Nine

Yuma, Arizona

The woman finally stopped screaming. What had been left in place of the noise—a shrill, terrified keening—was a silence as deafening as the sound that preceded it.

Maggie leaned forward in the dark, toward the cracks of light that reached for her around the edges of the door. Listening. Waiting.

He would come for her next.

From down the hall another noise. Like a chair being dragged across a linoleum floor. Familiar. Almost comforting. She’d made that sound plenty of times. Like when she dragged a barstool from her countertop to the fridge to look for her car keys. She had a habit of tossing them on top of it and forgetting about them. Come to think of it, she had a history of thoughtless behavior. Keys tossed on top of the fridge. Wet laundry left in the washer for days. Driving off with her purse on the roof of her car.

Agreeing to meet a complete stranger for dinner.

She’d met him on one of those free dating websites. The kind most people used for casual hook-ups or harmless flirting. She’d been curious and, admittedly, lonely, so when he messaged her, she’d responded.

They’d private messaged for weeks before she’d felt comfortable enough to give him her number, and she hadn’t agreed to meet him for dinner until they’d spoken several times over the phone. He’d been a perfect gentleman. Handsome. Well-spoken. A dream come true.

After dinner, she’d actually been disappointed when he’d insisted on walking her to her car. She hadn’t wanted the evening to end.

“I’ve had a lovely time,” he said to her back while she worked the car fob, unlocking the driver’s door.

“Me too,” she said, turning to find him standing so close it stole her breath.

He was going to kiss her … he was actually going to kiss her.

He lifted his hand, his fingertips grazing her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Can I ask you something, Margaret?” he said to her and she nodded stupidly even though she’d insisted, numerous times, that he call her Maggie.

He leaned into her, pressing his lips to her cheek before he whispered into her ear, each word, brushing his mouth against her lobe. “Do you believe in miracles?”

The question was followed by what felt like a bee sting, quick and sharp, which led to a feeling of warmth and melting. Like she was made of butter, left out in the sun …

The next thing she remembered was waking up to the sound of a woman screaming. It’d seemed to go on for hours. Days even. So long she ceased to register it as sound.

Another noise. This one softer. Almost a whisper. Growing louder and louder as it grew closer—shhhhh—its approach measured by footsteps. Long, confident strides she recognized immediately as belonging to the man who’d taken her to dinner. He’d told her his name was Gabriel but she was almost certain that was a lie.

Suddenly the light that reached for her was interrupted. The whispering shhhhh was as loud as a shout. Something was being dragged past her door. It sounded wet. Sloppy. Like a mop that hadn’t been wrung out before being slapped against the floor.

Maggie jerked herself back, away from the sound, pressing her shoulders into the rough block wall she huddled against. She renewed her efforts, twisting and jerking at the wire that bound her wrists together.

She had to get out of here. She had to find a way. If she could just get her hands free, maybe she could—

A scraping sound. Metal on metal as a key was inserted into the lock and turned. The door swung open and he was suddenly there. Bright light from the hallway pinched into her eyes and she squinted up into the long, dark shadow he cast over her.

He held something in his hand. Something long and cylindrical. Heavy, like the kind of flashlight a police officer carried. He held it casually at his side while something dripped from the end of it, thick like syrup, splattering on the floor at his feet.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t a flashlight. She jerked her eyes away from what he held in his hand, aiming them instead at his shoulder. His answering chuckle sounded both pleased and indulgent.

“Margaret, do you believe in miracles?”

The question pulled her gaze upward, from his shoulder to his face. He wasn’t laughing anymore. “Why do you keep calling me that?” she said. “My name isn’t Margaret. It’s Maggie—Maggie Travers. My name is Maggie … Maggie.” She shook her head, hysteria pushing her. Making her ramble. “Please let me go,” she begged, each word caught on a hitching sob as she buried her face in bound hands. “Please let me go—I won’t say anything to anyone. I swear, I just want to go—”

SNAPBANG!

For a moment she was sure he’d shot her. Her head wrenched up so fast her neck seized, eyes bulging from their sockets, aimed up at the man standing in the doorway. Her bladder loosened, a stream of urine leaking onto the cement floor she sat on.

“Hush, now,” he said to her as he lifted the cylinder to pull at its top. Something inside it snapped loudly into place. “Answer the question, please. Do you believe in miracles?”

Did she believe in miracles?

It was what her mother had been calling her since she was a child.

Her little miracle.

She’d been four years old when it happened. Her older brother, their father, and she had been heading to Colorado to spend Christmas with her grandparents. A sudden winter storm and a slick patch of ice had sent them skidding through a guardrail and into the bottom of a ravine. She’d spent three days in the overturned car before they’d been found. Her brother and father had been killed instantly.

“Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “Yes, I do.”

He smiled at her, obviously pleased with her answer. “When was the last time you attended mass?”

The answer bobbled in her throat. The truth wouldn’t please him but she forced it out. “Five weeks.” Something told her that no matter how long she’d thought she’d known this man, he’d known her—watched her—infinitely longer. Lying would’ve been as pointless as it was dangerous. “I just started a new job and I’m scheduled to work Sundays.” She was a vet tech at an animal clinic within walking distance of the apartment she shared with her mother.

He came toward her, crouching in front of her, and she fought the urge to shrink farther away. “Are you a virgin, Margaret?”

Ridiculously, the question stained her cheek. “No.”

He nodded, if not pleased with her answer then at least satisfied with the truth. “Come with me,” he said, holding out his free hand. “I want to show you something.”

It came back to her—the wet, sloppy sound of something being dragged down the hall—and she started to cry again. Whatever it was he wanted to show her, she didn’t want to see it.

“Are you him?” she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands cradled against her chest. “You’re him, aren’t you? The man on the news, the one who …” She gagged, unable to finish the question, but he answered her anyway.

“Yes,” he said, his hand still extended. “But I promise, I have no intention of hurting you. Not yet. Not as long as you do as I say.” He could have forced her to come with him. Grabbed her by the wire that bound her hands and dragged her out of the room. But he didn’t. It gave her a small measure of hope that he was telling her the truth. That he wouldn’t hurt her as long as she did what he said.

She finally held out her hands, placing them in his. “There’s my good girl,” he said as he stood, pulling her up. Her dress clung against the backs of her thighs, wet and cold, and he looked down at the puddle they stood in. “You’ve made a mess.” He didn’t look pleased with her anymore.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …” She kept stuttering it out, again and again, hysteria crowding her.

“Shhh,” he said, pulling her through the doorway into a corridor barely wide enough for them to stand shoulder to shoulder. Looking down at the floor, she forced herself to be quiet as they walked, his fingers gripping her elbow as if he were escorting her home from an evening stroll in the park. Between them a thick, red swath cut down the center of the floor. Bits of something, gelatinous and cool, squelched between her toes.

“Do you know how a saint is made, Margaret?” he said, looking down at her as if he expected an answer. Afraid to open her mouth, she shook her head. She was walking through brain matter. If she opened her mouth, she would start to scream and she wouldn’t be able to stop.

“The canonization process is quite arduous, often painful,” he said, stopping in front of another door. This one was cracked open, dim light peeking through. “Most saints aren’t even recognized until after they’re dead.” He settled her hands on the knob before releasing her elbow. Because he seemed to want her to and because she wanted out of the hallway, she pushed the door open.

The room was twice as long as it was wide. At its farthest end was a hospital bed. On top of it lay a man. At least she thought it was a man. He was dangerously thin, nothing but skin stretched, gaunt and tight, over sharp, protruding bone. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, each breath shuddering in and out as if it could be his last.

Next to the bed was a folding partition. What she saw behind it sent her backward.

I promise I have no intention of hurting you. Not yet …

She wanted out of the room, back in to the hallway with the blood and the brains, but a hand at the small of her back stopped her retreat. Propelled her forward until they were standing at the man’s bedside.

“Margaret, I’d like you to meet Robert Delashaw,” he said to her as if he were making introductions at a cocktail party. “Robert, this is Margaret, the young woman I’ve been telling you about.”

The man on the bed gave no indication he even knew they were there.

“What’s wrong with him?” she heard herself ask. “He looks sick.”

“He is, Margaret,” he said. “Robert has stage-four renal cancer. The doctors sent him home to die.”

“I don’t understand,” she shook her head, swallowing hard against the hard knot that seemed to be lodged in her throat.

“Robert is your second test, Margaret, just as Trudy Hayes was Rachel’s. She failed, of course—they all did—but I have faith in you.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.” She was a tech in a veterinary clinic. She gave vaccinations and took x-rays. Nothing she was capable of would help this man.

“I think you know exactly what I want, Margaret,” he said to her, his tone taking on sharp edges. The kind of edges that promised pain if not heeded. “I want you to give to Robert what has been given to you. I want you to give him a miracle.”