The Angel (The Original Sinners) (28 page)

“So Søren rides a motorcycle,” Wesley said, not knowing why
that was the first thing that came out. “For some reason, I’m not
surprised.”

Søren’s eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth twitched with
amusement. He tossed the helmet onto a chair and crossed his arms over his broad
chest.

“Hello, Wesley,” Søren said and spoke no other words.

“I’m not going to say hello to you.” Wesley took a deep breath
and took a few steps closer. “We’re not friends. This isn’t going to be a
friendly conversation.”

Søren stared at him a moment and Wesley felt himself being
weighed in the priest’s eyes. For more than two years, Wesley had wondered about
Søren—what did he look like, how did he act, what the hell did Nora see in him?
Now the man himself stood in front of him. And that’s what Wesley saw. A
man—mortal, very handsome, but still only a man.

“We aren’t friends, no.” Søren said the words with a
magnanimous air. “But must we be enemies?”

Wesley summoned all his courage.

“You hit Nora. You hit her often. You’ve sprained her wrists.
You’ve bruised her ribs. You’ve done stuff to her she wouldn’t even tell me
about. Yeah, Søren, I think we’ll be enemies.”

Søren didn’t seem the least surprised or intimidated by
Wesley’s words. In fact, he seemed almost pleased.

“I am a pacifist, Wesley. I have no interest in getting into
any kind of fight with you. I think Eleanor would never recover from the
laughing fit that would induce if she discovered we’d scuffled over her.”

“Where is Nora anyway?” Wesley demanded. “I came to see her,
not talk to you. You’re about the last person in the world I want to talk
to.”

The insult didn’t seem to register. The man was a wall nothing
could penetrate.

“She’s upstate with two friends for the summer. I won’t bore
you with the details of why, but she’s quite content, I assure you. Do you care
to tell me what you’re doing in Eleanor’s home?”

Wesley didn’t answer at first. He turned his back to Søren and
weighed how much to tell the man.

“She’s not,” Wesley finally said.

“Pardon?”

Wesley turned back around and glared at Søren.

“She is not content. I don’t believe that, and something tells
me you don’t, either.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” Wesley pulled his keys from his pocket. “I still
have a key. This was my home with Nora. What are you doing here?”

“Kingsley had the house alarmed when she went upstate. Silent
alarm. You tripped it when you entered. I was nearby and came to
investigate.”

Wesley’s stomach knotted up.

“Alarm? This is a really safe neighborhood. Why would you alarm
Nora’s house when she’s not even here?”

Søren didn’t answer and the silence scared him more than any
explanation.

“Things are happening,” Søren finally said.

Wesley gave a short, empty laugh.

“Well, that explains everything. Thanks for that, Father
Stearns.”

“Her file was stolen from Kingsley’s office. That file
contained everything there is to know about her. We don’t know who stole it. We
don’t know why anyone would take such a risk.”

Wesley’s anger turned to fear.

“You assholes—you and Kingsley both. You keep her safe or
you’ll answer to me. And I know that doesn’t scare you, but I’ll make it scare
you if I have to. Now I guess I’ll go. Gotta run upstate to find Nora and make
sure she’s okay.” Wesley headed for the door, knowing he’d have to barrel past
Søren to get through. In his mood, he rather relished the idea. “Somebody’s got
to and obviously you don’t give a damn about her.”

Wesley headed for the gap between Søren’s body and the door
frame, a gap just wide enough for him to fit through. But Søren’s arm suddenly
clapped down against the frame and barred Wesley’s way.

An icy bolt of fear raced into the pit of Wesley’s stomach as
Søren turned brutally cold eyes onto him.

“Wesley…” Søren said his name with the unmistakable hint of
menace in his voice. “I said I didn’t want us to be enemies. For your own sake,
I’d highly suggest adjusting your tone.”

Wesley couldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t meet them. He stared
past Søren and out into the hallway. Out there he could see the ghostly outline
of Nora padding down that hall in her penguin pajamas with her wet hair up in a
bun and a cup of cocoa in her hand. His Nora…his best friend…the woman he would
have given everything to. Once he’d offered her every penny he had and she’d
turned it down. Maybe he’d offer again and this time he’d tell her exactly how
many millions of pennies he had. And then it would be him and her and cocoa and
penguin pajamas and Battleship games and stupid jokes about druids for the rest
of their lives.

“I love her,” Wesley whispered. “I love her more than my own
life, and you…” He finally met Søren’s eyes. “You hurt her.”

Søren nodded.

“I do.”

“You beat her. You do stuff to her that turns my stomach.”

“I know it does, Wesley.” Søren spoke the words with such
sympathy that Wesley’s throat tightened.

Wesley took a step back.

“What? You aren’t going to defend yourself? Justify it? Tell me
it’s what Nora likes? What she wants?”

Søren shook his head. “Of course not. I don’t have to, after
all. You know as well as I do that she loves being with me, loves what I can
give. Even more, she needs it.”

Wesley pulled himself to his full height of six feet and yet
Søren still dwarfed him. But what he lacked in height he made up for in youth
and rage.

“Needs it? She doesn’t need getting beaten. No one needs that.
You’ve trained her, messed with her mind, made her think that’s what sex is
supposed to be like.”

“So you, a virgin, are going teach Eleanor what sex should be
like?”

The five fingers on Wesley’s right hand slowly balled
themselves into a tight fist. What he wouldn’t give to be able to break that
beautiful face that stared at him with such arrogance, such hauteur....

“I’d do a lot better than a sick sadistic Catholic priest who
can’t even hold her hand in public.”

Something in Søren’s eyes flinched…just a little, just enough
Wesley could see that he’d finally struck home.

Wesley waited. Søren said nothing else.

“I helped her paint this room, you know?” Wesley nodded at the
walls. “Moved the furniture, put down the drop cloths… We painted all day. Took
three coats to get the walls as red as she wanted. That print over the bed? I
hung it for her. She spent a solid hour trying to figure out exactly where she
wanted it. We rearranged the furniture in here until after midnight. Then we ate
pizza at one in the morning. And you know what she said after all that? Do
you?”

Søren stared at him.

“No.”

“She said, ‘Wes, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I hope I
never have to find out.’” Wesley smiled at Søren. “Took four months but we
repainted every room in this damn house. Repainted, rearranged the furniture…
This was our house. Mine and hers. I know she’d sneak over to the rectory every
once in a while and let you wail on her for a night. But I got her the rest of
the time. I cooked her breakfast. I answered her fan mail. I put her to bed when
she fell asleep at her desk writing. I rubbed her back when she was sore from
overworking herself. And when she got all wrought up over you, it was me she
cried on. No, she and I never had sex. That’s true. But we had love, real love
that didn’t take anything out of us, that didn’t bruise us or break us. I loved
her without hurting her. You asked me if I, a virgin, could teach her what sex
should be? No, course not. Hell no. But at least I can teach her what love
should be like. And she knows it too.”

“Does she now?”

Wesley smiled.

“Seen her new book yet? Read the dedication page. Then you’ll
see why I say she’s not quite as content as you want to pretend she is.”

Wesley raised his chin and gave Søren the longest, coldest look
he could summon. Søren only stared back, his gaze a second longer and one degree
colder. Sighing, Wesley gave up and gave in.

“Whatever,” he said. “Like you care. I’m gone. Have a nice
motorcycle ride back to your church where you can have fun pretending to be some
kind of saint we all know you aren’t.”

This time when Wesley pushed through the gap, Søren let him
pass. Wesley made it five paces down the hall when he heard his name.

“What?” Wesley asked, spinning around.

“Wesley…” Søren gave him a look that terrified Wesley more than
any of the dark, cold glares Søren had already thrown at him. This look was
almost—Wesley searched for the right word—humble. “Please, Wesley. I need to ask
a favor of you.”

21

Money greeted Suzanne as she turned onto the tree-lined
driveway that led to a grand, three-story Federal-style mansion. She parked her
car, walked to the front door and rang the bell. A boy of about ten years old
with wide violet eyes opened it.

“Hello?” Suzanne said, not knowing what else to say.

The boy turned his head back into the house. “Mom!” he called
out and ran up the stairs, leaving the front door wide-open. A woman came down
the hall with a towel in her hand. She wore a white men’s-style shirt and jeans.
Black streaks covered the shirt. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail and
a dark smudge of dirt adorned her cheek like a bruise.

“Andrew obviously doesn’t have a future as a doorman,” the
woman said, smiling at Suzanne.

“He’s got good lungs though. Maybe an announcer?”

“Possibly. How can I help you?” the woman asked.

Suzanne exhaled heavily and searched for the words. She decided
to simply go with the truth and see where it got her.

“My name is Suzanne Kanter. I’m a reporter. And I’m
investigating your brother. Will you answer some questions?”

Elizabeth’s hands tightened on the towel. According to
Suzanne’s records, Elizabeth was a mere forty-eight, although her face looked
far younger, the veins in her hands aged her far beyond those years.

“Come to the greenhouse,” Elizabeth finally said. “The boys
never go in there. We’ll be able to talk in private.”

Once inside the greenhouse, Elizabeth handed Suzanne a trowel
and together they planted tiny seedlings in large clay pots.

“Investigating my brother?” Elizabeth asked. “Do I even want to
know why?”

“He’s up for bishop of the diocese. The youngest priest by ten
years on the short list.”

Elizabeth only snorted a laugh as she stabbed her trowel into
the black dirt.

“I got an anonymous tip about him,” Suzanne continued. “The
list of names for the priests on the short list. His name had an asterisk beside
it and a note that said there was possible conflict of interest. It’s not much,
I know. But I get the feeling he’s got secrets. Maybe dangerous ones.”

“My brother has secrets on top of secrets. He has secrets he
might not even know he has.” Elizabeth picked up a seedling, peeled off a few
leaves and set it in a hole in the dirt. “Why do you think I would know
them?”

“Kingsley Edge…he told me to ask you if I wanted to know about
Father Stearns. I thought about talking to Claire. She seems interesting.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “You won’t get anything from Claire.
She’s in love with our brother. Has been all our life. He absolutely hung the
moon to her. When she pictures God, he looks like our brother.”

“That sounds…unhealthy.”

“Not unhealthy. Just excessive. She didn’t grow up with him the
way I did. I’m not saying he’s a bad person. He’s not. He’s almost as worthy of
her adoration as she thinks he is.”

“But only almost?” Suzanne prompted.

Elizabeth exhaled and sat her trowel aside.

“Ms. Kanter—”

“You can call me Suzanne.”

“Suzanne…when you tell me you’re investigating my brother, a
Catholic priest, I have to assume you’re looking for evidence of sexual abuse.
Yes?”

Suzanne didn’t demur. “Yes. It’s really the only thing that
concerns me.”

“Hits close to home, does it?”

Opening her mouth, Suzanne paused before closing it again.

“Yes. My brother was a victim. He killed himself a few years
ago. I think that’s why whoever sent that tip picked me. They knew I wouldn’t
stop looking until I found the truth.”

“Oh, God, the truth. There’s nothing in the world more
misleading than the truth. The truth, Ms. Kanter—Suzanne—is that I know my
brother. I know who he is. I know what he is. And I told him years ago that if
he ever followed in our father’s footsteps, if he ever harmed a child, if he
ever took advantage of anyone in his congregation…well, I would make sure he
shared our father’s fate. And I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.”

Elizabeth picked up the trowel again and stabbed it deep into
the dirt far harder the necessary.

Staring, Suzanne couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. Did
Elizabeth Stearns just confess to murdering her father? No…surely not. She must
not have meant it quite like that. Suzanne swallowed as she picked up another
seedling and carefully cleaned the roots.

Elizabeth looked up at Suzanne. A silence hung high and heavy
between them. Both women waited… Elizabeth broke first.

“I was eight years old when our father came to my room the
first time.”

Suzanne inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her
dirt-blackened hand.

“I’m so…”

“Sorry, yes. I know. Everyone’s sorry. Especially my late
father currently burning in hell. He’s very sorry now.”

“You were only eight years old. Did your brother know about
it?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“No. Father sent him away to some boarding school in England.
Wanted his only son to have a proper British education like the one he’d had.
Thankfully my brother got kicked out of his proper English boarding school and
sent back to us. Otherwise my father’s attentions to me would have gone on for
years longer than they did.”

“Kicked out? What happened?”

Elizabeth laughed a cold, mirthless laugh.

“When you met my brother the first time, were you afraid of
him?”

“The first time?” Suzanne laughed coldly. “I’m still afraid of
him.”

“Yes, well, he’s always been like that. Always. As a boy at
this school… I don’t know. I’ve only heard snippets of the story. English
boarding schools were notorious back then. The older boys, the prefects or
whatever they were called, would use the younger boys.”

From the way Elizabeth pronounced the word
use,
Suzanne didn’t have to ask her to clarify.

“What happened?”

“One of these prefects apparently made the mistake of taking an
interest in my brother when he was only about ten. He was asleep in his
dormitory bed when the older boy came for him. But my brother was expecting him.
Light sleeper. The older boy spent six weeks in the hospital before dying of an
infection brought on by his injuries.”

Suzanne gasped and nearly dropped the seedling in her
hands.

“Father Stearns killed a boy?”

“Boy? I suppose. The older boy was fifteen. And had a
reputation for being the worst of the offenders at the school. The school knew
that. No one pressed charges against my brother. They covered it all up and sent
him back home to us.”

Suzanne walked away from the table, from the dark earth and the
tender seedlings. Father Stearns as a boy of only ten had beaten and
subsequently killed a fifteen-year-old boy at his school....

“I remember overhearing our father telling my mother the story.
That monster was proud of my brother. Ten years old and my brother beats into a
coma a boy five years older and fifty pounds heavier. Proud. My father the
rapist, proud of his son for killing a pedophile. Oh, the irony. I’ll tell you
more if you promise you can handle it, if you promise it’s off the record. I
have two sons. I don’t want this nightmare to touch another generation.”

Suzanne turned back around although she instantly regretted
it.

“There’s more?”

Elizabeth raised her chin in a kind of defiance, nearly daring
Suzanne to tell her to stop or to walk away. And she would have…should have. But
she couldn’t.

“Tell me,” Suzanne said.

Elizabeth picked up the watering can, refilled it and started
making a circuit of the greenhouse.

“I was hiding outside my father’s office when I heard him tell
my mother that story, the story of my brother the light sleeper, my brother
who’d nearly killed a boy with his bare hands. And then my brother came home. I
hadn’t seen him in two years.”

“What was it like? Seeing him again after all that time?”

“Strange. Awkward. He didn’t seem like my brother to me. He was
only eleven, a year younger than me, but seemed so much older. He was such a
beautiful bastard even then. And so quiet, unapproachable. He scared the hell
out of me. I thought he could kill me the way he did that boy. In fact—”
Elizabeth paused for a breath “—I hoped he would.”

The August evening heat in the greenhouse was so oppressive
Suzanne thought she might faint from it. But when Elizabeth spoke those last
four words, she felt cold chills run through her body.

“What did you do?” Suzanne asked. Something told her that was
the right question to ask. Not “What happened?” or “What do you mean?” For
clearly Elizabeth had done something.

Elizabeth lifted the watering can and sprinkled a large white
rose.

“For days after my brother returned from England, I had my
father’s words ringing in my ears…his son Marcus…light sleeper…nearly killed the
boy who’d touched him…”

Suzanne’s stomach started to plummet.

“I…” Elizabeth’s voice faltered for the first time. “Mother and
Father were gone. Away on some business trip of his. I went into my brother’s
bedroom at night. He was sleeping. I pulled the covers back....”

Suzanne watched as Elizabeth’s eyes went blank and empty as if
her mind had left the present and traveled far back into the past.

“Beautiful bastard,” Elizabeth said again. “I think that was
the first time in my life I remember feeling attracted to someone. I couldn’t
stop myself from touching his face. Well, you’ve met him. You must know what
it’s like to be around him, to be drawn to him....”

“What did you do?” Suzanne repeated the question.

Elizabeth sighed, almost wistfully. When she spoke again it was
in a hollow, faraway voice. The sun had started to set and shadows crept into
the greenhouse.

“I wonder…” Elizabeth began and paused. “I wonder what it was
like for my brother to wake up and find himself inside his own sister.”

“Oh, God.” Suzanne blurted out the words as she shoved both her
hands hard into her stomach to steady herself.

“I kept waiting…” Elizabeth continued. “I thought any minute
he’d turn on me, beat me, kill me like he had that boy at his school. But that’s
not what happened. That wasn’t it at all.”

A wave of nausea passed through Suzanne. She gripped the table
and breathed through her nose, praying the sickness would pass. Father
Stearns…at age eleven…had been raped by his own older sister.

“I wanted him to kill me as he had that boy in England. That’s
why it happened the first night.”

Suzanne stood up straight again.

“The first night? It happened more than once?”

Elizabeth slowly nodded. “I told you, Mother and Father were
gone. We had the house to ourselves. No supervision. We’d both been so badly
damaged we didn’t even realize what we were doing was wrong.”

Something in Elizabeth’s voice betrayed the awful truth that
she hadn’t even come close to the end of the story. Suzanne wanted to turn her
head and vomit, wanted to take everything she’d heard, everything she now
pictured in her head, and retch until every horrible image—the young boy’s body
responding in his sleep, the sister’s desperate gambit to find peace in death,
the realization that they’d gone too far to go back—burned itself out of her
mind. But Suzanne knew as long as she lived she would have Elizabeth’s words
emblazoned into her memory forever.

She could never go back. So she had to go on.

“What happened next?” Suzanne asked, not wanting but needing to
know. “How did it end?”

“Father, of course. Mother and Father were gone for a month in
Europe on his business affairs. I think he’d wanted to take me with them, but
Mother…she must have started to catch on to his interest in me. She insisted
they go alone. A second honeymoon. Meanwhile my brother and I engaged in acts so
depraved that I can’t even remember participating in them. I see them
happening—” Elizabeth closed her eyes and raised her hand “—out there. As if
someone else did them, and I merely watched. You should know I was as guilty as
he. More so, really. I started it. He was the virgin until me. But even at that
young age, he did have an impressive imagination.”

Suzanne swallowed the bile in the back of her throat as
Elizabeth opened her eyes and lowered her hand.

“We were together in father’s library. One of our favorite
spots. Mother and Father came home from their trip a day earlier than we’d
expected. Mother went straight to bed in exhaustion. Father went to his office
to work. He found us…together.”

Elizabeth stopped talking for a moment. Gazing through the
glass walls of the greenhouse, she studied the sinking sun. Suzanne couldn’t
begin to guess at her thoughts, and prayed she’d never know what Father
Stearns’s sister saw in her memory.

“I’ve never seen such fury,” Elizabeth finally spoke. “Such
rage. Father didn’t even look human. My brother and I call him a monster. We
don’t do so lightly. He became a bestial thing that day. He pulled my brother
off of me and threw him into the wall. I’ll never forget the blood on the
wallpaper—red on yellow. And he pushed me to the floor onto my stomach. He was
speaking, but for the life of me I can’t remember what he said. I don’t want to
remember.”

“I’m glad you don’t,” Suzanne whispered.

“He started to rape me, to re-mark his territory I suppose. I
think he thought he’d knocked my brother unconscious. But then I heard a thud.
Most beautiful sound I’d ever heard in my life.”

“What was it?”

“My brother hitting my father with a fireplace poker. Didn’t
knock him out, unfortunately. But it did stop him long enough for me to pull
myself out from underneath him. Father’s rage then went even beyond what I’d
seen before. He grabbed my brother and threw him to the ground. With the poker
he broke my brother’s forearm. I heard it snap.”

Suzanne covered her face with a hand. She found a lone bench
and sat on it, unable to stand anymore.