The Angel (The Original Sinners) (15 page)

Michael tried and failed to picture Nora as Eleanor wearing all
white, no makeup, her long, gorgeous wavy black hair pinned up and hidden away.
And not talking? Nora silent? So weird.

“The first night she came to The 8th Circle as a dominatrix, I
was there,” Griffin said. “You can’t even imagine the shock on everyone’s face
when they realized this smoking-hot new dominatrix wearing red leather on
Kingsley’s arm was Søren’s ex-submissive. Once they did, it got ugly.”

“Why?” Michael asked, trying to picture the scene.

“They only knew her as a submissive, and there she was all
decked out like a domme, trying to be tough. Even the submissives laughed at
her.”

“Poor Nora,” Michael said. “What did she do?”

A smile crossed Griffin’s face, a smile that sent a thrill of
something down Michael’s spine.

“You know how they say if a guy gets sent to prison and he
doesn’t want to become the new bitch, he’s gotta find the biggest guy in the
place and beat the hell out of him?”

“Right.” He’d seen movies with that plotline.

“There was this masochist at The 8th Circle named Trent. He was
to masochists what Søren is to sadists. His nickname was Unbreakable. Your
priest probably could have broken him, but Trent only let women top him. Anyway,
Nora goes right up to him and asks him if he wants to play. He said yes and then
tried to spit in her face.”

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Griffin laughed, low and throaty, and Michael suddenly felt the
need to excuse himself for a few minutes. Instead he grabbed a pillow and
covered his lap with it.

“Nora ducked. That woman’s got killer reflexes. She came up and
slapped him so hard his nose bled. Then things got really interesting. She broke
him. In one night. He safed out, started crying. She sent that big masochistic
motherfucker to the hospital. After that, she owned The 8th Circle. No one ever
questioned her dominant credentials again.”

Michael looked up at the ceiling. What on earth was he getting
into? He didn’t know, but he suddenly couldn’t wait to fall at Nora’s feet and
do anything and everything she told him to. Wearing bruises she gave him would
be an honor.

Griffin stretched out his long tanned legs and crossed them at
the ankles.

“Trent worshipped the ground she walked on after that. We all
did,” Griffin said and Michael saw a shadow of something cross Griffin’s eyes.
“Except Søren, of course. Those two were at war after that. But only because he
wanted her back more than ever.”

“Can you blame him?”

Griffin said nothing at first and Michael saw all the fire and
fun momentarily leave Griffin’s face.

“No. I can’t.” The spark came back in Griffin’s eyes. “Anyway,
the domme training you is a real, live legend. Cool, right?”

“Very cool,” Michael said. “Can’t wait for tonight.”

“She won’t get you until sunset. She’s all about atmosphere and
the mind-fuck. So you’ve got a couple hours. What do you want to do?”

Michael knew exactly what he wanted to do. He moved to the
middle of the bed and faced Griffin.

“Tell me more about Nora.”

Michael listened in awe as Griffin regaled him with story after
story about Nora’s legendary exploits as a dominatrix. He couldn’t believe some
of her clients were so famous, so powerful. It made him feel a little better
that so many men the world looked up to were sexual submissives just like him.
Time passed so quickly in Griffin’s company that Michael barely noticed the room
darkening as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky. He couldn’t recall ever
having so much fun actually talking to somebody. He hated talking. Or thought he
hated it. With Griffin, however, things he never thought he’d like—answering
personal questions, showing his art off, talking—he discovered he enjoyed.
Griffin was a good two or three inches taller than him, had at least forty
pounds of pure muscle on him and was a dominant. So why did Michael feel so safe
around him?

“So if she ever gets arrested again,” Griffin concluded, “they
have to call the paddywagon and get police backup since it’s on her permanent
record that she can get out of handcuffs so easily.”

“That’s amazing. Does Father S—” Michael started but a knock on
the door interrupted his question. He turned around and saw Griffin’s British
butler standing in the doorway.

“Mister Dimir,” the butler said in his perfectly snooty accent.
“The mistress requires your presence.”

Michael’s heart leapt in his chest. Thirteen months since he’d
been with Nora. Thirteen months since he’d been with anybody. And now, right
now, the one and only Nora Sutherlin had summoned him.

He turned to Griffin, who flashed him such a wicked grin that
Michael, not even standing, felt his knees buckle.

“Go on, Mick. It’s showtime.”

11

Once she arrived at Sacred Heart, Suzanne tried to
figure out what the hell she was doing there. Her brief encounter with Father
Stearns had only stoked her fascination with the man. As a reporter she had a
highly sensitive internal bullshit meter. Father Stearns said he could spot a
lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards. Maybe so. But she could tell the truth from
a lie just by watching someone’s eyes.

I haven’t performed an exorcism in
weeks.

Bullshit.

My office is always open,
Father
Stearns had said with far more sincerity.

Truth.

After dark on a Saturday night, Suzanne doubted anyone,
including Father Stearns, would still be at Sacred Heart. Maybe she’d peek into
his office and see if she couldn’t get a little insight into the target of her
investigation. She parked on the street about fifty yards from the church. As
she walked toward the side entrance she studied her surroundings. A lot of New
York commuters lived in Connecticut towns like this one—they were safer, cleaner
and had better schools. Wakefield seemed like a charming little suburb, the
perfect place to raise a family. Small but well-appointed houses, orderly
streets, historic shops and no real crime of any kind…such a perfect little
town. Too perfect, Suzanne decided.

Suzanne didn’t trust perfect. Adam had been perfect—perfectly
happy, perfectly content, perfect life—until he’d committed suicide.

Closing her eyes, she pictured Adam’s face, something she tried
very hard never to do. They looked alike, really. Everyone always said that. But
apart from their shared dark brown eyes, red-blond hair and oval faces, they had
almost nothing in common. She was the skeptic, the cynic, the hot-tempered
pistol in the family. Adam was the angel, her parents’ perfect firstborn. Sweet,
kind, even-tempered and so devout she didn’t even tell him when she stopped
believing in God, knowing how much it would break his heart. And all that time
he had this horrible thing inside him that someone else put there…a darkness, a
contamination, as the note he’d left behind called it. God, the note.

I’m unclean, contaminated. I can’t face
taking one more shower knowing that no matter how long I stay under the hot
water, I’ll still be dirty when I get out.

Suzanne forced the memories away. For Adam she would do
this…for Adam and Michael Dimir and any other kid who’d been hurt by the
Church.

She slipped through the side door into Sacred Heart and made
her way past small classrooms. Even in the low light she could read the notices
on the bulletin board:

Choir practice—7:00 p.m. on Tuesdays—Don’t
forget your sheet music, Gina.

Suzanne laughed a little through her burning tears. Poor
Gina.

The Knights of Columbus wants you! Email
[email protected] for more information.

Her dad had been a Knight of Columbus. Such an imposing name
for a group of usually overweight fathers who didn’t do much more than have
charity barbecue cook-offs.

All couples planning to marry must meet
with Father Stearns at least six months prior to their wedding. Make an
appointment with Diane.

A celibate priest doing marriage counseling? Suzanne shook her
head. What on earth would a Catholic priest know about sex or marriage or
romantic relationships of any kind?

At the end of the hallway Suzanne found a closed door with an
engraved nameplate on it. Father Marcus Stearns SJ, it read. SJ? She’d seen
those initials before but couldn’t quite remember what they stood for. Pulling
her notebook out of her bag, she jotted them down. With almost shaking fingers,
Suzanne reached out for the door handle. It turned. So he had been telling the
truth. His office really was always open.

For safety’s sake she left the lights off. From her bag she
took out a small flashlight and shined it around the office. Immediately she
gleaned Father Stearns was a neat freak. Nothing appeared out of place. Not a
stray book or a single sheet of paper. A beautiful office really, Suzanne
decided. The big rose window must cast glorious red-and-pink light into the room
on sunny days. The ornately carved desk looked like old oak to her—probably
weighed as much as Patrick’s Saab. The books on the shelves were lined up with
military precision. She studied the titles and discovered she could read very
few of them. How many languages could Father Stearns read? It appeared that in
addition to the usual Biblical languages—Hebrew, Greek and Latin—Father Stearns
had books in French, Spanish, Italian…and a lot of books that seemed to be in a
Scandinavian language. She didn’t know two words of Swedish, Danish or Dutch but
she could recognize the distinct characters—the
a
with a little loop on the top or the
o
with a slash
through it. Suzanne picked up what appeared to be the oldest book on the shelf.
From the shape and size of its worn leather cover, Suzanne guessed it to be a
Bible. She opened it and saw an inscription on the front pages written in a
woman’s elegant hand.

Min Søren, min søn er nu en far. Jeg er så
stolt. Jeg elsker dig altid. Din mor.

The only word in the inscription Suzanne recognized was the
name Søren. She’d taken a few philosophy classes in college and learned of Søren
Kierkegaard, the Danish philosopher and theologian. But if she remembered
correctly, Kierkegaard wasn’t Catholic. She pulled out her notebook again and
carefully copied down the inscription inside the Bible. In addition she made a
note to look up Søren Kierkegaard. Why would Father Stearns have a Bible
inscribed to someone named Søren? A relative maybe? she wondered. He certainly
looked as though he had Scandinavian blood. But her research had indicated he
had an English father and a New England WASP mother. Another mystery.

She put the Bible back on the shelf and turned her attention to
the desk. Something seemed off about it, but she couldn’t quite put her finger
on why. Then she realized—no computer. Well, maybe he had a laptop. Although she
didn’t see any computer accessories anywhere, either—no printer, no power cords,
no internet router. She only saw Montblanc pens and high-quality writing paper
on his desk. Father Stearns might be something of a Luddite. That would explain
his lack of internet presence.

Slowly she opened the desk drawer and felt a distinct sense of
disappointment as she found nothing but more pens and paper inside. A few file
folders held nothing of interest—only schedules and lists of Bible verses in
impeccable male handwriting. The other desk drawers produced no shocking
revelations, either. In the bottom drawer she found dozens more Montblanc pens
still in boxes. Briefly she wondered if Father Stearns had some sort of ink pen
fetish. Then she noticed many of the boxes still had tags on them—gift tags from
parishioners bearing messages of affection and appreciation. It reminded Suzanne
of her friend Emily, a kindergarten teacher at a private school. Every Christmas
her students’ parents inundated her with every conceivable sort of Teacher’s
Apple product in existence. Apparently the people of Sacred Heart had learned of
their priest’s fondness for high-quality writing instruments and showered him
with them every year.

You bless us year after year, Father. Love
in Christ, the Harpers,
read one tag.

Thank you for saving our marriage, Father.
Bless you, Alex and Rachel,
read another.

Is it a sin to combine a priest’s birthday
and Christmas presents? We’ll talk about it in Confession if it is. Merry
Birthday, Dr. and Mrs. Dr. Keighley,
read a tag on a box that held a
Montblanc pen and pencil set.

Combine Christmas and birthday? With that sentence, Suzanne
realized she’d been right. Father Marcus Lennox Stearns, born December 21st,
1965, was indeed the son of Marcus Augustus Stearns, the English baron who’d
moved to New Hampshire and married money. Amazing. So her target had actually
given up a title in the British peerage for the Catholic Church? Unbelievable.
Not only did he give up his mother’s wealth and his father’s title, he’d given
up women for the Church. Most priests she’d met in her day seemed of the “doomed
to die a virgin” variety. Humorless, unattractive, socially awkward…the opposite
of Father Stearns in every way.

Shaking her head, Suzanne pulled out one last box, this one
red, and flipped open the card.

Meine andere Geschenk wird nicht in einer
Box passen. AABYE

Good God, how many languages would she have to deal with
tonight? Rolling her eyes in frustration, Suzanne pulled out her notebook and
copied the words down. At least this language she could recognize—German. And
for some reason the last word,
AABYE,
rang some kind
of bell with her. She searched her memory for whatever it was that seemed so
familiar about it but came up empty. Stuffing her notebook in her purse, she
scanned the top of the desk once more with her flashlight.

On the desk Suzanne found one item of interest—a photograph.
She stared at the picture for a long time. A young woman of only about seventeen
or eighteen years old, she looked remarkably like Father Stearns—pale blond
hair, gray eyes, strikingly attractive. Suzanne eased the photo out of the frame
and flipped the picture over.
Jeg elsker dig, Onkel Søren.
Kom og besøg snart, Laila,
it read. Again with the Scandinavian
inscriptions. Suzanne opened her notebook again and copied every word. Briefly
she wondered if she was staring at Father Stearns’s daughter. Had he fathered a
child at some point during his years as a priest? Could that be the reason for
the anonymous fax and its mysterious “Possible conflict of interest”
footnote?

Seemed unlikely. After all, if he did have a love child, she
doubted someone as obviously intelligent and well educated as Father Stearns
would simply keep a photo of his teenage daughter on his desk. She shook her
head in frustration. She’d hoped for answers. All she had now were more
questions.

As quietly as she could, Suzanne abandoned Father Stearns’s
office and returned to the hallway. For some reason she felt drawn to return to
the sanctuary instead of her car. Patrick’s information from the Wakefield
sheriff indicated that Michael Dimir had made his suicide attempt in the actual
Sacred Heart sanctuary. Trying to kill oneself was the ultimate cry for help.
Whatever had inspired it, something in Suzanne wanted Michael Dimir to know she
heard it.

Suzanne found the doors that lead from the narthex and into the
sanctuary. Easing the heavy wooden door open, she slipped inside. Upon entering
the sanctuary Suzanne discovered someone had left candles burning on the altar
and scattered about the sanctuary. She froze as her eyes took in the candle
nearest her. The burning wick had only begun to turn black. From behind her she
heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

She wasn’t alone.

* * *

Michael cast one last look back at Griffin before
leaving the bedroom. Griffin gave Michael a little wink on his way out the door
and a tiny part of him wanted to stay and keep talking. But he knew he wanted to
spend the night submitting to Nora, needed it even. He just sort of wished
Griffin could be there too.

For some reason, Michael had assumed he’d spend the night with
Nora in her room. But Griffin’s butler led him instead upstairs to the third
floor and all the way to a room at the end of the hallway.

The butler paused at the door, nodded politely to Michael and
walked away. Michael took a deep breath, turned the doorknob and stepped into
the room and into another time.

Holy crap,
he thought as his eyes
tried to take in the scene around him. He’d seen a lot of Griffin’s house by
now. Every room matched Griffin—sleek and modern, minimalist, arty and sexy. But
this room seemed as though it belonged in a medieval European castle. Plush
oriental rugs covered the stone tile floors. Candles burned on every horizontal
surface and a few logs simmered in a stone fireplace. In the middle of the room
stood a bed, large and wrought iron, not unlike the one he’d lost his virginity
in.

But where was Nora?

“Not bad for a dungeon, right?” came Nora’s voice behind him.
Michael tensed, not knowing what to do. Was he allowed to talk? Move? He decided
to stay frozen in place and not talk until Nora told him what to do. “Griffin’s
dungeon at The 8th Circle is much more mod. I think he wanted a different vibe
for his house up here. Like it? You’re allowed to answer.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s beautiful,” Michael said, hearing the quiver
in his own voice.

He felt Nora’s presence behind him and took in a quick
breath.

“So are you,” she said, blowing under his ear.

Nora stepped in front of him and Michael’s eyes went wide. Nora
had grown…a lot. She met him almost eye to eye before stepping away and walking
toward the center of the room. He glanced down and saw she wore thigh-high
platform boots with killer stiletto heels. His eyes grazed her body from foot to
face—red leather boots laced up the back, bare thighs, red leather skirt,
red-and-black corset… Nora looked back over her bare shoulder and crooked her
finger at him.

He could barely feel his feet as he walked toward her. Suddenly
the room and its beauty faded into the background and all he could see was
her…Nora and the swell of her breasts over her striped corset…Nora and the
heavy, dramatic eyeliner that made her look like Cleopatra…Nora and her hair
that curled in wild waves down her back…Nora and the black fingerless gloves
just like the ones she’d worn the night she took his virginity. He couldn’t wait
to feel the soft supple leather against his skin again.

When he reached Nora she raised her hand to his neck and gently
pulled his ponytail loose. Slowly, gently she ran her fingers through his
hair.