The other option made more sense anyway and required of Anthony almost nothing. All he needed to kill his wife waited for him in the master bathroom. Good old Dr. Carroll had left him more than enough meds for the task.
Maybe that was the whole idea from the beginning.
He could grind up the pills and pour them down her throat. She’d never even wake up.
And, after the pills took her away, if he couldn’t stand what he’d done, there were plenty of pills to take care of him, too.
But that defeats the whole point, the Logical Voice said. Then Brendan will be theirs for good. If that’s what’s going to happen, you might as well stop wasting time and get on with it.
As usual, the Logical Voice was right.
He stood, walked down the hall, stopped at the open bedroom door. Chloe and her sister lay as completely asleep as they had been a few hours ago.
Stop wasting time and get on with it.
He approached the bed.
Chloe was curled in a fetal position beneath the sheets. Her face had, for the moment at least, regained some of its lost firmness, its youth. Here lay the woman he had pledged his life to. The woman he vowed to honor and cherish. The woman for whom he had once stood up in the middle of a crowded New York City restaurant and exclaimed, I love you, Chloe Belmont, and I want you to be my wife. People applauded. Chloe cried when he slipped the ring on her finger.
He caressed the side of her face. A slight tremor of life shook her body. It was like the tremors that shook her body when she orgasmed.
He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Chloe Williams, and I always will.”
* * *
Ellis’s cleaning crew had taken everything with them, including the blood-stained tire iron. That, however, was not a problem. Before he got in Chloe’s car, he took the Craftsman Rip-Claw Hammer from his tool box. Ellis wouldn’t know what hit him.
3
The Giant Jesus twitched on the wall. The smell of flowers filled the room, but Brendan knew it was from the candles and wondered if there was something more significant to that. Did the use of scented candles in place of real flowers signify some coverup? What would Bo Blast think if he were here on his knees before a giant crucified Jesus with people all around praying for a successful night in which God’s work was to be done? Would Bo find the candles odd?
Ellis was on Brendan’s right and Dwayne on his left. They had been in this position for several minutes, heads bowed, hands folded before them, the flickering flames of the candles the only sound.
Other people had been in here, enraptured in prayer, when Dwayne opened the door and told him it was time to ask for God’s blessing and then fully embrace what lay ahead. “You must do it with no hesitation,” Dwayne said.
For my family, Brendan told himself.
The room grew warmer and exhaustion pushed down Brendan’s eyelids. He fought to keep his eyes open but the lids got heavier and heavier like industrial garage doors. Sleep gripped his body and he spasmed suddenly out of it.
The Giant Jesus’ head had rolled from one side to the other. Jesus had been staring down to his right, eyes seeking mercy from the spectators. Now, the head was tilted to the crook of his left shoulder and those looming hollows focused directly on Brendan.
He could have screamed, almost did, but it had to be an illusion. He was remembering the statue incorrectly, that’s all. Exhaustion and anxiety were screwing with his head, making him see things.
Unless it’s God making you see those things.
This thought deserved refutation, but he had none to offer. God, he thought with awe.
When Ellis spoke, his voice startled Brendan, shooting a cold shiver through him. “Lord God, whose we are and whom we serve,” he said, “help us glorify you this day, in all the thoughts of our hearts, in all the works of our hands, as becomes those who are your servants, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
“Amen,” Dwayne said and several people in the room echoed the sentiment.
Without looking at Brendan, Ellis said, “Now, repeat after me: Lord Jesus, in whom I seek empowerment, I give you my hands to do your work.”
Brendan repeated the line.
“I give you my feet to go your way. I give you my tongue to speak your words.”
As Brendan repeated what Ellis said, an invisible weight settled on his shoulders. These were not simply words; this was a statement of commitment, a devotion to something much larger and greater than anyone could comprehend.
“I give you my mind that you may think in me. I give you my spirit that you may pray in me.”
This was something priests said before they earned the right to administer communion. This was what warriors recited before they took the field with battle axe or machine gun.
“I give you my whole self without doubt.”
This was permanent. This was forever.
“Amen.”
Jesus blinked. His head moved, but perhaps it had never moved at all. Not an illusion; that was a sign that the pledge had been heard and acknowledged. Brendan was devoted to God now, and God would show him the path to empowerment. Almost a minute passed before anyone spoke.
“Are you ready?” Dwayne asked.
Though he didn’t know what to say, Brendan said simply, “I am.” Those two words had come from somewhere deep inside him, a place God had touched.
“Do you want God to save you?” Ellis asked.
“My family,” Brendan said. “Mom, Dad, Tyler.”
“But not you?”
He wanted everything to be like it used to be. That could never be. Delaney was dead. “I want them to be happy, with or without me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Remarkable.”
Ellis had a familiar expression painted on his face, one Dad had given him many times. Pride.
“Dwayne will tell you what you need to do. Don’t be afraid. You are one of God’s disciples now. The way may be dark at times, but in the darkness there is a gateway to the illumination of the soul. It can lead you to wonderful places.”
Brendan wanted to tell him he had heard that before but he kept his mouth shut. This was a serious moment, a solemn one in which he was pledging his loyalty to a cause impossible to fully comprehend.
“The time is now,” Ellis said. “Are you ready?”
“I am.”
* * *
A few minutes later, Dwayne was explaining how to burn a house down.
4
“It’s time.”
Sasha’s voice brought him out of the darkness of sleep. It took him a moment to recall where he was and realize he had to keep the charade going because his plan had not yet hit the crucial part. He had heard a phone ring. Had that been in his dreams? He had to grab the cell. Paul was waiting.
Sasha was wearing her cloak again, standing next to the bed. Chalice in one hand, knife in the other, she smiled. Shadows danced on her face from a lit candle on the nightstand.
“You’ve been out for over an hour.”
He sat up quickly. The sun had set a while ago, darkness only waiting outside her bedroom window. Paul was waiting for the signal; the cellphone was in his jeans pocket. Where were his jeans?
“My clothes?”
She picked up the black cloak draped on the bed. “You need to wear this or my mom will know something’s up.”
“You didn’t throw my jeans in the tub, did you? My sister’s cell was in there.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Your clothes are fine.”
He nodded, started to bunch up the cloak to slide over his head. After the deed was done, he could hunt for his clothes. It wouldn’t be good if the police searched the house and found two sets of his clothes. He’d have a lot of difficult questions to answer.