He glanced back once and had to fight the laughter. Nicholas was probably still fighting the crowd, trying to get to the iron gate. Eventually, he’d make it up the stairs, but would he find the trapdoor? Stark didn’t think so. It had been so cleverly designed. He could just picture the mule standing there, scratching his head in puzzlement. Where oh where had Justin Brady gone? Yes, that’s who the mule would be looking for, but when Nicholas next saw him, Stark was sure the FBI agent wouldn’t recognize him. The beard would be gone, the farmer’s haircut would be longer, styled, and dyed a different color. He’d also change the color of his eyes, maybe green or blue. He had such a nice collection of contacts to choose from, every color of the rainbow at his disposal.
Stark believed he was the master of disguises. Subtle changes, that was the ticket. Nothing dramatic, just a little of this and a little of that to make a world of difference. Why, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him today if he’d walked up to her and tapped her on her shoulder. Of course, Mother Millicent wasn’t seeing much of anything these days, rotting as she was in her backyard under the petunias she was so partial to. Still, if she could see him in his farmer’s getup, Stark was sure she’d get a kick out of it.
He didn’t let go of the old woman on his arm but dragged her along with him as he turned the corner. He kept close to the building so that when the mule got up to the loft, he wouldn’t see him if he looked out the window.
The hag was crying. He reached the side door where the crowd was spilling out of the church, and she started to resist. “Let me go. I have to find my husband. Help me find him.”
He shoved her away from him and watched her fall into the bushes. Then he moved on, pushing his way through the throng of people and turning again to make sure the mule wasn’t hot on his trail.
He let out a low squeal. Father Tom was rushing outside, and the crowd was parting for him. He was carrying the other priest. Tom’s white vestments were bloody, but Tom didn’t look any the worse for wear. And Laurant. God Almighty, she was coming out of the door with him.
He was so shocked to see that both of them were still alive and kicking, he almost shouted at them. He recoiled against the wall, his shoulders pressing into the cold stone. What to do? What to do? No time to plan, no time at all, but he had to do something before the opportunity slipped away.
A crowd surrounded Tom now. Stark watched as he slowly lowered the other priest to the grass, then knelt over him and whispered into the dying priest’s ear. Praying for him, no doubt, as if that would do any good.
Only, the priest he’d shot wasn’t a priest, was he? He had a gun. He was a mule, a pretender. How dare they trick him? How dare they? He was a mule all right. But now he was dying.
Stark desperately wanted to kill Tom, yet he knew he couldn’t get a clear shot at him—too many people running around like chickens with their heads cut off.
He turned his attention to Laurant. Easy pickings, he thought. She was standing by the door, against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, but every couple of seconds she turned to try to look inside. She wasn’t more than thirty feet away from him. He slowly crept forward. She looked dazed, and that gave him an added advantage.
He pulled the gun out of his pocket and hid it inside his jacket.
“Laurant,” he shouted her name and tried to sound pitiful. He doubled over, his head down, but he peeked up at her as he called out to her again.
“Laurant, I’ve been shot. Please help me.” He staggered closer. “Please.”
Laurant heard Justin Brady call her name, and without a second’s hesitation, she started toward him.
He pretended to stumble. Then he groaned loudly. An Academy Award. He should get an award for his flawless performance.
Laurant took a step in Justin’s direction and a sting pinched the calf of her right leg. Most likely she’d cut herself when she’d been thrown to the floor by one of the bridesmaids trying to push ahead of her into the aisle. She could feel blood trickling down into her shoe.
She was limping but moved as fast as she could. When she was about fifteen feet away from him, she suddenly stopped. Something wasn’t quite right. She heard Nick’s voice inside her head. Don’t believe anything anyone tells you. And that’s when she glanced down and saw what was wrong.
Justin watched her take a step back, away from him. He had his right hand inside his jacket, holding his gun flush against his side. He kept stumbling toward her, half doubled over, trying to look as though he were in terrible pain.
She wasn’t buying it. What was she staring at? His hand. She was staring at his hand. He looked down and then he saw it. The surgical glove. He had forgotten to remove the surgical gloves. Jolted by his own carelessness, he ran at her like a charging bull. She was turning to run away, shouting for Nicholas, when he slammed the butt of his gun against the base of her skull, silencing her scream.
Hurry, his mind told him. Get her, get her, get her. She was unconscious, falling, but he caught her around the waist before she hit the ground and dragged her back, and around the corner of the building. People were still pouring out of the church, and there were clusters of men and women and children in the parking lot, but no one tried to stop him. Did they see what he was doing? Did they see the gun pressed against Laurant’s chest? The barrel was pointed upward, the muzzle under her chin. If anyone dared interfere, Stark knew exactly what he would do. He would blow her pretty little head off.
He didn’t want her to die, not yet anyway. He might have to make a few adjustments, but he still had such grand plans for her. After he locked her in the trunk of his other car—the old souped-up Buick that none of the mules knew belonged to him—he’d drive somewhere safe and tie her up. There were lots of abandoned cabins up in this neck of the woods. He knew he’d find the perfect spot easily. He’d leave her there trussed up like a turkey with a gag in her mouth, and then he’d go shopping. Yes sir, that’s what he was going to do. He’d buy another video camera—high quality, of course, only the best would do—and he’d purchase at lease a dozen videotapes as well. Sony if they had them, because the resolution was oh, so much better. And then he would return to his sweet Laurant and film her death. He’d try to keep her alive for as long as he could, but when the inevitable occurred and the light went out of her eyes—and it would—he would rewind the tape and relive the glorious execution. Stark knew from past experience that he would spend hours and hours watching and rewatching the tape until he had every twitch, every scream, every plea memorized. Only when he was completely satisfied would he be able to rest.
Once he had disposed of her body in the woods, he would go home. He would make copies of the tapes and send them to everyone he wanted to impress. Nicholas would get one for a keepsake, a reminder of how impotent he had been, daring to go up against the master. Another tape would be sent to the head of the FBI. The director might want to use the gift as a training tape for future mules. Stark would, of course, keep several for his own personal library—even the best tapes eventually wore out after all—and the last tape he would make would be auctioned on the Internet. Although he wasn’t driven by the almighty dollar, a nice nest egg would give him the freedom to go searching for another perfect partner, and this tape would bring a fortune. There was a large following out there surfing the Internet with similar tastes in voyeurism.
Laurant lay slumped on the ground next to the van while Stark got his keys out. No one could see them, tucked in as they were between two other cars. He unlocked the door, slid the panel back, and then lifted Laurant and threw her inside. As he pulled the door closed, her long skirt got caught, but he was in too much of a hurry now to open the door again. He knew he was being sloppy, but that couldn’t be helped. Things were changing so quickly—and then there was also his own forgetfulness with the gloves. He ran around to the driver’s side, saw the ambulance threading its way up the drive, trying to get through the crowd and the cars. The siren was blasting away.
Stark
knew he couldn’t get down the driveway, which was the only exit. “Not to worry,” he whispered. He started the motor and slowly edged the van over the curb. Then he gunned the engine. The van lurched forward and crashed into the rosebushes. A thorny branch flew up against the window, and Stark instinctively ducked, as though it were going to slice through the windshield and strike him. He was all but standing on the gas petal now, pushing down with all of his weight. The van raced down the grassy slope, bouncing and rocking along. Stark felt like he was flying.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and then began to laugh. No one was following him. He was as safe as a bug in a rug.
Should he do it now? Blow them all to kingdom come? The detonator was just above his forehead, clipped like a real garage door opener to the visor.
No, he wanted Laurant to watch the fireworks. He decided to stick with his original plan then. He’d blow up the abbey on his way out of town. He’d already picked the spot. Best seat in the house, at the top of the hill outside of town. He’d be able to see every brick explode. And oh, what a sight that was going to be. My God, he ought to film that too. Send it to all the television stations. News at eleven. Yes, sirree . . .
“Green-eyed girl, won’t you wake up and play. Wake up and play . . . Laurant, it’s time to wake up.”
He glanced down at his watch and was shocked at how little time had passed. Then he heard the screech of tires, and his head snapped up. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the green Explorer at the top of the hill. The SUV was soaring through the air, the front tires coming down as Stark watched in disbelief. His rage was uncontrollable. “Not acceptable,” he screamed as he pounded his fist against the steering wheel.
The van careened onto the main street, sideswiped a parked car, and slid into a spin sideways. Stark slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, sped forward, and fishtailed around the next corner. He was going eighty now as he raced toward the park. The van almost turned over as he took another corner on two wheels, but it righted itself as he swung the wheel hard to the left. He turned yet another corner and there it was, the back entrance to the park through the preserve.
The mule wasn’t behind him now, and Stark was certain he’d lost him. Giggling, he slowed down and entered through the joggers’ path. The van bounced along the black tarred surface, the left wheels gliding on smooth surface and the right wheels grinding over rocks at the edge of the path.
He thought he heard Laurant groan. He had to stop himself from leaping over the seat and tearing her skin to shreds with his bare hands. The rage was getting stronger, and the thoughts were coming so fast now, he was having trouble concentrating. He reached up to adjust the mirror so he could watch her. She was huddled in a ball on her side with her back to him, and she wasn’t moving. His mind was playing tricks on him, convinced now that she hadn’t groaned. He’d only imagined it.
He was so busy watching her, he almost drove the van into the lake. He swerved back onto the road, then adjusted the mirror again so he could see behind him. Because of the angle the path took, he had to slow the van down even more. He couldn’t slow his mind though. He glanced over his shoulder to look at Laurant again, but it wasn’t Laurant that he saw. It was the whore, Tiffany. He shook his head. Then, just as suddenly, it was Laurant again.
He wanted to stop and close his eyes. He wanted time to clear his mind and get organized again. He had to be organized. He was a planner, meticulous down to the very last detail. He didn’t like surprises. That’s why he was so rattled, he decided.
The surprise of seeing the blond priest leap in front of Tommy boy. The priest with the gun, shooting at him. The priest who wasn’t a priest at all. Stark couldn’t get over the fact that the mules, as stupid as they were, had actually tricked him. He’d never considered, not for one second, that Tommy’s friend was a mule in disguise.
Oh yes, that was why he was so rattled now. They had tricked him into making a mistake. He sighed then. He could feel himself becoming centered again. The thoughts weren’t bombarding him. Control, that was the ticket. He was getting his control back.
“Almost there,” he sang out to Laurant. He slowed the van so he could edge through the pines when he reached the main road that wound around the lake. Then he increased the speed again. The Buick was about two hundred yards away, parked between the trees behind the abandoned shack. He couldn’t see it yet, but he knew it was where he’d left it, ready and waiting.
“Almost there,” he repeated. All he had to do was drive around the entrance to the park, then along the curve, and hide the van among the trees.
He had just reached the road to a cabin when he saw the green Explorer again. The SUV shot through the entrance of the park and then slowed to take the turn.
“No.” Stark slammed on the brakes. There wasn’t time to back the van, turn it around, and try to outrun the mule. He couldn’t go forward either. Nicholas would see him and block him. What to do? What to do? “No, no, no, no,” he chanted.
He threw the gear into park, grabbed his gun, and jumped out of the van. Because he’d removed the door handles on the inside so that his lady friends couldn’t escape while he was busy driving, he had to run around and open the door from outside.
He shoved the gun in his jacket and then reached with both hands to lift her. A new plan. Yes, a new plan. He could do it. He’d get her inside, where it was nice and dark, and he’d work on her there, with the doors locked. The mule would be outside, trying to get in, listening to Laurant’s screams. The mule would make mistakes then. Yes, he would. And then Stark would kill him.
Laurant didn’t come awake slowly or in a foggy daze. It was instantaneous. One second she was unconscious, and the next she was struggling to keep from screaming. She could feel the bile burning the back of her throat
She was inside his van. She didn’t move for fear he would see her in the mirror or hear her groping around the floor for something to use as a weapon. She dared a quick look, saw the toolbox, but she’d have to move to get it. It was against the back door. Could she get out that way? Swing the door open and jump? Where, where was the latch? She squinted in the darkness, and then she saw the gaping hole in the back door. The madman had taken the handles off. Why would he do that? Her feet were pressed against the side door, but she couldn’t see if that handle had been removed as well unless she moved, and she didn’t dare.
She was shaking now and tried to stop, terrified that he would notice and know she was awake. The van hit something in the road. She was lifted and then thrown into the back of the front seat. A second later, she was thrown back again when the van lurched forward. She felt cold metal against her chest. The safety pin was pressing into her skin. She fumbled to get it open. Her hands were trembling, so she almost dropped it, and she caught the whimper before it escaped. She unhooked it and then bent it until it was straight. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it, but it was the only weapon she had. Maybe she could drive the pin through his throat. Tears stung her eyes. Her head hurt so much, it was an effort to think at all. Was he watching her now? Did he have a gun in his hand? Maybe she could jump him from behind, surprise him.
Ever so slowly she moved her legs up, thinking she could turn and spring upward, grab him by the neck, and then slam his head into the steering wheel. But something was holding her. Her skirt was caught. She was afraid to turn her head and look for fear that he would see.
The van suddenly came to a jarring stop. She did drop the safety pin then, but she grabbed it from the floor before she heard the door open. Where was he going? What was he going to do?
Oh God, he’s coming for me.
She had to be ready. When he tried to get her out of the van, she would have to be ready. Frantic, her hands violently shaking now, she hooked the pin around her middle fingers, just above the knuckles. The metal fastener dug into her skin, tearing it as she hooked it there, anchored so that the long needle was sticking straight out. She cupped her left hand around it, trying to
hide it.
Don’t let him have his gun in his hand. Please, God, don’t let him have the gun. She couldn’t spring up and get him if he was holding the gun. He’d kill her before she touched him. If he does, I’ll wait. Make him carry me. He’ll put the gun down if he has to carry me.
The van moved when the side door was slid open. Her eyes were tightly closed, and she was trying not to cry as she silently prayed.
Help me, God, please help me . . .
She could hear his harsh breathing. He grabbed her by her hair and jerked her toward him. When he bent down to pull her out of the van, she opened her eyes and saw the gun. His fingers dug into her sides as he lifted her over his shoulder.
He was strong, terribly strong. He ran with her draped over his left shoulder as though she weighed no more than a speck of dandruff on his collar. Laurant’s eyes were wide open now, but she didn’t dare lift her head for fear that he’d feel the movement. As long as he thought she was unconscious, he wouldn’t focus on her. She recognized the abbot’s cabin up ahead.
She heard a car coming toward them, then the madman’s obscenity. He ran up the steps and then suddenly stopped.
She heard him jiggling the doorknob, but it was locked. A second later, a gunshot went off next to her ear. She flinched, and she was sure he felt it.
Stark was in such a state to get inside, he kicked the door and tore it from its hinges. He hit the wall switch, and two lamps, one on a credenza by the door and another on a table upstairs on the balcony, lit the cabin. Still holding her on his shoulder, he ran across the front room and into the kitchen. He put the gun down on the countertop and ripped the drawers open, throwing them to the floor.
“There we are,” he cried out gleefully when he found the drawer of knives. He grabbed the biggest one there. A butcher knife. It looked old and dull, but he didn’t care if it was sharp or not. The work he intended to do wasn’t going to be meticulous. There simply wasn’t time. This one would do nicely. Yes, sirree.