Find Me (21 page)

Midnight

Hours passed before it was clear to proceed.

The cold finally had gotten to the inept cop hanging around and he'd gone home.

Five minutes more and tonight's work would be complete. Fear and remorse would paralyze them all. Efforts to find the killer would intensify.

The bitch whimpered.

"Shut up!"

Stupid, stupid, snobby bitch.

The needle pierced her right eyelid. The nylon thread slid easily through.
Pull tight-Last
stitch.

Very nice.

Six stitches each Neat Not nearly as much blood as the lips. Or maybe the pills had helped.

Another disgusting moan.

Fury ignited. "I know how to shut you up."

One, two, three, four carefully prepared pieces. Everything had to be exact. Even in the near darkness, the jewels glittered.

"Now. To crown the queen."

Tug the mouth open. The bitch had better not bite.

"This is the last time you'll ever be beautiful."

One, two pieces tucked deep inside.

The dying bitch coughed. Gagged.

"Don't you puke on me!"

Three, four. Done.

Shove the mouth closed. Press the tape into place.

"Perfect. Now comes your punishment, you bad, bad girl."

After having lain long minutes on the stone floor, the knife was cold.

Raise it high. Thrust it deep. Over and over.

The wounds gushed, spouting crimson and making the excitement build and build and build with each precisely numbered and placed plunge into smooth, flawless flesh.

And then the message they would all see.

The blood was hot. Formed the letters as if it had been made for just this purpose.

Sit back and assess the work, no mistakes.

"Perfect."

Soon it would be done.

Gazing across the treetops a triumphant smile formed. "Now who's the devil?"

They would all see.

But their eyes would deceive them.

Exactly as planned.

717
High Street, Sunday, March
1, 6:00 A.M.

Christopher Mahaney's hands shook as he lifted a mug to his lips.

Father, forgive my sins. Give me peace, heavenly Father.

For days, Christopher had silently chanted that petition over and over. Still he felt no peace.

Rather, each day, the turmoil inside him continued to surge, increasing in intensity.

His hand wobbled. Coffee sloshed onto his skin. He plunked the cup onto the counter.

"Father, forgive me…" His urgent whisper faded into silence. He closed his eyes and begged for mercy.

How much longer could he bear this immense cross?

Hadn't he been punished enough?

The sin was not his alone.
They
had tempted him. Drawn him to the darkness… to the evil sins of the flesh.

"You're up early."

Christopher whirled around. Met his wife's accusing gaze. His heart lurched, ached. He tried not to hold her partially responsible. Had she been any kind of mate, perhaps his gaze would not have strayed… perhaps he would not have failed the test. Now she insisted that he protect her. Protect the niece he'd been forced to support. Fury twisted deep in his blemished soul.

He should go. Pray for forgiveness for his selfish thoughts. This was not the time to place blame or to resent his responsibilities. This was the time for action… for seeking guidance.

"I'm going to the chapel to pray." He'd only just made the final decision. That Valerie's body had been placed there was a sign. Christopher must pay attention to the signs.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" His wife rubbed her hands together and grimaced.

The pain. He understood. She suffered so. Perhaps that was her punishment for failing to do her wifely duty.

"It's necessary," he insisted, forcing his faulty heart to dispel the selfish emotions.

Deborah shook her head. "The only necessary thing, Christopher, is for you to find a way to stop
her
. She's going to keep digging until she finds something." His wife's worried gaze settled on his. "You know she won't give up. Something has to be done."

Her words were far too true, but he did not want to hear. Movement in his peripheral vision distracted him. He frowned, inclined his head to the right so that he could see past his wife. His niece hovered just beyond the doorway. "You should go back to bed, Tamara." She was always lurking about like that. No matter that Christopher had attempted to cleanse her of her impurities… she would no doubt turn out to be a whore just like her mother.

Deborah twisted toward the girl. "Stop eavesdropping, child, and go back to bed."

Tamara slinked off to the stairs. She had no one else in this world. Only him and Deborah. Christopher had taken a solemn oath to guide her in the Lord's path. He could not fail in the task. That would only add to his mounting shortfalls.

If… things took a turn for the worse, what would Tamara do? What would Deborah do?

"That girl is into something," Deborah charged. "I caught her sneaking back into the house at quarter of one this morning. That's twice in as many weeks."

Worry heaped heavy onto Christopher's already burdened shoulders. "Was she with her friends?" Dear God, could his wife do nothing to help herself and her sister's child?

Deborah untethered her long braid of hair in preparation for arranging the meticulous bun she always wore, her once nimble fingers struggling with the effort. "She won't say. Apparently she thinks just because she's eighteen now she doesn't have to answer to me. I think she's running with the Pope girl. You know that child is wild. You're going to have to do something, Christopher." Deborah arched an eyebrow. "About both those worries."

What did she expect him to do?

He shook his head before dropping it in shame. "What else can I do?"

"I don't know," Deborah exclaimed, then paused and buried her emotions. "But you have to do something. I've done all I can to help you already. More than I should have," she charged. "The rest is up to you."

His wife turned sharply and padded out of the room.

She was right, of course.

Christopher closed his eyes and repeated the petition for forgiveness.

He was to blame.

So many had suffered already.

Surely God would not continue to punish those who were innocent.

What was he thinking?

The Old Testament was filled with far too many examples of exactly that for Christopher to dare doubt.

He pulled on his coat, picked up his keys, then reached into his pockets for his gloves but decided he did not deserve that comfort. His hands should be exposed to the harsh cold while he clasped them in prayer. His grievous errors warranted far worse.

Driving to the chapel, he viewed his village as if for the last time. His flock trusted him, depended upon him to ensure that God's blessing showered upon them and their homes. And he had failed. His failure would shed a bad light on his Heavenly Father. An unforgivable sin.

By the time Christopher reached the rustic chapel tears had dampened his face. If only those salty fluids were acid. Perhaps the scars from the burns would ensure he never fell short of his faith again. Even that was not punishment enough. His eyes should be plucked from his head.

To blame his wife and his niece was the coward's way out. Christopher was not a coward. Sin had confused him, twisted his mind. He was, after all, only human.

Emerging from his car, he made the cold, lonely journey toward the chapel.

He would pray long and hard, until his knees and hands stung from the cold and went numb.

He would kiss the icy stones where her blood had spilled.

To attain forgiveness, he would do anything his dear Lord required of him to stop this heinous chain of events.

He prayed that somehow his merciful Father would see fit to give him a second chance. Christopher would not fail again. He would be strong.

Pausing to catch his breath, he reached for the hand railing before ascending the steps.

He paid no heed to the snow and ice beneath his soles. If he fell, it would be nothing less than he deserved.

Pain would be a welcome punishment.

Punish me, Father
, he implored,
and give me peace
.

The smell of death remained in the air.

The ache in his chest swelled, pressing against the weak organ there.

As his boot rested upon the final step, his eyes widened and his breath deserted him.

Pale flesh splattered with the deep crimson of blood. Letters scrawled scrawled in that same lethal hue. He drew back, lost his balance, and tumbled all the way to the ground.

The impact against the frozen ground forced a grunt from his hoarse throat.

"No, no, no, no!"

His wail echoed through the surrounding woods. Haunted his very soul.

Fresh, hot tears streamed from his sinful eyes. He scrambled onto his hands and knees, crawled to the steps. He dragged himself up each tread, his body trembling with denial, seizing with agony.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he reached the top once more and prayed fervently that his impious gaze had deceived him.

"Please, please," he whimpered. "Please… no."

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Terror apprehended his throat. His scream strangled him.

This was his doing. His punishment!

His sinful desires had brought this plague upon his neighbors.

Christopher covered his face with his hands and howled in misery.

It was him. It was him. It was him.

Yet his heart continued to beat…

… and hers did not.