Confession Page 4

  As lovely as Celeste was, she was a virtual clone of every other beautiful woman who ran in his crowd. Her hair, her dress, even her taste in art conformed to what was expected. Suddenly struck by the memory of a less predictable woman, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  Faith Clancy.

  Yesterday, at the gallery, his dulled appetites had roared back to life at the sight of her. And he’d been certain the attraction was mutual—­right up until the moment she’d abruptly cut him off. After she left, he’d asked around, but no one seemed to know her. Finally, his assistant remembered the woman had signed the guest book, and only then did he learn her identity. Instantly, he’d recognized the name. Faith Clancy was his brother’s psychiatrist. His ­people had run a background check on her, but he hadn’t seen a photo, so he hadn’t recognized her at the time.

  “Luke?”

  His eyes drifted to his mother, and he thought she might’ve called his name more than once.

  “What were you thinking of just now?”

  “Not Celeste.” He waved a hand in reassurance lest his mother think he was pining after the girl.

  “Your father?” Her voice softened with sadness.

  He shook his head, and his spine stiffened as his thoughts returned to his family. His father’s death had not only drilled a hole in his heart, it’d left him with every regret in the book. But Roy Jericho’s passing had brought one good thing with it: a chance for the living members of the family to come together. His father had long ago banished Dante from Gran Cielo, and while his father lived, his mother had banished herself.

  Now, Luke had it in mind to bring about a family reconciliation. It was time to put the past where it belonged and to right the wrongs that had been inflicted on his brother by his father. All of them—­his mother, Dante, and yes, even Luke himself—­needed to reconcile the accounts in order to heal and get on with their lives.

  His mother must’ve read his mind because she looked up from the origami bird she’d begun crafting from her napkin, and said, “Do you really think it’s a good idea for your brother to move back to Gran Cielo?”

  To her credit, she never referred to Dante as his half sibling. Unlike his father, his mother never wanted Dante to feel like a second-­class Jericho.

  “I do.” He answered curtly, hoping a decisive response would put the question to rest. He hated the idea of Dante’s going back to live in the casita, but he wanted him home, and his brother had adamantly refused to move into the main house.

  “I think you should proceed with caution as far as your brother is concerned. I’m not saying you shouldn’t attempt to repair your relationship with Dante, only that he seems, well, a bit unstable.” His mother’s voice rose a bit at the end.

  Luke had to admit that six months ago, when he’d first contacted Dante to notify him of their father’s funeral, he’d noticed a dramatic change in him. It’d been almost twenty years since he’d seen his brother, and the confident, aggressive demeanor Dante had possessed as a youth had vanished entirely. It was as if the years had hammered him down into a lifeless piece of sheet metal: flat, dull, and brittle enough to crack at any moment. Dante kept his head down, his voice low. He startled at the smallest noise. At times, his speech wandered.

  “I don’t disagree,” Luke said. “Which means he needs his family more than ever. And you and I both know that if Dad hadn’t sent him away that night—­”

  “Dante has a psychiatric disorder. Not that I claim to know exactly what kind, but I recognize a loose screw when I see one. Your father wasn’t perfect, Luke. He made a lot of mistakes, but you can’t pin Dante’s mental health, or lack thereof, on him.”

  “Oh, but I can. And I wish you wouldn’t defend Dad after the way he treated you. I wish for once you’d look me in the eye and say: Your father was a selfish prick, and I wish I’d never married him.”

  The way her eyes darkened made him wish he could take back his words. His mother had suffered through a miserable marriage, with his father keeping a lover and an illegitimate child on the grounds of Gran Cielo. The casita might have been out of sight of the main house, but it was never out of anyone’s mind.

  Her back straightened, and her eyes misted over. She blinked hard, too proud to let the tears fall. “Your father was a flawed man who made a terrible mistake. But I don’t regret marrying him because if it weren’t for your father, I wouldn’t have you. And whether you choose to believe it or not, he loved you more than life itself.”

  “My father loved no one but himself.”

  “You’re wrong, Luke. He loved you.”

  He turned away from his mother’s insistent gaze. “Even if he did, that’s still not good enough. A man doesn’t have the right to choose only one of his sons to love.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a choice. Maybe circumstances forced his hand.” A tremor crept into her voice. “Oh, Luke. You don’t think your father sent Dante away for my benefit, do you?”

  He should put a stop to this right now. This subject was too painful for his mother, and she was far too vulnerable at the moment. But the harsh words kept coming, despite the hurt welling in his mother’s eyes. Dante had suffered too much, and not even for his mother’s sake would he gloss over it. “I will not honor my father’s legacy of injustice. I want Dante here at Gran Cielo, back with this family, where he belongs. I’m sorry if that hurts you, Mother. Please believe me when I tell you that’s not my intent.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about me, Luke. I never blamed the poor child . . . I never blamed Dante, for your father’s infidelity. I wish your brother only the best. But I do worry about his odd behavior, and I don’t think it’s wise to force things. Dante’s made it clear he doesn’t want to live in the main house, which says to me, he’s not as ready as you are to become one big happy family.”

  “He wants his privacy is all.” Luke didn’t mention he’d found Dante with a prostitute shortly after he’d moved back to the casita. The incident had made both brothers uncomfortable, and Dante had since taken his amorous adventures off the ranch. He’d often disappear for a ­couple of days at a time, and Luke speculated he was with prostitutes, but he didn’t pry.

  “This business of splitting your inheritance with Dante doesn’t seem wise. Your father wanted to make sure his entire estate went to you, or else he wouldn’t have put all those clauses in his will to try to stop you from sharing with your brother. What if Dante ruins the family businesses?”

  His hands tensed into tight balls, and he struggled to keep the frustration out of his tone. How like his father to try to control everyone else, even from the grave. How unlike his mother to take his father’s side. “The day-­to-­day operations are mostly overseen by others—­”

  “Not the ranch. Not the gallery.”

  Her words echoed all his private doubts—­doubts he’d shoved aside as if they were bullies who wanted to do more harm to his troubled brother. “They’re as much Dante’s to ruin as mine. According to my lawyers, those nasty clauses Dad put in his will are unenforceable. The estate belongs to me, and I can do whatever the hell I want with it.” His fist came down on the table hard enough to bounce a fork onto the floor.

  His mother covered her mouth with her hand, but not before a sharp cry escaped her lips.

  He could be a real a jackass sometimes. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “No. It’s just I didn’t hear him come in.” She pointed over his shoulder, and Luke turned to find a uniformed policeman standing in the room, hands out in front, palms up like he was offering them an olive branch.

  Luke scraped his chair back and rose with deliberate calm.

  His mother’s face drained of color. The last time he remembered a uniformed cop at Gran Cielo was twenty years ago, and then to deliver very bad news. “How can I help you, Officer?”

  The man planted his hands on his hips. “The chief asked
me to come out here as a courtesy to the family. Your brother, Dante Jericho, was taken into custody yesterday afternoon.”

  Luke drew a deep breath, bracing himself. “That’s impossible. He would’ve called me.”

  “Believe me, we encouraged him to do so. But your brother insisted he had no one to call. And . . . he’s waived his right to counsel.”

  “What the hell do you mean he waived his right to counsel? He can’t do that.” Luke clenched his fists at his side. No one was going to railroad his brother. Not without a fight from him.

  “Again, we encouraged Mr. Jericho, your brother I mean, either to retain an attorney or allow the court to appoint one for him. And not just out of respect for your father. The chief and the DA want everything by the book on this one. Nobody downtown wants your brother to walk because we didn’t do our job. Maybe you can convince him he needs representation.”

  Luke already had his cell out of his pocket, poised to make the call to his corporate lawyers. Whatever Dante had done, if Luke’s attorneys couldn’t help him, they’d be able to recommend someone who could. “What are you holding him for? Be specific please.”

  “Like I said, the chief wanted you to know before the news hits the papers. Your brother’s psychiatrist turned him in to the police.”

  “His psychiatrist? Faith Clancy?” He gripped his phone tighter. “What’s Dante done?”

  “First, he told his shrink, then he signed a confession down at the station.” His eyes came level with Luke’s. “Your brother’s the Santa Fe Saint.”

  FOUR

  Sunday, July 21, 2:00 P.M.

  SANTA FE SAINT CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM.

  Scourge Teodori prowled his studio apartment, digging his fingers into his wavy black hair, pulling it until his scalp burned. Afternoon light swept in through the big kitchen window, and a shadow dogged his steps across a polished maple floor that smelled faintly of lemon oil. While he lapped the room, he ruminated on the article in the day-­old Gazette.

  With his Fourth victim, The Saint has grown careless. A source close to the Santa Fe District Attorney’s Office revealed new clues found at the scene may soon lead to an arrest.

  That was yesterday. But today, there’d been no further mention of the Saint. New clues? Grown careless? Scourge prowled and perseverated. His sneakers squish-­squished. The refrigerator rumbled. In one corner of his apartment stood a single bed, covers pulled coin-­bounce tight, a white sheet folded down to cuff a navy blue spread. A thin pillow in a freshly ironed case lay flat above the sheet cuff. The white of the pillowcase was beginning to dim, and he added a bottle of bleach to his mental grocery list. He considered sitting on the bed, but the thought of mussing the covers made his throat itch. Carefully, he lifted the pillow and removed the book that lay beneath his head while he slept. He kept the book under his pillow night after night, wishing he could absorb its lessons by dream osmosis.

  Carrying the book beneath one arm, he made his way to the kitchen, where he pulled a shake out of the freezer and set it on the counter to thaw for an afternoon snack. The shake was his own special blend: egg yolk, barley, whey, a garlic clove, two teaspoons of soy sauce, and a block of tofu. As always, he recited the ingredients to keep the recipe safe in his memory. Like crossword puzzles, memorization was good exercise for the brain. He liked to avoid writing things down whenever possible. He wasn’t lazy, and he admired that quality in himself . . . and in others. For example, suppose a waiter took his order without writing it down—­he would give that waiter an extra tip because he respected servers who were not hebetudinous. Hebetudinous, meaning: slacker, was on his list of vocabulary words for the day.

  Hebetudinous, perseveration, imperious—­all good words to have in your hip pocket.

  Before taking a seat at the table, he went to his calendar, marked a black X over today’s date, and counted the days until the fifteenth of August.

  In exactly twenty-­four days, he would fulfill his destiny.

  Once seated, he placed the book on the table next to the newspaper and squared the corners of both. His gaze ricocheted back and forth between the book and the newspaper. Both called to him with an intensity that made his eyes water and his stomach churn. First, he traced the raised gold letters of the book title with his index finger, then dragged that same finger over the smooth, cool newsprint.

  . . . New clues found at the scene may soon lead to an arrest.

  His pulse thudded relentlessly in his ears like footsteps following him down a dark alley. The air in the kitchen grew thin and unsatisfying. He inhaled a sharp, lemon-­scented breath. Of course, the article might be a bluff, one of those planted stories used to draw out a criminal and trick him into making a mistake. It was a well-­known fact the cops often used the media as part of their strategy to catch a killer, or even as a temporary means of mollifying the public in high-­profile cases—­like this one. He heaved out a breath, loosening his constricted chest, but on the inhale, his lungs clamped down again.

  With only twenty-­four days remaining until The Big Kill, he made the sign of the cross and vowed not to let anything or anyone stop him. But . . . suppose the story wasn’t a trick. Suppose the cops really did have evidence that would lead them to his door.

  Why leave those damn beads?

  The voice was scratching at him again, and the footsteps were thudding in his ear.

  Those beads are going to get us caught.

  “Shut up.” A spasmodic cough followed his words, and he pounded his chest with his fist. He’d heard all the arguments, and they were not without merit, but he would not get caught. He needed the rosaries. He had to help his victims get into heaven, the way they were helping him get into hell. He wasn’t so cruel as to chance leaving the poor souls in limbo.

  By the book. He tapped the book, his blueprint to hell, with his forefinger.

  That’s how this must be done. His targets were a means to an end, part of a carefully-­thought-­out plan, only . . . he didn’t intend to wind up hanged. The book was to be admired and emulated but not copied without thought. Certain necessary corrections, adjustments to the course outlined therein were in order. Unlike Perry, Scourge would get it right. Perry had tried to commit the perfect crime.

  Scourge would actually do it.

  He’d rewrite the book’s ending, live to a ripe old age, and make the most of enjoying life as a free man on earth—­because there would be no reward for him in heaven. There would be no heaven, period.

  Not for someone like him.

  He pulled his hair until his scalp burned to life again.

  I am not a shadow.

  His friend, the voice in his head, was wrong about the rosaries. Scourge would not be caught. He’d studied the book long and hard, and he knew all the mistakes that had been made in the past. He wouldn’t repeat those mistakes. He wouldn’t take on The Big Kill until he’d mastered the art of the small kill. He’d already succeeded with four practice victims, one for each Donovan, and he wasn’t done perfecting his technique. He’d not be caught unprepared.

  He’d not be caught, period.

  He’d found another one to practice on now. She didn’t fit the profile, but so much the better for throwing the police off course. Not that the authorities had a clue how he selected his victims. They had no idea that what tied his victims together was the book. The cops were too focused on the rosaries to figure things out. His chest puffed up.

  No bullshit police-­planted headline was going to alter his course.

  No voice was going to tell him how to handle his business.

  Twenty-­four more days.

  His breathing grew easy. Rising from the kitchen table, he placed the book under his arm and carried it to the bed, slipped it back under the pillow. Then he pulled open the nightstand drawer, where a pamphlet lay beside a black velvet bag. At the first touch of velvet against his fingertips, his pul
se began to pound in his ears again. Turning his palm up, he stared at the blue veins snaking beneath his white skin. He could see the black blood whooshing inside them. His head went light, and he flexed his hand open and shut until his head cleared. He grabbed the pamphlet and unfolded it. Inside was a headshot of a young woman with sad green eyes and long, flaming hair. She wore clear gloss over tempting red lips.

  Open to new patients. Accepting most insurance plans. Call for a free initial consultation. Faith Clancy, MD. Psychiatrist.

  His breath hissed out through his teeth. He didn’t need a shrink, and he considered it an insult that his doctor had given him the pamphlet and suggested he call one instead of testing his blood for toxins as he’d requested. He only kept the pamphlet because he liked imagining the reasons for the sadness in the woman’s eyes and because he liked looking at her picture. Last night, he’d dreamt about her red mouth. He swallowed with difficulty and passed his hot palm over his hardening dick.

  He might not need a shrink, but he did need more practice.

  Practice makes perfect.

  Just this once, he would indulge his urges and practice on someone who could give him pleasure. He dropped the brochure, then lifted the velvet bag and pulled its drawstring open, allowing the contents to fall into his hand.

  Pop, pop, pop.

  Electricity shot through his palm and up his arm as he curled his hand around the beads.

  Good.

  He had plenty of rosaries.

  FIVE

  Monday, July 22, 6:00 P.M.

  As she steered her Toyota Corolla onto Calle De La Cereza, Faith’s shoulders lowered, and her hands loosened on the steering wheel. It’d been a tough ­couple of days, what with having to turn Dante over to the police, and she couldn’t wait to soak in a hot bath and sip a crisp Zinfandel. Her head felt heavy. Her arms felt heavy. Her skin weighed her down like a suit of armor. She smiled to herself at the thought. This was just how she liked to end her day—­dog-­tired.