Watch Me Die (39 page)

And that she was Mary Magdalene.
His devoted servant and true love. That’s why he called her Mary.

At the thought, stomach bile rose in her throat. He was trying to expel the demons from
her.
What had he said?

That it was the demons who were keeping her from seeing who she really was. That he had to expel them all.

The demons, she realized. Dear God. People in her life. Her father-in-law. Her neighbor. Her shrink.

Deni. Connor. Panic surged inside her. Despair. What if he had already killed them? What if that’s what he was doing right now? Who rounded out the seven?

Unless he told her, there was no way to know. It could be anyone.

No, Mira. Focus on getting the hell out of here.

Give him what he wants. It would work. It had to.

Maybe. She pressed her lips together, fear and uncertainty growing inside her. She couldn’t make a mistake. She might not have a second chance.

She heard him at the door. The dead bolt sliding back, the crack of the door opening.

Showtime, Mira. Don’t blow it.

She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. She heard him crossing the room, setting something on the floor beside the bed.

Food, she realized as the smell of bacon and eggs tickled her nose. “Mary,” he called softly. “It’s me. Are you awake?”

She opened her eyes. The sight of him turned her stomach. She forced a welcoming smile.

“I brought you some breakfast.”

“You’re so good to me.”

“Because I love you. I know who you really are.”

“I know who I am now, too. And I know who you are.” She paused. “My sweet savior.”

He acted like he hadn’t heard her. “Are you hungry, Mira?”

“Not Mira. Mary. And yes, I’m starving.”

He helped her sit up. When he touched her, she felt him tremble.

“What time is it?”

“Almost six thirty.”

They would have realized she was in trouble. The cruiser Detective Malone had sent for her. Surely, they would have gone into her house, seen the blood in the kitchen and her smashed phone on the floor.

“Untie my hands so I can eat. I won’t run.”

“I’m sorry, Mary. I can’t do that.”

“But I’m so hungry.”

“I’ll feed you.”

She allowed him to do so, though it took an extreme effort not to gag with every bite.

When she’d finished, he patted her mouth with the napkin, then bent and kissed her. She longed to recoil, to scream her disgust. Instead, she closed her eyes and thought of Connor.

When he drew away, she looked up at him with what she hoped he would think was adoration. “Ask me who I am,” she whispered. “I know now.”

“Who are you?”

“Your devoted follower,” she said, starting out vaguely, hoping to gauge his reaction. If she was wrong—and she could be—she would have blown her chance at freedom. “The woman who owes you her life. I love you,” she said, forcing the words past her lips.

He looked unconvinced. Tears filled her eyes. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Mary. Your Magdalene. I washed your feet with my hair and anointed you with perfume. I watched you die, suffering every moment with you, feeling as if my heart was being ripped from my chest.”

The words felt blasphemous leaving her lips. A part of her hated herself for them. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “But here you are. Flesh and blood, returned to me.”

“Mary,” he managed, voice trembling, “I’ve waited such a long time for you. So very long.” He laid his head in her lap. “I’ve been so alone.”

“No longer, my love. I’m here. You’re not alone anymore.”

He wept into her lap. Like a child, the sound heartbreaking.

She couldn’t allow herself to worry about him. She would do whatever necessary to escape. Even if it meant killing him.

Mira murmured soft sounds of comfort, her mind racing, working on what she should do next. She didn’t want to push him too hard, yet feared doing too little as well. Should she ask to be untied? Tell him she longed to hold him? Comfort him properly?

He lifted his head and tipped his face up to hers. At the expression in his eyes, fear shuddered through her.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

The fear caught her in a stranglehold. She tried to speak but found she couldn’t.

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

She wanted to say no. To plead she wasn’t ready. Every fiber in her being screamed she didn’t want to do this.

“Who?” she choked out. “Who do you want me to meet?”

He didn’t answer. He drew her to her feet. She couldn’t feel them and started to topple over. He caught her, then lifted her into his arms and carried her as if she were a lamb to be laid upon an altar.

A sacrificial lamb. His lamb.

She started to cry. She didn’t want to die. After all the days, months and years she had spent not just wishing she was dead, but making it happen, watching it happen—here she was now praying for another chance at life.

“Don’t cry, sweet Mary,” he said. “It’ll be over soon. And no one will ever tear us apart again.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Friday, August 19

7:10
A.M.

Mira stood in the center of a small, old-fashioned bathroom. Chris had left her to “prepare,” though he’d refused to say exactly what for. He’d unbound her wrists and ankles, leaving everything she might need: toothbrush and toothpaste, towel, washcloth, soap, toilet paper and comb. And a simple linen shift and cotton panties to change into.

Thirty minutes, he’d told her, then left her alone, locking the door behind him.

Thirty minutes until what?

She moved her gaze over the room for what felt like the hundredth time. Pedestal sink. Claw-footed tub. A single, small window with rippled glass, painted shut.

No way to escape.

She was still alive. And that was everything. It gave her hope; she still had a chance.

Aware of time passing, she relieved herself, stripped and, feeling frighteningly vulnerable, gave herself a quick sponge bath. She dried herself, then slipped into the shift and panties. She longed to defy him and put her own clothes back on, but she didn’t want to do anything that might set him off.

The most important thing for her to do was to stay in character. The more he trusted her, the further he would lower his guard.

Submissive. The picture of blind devotion.
She could do this.

After brushing her teeth and combing her hair, Mira closed the lid to the commode and sank onto it. How many minutes had passed? It seemed like more than thirty already. Considerably more.

What if he didn’t return? What would she do then?

Mira shook her head, as if trying to physically chase the thought away. A form of psychological torture, she thought. A way to keep her uncertain and guessing. Another way to control her.

She started to stand, then went still. The sound of a woman weeping. Low, hopeless.

Where was it coming from? The wall behind the commode?

She stood and wedging herself behind it, laid her ear to the wall. Sure enough, the weeping came from the other side. Tentatively, Mira tapped three times.

The weeping stopped, followed by
tap, tap, tap.

“Hello,” she called as softly as she thought she could and still be heard.

Tap, tap, tap.

Who was it? Another captive? Another Mary Magdalene?

She pressed closer. “Do you need help?”

Tap, tap, tap.

She heard Chris at the door, inserting the key in the lock. “Shh, he’s coming.”

She sank onto the commode, just as the door opened. He stepped through, frowning. “What were you doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

“I heard you talking.”

“Praying. Giving thanks.”

His expression cleared. “You look beautiful, Mary.”

“Thank you, Rabbi.”

In Jesus’ time,
Rabbi
was a term of respect reserved for religious teachers. In the New Testament, the apostles often referred to Jesus in this way. She took a chance that he would know this and be further convinced of her sincerity.

The way his face lit up told her the gambit had paid off.

He held up a brown paper bag. “I brought you something.”

He sounded so pleased with himself. She glanced at the bag, then back at him. Anything could be in that bag. A gun or knife. Something to mark her forehead. Rope to rebind her hands and wrists. Tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked against them.

“She was wrong about you.”

“Who was?”

“Grandmother.” He crossed to her. Reaching out, he trailed his fingers over the curve of her cheek, then dropped his hand. “Look in the bag, Mary.”

She hesitated and he said it again, holding out the bag. She took it, eased it open and peeked inside. Hair. A head.

With a squeal of fear, she dropped the bag.

“What’s wrong?” He retrieved it, reached inside and pulled out the contents.

A wig, she saw. Coppery red hair, wavy and long.

“You never should have cut your hair.”

“No,” she agreed automatically.

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know.”

“The demons,” he said simply.

“The demons,” she repeated, not knowing how else to respond.

He fitted the wig on her, smoothing his hands over the long strands, then standing back to look at her. As he did, his expression altered, his breathing grew quicker, more shallow.

He was becoming aroused.

She reached up to yank off the wig; he caught her hand, stopping her.

“Why do I have to wear it?” she asked. “You know who I am.”

“But she won’t.”

“Who?”

“My grandmother. Come.”

He held out his hand. Mira took it. His was warm and damp. Hers, she knew, was like ice. He led her out into the hallway. The staircase was so close. She could break free and run. If she could make it to the foyer and out the front door, she could scream for help. Someone would hear her.

But she had only one chance. Wait for the right moment, Mira told herself. It would come.

As if reading her mind, he tightened his fingers. “It’s going to be all right, Mary. Don’t be scared.”

He stopped before another door. A second stairway, from back in the days of servants’ quarters.

He urged her up, following so close she felt his sticky breath on the back of her neck. With each step the air grew hotter, thicker, more fecund. What was up here?

Two doors. He stopped at the one on the right, rapped his knuckles lightly on it. “Grandmother, it’s me.” He eased open the door. “I’ve brought Mary to you.”

Without waiting for a reply, he led her into the room. Gray light filtered through the moldy draperies. Mira hung back, half hiding behind him.

“Look at us, Grandmother.” The figure on the bed didn’t move. He paused, head cocked slightly as if listening to a response, then said, “Give her a chance, you’ll see.”

Who was he talking to?
Mira peeked around him. It was just them and the figure on the bed.

“Don’t be that way!” he cried. “She’s not a whore!” He grabbed Mira’s arm and dragged her out from behind him, then forward. “My Mary’s back. See her! She’s back!”

Mira got a clear view of the bed. A scream filled her lungs even as she looked again, not believing what she was seeing. A corpse. Like something out of a movie or a house of horrors. Mostly skeletal with patches of what looked like decomposing flesh, muscle or sinew.

Was this a joke?
It wasn’t, Mira knew. She closed her eyes to block out the grisly image.

Chris dragged her toward the bed, even though she fought and clawed at him. He seemed not to notice, as if he was in a sort of trance.

“Grandmother,” he pleaded, “you believed in me when no one else would. You told me of my virgin birth … you showed me my true purpose and believed in me when no one else would.”

He looked at Mira, gaze strangely blank. “My mother was Mary, but she didn’t believe. God had to strike her down.”

“What are you saying?” she managed, realizing just how close she was to losing it.

“Grandmother told me everything. She was the one who taught me that the voice in my head was my Father’s. That it was good. That I should listen.”

“I don’t want to be here,” she said. “Please.”

“Kneel beside the bed, take her hand.”

“No.” Mira shook her head. “I can’t. Please don’t make me.”

He started to coax, then turned sharply toward the bed. “It doesn’t prove anything!” he shouted. “Put yourself in her shoes!”

Mira jerked free of his grasp and ran for the door. He caught her before she even had it open, his arms circling her waist, dragging her backward.

“Mary, there’s no reason to run. I’m here, I won’t let her hurt you.”

Panic overwhelmed her. Any plans of manipulating him evaporated. “She’s dead, Chris! Why can’t you see that?”

“No, sweetheart, she’s old and very ill. But that’s a part of life. You can’t escape it.”

“No! She’s dead! You need help.”

“You’re talking crazy. Come, kneel beside her.” His grip on her became steely. Mira fought him, begging, pleading. Despite her best effort, they reached the side of the bed. He forced her to her knees, practically sitting on her to keep her down.

She was sobbing now. “I can’t do this. Please don’t make me—”

He grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her flesh like talons. “Take her hand, Mary. Kiss it. Show her the respect she deserves.”

“No!” Marshaling all her strength, she pushed him and scrambled to her feet. He fell sideways, against the bed, half onto the body. The corpse’s head popped free and dropped onto the floor.

He screamed, face twisted with fury. “Look what you’ve done! She’ll never forgive you now. Never!”

“I’m sorry.” She backed away. “I didn’t mean it.”

In horrified fascination, she watched him carefully scoop up the decomposing skull and place it back on the pillow, arranging the wisps of hair just so, murmuring words of apology and adoration as he did.