Sinner Page 6

  He winked.

  “Which brings me here. So then, let’s begin. I need to know what you know.” Agent Smith got off the wooden kitchen chair, settled into the leather recliner to the right of the sofa, crossed his legs, lay his head back, and closed his eyes.

  “Go ahead, take some time. I’m in no hurry.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  Day Two

  BILLY REDIGER left his apartment at two in the morning, climbed into the old cobalt-blue Porsche 911 he’d won in a poker game a few months ago, ignited the engine, and left 2917 Atlantic Street behind for the last time.

  At least that was the plan.

  He’d made an emergency call to the judge and explained that, however inconvenient it might be for the court, health issues were forcing him to remove himself from the defense of Anthony Sacks. Unless, of course, she was willing to let him present his closing arguments in absentia, to be read by the clerk.

  After five minutes of chastisement, she agreed to let the clerk read his closing arguments, only because the case against Sacks was so airtight that closing arguments were futile anyway, she claimed.

  So much for Anthony Sacks’s day in court.

  Billy had typed up his closing argument—which took one last stab at confusing the jury by reminding them of their own sins—sent it to the judge via the Net, packed up his few belongings, and cleared out.

  The night was cool and the traffic nearly nonexistent at such an early hour, so he lowered the top, turned up the stereo, and pretended that all was as fine as a sunny Sunday in June.

  Truth was, he’d just hit bottom. And even now, the bottom felt like it was about to give way. Muness had long arms, and it would only take him a day at most to figure out that Billy had fled the city and done the only thing that made any sense.

  Gone after Darcy. Which in Billy’s mind didn’t make much sense at all.

  According to the online digital map index, Lewistown, Pennsylvania, was two hundred thirty miles from Atlantic City, up the 42 to the 76 to the 22. A good four hours without traffic. With any luck he’d beat the morning rush and arrive before she headed out for the Hyundai plant where she worked, information according to the thoughts of Ricardo Muness.

  Billy tried to tap his hand to the beat crackling through the old speakers but couldn’t get it right in such a ragged state of mind. He settled for chewing on his fingernail.

  Darcy. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel seeing her again. Depended if she attempted to bite his head off or not.

  Butterflies fluttered in his belly. He’d sworn her off and gone his own way when they were still fourteen, but she’d been his first true love, if indeed love could be found in hell, which was the only way he could succinctly characterize the monastery they’d grown up in. But their experience had forged a bond between them that he could never deny. A part of Darcy had remained with him to this day. Though which part, he wasn’t sure.

  The thought made him swallow. What did she look like? Was she large, skinny? Had she become a socialite or retreated into a cocoon? Was she married, dating, an ax murderer, into sports? Did she think about him?

  And above all, what would she say about what was happening? This new gift he’d suddenly found, out of thin air it seemed. It had to do with the monastery, didn’t it? Strange things like this had occurred in the monastery, but not since, not till now.

  The thought had drummed through his mind all day. Whatever was happening to him was tied directly to his childhood. Darcy had stood by his side then, and the fact that he was being driven to her side now felt more than a little ironic.

  Muness said he’d dug into Billy’s past and found out about Darcy, but how? The whole project had been buried, literally, if he’d heard it right. As far as the world was concerned, Project Showdown had never existed.

  Most of the time he wasn’t even sure it had all occurred. They’d only been thirteen, for Pete’s sake. But it had happened, hadn’t it?

  He had conspired to do terrible evil.

  He had persuaded Darcy to join him, then fallen in love with her.

  He had opened a window into hell.

  He now loathed all forms of religion, anything that reminded him of his abject failure as a child, because it wasn’t really a failure at all. It was only doing what all thirteen-year-old boys do if given the chance.

  And he now had this . . . he didn’t even know what to call it . . . this gift. The ability to know thoughts.

  Billy glanced at the speedometer, saw he was doing only seventy, and accelerated with renewed urgency to reach Darcy. Muness had threatened her, and that was reason enough to go to her after all these years.

  But it wasn’t really the threat that was driving him, was it? No, it was Darcy herself. The feisty girl who might very well be his only true friend now.

  Assuming she didn’t bite his head off.

  DARCY SAT in near darkness, taped and bound as the minutes stretched into ten, at which time the man who’d boarded up her house stood and walked into the master bedroom.

  The sound of his hammer pounding nails home fleshed out her fears of his intentions. Having rested from his work, Smith was putting the finishing touches on the job. He clearly had no intention of leaving any time soon.

  Smith could have more easily broken into her house, tied her up, and threatened her. The fact that he’d gone to such trouble to seal her in could only mean he was the kind who preferred the weapon of terror and enjoyed taking the time to watch it work.

  And it was working.

  Par for the course, she thought. Religion had always used terror to wield power. Fear of hell, fear of getting your head blown off, your towers blown down, or just plain old fear for fear’s sake. Thou shalt not, thou shalt not, thou shalt not. The church that Smith worked for had perfected terror.

  She still wasn’t sure she understood exactly what he intended her to confess, or how she should confess with her mouth sealed as tightly as her house. But his threat had accomplished what she assumed was his purpose: to throw her mind back into the monastery.

  Problem was, she really couldn’t remember. The names of a few, yes.

  Billy. And she did know a few things about Billy.

  Johnny.

  Samuel.

  The overseers. Paul. They were all orphans. And that was it. She’d spent thirteen years wiping her mind free of the experience. Going back now was digging around in the sewer to salvage a few coins.

  Sewer. There was something about the sewers at the monastery that filled her throat with an urge to throw up. The worms from her nightmares.

  He’d stopped hammering. His feet moved softly across the carpet behind her. Darcy stared at the dark screen on the wall and blinked away tears that had filled her eyes.

  “Darcy . . .” His voice came breathy and low. He walked past her, picking his teeth again. “Thirty-five of thirty-six. I’ve found thirty-four of you. All dead now. The fact that most of you were given new surnames didn’t help. I got your name from a pigheaded reporter named Paul Strang.”

  He turned to her.

  “Ring any bells?”

  Paul. The overseer? She shook her head anyway.

  “Too bad. It usually takes them a few hours to start remembering. And then I start with the nails. Amazing what a few nails in one’s thigh will do to jolt the memory.”

  Darcy glared at him, furious. At this Agent Smith. At the parents who’d abandoned her in the first place. At Billy, for clinging to her mind. At the monastery and the powers that had allowed such a careless project to be conducted in the first place. And if there was a God, at God. Above everything else she was furious at God.

  “Take your time, Darcy. It’s been a long night for both of us. And I have a feeling tomorrow will be even longer.”

  Agent Smith crossed to the recliner, eased his large body into the leather seat, and lay his head back again.

  “I’m a light sleeper—anything more than breathing will wake
me. Please don’t try anything stupid. I suggest you get some sleep, you’ll need it.”

  And that was it.

  Darcy sat with her hands tied behind her back and her foot chained to the couch, expecting something, anything, to move the night forward.

  But nothing happened. Smith looked like he’d fallen asleep within minutes of suggesting she do the same.

  Her shoulders ached and her mind spun and her heart pumped hot blood through her veins—all reminders that she was definitely alive. But no other memories surfaced.

  So she sat still, sweating and waiting and hating Smith and all those who pulled his strings. Terror frayed her nerves, numbed her mind. Fear, more fear than she’d ever felt, wore her thin, and in that thinness came exhaustion.

  Darcy didn’t know what time she slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  THE WARMTH of thick worms sliding over her face woke her.

  She jerked upright and stared at the dark wall screen. She’d fallen asleep watching the Net in her pajamas and put an awful cramp in her shoulder from sleeping on her . . .

  Agent Smith.

  She turned her head to the leather chair on her left. No sign of the intruder. But a single tug from her arms confirmed her memory of being bound. And taped.

  The harrowing events of the night flooded her mind. She craned her neck left, then right, searching for his form in the dim light. Gray seeped past the boards—it must be dawn or near dawn outside.

  Darcy bolted from the sofa, caught her right foot on something and fell flat on her face, remembering too late that he’d cuffed her ankle to the furniture.

  Unable to use her arms to push herself up, she lay still with her cheek pressed into the shaggy maroon area rug she’d bought online to brighten up the beige carpet. The whole thing had to be a bad nightmare.

  It was then, as she recalled the name of the town where the monastery had been located, that she first heard the creaking from the direction of the kitchen.

  Darcy lifted her head off the carpet and listened, eyes wide.

  Creeeeaaaak . . .

  She knew that sound. A nail, not going into wood, but coming out of it. Someone was prying a plank from a window or the back door! The police had been called, perhaps. Should she call out?

  If she heard it, than he’d hear it. Unless he was too far from the source of the sound to make sense of it.

  It came again, and this time Darcy began to scream into her tape to cover the sound as much as to attract attention.

  She half expected a boot to her side, but none came, so she screamed, muted by the tape.

  A dark shape filled the doorway into the kitchen. Her scream caught in her throat. She could tell immediately that this wasn’t Smith. Not large enough.

  The form held a knife out. No gun, no flashlight. Not police? The thought embedded instantly.

  This wasn’t the police! Some idiot had stumbled upon the boarded up house and ventured in wielding only a knife. Which meant that they were both dead.

  Darcy cried her warning too late. The visitor had already seen her and rushed to her side. Slid to his knees, whispering loud and harsh.

  “Shh, shh, quiet, quiet!”

  He snapped only two words, but they awakened such a conflict of emotion in her consciousness that she went rigid.

  “It’s Billy,” he whispered. “I’m here. Oh man! Oh man! What have they done? Are you okay?”

  His name triggered unwelcome emotions in her mind. She forced them aside and violently shook her head.

  Still no reaction from Smith. He was there, though. He had to have heard!

  Billy’s fingers searched her face, found the edge of the tape, and pulled it from her mouth. She was whispering frantically before it was fully removed.

  “He’s here,” she whispered, “be quiet, quiet . . .”

  Breath.

  “Get my wrists!”

  Breath.

  “I’m chained to the sofa! Hurry, hurry!”

  Billy reached, found her wrists, elbows at her back, and sawed through the tape with his knife.

  “My foot!” she whispered. “It’s chained, get them off.”

  He shouldered the couch and tried to slip the cuffs off, but they were latched to a metal bar that ran perpendicular to the frame.

  So close, they were so close to freedom! Darcy grabbed Billy by the collar with both hands and pulled him near so she could talk quietly. Came face-to-face with him.

  “Billy.”Her voice sounded panicked. She tried to calm herself. “Don’t leave me, Billy! Don’t let him do this to me! I need you, I’m sorry, I . . .”

  His eyes stared wide, six inches from hers. Whether it was the panic speaking or some deep-seated bond, she didn’t know, she didn’t care. But she’d never been so grateful to see, to touch, to have another human so close.

  “Promise me you’ll never leave me, Billy, please, please . . .”

  Her hands trembled on his collar.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  And then he went to work on the handcuffs.

  “He’s in here,” Darcy whispered.

  Billy spun back. “Where?”

  “I don’t know . . .” She looked around.“He boarded up the house and he’s inside!”

  “Who? Muness? From Atlantic City—”

  “No, no, from the Vatican! He’s after the survivors of the project back in Paradise. You have to get us out, Billy! He’s planning to kill me—us.”

  Billy looked into her eyes, frozen by her words. Survivors of Paradise. But there was more than fear behind his eyes, she thought.

  “I’m going to get you out of here, Darcy.” His voice was strung tight. He took her head in one arm and pulled her close. “I promise, I swear, I’m not going to let you go.”

  Something more than fear was driving them together, Darcy thought. She clung to him. And all she could think to say was, “Thank you.”

  “Yes, thank you, Billy.”

  They both spun to Smith’s deep voice. Lights blazed to life.

  The bulky man from the Vatican stood by her bedroom door, legs spread, right arm cocked by his ear. In his left hand, he held a pistol and on his face he wore dark reflective glasses. Like desert goggles.

  “What took you so long?”

  Darcy screamed. She closed her eyes and screamed at the top of her lungs. A grunt from Billy stopped her.

  When she opened her eyes, he was slumped to his side and Smith stood over him, big hand balled into a fist like a brick. The man withdrew a roll of gray tape, ripped off a two-foot piece, and held it up to her.

  She tried to scramble out of the way, but his powerful grip pinned her to the floor. Agent Smith secured her hands behind her back again, then plastered another strip of tape over her lips.

  She managed to squirm into a half-seated position against the couch, and she watched him work; he bound Billy—tape and chain—and shackled his ankle to the sofa like hers.

  The boy she’d fallen in love with when she was barely a teen had grown into a man, but his hair still had the same red tones and his face didn’t look a day older. Perhaps she was reacting out of sheer relief to have company in her misery, but she’d never felt such a powerful affinity with Billy as she did in this moment.

  Why or how he’d found her and come at this precise moment was beyond her. But he had risked his life for her. He’d held her and sworn to save her.

  When Smith was done securing Billy, he slapped him, hard. Billy groaned and struggled into a sitting position next to her on the floor.

  Smith spun his pistol in his fingers and then shoved it into his belt. “That’s better.”He withdrew earplugs from both ears with his free hand and paced before them.

  “Like two peas in the pod. Darcy and Billy. Rome is going to be pleased. Absolutely ecstatic. Two at one time? I’m outdoing myself, and that . . . that is hard to do. Now let’s start from the top, shall we?

  “
The last two, thirty-five and thirty-six in the same shot. Two birds, one stone. You’re going to tell what you know. Who else knows.”

  “You can tell Muness that my promise still stands,” Billy said. “I’m going to burn him.”

  “Muness doesn’t concern me,” Smith said. “You think that your being here is a stroke of fortune, boy?” He chuckled. “What’s the matter? You don’t know what I’m thinking? Really?”His lips flattened.“Then let me tell you what: I’m thinking that your days of traipsing through the daisies are over. For both of you.You can help us by telling me what you know about Johnny Drake and Samuel Abraham, or you can lose your fingers and toes, tongues and eyes, eventually your lives. That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Darcy’s first thought was a simple one. Do it, Billy! We’ll do it! Make something up if you have to.

  But one look at Billy’s twisted face and she doubted he was on the same page. And neither was she, not really. She might be panicked now, predisposed by her nightmares to turn against anyone who had anything to do with Paradise; but in truth, she couldn’t betray another human to this beast.

  “Go to hell,” Billy said.

  “I see we’re not making progress here. Let me help.” Smith knelt beside him, grabbed his hands behind his back, and reached around with a cigar cutter he’d withdrawn from his pocket.

  Clink . . .

  Billy started to scream. Blood squirted from his finger, now missing just the very tip.

  “Shut up!”

  Billy clamped his mouth shut and shook. Sweat vibrated from his forehead.

  The man from the Vatican stepped over him, grabbed Darcy’s foot, and clamped it under his arm. She felt his fingers spreading her toes and she cried out in horror. The tape muffled her voice. She kicked out.

  Phffft! Phffft!

  Agent Smith’s head snapped back. His glasses exploded into shards of crimson glass. He dropped the cigar cutter and collapsed with one lip twitching and one finger squeezing a trigger that wasn’t there anymore.