Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(47)
A man moved to stand on the opposite side of the bed and completely ignored Isleen. He moved with the assuredness of someone on a mission, his steps never faltering, never cautious. His hair shined bright—almost the color of pearl. His features were oddly pleasant and almost familiar. He didn’t possess the look of a villain. He looked like someone’s mild-mannered father. And then she noticed the chunky gold cross hanging askew around his neck and the square of white in his collar. A church collar—a priest’s collar. Relief released her from fear’s grasp.
If she’d been in control of her body, she would’ve sagged to the floor in a wet puddle of relief.
With complete affection and tenderness, the priest clasped Gran’s hand in both of his. He flinched and tensed as if touching her hurt him in some way, but he didn’t let go of Gran. “I have faith the Lord will be merciful.” His voice was a breath, barely even a sound. “I have hope the Lord will forgive.” His eyes shimmered, and tears slipped down his cheeks.
Gran’s face transformed with recognition. “Rex.” Excitement lit her voice on the first letter of his name, then dimmed by the last letter.
Gran knew him? Isleen shouldn’t be surprised. Gran had an entire life here that Isleen had known nothing about until yesterday.
“Your trials didn’t work. The evil never left us, no matter how much we endured.” Gran’s words were a horror to Isleen’s ears and brought memories of her conversation with Gran to mind. I destroyed us by trying to save us. And I did this to you. It’s all my fault. I’d take it all back.
No-no-no-no-no-no…Gran had to be confused again. She couldn’t know what she was saying.
The priest swallowed. “I prayed for release for both of you. But it never happened.”
So the priest was going along with Gran’s nonsensical thoughts?
Gran’s gaze clung to him. “It’s my turn to die, isn’t it?”
An icy knife slipped down Isleen’s spine, then into her guts, and twisted.
The priest nodded, his face so horribly full of compassion that none of this made sense. Was Isleen hearing things wrong, not understanding?
“It won’t hurt. You’ll simply go to sleep.” The priest reached into his pants pocket and removed a vial. He lifted the stopper and then reached for Gran’s head, propping her up enough to receive his poison. “Open your mouth for me, and it will all be over.”
Move. Move. Move. Stop him. Isleen willed her body to lunge, to grab the poison away before one drop could hit Gran’s tongue. She strained, tried run to him, to hit him, tackle him, jump on him. Something—anything—to keep him from killing Gran. Sweat dripped into her eyes, burning and blurring her vision.
But she didn’t move.
She just stood there without making a sound and watched. Her vision went watery, her tears warm on her cheeks. She’d never forgive herself for letting this happen.
Gran winced as the clear liquid from the vial spilled into her mouth.
“I’m sorry.” The priest’s words were muffled with his own bizarre sorrow. “So sorry.” He reached out and tenderly caressed Gran’s wrinkled cheek. “For all of it. But it had to be done. Just as this has to be done.”
“Thank you.” Gran’s eyes drifted up inside her head. Her lids slid shut, but stalled halfway. As if the scene were playing out like a bizarre slow-motion movie, Isleen watched Gran’s jaw slowly, so slowly, fall open in death.
*
The truck’s headlights blazed across the road, the parallel yellow lines a hypnotic path leading Xander home. About time. The day had gone in the shitter the moment Kent showed up with Camille way back in the morning. After that, there was the hour to get all the paperwork for his new truck completed, then a three-hour drive across the state to visit the trailer and question Simon Smith, then three hours back to question William Goodspeed.
And the only thing he learned was that Isleen had no connection to Simon Smith or William Goodspeed. Which meant she was likely dreaming about the crimes. And researching that kind of shit—dream phenomenon—was the reason Gale and Dad had established the Ohio Institute of Oneirology in the first place.
The carved bear totem at the top of the hill came into view. The thing had stood there for centuries and yet always looked good as new, like someone had just applied fresh coat of lacquer. Xander had passed this carving his entire life and yet somehow had never really seen it until a few days ago when he’d been compelled to drive across Ohio to find Isleen. For the majority of his life, he’d consciously ignored the totem because of his father. The thing represented all that was wrong with his dad—that his father believed in some secret legend more than he loved his son.
He saw the bike—flat black paint, skull on the tank—before he saw Lathan. What was the dude’s obsession with the totem?
Xander whipped the truck over to the shoulder to get some answers.
Lathan was a statue in the headlights, unmoving as the truck bore down on him, almost like he dared Xander to plow right through him. It reminded him of what he must’ve looked like standing in front of his truck, holding Isleen’s body—primed and ready to confront death head-on—when the crazy bitch tried to mow them down.
The truck skid in the loose gravel before coming to a halt. Xander leaped out of the vehicle.
Lathan just stood there, looking at Xander with flat, expressionless eyes. Paired with the tattoo on his cheek, they made him look like an escapee from a maximum-security prison. Not someone you’d have a friendly chat with in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.