Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(107)

I realize that there’s someone walking toward me, coming down the path away from that hellish flame reddening the night. And he’s singing. I recognize the hymn. Yes we’ll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river.

He’s got a beautiful voice, and it feels like the worst joke of all that this man can create something so lovely.

He sees me standing in his path, dripping wet. I’m aiming my gun at him, and he stops singing. “Who are you?” I ask him. He stops walking. I’m boiling with rage and terror, but outside I’m completely still. Completely steady.

He slowly raises his hands. “My name is Father Tom. I surrender.” Father Tom. He looks almost angelic in the moonlight. But I know he isn’t.

“Where’s my son?” I ask him. My voice sounds almost quiet.

“Gina Royal. I knew you’d come. Well, if there’s any God in heaven, your son is in hell,” Father Tom says, and I hear the awful, smug delight in that. It shatters me like that explosion shattered the night, and for an incandescent moment I imagine emptying a clip into his face until I obliterate it, until there’s nothing left of him but blood and shards, and then I will reload and keep shooting.

I break free of that with a gasp and realize my finger is a microtwitch from making it a reality. I can’t, because he did not say my son was dead. He said, If there’s any God in heaven. But he wouldn’t hesitate to tell me directly that Connor was dead. I have to believe that. I have to, or I’ll lose my mind completely.

He slowly lowers himself to his knees. He winces a little, and smiles. “Old bones. I’m not the man I was.” If he’s trying to convince me he’s a human being, he fails. He’s playing with me. “You brought evil into our garden, just as women always do. You’re Lilith and Eve and the serpent all in one. You’re the mother of all sins.”

I walk right up to him, crouch down, and shove the gun under his chin. “Including murder,” I say. “Did you kill my son?”

“He was in the Garden,” he says, and I see hell in the smile that spreads across his lips. “The Garden and our meeting hall are ashes now. Go sift through them and find what you can.”

I hate this man; I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life. Even Melvin. I want to rip him to pieces, and I can do it with a touch of my finger. No effort at all.

“That isn’t an answer,” I tell him. “Did. You kill. My son.”

He’s gone pallid now. For all his grinning and pretense, he’s afraid of something. Not the gun. Not that I’ll kill him.

He’s afraid that I won’t.

“Yes,” he says. “I did. He’s with the saints.” He looks toward the lake.

And I know he’s lying.

“You’ve got a way out of here,” I guess, and I know I’m right, because for the first time I see surprise flash in his eyes. “A secret only you keep. Where is it, near the lake? Behind the waterfall? Doesn’t matter. You’re not getting to it.” I stand up and back away, still aiming. “Where’s my son, you asshole?”

I hear footsteps on the path. See flashlights. “Gwen!” It’s Mike Lustig’s voice. The FBI’s here. I don’t relax, but I feel the warm curl of relief. I can get Connor now. I can get out of here. We’ve made it.

“I killed your son before I left,” Father Tom says. “With my own hands. And he died crying.”

The only thing that saves his life is Lustig shouting, at the same time, “We’ve got Connor, he’s safe!” And I take my finger off the trigger because I might still shoot, and the second the FBI agents arrive, I crouch down and put the gun on the ground and cover my face with my hands and scream, scream out the fury and frustration and overwhelming relief.

I feel Lustig’s hand heavy my shoulder. “Where’s Sam?” he asks.

I take a deep breath and look up at him. “Safe. SUV on the south side of the compound, where you stationed us. We got to him before he drowned. He’s safe.”

My voice breaks on that last, and I feel the first stirrings of real hope.

“Come on,” he says, and pats my back this time. “Let me take you to your son.”

We pass Father Tom lying on the ground, face in the dirt, screaming as the FBI handcuffs him. I’m glad I didn’t shoot him.

I want him to suffer.





29

GWEN

I never want to let my son out of the embrace I wrap around him. I hold him so close, for so long, that he finally squirms in discomfort, and I let go. “Dad—” he says. There are tears in his eyes. On his face. I gently wipe them away, even as I know he can see that I’m crying too.

“He’s on the way to the hospital,” I tell him. “He’s going to be okay. He’s cold, and he’s got a wound they need to treat. But he’s going to be all right.” I don’t know that, but I have to believe it. J. B.’s brought Lanny, Kez, and Javier, and I hug them all. I cling to Javier a little longer and say, “Without you, I’d have lost him.”

“Make sure you tell him that,” he says. “He was bitching about learning to scuba dive. Soon as he’s better, he has to take the full course. You too. You fumble around like a puppy.”

I laugh and hug him again. “I promise,” I tell him. “As soon as I get a few other things straight.”