Ritual Sins Page 7

  Rachel Connery looked far from docile. She sat on her narrow bed, staring sightlessly into space, one hand brushing her mouth. Her nails were short, bitten to the quick. It didn’t surprise him.

  She touched her mouth with an absent curiosity that immediately made him hard. She didn’t know what he’d done with her mouth. What he had every intention of doing again, next time with her cooperation … or at least her full awareness.

  She stretched out on the narrow bed and he groaned. She was too damned distracting. He reached over and turned off the monitor, glancing at the others surrounding it.

  A handful of the Grandfathers were gathered in one of the smaller meditation rooms. Bobby Ray was with them as well. Odd, Luke thought, peering closer. Wishing he’d had the sense to install listening devices as well.

  They looked calm, peaceful, decisive as they made their plans for the future of the Foundation.

  Surely he had nothing to worry about?

  6

  Calvin Leigh was the very last person Rachel expected would show up at her room later that day. She would have slammed the door in his face without a word when she noticed what he was carrying. A thermos and two empty mugs.

  “A peace offering,” he said in his soft voice. “Made with freshly ground Sumatran beans.”

  For a moment she didn’t move. “It’s probably poisoned.”

  “I brought two mugs. We’d die together.”

  “This is a cult, isn’t it? I wouldn’t put it past you guys.”

  “It’s not a cult, and it’s supposed to be poisoned Kool-Aid, not coffee. May I come in?”

  “Coffee is one of the few things I’d consider risking my life for,” Rachel said, opening the door and allowing him into the shadowy room.

  He didn’t say a word as he busied himself at the small table, pouring two cups of wonderful-smelling coffee and handing her one. He didn’t come equipped with milk and sugar, but then, she drank her coffee black. Luke and his minions probably knew that.

  If there was poison in the coffee she couldn’t taste it, and wouldn’t have cared if she did. She took a seat on the narrow bed, crossing her legs underneath her, and surveyed the deceptively sweet little man.

  He took his time, arranging the one straight-backed chair the room boasted, climbing up into it and sitting, perched like a naughty child ready for his punishment. He had small hands, with short, stubby fingers, and he pushed one through his curly black hair in a childlike gesture.

  “I suppose you’re here to apologize for what happened yesterday?” she said when half her mug of coffee was gone and he had yet to say a word. “You want to tell me that it wasn’t your fault I was nearly killed, you warned me about Angel but I didn’t listen, and that perhaps you shouldn’t have started me out in such a demanding location.”

  He raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were very dark and completely free of emotion. “No,” he said, quite calmly. “I set you up.”

  She slopped some of the precious coffee onto her jeans in shock. Not that he’d done it, but that he’d confess it so easily.

  “You did what?”

  “Luke has told me I must confess my sins to you and ask for forgiveness.”

  “He told me he didn’t believe in sin,” Rachel drawled, blotting at the coffee stain.

  “Oh, he believes in sin all right. How could he not, given his background and the life he’s lived?” Calvin said. “He just doesn’t choose to define it for the people who follow his teachings.”

  “He defined it for you.”

  Calvin stared at her with opaque calm. “My crime was to wish you harm, and to manipulate circumstances so that you would bring that harm upon yourself. Which you did, with only minimal hesitation.”

  “You knew I’d let Angel out.”

  “Of course. It was clear you were a trouble-making young woman, determined to find some way to hurt Luke. Despite the fact that Angel’s paranoid delusions were ridiculous, I figured you’d fall for it. And you did.” His solicitous smile didn’t reach his dark, dark eyes. “How are you feeling, by the way? Fully recovered?”

  “Surprisingly well, thank you,” she said stiffly.

  “Luke had the best healers working on you, praying for you throughout the night. And he used his own … exceptional powers to aid in your healing.”

  It danced across her mind, like bat wings fluttering, the touch of his hands on her flesh, and then it was gone. Leaving a troublesome shadow behind. “How kind,” she said faintly.

  “So I am here to ask your forgiveness. I thought you were an unreasoning threat to Luke and I wanted to protect him. I should have remembered that Luke needs no protection. He is a law unto himself, and no one can hurt him.”

  “Were you afraid I was going to find out the truth about what’s going on here?” she asked bluntly.

  He didn’t react. “You wouldn’t like the truth. It wouldn’t be acceptable to you, or understandable.”

  “And what is the truth?”

  “Love. Love for all creation,” Calvin said with simple, compelling sweetness. If only his eyes weren’t so dark. If only he hadn’t been responsible for her near-death, she might have been tempted to believe him. Except that she had never been much of a believer in love.

  “Love for Angel?” she said cynically. “How is she, by the way? Is she still thinking I’m the spawn of the devil, or has she decided that Luke is a messiah after all and I’m just his sweet handmaiden?”

  “Oh, Angel has left us,” Calvin said, slipping down off the chair. He started toward the door. The afternoon light had faded, plunging the room into eerie shadows, but Rachel made no move to light the oil lamp by the bed.

  “Where did she go?”

  Calvin paused in the open doorway, his ageless face without expression. “She died,” he said. And closed the door behind him.

  The chill that swept over Rachel’s body was immediate and powerful. She sat motionless in the darkened room. Angel had been a strong, physically healthy woman—Rachel had the bruises and aches to prove it. Whatever had killed her couldn’t have come from natural causes. Had she committed suicide after Rachel had so stupidly let her out?

  Or had someone killed her? Punished her for hurting Rachel? Or for failing to hurt her enough?

  God, she was getting as demented as poor Angel had been. Crazy thoughts, crazy fears. What in hell was going on in this place? Death lurked beyond that vast sea of smiling, happy faces, and she had no idea who she could trust. Who had lured her here with that letter hinting of murder? If that letter had come from Angel herself, if Rachel had fallen prey to some lunatic’s paranoid delusions, then she had wasted her time and her emotions in coming here, seeking revenge. And she had put herself in the worst danger she had ever known.

  Not the danger from a jealous misfit like Calvin. The danger was from Luke Bardell.

  She shivered again, still cold in the temperate room. There was nothing to be afraid of, she reminded herself. He couldn’t hurt her. He couldn’t make her believe his crackpot religion—that was for blissed-out yuppies sick of Wall Street. He couldn’t take her mother and her money from her—he’d already done that, and she’d survived. In a rage, granted, but survived all the same.

  And he could have no effect whatsoever on her body. He was celibate, she was frigid. Together they made a perfect pair, she thought wryly.

  Just a little while longer. She would give herself a few more days to find whoever wrote her that letter. If in that time all she encountered were the happy, shining faces of Luke’s People, then she’d give up, as she probably should have done long ago. Give up the fight, give up her rightful inheritance. Give up the mother she’d never really had.

  She glanced at her watch. It was five o’clock, and she was supposed to be on day two of her course of instruction in the ways of Luke’s People. She was already a day behind, though she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she’d had far too much of an indoctrination in Luke’s ways yesterday, lying in that hu
ge, smoky room with the sound of flutes and chanting in the distance. And Luke himself, far too close. If only she could remember details.

  She could always ask him. He probably wouldn’t answer, he’d just smile that beatific smile that made her want to smash her fist in his teeth. She had never hit another living soul in her life. It would require touching, a risk that wasn’t worth taking.

  But if they were alone he might say more than he should. His manner with her was at odds with the distant serenity he bestowed on his flock, and she had every intention of exploiting that difference. Of making him take one step too far. And she’d be waiting to push him the rest of the way.

  The refectory was empty except for the yellow-clad workers at the far end. They looked up at her, murmuring the required “blessings,” but Rachel pretended not to hear them, closing the door swiftly.

  The halls were deserted. She knew there had to be at least a hundred people in residence—the refectory had been filled when she was there before. But for some reason they were never around when she escaped her cell.

  Escape. An odd, but emotionally accurate way to put it. She wanted to escape, and it wouldn’t take much to get her to leave. She hated it here.

  Just a few more days, she reminded herself. And if she hadn’t come up with any proof, any answers by then, then she’d let it go. There was little she possessed in this world but her pride and her self-respect. If she ran away, as some part of her desperately wanted to, she’d end up losing even more than she already had.

  She was about to head back to her room and await a summons to dinner when something stopped her. The high windows along the hallway let in a fitful light and the faint sound of birds. There was a door set deep into the stucco wall, and on impulse she pushed it open and stepped outside. Into the twilight coolness, the smell of the desert surrounding her.

  The garden was austere, formal, Zen-like, with carefully sculpted pathways through the scrubby little pines. She let the door shut behind her, taking a deep breath of the fresh air, filling her lungs with it. It seemed as if she hadn’t been outside in days, and yet she wasn’t a woman who was particularly attuned to nature.

  But right now she needed it, craved it, the stillness of the early evening, the peace of the desert, the calm solitude that was filling her soul with strength and renewal.

  She found she could laugh at herself, a rare occurrence. She’d already been here too long; in a little more than forty-eight hours she was thinking like a new age flake. In another minute she’d be in the lotus position, chanting “om” and channeling some ten-thousand-year-old Chinese mystic.

  She could do with some ten-thousand-year-old Chinese wisdom at the moment. Something to make sense of everything here. The closest she could come would be Luke Bardell, and it would be a cold day in Shanghai before she’d turn to him for answers and expect the truth.

  Deliberately she put him out of her mind. She’d spent too much time thinking about him, worrying about him. She would take the next half hour for herself, alone in the perfect stillness of the garden. One half hour when she didn’t have to worry, didn’t have to be angry, didn’t have to fight.

  When she stepped back inside the retreat center she could arm herself once more.

  She thought she could hear the faint, familiar sound of the flute borne on the desert breeze. She recognized it now—Native American music, eerie and melodic, with a rhythmic underlay of drums, thrumming quietly in time with her heartbeat.

  She shoved a restless hand through her short-cropped hair as she stepped forward into the garden. Had her mother walked in this garden? It seemed unlikely—Stella had been even less interested in nature than her daughter.

  It didn’t matter. Stella and her money didn’t matter, at least for the time being. The quiet night was all around, and as the shadows lengthened Rachel moved farther away from the main building, until she came to a small, still pool.

  She sat down on a huge rock and drew her legs up to her body, resting her chin on her knees as she stared into the blackness. In daylight the water would be a clear, innocent blue. Tonight it was black and bottomless, holding unfathomable secrets.

  She was still sitting there, staring at the water, when Luke found her.

  He moved very quietly along the stone path, with a grace that annoyed her. He made no effort to sneak up on her, but if she hadn’t happened to look up she wouldn’t have known he was approaching. Sundown cast strange shadows on his face, and even the loose white cotton clothes seemed dark and subdued in the half light.

  “Did you come looking for me?” she asked, lifting her head to give him her best dispassionate gaze. One that matched his.

  “No. I thought you were still in your room, nursing your wounds.”

  “I’m quite amazingly recovered,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me how you managed to achieve such a miracle?”

  “Magic?” he suggested.

  “I don’t believe in magic.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me that,” he said, his voice wry. “I already figured that much out. Maybe it was the powerful drugs the healers gave you.”

  “What drugs?”

  His faint smile made it clear she’d risen to the bait he’d tossed before her. “Or maybe it was just the healing power of many people.”

  “Magic again,” she said with a sniff.

  “Life is a lot more fun if you believe in magic,” he said.

  “Life isn’t supposed to be fun. And I don’t think I’m going to take lessons in philosophy from a convicted murderer.”

  He didn’t even blink. “It was manslaughter. And I thought that was exactly why you were here.”

  She bit her lip. She wasn’t going to find out what she wanted to know from him, how to catch him at his own game, if she couldn’t get close to him, and the only way to get close to him was to take his supposed instruction.

  She managed a conciliatory smile, glad the gathering darkness would hide the dishonesty in her eyes. “I want to learn,” she said.

  “And so you shall. Anything you want to know, my child. Ask me anything, and I’ll answer.”

  She absolutely despised being called “my child.” She was no longer anyone’s child, and in all her twenty-nine years she’d never really felt like one. She certainly didn’t see this new age Elmer Gantry as a father figure.

  “Anything?” she echoed in a deceptively sweet voice. “Tell me what happened to Angel.”

  It didn’t faze him. “I thought that Calvin told you. She died.”

  She waited, but he wasn’t about to volunteer any more information. Bastard, she thought.

  “How—did—she—die?” She spoke very slowly and carefully, as if to an idiot.

  His response was less than satisfactory. “At peace,” he said.

  He was baiting her again, all with that soulful innocence. She jumped down off the rock and advanced on him, forgetting her own danger. “Who,” she said, “or what killed her?”

  “It was her time.”

  “One more evasive answer and I’m going to shove you in that pool,” she said, her frustration boiling over.

  “I would have thought your experience with Angel would have taught you the consequences of physical violence,” Luke murmured.

  “You said you’d answer my questions. What happened to Angel?”

  He cocked his head to one side, surveying her out of half-closed eyes. “Such anger, Rachel,” he chided. “You won’t begin to heal until you release your anger.”

  “Then stop pissing me off.”

  “Angel died of a broken neck. She fell off the roof of the hospital building and died instantly. Does that answer your question?”

  “Fell? Or was she pushed?”

  “Actually she jumped. She’d been locked away for her own protection as well as others, but once you let her out she headed straight for the roof. I wanted to spare you that information but you have a habit of pushing.”

  “Why should you spare me?”


  “You’re already dealing with enough guilt,” he said in a soft voice.

  “I have no guilt.”

  “Then you’re unique.”

  “And you’re annoying.”

  His smile widened. His mouth was surprisingly sensual in the darkness. Not that sensuality was an attribute she spent much time in noticing, but in Luke’s case it was hard to ignore. Part of his stock in trade, she supposed dryly. It left her totally unmoved, a small blessing.

  “Part of my job description,” he said. “Spiritual leaders are supposed to be saintly and know the answers. Or at least the right questions.”

  “So tell me something else, O Great Spiritual Leader.” She mocked him. “What are you going to do with the twelve million dollars that should have been mine?”

  He shook his head, making an exaggerated clucking noise. “Stella wanted us to have it,” he said patiently. “And Stella died believing her wishes would be honored. I can’t betray that.”

  She wanted to hit him. Never in her life had she hit someone, but she promised herself then and there that before she left Santa Dolores she would haul off and clobber him. Preferably with something large and heavy.

  But she plastered a calm expression on her face, hoping he wouldn’t see the fury in her eyes. “Of course you couldn’t. And I wouldn’t want her dying wishes betrayed either,” she added, lying through her teeth. “So why don’t you tell me about the kind of peace Stella found here, that was so wonderful it took the place of her only child?” The bitterness was starting to creep back, just slightly, so she added an innocent smile to blunt its effect.

  He took a step toward her in the darkness, and she held her ground, just barely. He was too close, and she hated it. She could feel the warmth of his body through the loose cotton clothing, smell the scent of his skin. He was so close she could practically taste him, and the thought terrified her.

  She could feel her heart racing in sudden panic, feel the breath catching in her throat. At least he wouldn’t reach out and touch her—she was safe as far as that was concerned. He never touched his followers. But then, she wasn’t a follower. And she didn’t really believe that he didn’t touch. Luke Bardell did whatever he wanted. He just did so discreetly.