She was closing in. Lacey held up her hands. "No, wait..."
"No waiting. Looks like a few of my friends had a party with you, now it's my turn. I'm gonna cut you, girl... cut you good!"
With that the blonde lunged forward with a vicious, face-high slash, and Lacey found her limbs responding on their own. She didn't need to remember the moves. Hour upon hour of practice had programmed them into her nervous system. Her right leg shot back and stiffened, her left knee bent, her hands darted forward, grabbing the blonde's knife arm at the wrist and elbow, pushing it aside, twisting it, using the woman's own weight and momentum against her to bring her down.
Her Vichy earring flashed near Lacey's face and sudden visions of similar earrings dangling over her while her three captors—
Rage detonated in Lacey. Gritting her teeth she gave an extra twist to the falling woman's arm and was rewarded by a scream of pain as bones ground together, ligaments and tendons stretched, snapped. The woman screamed again, louder. She'd be drawing a crowd soon. Lacey's hand flashed forward, landing a two-knuckle punch on her larynx. With a crunch of cartilage the screaming cut off, replaced by strangled noises as the blonde began to kick and writhe, clutching at her throat with her still-functioning left hand.
Lacey picked up the knife from the grass and stepped back, looking around. Was anyone else coming after her? She and the blonde were alone in the shadows. She watched her struggles, waiting for them to run their course.
"So," Lacey said. "You were gonna cut me, huh? Cut me good. I don't think so."
She checked the knife blade: tanto shaped with the front half of the cutting edge beveled and the rear half saw-toothed. Wicked. If Ms. Vichy had had her way, this blade would be jutting from Lacey's chest about now.
The choking sounds faded, the kicking and writhing ebbed to twisting and twitching. With a final spasm the hand clutching at her throat fell away and she lay limp and still.
Lacey waited another minute, then dropped to her knees beside the dead woman. Mastering her revulsion, she began unbuttoning her cutaway top . . .
CAROLE . . .
Sister Carole trudged through the inky blackness along the street, hugging the curb, hurrying through the moonlit sections between the shadows of the trees, towing her red wagon behind her. She'd loaded it with her Bible, her rosary, her holy water, the blasting caps, her few remaining bombs, and other essentials.
<You're looking for ANOTHER place? And I suppose you'll be starting up this same awful sinfulness again, won't you?>
"I suppose I will," Sister Carole said aloud to the night.
"Hello?" said a woman's voice from the darkness ahead. "Is someone there?"
Carole froze, her hand darting into the pants pocket of her warm-up, finding the electric switch, flipping the cover, placing her thumb on the button. Wires ran from the button through a hole in the pocket to the battery and the cylindrical charge taped to her upper abdomen.
God forgive her, but she would not be taken alive.
She held her silence, barely breathing, waiting. She sensed movement in the shadows ahead, and then a young woman stepped into a moonlight-dappled section of the sidewalk. She held an automatic pistol in each hand.
"I don't want trouble," the woman said. "I just want to know how to get back to St. Anthony's Church."
Carole looked around, wary. Were others lurking in the shadows?
"I think you already know the way," Carole said.
"No, really, I don't."
Carole eyed her spiky hair. "Don't try to fool me. You work for them."
"I don't, I swear."
A plaintive note in the woman's voice struck Carole.
"You dress like one"—although this one's clothes did not fit her well— "and you're armed."
"The clothes are stolen. So are the guns. I've already been attacked twice today. It's not going to happen again."
Again, the ring of truth. Carole squinted through the shadows. This woman did look battered.
"Look," the woman said. "I don't want to hurt you and you don't seem to want to hurt me, so can you just point me toward the church and we'll go our separate ways."
Carole decided to trust her instincts. "I'm headed that way. You can come with me."
"Really? I don't remember seeing you there last night."
"I wasn't." Carole noticed that the woman was barefoot and limping. "You said you were attacked. Did they . .. hurt you?"
The young woman nodded, then sobbed. "They hurt me bad. Real bad."
And then she was leaning against Carole and crying softly on her shoulder. Carole put her free arm around her and tried to soothe her, but kept her thumb on the button in her pocket. You never knew ... never knew ...
After a few minutes the sobs stopped and the young woman stepped back. She wiped her eyes with her bare arms.
"Sorry. It's just... it's been a long night." She pushed\one of the pistols into her waistband and stuck out a hand. "Lacey. With an 'e.'"
"Carole," she said, shaking the hand and smiling, just a little. Something likable about her. "With an 'e.' "
"Were you a member of St. Anthony's parish?" Lacey said as they started walking again.
"I was a nun in the convent."
"Get out! Then you must know my Uncle Joe. He's been a priest there for years."
Carole stopped walking and stared. Could this tough-looking tattooed young woman be related to Father Joe?
"You're Father Cahill's niece?" She couldn't hide her disbelief.
"It's true, and I need to get back to him. He's got to have noticed I'm missing by now and he'll be worried sick."
The genuine concern in Lacey's voice made Carole a believer, but sudden fear stabbed her.
"Hurry," Carole said. She flipped the safety cover closed on the button in her pocket and broke into a fast walk. "We've got to get you back before he goes out searching for you. Once he's away from the church he's in danger."
JOE . . .
They'd started the search with the church grounds—the convent, the rectory, the graveyard—and then crossed the street to the office building. Finding that empty, Joe and the five other men in the search party, all armed to the teeth, had moved through the surrounding houses and buildings. The discovery of a man named Enrico stabbed to death in a neighboring Victorian had shaken them all, especially Joe. He'd opened every door to every room in the old house with the expectation that he'd find Lacey in the same condition.
But no. No sign that she'd ever been in the house. Lacey seemed to have vanished without a trace.
Finally, at Joe's insistence, they'd returned to the office building because that was the last place Lacey had been seen.
Joe stood now at the head of the stairs in the dark third-floor hallway. He turned off his flashlight—to heighten his hearing as much as to save the batteries—and called her name.
"Lacey! Lacey, can you hear me?"
He stood statue still and listened, but all he heard were the voices of the other members of the search party on the floors below.
He felt numb, heartsick. Lacey... how had he let this happen? She'd made it all the way down here from Manhattan on her own, and now she was gone, snatched from under his protective wing. He could see how it had happened. She'd felt safe here with other living around, armed with crosses and guns, ready for anything. She'd let her guard down, got careless . . .
"Lacey! Please!"
And then he heard it. A sound . . . scratching ... so soft it was barely audible. He opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again, trying to locate the sound. It seemed to come from everywhere at first, echoing off the walls of the hallway, but as he concentrated he felt sure it was coming from somewhere ahead and to his left. He opened his eyes and flicked on his flashlight.