Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(86)
He shook his head. “No, Jericho. Not until now. My only reason for coming here was to give you that confession.”
JACOB
Disbelief had shadowed Jericho’s expression when I first lied and claimed I didn’t know Eve was still alive. However, after a few minutes of me clinging to that lie like it was a lifeboat saving me from the waves of a churning sea, he settled back on his heels and studied me, belief finally settling behind the crystal blue of his insane gaze.
I knew my brother had lost his mind, knew that evil filled him so completely that there was no room left in his heart for compassion or humanity, but I hadn’t realized until truly looking at him how deep his insanity was engrained.
Lips moving slowly over words spoken carefully, Jericho asked, “What is it about an old man’s confession that you think I need to read for myself? I just told you I killed him. Do you think I give a damn about anything he had to say?”
My eyes darted to where our father’s confession lay crumpled on the floor of this sanctuary. Trying not to think of the body hanging above me in some sacrilegious display, I angled my head toward that piece of paper and said, “You should read it, Jericho. Before you lose the opportunity to know the truth.”
If you stared hard enough, you could see the gears grinding in his head, the back and forth of indecision. He wanted to know. Of that I was sure, but he was having difficulty admitting it to himself. It doesn’t matter how evil a parent has been to a child, there is always a small part of the adult the child becomes that mourns never having the approval of the person that created them.
At least, for me, it was true. Perhaps Jericho’s madness had separated him so much from the past that everything had become meaningless.
Finding it difficult to remain calm when I knew there was little time for him to read the confession, I remained perfectly still, perfectly quiet in hopes it would spur his hand to reach for the crumpled paper. No matter what happened once the police arrived, whether Jericho was killed or captured, I wanted him to know that our father’s guilt had made his final acts in life a gift to his son rather than the God for which he’d always beaten us.
Jericho finally relented and snatched the paper from the floor. Quickly smoothing it out, his eyes moved as he read the first few lines, his brows pulling together in confusion before shooting up his forehead in shock.
“This can’t be true,” he muttered. “He would have never done this.”
“He did,” I answered. “I confirmed it with the priest who currently leads our former parish. Our father killed, Jericho. After you were expelled from the parish and left home, our father went out in search of the music director and priest that hurt you. I didn’t believe it myself, so I made the current priest search for them. I thought it must have been madness on his part. I didn’t believe he would stain his soul with murder before he died. But, he did. Both of those men died under suspicious circumstances. The priest confirmed it.”
Jericho dropped the paper, anger rolling behind his eyes that only led to more madness. Standing up, he paced in front of me, his mouth opening and closing several times before he finally stopped his movement and pivoted to stare down at me.
“Even this is beneath you, Jacob. You can’t possibly believe I’d fall for this. Coming in here like you’re delivering me some gift. Did you think it would stop me? Did you think it would make me fucking care about what I am doing to your insolent little town? What I’m doing has nothing to do with our father and everything to do with the fucking RELIGION that led to the abuse I suffered!”
Kicking at my leg, he caught my ankle so hard, the bone snapped. My mouth opened as a howling scream tore from my throat, the pain so intense that the room spun around me before once again coming to stop. Bending over, I reached to grab the ankle, but Jericho reached for it faster. Pulling me by it down the aisle, he relied on the pain to keep me from fighting against him. I was dragged over the floor toward the crosses, Jericho’s lips pursing as a shrill whistle blew over them. A door behind us opened and closed, the rumble of heavy steps approaching.
How that confession had angered Jericho, I wasn’t sure, but to look in his eyes now, I only saw hatred and death.
Dropping me when we reached the crosses, he stomped me in the chest with his boot fracturing several ribs. Again the pain consumed me, my mouth opening wide as I tried to breathe past it.
Turning to the man who approached us, Jericho demanded, “Help me bring down the second cross. It seems like we have another demon that needs to be eradicated.”
My eyes widened, my head shaking in disbelief. “Jericho –“
“The name is Elijah, brother! It would be best for you if you learned that. Jericho hasn’t existed since the moment he was raped in the parish as a small boy. He hasn’t existed since OUR FATHER refused to believe him when he finally confessed what was being done to him. Jericho died in that fucking parish and nothing you say or do will bring him back to life.”
His boot slammed against my abdomen, several hard kicks knocking the breath from my lungs. Walking away to bring down the cross that stood above my head, he left me in place struggling to breathe again.
By the time they’d brought down the cross to lay on the floor behind me, I was breathing again, but not without difficulty. Rounding my feet, Jericho knelt down to look me in the eye, his face red in color from his fury.