Wednesday, July 31, 12:00 P.M.
Fifteen more days.
Scourge flexed his aching fingers. He wished he’d popped some aspirin, but he’d been too wound-up to think of it. Now, as he palmed his homemade bump key, the ache in his joints brought a sense of pride for a job well done. The first time he’d been in Faith’s home, he’d used her hide-a-key to get inside, but unfortunately, his timing had been off. Faith had arrived home earlier than he’d anticipated and spotted him inside the house, forcing him to scramble over the back fence before the police arrived.
And now, just as he’d figured, she’d changed her locks and ditched the hide-a-key.
Smart girl.
But not as smart as him.
He ran his fingers over the cold edge of the key he’d sanded down earlier today, closed and opened his palm around it, then smiled at the way his flesh blanched and retained the triangular pattern of the key’s shaft. The faintest of quivers beset his hands. What if the key didn’t work? What if he hadn’t sanded and smoothed it properly? With no one there to guide him, his confidence was low, but he’d followed the Internet instructions to the letter, and he’d made several practice keys first. He’d been diligent and careful and polished every speck of dirt off the shaft.
The key will work.
On a long inhale, he slipped the bump key in the back-door lock. The shaft sank in easily.
So far so good.
He pulled the key back just a bit, remembering what he’d read—this was the art of the bump. Next, he removed a small screwdriver from his pocket and used the handle to tap the key, just so.
The bump.
The bump, the click, the snap of the lock resonated down his arm.
Yes!
The key turned. The door opened, and once again he’d successfully penetrated Dr. Faith Clancy’s private sanctuary.
The house itself was not much, but the master bedroom was magnificently located on the east side of home. A large, eight-paned window banked with heavy wood allowed morning light to come flooding in, igniting the mustard-colored walls. He stuck his arms out and lifted them over his head, like a circus master inside a ring of fire, posturing for the crowd.
The screens had been removed, and the windows were kept crystalline clean, no doubt to enhance the coveted view of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range.
Sangre de Cristo.
The blood of Christ.
His skin grew hot, as if the walls of fire were closing in on him. He turned his back on the window, grabbed his knees, and took deep breaths until his nausea passed. He stood back up and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. No cause for alarm. True, at the moment, he couldn’t even think of blood without panicking, but Dr. Clancy would have him cured in no time, which is why he was here in her home, on a little scouting expedition. He was a planner. He liked his ducks in a row before he carried out a kill, and with Dr. Clancy, it was more important than ever to get things right.
Pacing her bedroom, he caught sight of something that interested him on the nightstand—a rather striking picture of Dr. Clancy cradling a newborn babe. He halted, lifted the picture, and tilted his head. Upon closer inspection he realized his mistake. The woman with the baby wasn’t Dr. Clancy. Her eyes were a paler shade of jade—by a fraction—her expression every bit as lost as the one Dr. Clancy wore when she thought no one was looking. A freckle dotted the corner of the woman’s lips, which were full and luscious like Dr. Clancy’s. Oh, yes. Of course.
This must be Grace.
His hand trembled as he replaced the photograph on the nightstand. How terrible for Dr. Clancy. Like Scourge, she had no one left. He pressed his index finger to his lips. Yes. She’d be happier, better off joining her sister and her parents in the great beyond. He’d take the utmost care to ensure her path to heaven was straight and easy. Scraping his fingernail across his teeth, he thought of a special touch. He’d leave Dr. Clancy with his very best rosary—the one Sister Cecily had given him in school. Many times he’d thought of leaving it at a kill, but he’d never felt the occasion was right. Now he knew why. That rosary was meant for Dr. Clancy, his healer, his savior.
All he had to do was get well so he could give it to her.
That decided, he moved on to the living room. There, a kiva fireplace extended to the viga-beamed ceiling. A creamy leather sectional decorated with an assortment of brightly colored throw pillows, a distressed wood coffee table, and a Navajo rug finished off the casual Southwestern look nicely. He approved of her taste and was especially glad to note she’d stuck to one theme for the house. Her office décor, what there was of it, was decidedly eclectic, and that threw him off-balance.
He liked things to match.
Speaking of disorder, a number of books were spread haphazardly on the coffee table, and a copy of Arizona Highways lay folded open. Several hiking trails had been marked with a sharpie. Oh, that was too bad. She was planning a trip. Sorry to know she wouldn’t be able to make that journey, he shook his head.
But what could he do? The clock was ticking.
He made a few quick entries into his notepad regarding the placement of doors and windows, the floor plan of the home, and especially noted any potential weapons Dr. Clancy might have at her disposal—best to stay out of the kitchen, where a cast-iron skillet and a block of butcher knives might ruin his whole day.
Just a final look around the backyard for brush that could provide cover and the best place to scale the fence in the event of another emergency, and he’d have all the information he needed. Last time, he’d suffered more than a few scratches getting over that fence. A spot near a bench or tree would be ideal. He pushed out the back door, and the smell of gardenias hit him in the face.
Followed by an earsplitting high-pitched bark.
“Heel, Chica! Heel. There’s no one back there,” called a small, boyish voice trying its best to sound stern.
More barking.
“I said heel!”
His eyes darted around the yard. The brush was scant around the house, and he didn’t see a ready hiding place.
“She’s not home, girl. I’ll show you.”
Footsteps on gravel.
The gate squeaked open. No time to scale the fence and disappear like last time.
His blood cooled in his veins.
A very good sign. He didn’t feel even the slightest flutter of a palpitation. That meant he was getting better already.
Smiling, he dropped into one of the lounges on the back porch, flipped open the Arizona Highways magazine he’d pilfered from inside, crossed his feet at the ankles, and whistled “Dixie”—literally.
“Hello? Is someone there?” That Vienna Boy’s Choir voice again.
Then there they were, a boy and his dog—a pair straight out of a Disney movie—except for the fact the dog was more bone than bark. Certainly wasn’t the type of dog to cause him any trouble. She looked like she barely had the strength to stand. “I like your dog,” he offered casually, peering over his magazine.
“Her name’s Chica. Who’re you?”
“I know. I heard you calling her. Chica’s a nice name.”
Chica tugged forward on her leash, growling.
“I’m Tommy. Who’re you?”
Scourge said nothing, merely waited. The boy frowned, began backing toward the gate. Oh dear. This kid had seen his face. As much as he didn’t need the extra trouble, he couldn’t let this slide. This boy and his dog were exactly the type of thing that might come back and bite him in the ass. A loose end.
That meant collateral damage could not be avoided.
The boy kicked the gate open with his heel and was just edging out of sight when Scourge answered, “Who do you think I am?” He put down the magazine and stared directly into the boy’s eyes. What did it matter now if the kid got a good look at him? The damage was done.
“Are you Faith’s brother?” Tommy asked.
Why not? “I am. You’re a very good guesser.”
“Is Faith here?” Tommy asked, as Chica strained forward on her leash again, still making those aggressive noises in her throat.
“No. She’s at work.” He got to his feet, went to the boy, and offered his hand.
The boy’s palm was sweating when he shook with Scourge, pumping his arm up and down a bit less than enthusiastically.
“And the thing is, my sister doesn’t know I’m in town. It’s a surprise. So you’re not to tell. You wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“N-no. But my mom says I’m not allowed to keep secrets.”
“Oh, sure. That’s right. Never keep a secret. But you know, Tommy, a surprise and a secret are not the same thing. I missed my sister today, and it might be a while before I get back over here. You like Dr. Clancy, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then don’t ruin this for her.”
Tommy reeled Chica in close to his body. Patted her head. “It’s okay, girl. Hush.” Then he nodded. “Okay. I promise I won’t tell.”
“Attaboy. Where do you live, son?”
Tommy pointed to the house next door, but then suddenly dropped his hand, as if he knew he’d made a mistake. “I gotta go. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“Maybe I should take you home to your mother. Is your mother home, Tommy?”
The boy shook his head violently. “Please, don’t do that. I’ll get in trouble if my mom finds out I was talking to you.”
He scratched his chin. “I guess if you won’t tell, I won’t tell. Your mom’s right. You shouldn’t talk to strangers or keep secrets either. Good thing I’m not a stranger, just a brother with a big surprise for Dr. Clancy. I won’t take you home, Tommy. I won’t get you in trouble. I’d rather be friends.”
“Me, too.” Tommy’s hunched shoulders relaxed.
“Shall we shake on it, buddy?”
They pumped hands again, then Scourge gave Tommy a high five.
Tommy turned to go and then looked back over his shoulder. “Will I see you again?”
Scourge threw his arms wide and chuckled. “You better believe you will, buddy. You can count on it.”