OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (34 page)

She took his hand, squeezed it, and let it go. “Thanks, Gus,” she said, her tone low. “For coming with me. I know you think this is crazy.”

He crouched down and stroked her face. Wet from tears or wet from the rain, he couldn’t tell. “Not so crazy, and from now on—just to be sure we understand each other—where you go, I go. No thanks are necessary.”

She nodded but said nothing, then got up and walked along the path between the graves where she dropped to her knees, morphing into a gray ghost, a kneeling shadow in his peripheral vision.

As they worked, the beam of her flashlight splayed across the ground, the grass and leaves, blanketing the long-departed souls of St. Ivan’s. The wind, gusting lighter now, flicked at the trees overhead and swirled along the hedge behind them, the only break in the deadness of the silence.

For a few minutes, they searched quietly, Gus’s flashlight growing dimmer by the second, finally going out completely. He shook it a couple of times, but other than one quick flash, nothing. He looked up at the sky, lighter now that some of the rain clouds had scudded off, took another reading on Keeley’s location, and went back to working toward her, pressing his hands, deeply and palm flat, into the wet earth over the graves leading to Keeley’s light.

They were maybe forty feet apart when he heard Keeley shout, “I’ve found it. Dear God, Gus, I think I found it.”

She waved the brilliant beam of the flashlight in his direction, temporarily blinding him.

He started to get up. The action abruptly aborted when something as hard and solid as a St. Ivan’s gravestone connected with his head.

Gus’s jolted senses registered two things: the dense odor of sodden leaves shooting up his nose and the chill of dead earth against his cheek.

His brain, amidst an array of wildly shooting colors, registered rage—and one name.

Keeley.

Keeley sat back on her knees, lifted her hand from the grave, and wiped it slowly on her jean-covered thigh. Her mind was a jumble, her heart incoherent with emotion.

Everything Dinah and Mary had said was true. She’d found the grave. The grave she’d prayed wouldn’t be there.

Until a stone daisy said otherwise.

Mary Weaver had killed Jimmy Stark and her mother had helped her bury him.

Keeley tried to imagine carrying the weight of Mary and her mother’s guilt, to understand the reasons for their years of secrecy, their terrible silence.

How had they lived with the sin of it?

So many questions … The biggest one of all being what should she do now? Expose Mary and her mother or take on their mantle of secrecy and silence?

She knew she wouldn’t decide here, with her knees, cold and wet, bent over forgotten bones, an unknown soul. No, she’d go back to Mayday, talk to Gus—then talk to God.

On one knee now, she called out again, “Gus, did you hear me? I’ve found him.”

A hand came from behind, grabbed her hair, and yanked her the rest of the way to her feet.

“No, he doesn’t hear you,” a low harsh voice said in her ear. “And he won’t. Ever again.”

Keeley, pulled hard against the body behind hers, couldn’t get a breath, and her heart pumped so hard, she couldn’t think.
Dear God. Gus, oh Gus! No. He wasn’t dead. Impossible.
The arm around her middle formed a vise tight enough to crack her ribs—push air out of her lungs.

The flashlight fell from her hand, spilling light on the daisy-marked grave before rolling across the path and into the base of the hedge.

He dragged her backward, roughly. “Who are you?” She choked out the words at the second he grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face him. “What have you done—” Gus, she needed to know about Gus.

“Shut the fuck up.” He used the palm of his hand against her chin to shove her backward into the dense hedge. With his other hand, he jammed a gun into her stomach.

Shock blurred her brain.

A wave of nausea threatened to take her to her knees.

He stepped back, and the pressure of the gun left her stomach, but he stayed close enough she could see his night-dark face.

A stranger.

“So you’re Farrell.” He sounded pleased by that.

When she didn’t say anything—still too paralyzed by shock to access her brain—he reached over and touched her hair, pulled some strands, rolled them between his fingers, the gesture eerily gentle. He let her hair go, then ran his hand down her throat and across her breast. “Even in this shit weather I can make out that red hair.”

Keeley, shuddering under his touch, couldn’t make sense of any of it. She needed time. “And if I’m not?”

He casually lifted the gun in the direction of Mayday House.”Then I’ll just head on over there and start shootin’ until I find her.” His tone chilled. “Your call, sister.”

“I’m Farrell.” She forced her shoulders to straighten, her mind to stifle her panic. “And I’d like to know why my name has you pointing a gun at me. I don’t even know you.” She tried to stare him down, keep her eyes off the gun, turn her fear about Gus into something more useful than the shakes and a dry mouth.

“Well, now let’s us straighten things out for you. The name’s Mace, and I’m pointing a gun at you because I aim to send you to your Maker.”

“My Maker,” she echoed stupidly. Afraid her knees would give way, she put her hands behind her, buried them in the thorny brush of the hedge, and held tight.

Think, Keeley, think!

Time, she needed time.

“Why? I’ve never seen you before in my life.” She glanced at the light near her feet.
The flashlight.

“The why don’t matter, sweetheart. Dead’s dead. And that’s the way your brother wants you.”

“You’ve made a mistake. I don’t have a brother.”

He laughed. “Not one you’re gonna meet, anyway. Now about the dead part …” He lifted the gun. “We’ll get to that as soon as I’m done with you.”

For a second, her mind stuck on the
brother
word, the fact she was going to die because of a mistake. A stupid, stupid mistake. Then her mind landed on his last words, and it wasn’t fear firing along her veins, it was a sudden white-hot anger. She let go of the hedge growth. “By ‘done with me’ I take it you plan to rape me,” she said, the words as crisp and cool as those of a fourth-grade teacher. She inched away, her hands at her sides, her back brushing the hedge behind her, her focus on the flashlight maybe a foot or two from her feet.

“Don’t see why we shouldn’t have ourselves a little fun.” He touched her hair again. “Your dead boyfriend sure as hell isn’t going to be giving you any.”

At the reference to Gus, Keeley went sleet cold. Gus wasn’t dead. She might not know why, but she was absolutely certain of it. Equally as certain she needed to get to him—quickly.

“The priest who lives in that house might,” she said, jerking her head in the direction of the rectory. When Mace glanced up, she gained another few inches. “And if I scream loud enough, they’ll hear me all the way to Mayday House.”

“Well, then you’ll just have to be quiet, won’t you?” He looked at her, as if sizing her up, ran his tongue over his lower lip. “And know what, red? I don’t think I’ll be needing this.” He shoved the gun in his belt and lunged.

Keeley dropped to her knees, closed her fingers around the flashlight. She raised it, brought it down hard, but managed only a grazing blow to his shoulder. Enough to anger him.

“Bitch!” He grabbed her hair, and she hit him again, this time ramming the flashlight into his stomach. A slight whoosh of his breath crossed her cheek and he cursed again, yanking her hair until her face was inches from his. She saw mean, ugly eyes, a cold sneer. “I didn’t expect this much fun, you being a nun and all.”

When she rammed him again, he hit her, his first blow glancing off her ear, his second connecting with her jaw. Her head ringing, she stumbled and fell to the ground. When he came toward her, she beamed the flashlight into his eyes and scuttled backward along the path.

She didn’t get far.

He fell on her, broad and heavy, like a giant tree sawn at the base. The gun he’d stuffed in his belt bore hard into her hipbone. She pounded his back with the light, kicked, clawed, and screamed as long and loud as she could, but he was too big, too heavy. Nothing moved him.

Nothing moved.

“You dumb son of a bitch!”

The body on top of her rolled away in a slow sliding motion, leaving her chest clear, but their legs entangled, and her hand, with its death grip on the flashlight, mashed under the weight of his torso.

To work herself free of the body, Keeley let go of the light. Breathing heavy and unable to comprehend what had just happened, she looked up.

Another man, smaller than the first, stared down at her, a gun held loosely in the hand at his side. While he stared at her, she glanced at the inert body beside her—the man called Mace—and saw the dark wash of blood staining his neck.

He was dead.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find power enough to get to her feet. Panic closed her throat and she scampered backward and looked up.

The man staring down at her seemed to be chewing on something, because his mouth kept moving, even as his eyes never left her face.

The gun still dangled from his hand. “You’re her, aren’t you?” he finally said, his tone ripe with disgust “Aileen Farrell’s daughter? That stupid piece of shit got that right, didn’t he?”

What was he saying …

Keeley stared dumbly, eyes wide, mouth dry. It was as if a tidal wave had crested in her brain, then receded, leaving a dulling amorphous calm, an inability to think, to fear.

I should get up. Face him. Whoever he is…

Instead she closed her eyes, forced herself to calm, to think. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “Who are you?” Her voice was weak, but okay. She swallowed. “And how do you know my mother?”

“I don’t, but my father sure as hell did. He looked for that Irish whore for years. Never said a goddamn word about you, though. I wouldn’t have known you existed if it weren’t for the old woman.”

Another forgiveness call.
“Mary called you.”

“She called my old man, William, that’s who she called. But she got me. She wanted him to know he had a daughter, how she should have told him about you, what a freakin’ saint you were. How you two should get together. Shit about being sorry, said it was all her fault because Aileen and her kept some secret about a dead guy.” His mouth worked even harder, lips jerking and twitching. He was all nerves and they were all snapping. “Total bullshit,” he spit out. “The hag knew he was dying, knew he was fucking loaded. All she wanted was the money—for you. My money.”

“You’re my brother?” The question sounded stupid to her own ears. Some of his words trickled through her addled mind, but they didn’t line up, refused to make sense.
Brother …

“Yeah. I’m your brother, all right. The name’s Dolan and I’m your brother from hell. And you? You’re my dead sister.”

He raised the gun, and Keeley stared at it dumbly, shook her head when she lost focus and its edges blurred.

He kicked her in the thigh. “Get up.”

She resisted standing, couldn’t see the logic in assisting in her own murder. She rubbed her leg, stayed where she was, and started to pray. From the corner of her eye a black shape moved through the darkness, low and fast.

Keeley shifted her gaze back to the man in front of her. Determined to hold his attention, she scrambled to get up.

The man, as if smelling danger, spun around. Too late.

Gus tackled him at knee level and brought him down hard. Keeley heard a bone crack.

The gun flew out of Dolan’s hand, and Keeley, hesitating only a second, picked it up. Her hand, numb with cold, and shaking, was barely able to grip it.

The next second Gus took it from her. Holding the gun, he nudged the prostrate man with the toe of his wet, dirty sneaker. He rolled over and clasped his arm. “You broke my fucking arm.”

Gus ignored him and reached for Keeley, his dark eyes seeming to cover all of her at a glance. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” She focused on him. His face was black with mud, and blood oozed down the side of his face. The bandage she’d applied earlier hung by a piece of tape over his ear. His hair was matted. “But you’re not.” She wanted to touch his face, but was afraid to hurt him, so she took his arm. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

“It can wait.” He tore off the dangling bandage. “Go back to the house, Keeley. Call the police. Tell them they’ll need an ambulance.” He gestured with his chin to the dead Mace and the shivering, moaning Dolan curled up in a ball at their feet clutching his arm. “And that there’s a mess here that needs cleaning up.”

Gus was right she should go, but her body felt dull, incapable of motion—in a dream state. Looking down at Dolan, she wondered aloud, “He says he’s my brother. That my father’s still alive.” It was painful to say, impossible to understand. “If it’s true, why would he want to kill me? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Greed never makes sense, and from what I heard, there’s money involved. He was afraid you’d stake a claim.”

“Money.” She said the word slowly, carefully, as if it were a foreign phrase, but it didn’t help her understanding. Tomorrow, it would all make sense tomorrow.

Gus used the back of his free hand to wipe some blood and grime from his face. “He might be your brother, but blood doesn’t make a family.”

Dolan moaned, but when she made a move to go to him, Gus put his hand on her shoulder, stopped her. “Leave him. He’s all right, and the quicker you get that ambulance here, the quicker he’ll get his arm set. He’s not going anywhere. You can sort things out with him tomorrow.” He lowered his voice and urged softly, “Call the cops, Keeley. That’s what you have to do.”

She turned toward the hedge, her muddy thinking beginning to clear. It was time to get moving, do something useful—about everything. She’d come to St. Ivan’s to find a body, and she had. She’d also found her right path.

She took a few faltering steps to Mayday House, then turned to look back. “Do you know what does make a family, Gus?”

Silence came out of the darkness, then the shadow that was Gus said, “Yeah, I do.”