Blood Brothers (13 page)

Lucy became instantly alarmed. “But he won't put her in a nursing home, will he?”

“I don't know why he would.”

“Because of what you said—because he has money. Maybe he'll think she's a burden. Maybe he'll sell her house and stick her in one of those awful places. I thought we were trying to save her—not make things worse!”

“Wait—slow down—”

“Maybe he shouldn't come here at all! What if he totally ruins her life?”

“Whoa—
whoa!
Since when is everyone such a potential villain?” Looking amused now, Matt tried to calm her down. “Give him a chance, okay? I mean, if he
doesn't
want to take care of her, then he can use all that money to hire round-the-clock nurses.”

“Matt, promise me—”

“Yes, yes, I
promise
. I
won't
let him put her in a nursing home.”

But Lucy was only mildly pacified. “I don't want her hurt.”

“I don't either. Which is why I'm glad you're gonna be there with her. To keep an eye on things.”

Lucy pondered this a moment. Finally she gave a reluctant nod. “So when are you going to tell her?”

“I haven't quite figured that out yet.”

“What do you mean? You have to tell her before Jared
gets
here.”
Which means
now—
since he's hiding in the church cellar right this minute.

Matt slid his hands into his pockets. He'd stopped pacing now, but his eyes were still angled toward the floor.

“The thing is,” he said carefully, “Jared asked me to wait. I think he's still trying to get used to the idea himself. And since he's not exactly sure when he can get to town . . .”

“You can't just spring it on her.”

“I know. But we shouldn't let her worry about it ahead of time either.” Matt's voice went low and solemn. “With her stroke and all, and Byron's dying . . .”

And Katherine, too,
Lucy thought sadly,
and so many other things that you and I will probably never even know about . . .

“Matt, what are you trying to say?”

“That we have to be careful. Because another big shock could kill her.”

“I can guarantee you, Father Matt won't be at the old church anytime this afternoon,” Dakota said.

Lucy held her hands out toward the vents. After making a quick pass through the grocery store, she and Dakota had been sitting in the parking lot for nearly fifteen minutes, waiting for the truck to warm up. The heater was straining, but spurting out only tepid air at best. Irritated, Dakota reached over, slammed the heels of both hands against the dashboard, then leaned back with a satisfied smile as a rush of hot air blasted over them.

“It's all in the touch,” she said modestly when Lucy flashed her a grateful smile.

“So how do you know Matt—Father Matt—won't be there?”

“You heard what he said at our assembly about being glad to stay after school if anyone still needed counseling. Didn't you see that stampede to the sign-up sheet? He might as well bring his pajamas and toothbrush, and camp out in his office indefinitely.”

The two were silent a long moment.

Finally Dakota asked, “Do you think he
wears
pajamas?”

“Another esoteric mystery of the church,” Lucy teased, trying not to blush. Just that brief, accidental encounter in Matt's office, and suddenly she could feel every detail of his body pressed to hers.
Well, that's one situation I might never tell Dakota about.

Annoyed with herself, she turned to the window and leaned her cheek against the frosty glass.

“I bet he doesn't,” Dakota reflected. “I bet he doesn't even wear underwear. I bet he sleeps naked.”

“Dakota!”

“Well, I don't know, do you? But even if there's some rule priests have to follow—like, they
have
to sleep in black pajamas, or a black nightshirt, or black underwear—he just doesn't seem the type to go along with the crowd.”

“Why don't you just ask him?”

“Maybe I will. He's helping out at the soup kitchen in the morning. Maybe I'll ask him then.”

“Good idea. I'll come and help, too.

“And then when we're dishing out oatmeal together, and he wants to know if there's anything bothering me that I'd like to talk about, I'll just say, Father Matt, the thing that's bothering me most of all is wondering what you wear in bed.”

“I bet Mrs. Dempsey would know.” Amused, Lucy turned to face Dakota. “She's the housekeeper at the rectory, right?—she probably knows
all
their secrets.”

“Especially Father Paul's.”

“Why Father Paul's?”

“She's been in love with him for the last forty years. Everybody knows that.”

“Mrs. Dempsey and Father Paul?”

“I know,” Dakota made a face. “Not something you'd even
remotely
care to imagine.”

Both girls burst out laughing. They laughed and laughed, from the grocery store till the truck finally rattled to a stop behind the cemetery.

“Oh, I hurt,” Lucy moaned, holding her stomach.

Dakota slumped over the steering wheel and drew a deep breath. “Me, too.”

“I can't remember when I've laughed this hard.”

“Me neither.”

“Especially when I shouldn't be laughing at all.”

The laughter died. Dakota fixed Lucy with a sympathetic stare. “Life is extremely weird right now.
Your
life in particular. If this isn't the perfect time for you to laugh, I don't know what is.”

But Lucy didn't answer right away. She stared down at the floor until Dakota reached over and took her hand.

“Thanks for telling me about your meeting with Father Matt,” Dakota said. “Didn't his news about Jared make you feel a lot better?”

“Not particularly.”

“The main thing is, you know now that Jared really
is
Byron's brother. And maybe if the two of you put your heads together, you can start figuring out some of this stuff.”

“He didn't even know Byron.” Lucy sighed. “What good is that going to do?”

“But he might have all these buried memories ...things he hasn't thought about in years. Maybe by talking you'll find some new pieces of the puzzle. Whatever it is.”

“I suppose,” Lucy murmured.

“I mean . . . I've
heard
of people healing themselves.” Releasing Lucy's hand, Dakota shifted and leaned against the door. “It might not be that common, but it's not impossible either. Some people have such powerful thoughts—such focused minds—they can actually make things move. They can bend objects and even levitate. Shamans . . . medicine men . . . some of those Bible guys . . . What you saw with Jared doesn't have to be a bad thing, you know. Sometimes what seems like magic can really be a gift.”

“You mean . . . like
me
. Like the visions.”

Dakota's shrug was noncomittal. “You know what's weird, though?”

“Besides everything?”

“When you touched Jared and had those visions, you didn't get really sick afterward.”

“You're right.” The car was almost
too
hot now, yet Lucy shivered. “I never thought of that.”

“Remember that day you ran into Wanda? And then you had to go to the infirmary? And the other visions you told me about—it was almost like you had seizures?”

“So . . . what's your point?”

“I don't have a point. I just thought it was weird.”

“Okay. That's one more mystery I'll add to my list.”

“Maybe it's the quality time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Quality time. Bonding time. You . . . you . . .” Dakota was searching for words. “You
helped
him . . . you
nurtured
him. You were kind. You made him feel safe. You gained his trust.”

“You make him sound like a stray animal or something.”

“Well,” Dakota said seriously, “every living creature needs compassion, doesn't it?”

Lucy stared at her friend, at the depth of conviction in Dakota's eyes.

“Yes, Dakota, you're right. Even if we can't always understand, we can at least show some compassion.”

She pulled away, then glanced anxiously out the windshield. After yesterday's big snow, the cemetery looked like a vast white ocean, with softly curling waves where headstones used to be. The Wetherly mausoleum stood apart and alone, as if shunned by the rest of the dead.

“I wish you didn't have to sneak in the back way,” Dakota said softly.

“Someone might see me at the front.”

“They'll see your footprints anyway if they come around the side of the building. And you don't even know if you can get in like you did before. Then what?”

“Then I'll have to think of something else.”

“I'll wait for you right here.”

“But I don't know how long I'll be. Are you sure you don't want to leave for a while? Come back in an hour or so?”

“Okay, I'll get some coffee. And
then
I'll wait right here.”

Stuffing her backpack full of groceries, Lucy started to open her door, then turned back to Dakota.

“What if Jared's not there? What if he turns out to be like the warning in my notebook? And like Byron outside the bookshop window?”

“He'll be there,” Dakota insisted. “Things are all starting to make sense for a change, Lucy. He mailed that letter. He came here to Pine Ridge, but something happened to him before he had a chance to call Father Matt. The thing we don't know is . . . what attacked him?”

“The same thing that attacked Wanda Carver?”

“And maybe Katherine Wetherly, too? I don't know. Something bad, but . . . I don't know.”

Lucy climbed out of the truck. She'd taken only a few steps when she turned back to look at her friend.

“Dakota, I don't think I could handle it if something happened to you.”

“You could handle it. You could handle anything.” Dakota regarded her with a pensive frown. She pulled her silly hat down to her eyes. She pulled her ridiculous scarf up over her nose. “And anyway, nothing's going to happen to me. I'm in disguise.”

Lucy hadn't planned to stop at the mausoleum.

After everything that had happened yesterday, this was the last place on earth she should be.

And yet she couldn't help herself.

She paused a moment to look in the direction of the truck; she waved, just to let Dakota know she was okay. Hoisting the backpack over her other shoulder, she stepped inside the gates.

Gasping, Lucy whirled around. No one was there behind her, but she could have sworn she'd heard someone say her name.
Dakota?
She paused in the threshold and peered off across the cemetery. She couldn't see the truck, and she didn't hear a sound.

What was it that Jared had said to her just yesterday?
“Hurry . . . before it comes back . . .”

But there was nothing here now to be afraid of. No sense of danger like she'd felt before, no feeling of being watched . . .

Yet without warning, goose bumps crept over her arms. She could feel the hairs lifting at the back of her neck.

The enclosure was soft with shadows. Even on the sunniest of days, the narrow doorway and one grimy window afforded only a pale glow of light. Lucy hated to think of Byron here, in this dank and desolate tomb.

The mausoleum had space for nine bodies.

Every wall—except for the entrance—contained three individual crypts, each one large enough to accommodate a casket.

Byron's was to the right of the doorway, at the very bottom of the wall.

Once a coffin had been placed in its compartment, the opening was then sealed, and a name was engraved on the slab.

Byron had no epitaph.

His name—like those interred here long before him—revealed nothing about the life he had lived, or the person he had been.

Fighting tears, Lucy began walking toward his resting place.

Everything was just as it had been the day before—wind-strewn leaves, dark spatters across the walls, torn clumps of fur . . .

Only now the dark pool of Jared's blood seemed larger than Lucy remembered.

Frowning, she squatted down to examine it more closely.

It flowed in a wide, thick swath—spreading all the way to Byron's crypt. It had frozen there at the base of the slab and oozed down between the cracks in the foundation.

There was a bloody handprint beneath Byron's name.

The fingers were long and splayed, as though desperately reaching for something.

And on the floor beneath it lay a white rose.

Lucy gazed at it and shivered.

It had frozen in the perfection of early bloom, though its stem was wilted now, and its leaves hopelessly shriveled.

The soft creamy petals were stained with blood.

With a gesture that was almost reverent, she reached out her hand to touch it, then drew back again with a surprised cry as a thorn pricked her finger.

Her eyes went uneasily to the handprint.

Jared's hand,
she told herself. While she'd left him alone yesterday to look for a hiding place, he'd tried to steady himself against the wall, tried to brace himself against his pain.