The Sister(197)

‘Okay, the top guy was taking these heiresses. Once they'd been bled dry, he was running them as high class whores. Got them addicted to religion. Got them hooked on drugs. By then, they'd do anything he wanted.’

Miller asked himself. What is my life but a series of coincidences? It can’t be the same one, can it? In his heart, he already knew. All these things had come full circle, and they weren’t finished yet.

‘You didn’t say what they call themselves now.’

‘To give them their full name: The Resurrectionists of Monte Cristo. Have you heard of them?’

He remained silent.

‘Sometimes they’re referred to as simply 'The Church’’.

‘The Church,’ Miller repeated, struck by a moment of epiphany. The garish neon Church image and the disembodied voice he heard when The Sister touched him came alive inside his head. You must find another place to live, or he’ll find you! That’s who is looking for The Sister, not the Catholic Church at all.

Several times since Kennedy’s funeral, he’d deliberated the question: How far could she go without direct intervention? A series of mini revelations played through his head. All the unlikely coincidences pointed to the hand of The Sister working indirectly behind the scenes. Boyle, Kirk, Ryan, Olga Kale the cult and everything else, her fingerprints were all over them.

A steely look crossed his face. ‘You know something, Carla? I'd like to shut them down once and for all.’

‘But how would you manage to do that?’ she said.

‘I know a man who will help me.’

‘Tell me it’s not Tanner!’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s Donovan Kale.’





Chapter 152



When Miller arrived at Stella’s house, it was already mid afternoon. The sky was leaden, pregnant with storm, and the atmosphere had stalled between high and low pressure, keeping the rain at bay. Looking up at the heavens, he muttered, ‘Why don’t you just rain and get it over with.’ She didn’t sound herself at all when we spoke a few hours ago. It can’t be easy, being reunited with someone you’ve never met before. From the gate, he saw the curtains were still drawn.

She’d been through hell over the last few weeks, but insisted she be left to deal with it alone.

At the door, he paused and questioned his motives, unsure whether he should turn and walk away. His brief re-acquaintance with her had led her into danger, the old pattern. On the step, half-turned away, he hesitated, sensing what she was going through was beyond her own capacity for self-healing. Carla was different; she was streetwise. Stella, for all her hard exterior, was soft and vulnerable inside. He identified with her on that level, acknowledging his own persona was just an act to cover for the child in him that never grew up.

He thought back on all that had happened over the last three weeks. When they'd first found Kathy, she didn’t want to go with them; she’d fought her rescuers with the ferocity of a wild animal.

At first, Stella refused to believe she was her sister. The futility of her parent’s suicide heightened the anguish she felt. It was the eyes that first drew her back to Kathy’s photograph. Twenty-three years had passed, and no matter what else in her appearance had changed, she still had those eyes. Denial was no longer an option; the last doubts disappeared. It was Kathy.





At the hospital after Kathy’s initial appraisal, the psychiatrist explained she’d developed Stockholm syndrome – where the captive bonds with the captor in order to ensure their survival. He’d held her for so long she actually believed she loved him; the clear evidence of abuse and beatings hadn’t diminished that belief. She’d become institutionalised, and to complicate matters further, she had signs of brain damage; more tests were needed.

Miller had gone with Stella; she didn’t have anyone else. He’d asked what the forecast was for the future.

The psychiatrist, Dr Marshall, looked at them both over the top of his glasses and explained conventional methods would take a long time to get anywhere. ‘I suspect she had a blow the head, or some kind asphyxiation that deprived the brain of oxygen. Physical abuse, drug abuse, they’re all on the radar. To cut to the chase, you’ll be better trying the alternative route.’

He referred Stella to a friend of his in Norwich, a specialist in NLP and hypnotherapy; he wrote the details on a card and passed it to her. She thanked him and taking it, noted the name, Victor, followed by a telephone number.

It was a few days before the hospital allowed Kathy to go out with them. They collected her early in the morning. Stella sat next to her in the back seat; all attempts at conversation failed. Miller observed her in the rear view mirror; she looked distressed.





In Norwich, the therapist, Victor, was a kindly looking man with a shaven head and gentle voice. A female chaperone sat unobtrusively in a far corner for the session. They left Kathy, knowing she was in good hands for the next two hours, while they went to have breakfast in a department store nearby. Stella remained subdued and uncommunicative throughout. Although he tried to break through the self-imposed barrier she’d erected, he was unable to find a way. His efforts left him exhausted.





When they returned, the therapist left Kathy in his office with the chaperone, while he delivered his appraisal. ‘I can help her; that’s the good news. The bad news is, well, it’s going to be a long hard road.’