“Or maybe even directly,” Racine said, appearing at the doorway. Her spiky blond hair looked windblown, her face flushed, and she seemed a bit out of breath. She came in and held up a copy of the
“Garrison?” Maggie wasn’t surprised. Though she had met him only briefly at the monument Sunday morning, she hadn’t trusted him or his reasons for being there. “Okay, so Everett met Ginny Brier. No incriminating evidence there. And no harm done. We already knew she was at the rally. Why so steamed, Detective Racine?”
“Oh, it gets much better.” Racine practically ripped the pages, flipping to the inside, creasing the fold before turning it back around. This time both Maggie and Ganza came in for a closer look.
“Son of a bitch,” Ganza muttered.
“I should have known I couldn’t trust that bastard,” Racine said through gritted teeth.
Maggie couldn’t believe it. The page was filled with crime scene photos, photos of Ginny Brier’s dead body, black boxes strategically placed over her private parts, but nothing to hide the horrible, brutal rest. Nothing to cover those terrified eyes-frozen in time, eyes wide open.
CHAPTER 44
Eric Pratt could hear and feel the chipping and splintering of his fingernails as he dug them into the grooves of his handcuffs. It had become a new habit, useful only in that it prevented him from digging the jagged nails into his own flesh.
He should have been grateful that the guard had let him keep his hands together instead of locking them at his waist to each side. He knew his captors had misread his polite behavior, perhaps even thought he was harmless. Though not entirely harmless-he rattled the shackles on his ankles, reminding himself they were there, readjusted himself in the chair. He needed to stop squirming. Why couldn’t he sit still?
As soon as the woman entered the room, Eric had felt a wet chill sweep over his body. She had introduced herself as a doctor, but Eric knew better. The woman was small, well dressed, about his mother’s age, but very attractive. She carried herself with confidence and ease despite the high-heeled shoes she wore. He found himself watching her legs as she crossed them, making herself comfortable in the steel folding chair. She had smooth, firm calves, and from what he could see of her thighs, she was really nothing like his mother.
She was explaining why she was here. He glanced at her mouth, but he didn’t need to listen. He knew exactly why she was here. He had known the second she walked in the door.
She was the woman clothed with the sun. Her reddish-blond hair had been a dead giveaway. It circled her face like the rays of the sun. Of course, she would possess warm green eyes and a quiet, captivating manner, a polite and hypnotic voice and a body that could distract and tempt. Father Joseph had outdone himself this time. He had sent a vision straight out of John’s description of the Apocalypse. Had he honestly believed Eric wouldn’t recognize her?
Sweat trickled down his back. Her voice hummed in his ears, the words no longer separate but strung together as melody-Satan’s death song, lovely and mesmerizing. He wouldn’t let it hypnotize him. He wouldn’t let her draw him in and incapacitate him. But she was good. Oh, she was clever with that kind smile and those sexy legs. If Brandon’s visit hadn’t prepared him, he may very well have been taken into her web, ensnared before he realized what the true purpose of this visit really was.
He looked into her eyes, saw her smile and quickly looked away. Was that her secret weapon? If she couldn’t hypnotize him with her voice, would she use her eyes? He wondered how she might kill him, and his eyes scanned the length of her, looking for bulges in her clothing.
The guards would have allowed her in with anything she cared to conceal. They would want no part of the mess, even if they were able to stop her. After all, Father had told them the woman clothed with the sun had special powers, according to the gospel of John, St. John the Divine, Revelation 12:1–6. She was light. She was dark. She was good and evil. She was a messenger of Satan and could disguise herself easily.
Suddenly, Eric remembered a newspaper article Father had read them just months ago. No member was allowed newspapers or magazines. There was no need when Father took the burden upon himself to relay those news items that were relevant and from sources that could be trusted.
But now Eric remembered the story of a foreign diplomat who had been visiting the States from some evil empire. Eric couldn’t recall the country. The diplomat had been slain in his hotel bed and reports were that the woman who killed him did it while straddling him, waiting for him to come and then slitting his neck. Father Joseph had used it as an example of justice being done. Was that where he had gotten the idea of sending this woman?
Eric noticed her tapping the pencil, the eraser smacking the notepad-the notepad, a decoy left on the table, not a single note scrawled on it. The pencil had been freshly sharpened, its lead a dagger’s point. He could distinguish some of the words that came out of her mouth, words like
He made himself look into her eyes. He had cheated Satan once before. Could he do it again?
CHAPTER 45
Gwen shifted in her chair and recrossed her legs. Pratt was watching her again, staring at her legs. The horny bastard wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. Had she misread his initial reaction, that look of absolute fear in his eyes when she entered the room? If it hadn’t been fear, what the hell had it been? Had she been wrong about him wanting to survive, wanting to find a safe haven?
He hadn’t answered a single one of her questions. Instead, he looked everywhere except into her eyes, as if she were Medusa and doing so would turn him to stone. Or did he simply hate psychologists? Maybe the kid was sick of shrinks or didn’t trust any authority figures. Yet deep down she wondered if the real reason for his distraction, for his avoidance, was because he was worried she wielded some sort of power he couldn’t stand up to.
If their theory was correct, Eric Pratt had been manipulated and controlled by someone other than himself for some time now. He had been a puppet willing to kill and be killed. Perhaps that someone-the Reverend Joseph Everett, most likely-still had a strong hold on him, despite Eric being locked away. But something had made the boy spit out that cyanide capsule. Self-preservation had won. She needed to follow her instinct. And she needed to believe his instinct to live was stronger than his fear of Everett.
“You are a survivor, Eric. That’s why you’re still here. I want to help you. Do you believe I can help you?”
She waited, tapping out her impatience with the pencil against her notepad. The kid seemed mesmerized by the motion. She tried to remember the reports she had glanced at, whether or not toxicology had shown any drug use. Yet that was what he reminded her of; some spaced-out coke-head. If he’d look at her, she might be able to tell from the dilation of his pupils. Was that why he kept his eyes away from hers?
“You don’t need to be in this all alone, Eric. You can talk to me.” She kept her voice low and soft, careful not to sound like she was addressing a small child. She didn’t want to insult him. And if he was afraid, she needed to
