He smiles. “Exactly. Thinking of others before self. And that is where Victoria Harkness’s teachings were so corrosive. She has her congregants thinking of themselves before others. Self-development, self-actualization, all the seductive buzzwords that make people believe they are growing and changing but in reality are just teaching people to coddle their own egos.” He slaps the desktop. “I wish I could make people understand how dangerous that kind of thinking is. It’s got to be stopped.”
Whoa. He’s gone from concerned mentor to judgmental overlord in about two seconds.
This is exactly my problem with organized religion. Who is Takahashi to decide how others should conduct their spiritual lives? He’s pretty locked into his own track. But is he also a fanatic, willing to kill for his beliefs?
“So Reverend, how far would you go to protect someone’s soul?”
He laughs and leans back, once again the friendly reverend. He picks up an old-fashioned letter opener on his desk, turns it in his hands. “What is this, a job interview? Well, Jesus said, ‘Greater love hath no man than he who lays down his life for his friends.’ I’d like to say I’d go that far, but I suppose none of us knows until we’re in the situation. How about you, Audrey? How far would you go to protect someone? Would you take the proverbial bullet?”
The room brightens. The letter opener flashes in the sunlight.
I’ve never taken a bullet, but I have taken a blade.
In the street outside the church, a car backfires. It sounds like a shot.
Distant shouts. “Police! Don’t move!” Gunfire pops on the floor below.
I feel the cold slide of steel beneath my skin. The warm spill of blood as it cascades over my breast and side. Sonny’s own blood coats his teeth as he smiles down at me.
“Pig,” he whispers. “I got you.” His breath is raw and rancid, his eyes veined with red.
The wound under my collarbone throbs, in tune to the beat of my heart.
“No!” I grip the arms of the chair, drenched with sweat. The scar on my chest feels hot and burning.
“Audrey! What’s wrong?” Seth’s voice is urgent. His hand is warm on my shoulder, on my forearm.
I blink, and my vision clears. I’m in Seth’s office. The preacher kneels beside me. His eyes are wide and worried, and his voice is steady and soothing.
“It’s all right. You’re safe.”
He’s too close. The letter opener is still in his hand. I push him, hard. “Get away!” I struggle to my feet, kicking the chair aside. The residual heat of his hands is imprinted on my skin.
Takahashi falls back, catches himself with one arm. He lets me retreat, then stands with animal grace. He says carefully, “What’s wrong? You suddenly just froze. And your eyes — you looked like some of the men at the shelter.”
“I’m fine. Really. Just a headache.” I’m in control. I’m not crazy. And even if I am, I really don’t want him to know.
He raises his eyebrows skeptically. “Okay. But I’d like you to rest here for a few minutes. Can I get you an aspirin? Do you need a doctor?”
“No. Thanks. I just need to get home.” Mercifully my knees hold rock steady. I don’t want him to see how shaken I am. I don’t want to showcase my vulnerability. There are things I still didn’t know, but I can’t continue the investigation at the moment. My questions will have to wait.
I drive home in a state, binding my emotions with the knobby iron claw of self-control.
For the second time in less than a week, a flashback has left me sick and shaken. Fear takes up residence in my abdominal cavity and purrs softly in its lair. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I get over that undercover assignment in Denver? Is it just a product of too many late nights, too much stress, too much bad food and coffee and irregular hours? I’d been embedded in the Baxter Building for months, posing as one of the squatters: a used-up ex-prossie who’d taken up residence on the eighth floor. In reality I’d been collecting names and dates and observing drops and deals. Hardened as I was to vice and violence, the situation sickened me. Prostitutes of both sexes, some young enough to be in grade school. Drug pushers ditto, johns and pimps and users all mixing in a fetid stew.
When the raid came, it was meant to be a clean-up, a sweep of the dregs that feasted upon themselves in an endless cycle of predator and prey. But somehow Sonny had gotten wind of it, tumbled to my identity, and tried to kill me.
I’d just been down to see one of the dealers, and had been forced by circumstances to take some coke. I’d been amped, alert, ultra-confident. I’d failed to lock my door. And ironically, it was my drug-induced state of hyper-alertness that made me aware of Sonny when he broke into my room.
Maybe it was also the drugs, or the emotional overload, or maybe just simple blood loss, that had led to the vision I’d had on the abandoned mattress in the closet, waiting for the raid to finish.
But I wouldn’t think of that.
Maybe you need your meds, Lake. Just sayin’.
No. No drugs. Not ever again.
My empty house with its echoing rooms does nothing to alleviate my anxiety. I do a perimeter check, open all the shades so the sunlight can illuminate the rooms, and fill the electric kettle with water, waiting impatiently for it to boil so I can make myself a cup of tea. It’s after noon. I’m hungry, but my gut is too tense to eat.
I try sitting on my camp chair, but finally pace across the room to stand by the windows overlooking the river. The water is speckled with whitecaps, and full of sailboats. My inner vision swoops back to Denver and the raid on the Baxter Building. That was the first time the hallucinations had really
