Confession (29 page)

“Thank you.” She cast her eyes to the floor in a show of submission, much like a housecat who rolls over and plays dead for the family dog. On the way to her toes, her gaze fell on her watch.

Ninety seconds.

He hadn't pulled the trigger yet. Why settle for a minute? She was going for another ninety seconds. Amazing how when your time is so short, every second expands into a lifetime. She wouldn't waste it or take it for granted. She'd use her time to remember her loved ones, Luke, her niece—­Katie, and Danny and always, always Grace. She'd also use her time to scheme—­a multitasker to the end. “You mentioned you had your own plan? I assume you don't mean killing the Donovans.”

“No. Though I wouldn't have minded sticking around for that. The idea of killing the perfect family always appealed. I'd rather have killed my own, but I liked Scourge's idea, too.”

“I see.” She was back in therapy mode, and strangely enough, Dante had fallen easily into the role of patient—­a patient with a pistol.

“The problem with Scourge was he was simply too slow. He wanted to plan
for years,
then practice and practice, with
more
years
between kills, mind you, before taking on what he called The Big Kill. He wanted to wait for the ten-­year anniversary of Bernadette's death. Can you imagine? I simply didn't have that kind of patience. Besides, he wouldn't shut up about hell and purgatory and fucking Truman Capote. Scourge was not all there. But you already know that.”

“Hmm. So the whole
In Cold Blood
thing, the Perry and Dick thing, that was only Scourge's obsession?”

“I went along with it for years. Scourge was a handy guy to have around; he handled most of the mundane details of our trade, and I rather enjoyed the way he looked up to me. I did my own thing in between our Saint kills, of course.”

“The whores, you mean?”

“Scourge just kept getting crazier and crazier on me. The way he insisted we had to leave the rosaries on the bodies to save their souls. Bodies don't have souls—­dead or alive. There's no saving something that doesn't exist. He'd spend a good thirty minutes saying a rosary over a corpse. Those goddamn rosaries were going to get us caught sooner or later. When I couldn't persuade Scourge to stop with the religious crap, I decided to ditch him.”

“And that's where I came in.”

“You're brighter than I thought you'd be, Faith. Too bad that's not going to save you.”

She waited.

He sighed and glanced around, as if growing impatient with the conversation.

She needed to keep him talking. “Tell me about your plan.”

“You're so smart, why don't you tell me?”

She gestured toward her desk. “I'm tired, do you mind if I sit down while we talk?”

Waving his pistol, he shook his head. “So you can stab me in the back with that letter opener? I found it and got rid of it. If you look around, you'll notice that big glass globe is gone, too.”

Tears stung the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away. He hadn't mentioned the Taser. Maybe he hadn't found it. She continued on, as if two-­thirds of her arsenal hadn't just been obliterated. “Your plan—­let's see if I can guess. You wanted to get rid of Scourge and escape blame for the Saint's murders all at the same time. So you decided to confess—­to me. You knew that, by law, I had a duty to warn. You knew I'd have to turn you in whether I believed you guilty or not.”

“Very good. And don't forget the green-­as-­grass part.”

She tilted her head. This, she wasn't so sure about. “You studied up on personality disorders, then . . . you role-­played a depressed man with a schizotypal personality disorder.” That's why she hadn't been able to diagnose him. He was
playing
at being at one thing, but his true psychopathic traits occasionally broke through and knocked her off course. “You figured an inexperienced psychiatrist like me wouldn't know the difference. You figured I'd think you were too ineffective to pull off an organized-­murder scheme. You figured I'd figure your confession resulted from paranoid delusions. Well played.”

His eyes glittered as he spoke. “Exactly. And then you'd begin the fight to set me free. Meanwhile, the Saint would kill the Donovans while I remained in custody. I'd be turned loose, free and in the clear. Afterward, I'd find Scourge and get rid of him, put his body with my whores. The trail for the Saint would grow cold, and with no more rosary killings, eventually the authorities would stop caring about catching the Saint.”

“Why not just kill Scourge to begin with and go on about . . . your business?”

“Too boring. I like danger—­I
crave
danger. And I wanted to be cleared as a suspect. That way, if evidence of the Saint's crimes ever led back to me, no one would pay attention. The only thing that nearly went wrong is that Scourge developed that absurd blood phobia. I guess he was just too damn scared and weak to keep going without me—­until you cured him, of course. I really don't know what I'd have done without your help, dear.”

His words chilled her bones all the way to the marrow. Dante was right. She'd cured one serial killer of a blood phobia and been an unwitting accomplice to another killer's master plan. Well, guess what? She wasn't going to let Dante get away with another murder. Not hers. Not anyone else's.

She looked down at her watch again.

Four minutes.

She faked a backward stumble, put her hands out like she'd grown faint, and nearly lost her balance. She wound up one step closer to the front entrance, and to the plant stand, which might or might not still contain a Taser.

“Take off your shoes.”

“What?” Was this a foot fetish or some other sick game?

“You had your shoes off the last time.”

“When? What do you mean?” But she remembered. This was Dante's way of showing he was in control. Apparently, holding her at gunpoint wasn't enough. Next he'd want her cell.

“Toss me your cell.”

She did as he commanded.

“You had your shoes off the day I confessed. So take them off now. We're going to play another little game. Only this time, the end is going to be different. This time I'm going to confess to you, and then I'm going show you just exactly how bad a man I am. Dying's not going to be the worst thing that happens to you today. Are you afraid of me, now, Dr. Clancy?”

She could see the bulge in his trousers. He was getting off on her fear.

Fuck fear.

Now
she
was going to play
him.

“Y-­yes.” She scurried backward like a frightened mouse, all the way to the door, before he could protest. “P-­please, I'll do anything you say.” Head down, she kicked off her shoes.

“Good girl. Now, take off your dress.”

She swallowed hard. This time, when she felt tears prick the back of her eyes, she let them fall. Not tears of fear—­tears of rage. Dante wanted a show? She'd give him one. Reaching behind her back, she fumbled with her zipper and finally managed to slide it down. It made a little whirring noise in the process, and Dante licked his lips in anticipation.

Slowly, she slipped one arm out of her dress.

“Take it off.”

She got down on one knee.

“What are you doing?”

“I-­I can't stand up, I'm too afraid. Just put the gun down, then I'll come to you. I'll do anything you say, only please don't kill me.”

He hesitated, then slowly lowered the gun. “Why not? A little thing like you has no chance against me with or without a pistol in my hand.” He laid the gun on her desk and grabbed his erection. “Come to Papa, dear.”

She elbowed the panel on the plant stand, and it opened with a soft
pop.

Taser!

Thank God.
She pointed it at Dante and heard him growl as he lunged for her. Without hesitation she fired. A thousand tiny
clicks
. . . and then, like confetti, the tags that branded the Taser fell through the air. Dante's body jerked once. Then again. Back on her feet, she released the dead bolt on the front door, unlocking it, but Dante was on her now. She pressed the stump of the Taser to his chest. His body convulsed only a second before he grabbed her by the neck and cut off her air, strangling her cries and sending crushing pressure to her head. The room went fuzzy and started to spin, sending the Taser falling from her hand as her body slumped against the door. She knew her weakened legs would soon give way completely. Above the din of her heartbeat, she heard footsteps in the hallway.

The police?

Stay alive one more minute.

She opened her eyes. Dante's face was red. Saliva was dripping from his mouth like a rabid dog's. His hands squeezed her throat too tightly for her to cry out. Suddenly, the door flung open, knocking both her and Dante to the floor. His hands released her throat, giving her back her breath. Giving her back her hope. She kicked him in the groin just as a man she'd know anywhere blasted into the room.

The hope that flickered in her heart ignited to a full blaze.
Luke.

Dante leapt to his feet and bolted across the room, found his pistol on her desk.

Oh, God.

“Gun!” Through her raw throat, she screamed to Luke, then saw his Glock. Both men faced each other, pistols aimed.

“Oh brother, brother, brother. You'd do this to me?” Dante's voice held only hatred for Luke.

The sight of Dante's pistol pointed at Luke had Faith's heart dumping adrenaline into her veins by the barrel. As her muscles sprang back to life, she managed to get to her feet again.

His gaze on Dante, Luke said, “Don't make me shoot you. Drop your gun. The police are on their way.”

“What happened to all your promises to right our father's wrongs? You vowed you'd never be like him, and yet look at you. You
are
our father. You're ready to sacrifice me, just to protect
her.
”

“Shut the fuck up and drop your weapon.” Luke's voice shook, but his hand held steady.

Dante twisted slightly, aiming his pistol at Faith now. “Sorry, brother, but I believe it's you who needs to drop his gun.”

Eyes trained only on Faith, Dante crossed to her and pressed his pistol into her temple. Her body stiffened. The eerie feel of the muzzle pushing against her skin made her dizzy, and she had to will her knees not to give way.

Lowering his arm, as Dante had clearly anticipated he would, Luke's face went ghostly pale. Dante whirled, jerking his pistol.

A muzzle flash.

The stench of burnt powder.

With a harsh grunt, Luke clutched his arm, and Faith saw his gun tumble to the floor.

“No!” she cried.

Never turn your back on your enemy.

But that's exactly what Dante had done, leaving Faith an opening. From a crouching stance, she leapt onto his back. Just as quickly he reared up and bucked her off. After hitting the floor with a resounding crack, she lay stunned and stilled beneath an oppressive cloud, heavy with the smell of blood and smoke. She heard Luke cry out and saw Dante turn toward the sound. Then her mind, too, went gray, and the room faded altogether.

Stay alive one more minute.

Forcing her eyes open, she spotted the gun on the floor nearby. A long stretch of her arm, and she had Luke's pistol in her grasp.

Do not waste this chance.

Luke had fallen to the floor. His back to her once more, Dante straddled Luke, pistol aimed. “Beg me for your life, brother.”

While images of Grace flashed through her mind, Faith flipped onto her stomach, stuck out her arms, and braced the gun with both hands.

No more wasted chances.

She squeezed the trigger hard and emptied the magazine.

 

EPILOGUE

Sunday, September 29, 9:00
A.M.

T
he sun had been up for hours by the time they gathered around the big mosaic breakfast table at the Jericho ranch, but even without the sunrise, the view of the Sangre de Cristo Range still stole Faith's breath.

“Luke”—­Faith gently rubbed his arm, all healed at last—­“this was a wonderful idea to bring Tommy for a day at the ranch—­thank you.” With her free hand, she reached over and petted the wiggly puppy in Tommy's arms. Luke had selected a beautiful spotted girl as a gift for his mother—­the one Tommy called
Chicita,
meaning little Chica.

Each and every one of Chica's seven puppies had been born healthy. Practically a miracle, according to Dr. Culpepper. Faith smiled and dotted the corner of her mouth with a fine linen napkin. They were all due for something good, and the puppies were a wonderful portent of a bright future. Her eyes slid once more to Chicita, whose small body was currently stretched to the max as she stood on her hind legs in Tommy's lap, madly licking his face.

Fleetingly, she thought of the empty spot beside her bed where Chica had slept such a short time ago. She cast her gaze to her lap. Ridiculous. She was hardly the type of person to begrudge another the joy of a pet. Chicita had been the only puppy not spoken for, and Luke had been right to claim her for his mother.

The rich aroma of baked apples preceded Rose Jericho as she entered the breakfast room, carrying yet another silver platter piled high with warm pastries. She took a place on the other side of Tommy, broke off a corner of an apple Danish, and held it out in her open palm for Chicita.

“Don't spoil her, Mother,” Luke said.

“I'll do as I please. She's my puppy.” Rose winked at Tommy, who looked positively hypnotized by the pastries. She forked a Danish onto Tommy's empty plate. If Faith wasn't mistaken, this would make his fourth pastry, and he'd just finished a whopping portion of bacon and eggs.

“My son thinks this puppy is going to keep me too busy to look for another husband.” Rose broke off another bit of Danish for Chicita. “But what he doesn't realize is that the dog park is a great place to meet single men. Maybe we could walk our dogs together sometime, Tommy, find you a nice young lady.”

Tommy's cheeks, puffed with pastries, flushed. His throat worked in a swallow, then he sputtered. “I don't need a nice young lady. I've got Chica.” Chicita yapped happily at the sound of her mother's name.

Taking the puppy in her arms, Rose said, “When you finish your Danish, Tommy, we can check out the horses, maybe go for a ride.”

“You mean ride a horse?” He threw down his napkin and raised his hands in the air in an all-­done gesture.

“I certainly do. The lovebirds can mind Chicita for me.” She passed the puppy to Luke. “Careful, she might need to piddle soon.”

Ten minutes later, Tommy and Rose had wandered off to find the horses, and Luke and Faith were wandering in the opposite direction, taking Chicita to piddle.

The puppy bounded through the tall green grasses, an occasional yap letting them know she was nearby. With the sky the same clear blue as those famed Jericho eyes, the fresh smell of hay and wildflowers permeating the air, and Luke by her side, Faith couldn't imagine wanting more than what she had right here, right now. The day was perfect, and she understood why Gran Cielo meant so much to Luke. She stopped and dropped his hand. “Luke, I've been meaning to tell you something.”

“What a coincidence, I've been meaning to tell you something, too. All right if I go first?” He pulled her against him and ran his hands down her back. “See that puppy over there?”

As usual Luke hadn't waited for permission to go first. She didn't know why he'd bothered to ask. “Chicita? Of course I see her. Your point? Because I have something important to say.”

“Me, too. Chicita is yours.” He threw his arms around her, crushed her to his chest, and lifted her off the ground.

Her heart raced, not just because Chicita was hers, but because Luke had seen the way she'd looked at those puppies and taken matters into his own hands. “You've been paying attention again.” She laughed, and he set her feet on the ground, but she didn't let go of his neck. “I love you, Luke Jericho.”

And then his lips were gliding over hers. The sun warmed her back as they kissed, and his hand slipped down to her bottom. She molded herself against him. Being in love with Luke didn't frighten her. Yes, he made her heart beat too fast, but for all the right reasons. She took her time, tasting him with her tongue, caressing his muscular arms, then his buttocks with her hands, enjoying the moment, enjoying the man with every fiber of her being. Finally, she broke the kiss.

“I love you, too, Clancy.” He smoothed his hand over her hair. “I wanted to be the first to say it, but I guess you beat me to it.”

“I guess I did.” She didn't hide the boastful tone in her voice.

By now, Chicita was yapping at something up ahead. Hand in hand, they made their way toward her as she chased an imaginary object up a hill. “What about your mom?” Faith asked. “She seemed really keen on getting a puppy.”

“Oh, she's still getting a puppy. She's actually the ‘neighbor kid' who claimed Chico. As you might've guessed, she prefers boys.”

Faith smiled and touched his lips. “Thank you, Luke . . . for everything.”

“I'm glad you finally came to your senses and figured out how lucky you are to have me.”

She shoved his shoulder, and he shoved her back. Then they crested the hill.

In the meadow below stood a small house. Faith stopped short, her body stiffening. She shaded her eyes for a better look. “Is that the casita where Dante and Sylvia lived?”

He nodded. “What's left of it anyway. The police took an ax to the floor and walls, looking for evidence.”

Faith grabbed Luke's hand and turned to him. “I'm so sorry about Dante. I mean I can't be sorry that he's gone. But I know how much you wanted to put your family back together.”

He shook his head. “That's just it. I had the wrong idea about family the whole time. Dante wasn't really a brother to me. I was chasing an abstract ideal that doesn't exist—­the perfect family.”

She didn't understand, but she knew he'd explain.

“Family isn't defined strictly by blood, Clancy. Look at you and Danny. And Faith, you're more family to me than Dante ever was—­I never even knew him.” He looked out over the horizon and up at the sky, then back at her. “In a way I
have
put my family together again. I feel like I've gotten my father back. After so many years of hating him for what he did to Dante, I found out he was actually protecting my mother and me.”

Faith knew the police had found Dante's journal in the casita. She shivered, as she thought of what it contained—­the location of Sister Bernadette's body, and of a dozen others—­prostitutes Dante had killed on his own while Scourge was obsessing over the Donovans. Had there been something more, something she didn't know about?

Luke ran his hands briskly over her arms. “I waited to tell you the last piece because I didn't want to spoil our happiness, but there was something else in Dante's journal. Even as a child, he loved to draw and paint. Anyway, he sketched page after page, depicting me, my mother, and my father.” He paused. “Even his own mother. In those drawings, Dante had mutilated us in just about every manner possible. One day, Sylvia found the pictures. She found other things, too. Dante had tortured animals and buried them in her garden. According to Dante's journal, the night Sylvia died, she'd drunk herself into near oblivion and showed the whole thing to my father—­the drawings, the animal graves. Later that night, she got in her car and drove off a cliff. In his journal, Dante talks about how excited he felt thinking about her car going over that cliff.”

Her hand went to her throat. “So your father really did send Dante away to try and straighten him out. That's why he sent him to Catholic school, hoping the nuns could turn him around.”

“And to protect our family.” Luke put his arm around her. “The thing is, Dad knew both my mother and I hated him for his cruelty to Dante. But he never told us about the drawings. Dad was more concerned with whether or not we felt safe than with whether or not we were angry with him. My father was far from perfect, Faith, but he loved me the only way he knew how. I can't find it in myself to hate him any longer. But I do hate that damn casita.” He put his hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the ranch. “I've got a special team coming out here later today. I love Gran Cielo, and I won't allow that casita to scar this beautiful land. I'm tired of trying to fix my father's mistakes.”

He'd been dealing with his father's legacy his whole life. She held her breath, waiting for his confirmation of what she'd been hoping he'd do.

“I'm burning the casita to the ground. I don't intend to let the past define me, not anymore.”

Then he bent, feathered his lips softly over her forehead, and her chest opened, making room for his affection, welcoming his touch. While he'd been trying to rewrite his past to bring his family together, she'd been running from hers. As she contemplated his words, her fingers went to her necklace.

His gaze traveled to her throat and lingered a moment before lifting. “I've been meaning to ask about that. I'm not the jealous sort or anything, but it is a heart, and you do wear it all the time . . .”

She let go of the necklace and took his hand. “Half a heart, and it's not what you're thinking. Grace gave it to me—­just before she married Danny. She said it was to help me remember that no matter where our futures led, we would always be part of the same family, part of the same heart.”

“And you still wear it.”

“Yes, I always have, even during the bad times.” Her chest tightened, but she didn't care, she welcomed the ache the same way she welcomed Luke's comfort. “Grace always wore hers, too.”

“How wonderful, to have a sister like that.” His voice had grown low and hushed.

Looking up, she watched as a bank of clouds drifted away, and the sun brightened the hilltops to a breathtaking green. “It is,” she said, entwining her fingers with his. “It really is.”