Silent Night (28 page)

T
UCKER WAS JUST
pulling out of his drive when Finn ran out of the house and jumped in the passenger seat. “Yeah, I checked your fridge.
Nothing
in there is dinner worthy. You can buy me a burger on our way back.”

Rolling his eyes, Tucker continued pulling onto the main road. His cell rang. It was Lisa. He answered on speakerphone so he could talk and drive.

“Hey Lis, tell Miranda I’m heading that wa—”

“T-Tucker?”

Lisa’s shaky voice raised every hair on his neck and arms. His blood ran cold. He looked to Finn, who was staring at the phone. “What is it?”

“Miranda . . . she’s gone. I—I’m in my car, but I’m not sure where I am, exactly—”

Tucker slammed on the brakes, swerving to the shoulder of Main Street.

“What the hell do you mean Miranda’s gone? What happened?” His chest squeezed painfully as he tried to catch his breath.

Tucker put the cruiser back into drive, waiting for Lisa to tell him which way to go, her voice difficult to hear over the pounding of blood in his ears.

“I was changing . . . we went back to my house like you said. Someone must have followed us, Tuck. S-something hit me. I blacked out. I didn’t see wh-what happened, but when I came to I saw him putting Miranda in a car. Looked like the gardener’s truck. I f-followed, but I’m afraid to use my headlights.”

“Look around you, Lis. What do you see? I need to know how to find you.”

“Wait! There’s a street sign . . . I’m on Manger Road, about three miles from my house. I— My head hurts, Tuck. I’m having problems concentrating, I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay, Lisa. Stay on the line, all right? I’m on my way.”

M
IRANDA MOANED, HER
head throbbing and her throat on fire as she slowly pried open her eyes. Where was she? The room smelled musty, and other than a ray of moonlight penetrating one single slat in the shutters, she couldn’t see a thing.

“Hello?” She strained to hear anything other than her own heartbeat, and brought a hand to her head. Whatever he’d knocked her out with had sucked all the moisture from her brain and had left her with one hell of a headache.

She tried to move to her knees and found herself immobile. Something tugged at her waist and as she felt for the source, a new wave of panic nearly drowned her. Rope. She was tied to something, something that wouldn’t budge as she tried to move forward.

She felt behind her, found a large pipe bolted to the wall, the rope around her waist figure-eighting around the pipe as well. But he’d left her hands free. Why? Surely she could untie—

“Try if you like, but unless your fingers have teeth to gnaw through it, you’re not going anywhere.” Someone knelt beside her, fiddled with the rope, gave it a hard yank. “I know my knots, Ms. Harley. Tell me, how is your brother?”

Miranda strained to see in the darkness. She wanted to scream, to fight, to claw the bastard’s eyes out. She swallowed to coat her throat.

The figure moved away. Miranda strained against the ropes, searching for the knots holding her against the pipe. Pain shot down her arm as she twisted her wrist. The knot was right there . . .

A deep, pain-filled moan came from across the room. Her blood chilled. There was someone else in the corner. She couldn’t make out anything more than a shrouded shape moving in the shadows.

“I bow to you, Father, and seek your guidance. I am your willing servant, here to do your glorious work. Help me, Father. Help me to understand what I am to do.”

The chanted prayer pulled Miranda’s attention from whoever had moaned. She twisted her neck, her bones popping loudly in the otherwise silent room. A flame flickered to life and fell upon two candles near the window. Finally, she could see, at least a bit. Near the candles, a man knelt before an altar. The wood, warped with age, caused the candles to lean precariously.

“Why am I here? You could let me go. I haven’t seen your face—”

“Shut! Up!” He turned, the candle flames glowing eerily behind him. “Don’t you think I’ve heard that before? Do you think it will make a difference coming from you?”

His body was backlit by the glow, casting his face in deeper shadow. But as he struck another match, a bright orange light gave her a full view. The blood in her veins ran cold as she realized who she was looking at.

She’d been right all along. It was Anatole.

“Y
OU
’
RE NO BETTER
than the pathetic, wretched sinners. And now look. You’re making me commit murder! Lower myself to sin against my God and take a life, your life, without the cause of a justifiable sin that God will condone. No. No. I cannot. Father, tell me what to do!”

Anatole’s last words were bellowed, his face tilted toward the ceiling. An uncontrollable tremor consumed Miranda. He wasn’t just a killer. He was fucking insane. Ranting to himself, to God?

Incoherent sentences poured from his mouth as he paced before the little homemade altar. She was in a house, she could see that now. An old, closed-up little cottage of some kind. Trapped with a madman and a . . . Another moan sounded from far across the room.

Anatole disappeared into the shadows again and after a lot of shuffling and panting, returned, hauling another figure behind him. He wasn’t limping. It was a pathetic detail to notice at a time like this, but the sight of him, strong and capable, refueled her anger and controlled her trembling. The asshole had been faking it all these years.

“You framed my brother,” she whispered. “He loved you and you set him up.”

Anatole turned on her, his face ugly and contorted in the candlelight. “You mean the man who tried to take my place? Who my son looked up to like a father? The greedy, money-loving brother? That’s who you refer to?”

He bent once again and lifted the other figure over his shoulder, stood, and placed him, with unexpected gentleness, on the altar.

Miranda worked the knot furiously, her skin raw and chafed.

“Like Abraham was tested by God, so have I been.” Anatole’s voice cracked, and she realized, startled, that he was crying. “I don’t know what to do, Father!”

Was that his son on the altar? She strained to see, but couldn’t. “Anatole, you’re confused and I can help—”

“My sin has been pride all these years. My own greed to keep my position in the church. I couldn’t tell them, could I? That my teenage sins had created a child I couldn’t keep? That I signed away my rights to him so I could join the church?

“I tried to make it right! I watched over him, took care of him in my own way, all these years. But who did he turn to? Your brother!” Anatole shot across the room and delivered a swift kick to Miranda’s ribs. Her head slammed into the pipe behind her, the ringing in her ears nearly as intense as the pain in her side.

Anatole returned to his pacing and odd rambling. “I give him to you, Father, if that is your wish. Please, tell me what to do.”

The burning in her sides made it difficult to breathe. She fought against the ropes, trying desperately to find the knot again.

“You, my son. All this has been for you. I waited . . . worked diligently to make certain I could find you a post here, with me. Prayed you loved me enough to join me again, and merciful God, you did. I had to wait. Had to have you here with me before I could finish God’s work. All of this, for you. My sin and my greatest love.” Anatole brushed the dark hair from the face of the man on the altar and cupped his chin. “Your sins will be cleansed. Your induction and blessing into the holy orders will purify your soul. You will be able to sit at the right hand of God for all eternity.”

The last rite. Miranda swallowed back bile.

Anatole shifted; the candlelight flickered across the pale face of his son.

Simon.

T
UCKER PULLED ONTO
Manger Road. His tires slipped on the black ice, nearly sending them into the ditch. He couldn’t get Lisa’s panicked voice out of his head. He had to find her. Find Miranda. They had to be all right.

“You need to slow down,” Finn grumbled. “We’re not going to be any help to them if you kill us.”

“Try Lisa’s cell again,” Tucker snapped, slowing slightly to take the next turn. The call had dropped and even though they’d tried half a dozen times, they’d been unable to reach her since.

They crested a bend and his headlights illuminated a black Toyota, the nose wrapped around a large pine. Tucker slammed on the brakes, cursing when the squad car fishtailed across the road. He managed to regain control before heading into a cluster of trees, and threw the car into park.

“Lisa!” He ripped open the driver’s door. There was blood on the nylon detonated airbag and on the door. But no sign of his dispatcher.

“Over here,” Finn called.

Tucker followed the glow of the flashlight. “She’s okay?”

“Injured,” Finn pointed to the set of blood-dotted tracks in the snow. The gait was off, as if she’d been dragging one leg.

“Where the hell is she?” Tucker snatched his cell phone out of Finn’s hand and dialed Lisa’s number again.

“Tuck?”

He could barely hear her. “Where are you, Lisa? How badly are you hurt?”

“. . .’Kay . . . slid out of control . . . damned tree.”

Tucker gripped the phone tighter. “Where are you?”

“Followed on foot. Small cottage, end of the road.” He heard more shuffling, then she added, “I can see her through the window but no way to reach her without being seen.”

“Stay out of sight, Lis. I’m coming.”

S
IMON WAS
A
NATOLE
’
S
son.

Miranda’s head swam with this new tidbit of information as she watched the priest strip Simon of his pants. She could see now that Simon’s hands looked to be bound behind his back, and as he turned his head, his gaze caught hers, frightened and wide and as confused-looking as she felt.

“Peter, I don’t . . . understand,” he pleaded as Anatole lifted one of his legs and pulled his pants from it.

“Shh, my son. Don’t you see? I’ve completed every rite to ensure my sins . . . your illegitimacy . . . could be righted. It’s all going to be okay now.”

“You’re a fucking murderer!” Miranda bellowed, terror reaching into the furthest reaches of her soul to bring that scream forth.

Anatole spun on her. “Murderer? I do God’s work. Killing you will be the only murder on my hands. The rest were condoned, no,
commanded
by God. I can only pray He’ll forgive me for moving forward early to ensure it is complete. You forced my hand, following me to Christmas. My son should have the privilege of his sacrifice falling on Sunday—
God’s
day—like the others, but because of
you
he won’t!”

“Yo-you’re my friend!” Simon screamed, trying to turn on his side. But whatever bindings Anatole had placed on him kept him still.

“No. I am famil— Yes . . . yes, that is it!” Anatole reached heavenward as though he’d plucked an answer from the sky, and Miranda caught a glimpse of a ripped section of his frock, crusted with blood. He was wounded. “If I don’t kill her . . .” He began his rambling again. “Then there is no sin on my soul when I join you. I’ll be as pure as you’ll be. You’ll kill her. I can cleanse you once it’s over. Make certain her death doesn’t stain your soul. Don’t you see?”

He really was fucking insane. Miranda could barely keep up, her head spinning, throbbing. The knot at her back slipped. Just a little more . . .

She was trying to piece it all together. Had it been guilt that had driven Anatole to murder? Did he really believe that by killing people for their sins and recreating the holy sacraments he was doing God’s work?

The knot slipped. The pressure around her chest eased. Miranda nearly gasped in relief but bit her lip to keep quiet. The less attention she drew to herself, the better. If she could just catch Anatole off guard . . .

T
UCKER DREW HIS
weapon and cut the cruiser’s engine halfway down the road leading to the cottage. As quietly as possible, he and Finn crept toward the window that flickered with light—candles?—and saw a figure hunched beside a heating unit beneath the shutters.

Lisa.

She heard them, her little body crawling on all fours in their direction until she crumpled at his feet. He knelt beside her, checking for injuries. “I’ve got an ambulance on the way, Lisa. I need to get them out. Finn will stay with you.”

“Just go, I’m fine. Miranda’s fine. For now. But someone else is with them—”

“Must have Anatole,” Tucker said.

“Anatole,” she said. “It’s him. He has her.”

Tucker frowned, his gaze fixated on that damned window. “Anatole?”

“Yeah, he has her, Tucker. Go get her.”

Then the other person inside must be Simon. Shit.

“I got her,” Finn said. “Just go.”

He hated seeing Lisa like this, but not knowing what Miranda was going through inside, he ducked low and ran, stopping only when he reached the windowsill and could see inside.

A
NATOLE UNTIED
S
IMON
and pulled him into a sitting position. It was obvious the man was weak, possibly drugged, by the way he swayed on the altar. Anatole pulled something dark from his pocket and held it toward Simon.

A gun.

The bile returned to Miranda’s throat. She gagged it back down when Anatole took a long, curved knife from the floor of the altar and handed it to Simon.

“Now don’t be foolish, my son,” he said, aiming the gun at Simon’s head. “Finish her quickly and we can be done with it. Go. Now.”

Simon stared at her, his hand shaking beneath the weight of his weapon. “I—I can’t. Peter, please.”

“I am your father and you will address me with respect!” Anatole roared, jabbing Simon’s temple with the barrel of the gun. Then he calmed—a calm so eerie that Miranda broke into a cold sweat. “It’s not so hard really. The first cut, I admit, I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to have been chosen. But God will grant you the strength you need. She is nothing more than butter for the rolls upon which you shall feast with Our God in Heaven, my son.”

Simon started toward her, a million apologies in his eyes. She couldn’t tell if he meant to save his own life or hers, but either way, he seemed to know the same fact she did. They were both going to die here tonight if one of them couldn’t figure a way out.

T
UCKER COULD BARELY
see past the two candles about six feet from the window. Whatever Lisa had been able to see, he wasn’t as lucky. The position of the moon had shifted behind the trees, the little bit of light they’d had all but gone now.

He thought he’d heard something just below him, but at this angle, he couldn’t see what. It was too damned dark inside, but it wasn’t like he could just shine his flashlight through the dirt-crusted window.

It was killing him—the not knowing. What if she was already dead?

No. No way was he letting any of this happen. He crouched lower, duck-walking toward the rear of the building in search of a door.

“I
CAN
’
T DO
this!” Simon’s voice had developed a new strength, and his glazed eyes became a bit more focused. Whatever he’d been drugged with was apparently wearing off.

“No,” she whispered. “You can’t. And you don’t have to.” She glared at Anatole before returning her gaze to the sickle-shaped blade. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, Anatole. You think God wants this? That He wants you to force your son to murder? God is watching you. God is
judging
you!”

“Yes,” Anatole said, the pistol shaking only the slightest bit. “And He is proud.”

“J-just shoot me,” Simon said, the knife falling to the floor at his feet. He dropped to his knees, hung his head as though he expected to die execution style.

Miranda sobbed, terrified of what might happen next. If Anatole would just put the gun down, she would be willing to take her chances . . .

Anatole fired a shot and Simon screamed.