Darkyn - If Angels Burn Part 2

St. Luke's had been the first church John had ever seen inside, and the only place of worship he had ever attended before joining the priesthood. The old parish priest, Father Seamus, had even shaken his hand after the Kellers had brought him for his first ma.s.s.

"You say he's not been baptized, Audra? Well, now." He ruffled John's hair. "We'll wash away that sin you've been carrying around and make a good Catholic of you yet, Johnny boy."

Seamus, who only last year had died peacefully in his sleep, had never guessed what Johnny boy had been carrying around inside him.

What he still carried.

You didn't keep your promise, Father.

St. Luke's had been built to resemble those churches that the early faithful residents of Chicago had left behind in Ireland, but the inside had been remodeled by the latecomer Italians. His foster mother believed that was because the Vatican had paid to rebuild the church after the Chicago Fire of 1871.

"The Irish let them," Audra said with amused resignation, "because by then they were running the entire city from their meatpacking plants."

Audra and Robert commuted from their beautiful home on the South Sh.o.r.e to attend ma.s.s in the church of their childhood, but Alexandra had never liked St. Luke's. She told John it was an awful place.

"It smells, too," his little sister had complained. "Like something died in there and n.o.body found the body."

Audra Keller blamed the scorched brick you could still see near the church's foundation, and the smell from the greasy prayer candles, still made by the Poor Clares from a local convent from rendered beef and pork fat.

"Why can't the nuns use beeswax?" John's adopted mother had asked Father Seamus once. Although she wouldn't allow John or Alexandra to keep a pet, Audra supported any cause involved in protecting animal rights. "The smell from those things makes everyone sick."

"Beeswax is too expensive," the old priest reminded her. "Making tallow candles provides a small income for the convent."

Despite this, the Kellers had brought their adopted son and daughter here every Sat.u.r.day for confession and Sunday for Communion, because their parents had done the same with them, as had their parents' parents. After his overseas experience, John had requested, and was granted, a place at St. Luke's. He had considered it a blessing at the time.

Now he wondered if G.o.d indulged in practical jokes.

The parish had never been a wealthy one, but since John had left for his mission in South America, it had steadily declined into a slum. Those who could afford to move out of the neighborhood already had. Drug use, always popular during economic crunches, steadily increased, as did burglary, prost.i.tution, and gang violence.

John hadn't realized that his childhood home had become a ghetto until he had taken over managing St. Luke's neighborhood mission, which provided hot meals for the disadvantaged. The food always ran out long before the line of hookers, winos, and crack addicts did.

Pa.s.sing out bowls of watery chili and reading from the Book of Matthew over the slurps was not only useless; it was a mockery. John had become a priest to fight evil by strengthening the faith, not to run a soup kitchen for people who would gladly sell their souls-or his-for a needle or a rock.

John would have ministered to his parish, but they didn't seem to need him, either. The faithful who came to St.

Luke's might have been pardoned for believing that the Almighty had a deaf spot when it came to them; so few of their prayers were answered. Still they attended faithfully, and would kneel and pray the Rosary and call upon G.o.d to relieve their suffering whether John offered ma.s.s or not. Their robotic devotion to their faith seemed grim and hopeless, but it never changed, and it refused to die. Like the parish itself.

John watched the Italian priest's stern features as he closed his eyes to pray. Father Carlo Cabreri was Archbishop August Hightower's executive a.s.sistant and one of the busiest priests in the parish. Yet Carlo had shown up at the rectory and insisted on offering the morning ma.s.s.

Hightower must have received John's letter.

Does he think Carlo can talk me out of it? John knew that in his remote way, Hightower was fond of him. He had been John's first confessor, and before that had helped Audra Keller convince John to enter the priesthood. Maybe he sent Cabreri to remind me of that.

Unfortunately for the bishop, there was nothing to discuss. John was resolved.

His gaze drifted up from the altar rail to the saint statues carved in the low arch overhead. A thin, dusty strand hanging from Saint Paul's receding chin swayed gently, stirred by a current of air from one of the broken clerestory windows.

"Domine, non sum dignus..." the priest murmured, beginning the prayer that he would repeat three times before he himself consumed the host.

The remaining Latin words faded out as the English version of that first phrase pounded inside John's head. Lord, I am not worthy... I am not worthy...

John had always been unworthy. His parents, life on the streets, and the beast inside him had seen to that. When he made the decision to join the Friars Minor and become a priest, he had hoped to change the man he was. And he had.

Now he was unworthy and a total failure as a priest.

As Cabreri prepared to administer Communion to the faithful, John went to kneel at the altar rail. Partaking of the symbolic body and blood of Christ was one of the most sacred rituals of the faith, but now it felt like cannibalism. John was not worthy to come to this table, or partake of this holy feast. He was worse than a failed priest; he was an impure one.

"Father?" one of the altar boys whispered.

John looked up to see the boy extending the ceremonial plate beneath his chin, and the Italian priest holding the stamped, coin-size host in front of his nose.

"Corpus Christi," Father Cabreri repeated patiently.

John parted his lips and accepted the host. The thin wafer immediately adhered itself to the roof of his mouth, where it had to stay until his saliva reduced it to a swallowable paste. Even when he was a boy, John had never chewed the host.

One did not masticate the body of Christ.

Hei, padre.

Since John had returned from South America, his senses had plagued him. He heard voices that weren't there, smelled odors that should have escaped his nose, and even tasted things in food that he had never before detected. He told his doctor, who performed the tests that quickly eliminated the possibility of disease or a brain tumor.

"You're in fine health, John. Better than most of your compadres over there at St. Luke's." Dr. Chase chuckled over his own joke. "My best guess is, you're suffering a bit of SID."

"I'm sorry?" John had not been familiar with the term. "Sensory integration disorder. You've just come back to civilization after, what, two years in the jungle? Naturally your brain developed different neuropathways, which are now tuning in on what seems like inappropriate things. We saw a lot of SID when all the young men came back from Vietnam."

The doctor had a.s.sured him that eventually the condition would fade. That had not happened, and at times, John was sure he was getting worse. Like now. The smell of Chantilly perfume from the old woman to his left was so strong he wanted to lean over the rail and puke.

His abrupt rise from the rail startled the people praying beside him. John ignored them and went to genuflect before the life-size crucifix and then strode down the center aisle and out of the sanctuary. Only when he was outside could he breathe and concentrate and try to clear the sickening smells from his head. They retreated, but a dark face replaced them. Again he heard the sly, insinuating voice that had called to him one night from a shadowy doorway in the slums.

Hei, padre.

"Father? You sick or something?"

Christopher Calloway's bubble-gum-scented breath jerked John out of his memories. The girl in Rio had been chewing spearmint gum, but not for pleasure. She did it to hide the smell of her blackened, rotting teeth. That was the reason for the nickname of her trade, menina do doce.

Candy girl.

He was standing in front of the Blessed Mother's statue, sweat pouring down his face, both hands curled into fists at his side.

"I'm fine, Chris." He turned slightly away from the altar boy. "Go back inside and get changed."

"Okay, Father. Oh, jeez, I forgot. Father Carlo sent me to get you. You're needed over at the rectory."

John thought of the bishop. No, Hightower wouldn't make a personal visit. "Does Father Carlo need me?"

"Yeah." The boy gave him an uneasy look. "So do the two cops talking to him."

Alex hadn't woken up in a strange bedroom since she was five. Terror made her claw at the air until she remembered she wasn't a homeless little kid living on the street anymore.

She was still in a strange bedroom, though.

She spent the first minute running a quick body check to find out why. Head pounding, throat sore, sinuses throbbing.

No broken bones, no pain or tenderness between her legs. She'd been s.n.a.t.c.hed and, judging by the grogginess, drugged with some sort of inhalant-ether?-but she was pretty sure she hadn't been beaten or raped.

Yet.

Alex stayed very still and made a visual sweep of the room. She was alone, and still in the yet stage of things. The bra.s.s bed, the sea-colored sheet draped over her torso and legs, and the room were completely unfamiliar. No one she knew would have dared decorated with such vivid colors: all splashes of red, yellow, and orange against the cooler turquoise and blue upholstery and linens. She'd done her place with basic Rooms To Go; Charlie's place was wall-to- wall corduroy beige and bachelor dust. Wherever John was living, it was sure to be as dismal as he was.

No, the owner of this house had taste and bucks. The paintings on the wall looked real, and the carpet plush and expensive. The only thing she could smell was sun-dried linen, her own sweat, and a faint chemical odor.

Alex lifted the edge of the sheet. Under it, she was completely naked. She grabbed the nearest solid object, a silver trinket box, from the side table. Maybe she'd been mugged, and someone had brought her to his house. But that would be supremely stupid. Why bring her here when the hospital had been twenty yards away? Why strip her?

Time to find out whose skull I have to crack. "h.e.l.lo?"

No one answered.

Alex eased off the bed, holding the trinket box in a tight grip. Her clothes, clean and neatly folded, sat on the top of a fussy little table nearby. She put down the box long enough to dress, and then went to the door, which had a k.n.o.b and dead bolt. Both were locked from the outside.

"h.e.l.lo? Anyone out there?" She yelled a few more times and pounded on the door, first with her fist, then with the box. No response. There were no windows in the room, and the only other door led into a private bath that also had no windows or alternative exit.

If the date and time on her watch-also left carefully on the table-were correct, then she'd been unconscious for eleven hours. She now clearly remembered the two men in the parking garage, being hit from behind, the cloth in her face.

Alex started banging on the door again, and this time she screamed for help. No one answered; no one came. She kept it up until her throat became raw and her voice rasped before she stopped and sat down on the bed. Had the room been soundproofed? Was she here for the duration?

Why kidnap me?

She had no idea where she was, or who the men were who had abducted her. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to s.n.a.t.c.h her, but why? She was financially secure but by no means wealthy. John, being a priest, had no money. She hadn't dated anyone except Charlie Haggerty for the last two years. She'd never even been sued.

Who dumps someone they want to hurt in a bedroom with Queen Anne furniture and linen bedsheets?

Alex got tired of wondering. If they weren't going to open the door, she would. She went through the contents of the room, looking for anything to use on the lock. That was when she realized there was nothing in the room made of gla.s.s or any breakable material. There were also no mirrors, lights, or lamps, and all the electric outlets had been removed. The only light, she saw, came from a single fluorescent tube in the center of the vaulted bedroom ceiling, too high for her to get at unless she stacked furniture. She then discovered that the furniture was too heavy for her to move.

Feeling a little desperate, she went into the bathroom. No mirrors here, either, and all the cabinets were empty. She yanked the lid from the toilet tank to find it empty and dry; a flush revealed that a separate pipe that disappeared into the wall provided the water pressure. The shower had a clear but thin plastic curtain that hung from flimsy plastic hooks.

Alex went back out and stood in the center of the room, seeing it with new eyes. This isn't a guest room. It's an aquarium, and I'm the new fish.

Without warning, the door opened and a pretty blond woman in a Chanel suit walked in. "Bonjour, Dr. Keller." She set down the tray she was carrying. "Welcome to La Fontaine."

Chapter Three.

Alex recognized the blond woman's voice from the phone call. eliane Selvais, M. Cyprien's snooty secretary.

She'd been kidnapped by the rich guy with the fancy stationery? She flashed on the crest with the drifting clouds and the bird's claw. It had been a warning.

Daydream and you'll get yourself s.n.a.t.c.hed.

Alex jumped to her feet, ran for the door, and promptly smacked face-first into a concrete-block wall of a chest. She drew back the trinket box to smack the man in the head, and then yelped as he plucked it from her hand and tossed it over his shoulder.

Alex took a step back. Someone had broken his nose a couple of times, and a h.e.l.lacious scar ran down from his lip to disappear into his collar. He wore his straight dark hair in an abbreviated ponytail, which did nothing to soften the sharp angles of his face. The brown of his eyes was so light it resembled overcreamed coffee.

Alex had lived in Chicago all her life. It was a violent city with a mult.i.tude of drug addicts, rapists, and thieves, where a woman alone was a walking target. Because she wasn't a total twit, Alex had taken some intensive self-defense courses and learned how to protect herself. She also knew a great deal about the human body, and exactly how to hurt it.

Silently, grimly, she went to work on Scarface. Nothing moved him or even made him flinch; he merely caught her arms and ignored her kicks.

"Phillipe will not hurt you, Doctor, nor will he permit you to pa.s.s." Ms. Selvais sounded almost apologetic as the goon gently turned Alex around to face her. "I've brought you a salad and sandwiches for lunch. Blue cheese dressing is your favorite, no?"

"Your boss, M. Cyprien, had me kidnapped." She wanted it straight, for the statement she'd make to the police. The Frenchwoman nodded, and dull heat rose into Alex's throbbing face. "Is he out of his f.u.c.king mind?"

"That, you must discuss with Mr. Cyprien tonight. For now, you should eat something." The dark cameo ring she wore flashed as she gestured toward the tray.

Since Blondie was obviously a resident of la-la land, Alex turned to Phillipe. "Kidnapping is a federal offense. Let me out of here, right now, and I won't press charges." Oh yes, she would. La entire Fontaine was going to jail for this little stunt.

"Phillipe does not speak English." eliane smiled. "Nor do any of the other staff." She went to the door. "I will return for your tray in an hour. Bon appet.i.t."

"For G.o.d's sake, you can't do this. I'm a doctor. I have patients." Alex tried to follow, but Phillipe blocked her again. "Get Cyprien and tell him I want to talk to him," she called over his shoulder. "Now!"

eliane came back for the tray as promised, but only repeated that her boss would see Alex later that evening. Alex tried a different tack and told her about Luisa and the other people who were depending on her back home.

"These people, they will go to someone else to treat them," Cyprien's a.s.sistant said, dismissing everything with a wave of her hand. "Mr. Cyprien cannot."

"Of course he can see another surgeon. There are thousands of them in the South-"

She shook her head. "Regrettably, none of them are quick enough."

Everything became clear in that instant.

Six months ago, Time magazine had sent a reporter to interview Alex. She'd brushed him off, but someone at the hospital had gotten chatty about how quick she was with a scalpel. The reporter decided on a different spin, and had surrept.i.tiously timed Alex against twelve top surgeons performing the same procedure.

The article had had a particularly cheesy t.i.tle: ALEXANDRA KELLER, FASTEST SCALPEL IN THE WORLD. "Just because I'm quick doesn't mean he'll heal faster." Alex grabbed eliane's arm as she went to the door. "Tell him that."

"You can tell him yourself." With a surprisingly strong grip, she removed Alex's hand. "Tonight, at dinner." She waved at the armoire across from the bed. "You'll find suitable garments in there. Please be ready by seven p.m." Out she went, and Phillipe shut the door in Alex's face.

Sheer curiosity made Alex open the armoire. Dozens of fancy-looking gowns hung inside, a row of low-heeled pumps lined up beneath them. Silk lingerie filled the drawers at the base.

The expensive a.s.sortment-and there were a few labels that made her mutter "Holy s.h.i.t" when she read them- didn't bug her as much as discovering everything, right down to the high-cut panties, was exactly her size.

Alex stayed in her own clothes, which earned her a frown from Phillipe when he opened the door at seven p.m. on the dot.

"Vous etes tres'tetue," he murmured as he inspected her. The scar running down his jaw turned a little pink.