The Last Housewife (76)

But it was the garden of female bodies that had drawn me across the grass. Up close, they were amazingly lifelike. Perhaps the owner of the estate was a sorcerer who transfigured wanton women into solid rock.

“Do you like them?” came an amused voice.

I turned to find a man striding across the lawn, accompanied by the Lieutenant. My pulse jumped. The man was older, in his fifties or sixties, and short, with beautifully tan skin and long dark hair. He looked vaguely familiar. The connection hovered at the edge of my memory.

What could I say but yes? I was acutely aware of the Lieutenant’s eyes.

The dark-haired man smiled. “They’re my masterwork. The only pieces I’ll never sell.”

It clicked: he was Angelo De Luca, the famous minimalist sculptor. Cal and I had gone to his exhibit at the Dallas MoMA a year ago; Angelo’s picture had been everywhere. Cal had grown bored quickly, but I’d been transfixed. The tall cubes had their own presence: ominous, almost confrontational.

The Paters had snaked into my life before I’d ever realized it.

“I call them my harem,” Angelo said. “Each one is a woman I’ve loved and lost. My way of keeping them with me.”

The Lieutenant gave him a tight smile. “A bone garden, you might say.”

Angelo boomed a laugh. “Oh, you are naughty.” He turned to me, eyes twinkling. “You would make a lovely sculpture.”

The air was alive with meaning.

“What’s your name, daughter?” Angelo took my hand and swept it to his mouth, kissing it like a gentleman. For once, the chill made me grateful my dress collar was stiff and high, my cumbersome pantyhose at least another layer of protection.

“It’s Shay.” I forced my voice to come out light. “I’m new.”

“Ah, yes.” Angelo twisted my arm to peer at my brand. “The mark’s still fresh.”

“Nicole brought her in.” The Lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “I had high expectations. But from what I’ve heard, she’s having trouble warming up.”

Had he been watching me escape the Paters’ advances party after party, or had someone actually complained? My heart hammered.

But Angelo still held my hand, and now he rubbed it. “Shame on you. The best ones are always shy at the beginning.” He smiled at me, practically cooing. “Little lambs. You have to make them comfortable before they’re pliant.”

I was learning there were many different ways to be a Pater.

Angelo waved a hand at the estate. “Some of my comrades don’t appreciate the exquisite nectar of delayed gratification. Philistines.”

“Maybe we’re tired of being told to have patience.” A new man stepped out of a line of trees, two others flanking him, all of them dressed in leisurely country suits. “You know we can only wait for the Philosopher for so long.” The man’s eyes drifted to me. “Who’s this?”

There were five of them in the sculpture garden now. Five to one.

Angelo clutched my hand to his chest. “A new muse. I was just telling her how much I adore women.” He leaned close and whispered, “Between us, sometimes I wonder about the others.” He winked.

“Ah,” said the interloper. “Another lecture about the sanctity of women from the Artist. As if each one you touch doesn’t turn to stone.” The two men flanking him laughed, but Angelo frowned.

Here it was again: internal division. Even the Pater Society, with its rigid hierarchy and strident mission, wasn’t immune. I wondered if Don knew, if he was already one step ahead with a plan, the way he’d been years ago.

The man who’d insulted Angelo addressed me. “I’m glad to see new girls, at least. There’s too few lately. Makes me restless.”

“You know very well we had to—” the Lieutenant started, but Angelo cut him off. “Not enough fresh blood, say the wolves.” He turned to me with a confiding look. “Be wary, my dear. These three are hunters.”

The hairs on my arms stood on end. “And where,” I said, lilting my voice like I was an idiot who couldn’t sense danger, “are the hunting grounds?”

“Where did you come from?” one of them countered.

“Tongue-Cut Sparrow.”

He looked surprised. “I thought that place was off-limits. Too conspicuous.”

The man beside him nodded. “Too hot.”

Because of the missing girls? The first woman Jamie and I had met there, the one who’d propositioned us, had flagged that a handful of girls she’d known through the Sparrow later went missing. Perhaps the Paters were avoiding recruiting there because the connection had grown too obvious.

I concentrated on the reassuring itch of the recording device inside my bra, arranging my face so it was inviting. Talk to me. I am a weak, defenseless creature.

“The colleges are better, anyway,” Angelo said. “The girls are younger and cleaner.” He grinned at me. “As the wolves like to say… Not me, of course.”

“I thought the schools around here were practically feminist communes,” I said, repeating things people used to say about us. “I can’t imagine you find many girls who aren’t already brainwashed.”

The man who’d insulted Angelo—the head wolf—grinned. “Those girls are the best. They tell themselves they’re being sexually liberated when I take them home and chain them in my basement. Owning their sexuality, and all that.”