Confession (28 page)

An eternity passed. He watched her with such intensity his pupils threatened to black out his eyes. “Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?”

She didn't drop her gaze. “Should I be?”

“Always the psychiatrist. Answering one question with another question. Never revealing your true feelings. I find that rather tiresome, really. I can't imagine what my brother sees in you.” Dante turned his back and stalked away.

Frantically, Faith scanned the room for Luke. But the crowd was too thick and the air oppressively hot, almost suffocating. She put her hand on her chest, forcing herself to breathe, and hurried to the door, still searching for but not finding Luke. Checking back over her shoulder to be sure Dante hadn't followed, she ducked out of the gallery.

F
aith's feet flew over the sidewalk, carrying her away from the gallery and toward her office. She needed time to think. Maybe she was reading too much into things. Maybe she was projecting her own memory of Scourge's dream onto the painting. After all, no one else around her seemed to see a dead nun in
Dark Woods.
Yes. She was projecting. That's all it was.

But a sick feeling still sat like a piece of rotting fruit in the pit of her stomach.

Dante started this painting at St. Catherine's School for Boys.

That
was not her projecting.
That
was a fact.

Dante attended St. Catherine's.

Scourge killed Sister Bernadette at St. Catherine's.

She was sure of it.

Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?

As much as she wished it weren't true, she knew
—­
and Dante
knew she knew.
He'd been present in the woods that terrible night. Had he been a witness, or an active participant in the Sister's murder?

Had Dante been
the voice
that commanded Scourge:
Do it! You want to make it into hell, don't you?

Then slowly, understanding dawned—­not like the rising of the sun, but like its eclipse. A black curtain fell across her heart. Scourge never mentioned a partner because he wanted to protect that partner. Just like Perry Smith wanted to protect his partner, Dick Hickock. Before his execution, Perry Smith took the blame for all the murders, claiming Dick never pulled the trigger on any of the members of the Clutter family. Perry said he didn't want Dick's family to suffer, so he changed his story to accept full responsibility. She drew up short and spewed undigested hors d'oeuvres onto the sidewalk.

Scourge planned to re-­create the Clutter family murders in order to guarantee himself a place in hell, but there was a reason he'd chosen that particular path. Like Perry Smith, Scourge had spent time in a Catholic school. Like Perry, Scourge was small and ridiculed for wetting the bed. If Scourge was to be taken at his word, and she didn't know if she could or not, he'd been beaten with a flashlight, just like Perry. Scourge had taken on the role of a cold-­blooded killer, in part, because he'd become overidentified with Perry Smith, even to the point of combing his hair the same way and branding his body with the same tattoos.

And Perry was nothing without Dick.

Of course Scourge had a partner.

Scourge was nothing without Dante.

When Dante confessed to being the Saint, he left Scourge to carry out his master plan on his own. No wonder Scourge came unglued and developed a crippling fear of blood.

He'd never killed on his own before.

Bolting down the sidewalk, she crashed into a man carrying a bag of groceries. Oranges, apples, and potatoes flipped out of the bag and rolled down the sharp incline of the street. A kid let out a whoop at the splatter of eggs exploding onto the sidewalk, then gave chase to the fruit.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Faith yelled, barely glancing back at the man who'd lost his groceries and now stood shaking a fist at her.

Her heel caught a crack in the sidewalk, wrenching her already pained ankle. She threw out her hands to break her fall, and her palms scraped the ground. As she catapulted upright again, she cast another glance over her shoulder. No one was following her—­not Dante, not even the man with the spoiled groceries.

Get it together.
Breaking your neck won't accomplish anything.

Deliberately, she slowed her steps, threw back her shoulders, tried to blend in with the tourists on the busy street. She stopped and feigned interest in a bouquet of gardenias from a street vendor. The pungent fragrance of her favorite flowers somehow distracted the panicked part of her brain, and reason seeped in, albeit a little at a time.

A block from her office, she ducked behind the corner of a building. Keeping an eagle eye out for Dante, she slipped her cell out of her clutch and speed-­dialed Luke.

Straight to voice mail.

Not a huge surprise. Luke didn't usually carry his cell at gallery functions. He liked to lavish his undivided attention on patrons of the art. “Call me. It's urgent,” was all the message she left Luke. Dante might intercept her voice mail, and there was always a chance he didn't realize she'd put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?

Yeah. Right. Dante had no idea she was onto him.

Despite her slowed pace, her breath came in hard pants. Her heart ticked in her ears like a metronome set too fast by a sadistic piano teacher. She had to call the police—­now. But she still remembered Detective Johnson's scorn when she'd told him she thought Sister Bernadette had been murdered, and that things were still unfinished.

If she called Johnson now with yet another turnaround—­and that based on her personal interpretation of an abstract painting and a single menacing comment from Dante—­Johnson would be slow to act. And she couldn't blame him. Not really.

But there was someone she could call.

Special Agent Atticus Spenser had given her his card and told her he had the power to make things happen, and she still carried his card inside the back of her cell-­phone case, so she could be sure to find it quickly. She snapped her phone out of its case, plied Spense's card out, and entered his number.

“Spense here,” a deep voice answered on the first ring.

“Special Agent Spenser?”

“Dr. Faith Clancy. Talk to me.”

Her number was blocked, but she didn't bother asking how he knew it was her. He was FBI. “Dante Jericho. Dante Jericho is the Santa Fe Saint.” She had no intention of burying the lead in small talk.

“Nope. We got DNA says that's Scourge Teodori. But while you've got my attention, please explain yourself.”

She threw a hand over her racing heart. “Right. Scourge Teodori is the Saint. But he's only one-­half. Dante and Scourge are, that is they were, a team. There's this painting . . . look, I know it sounds crazy, but Dante painted a picture depicting the murder of a nun. Scourge described the same murder to me in therapy in the guise of a dream. Turns out Dante attended St. Catherine's just like Scourge. Can you check to see if both men were at the school at the same time? I believe Scourge and Dante cooked up the idea
together
to replicate the Clutter murders.”

“Say no more, Dr. Clancy. I got it.”

“You do?” She'd been too excited to explain things clearly.

“Scourge Teodori and Dante Jericho are Perry Smith and Dick Hickock wannabes.”

Thank the lord for Special Agent Atticus Spenser.

“Think hard. Does Dante know you suspect him?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Probably.”

“Where are you? Can you get someplace safe until I can get someone to you?”

“I'm near my office on—­”

“I know your office. Go now. Lock your doors. Keep your cell on. I'm still in Phoenix, but I'll call back to let you know who's bringing you in. Do not call anyone. Do not open the door for anyone until I give you the go-­ahead.”

“But I have to warn Luke.”

“The only thing you have to do is stay out of sight. I'll warn Luke. You're to go straight to your office and lock the door. Don't tie up your phone.”

She nodded.

“Stop nodding and hustle.”

Pulse pounding in her throat, she rounded the corner and raced up the stairs of her office building. When she reached her office door, her shaky hands made it hard to fit the key in the lock, but she finally managed. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her and flipped the dead bolt in place. Whirling around, she searched the dimly lit room. With the window shade drawn, only a scant amount of light edged inside. She debated whether or not to open the shade. It would let more light in, but she'd be visible through the window if Dante had followed her somehow. If she kept the shade drawn and turned on the lights, Dante would know she was here, too.

At least she'd locked
both
entrances to her office before going home last night. She'd made that a habit ever since the first time Dante followed her here from the gallery.

The thought of that day, the day he'd confessed, set not only her pulse but her head pounding.

Why
did Dante confess?

He clearly didn't intend to go down for the Saint's crimes. Despite his early protestations, he'd instructed Torpedo to enter a not-­guilty plea, and in the end, he'd proven more than anxious to be set free. It simply made no sense.

Unless . . .

Dante's confession was his get-­out-­of-­jail-­free card.

Her hands clenched. That son of a bitch had used her.

By now her eyes had adjusted from the outside brightness. She could see perfectly. Cell in hand, she moved forward.

Creak.

Her shoulders jumped.

What was that?

Silence. And then . . .

Thud.

A small gasp escaped her lips, and her heart slammed into fifth. Dante leapt out from his hiding place behind her desk. Then she screamed, long and loud.

“Oh dear, now I've gone and frightened you again. You're a jumpy one aren't you, Dr. Clancy?” He leveled a pistol at her. “If I were you, I'd stop screaming.” The pistol jerked. “
Now.
”

She heard a soft
pop.
A muzzle flashed, and a burnt odor filled the room. The glass covering her framed diploma shattered. The cylinder on the tip of Dante's gun was a silencer, suggesting cold-­hearted premeditation on his part. He must've known she'd put things together eventually, and he'd been prepared.

Forcing herself to look directly at him, she stuffed down her screams. Tried to slow her breathing. Dante had every advantage but one. He didn't know help was on the way. All she had to do was stall him until that help arrived. “How did you get into my office?” Not like she didn't want to know.

He clucked his tongue. “Really, dear, is that the most pressing question you have for me? Not:
Are you going to kill me here or do it elsewhere?
”

She shrugged.

“All right then. I'll tell you anyway. I'm going to kill you elsewhere and dump your body where it will never be found. Along with the other whores. Of course, if you give me any grief, I'll have to improvise—­do you here and move your body later. So don't give me any grief.”

Other whores. He's killed others, not just the Saint's victims.

Her tongue felt swollen, and her throat closed
.
She gulped air, and her throat opened again.

Stay calm. Help is on the way.

All she had to do was stay alive one more minute. Then stay alive another. She could manage that. Wishing she still had her pink pepper spray, she patted her beltless waist.

No pepper spray, but letter opener in the desk drawer, globe on the bookshelf, Taser hidden in the plant stand.

Stay alive one more minute.

Dante had always enjoyed talking. Perhaps he'd like to unburden himself a little before traveling. He was egotistical enough he'd surely want her to know how clever he'd been. He'd want her to see all the brilliant ways he'd outsmarted her. Well, she'd give him an open invitation to explain his superiority to a mere mortal like her.

“How'd you get in, Dante?” Her tone held real fear, and she dusted in a bit of deference. He wanted to watch her squirm, and she knew it. Careful not to overplay it, she let her voice quiver a bit more. “I'm absolutely certain I locked both doors.”

“So you did, my dear. But you see I've had a set of keys to your office since the day you moved in. I lifted a set from your landlord, had a copy made for myself, and replaced the originals.”

She drew in a sharp, shocked breath. He'd been stalking her since before she moved into her office. “But why?”

“Because I had my eye on you. My friend Scourge showed me your brochure. I believe you know my good friend, Scourge Teodori.” One side of his face squashed up. “Make that
knew
my friend Scourge Teodori. He was quite fascinated by you, and I thought, why not? She might be just the ticket I've been looking for. And as it turned out, you fit the bill perfectly—­greener than grass with no patients, no real experience to draw upon. You made a perfect foil for my plan. And what a bonus to learn you were all alone in the world with no one to miss you or protect you.”

She'd known it was no coincidence that both men had wound up in her office. Only she'd assumed Scourge had found her from the publicity she'd garnered when she turned Dante in. But it was the other way around.
Scourge found her first, through her brochure, then Dante latched on to her as a means to an end.
“I suppose I ought to be flattered you chose me, but I'm afraid you only picked me because you thought you could play me.”

“I
did
play you, dear. Scourge had it in mind to make you the Saint's next victim—­I guess he was tired of watching me have all the fun with the ladies. He wanted a little of his own before he retired to the beaches of Mexico. But I had other uses for you, so I made him wait. Scourge also wanted to take Jeremy out, but I convinced him the kid was more useful as a living suspect. So you see, I saved two lives—­yours and Jeremy's—­you'd both be dead right now if I hadn't needed you. Aren't you going to say thank you?”