your case, I do believe the scales of justice will weigh in the favor of jail time.” He took another bite.

  “Why?”

  “Because of your attitude,” Johnny said. “Which is why you’re here. To see if you really do want our help. Tell me, do you have something in particular against Indians?”

  What kind of question was that? “No.”

  “Muslims?”

  “No.”

  “How about Arabs?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “So then that incident was race related?”

  “I said no.”

  “But you do hate Arabs, don’t you? You would never admit it in school, maybe not even to your friends. Everyone knows that anything less than tolerance isn’t tolerated these days. I can see why you would lie about it.”

  He wasn’t easily fooled. “You don’t think the towel-heads have ruined our country? Talk to them about tolerance.”

  “As a matter of fact, no, I don’t think Arabs have ruined our country. And I think most of them are as tolerant as their neighbors. Perhaps more so. But you’re being honest. You hate Arabs.”

  He left it at that, and Kat didn’t see any need to confuse the issue.

  “So let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that I do really want your help,” she said. “You said the judge already has the report. How would you propose to help me?”

  “I’ll tell you what: you have a piece of pizza, pretend you’re grateful to be here sharing food with us, and then maybe I’ll explain why I invited you.”

  Kelly sat down next to him, a slice of pizza in hand. She put her feet up on the ottoman, bit into her slice, and watched Kat while Johnny rubbed her back with his free hand.

  Kat felt like a goldfish in a bowl, but she wasn’t exactly in a position to turn her back on him yet. Her mother had often cursed her stubbornness, but she wasn’t a complete fool.

  Kat withdrew a piece of pizza, leaned back into the cushions, and crossed her legs, pretending to be interested in the oil paintings of lakes and mountains that hung on the walls.

  They ate in what Kat found to be a very awkward silence for a few minutes. Johnny seemed content to stare out the window through those glasses of his, either lost in thought or busily manipulating her, tempting her to ask the one question that burned on her mind until she could no longer resist.

  “Why the glasses?”

  It was Kelly who answered. “I’m afraid that’s just a bit too personal, Katrina.”

  “Kat,” she snapped.

  “Well, Kat, you’re going to have to wake up to the fact that you’re in a world of trouble here. Johnny can help you, trust me. But I have to agree with him, you don’t seem to have a clue about how abrasive your attitude is. I’m not sure I’d blame the judge.”

  “You want me to pretend I’m someone I’m not?”

  “No,” Johnny said.

  “And you? Are you allowed to pretend you’re someone you’re not?”

  He stared at her, slowly smiling. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Why the glasses?” she asked again.

  “They’re for your sake. I was involved in a bit of trouble and came out blind. But let’s not talk about that.”

  “You’re blind?” The revelation surprised her. “I’m . . . I mean, you don’t seem blind.”

  “Tell me, Kat, do you believe in God?”

  “God? What does God have to do with any of this?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Seriously?”

  He refused to answer.

  “I’m a witch.Not the hocuspocus kind or the Satan-worshipping kind, just the plain old love-the-earth-and-smoke-some-grass-when-you-get-the- chance variety. As for Allah”—she shrugged—“God, whatever . . . it all sickens me. Just being honest.”

  “Fair enough. Then where do you get your sense of right and wrong?”

  “What’s wrong today is right tomorrow,” she said. “The world is full of hypocrites crying about what’s right and wrong. I’ll tell you what’s wrong.” She felt her temperature edge up. “God is wrong. Telling people to hate their neighbors because they don’t have Jesus or Allah or Buddha.”

  “I see. And evil?”

  “Like I said, I don’t go for all the hocuspocus.”

  “I see.”

  Johnny stoo
d and walked to the kitchen, leaving Kelly with her legs curled under her on the sofa, smiling. That infuriating plastic smile.

  “Okay? So now what?”

  “Now you can go home, Katrina,” Johnny said, washing his hands.

  “You’ll help me, then?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She stood again. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I don’t think you’re very interested in being helped. I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here.Would you like a ride to the bus stop? Kelly?”

  Kat’s anger boiled to the surface. “What kind of nut are you? How the heck do you know what kind of help I’m interested in?”

  “He knows,” Kelly said quietly. “Trust me, he knows.”

  It was all Kat could do to keep from picking up a cushion and throwing it at the woman. Easy, Kat. Don’t do anything stupid.

  Johnny came back into the room, drying his hands on a towel. “I’m sorry, really, I am. Kelly?”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” Kelly said, unfolding herself.

  “No. Forget it.Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Down the hall,” Kelly said, gesturing to it.

  Kat walked across the brown carpet, dizzy with anger. She might have been tempted to think that the bait and switch had to do with her skin color, but she knew this false priest would never have invited her if he had any issue with blacks or Indians or whatever she was.

  She walked down the hall, pushed her way into what she thought was the bathroom, and found herself in a bedroom instead. Queen-sized bed, overstuffed chair, drawn curtains. Looked unlived in. On the far side was a door that she thought might open to a bathroom.

  Without a second thought she crossed to the door and pulled it open. But it wasn’t a bathroom either. Rather, a very large walk-in closet. A dozen articles of clothing hanging neatly, several boxes piled on the right, each labeled with a month: January, February,March . . .

  She saw all of this by the light filtering in from the door she’d opened. But the closet was deeper on her left, cloaked in darkness. She hit the switch on the wall and blinked.

  A rack had been fixed to the wall. Seven or eight weapons sat in the rack, and next to each, several boxes of ammunition. Two rifles, an automatic weapon of some kind, three pistols, several knives . . . There was enough here to start a small war.