THIRTY-­TWO

Saturday, August 24, 5:00 P.M.

Luke drew Faith’s eye like the last morsel of chocolate on a dessert platter. Amidst the buzzing throng at the art gallery, she could tell which ladies were Santa Fe royalty by their Dolce and Gabbana frocks belted with turquoise. Their male counterparts she knew by their Armani shirts adorned with bolo ties. Luke boasted the same garb, but one glance was all she needed to pick him out from across the crowded room.

The way he held one shoulder slightly higher than the other; the way he bent one leg at the knee when he was concentrating had become as recognizable, as essential to her, as her own heartbeat. His back was to her, so she took her time, raking her gaze across his broad shoulders and down his arms, where the hard contours of his muscles strained against the sleeves of his best silk shirt.

Luke.

Luke had been planning this art gala to benefit the Big Brothers and Big Sisters of Santa Fe for the better part of a year. Proceeds from all works sold would go to the charity, and a large and very generous crowd was in attendance. When the event coincided with Dante’s release from jail, Luke came up with the brilliant plan of including Dante’s works in the exhibit. What better way to reintroduce his brother to society than as a gifted artist rather than a demented serial killer. Town gossips had been flaming about Dante since his arrest, and Luke knew it was a risk to show Dante’s work here tonight, but that was exactly why he’d insisted on doing so. Luke wanted his brother to know he wasn’t ashamed of him. He wanted to celebrate Dante’s talents in a big way.

Faith glided to Luke’s side and slipped her hand in his, studied the painting he was studying. For a long time, they stood together in silence, letting the intensity of the piece in front of them suck them inside its strange, foreboding world. Of all Dante’s works, this mixed-­media was the best she’d seen, the one that evoked the most emotion. Tilting her head, she cocked her front foot back on its stiletto and focused all her attention on the dark forest depicted in the painting. The greens and browns and watery textures seemed so familiar, so real she could practically smell the musk-­soaked night. Suddenly, a restless beat began drumming in her ears, slowly at first, but then picking up speed, beating fast and hard, like rain falling on a canopy of trees. Dropping Luke’s hand, she shook her head slightly, then cupped her ears, but the beat only played louder.

There was something troubling about this particular painting, something sinister about its inky woods with rivulets of water cutting through layers of moss and dead fronds on the ground. With a hypnotic rhythm still drumming in her ears, her gaze honed in on a patch of moonlight illuminating flat eyes. The eyes belonged to an old woman—­a faint, nearly translucent image on the canvas—­which must be why she hadn’t discerned her form until this moment. Black robes flowed around the woman, blending seamlessly into the night. Her face seemed eerily disconnected from her body, floating in a starless sky.

A ghost head.

A shiver hummed down her spine.

In her mind, she heard Scourge’s grotesque whisper:

In my dream, we’re deep in the woods, miles from the boys’ dormitory, and my thighs are burning because I walked all this way with Sister Bernadette on my back. Now I’ve got her laid out on the soggy ground underneath a hulking ponderosa pine. A bright rim of moonlight encircles her face. Black robes flow around her, engulf her small body and blend with the night. Her face, floating on top of all that darkness, reminds me of a ghost head in a haunted house.

A ghost head.

As she let herself be drawn deeper into the wooded scene, her stomach clenched, flushing acid up the back of her throat. This reminded her of Scourge’s dream—­a dream so detailed, so powerful, she believed it had to be real. She swallowed down the bitter taste in her mouth. This painting held that same power. It was almost as if the artist—­as if Dante—­had been with Scourge in the woods that night, as if Dante had recorded the murder of Sister Bernadette in his mind and later reproduced it in this painting.

But that was impossible.

She passed a hand in front of her face, waving away the horrible thought.

“Your fascination fascinates me.” Luke said, making her jump back. One high heel collapsed. Her ankle twisted. She barely managed to keep her balance.

She’d been so lost in the painting that she’d forgotten where she was. Now the pain in her ankle pulled her back to reality. This painting was a work of art, the source of which was Dante’s undeniably brooding imagination. There was nothing more to it than that. Her breathing slowed, and she raised her hand, touching the notch of her throat where her pulse throbbed hotly against her skin.

In therapy, she’d ventured so deep inside Scourge’s head, it was understandable that at times she’d see the world through his eyes. He’d described what she now believed to be the very real murder of Sister Bernadette to her in such sickening detail, she worried she’d never be able to see the world the same way again. She doubted she’d ever be able to free herself entirely from the vile images that had been burned into her brain, courtesy of Scourge Teodori. A hard sigh escaped her lips. According to Dr. Caitlin Cassidy, the weight of Scourge’s diseased thoughts would grow lighter and more bearable with time.

Please let that time come soon.

This was not how Faith wanted to view the world or the ­people around her—­with suspicion and dread. One person, though, she knew she could trust. Seeking the comfort she’d come to find in Luke, she turned to him. “Sorry. I’m afraid my mind was somewhere else. What’d you say, again?”

He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, sending a frisson of electricity across her skin. “I’ve been trying to tell you for the longest time, Clancy. You’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever known.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Seeing your mind far away like that makes me want to crawl inside your head and eavesdrop on your thoughts. I want to go to that faraway place with you. I have since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” she said, a little more sharply than she’d intended. Being inside another person’s head wasn’t a picnic in the best of cases, and in the worst of cases . . .

Her mind was wandering again. She jerked her attention back to Luke. She could never forget that evil existed, but Luke reminded her of all that was good. He gave her the strength to move forward.

“The first time I saw you,” he said, “you were standing in front of this very piece, wearing that same white-­hot blue dress with that same intense look on your face, your mouth pulled sideways, just the way it is now. You couldn’t take your eyes off Dante’s Dark Woods, and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And now here we are again, only now I can touch you, and you won’t disappear.” He lifted her chin with his thumb. “Promise me you won’t disappear, Faith.”

Her breath released in a rush. “I promise.”

A moment ago, she’d been staring at this painting, feeling as though she stood witness to a murder in progress. And a trace of a tremor still ran through her arms, but just knowing Luke wanted to stand by her side made her shoulders feel lighter, the world less heavy. Luke was here with her, and he’d provided her a perfectly good explanation for that sick feeling of déjà vu she’d had—­a perfectly good explanation that had nothing to do with the Santa Fe Saint or Sister Bernadette’s murder. The tightness in her chest all but vanished. “So that’s why this scene seems so familiar. I’ve actually seen this painting before—­the first time I came to your gallery.”

“The day we first met.” He nodded, then continued, “Believe it or not, as evocative as this painting is, it’s one of Dante’s earliest pieces.” He rested his cheek in his palm. “I think he actually started on this one while he was still at St. Catherine’s. Can you imagine? I really think it’s his best work.”

The sensation that her entire world was about to irrevocably change replaced her momentary sense of relief. When she turned back to Dark Woods, she could feel its bleakness chill her skin, taste its poison on her tongue, see its evil wafting from the canvas in greasy black waves. Unable to look away, she leaned closer. Now she saw that the old woman lying prone on forest floor clasped a string of beads. Faith briskly rubbed her hands against her sides, trying to brush away the tingling in her palms. She closed her eyes, reopened them one at a time, wishing the image away. But the beads remained.

The rosary remained.

“Clancy, are you listening to me? Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Luke’s tone seemed more amused than angry.

“Of course,” she murmured, and stumbled back, her ankle throbbing in protest. She looked up at Luke, tried to focus on the warmth in his eyes, tried with all her might not to let her gaze return to Dark Woods. But it was no use. The woman in the painting called out to her, a desperate soul begging for help. As she gazed in horror, the black-­and-­white brushstrokes swirling across the canvas no longer seemed abstract, open to the viewer’s interpretation. The subject of this painting was perfectly clear to her now, and she couldn’t unsee it—­a nun sprawled lifeless beneath a hulking ponderosa pine.

Yet . . . it was possible she’d misheard . . . wasn’t it? Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “W-­where did you say Dante painted this?”

“At St. Catherine’s School for Boys. Our father claimed he sent Dante away to that awful place to straighten him out, to socialize him and teach him right from wrong. Dad said that if Dante kept heading down the path he was on, he’d wind up in jail or worse. But I know the truth. My father banished Dante from our lives because his presence at the ranch was a constant reminder to my mother and me that, for years, Dad had been living a secret life. Once Dante’s mother died, there was no one to stop my father from turning his back on Dante. Dad tried to persuade mother and me that Dante had no moral compass, but we both knew it was really my father who didn’t know right from wrong.”

His words floated around in the air, and it took her extra time to hear and process them. She braced her hand on Luke’s strong shoulder.

Dante was sent to St. Catherine’s School for Boys.

Depending on the years he attended, he might have known Scourge. And that meant it was possible he’d been in the woods with Scourge that night. It was possible Dante had witnessed Sister Bernadette’s murder.

It was even possible Dante had been more than a witness.

But . . . Scourge never mentioned a partner.

She shuddered.

The voice.

More than once, Scourge had referenced a voice—­a voice that issued commands and had opinions all its own. She’d assumed the voice had been an auditory hallucination . . . but what if it hadn’t been? After all, Scourge’s dream probably wasn’t a dream at all, but rather a true memory. Maybe the voice wasn’t in Scourge’s head at all. Maybe the voice belonged to a real person. The same way she remembered Scourge’s voice in her head, Scourge might remember his partner’s.

His partner.

Feverishly, she scanned the painting.

And then her breath stopped.

There!

She gripped Luke’s shoulder tighter. In the corner of the canvas, she could make out two boyish figures escaping into the trees.

Two boyish figures.

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she couldn’t allow herself to give in to fear. Locking her legs, she imagined a steel rod running through her spine, forced herself to breathe, slowed her racing thoughts.

Luke unclasped her hand from his shoulder. “You learn that grip in Krav Maga, darlin’? Maybe we can try some of those moves out later night, but right now, I have to go. The mayor just came in. I’m going to go politic a little, then hit the guy up for a massive contribution to Big Brothers and Big Sisters.”

“Luke, I have to tell you something.” Shock steadied her voice, numbed her fear.

But Luke had spotted Dante across the hall and was gesturing him over. “Can it wait till after the mayor?”

Dante was all smiles as he headed toward them.

“Yes.” She tiptoed up and kissed Luke’s cheek, let her fingers trail across the nape of his neck. If she was right about Dante, the news would crush this beautiful man. This man who’d brought her heart to life again. “It can wait.”

When Dante was close enough for Faith to catch a whiff of his camouflaged whiskey breath, Luke said, “I think you’ve got a fan in Faith, she can’t take her eyes off this painting of yours. Keep her company for me for a minute, will you?”

“Of course, brother. Anything for you.” Dante gave Faith an extravagant bow, then grazed her cheek with his fingertips. “I’m at your ser­vice, madam.”

His touch left her wanting to scrape slime from her skin.

As Luke strode away, Dante said, “You do seem uncommonly interested in my painting. Why is that, Dr. Clancy?” His lips curled up to reveal his teeth in something closer to a snarl than a smile.

Her eyes jerked involuntarily to the spot on the canvas depicting a rosary in a dead nun’s grip, then her hand went to her own necklace.

Stupid.

Too late to escape Dante’s notice, she stuffed her hands in her pockets.

Dante’s gaze went to Dark Woods, then flicked to her face. She didn’t want to look up at him, but she couldn’t let him intimidate her. Raising her chin high, she matched his stare.

An eternity passed. He watched her with such intensity his pupils threatened to black out his eyes. “Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?”

She didn’t drop her gaze. “Should I be?”

“Always the psychiatrist. Answering one question with another question. Never revealing your true feelings. I find that rather tiresome, really. I can’t imagine what my brother sees in you.” Dante turned his back and stalked away.

Frantically, Faith scanned the room for Luke. But the crowd was too thick and the air oppressively hot, almost suffocating. She put her hand on her chest, forcing herself to breathe, and hurried to the door, still searching for but not finding Luke. Checking back over her shoulder to be sure Dante hadn’t followed, she ducked out of the gallery.

Faith’s feet flew over the sidewalk, carrying her away from the gallery and toward her office. She needed time to think. Maybe she was reading too much into things. Maybe she was projecting her own memory of Scourge’s dream onto the painting. After all, no one else around her seemed to see a dead nun in Dark Woods. Yes. She was projecting. That’s all it was.

But a sick feeling still sat like a piece of rotting fruit in the pit of her stomach.

Dante started this painting at St. Catherine’s School for Boys.

That was not her projecting. That was a fact.

Dante attended St. Catherine’s.

Scourge killed Sister Bernadette at St. Catherine’s.

She was sure of it.

Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?

As much as she wished it weren’t true, she knew—­and Dante knew she knew. He’d been present in the woods that terrible night. Had he been a witness, or an active participant in the Sister’s murder?

Had Dante been the voice that commanded Scourge: Do it! You want to make it into hell, don’t you?

Then slowly, understanding dawned—­not like the rising of the sun, but like its eclipse. A black curtain fell across her heart. Scourge never mentioned a partner because he wanted to protect that partner. Just like Perry Smith wanted to protect his partner, Dick Hickock. Before his execution, Perry Smith took the blame for all the murders, claiming Dick never pulled the trigger on any of the members of the Clutter family. Perry said he didn’t want Dick’s family to suffer, so he changed his story to accept full responsibility. She drew up short and spewed undigested hors d’oeuvres onto the sidewalk.

Scourge planned to re-­create the Clutter family murders in order to guarantee himself a place in hell, but there was a reason he’d chosen that particular path. Like Perry Smith, Scourge had spent time in a Catholic school. Like Perry, Scourge was small and ridiculed for wetting the bed. If Scourge was to be taken at his word, and she didn’t know if she could or not, he’d been beaten with a flashlight, just like Perry. Scourge had taken on the role of a cold-­blooded killer, in part, because he’d become overidentified with Perry Smith, even to the point of combing his hair the same way and branding his body with the same tattoos.

And Perry was nothing without Dick.

Of course Scourge had a partner.

Scourge was nothing without Dante.

When Dante confessed to being the Saint, he left Scourge to carry out his master plan on his own. No wonder Scourge came unglued and developed a crippling fear of blood.

He’d never killed on his own before.

Bolting down the sidewalk, she crashed into a man carrying a bag of groceries. Oranges, apples, and potatoes flipped out of the bag and rolled down the sharp incline of the street. A kid let out a whoop at the splatter of eggs exploding onto the sidewalk, then gave chase to the fruit.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Faith yelled, barely glancing back at the man who’d lost his groceries and now stood shaking a fist at her.

Her heel caught a crack in the sidewalk, wrenching her already pained ankle. She threw out her hands to break her fall, and her palms scraped the ground. As she catapulted upright again, she cast another glance over her shoulder. No one was following her—­not Dante, not even the man with the spoiled groceries.

Get it together. Breaking your neck won’t accomplish anything.

Deliberately, she slowed her steps, threw back her shoulders, tried to blend in with the tourists on the busy street. She stopped and feigned interest in a bouquet of gardenias from a street vendor. The pungent fragrance of her favorite flowers somehow distracted the panicked part of her brain, and reason seeped in, albeit a little at a time.

A block from her office, she ducked behind the corner of a building. Keeping an eagle eye out for Dante, she slipped her cell out of her clutch and speed-­dialed Luke.

Straight to voice mail.

Not a huge surprise. Luke didn’t usually carry his cell at gallery functions. He liked to lavish his undivided attention on patrons of the art. “Call me. It’s urgent,” was all the message she left Luke. Dante might intercept her voice mail, and there was always a chance he didn’t realize she’d put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Are you afraid of me, Dr. Clancy?

Yeah. Right. Dante had no idea she was onto him.

Despite her slowed pace, her breath came in hard pants. Her heart ticked in her ears like a metronome set too fast by a sadistic piano teacher. She had to call the police—­now. But she still remembered Detective Johnson’s scorn when she’d told him she thought Sister Bernadette had been murdered, and that things were still unfinished.

If she called Johnson now with yet another turnaround—­and that based on her personal interpretation of an abstract painting and a single menacing comment from Dante—­Johnson would be slow to act. And she couldn’t blame him. Not really.

But there was someone she could call.

Special Agent Atticus Spenser had given her his card and told her he had the power to make things happen, and she still carried his card inside the back of her cell-­phone case, so she could be sure to find it quickly. She snapped her phone out of its case, plied Spense’s card out, and entered his number.

“Spense here,” a deep voice answered on the first ring.

“Special Agent Spenser?”

“Dr. Faith Clancy. Talk to me.”

Her number was blocked, but she didn’t bother asking how he knew it was her. He was FBI. “Dante Jericho. Dante Jericho is the Santa Fe Saint.” She had no intention of burying the lead in small talk.

“Nope. We got DNA says that’s Scourge Teodori. But while you’ve got my attention, please explain yourself.”

She threw a hand over her racing heart. “Right. Scourge Teodori is the Saint. But he’s only one-­half. Dante and Scourge are, that is they were, a team. There’s this painting . . . look, I know it sounds crazy, but Dante painted a picture depicting the murder of a nun. Scourge described the same murder to me in therapy in the guise of a dream. Turns out Dante attended St. Catherine’s just like Scourge. Can you check to see if both men were at the school at the same time? I believe Scourge and Dante cooked up the idea together to replicate the Clutter murders.”

“Say no more, Dr. Clancy. I got it.”

“You do?” She’d been too excited to explain things clearly.

“Scourge Teodori and Dante Jericho are Perry Smith and Dick Hickock wannabes.”

Thank the lord for Special Agent Atticus Spenser.

“Think hard. Does Dante know you suspect him?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Probably.”

“Where are you? Can you get someplace safe until I can get someone to you?”

“I’m near my office on—­”

“I know your office. Go now. Lock your doors. Keep your cell on. I’m still in Phoenix, but I’ll call back to let you know who’s bringing you in. Do not call anyone. Do not open the door for anyone until I give you the go-­ahead.”

“But I have to warn Luke.”

“The only thing you have to do is stay out of sight. I’ll warn Luke. You’re to go straight to your office and lock the door. Don’t tie up your phone.”

She nodded.

“Stop nodding and hustle.”

Pulse pounding in her throat, she rounded the corner and raced up the stairs of her office building. When she reached her office door, her shaky hands made it hard to fit the key in the lock, but she finally managed. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her and flipped the dead bolt in place. Whirling around, she searched the dimly lit room. With the window shade drawn, only a scant amount of light edged inside. She debated whether or not to open the shade. It would let more light in, but she’d be visible through the window if Dante had followed her somehow. If she kept the shade drawn and turned on the lights, Dante would know she was here, too.

At least she’d locked both entrances to her office before going home last night. She’d made that a habit ever since the first time Dante followed her here from the gallery.

The thought of that day, the day he’d confessed, set not only her pulse but her head pounding.

Why did Dante confess?

He clearly didn’t intend to go down for the Saint’s crimes. Despite his early protestations, he’d instructed Torpedo to enter a not-­guilty plea, and in the end, he’d proven more than anxious to be set free. It simply made no sense.

Unless . . .

Dante’s confession was his get-­out-­of-­jail-­free card.

Her hands clenched. That son of a bitch had used her.

By now her eyes had adjusted from the outside brightness. She could see perfectly. Cell in hand, she moved forward.

Creak.

Her shoulders jumped.

What was that?

Silence. And then . . .

Thud.

A small gasp escaped her lips, and her heart slammed into fifth. Dante leapt out from his hiding place behind her desk. Then she screamed, long and loud.

“Oh dear, now I’ve gone and frightened you again. You’re a jumpy one aren’t you, Dr. Clancy?” He leveled a pistol at her. “If I were you, I’d stop screaming.” The pistol jerked. “Now.”

She heard a soft pop. A muzzle flashed, and a burnt odor filled the room. The glass covering her framed diploma shattered. The cylinder on the tip of Dante’s gun was a silencer, suggesting cold-­hearted premeditation on his part. He must’ve known she’d put things together eventually, and he’d been prepared.

Forcing herself to look directly at him, she stuffed down her screams. Tried to slow her breathing. Dante had every advantage but one. He didn’t know help was on the way. All she had to do was stall him until that help arrived. “How did you get into my office?” Not like she didn’t want to know.

He clucked his tongue. “Really, dear, is that the most pressing question you have for me? Not: Are you going to kill me here or do it elsewhere?”

She shrugged.

“All right then. I’ll tell you anyway. I’m going to kill you elsewhere and dump your body where it will never be found. Along with the other whores. Of course, if you give me any grief, I’ll have to improvise—­do you here and move your body later. So don’t give me any grief.”

Other whores. He’s killed others, not just the Saint’s victims.

Her tongue felt swollen, and her throat closed. She gulped air, and her throat opened again.

Stay calm. Help is on the way.

All she had to do was stay alive one more minute. Then stay alive another. She could manage that. Wishing she still had her pink pepper spray, she patted her beltless waist.

No pepper spray, but letter opener in the desk drawer, globe on the bookshelf, Taser hidden in the plant stand.

Stay alive one more minute.

Dante had always enjoyed talking. Perhaps he’d like to unburden himself a little before traveling. He was egotistical enough he’d surely want her to know how clever he’d been. He’d want her to see all the brilliant ways he’d outsmarted her. Well, she’d give him an open invitation to explain his superiority to a mere mortal like her.

“How’d you get in, Dante?” Her tone held real fear, and she dusted in a bit of deference. He wanted to watch her squirm, and she knew it. Careful not to overplay it, she let her voice quiver a bit more. “I’m absolutely certain I locked both doors.”

“So you did, my dear. But you see I’ve had a set of keys to your office since the day you moved in. I lifted a set from your landlord, had a copy made for myself, and replaced the originals.”

She drew in a sharp, shocked breath. He’d been stalking her since before she moved into her office. “But why?”

“Because I had my eye on you. My friend Scourge showed me your brochure. I believe you know my good friend, Scourge Teodori.” One side of his face squashed up. “Make that knew my friend Scourge Teodori. He was quite fascinated by you, and I thought, why not? She might be just the ticket I’ve been looking for. And as it turned out, you fit the bill perfectly—­greener than grass with no patients, no real experience to draw upon. You made a perfect foil for my plan. And what a bonus to learn you were all alone in the world with no one to miss you or protect you.”

She’d known it was no coincidence that both men had wound up in her office. Only she’d assumed Scourge had found her from the publicity she’d garnered when she turned Dante in. But it was the other way around. Scourge found her first, through her brochure, then Dante latched on to her as a means to an end. “I suppose I ought to be flattered you chose me, but I’m afraid you only picked me because you thought you could play me.”

“I did play you, dear. Scourge had it in mind to make you the Saint’s next victim—­I guess he was tired of watching me have all the fun with the ladies. He wanted a little of his own before he retired to the beaches of Mexico. But I had other uses for you, so I made him wait. Scourge also wanted to take Jeremy out, but I convinced him the kid was more useful as a living suspect. So you see, I saved two lives—­yours and Jeremy’s—­you’d both be dead right now if I hadn’t needed you. Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

“Thank you.” She cast her eyes to the floor in a show of submission, much like a housecat who rolls over and plays dead for the family dog. On the way to her toes, her gaze fell on her watch.

Ninety seconds.

He hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. Why settle for a minute? She was going for another ninety seconds. Amazing how when your time is so short, every second expands into a lifetime. She wouldn’t waste it or take it for granted. She’d use her time to remember her loved ones, Luke, her niece—­Katie, and Danny and always, always Grace. She’d also use her time to scheme—­a multitasker to the end. “You mentioned you had your own plan? I assume you don’t mean killing the Donovans.”

“No. Though I wouldn’t have minded sticking around for that. The idea of killing the perfect family always appealed. I’d rather have killed my own, but I liked Scourge’s idea, too.”

“I see.” She was back in therapy mode, and strangely enough, Dante had fallen easily into the role of patient—­a patient with a pistol.

“The problem with Scourge was he was simply too slow. He wanted to plan for years, then practice and practice, with more years between kills, mind you, before taking on what he called The Big Kill. He wanted to wait for the ten-­year anniversary of Bernadette’s death. Can you imagine? I simply didn’t have that kind of patience. Besides, he wouldn’t shut up about hell and purgatory and fucking Truman Capote. Scourge was not all there. But you already know that.”

“Hmm. So the whole In Cold Blood thing, the Perry and Dick thing, that was only Scourge’s obsession?”

“I went along with it for years. Scourge was a handy guy to have around; he handled most of the mundane details of our trade, and I rather enjoyed the way he looked up to me. I did my own thing in between our Saint kills, of course.”

“The whores, you mean?”

“Scourge just kept getting crazier and crazier on me. The way he insisted we had to leave the rosaries on the bodies to save their souls. Bodies don’t have souls—­dead or alive. There’s no saving something that doesn’t exist. He’d spend a good thirty minutes saying a rosary over a corpse. Those goddamn rosaries were going to get us caught sooner or later. When I couldn’t persuade Scourge to stop with the religious crap, I decided to ditch him.”

“And that’s where I came in.”

“You’re brighter than I thought you’d be, Faith. Too bad that’s not going to save you.”

She waited.

He sighed and glanced around, as if growing impatient with the conversation.

She needed to keep him talking. “Tell me about your plan.”

“You’re so smart, why don’t you tell me?”

She gestured toward her desk. “I’m tired, do you mind if I sit down while we talk?”

Waving his pistol, he shook his head. “So you can stab me in the back with that letter opener? I found it and got rid of it. If you look around, you’ll notice that big glass globe is gone, too.”

Tears stung the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away. He hadn’t mentioned the Taser. Maybe he hadn’t found it. She continued on, as if two-­thirds of her arsenal hadn’t just been obliterated. “Your plan—­let’s see if I can guess. You wanted to get rid of Scourge and escape blame for the Saint’s murders all at the same time. So you decided to confess—­to me. You knew that, by law, I had a duty to warn. You knew I’d have to turn you in whether I believed you guilty or not.”

“Very good. And don’t forget the green-­as-­grass part.”

She tilted her head. This, she wasn’t so sure about. “You studied up on personality disorders, then . . . you role-­played a depressed man with a schizotypal personality disorder.” That’s why she hadn’t been able to diagnose him. He was playing at being at one thing, but his true psychopathic traits occasionally broke through and knocked her off course. “You figured an inexperienced psychiatrist like me wouldn’t know the difference. You figured I’d think you were too ineffective to pull off an organized-­murder scheme. You figured I’d figure your confession resulted from paranoid delusions. Well played.”

His eyes glittered as he spoke. “Exactly. And then you’d begin the fight to set me free. Meanwhile, the Saint would kill the Donovans while I remained in custody. I’d be turned loose, free and in the clear. Afterward, I’d find Scourge and get rid of him, put his body with my whores. The trail for the Saint would grow cold, and with no more rosary killings, eventually the authorities would stop caring about catching the Saint.”

“Why not just kill Scourge to begin with and go on about . . . your business?”

“Too boring. I like danger—­I crave danger. And I wanted to be cleared as a suspect. That way, if evidence of the Saint’s crimes ever led back to me, no one would pay attention. The only thing that nearly went wrong is that Scourge developed that absurd blood phobia. I guess he was just too damn scared and weak to keep going without me—­until you cured him, of course. I really don’t know what I’d have done without your help, dear.”

His words chilled her bones all the way to the marrow. Dante was right. She’d cured one serial killer of a blood phobia and been an unwitting accomplice to another killer’s master plan. Well, guess what? She wasn’t going to let Dante get away with another murder. Not hers. Not anyone else’s.

She looked down at her watch again.

Four minutes.

She faked a backward stumble, put her hands out like she’d grown faint, and nearly lost her balance. She wound up one step closer to the front entrance, and to the plant stand, which might or might not still contain a Taser.

“Take off your shoes.”

“What?” Was this a foot fetish or some other sick game?

“You had your shoes off the last time.”

“When? What do you mean?” But she remembered. This was Dante’s way of showing he was in control. Apparently, holding her at gunpoint wasn’t enough. Next he’d want her cell.

“Toss me your cell.”

She did as he commanded.

“You had your shoes off the day I confessed. So take them off now. We’re going to play another little game. Only this time, the end is going to be different. This time I’m going to confess to you, and then I’m going show you just exactly how bad a man I am. Dying’s not going to be the worst thing that happens to you today. Are you afraid of me, now, Dr. Clancy?”

She could see the bulge in his trousers. He was getting off on her fear.

Fuck fear.

Now she was going to play him.

“Y-­yes.” She scurried backward like a frightened mouse, all the way to the door, before he could protest. “P-­please, I’ll do anything you say.” Head down, she kicked off her shoes.

“Good girl. Now, take off your dress.”

She swallowed hard. This time, when she felt tears prick the back of her eyes, she let them fall. Not tears of fear—­tears of rage. Dante wanted a show? She’d give him one. Reaching behind her back, she fumbled with her zipper and finally managed to slide it down. It made a little whirring noise in the process, and Dante licked his lips in anticipation.

Slowly, she slipped one arm out of her dress.

“Take it off.”

She got down on one knee.

“What are you doing?”

“I-­I can’t stand up, I’m too afraid. Just put the gun down, then I’ll come to you. I’ll do anything you say, only please don’t kill me.”

He hesitated, then slowly lowered the gun. “Why not? A little thing like you has no chance against me with or without a pistol in my hand.” He laid the gun on her desk and grabbed his erection. “Come to Papa, dear.”

She elbowed the panel on the plant stand, and it opened with a soft pop.

Taser!

Thank God. She pointed it at Dante and heard him growl as he lunged for her. Without hesitation she fired. A thousand tiny clicks . . . and then, like confetti, the tags that branded the Taser fell through the air. Dante’s body jerked once. Then again. Back on her feet, she released the dead bolt on the front door, unlocking it, but Dante was on her now. She pressed the stump of the Taser to his chest. His body convulsed only a second before he grabbed her by the neck and cut off her air, strangling her cries and sending crushing pressure to her head. The room went fuzzy and started to spin, sending the Taser falling from her hand as her body slumped against the door. She knew her weakened legs would soon give way completely. Above the din of her heartbeat, she heard footsteps in the hallway.

The police?

Stay alive one more minute.

She opened her eyes. Dante’s face was red. Saliva was dripping from his mouth like a rabid dog’s. His hands squeezed her throat too tightly for her to cry out. Suddenly, the door flung open, knocking both her and Dante to the floor. His hands released her throat, giving her back her breath. Giving her back her hope. She kicked him in the groin just as a man she’d know anywhere blasted into the room.

The hope that flickered in her heart ignited to a full blaze. Luke.

Dante leapt to his feet and bolted across the room, found his pistol on her desk.

Oh, God.

“Gun!” Through her raw throat, she screamed to Luke, then saw his Glock. Both men faced each other, pistols aimed.

“Oh brother, brother, brother. You’d do this to me?” Dante’s voice held only hatred for Luke.

The sight of Dante’s pistol pointed at Luke had Faith’s heart dumping adrenaline into her veins by the barrel. As her muscles sprang back to life, she managed to get to her feet again.

His gaze on Dante, Luke said, “Don’t make me shoot you. Drop your gun. The police are on their way.”

“What happened to all your promises to right our father’s wrongs? You vowed you’d never be like him, and yet look at you. You are our father. You’re ready to sacrifice me, just to protect her.”

“Shut the fuck up and drop your weapon.” Luke’s voice shook, but his hand held steady.

Dante twisted slightly, aiming his pistol at Faith now. “Sorry, brother, but I believe it’s you who needs to drop his gun.”

Eyes trained only on Faith, Dante crossed to her and pressed his pistol into her temple. Her body stiffened. The eerie feel of the muzzle pushing against her skin made her dizzy, and she had to will her knees not to give way.

Lowering his arm, as Dante had clearly anticipated he would, Luke’s face went ghostly pale. Dante whirled, jerking his pistol.

A muzzle flash.

The stench of burnt powder.

With a harsh grunt, Luke clutched his arm, and Faith saw his gun tumble to the floor.

“No!” she cried.

Never turn your back on your enemy.

But that’s exactly what Dante had done, leaving Faith an opening. From a crouching stance, she leapt onto his back. Just as quickly he reared up and bucked her off. After hitting the floor with a resounding crack, she lay stunned and stilled beneath an oppressive cloud, heavy with the smell of blood and smoke. She heard Luke cry out and saw Dante turn toward the sound. Then her mind, too, went gray, and the room faded altogether.

Stay alive one more minute.

Forcing her eyes open, she spotted the gun on the floor nearby. A long stretch of her arm, and she had Luke’s pistol in her grasp.

Do not waste this chance.

Luke had fallen to the floor. His back to her once more, Dante straddled Luke, pistol aimed. “Beg me for your life, brother.”

While images of Grace flashed through her mind, Faith flipped onto her stomach, stuck out her arms, and braced the gun with both hands.

No more wasted chances.

She squeezed the trigger hard and emptied the magazine.