Hell to Pay

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  And it has, so far. And though this little detour tonight was not part of the original plan, it does fit into the greater mission.

  Daddy would approve.

  She’s pretty confident that not all hotel staff can be bought off so easily, but she was fortunate, earlier today, to find Tony, a maintenance worker who was more than happy to find out and share with her Richard Jollston’s room number—for a decent sum, of course. He had personally never heard of the author, but seemed to buy her story about being a huge fan.

  Tony was wearing a wedding band and a heavy gold cross around his neck.

  “Look at him,” Chaplain Gideon whispered. “Look at his cross. He believes. He doesn’t deserve to die. Not like the others.”

  She wasn’t sure it was such a smart idea to let him live, though. What if, after this is over, Tony tells someone—specifically, homicide detectives—about the woman who’d been asking to get into Richard Jollston’s room?

  But she’s well-disguised in a wig, glasses, eye makeup . . .

  And even if she weren’t disguised, they’d never recognize her. No one but Chaplain Gideon even knows she survived the very earthquake that heretic Jollston claims to have predicted.

  Richard Jollston must die. She’d known the instant she had seen him on television this morning, smug and self-serving, talking about his so-called prophecy. As though he were the chosen one.

  “But he isn’t,” Chaplain Gideon told her. “You are. You alone are the one true prophet.”

  Yes. And she understood what she had to do.

  It’s right there in Deuteronomy: The false prophets or dreamers who try to lead you astray must be put to death, for they encourage rebellion.

  Returning to the hotel a short time ago, she managed to slip past the doorman, front desk, and lobby security by mingling with a large, boisterous group headed for the elevator bank. It wasn’t hard. The hotel, decorated with white lights and fresh green boughs, was jam-packed with people.

  The group on the elevator all got off on lower floors, until she was the only one left. Up on the twenty-seventh floor, she ducked into the ice machine alcove and stayed there, watching the hall.

  She was waiting for Jollston, really—planning to ambush him from behind as he walked up to unlock his door.

  But that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying as the plan that popped into her head when the maid came along, pushing her cart from room to room, doing turndown service.

  Myra, her name tag read.

  Ah, Myra. Too greedy for her own good. Now she’s lying in a pool of blood on the plush cream-colored carpet in suite 2715.

  Myra is no self-proclaimed prophet, and killing her wasn’t part of the original plan.

  No, the maid was supposed to take the money and leave.

  But the knife was so close at hand, and she couldn’t help but think how easy it would be to use it . . .

  So satisfying . . .

  She lost control. She couldn’t help it. Lost control and slit Myra’s throat.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Chaplain Gideon warned her, but only when it was too late.

  Only when there was blood.

  So much blood . . . blood everywhere. All over the floor, and all over her own clothes, and the knife . . .

  Its handle was slippery in her hand. She longed to take off the glove and feel the slick stickiness of blood on her bare skin.

  “That’s not a good idea,” Chaplain Gideon told her, and she wanted to scream at him to shut up for a change, but she was afraid someone would hear through the walls or floor or ceiling.

  So she did what he said, and she left the gloves on.

  “Make it look like a robbery,” he said, and she took the money the maid had in her pocket.

  That was a long time ago. She’s been pacing, and waiting, and wondering what she’ll do if Richard Jollston doesn’t come back to his room soon.

  She’s hungry. Starved. She hasn’t eaten in hours.

  “You can’t leave until you’ve taken care of him,” Chaplain Gideon warned her. “Patience.”

  Now, hearing movement in the hall outside the door at last, she tenses.

  He’s here.

  She slips quickly to the predesignated spot alongside the door hinges, where she can do what needs to be done, and make a quick escape.

  Watching the knob turn, she tightens her grasp on the knife handle, tucked within the folds of her hooded cloak. She exchanged it for the trench coat that’s now stashed inside the tote bag she brought with her.

  The door opens.

  Richard Jollston crosses the threshold.

  She pounces, slashing with the knife.

  The blade catches him in the arm. He turns, stunned. She swings the knife again, toward his face. His cheek is sliced open. Again, and this time she hits him in the gut. He staggers. Falls.

  Again, she raises the knife. Stabs him in the leg, the neck, the throat . . .

  Again and again, until she’s spent.

  “Thy will be done,” she whispers.

  Chapter Five

  Padding back from the bathroom at six-thirty A.M., her feet freezing on the bare hardwoods, Lucy finds Jeremy awake in bed. The alarm must have gone off in her absence, and he’s turned on the television, as he always does in the morning. He likes to catch the early local news.

  “Hey, Goose.” He watches her climb back into bed and sink against the pillows. “Sick?”

  “No.”

  “I heard you in the bathroom.”

  “Then why’d you ask?” She swallows hard, still tasting bile, closes her eyes, and feels Jeremy’s hand on her arm.

  “Why don’t you call in sick today?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not sick. If I fall back asleep, wake me up in fifteen minutes, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Maybe she should tell him about the slightly crampy feeling she experienced first thing after she woke up. Very slight—so slight that right now, she isn’t even sure she’s feeling it.

  Why worry Jeremy? I’m sure it’s nothing.

  She listens to the morning traffic and transit report, appreciating the rhythm of an ordinary day. Accidents, gridlock alert, bridge and tunnel bottlenecks, reporter banter. Then commercials for diapers, juice boxes, the latest must-have Christmas toys . . .

  Someday I’ll be buying those things.

  Feeling another crampy twinge in her pelvis, she prays the Our Father and the Hail Mary, then adds a little prayer of her own.

  Please, please, please, dear God in heaven . . . Please, let me carry this baby for two more months. Please.

  The day after tomorrow is Sunday. She’s going to miss seeing Father Les, but she’s planning to join Holy Trinity, the neighborhood church where Sylvie was a parishioner. Her funeral was held there, and the whole family found comfort in the eulogy delivered by the priest, Father Bart.

  Maybe Jeremy will start going to church with her. Probably not, though. Unfortunately, everything he learned years ago about his birth father, Garvey Quinn, turned him off organized religion. The ultimate hypocritical politician, the late congressman masked his wicked ways behind a pious, preachy façade.

  “But it doesn’t make sense for you to avoid church just because it was a big part of his life,” Lucy has told Jeremy a thousand times. “You would probably find comfort and healing there, the way I have.”

  So far, Jeremy isn’t buying it. She’s not surprised. Her mother told her that Jeremy’s birth mother, Marin, reacted the same way years ago, when Lauren tried to convince her to get spiritual counseling.

  As far as she knows, Marin never set foot in church again—though her daughters were another story.

  As usual, Lucy pushes the thought of Annie and Caroline Quinn from her thoug
hts.

  No negative energy to start the day.

  And she’s no longer feeling any cramps, so that’s a good sign. A great sign.

  “How was your game last night?” she asks Jeremy, her eyes still closed.

  “Fine. We won. I thought you were sleeping.”

  “Just resting. What time did you get home?”

  “After ten. You were asleep.”

  “Yeah.” She yawns. “So . . . are you going to Parkview?”

  “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t go last week—”

  “We were busy packing for the move.”

  “Or the week before.”

  “I had to go to children’s court for Eddie.”

  “I know.” Eddie is one of the kids at the center. “I just thought maybe . . .”

  “Maybe I was going to stop going?”

  She hesitates. “I don’t think anyone would blame you.”

  “It isn’t about anyone else. It’s about me. I need to go—for me as much as for her.”

  Maybe more than for her, Lucy thinks—not for the first time.

  She changes the subject. “Ryan came over after work last night.”

  “With his girlfriend?”

  “What do you think?”

  “No?”

  “No. Alone. He wanted to talk about the girlfriend, though.” She tells him, briefly, about her conversation with her brother.

  “I hate to say it, but that doesn’t sound very promising.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Not in so many words. You know Ryan. Maybe he’s just being . . . insecure. Maybe it’s all in his head.”

  “Maybe. I hope so.”

  “She’s with him, so she must care about him. Right?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What, you think she has ulterior motives?” Hearing the incredulity in her own tone, she feels bad about it.

  It’s not as though her brother has nothing to offer a woman. He’s a sweet, caring person. But Ryan Walsh is definitely not the kind of man who’d capture the attention of a gold digger or status seeker. Meaning anyone he’s dating is with him because she cares about him. Right?

  “It’s hard to tell,” Jeremy says, “without meeting her.”

  “That’s exactly what I said to Ryan.”

  “And? Are we going to meet her?”

  “Christmas Eve, I hope. Which is Tuesday.”

  “About that—I was thinking maybe we should get a tree after all.”

  “Really?” Lucy is surprised. “But I thought we agreed—”

  “We did. But . . . I don’t know, I feel like maybe this place would be more cheerful if we put up a tree.”

  “It would. Definitely.”

  And maybe he’s not just talking about the apartment. Maybe he’s hoping a tree will help him be more cheerful, too. Still . . .

  “What? You’re worried about the money?” Jeremy asks, and she nods.

  Trees are outrageously expensive in Manhattan. It seems crazy to throw away a hundred bucks on something meant to last just a few days.

  But the argument seems a little Scrooge-like.

  Instead, she points out—in case Jeremy forgot—“It’ll only be you and me here on Christmas Eve this year. And maybe Ryan and his girlfriend.”

  Not that her brother had been willing, when they talked about it earlier, to commit to spending Christmas Eve here.

  “You, me, Ryan, his girlfriend, and seven fishes?” Jeremy sighs. “Why don’t we just get a pizza?”

  “Because you don’t have pizza on Christmas Eve! You have seafood.”

  “I thought that was an Italian tradition. You’re not even Italian.”

  “Jeremy!”

  “Listen, how about just one or two fishes? Or even four—one fish per person. ”

  He’s trying to be clever, she knows, but she isn’t in the mood.

  “It’s a tradition,” she tells him. “Our tradition. Seven fishes.”

  “So it shall be.”

  He says that to her sometimes, teasingly, when he thinks she’s being difficult or demanding.

  But she isn’t. Not right now. All she wants is for Christmas to be the way it’s always been.

  Suddenly, she’s homesick—not just for old holiday traditions and her old church and Father Les, but for her family.

  Even when Mom gets back home to Glenhaven Park, it’s going to be so much harder for Lucy to pop over to see her now that she’s living in the city.

  She was never the kind of daughter who relied on her mother—let alone anyone else—for help or advice. Still, there’s a certain comfort in maternal affection and unconditional love.

  Especially when I’m pregnant.

  If her mom were nearby, she could ask her about some of these symptoms, without having to turn to the Internet or books or Dr. Courmier every time she has an unusual twinge like she did—or thought she did—this morning.

  She supposes she could still ask her mom long distance, but speaking on the phone is much different than chatting in person.

  “That’s crazy,” Jeremy says.

  “What’s crazy?” She backtracks mentally, having lost track of their conversation.

  “On the news . . . shh.”

  She rolls over to look at the TV screen. A reporter stands on a Manhattan street surrounded by flashing police car lights. Obviously a crime scene. Or maybe an accident.

  “ . . . double homicide . . .”

  Right the first time. Crime scene.

  “What’s crazy?” she asks Jeremy again.

  “It’s that guy who wrote that book about that earthquake.”

  “What guy, what book, what earthquake?”

  “The one near Boston, shh . . .”

  Boston . . . earthquake . . .

  The relevance of that registers immediately, of course.

  Not because of any book or the guy who wrote it, but because of the earthquake that devastated the Bridgebury, Massachusetts, prison, crushing and incinerating countless inmates—her among them.

  Her.

  That’s what Jeremy calls her, as though he can’t stand to utter her name.

  And I don’t blame him.

  Following the story onscreen, Lucy discerns that an author named Richard Jollston, in New York on a book tour, had been murdered last night at his hotel, along with a maid. The police had no motive and there had been no witnesses, but they were interviewing hotel employees and studying surveillance video.

  That report gives way to the announcement that the weather forecast is next, with a promise of a white Christmas for the tri-state area. Then there are more commercials for more products Lucy will need someday, after the baby is born.

  She thinks about the cramping again—or is it that she’s cramping again, and that brings it to mind?

  She can’t tell, but she’s definitely feeling something. Just barely. But something.

  She hasn’t gotten this far in life by dwelling on the bad stuff—and as someone who perpetually seeks order in her own little universe, she’s reassured by every typical pregnancy symptom. Nausea, cravings, exhaustion . . . it’s all good. Maybe this new symptom is as well.

  She ponders it for a few minutes, fighting to keep the worry at bay, wondering if it’s all in her head, or if it’s the start of Braxton Hicks contractions, which she knows are a normal third trimester symptom.

  That’s probably it.

  Of course that’s it.

  Dr. Courmier told her at her last checkup to expect to begin to feel some changes as her body starts to get ready for childbirth.

  Realizing Jeremy has been silent beside her, she looks over to see him absently focused on the tel
evision screen.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks him.

  “You know . . . the earthquake. The prison. Her.”

  “She’s dead,” Lucy says unnecessarily.

  “Yeah. I know that. But whenever I hear anything about that earthquake, it just reminds me of her and . . .” He shudders. “I hate thinking about her.”

  “Then don’t.” It’s Lucy’s turn to lay a reassuring hand on Jeremy’s arm. “Think about something else. Something pleasant.”

  His eyes shift to her face, and he rolls toward her, taking her in his arms. “Guess what? I already am.”

  She grabs her wallet, shoves it into the pocket of her coat—a down parka, not the trench she’d worn last night—and storms out of the apartment.

  She can’t listen to . . . to that.

  She can’t stand to see them together, in their bed.

  Striding along the carpeted corridors, she doesn’t pass a single soul. Good, because she forgot to disguise herself before walking out the door.

  Does it matter, though?

  She no longer looks anything like the girl whose picture was splashed all over the media years ago—the girl who died long before the prison walls collapsed around her.

  I hate thinking about her, Jeremy had said.

  She’s dead, Lucy had replied.

  Good. They believe that. Let them. Good. Good!

  And yet . . .

  The contempt in his voice, Jeremy’s voice, when he spoke of her . . .

  And the calming assurance in Lucy’s . . .

  I hate them both. They’re going to pay. They’re going to die.

  Having reached the main elevator bank, she jabs at the down button repeatedly in time with the word screaming in her brain.

  Die, die, die, die, die . . .

  Frustrated, she spins and pushes through the doors to the stairs. There are seventeen flights in the squared-off spiral that goes from the first floor to the towering glass domed ceiling, still painted over from the blackout years of World War II. She descends, relishing the pounding of her feet on the wide white marble steps and the pounding of her heart against her ribs.

  She has no idea where she’s going, only that she has to get away.

  She puts up the hood on her coat before she reaches the lobby, just in case. The weather is gray and blustery. No one will question it.