Twisted (51 page)

But weak sunlight was starting to filter into her room, telling Sloane that another day was beginning in which she was on her own.

Worse, she’d heard Luke going in and out of Lillian’s room all night. His step had been urgent, and the frequency of the visits was increasing. Which could only mean that Lillian was nearing the end.

If a rescue team didn’t arrive soon, Sloane would be combating Luke’s psychotic group sacrifice alone and unarmed.

She sat up at the sound of Luke’s racing feet. He was headed downstairs. She wished she knew for what.

Just to be on the safe side, she went to the bathroom, used the toilet and brushed her teeth, then filled the tub up enough so she could kneel in it and wash herself. There was a method to her madness, because instinct told her that Luke was coming unglued. And
that
meant that she had to be ready on a dime.

The goddesses have been alerted, and are in the ritual room, bathing and dressing.

Now I must initiate the final phase.

I’d amassed everything beforehand. I’d known that, when the time came, my emotions would be too erratic and too overwhelming.

I wasn’t wrong.

My hands are shaking as I turn off the furnace. A necessary precaution. Nothing can ignite prematurely. Right beside the furnace is the plastic garbage can I’d dragged in from the garage. Into that, I empty the fifty-pound drum of dry chlorine pellets I’d bought from a local pool-supply company. I then fill an empty, half-gallon ice-cream container with several cans of cheap brake fluid, tape an electric match to its side, and place the ice-cream container inside the garbage can, on top of the pellets.

I pause, forcing myself to take a few deep, composing breaths. I can’t spare another second, not with Gaia hovering on the brink.

Still trembling, I continue.

I connect the leads from the electric match to a digital timer. I set the timer.

The countdown begins.

With Gaia entering her final moments of life, there is precious little time to waste. I must hurry. She needs me.

I conclude my final preparations, arranging three propane barbecue tanks symmetrically around the room, cracking open the valve on each until I can hear and smell the propane escaping.

The funeral pyre is ready.

Sloane had just finished tying the rope of the ceremonial gold-trimmed chiton Luke had set aside in her closet—trying not to picture it covered with bloodstains—when his rushing footsteps pounded up the stairs. A brief lull, probably as he checked on Gaia, and then the running resumed, this time in the direction of “Artemis’s” room.

His fist hammered against the door.

“Artemis? Artemis, please wake up.”

Sloane knew in her gut that the moment of truth had arrived. And that meant there was no rescue team, placing the ball squarely in her court.

Seven women were depending upon her. That, in itself, would have to give her strength and purpose.

“I’m awake,” she replied, going to the door. “I’m also dressed.”

Luke fumbled with the key, finally unlocking the door and opening it.

He’d obviously stopped off in his room as well, since he was freshly shaved and impeccably groomed. He was dressed in a long chiton, also embroidered with gold, with the pistol tucked in his rope belt. But his face was whiter than his chiton, and he looked like hell.

“It’s time,” he announced, and Sloane could hear his voice quaver despite all his attempts to appear calm. “All the goddesses are in the ritual room, washing and dressing. I’ve prepared them for what lies ahead.” He swallowed. “You were right. Sedation will be needed. A few of them are weeping hysterically, and a few others are putting up a fight. I can’t allow Gaia to be exposed to that negative energy. This must be a peaceful, sacred passing.”

He glanced toward Gaia’s room. “I have to get back to her. The music and candles are in place, as are the goblets of wine. But I…” He turned back to Sloane. “You have to prepare as well. Wash. Dress.”

“I’ve done both.” Sloane kept her voice low and respectful of what was about to occur. “I heard you dashing around. I assumed it was Gaia. So I rose, bathed, and put on the ceremonial chiton you left me.”

For the first time, Luke seemed to actually see her. “You knew. I shouldn’t be surprised. You look every bit the goddess.”

“I wanted to braid my hair.”

“Yes. Good. That is fitting and proper.” Luke was talking more to himself than to Sloane. “The gods will give me the strength I need. She and I will only be separated for minutes.”

“Of course.” Sloane considered touching his arm, then thought better of it. “Delphi,” she asked, gazing directly into his vague, empty eyes. “Would you like me to sit with you at Gaia’s bedside—at least until it’s time to bring up the other goddesses? Because I could keep vigil with you. It might ease this transition.”

Another of those rare flashes of sanity. “I’d like that. So would Gaia. She feels deeply bonded to you. The walk you two took last night is all she talked about during her lucid moments. You made her happy. And that brings me more joy than you can imagine.” He stood there for a moment, like a lost boy.

“Check on Gaia,” Sloane urged. “Then sedate the goddesses. Leave them in the ritual room until they’ve calmed down and their presence is required upstairs. I’ll braid my hair. I’ll be ready for you when you return.”

“Right.” Robotically, he walked out of her room, shut and locked the door.

Sloane sank down on the edge of the bed. She’d just bought herself a little time alone with Luke. She’d have to use that time, and his grief, to her advantage. Because once Lillian was gone, any trace of Luke would be gone. At which point Delphi would take over, and he’d do away with the goddesses, one by one, culminating with her and then himself. Shortly thereafter, the entire manor would burst into flames and be reduced to cinders, along with their bodily remains.

Pistol or no pistol, this would be her last chance to save them.

High Point State Park

Kittatinny Mountains

Sussex County, northwest tip of New Jersey

May 2, 7:05 A.M.

“There’s the monument,” one of the New Jersey state troopers pointed out. He, along with a dozen other New Jersey state troopers, and the local police, were part of the FBI-led search team. “It’s over eighteen hundred feet above sea level. It’s the tallest point in New Jersey. You can see everything for miles from up there.”

Derek was wearing his forty-pound
SWAT
vest and all his protective gear, carrying his assault rifle, with his pistol strapped to his thigh. So were the fifteen-plus other members of New York’s enhanced
SWAT
team who’d been available and were now assembled under the command of John McLeod, their team leader. Joining
SWAT
were two SABTs, who were on standby, ready to suit up in their heavy-duty EOD-9 bomb suits at a moment’s notice, and equipped with the disruption tools needed to deactivate any explosive devices.

“We’re going door-to-door, covering the grid, starting with the buildings due west of that monument,” McLeod announced to the group. “Derek, fill us in on the topography.”

Derek nodded, grateful as hell that Sloane had managed to leave on her cell phone, allowing Verizon to triangulate on the area where she and the victims were located.

“Most of what you’ll find are small farms, and
all
of them are spread out,” he specified. “Some are hidden by trees for privacy. Be especially interested in those. Our Unsub is intent on keeping his hideaway as close to invisible as he can. But we’re going to find it—and we’re going to find it
fast
.” A quick glance at his watch. “Time’s working against us. Let’s go.”

Sloane leaned past Luke and tucked a blanket beneath Lillian’s chin, talking softly to her as she did. Luke stood on Sloane’s right, directly beside his mother’s face, holding her hand in both of his, and murmuring to her about eternity and beauty and reverence.

Over the past hour and a half, Lillian’s breathing had gone from labored to erratic to almost nonexistent—so much so that, several times, Sloane had to stare at the rise and fall of her chest for what seemed like forever, just to see if she was still alive.

This was torture.

And Luke wasn’t taking it well.

He was experiencing major mood swings. One minute he was a compassionate, loving son, the next minute he was a delusional soon-to-be Greek god, and the next minute after that he was a violent, angry killer who wanted to seek vengeance on a world who was taking away the only person he’d every truly loved, and who’d ever been there for him.

It was the last of those moods that worried Sloane most.

When the rage took over, Luke was irrational and unreachable. He stalked around the room, waving his pistol and his combat knife, and ranting about justice and decency and the annihilation of society. He kicked furniture out of his way, blotches of red staining his cheeks, and describing the horrific ways he’d killed people and the even more horrific ways he wanted to kill more. Sloane didn’t need convincing. She was already worried sick that the wrong provocation—like a defiant remark from one of the soon-to-be-retrieved goddesses—would result in his going off on a shooting and stabbing rampage, and then deferring his own ascension to Mount Olympus long enough to continue that rampage elsewhere.

During those moments when Luke went berserk, Sloane remained very still, just stroking Lillian’s hair and adjusting her pillows. Fortunately, the poor woman was totally out of it, so she didn’t have to witness her son’s depravity firsthand.

But unless Sloane could find the right moment to attack Luke and win, or, at the very least, defuse his murderous rage, this was going to be bad.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the rage ended, transforming Luke into Delphi, who went on ad nauseam about the nobility of Mount Olympus and what awaited them there.

And then, every once in a great while, it would be Luke standing beside Sloane, watching with tears in his eyes as his mother slipped away.

Oddly, it was during one of Luke’s tirades that Lillian opened her eyes and very clearly said, “Luke.”

He whipped around, staring at the bed, recognizing the fleeting moment of lucidness in his mother’s eyes.

Instantly, he lowered the knife and the pistol, walking around Sloane to resume his place at the top part of the bed. “I’m here, Mother.” He put the knife and pistol on the floor, and took her hand, clasping it tightly between his.

An expression of wonder crossed her face. “It’s beautiful. The other side is beautiful.” She drew another slow, shaky breath. “Don’t grieve. It’s my time.” Her lids were slowly drooping. “I’ll always be with you. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget…how much I love you.”

Her eyes closed, and she was gone.

Luke just stared for a moment, paralyzed with disbelief. Then he lost it, leaning forward until he was lying across his mother’s lifeless body. “I love you, too,” he wept, his whole body trembling. “Don’t leave me…I can’t be here alone.” He was openly sobbing now, sliding to his knees, his head, neck, and shoulders bowing over Lillian as he clutched the blanket Sloane had tucked under her chin.

Sloane knew this was her moment. Luke was consumed with shock and grief, distracted from everything but Lillian’s passing, and devoid of weapons.

She might have tried to grab for the pistol in the hopes of stopping him without causing him further pain. She
might
have, if he hadn’t muttered his next words: “I’m coming soon, Mother. We all are. To serve you on Mount Olympus.”

That clinched it.

Self-preservation took over. So did her Krav Maga training.

Fisting her left hand, Sloane delivered a devastating blow to the back of Luke’s neck where his brain stem lay beneath the skin. Without pausing, she followed her left punch with a strike from her right elbow to the same spot on his neck. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew her abilities. She’d knocked him momentarily unconscious.

As if on cue, Luke slumped to the floor, making her job that much easier. She caught his shoulders as he went down. There was no time to waste. She had no idea how long he’d stay unconscious.

Using the core strength she’d built up over years of training, Sloane pulled Luke toward the post at the foot of Lillian’s bed. She forced him into an upright position, propping his back against the bed. She then untied the rope that was looped around her waist as a chiton belt. Fortunately, it was thick and sturdy. Yanking it off, she used it to tie Luke’s feet securely together. Then she pulled both of his arms behind him and around the bedpost. Once they were in position, she untied the rope belt from his chiton, and used it to bind his wrists together.

She rose, surveying her handiwork. Even if Luke came to, he wouldn’t be able to get out of here, not without taking the whole bed with him.

Swiftly, she reached down to where Luke had been standing and picked up his combat knife and pistol. As an extra precaution, she dashed quickly down to Luke’s room. Sure enough, the room keys were on his night table, where he’d placed them after he’d changed into his ceremonial garb. Sloane took the whole ring of them and ran back to Lillian’s room.

Luke was still out cold.

Sloane paused for a brief second next to Lillian’s body. “Rest in peace, Lillian,” she murmured. “Luke will get the help he needs.”

With that, Sloane turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Placing the knife and the pistol on the floor, she rapidly tried each key on Luke’s key ring until she found the one that fit the lock on Lillian’s door.

She slipped it in and turned it, listening for the click that assured her the bolt had engaged. Once she heard that, she jiggled the door handle just to make sure it was locked.

Retrieving the two weapons, she dashed down the first flight of stairs. She had no idea when Luke had set the timer for. But she had to get those women out of here before the place blew up.

As she neared the first-floor landing, there was an enormous thundering crash, and the entire house shook. The front door practically exploded from the impact of the ram, and
SWAT
breached the entry, pouring inside.