Thursday, August 15, 6:00 P.M.
Five hours.
In five short hours, I will fulfill my destiny.
A quiver of excitement traveled through Scourge as he opened Dr. Clancy’s back door with his bump key, but not because the key worked—he’d established that the last time he was here. He turned his arms palms up, opened and closed his fists, pumping hard until his beautiful purple veins congested with blood and popped to the surface. The blood coursing through those veins electrified his skin—just as it had earlier today when he’d finally cleaned up the mess in his bathtub.
I’m cured.
I am not a shadow.
It’s time.
Tonight, his timeline was of the utmost importance. Eleven o’clock would mark the ten-year anniversary of Sister Bernadette’s death. So he needed to hurry. First, he’d abduct Faith and take her with him to The Big Kill, the grand finale, the pièce de résistance. Then, at precisely 11:00 P.M., he’d send the Donovans to heaven one by one and buy himself a first-class ticket, nonstop, to Satan’s playground—with Faith as witness to his sin. Finally, he’d come back around and take care of the boy and the dog before Faith’s body was discovered, and the cops questioned the neighbors again.
After, he’d retire to the beaches of Mexico, just like Perry had wanted to do. And Scourge would be at peace—confident in the knowledge he’d secured himself the kind of afterlife he so richly deserved. Sister Bernadette would probably ridicule him for his worry over this point. According to her, he’d secured his place in hell as a boy at school, just by wetting the goddamn bed. But Sister Cecily had said no, no matter how black the heart, light always remains. According to Sister Cecily, it was impossible to extinguish every bit of light in a man, and thus the possibility of forgiveness would always be there.
That assertion had troubled Scourge for a long while, until he’d found the book. Once he read about Perry Smith and the Clutter murders, Scourge had devised a plan for getting into hell that he considered foolproof. He liked to think of his soul as the night sky, and taking an individual life was like cutting a single star from that sky. The light diminished . . . though not enough. But if Scourge took an entire family at once, it would be like cutting out the moon. His soul would become so dark, it could never be redeemed.
And Dr. Clancy was such a lovely bonus. His other targets had never excited him the way she did. If his justification for taking her had been weak before, now it was completely sound. In therapy, he’d had to confide too much in order to obtain his cure. She was clever enough that sooner or later, she’d realize the dream he’d shared about Sister Bernadette was not a dream at all but a memory.
No witnesses.
That had been Perry and Dick’s cardinal rule. Now that Dr. Clancy had become a potential witness, taking her life would be by the book, and that would make his pleasure that much greater.
He closed the door behind him. Dr. Clancy’s home smelled good.
He liked the way she kept fresh flowers from the yard set out on every surface that would accommodate a vase. He liked the way she smelled, too. When he sat across from her in her office, he could always detect the faintest trace of flowers perfuming her body. The scent she carried with her was more intoxicating than the finest draft of whiskey. Her scent reminded him of a funeral.
Ironic.
Laughing aloud, he wished Faith would come home, so he could share the joke with her. He checked his watch—6:15. It wouldn’t be long now. He’d left his shotgun in the truck. He cared too much for Dr. Clancy to make a mess of her lovely home; besides, he wanted her to see him in all his glory. He’d take her with him to the farm, lay her next to the Donovan girl, and explain all to her. He’d keep her alive until the very end, show her how he’d sent the others off to heaven. He’d be sure she knew how and why he was going to send her there, too. He’d give her plenty of time to cleanse her soul before joining her parents and her sister. He’d give her his favorite rosary.
He sighed. He doubted she’d thank him, though. No one ever did.
In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and found some Tejava pure Java tea. He poured himself a tall glass, sat at the table, and drank it. Then he rinsed his glass and put it in the dishwasher. He dried his hands on a dishtowel, but water had seeped inside his gloves, and his fingers began to itch. He checked his watch again—6:30. Time to hide in the bedroom. No fireplace poker or knives there to stab him. He slipped behind the bedroom door and waited.
Time ticked by, and his fingers stung inside his wet plastic gloves. He shifted positions, stretching his stiff legs. He decided to take a quick stroll through the house to ease his soreness, then come back and crouch behind the bedroom door again. He’d only just wandered into the living room when he heard the sound of a key in the front door. No time to get back to the bedroom. He hid behind the sectional, removed his chloroformed rag from a Ziploc baggie in his pocket, and made himself ready. Blood zinged through his body. The door flew open, and a slight figure jolted inside, dragged by a tight leash.
That damn kid.
That damn dog.
In his surprise, he hesitated, and in that moment the boy spotted him, crouched and ready to pounce.
“Get back!” The boy yelled bravely, but then he made the same mistake they all make, he turned his back to Scourge in order to run, and that was just the opening Scourge needed to leap on him. He knocked Tommy to the ground. Tommy screamed and tried to crawl away. Scourge grabbed him by the leg and twisted.
Crack!
Tommy’s head fell back, and he stopped struggling. Scourge dragged him close and pressed a chloroformed rag over the boy’s mouth and nose. The little fellow never had a chance. His body went limp in Scourge’s arms.
As he got to his feet, his arms stiffened beneath the boy’s weight. His palms itched. Where was the dog? Looking carefully to his left and right, he saw no sign of the mangy mutt. Probably hiding under the bed with her tail between her legs by now. He hoisted the kid over his shoulder like a bag of flour. He’d stash him in the truck and come back for Faith.
Scourge’s overalls made a perfectly good disguise. The boy would fit easily into his wheelbarrow, and no one would question the sight of a landscaper wheeling out a pile of trash, dumping it in the back of his truck, and covering it with a tarp. Landscapers were invisible.
But he had to hurry if he was going to stow the boy and make it back inside before Faith got home. He slipped out the back door, not bothering to close it behind him, dropped the kid in the wheelbarrow, tossed a tarp over him. No time to tie the kid up now. He lifted the wheelbarrow by the handles and heard a long growl behind him.
Damn dog.
He stuck his arm under the tarp for a pair of gardening shears. A sharp pain cut into his flesh. Not the shears.
The kid.
He should’ve used more chloroform, held the rag in place longer. The kid clawed his arm, sunk his teeth into his wrist. Pain bellowed up the nerves in his arm.
I am not a shadow.
As he yanked his hand back, he bit down on his tongue to stop himself from laughing. He was cured all right.
He looked up just in time to see the dog flying through the air like a missile locked on target. The dog landed on his chest and chomped down on his arm. Penetrating pain seared through to the bone. The kid was out of the wheelbarrow, limping for the gate. Scourge shook his arm, but the dog clamped its jaws tighter, holding on for the ride. Scourge reached down and, summoning all his strength, all his will, pried the dog’s jaws open and hurled her into the bushes. Then he bolted out the gate before the dog could give chase.
He wouldn’t be able to take Dr. Clancy with him tonight after all.
Damn kid.
Damn dog.
Then he grinned. He’d be back for all of them later.