Confession Read online

  Somewhere around the time of Grace’s death, Faith had discovered that if during the day she worked her muscles to the point of exhaustion, her troubles wouldn’t keep her awake at night, and ever since making this blessed discovery, she’d stuck to a routine. Most mornings she rose at five for a six-­mile run. One night a week, she attended a Krav Maga class—­this at her brother-­in-­law’s insistence that she learn to defend herself. Other evenings, she hit the gym for a round of heavy weightlifting, then followed that up with a warrior-­level spin class. Half measures were not enough to overcome her insomnia, and that suited her fine, because in her heart she’d always been an all-­or-­nothing kind of girl—­just like Grace.

  By the time Faith’s head hit the pillow at night, no matter how much she longed to review and recycle her list of problems, her physical need for sleep was too great. She’d trained her body to outsmart her brain, and it’d been years since she’d needed the sleeping pills that had threatened to become an addiction after Grace died. There were other benefits to Faith’s exacting regimen as well. She never felt lonely—­or rather she did, but was simply too tired to care. She’d grown accustomed to her isolated ways, the comfortable if unexciting rhythm of her routine. Solitude had become an old and trusted friend, one to be welcomed with open arms rather than shoved away.

  Admittedly, she still thought wistfully of her old life in Flagstaff. But two years ago, Danny had remarried, and she knew it was time to let go. He wasn’t her brother-­in-­law anymore, not really, and the last thing he needed was his dead wife’s baby sister intruding on his newly wedded bliss.

  But Santa Fe was growing on her, and this in large part because of her lovely adobe bungalow on her lovely tree-­lined street. Despite its name, Calle De La Cereza was lined not with cherry trees but with radiant crabapple. The stunning pink flowers of spring had recently given way to clusters of bright red miniature apples the neighborhood children simply could not resist. Never mind that the flavor turned their happy little faces into sour pusses every time. With exhaustion rolling off her body in waves, she let up on the accelerator, scouring the landscape for said neighborhood children, who always seemed to be looming around every curve in the road.

  Home at last, she pulled into her carport and killed the engine, stepped out of her car, and lifted her hand in customary greeting to the little boy hunkered down on the sidewalk a few yards away. The boy, however, didn’t return her wave or her smile. A frisson of disappointment rippled through her. Little Tommy Bledsoe was part of her quiet routine. Every evening when she returned home, she waved and smiled to him, and he waved and smiled back. She and Tommy were friends. Not the kind of friends who hung out together, but the kind of friends who had an unspoken agreement they could count on each other for a cheery wave and an I’ve-­got-­your-­back smile. At least that’s how Faith viewed it.

  Tommy and his mother, a hardworking woman who looked to be about thirty going on fifty, lived in the two-­bedroom bungalow next door to Faith. She’d learned from her single visit to the Bledsoe home that the floor plan was identical to hers, only reversed. Both homes had identical adobe exteriors painted a brilliant terra-­cotta red that screamed: Welcome to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment.

  Viga tails extended beneath the flat roofs, and square windows were framed with heavy wood and shuttered in bright blue. High arches loomed over the front doors, making the tiny homes appear midsize. The only differences a casual observer might note between the two houses were the ten-­speed bicycle leaning against the side of the Bledsoe residence and the small garden filled with cutting flowers in Faith’s front yard.

  Flowers were her weakness, and she loved to fill the house with the most fragrant kinds cut fresh from the yard. She had another overflowing garden in the fenced-­in backyard and a water bill that would’ve gotten her booted out of the Sierra Club if her membership hadn’t already been canceled for nonpayment.

  Faith was just about to head inside for that bath when the image of her young friend’s slumped posture and downcast eyes came back to her. She turned and headed over to say hello. Tommy was ten, possibly eleven, and he was that kid. Every neighborhood has one, a child who never seems to be included in the after-­school games of Frisbee or street hockey and rarely gets invited to birthday parties. This particular block was filled with school-­age kids, and the parents liked to put out Child-­at-­Play signs—­yellow plastic figures sporting jaunty red caps and waving warning flags that said SLOW.

  Tommy’s mother had little to worry about since Tommy usually hung on the sidelines, only wishing he could be in the street mixing it up with the other children. So finding him sitting alone on the sidewalk was nothing new. But today, Faith could sense something wasn’t right. Although he was rarely called to join in the fun, he typically wore a hopeful, prepared expression that signaled he was ready to step in at any moment, just in case someone more popular got called inside for dinner or homework.

  Today, however, Tommy’s chin was tucked to his chest, his expression dejected. He hardly seemed to notice the lively game of tag taking place in the yard across the street. As she approached, he didn’t bother to look up. And there was something else. Crouching beside Tommy, its nose nudging the boy’s armpit, was a spotted dog that resembled a bag of bones covered in dusty fur.

  Her body tensed as she assessed the situation, but quickly relaxed when she noted the dog’s docile nuzzling of Tommy’s axilla, neck, and face, not to mention the mewling noises more akin to a kitten’s than an adult canine’s. By now she was close enough to see tears dripping down Tommy’s nose, hear his sniffles. The animal’s nuzzling accelerated in an urgent attempt to comfort the boy.

  “Hey-­a.” Faith tried her wave and cheery smile again, but Tommy still didn’t look up.

  The dog, however, gave her a doleful look and whimpered at her, perhaps looking to her to help buck up Tommy.

  “Where’d ya find this fellow?” Faith knelt on the grass and scratched behind the dog’s ears. More whimpering, then a vigorous tail wag.

  “Chica’s a she.”

  Faith gave Chica the once-­over and soon decided Tommy was right. Despite the bony rib cage and lack of subcutaneous fat, the dog’s belly bulged. Could be bloating secondary to the obvious malnutrition, but when Faith examined the dog’s swollen belly, she could clearly feel the cause. Chica was pregnant. And starving. Probably also flea-­ and tick-­infested. Poor Chica. Her hand swooped over the short polka-­dotted fur and found denuded areas. “You’re right. Chica is most definitely a she. Where’d ya find her?”

  “She followed me home from school today. She wants to be my dog.” Chica wagged her tail and licked a fat tear off Tommy’s cheek.

  “I can see that.”

  A screen door slammed. Faith turned her head and watched Tommy’s mother scurry down the front steps and out to meet them. Mrs. Bledsoe slowed her pace once she saw it was only Faith chatting up Tommy and Chica.

  “Still not here?” Tommy’s mom stuck her hands on her hips and made a raspberry noise with her mouth.

  “No, ma’am,” Tommy whispered.

  “I called animal control nearly an hour ago.” Mrs. Bledsoe filled Faith in. “Guess I better call them again.”

  At that, Tommy jumped to his feet and threw his arms around his mother’s waist, burying his face in her apron. “Please, Mom. Please don’t let them take Chica away.”

  With a firm but gentle hand, Mrs. Bledsoe untangled her son from around her middle. “She’s sick, Tommy. Lord knows what diseases she’s carrying. For all we know, she could have rabies.”

  Chica wagged her tail, and this time her butt got in on the action.

  “She doesn’t have rabies, Mom. Anyone can see that. Rabid dogs don’t make friends with you. They growl at you and foam at the mouth. Don’t you remember Old Yeller?”

  “Well, maybe she doesn’t have rabies then. But she’s got the mange for
sure.” Mrs. Bledsoe’s voice dropped. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I know how much you want to keep her, but we can’t afford a sick dog. I’m sure some nice family will adopt her.”

  Chica was scrawny, mangy, covered in nicks and cuts, and pregnant. Despite her winning personality, adoption didn’t seem the most likely outcome after animal control transported her to the shelter. Faith did a quick mental calculation of what she had left in her bank account. With no money coming into the practice as of yet, she’d been living off the start-­up loan the bank had given her. She had just enough funds remaining to pay office rent and live frugally for six months.

  If she was careful.

  If she didn’t take on any unnecessary expenses.

  No doubt she could scrape up the money for pet food and a doggie bed, but judging from Chica’s debilitated yet expectant condition, the vet bill alone could run thousands of dollars, and that was definitely more than Faith could afford.

  Biting her lower lip, she rose and looked down at Chica. Chica gazed up at her with a hopeful, please-­choose-­me face—­the doggie version of the look Tommy usually wore—­it was the kind of heart-­melting expression that went to work faster than a hot match on a tick’s rump.

  If push came to shove, she supposed, she could always look for a second job. She’d moonlighted in the ER to pay bills during med school, and she knew hospitals always needed someone to work the graveyard shift. If her loan ran out before her practice took off, so be it. She could manage perfectly well.

  Mrs. Bledsoe, on the other hand, was a single parent with too much on her plate already. She couldn’t be expected to take on another hungry mouth to feed. Especially when that hungry mouth had puppies on the way.

  Tommy’d gone back to crying in his hands. His whole body shook with muted sobs.

  “I’ll take Chica,” Faith said, and immediately felt right and warm inside.

  Mrs. Bledsoe’s eyebrows shot up. Her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “Why on earth would you do a thing like that?”

  Faith shrugged, then winked at Tommy. “I could use a good watchdog, and besides, sometimes I get lonely all on my own.” That last bit sort of slipped out, and she realized there was more truth to it than she’d like to admit. “It’d honestly be swell having someone to come home to at night.”

  The expression on Mrs. Bledsoe’s face went from disbelief to confusion, as though she couldn’t quite figure Faith out. “But, I don’t think this dog—­”

  Faith tapped her chin with her index finger and addressed Tommy. “Of course, I’d need someone to help me with Chica. Someone who could maybe walk her for me while I’m at work. Someone who could keep an eye on the puppies when they’re born and help me find them good homes.”

  “Puppies!” Tommy yelped. “I knew there were puppies. I just knew it. I can walk Chica. I can help with the puppies.” Tommy bounced on his toes, then flew around the yard in a circle, arms out, airplane style, before coming in for a landing back on the sidewalk and hugging Chica’s neck.

  “We’ll have to get her healthy first, of course. Until the vet gives me the okay that she’s safe and disease-­free, I’ll handle everything. But, if your mother says it’s okay, Chica will still be your dog. You found her. You named her, and its only right you help make decisions about her toys and her diet. She’ll live over at my house, but you can visit anytime you want. As long as it’s okay with your mom. We can’t forget your mom’s the boss.”

  “I-­I suppose that would be all right.” Mrs. Bledsoe eyed her sideways but raised no objection, and even helped Faith load Chica into the backseat of her Toyota. She’d have to hurry if she was going to make it to the vet before they closed for the night. “I’ll let you know what the doctor says, Tommy.”

  As Faith pulled into the street, she smiled, knowing Tommy was back to sitting on the sidewalk watching the game of tag across the way, his hopeful, prepared expression in place. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Mrs. Bledsoe put her hand on her son’s shoulder, then lift the corner of her apron and swipe her cheek.

  In the backseat, Chica started to pace. The weak kitten noises she’d been proffering changed first to low growls, then to full barks. “I didn’t know you had it in you, girl. But don’t worry, you’ll see Tommy again soon.”

  Faith eased her foot on the brake until the car came to a gentle stop. A quick glance in the rearview mirror verified no cars were coming, so she turned fully around to check on her new friend. Chica’s tail stood at attention. She pawed the side window, her claws clattering against the glass. Faith’s body tensed as she looked past Chica toward her house. A man with black hair appeared in her kitchen window, then ducked out of sight. Her foot came off the brake, and the car lurched. Heart racing in her chest, she stomped the brake and reached for her phone.

  SIX

  Monday, July 22, 7:30 P.M.

  Scourge bolted into his house and slammed the front door behind him. Unable to catch his breath, he doubled over and waited for his chest to stop heaving, his racing thoughts to slow. A full minute passed before he could breathe and think normally again. He straightened, went back outside, and craned his neck, looking in every direction to ensure no one was there. His ears pricked, but he heard no sirens. He was sure Dr. Faith Clancy had spotted him inside her kitchen—­he’d certainly seen her, phone in hand, no doubt calling 911. Then he’d raced out the back and scrambled over the fence before the police could arrive.

  He told himself to calm down. After all, he’d made it home safely. His breath still hitching occasionally, he retrieved the evening paper from the porch and went back inside, shutting the door behind him again. This time he engaged the dead bolt and chain.

  How could he have been so careless? He knew Dr. Clancy’s schedule, and yet he’d timed his scouting expedition to her house poorly. True, she usually returned home a good forty-­five minutes later, but he’d cut things far too close. Not everyone stuck to a routine as faithfully as he did.

  Once more, accusing words replayed in his head.

  It’s not like you to get detoured by a pretty face. You should just throw that brochure away. Faith Clancy was never part of the plan, and you don’t need more practice.

  But he did! He wasn’t ready for the Donovans. Not yet.

  And he had twenty-­three days left, so where was the harm?

  Admit the real reason you chose her. You’re letting your dick lead you around. You’re no different than any other man.

  In truth, his dick was hardening now, just thinking of the beautiful psychiatrist with the sad eyes. Well what of it? After the Donovans, he’d be headed for Mexico to live out Perry’s dream of sun and sand and freedom. Before he retired, he deserved, just once, to kill for his own pleasure. He’d earned that right.

  Perspiration beaded on Scourge’s upper lip, tickling his skin in a most unpleasant way. He pulled out his linen handkerchief and dabbed his upper lip dry. Holding the scrap of linen by the corner, he hurried to deposit it in the dirty-­clothes hamper, then thoroughly washed his hands. After returning to the living room, he seated himself in a hard-­back chair and unfolded the evening paper. He read the headline, and a fine tremor started up in his hands, intensifying until his entire body shook—­so hard the chair seemed to vibrate beneath his thighs. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. A strangled cry escaped his lips.

  SANTA FE SAINT IN CUSTODY. LOCAL MAN CONFESSES.

  Tuesday, July 23, 7:00 A.M.

  Scourge woke up with damp hair clinging to the back of his neck and cold sweat dripping down his forehead. One of his arms was flung off the side of the bed. The other was smashed between his stomach and the mattress. From above, a lightbulb buzzed loud enough to make his teeth vibrate. But that wasn’t the worst of the noise.

  Click.

  Clack.

  Click.

  His mind still clouded with sleep, he didn’t immediately recogniz
e the source of the metallic noise coming from above his head. His heart hesitated, then began to race. Make it stop.

  Click.

  Clack.

  Click.

  The beats jolted down his spine one vertebra at a time, and his body jerked like a man in the electric chair.

  Please make it stop.

  His hand crept up, fished beneath his pillow, and caressed the book. Still there. The book hadn’t abandoned him like his friends had. He banished all thoughts of abandonment from his mind, and his heartbeat slowed. He flipped onto his back, forced his eyes open.

  Click.

  Clack.

  Click.

  Fucking ceiling fan. For as long as he’d lived in these rooms, the fan above his bed had been making that noise—­why, he didn’t know. Maybe the blades were loose. Maybe the fan wasn’t seated properly in its mounting. He’d requested the fan be fixed, of course. In writing. Many times. He believed in going through proper channels, in following protocol. He’d never been the type to make undue trouble. And whenever he sent a note, his landlord responded promptly, promising to take care of the matter right away. But no one ever came to fix the fan.

  This had been going on so long, Scourge was beginning to worry his landlord had nefarious motives. Last night, Scourge had been lying peacefully in his bed, about to doze off, when he suddenly envisioned the fan crashing down from the ceiling. Next he imagined a blade flying off, decapitating him, and a geyser of blood spraying his perfect white sheets. His throat had closed so tightly, he couldn’t swallow his saliva. Drool had slipped from the corner of his mouth, like it was doing now. He wiped away the spittle.

  It was time to write another note. Either fix the fan or find a new tenant.

  An empty threat.

  This place was set up perfectly for him. The apartment was well located, just around the corner from the lab where he worked, so he didn’t have to take the bus. He truly did not like public transportation. Too many ­people, too many smells, not to mention the surfaces he’d have to touch—­handrails and doors, teeming with bacteria.