Blind Faith (17 page)

JD finished hiding their bikes in a clump of sumac and turned to Julia. She was spreading a blanket out in the center of the clearing. From here they would be able to see anyone approaching the caretaker's shack or traveling on the path down from the ridge.

"What did you tell your folks?" he asked her, wiping his sweaty palms on the back of his jeans. He was excited and more than a bit nervous about spending the night with her. Did she really think all they were going to do was watch for the strange lights? Was she expecting something more from him—if so, how did he make the first move without looking like a jerk?

"Told them I was spending the night at Beth's house."

Wow. She'd actually lied to her parents so she could spend the night with him. He stuck his hand in his back pocket, his fingertip tracing the edge of the well-worn condom package. Maybe tonight was the night he'd finally get a chance to use it.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder in that movement he found mesmerizing, that always seemed to slow time to a crawl, allowing each strand to fall perfectly in formation. "What did your dad say when you showed him the pictures from last night?"

He shrugged and looked away. "Basically that I was wasting my time and I'd be better off working with him and getting paid off the books. Said they had a shipment of new TV's to take over to a motel in Saranac and he could get his boss to pay me in cash."

She pursed her lips in disappointment, that little crease forming in her chin. God, how he wanted to kiss her, see how she tasted. He knelt beside her on the blanket.

"It doesn't matter. I'm going to find out what's really going on and proof to everyone that—" He faltered, it was hard to find the right words when she was looking at him that way. "That there is something going on," he finished triumphantly.

"The lights we saw last night definitely came from down here," she said, pulling their cameras from her bag. "Maybe we'll get lucky and catch them in the act."

JD wondered who "they" were and what they might be in the act of doing, but the thoughts were quickly cast aside as he thought about the way she'd smiled at him when she said "we'll get lucky."

Oh yeah.

Caitlyn was saved by the bell. Or rather, by the Dixie Chicks ring tone on her cell phone. She stripped off her gloves, grabbed the phone and glanced at the number. Royal, calling from California.

"Excuse me," she told the men. "I have to take this."

She stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her as she connected the call. "It's Caitlyn."

"Hi again, sweetheart. You said to update you on the Korsakov thing." He drew the last word out to two syllables, sounding like a gangsta wannabe.

"Yeah. What's up?"

Hal came out of the embalming room, joining her. Pressing the phone to her ear, she crossed the hallway, pushing another door open. She stepped inside the dark room, flicked on the light, and shut the door in Hal's face. A closed casket sat about eight feet in front of her, surrounded by linen draped folding chairs and bushels of flowers.

"Judge took a long lunch, otherwise I'd have gotten back to you sooner. Right now I'm looking at a free Russian waltzing his way down the courthouse steps."

Caitlyn leaned against the door. Her headache pounded so loud she could barely hear Royal. The smell of carnations was overpowering. "You're right there with him?"

"About ten feet away. You want a picture? Hang on." There was a pause. "Did it come through?"

Caitlyn squinted at her phone's screen. A few moments later a slightly fuzzy picture of a man dressed in a black suit with a black shirt and red tie appeared. "That's Korsakov? The monster you were telling me about? But he's so—"

"Short. Pale. Ordinary. I know. Hey, they can't all be tall, beautiful black men like me. We can't follow him, we don't have probable cause for any surveillance, but I can tell you he's headed your way."

"What's that?"

"He's booked on a flight into Kennedy, will be arriving tomorrow morning." Royal's voice grew serious—something that rarely happened in Caitlyn's experience. "Don't you mess with this guy, Cat. He's one sick, twisted bastard. I don't know what the hell you've got yourself in, but you get one whiff that Korsakov's anywhere near and I want you to promise me you'll take off running."

"I can take care of myself," she said. It was difficult to force the words out, her stomach was in such upheaval that she had slid halfway down the door. "Bye."

"No, wait! I mean it. Caitlyn don't you dare hang up—"

His voice died as she fumbled the End button on the phone. Her vision blurred with pain. She debated between simply falling the rest of the way to the floor and trying to force herself up, escaping from the room. There were carnations everywhere she looked: lined along the walls, cascading over the closed casket in the center of the room, hemming her in on all sides.

Pain stampeded over her. She was awash in the stench of carnations, being pulled under, drowning, unable to breathe, to think, to see. Her vision darkened to a too-bright pinhole of stabbing light. Her stomach clenched and the room spun around her.

All she could do was blindly reach out, searching for something, anything to hold onto as she fell into an oblivion of pain.

Her fingers clamped onto a man's arm. Hal, the name came from somewhere in the dim recesses of her brain. His face swam before her blurred vision, creased in concern.

Merton's voice stabbed into her brain. "What's wrong with her? Did she faint?" He sounded excited by the prospect.

His voice boomed then faded as Caitlyn felt her body shrink. Everything around her became monstrously large, towering over her like she was an ant crawling on the ground, looking up at the monsters intent on stamping out its life.

She closed her eyes against the vertigo, the pain pounding against her barriers until she fled to the far recesses of her memory.

Nine, she'd been nine then. Drowning in carnations: white, pink, brilliant red, they surrounded her on all sides, spilling out from buckets as she hid, cowered beneath the table in the rear of the funeral home.

Two pairs of stout, stocking clad legs blocked her escape. She wanted to scream, to cry, to just be alone, but she was trapped. She clamped her hands over her mouth, breathing through her nose, awash in the sickly sweet scent of funeral flowers.

"Too good for the likes of him, I tell you," one of the women said, green leaves and stems flying below the table top and into Caitlyn's field of vision as she spoke. "Always knew no good would come of him. She's lucky they're even letting her hold a Christian service. Of course he'll be cremated—can't be buried in consecrated ground."

"No viewing?" the second woman's voice, higher pitched and cruel in its rapacious curiosity, echoed above Caitlyn's hiding place.

"Willa! The man blew half his face off!"

"It was the daughter who found him?"

"She weren't supposed to be there—typical though." The woman clucked in disapproval. "Stubborn that one. Just like her father, she is. I had her in my Sunday school class and she stood up and argued with me about the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Eight years old and blaspheming to my face!"

"It's that red hair. What did you do?"

"I slapped her, couldn't help myself, she shocked me so. I took her by her hair and dragged her out to Pastor Paul. The girl refused to apologize, insisted she was right, her momma was about in tears with shame. Then the father stormed in, yells at me to take my hands off his child and gathers her in his arms, carries her out."

"You're kidding."

"Pastor Paul was speechless. And you know the worse? The girl looked back at me and smiled the most evil grin you've ever seen. I tell you, the devil is in that girl."

"Her poor momma."

"Mark my words, she'll come to an evil end. Just like her father."

The witches' voices faded into the past, where they belonged. Replacing them was Hal's soothing tone, coming from a distance, barely audible over the pounding in her brain. "You're all right, now. Just relax."

With the suddenness of a lightning strike, the pain collapsed, returning Caitlyn to her senses. She was bent double, vomiting into a trash bin, Hal's hands supporting her, holding her hair out of her face.

She blinked. They were outside, behind the mortuary. The early evening sun shimmered off the asphalt drive, there was a small glade of trees and bushes beyond.

"You okay now?" Hal asked. He raised her up, the hinged lid of the trash bin closing with a bang that made her wince.

The headache wasn't vanquished—merely maneuvering to out-flank her. It gathered strength at the edge of her mind. She shook her head, instantly regretting the small movement.

"Get me out of here." Each word cost her ground, the headache advancing relentlessly.

Hal straightened, looked past her to his truck, then hugged her against his body, half-carrying her in the other direction. "Come with me," he said, his voice beginning to recede into roiling mists of pain. "I know what you need."

He led her past a sign reading: Serenity Grove. Caitlyn stumbled as her vision blurred with bright flashing lights, laser beams burning holes in her brain. She squeezed her eyes shut against the assault, allowing him to lead her along a mulched path.

The sounds of water reverberated in time with the thunder and lightning storming through her mind, sweeping aside all conscious thought as she surrendered to the pain. Her body crumbled but didn't hit the ground, rather it felt as if she floated down to land on a soft, grassy pillow. She curled up into a fetal position, hands fisted over her eyes, but still the fading sunlight crept in, a sneak attack of scarlet pain.

Her whimpers of pain mixed with the roar of water. Her face pressed against the ground, the sweet scent of damp earth and grass mixing with the burnt-flesh odor accompanying her migraine.

Her body arched, trying to curl tighter into a smaller target, but the pain only gained in intensity. She reached a hand out blindly.

"My bag," she moaned, the two syllables costing her dearly.

The earth quaked as her purse thudded to the ground beside her. A shadow passed over her and she dared to squint her eyes open, her hand still fumbling, reaching for the salvation hidden within the leather confines. Through a scarlet haze of pain she watched as a man's hands, grown large and spindly as an ogre's in her distorted vision, reached into her purse.

Her gun, he had her gun.
Fear sliced into her, fueling her torment. It's okay, he's one of us, a brother in arms, a whisper tried to reassure her, but it quickly died away. Caitlyn's hand slapped against the earth as she reached for her weapon and fell short. She couldn't trust him, shouldn't trust him.

Soon her credentials joined the Glock, their leather cover gleaming in the sunlight.

"What have we here?" Hal's voice came from a distance mountaintop, thundering down at her like Zeus hurling a lightning bolt. "Sumtriptyline. Phenergan. Toradol. Fiorcet." He paused. She tried to turn her head, to meet his gaze, plead her case, but she didn't have the strength. "I'm going to assume you have a legit prescription for these, seeing as you have enough to kill a horse."

He dropped the purse and walked away, his shadow abandoning her to the cruel sunlight. She cried out, pulling her head down again, trying her best to bury herself beneath the cool soil.

The ground shook as his footsteps returned, each step exploding a landmine in her brain. Sweat poured out of her, smothering her in a sour stench of fear and loathing. Her gun, where was her gun? she thought, her last remnants of sanity cowering beneath the onslaught.

Last chance, last resort.

Like father, like daughter.

Her hand shot out, groping for the familiar, comforting grip of her Glock.

Instead she found a man's hand. He moved behind her, wrapped his arms around her and lifted her into his lap. Her hands covered her face, shielding them from the cruel sunbeams, her forehead resting against the ground. Gathering her hair in his hand, he slid a cool, wet cloth over her exposed neck, circling around to her cheeks, easing it between her hands.

"It's okay, just breathe," he whispered. Explosions of pain blew apart the words, almost destroying their meaning, but some primal part of Caitlyn's brain still had the will to fight back. She took a breath.

First one, then another. The stink of burnt flesh receded, replaced by lavender.

His fingers stroked her neck, massaging away the tension there, then moved up to her scalp. She shuddered and cried out when he touched the scar buried beneath the hair on the right side of her scalp.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." The sound of rippling water and his touch returned, now accompanied by cool, soothing tendrils of water that he skimmed across her flesh. The flames burning through her consciousness began to subside, leaving Caitlyn in a smoldering wasteland of smoke, a minefield of torment. One wrong step and the pain would blast her to smithereens.

But it was her only chance for escape.

She inched her mind forward, trying to follow the trial he blazed. His fingers, cool, soothing, trailing droplets of water, moved down her shoulders, along her spine. Her sleeveless blouse buttoned in the back. He undid the buttons, unsnapped her bra. A welcome breeze combined with his touch to cool her fevered, sweat-slicked skin. His fingers continued their magic, kneading, massaging, chasing the pain from her tortured muscles, working their way back up to her scalp. This time his touch brought no further onslaught as he smoothed the puckered scar tissue above her ear.

Caitlyn felt as if she were floating, the pain easing from her, releasing her. Her hands relaxed, she opened her eyes and, when the fading sunlight didn't bring a fresh bout of pain, dared to turn her head. She was lying on a wet bandanna, a cluster of crushed lavender and other herbs in the center of it.

She drew her breath in, relishing the chance to finally fill her lungs. Still, his hands didn't stop. Her blouse and bra fell, exposing her to anyone, but there was no one except her and Hal. The only sound was the cheerful tinkle of a fountain to their left.