Devious (2 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Devious
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“
O
h, for the love of St. Jude!” Valerie clicked the ESCAPE key on her laptop again and again, as if she could punch the life back into the hand-me-down computer with its antiquated hard drive and mind of its own. “Come on, come on!” she muttered between clenched teeth, then gave up, unable to turn the damned thing off without taking out the battery.
That did it! Tomorrow she’d go computer shopping despite the dismal state of her bank account. She still had a little room on her credit card, but then, once she bought a new computer, it would be maxed out as well.
The price of divorce,
she told herself callously as she shoved the laptop onto the rumpled bedclothes. In her mismatched pajamas, she walked into the kitchen of the small carriage house and dipped her head under the faucet for a drink, then stared through the rains-pattered window at the uneasy New Orleans night.
The air was thick with the coming of summer, sweat dampening her skin. She cranked open the window, allowing the dank smell of the slow-moving river to roll inside. Far away, the hum of traffic could be heard on the freeway, a steady rush that competed with the song of crickets and the low rumble of toads.
Pealing forlornly, the bells of St. Marguerite’s struck off the hours of midnight.
Inexplicably, Val’s skin crawled. Her cop instincts went into overdrive, and she felt, again, as if she were being watched, that hidden eyes were assessing her.
“Too many nights with the sci-fi channel,” she told herself. “Too many nightmares.”
For a fleeting second, a splintered memory with sharp, brittle edges pierced her brain. Looming. Indistinct. But evil.
Her blood chilled with the image. Draped in black, with cruel eyes and a foul odor, the sinister creature grew larger. Threatening. A chain dangling from its clawlike hand.
No one could help her.
No one could save her.
“Husssshhh,” the creature hissed, lowering the silvery noose. “Hush.”
Camille!
Val thought in horror.
This demon wants Camille. . . .
In a blink, the horrifying image disappeared, shrinking into the corners of her mind. From experience, Val knew it would lurk there until, unbidden, it would rise again.
“Leave me alone,” she muttered under her breath, ignoring the hairs that had risen on the back of her arm. The fiend was a figment of her imagination, nothing more—nothing a sane, stable woman would believe.
Val took a steadying breath as the church bells of St. Marguerite’s continued to toll plaintively through the night. Her insides still cold, she gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself and force the ugly apparition back where it belonged—into the darkest nether regions of her mind, into the crevices where sanity didn’t dare tread.
Don’t go there,
she warned herself silently.
Do not go there
. Dwelling on the insidious pictures in her mind would only create a self-fulfilling and hideous prophecy.
“Everything’s fine,” she said out loud, though her insides were trembling. Quivering with a fear that she tried to keep hidden. No one could know. She was a strong woman. Nightmares or visions conjured by her willing brain weren’t allowed to scare her. “For God’s sake, get a grip!”
Willing herself to let go of the counter and her ridiculous fears, she told herself she was just stressed out. Who wouldn’t be? An impending divorce, a lost career, a business teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, and a sister, her only sibling, intent on taking vows in a convent right out of the Middle Ages! And then there was the e-mail from Camille. Disturbing.
Val thought about St. Marguerite’s, the historic cathedral where her sister would eventually take her vows.
That is, if they let her.
It still seemed so out of character for Camille, the party girl. Always with a boyfriend, always fending off trouble. From what she knew about St. Marguerite’s, Valerie doubted that her sister’s sins would be easily forgiven in that arena. St. Marguerite’s Convent, with its locked gates, antiquated communication system, and strict rules, seemed more like a medieval fortress than a house of God; it was an isolated place the rest of the twenty-first century had zipped past. The people within those hallowed walls harkened back to earlier centuries where archaic conventions, cruel discipline, and antediluvian opinions prevailed. Probably because of the abbess or mother superior or whatever that old bat Sister Charity called herself. A throwback to the days of wearing dark habits, rapping the knuckles of unsuspecting students, and using threats and fear over praise, Sister Charity was as much a warden as she was a leader.
Why Camille ever decided to take her vows at an institution as rigid as Saint Marguerite’s remained a mystery.
No, it’s not. You know the reasons—you just can’t face them.
Psssst!
A whisper of evil skittered through Sister Lucia’s brain.
Her eyes flew open to the blackness of her tiny room in the convent. Her skin crawled, and her mouth tasted of metal.
Father in heaven, please let this just be the remnant of a bad dream, a nightmare that—
Psssst!
There it was again, that horrid precursor of what was to come. She tossed off the thin covers and slid to her knees, her nightgown puddling around her as she instinctively reached for her rosary draped over the metal bedpost. She made the sign of the cross with the crucifix and began to silently recite the Apostles’ Creed, her lips moving in the darkness, sweat collecting at the base of her skull. “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. . . .” And she did believe. Fervently. Usually she found comfort in this ritual she’d learned in her youth. In times of stress or worry or need, she sought solace by running her fingers over the glossy beads and whispering the prayers that brought her closer to God.
Pssst!
Again the electric current that hissed beneath her skin brought sweat to her brow.
Not here, oh, please . . . not in the convent!
Her prayer was interrupted and she started over, squeezing her eyes shut, leaning into the thin mattress with her elbows, her brain thrumming.
Once again she touched the crucifix to her forehead and began the succession of prayers that came so easily to her mind.
This has to be a mistake,
she thought wildly as the familiar words slipped over her lips. Since she’d entered St. Marguerite’s, intent on taking her final vows, she’d had no “incidents,” as her mother had called them. She’d thought she was safe here.
“I believe in—”
Psssst!
Louder this time.
The painful jolt cut through the darkness.
Lucia sucked in her breath and dropped her rosary, her prayer again cut short. She stood, abandoning any attempt to forestall the inevitable. Walking barefoot over the hardwood floors, she sensed the tremor of trouble brewing as surely as a hurricane off the Louisiana coast. In her mind’s eye, she saw the chapel of this very parish and blinked against an onslaught of images.
An indistinct face.
Yellowed gown.
Billowing dark robe.
Twisted, deadly lips.
A heavy door clicking as it closed.
A bloody crucifix, crimson dripping from Christ’s sacred wounds.
Death,
a voice intoned over the raw static in her brain.
She flew into the hall, which was dimly lit by scattered wall sconces, and descended the curving staircase. Her fingers trailing along the worn banister, she followed a predetermined path. Pale light passed through the dark panes of stained glass, the heat of the June day still lingering into night.
Why?
Lucia wondered frantically.
Why now? Why here? It’s nothing . . . just a bad dream. All your fears crystalized, that’s all.
Her heart pounding like an erratic drum, she turned toward the chapel, the smaller place of worship tucked behind the huge cathedral. With a sense of darkness propelling her forward, she pushed through double doors that parted easily and stepped into God’s house. The chapel was usually a place of light and goodness, forgiveness and redemption, but tonight she sensed that evil as dark as Satan’s soul lurked here, lying in wait.
“Father, please be with me.” She dipped her fingertips in holy water and crossed herself as she entered the nave, where all of the images congealed. Red votive candles flickered, casting shadows that shifted on the stone walls. A massive crucifix was suspended from the arched ceiling over the altar where Jesus, in his agony, watched over the chapel.
Instinctively, Lucia made the sign of the cross again. The thrumming in her brain turned into a throb.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of movement—a dark figure in billowing robes disappearing through a door.
“Father?” she called, thinking the person running from the chapel was a priest. The door clicked closed. “Wait! Please . . .” She started for the doorway. “Father—Oh, no . . .” Her voice left her as she glimpsed a flutter of gauzy white fabric, the scallop of lace undulating on the floor by the first row of pews.
What?
Her heart nearly stopped.
The horrid, rapid-fire images that had awakened her seared through her brain again:
Yellowed gown.
Cruel lips.
A door shutting as the church bells pealed.
Just like before.
The whisper of evil brushed the back of her neck again. She nearly stumbled as she raced forward, her bare feet slapping the cold stone floor, echoing to the high, coved ceiling.
This can’t be happening!
It can’t be!
Stumbling, running, afraid of what she might find, she dashed to the front of the apse, to the altar and the glorious, now-dark stained-glass windows. The crucifix towered to the high ceiling, the son of God staring down in his pain.
“Oh, God!” Lucia cried.
“Dios! Mi Dios!”
Horror shot up her spine.
A crumpled form lay in front of the first row of pews.
“¡No, por favor, Jesús. No, no, no!”
Her blood turned to ice at the sight of the body, supine near the baptismal font. Biting back a scream, Lucia fell to her knees near the bride dressed in a fragile, tattered wedding dress. A thin, unraveling veil covered her face.
Lucia’s stomach wrenched as she recognized Sister Camille, her face pale, her lips blue, her eyes wide and staring through the sheer lace.
“Oh, sweet Jesus . . .” Lucia gasped. She touched Camille’s stillwarm flesh, searching for a pulse at the nun’s neck, where small bruises circled her throat. Her stomach threatened to spew. Someone had done this to Camille, had tried to kill her. Oh, God, was she still alive? Did she feel the flicker of a pulse, the slightest movement beneath Camille’s cooling skin? Or was it only a figment of her imagination?
“Camille,” Lucia coaxed desperately, her voice cracking, “don’t let go, please. Oh, please . . .
Mi, Dios!
”
The ringing bells overhead sounded like a death knell.
She looked up. “Help! Someone help me!” Her voice rose to the rafters, echoing back to her. “Please!”
To the near-dead woman, she whispered, “Camille, I’m here. It’s Lucia. You hang in there. . . . Please, please . . . It’s not your time. . . .” But someone had decided Camille needed to die, and despite her good thoughts, Lucia knew of one person who wanted Camille Renard to die.
She whispered a quick prayer to the Father, praying with all her soul; then, tears filling her eyes, she bent close to Camille’s ear. “Don’t let go.” With her own gown, she tried to stop the spreading pool of blood coming from the wounds on Camille’s neck.
Camille didn’t move.
Pupils fixed.
Skin ashen. Cooling.
Blood flow slowed to nothing.
Lucia was frantic. She had to do something! Anything!
Please God, do not take her. Not now . . . not yet . . . Oh, Father!
“Help!” Lucia screamed again, unwilling to leave the friend she’d known so closely for a year, a woman she’d known of most of her life. She couldn’t be dying . . . couldn’t be . . .
Lucia’s mind was awash with images of Sister Camille, beautiful and lithe, with her secretive smile and eyebrows that would arch to show amusement or disbelief. A troubled woman, yes, a nun with far too many secrets, one she’d met long ago before they’d independently decided to take their vows.
Throat closing, she whispered, “It’s not your time, Camille. You hear me? Don’t leave . . . don’t you . . .”
But the poor, tortured woman was gone, her spirit rising from the lifeless shell that was her body. Stolen from her.
“No . . . please . . . Father—”

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