Devil Without a Cause (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

W
hat, in the name of Hell, was she supposed to do?

It had been almost two hours since she’d left Finn locked on the roof of the hotel, and Faith’s nerves were shredded. She’d driven home in a state of near panic, anxious to get somewhere safe, knowing there was no such place. Now she paced the floor of her living room by the harsh light of morning, impatient, wired.

She needed to get rid of the ring,
now
.

Finn knew her name and her phone number—he’d be sure to go to the police. They’d find the ring in the backyard where she’d buried it, and put her in jail. She’d have no chance to re-create the conjuring spell, no chance to fulfill her end of the bargain. Nathan had a doctor’s appointment in two days. She’d be a criminal . . . they could take her little boy from her, put him in foster care . . .

Faith put her head in her hands, and forced herself to stop pacing. Taking a deep breath, she moved to the window, eyeing the street through the blinds. A bird trilled from the tree in her front yard, and Mrs. Dawson, her neighbor, was outside watering her roses.

She was a thief, who’d used her body to get what she wanted.

She needed to focus on dealing with the Devil, yet the face that kept forming in her mind was not one of cold blue eyes and lean cruelty, but Finn’s, green-eyed and soft, the way it looked this morning before she’d lied and told him she had a boyfriend. Before she’d thrown flour and salt in his face and locked him on the roof.

Whatever deal he’s offered you, it’s not worth it
, he’d said. How did he know so much about what she’d been doing on the roof?

Bring me the ring by Monday
, Satan had said,
and Nathan’s tumor will be gone forever.

Closing her eyes against the morning’s glare, Faith drew a deep breath, unable to stop reliving every nightmarish moment of the morning just past. The fire alarm, the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach when she’d thought herself caught, the even more sickening feeling when she had been. That moment when she’d seen Finn standing there, so angry . . .

She’d lied to him, tricked him, and treated him badly when he’d been nothing but good to her—it was wrong, and she was ashamed.

A lump rose in her throat, but she refused to give in to tears again—not yet.

Faith rubbed her eyes and sighed. She’d always known that getting caught had been a possibility, she’d known she’d feel guilty no matter what happened, but she’d never expected the time she’d spent with Finn to be so . . . earth-shattering.

She had to put those memories away for now, lock them up and bring them out later, when things calmed down. As to the theft, her only defense at this point: deny, deny, deny. Maybe Finn had filed a complaint with hotel management; if she was caught with the ring she’d lose her job . . .

“Mommy?”

Nathan was in the doorway, looking sleepy and cute and totally, one-hundred-percent adorable. She swept him up, banishing all bad thoughts to the corner of her mind where she’d trained them to hide. “Good morning, Superboy,” she told him, kissing the curls on top of his head. A big patch of hair on the back of his head had been shaved for surgery, but was already growing in. “Were you good for Auntie Dina last night?”

“Mm-hm,” Nathan confirmed sleepily, squeezing her neck. “We played cars.”

Faith smiled, knowing how crazy Nathan was about cars. Dina would’ve probably preferred just
one
car—one with a good-looking guy behind the wheel—but she was a good sport when it came to playing with Nathan.

“For hours,” Dina added with a yawn, shuffling in wearing a pink robe and pajamas. “We played cars for hours. Any coffee?”

“I’ll make it.” Faith gave Nathan a final hug, then put him down. “Thanks so much for staying last night, Dina.”

Her friend waved a hand in dismissal, still yawning. “No problem. We watched a VH1 marathon of Michael Jackson videos, didn’t we, baby?”

“I can moonwalk, Mommy! Watch me!” Nathan immediately became animated, executing a clumsy backward maneuver that made Faith laugh. He laughed, too, and her heart swelled to bursting at the sound.

That’s what they needed around here . . . more laughter.

Unable to resist another kiss, she cupped his little face in her hands and planted one on him. “I’ll get you some juice.”

“Okay.” He returned her kiss, then darted away while she moved into the kitchen to get the juice and make coffee. “Can I watch TV?” He climbed on the couch, scooping up his favorite stuffed dog as he got settled.

“Go ahead. It’s Saturday, cartoons are on. I’ll make us some breakfast.”

“What about you?” Dina asked. She took the TV remote from Nathan and turned the channel to cartoons. “How was your evening?” She came into the kitchen, giving Faith a sleepy once-over. “You got lucky, didn’t you?” she whispered, shooting Nathan a glance to make sure he wasn’t listening. “Who is he?”

“Nobody special,” Faith lied, willing her hands not to shake as she poured Nathan’s juice. She didn’t want to talk about Finn right now.

Dina, of course, didn’t buy it. “You all right? What happened?”

“It was a long night,” Faith answered, with a sigh. She was so tired—the last twenty-four hours had been a maelstrom of anxiety, ecstasy, guilt, and panic. She had no idea what was going to happen next—all she could do was wait until dark when she could once again try to call up the Devil, and hope he got there before Finn—or the police—did.

“There was a lot of craziness, most of which you wouldn’t believe if I told you.” She wanted to tell Dina everything, but believed—for her friend’s sake—the less she knew the better.

“
Good
, wouldn’t believe you, or
bad
, wouldn’t believe you?” Dina asked, obviously anxious to hear more.

Faith held the coffeepot under the faucet, letting it fill. “Both,” she answered, unable to help thinking about the good part of the evening, being held in Finn’s arms, so close she could feel his heartbeat as he moved against her, inside her, lips searing her skin . . .

“Ooeee,” said Dina, stepping in to take the coffeepot, now about to overflow, from Faith’s hands. “You got it bad. I can see it all over your face. Now who is he?”

“Oh, Dina,” she groaned. “I’m in such trouble.”

Dina put down the pot and held out her arms. “C’mere, baby,” she said, as though Faith were Nathan’s age.

Faith went into them without hesitation, wishing she
was
Nathan’s age, when life had seemed so simple—Cheerios or Cap’n Crunch? Barbie, or My Little Pony?

“Tell me,” Dina urged, but Faith was afraid to. How could she tell her closest friend and next-door neighbor that she’d made a deal with the Devil, and that the police could show up at any moment? How could she tell Dina that she was a thief, and that she’d slept with a total stranger last night with only one goal in mind, which was to steal from him?

And what about when she said,
Oh, by the way, he’s a rock star
; her friend would think she’d finally cracked—lost it over the strain of Nathan’s illness, gone off the deep end.

Burying her nose against Dina’s neck, she wondered again if maybe she
had
cracked; her heart certainly felt full of jagged edges.

“F
aith McFarland, twenty-seven, lives at 1421 Magnolia Trace, Marietta, Georgia.”

Finn wrote the address down on a pad. “Marietta? Not Atlanta?”

“Marietta is just north of Atlanta,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Easy commute.” Bert Kudlow was the brother-in-law of his housekeeper, and had proven his worth last summer when he’d upgraded the security system for Finn’s island house. He did background checks and private investigations on the side. “Never been married, drives a dark blue 1995 Volvo. Some credit card debt, but her rating is good; pays her bills on time.”

Finn couldn’t care less about her credit rating or what kind of car she drove—he just needed to get to her before she did something stupid, like conjure up Satan. “How far from the Atlanta Ritz-Carlton?” he asked.

“About forty minutes,” Bert said. “At this time of morning you should be okay traffic-wise; everyone’s coming into the city while you’ll be going out.”

“Thanks, Bert. Stick close to your computer in case I need you again.”

“Sure thing.”

Hanging up, Finn tore the paper with Faith’s address from the pad and handed it to John, who’d been watching TV and scarfing down room service while they’d waited for the background check. “Here’s the address. Let’s get moving.”

“You should let me do this myself,” John said, rising from the couch, “in case it gets ugly.”

“Sorry,” Finn answered shortly, “but no way. This is personal.”

“I ain’t gonna hurt her,” he argued, “but I’m in a better position to pressure her than you are, man. No emotional attachment. No guilt. I’ll be real nice at first, and if she doesn’t cooperate I’ll threaten her with the police. I’ll have her crying like a baby . . . she’ll give me the ring to avoid any trouble.”

Finn somehow doubted that. “John, if I wanted the police, I’d call the police. This can still be handled privately, and that’s how I want to do it.”

John sighed, giving up. They left the suite and rode the elevator down in silence.

Larry was waiting for them in the lobby, having coffee and reading the newspaper. “No sign of her,” he reported.

“We’ve got her address,” Finn told him. “Have the valet bring up the car.”

There were more people in the lobby than there had been earlier, some checking in, some checking out, others on their way to breakfast or business meetings.

“That’s Finn Payne,” said a woman’s voice, and heads began to turn.

“Are you sure?” asked the guy with her, craning his neck to see. He caught sight of them quickly, hefting a camera onto his shoulder.

“It
is
him,” the woman exclaimed, for everyone in the lobby to hear.

John moved to position himself between his boss and the two reporters, but it was too late.

“Excuse me,” called the woman, teetering rapidly toward them on high heels. She was wearing far too much makeup for this hour of the morning, a crisp blue suit and clunky jewelry. “Excuse me! I’m Katie Binford, Channel 8 News! May we speak with you for a moment, Mr. Payne?”

Finn sighed, wishing he’d remembered to slip on his sunglasses before leaving the elevator.

“Sorry, no interviews. We’re in a hurry,” John growled, but Katie was having none of it, ignoring the big man as she would a gnat.

“Mr. Payne, may we speak with you a moment?” she repeated, thrusting a microphone close to Finn’s face and giving him the charming, practiced smile of a consummate media mannequin. “Please? Surely you won’t deny your fans a moment of your time?”

Finn stopped, though he didn’t want to. He made it a point to always be polite with the media, and friendly to his fans—they were the ones who made it all possible, after all.

Them, and the ring, which he didn’t have anymore.

He had a brief image of this same reporter cheerfully doing a story on his untimely death.
Rock star Finn Payne was found dead this morning . . .
A surge of panic at the thought made his heart pound, but he gave the woman a lazy smile. “Sure,” he said, “but I’m in a bit of a hurry, so . . .”

Katie got right to the point, blindsiding him in the process. “Channel 8 received a tip about a supposed ‘black magic’ ritual held on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton this morning, and rumor is that you were found alone at the scene.” The cameraman stepped back, panning out to include Katie and Finn together in his shot. “We’ve already got film coverage of the site itself . . . a pentagram, candles, melted wax. Is this rumor true? Do you know anything about this . . . this devil worship ceremony?”

The way she said “devil worship” reminded Finn that he was in Atlanta, Georgia, the heart of the Southern Bible Belt. A scandalizing tale about rock stars and devil worship would make for a great story for the local yokels.

Luckily he’d had plenty of practice dealing with the press, and kept his face impassive, slipping on his sunglasses. “That’s quite a rumor,” he said mildly. Larry and John shot each other a glance, then looked as one toward the front desk, where Herve Morales was nervously watching. As soon as the weasel saw them looking at him, he slid down the counter and out of sight.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Finn lied, then followed it with a truth. “And I don’t recommend anyone practicing devil worship or black magic rituals,” he added calmly, giving the reporter her quote.

She wasn’t quite ready to give up. “But your music . . . it’s known to be very dark, isn’t it? In fact, they call you the Prince of Darkness, don’t they?”

He nodded, knowing his years in the music scene were well documented. “I’m an artist,” he said, “who sometimes finds inspiration on the dark side.” He turned a wry smile on the camera. “That’s all.”

“Do you actually believe in this type of thing,” she persisted, “or is this some kind of publicity stunt to promote your new CD?” She gave him a cheerful, upbeat smile, urging him to tell her all his secrets.

Finn said nothing,
this close
to revealing on camera that Katie could use a breath mint after her morning coffee. But he knew better than to feed the sharks when they smelled blood in the water, and turned away. “Excuse me, but I’m running late.”

Larry held the door open for him as John brought up the rear, using his body to block the camera shot.

“Finn! Finn! Can we get your autograph?” Two other young women rushed up, ignoring both John and Larry until the guards stepped in their way, then the women just tried to dance around them. “I was at the show at the Athenian last night,” one of them gushed, “you were amazing! I still have the ticket stub in my purse; will you sign it for me?”

“No problem,” he said, refusing to give the news crew any shots of him looking nervous or concerned. As far as he was concerned, it was business as usual, and that included signing autographs.

“Are you staying here?” the woman asked eagerly, digging frantically into her purse. “I’m in room 428. Could I buy you a drink later?”