Blood of Saints Page 5

  Michael sighed, shaking his head. “Sabrina—”

  “Do you want me to leave?” Even though saying it out loud made her voice shake, she had to know. “Are you trying to end it?”

  “What?” He jerked back, looked at her as if she’d hit him. “No, I’m—” He shook his head, suddenly frustrated. “I’m just trying to do the right thing here,” he said, swiping a rough hand over his face. “Why won’t you ever let me just do the right goddamned thing by you?”

  “Why do you always think you’re the only one who knows what the right thing for me is?” she nearly shouted, tempering her voice at the last minute so she didn’t wake the kids. “You? This—this is the only forever I want,” she said, her tone sharp-edged and hot. He was frowning down at her and she lifted her hand to skim her fingers across his brow. She took a deep breath in an effort to cool the heat in her words. “Marry me.”

  Instead of answering her, he reached up and caught her hand. “You’ve never allowed fear to control you. Sooner or later, you’ll remember that and you’ll leave,” he said, pressing her hand against his jaw. She could feel it, how hard he was fighting for control. “The right thing for me to do is to let you, maybe even encourage you … but I love you too much.” His voice sounded tight, like he had to push the words out. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to do the right thing—I want you to stay here with me … with us.” His hand dropped away from hers. “But you’ll end up hating me and yourself if you do.”

  “You’re right about one thing.” She said it quietly, letting her hand fall away from him face. “I am worried Wade will find his way inside my head again if I leave here.” She backed away from him until the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she let herself sink onto it. “But what absolutely terrifies me is the possibility of leaving and not being able to find my way back … but if you marry me, that’s a promise.”

  Michael sat on the bed next to her, lifting her hand from her lap to hold it between his own. “The kind we’d both have to keep,” he said softly, understanding perfectly. It would be an assurance that in each other, no matter where they went or how long they were apart, they would always have a home to come back to.

  “Exactly.” She pressed her lips to his shoulder before perching her chin on top of it. “Will you marry me, Michael?”

  His hand tightened around hers for a moment before he lifted it to his mouth, kissing each of her fingertips before pressing his lips to the center of her palm and whispering, “Yes.”

  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 sli
ck 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.”

  Ten

  Kootenai Canyon, Montana

  “Again.”

  Sabrina blew out an exaggerated sigh as she came out of the closet with an armload of clothes. “I don’t want to go over it again,” she said, aiming a sullen look in his direction. He was sitting on the edge of their bed, next to the carry-on suitcase she’d found in the ridiculously overprepared closet. Forty-eight hours ago she’d been sure she’d never wear or use any of this stuff. Now she was juggling sensible flats and trying to decide which of the two dozen pantsuits she should pack.

  “Give it a rest, O’Shea.” She half wadded, half folded a pair of navy dress pants and stuffed them in her suitcase. “You act like I’ve never faked my own death before.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  She could hear the frustration creeping into his voice again. Now that it was settled that she’d leave, it was killing him to let her go. “I don’t think you married me for my sense of humor,” she gave him a cheeky wink, trying to keep the mood light, but it didn’t work.

  Michael retrieved the pair of pants from the bottom of the case and shook them out. “Humor me, Sabrina,” he said, refolding the pants into a perfectly formed rectangle before holding them out to her. “Again, please.”

  She took the pants from him and tossed them over her shoulder. Turning toward him, she pulled her knees onto the bed to straddle his hips. “I’d rather do something else to you,” she said, pressing him back onto the bed. He let her have her way for a few minutes. Let her distract them both from the reality of the situation.

  She was leaving.

  “Okay,” he said pulling his mouth from under hers, groaning when she traced her tongue along the rigid line of his jaw. “Sabrina …” The groan deepened into a growl but he wasn’t giving up. “I need you to go over it again. And after that, I need you to go over it again. Over and over until I’m convinced you’ve got it down.”

  She sat up. “Married less than thirty-six hours and you’ve lost all interest in me.”

  Yesterday morning, they’d sat the kids down after breakfast and told them a sanitized version of the truth. That she was leaving for a few weeks to take care of something that’d come up but that she was coming back.

  “I need your help, Christina,” she’d said to the girl, watching her trace her finger along the wood grains in the kitchen table. As soon as she said it, her hands went still but she didn’t look up. Interested but still angry.

  “Michael and I are getting married and I was wondering if you’d be my maid of honor.”

  That was all it took. Christina was out of her chair in a flash, dragging her b
ack into her bedroom and into the closet where she’d wrangled her into a sundress and talked her into taking her boots off. She’d even let the girl braid flowers into her hair.

  By lunchtime, Alex was walking her down the porch steps to where Michael waited for her under a tree by the river. It wasn’t official—couldn’t be—but they’d promised to love and protect each other for the rest of their lives.

  As far as she was concerned, that was enough.

  Now, Michael glowered at her, digging his fingers into her hips in an effort to keep her still. “Right now, I’m more interested in keeping you alive than getting you under me.”

  “No fun.” She blew out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine … my name is Sinclaire Vance, but you can call me Claire. I’m thirty-six years old. I’m a Libra. I love long walks in the rain and horseback rides on the beach—”

  “Sabrina.”

  “I’m originally from Portland, Maine, but I grew up in Battle Creek, Michigan. I attended UNLV on a track scholarship, where I double majored in criminal justice and communications. From there I earned my master’s in forensic psychology, after which I applied for and was accepted into the FBI training program.” She smiled down at him. “Anything else I should know about myself?”

  “Where were you stationed after graduating from Quantico?”

  “Phoenix. I worked their field office for nearly seven years, and I aided in the apprehension of not one, but three serial murderers within a six-month period by providing psychological profiles of the suspects. I was offered a spot in the FBI’s BAU task force in DC after all three arrests led to convictions.” She gave him an exasperated smile and flopped on to the bed next to him. “Satisfied?”

  He lifted the hand that rested in the narrow space between them, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Not even close,” he whispered against her hand before he closed his fingers around the thin platinum band he’d put there the day before. He started to pull it off and she stopped him by clenched her hand into a fist.