Salvation in death

Back on the sidewalk, Eve leaned back against the side of her vehicle. “No way that was an act. She really is that gullible. She really is dumb as a sack of moondust.”

“Yet very sweet.”

Eve rolled her eyes toward him. “I think you have to have a penis to get that impression.”

“I do, and did.”

“Despite that-or probably because of it-you pushed the right buttons up there. You handled her very well, and got her to tell us without me having to threaten to haul her silly tits downtown.” She couldn’t stop the grin. “Set down the burden of the secret and step onto the path of righteousness.”

“Well, it was a theme. In any case, she’s the type who looks to the penis, in a ma

“Either way, it’s an angle.” She opened the car door. When they were inside, she glanced at Roarke. “Could they both be dim enough to believe nobody suspected, got the sex vibe? Nothing? Two or three times a week for months, and the occasional booster backstage. Backstage, as we’ve seen, that’s swarming with people.”

“Someone found them out, as you put it,” Roarke said as he drove them home, “and killed Jenkins because of it?”

“It’s an angle. What would have happened to the church-its rep, its mission, its coffers-if this understanding got out, was made public.”

“Sex has toppled countries, and buried leaders. I imagine it would have done considerable damage.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking more, lots more than the death of the founder and figurehead. The murder of that figurehead by what could be taken as a killer targeting men of God. You could get play out of that, if you spin it right. You could take a few hits, but more, you could drum up more business. The outraged, the sympathetic. You could hold the line until a new figurehead stepped in.”

Oh yeah, she thought. It played. It played a marching tune. “Meanwhile, you’ve got the widow, the family, grieving and steadfast. You’ll have media coverage out your ass, that will charge right through the memorial. Hell, if you know what you’re doing, you can make this a big plus.”

“Who knows what they’re doing?”

“Oh. It’s his manager. Billy Crocker.”

Roarke let out a quick laugh. “And you know this from one interview with him-I assume-and a few hours on the investigation.”

She rolled her shoulders, rubbed her eyes. “I should’ve said I like the manager for it. I’m tired, starting to feel punchy. I like the manager for it if it’s a separate killing. If I’m wrong and it’s co

She yawned, hugely. “Not enough coffee,” she muttered. “I think I need a couple hours down, let my brain play with it while I’m out.” She checked the time, cursed. “Okay two hours max, since I’ve got to get my report in order before Peabody comes on. And I need time to do a couple runs, and plug in your financials summary. If I do a probability, even with Ulla’s statement, it’s going to slap me back. I need some more.”

Roarke drove through the gates. “I take it you and I won’t be creating light together this morning?”

She gave a sleepy laugh. “Pal, I’m looking for the dark.”

“Fair enough. Two hours down and an energy shake in the morning.”

“They’re revolting.”

“We have a new flavor. Peachy Keen.”

“Revolting and silly. Yum.”

But since that was two hours away, she wasn’t going to worry about it. She concentrated on getting upstairs, stripping down, and falling into the bed where Galahad already curled, looking a

By the time the cat relocated to her feet, and she’d snugged herself against Roarke, she was out.

And out, she walked onto the stage in the great arena of Madison Square Garden. The altar stood under a white wash of light. Both Lino, in his priest robes, and Jenkins, in his white suit, stood behind it.

The black and the white, under the brilliance of light.

“We’re all si

“Sins aren’t my jurisdiction,” Eve told him. “Crimes are. Murder is my religion.”

“You got an early start.” Lino picked up a silver chalice, toasted her, drank. “Why is it the blood of Christ has to be transfigured out of cheap wine. Want a shot?” he asked Jenkins.

“Got my own, padre.” Jenkins lifted his water bottle. “Every man to his own poison. Brothers and sisters!” He raised his voice, spread his arms. “Let us pray for this fellow si

“I’m not here about my sins.”

“Sins are the weight holding us down, keeping us from reaching up for the hand of God!”

“Want some absolution?” Lino offered. “I give it out daily, twice on Saturday. Can’t buy that ticket into heaven without paying for salvation.”

“Neither of you are who you pretend to be.”

“Are any of us?” Jenkins demanded. “Let’s see the playback.”

The screen behind them flashed on. Dull red light blinking, blinking. Through the small window, SEX! LIVE SEX! beat that red light into the room where Eve, the child she’d been, shivered with the cold as she cut a tiny slice of a molding piece of cheese.

In the dream her heart began to thud. Her throat began to burn.

He was coming.

“I’ve seen this before.” Eve forced herself to keep her eyes on the screen, willed herself not to turn and run from what was coming.

He was coming.

“I know what he did. I know what I did. It doesn’t apply.”

“Judge not,” Lino advised as he shoved up the sleeve of his robes. As the tattoo on his arm began to bleed. “Lest you be judged.”

On-screen, her father-drunk but not drunk enough-struck her. And he fell on her. And he snapped the bone in her arm as he raped her. On the screen, she screamed, and on the stage, she felt it all. The pain, the shock, the fear, and at last, she felt the hilt of the knife in her hand.

She killed him, driving that knife into him, again and again, feeling the blood coat her hands, splatter on her face while her broken arm wept in agony. She stood on the stage and watched. Her stomach turned, but she watched until the child she’d been crawled into a corner, huddled like a wild animal.

“Confess,” Lino ordered her.

“Repent your sins,” Jenkins shouted.

“If that was a sin, I’ll take my lumps with God-if and when.”

“Penance,” Lino demanded.

“Rebirth,” Jenkins preached.

Together they shoved at the table of the altar so that it crashed to the stage, broke into jagged pieces of stone. From the coffin beneath, the bloody ghost of her father rose. And smiled.

“Hell’s waiting, little girl. It’s time you joined me there.”

Without hesitation, Eve drew her weapon, flipped it to full. And killed him again.

Wake up now, wake up, Eve. That’s enough now. You need to come back.”

She felt the warmth, the arms strong around her, the heart beating quick against hers. “Okay. Okay.” She could breathe here. She could rest here. “It’s done.”

“You’re cold. You get so cold.” Roarke pressed his lips to her temples, to her cheeks even as he rubbed the frigid skin of her arms, her back.

“She wasn’t there.”

“Who?”

“My mother. I thought, if I dreamed of any of it, if I went back or it came, she’d be there. Because of Solas, because of that. But it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about her. I’m okay.”

“Let me get you some water.”

“No.” She tightened her arms around him. “Just stay.”

“Then tell me what it was about.”

He held her as she did, and the chill left her skin, left her bones, left her heart. “I killed him again. I didn’t feel all that fear or the rage or the desperation. I didn’t feel pleasure. It was just what I had to do. I could stand there, and I could watch it all happen on the screen, even feel it happening. Like I was in both places. But…”