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By the time the cat relocated to her feet, and she’d snugged herself against Roarke, she was out.
And out, she walked onto the stage in the great arena of Madison Square Garden. The altar stood under a white wash of light. Both Lino, in his priest robes, and Jenkins, in his white suit, stood behind it.
The black and the white, under the brilliance of light.
“We’re all sinners here,” Jenkins said, beaming at her. “Just takes the price of a ticket. SRO, and every one a sinner.”
“Sins aren’t my jurisdiction,” Eve told him. “Crimes are. Murder is my religion.”
“You got an early start.” Lino picked up a silver chalice, toasted her, drank. “Why is it the blood of Christ has to be transfigured out of cheap wine. Want a shot?” he asked Jenkins.
“Got my own, padre.” Jenkins lifted his water bottle. “Every man to his own poison. Brothers and sisters!” He raised his voice, spread his arms. “Let us pray for this fellow sinner, that she will find her path, find the light. That she repents!”
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“I’m not here about my sins.”
“Sins are the weight holding us down, keeping us from reaching up for the hand of God!”
“Want some absolution?” Lino offered. “I give it out daily, twice on Saturday. Can’t buy that ticket into heaven without paying for salvation.”
“Neither of you are who you pretend to be.”
“Are any of us?” Jenkins demanded. “Let’s see the playback.”
The screen behind them flashed on. Dull red light blinking, blinking. Through the small window, SEX! LIVE SEX! beat that red light into the room where Eve, the child she’d been, shivered with the cold as she cut a tiny slice of a molding piece of cheese.
In the dream her heart began to thud. Her throat began to burn.
He was coming.
“I’ve seen this before.” Eve forced herself to keep her eyes on the screen, willed herself not to turn and run from what was coming.
He was coming.
“I know what he did. I know what I did. It doesn’t apply.”
“Judge not,” Lino advised as he shoved up the sleeve of his robes. As the tattoo on his arm began to bleed. “Lest you be judged.”
On-screen, her father—drunk but not drunk enough—struck her. And he fell on her. And he snapped the bone in her arm as he raped her. On the screen, she screamed, and on the stage, she felt it all. The pain, the shock, the fear, and at last, she felt the hilt of the knife in her hand.
She killed him, driving that knife into him, again and again, feeling the blood coat her hands, splatter on her face while her broken arm wept in agony. She stood on the stage and watched. Her stomach turned, but she watched until the child she’d been crawled into a corner, huddled like a wild animal.
“Confess,” Lino ordered her.
“Repent your sins,” Jenkins shouted.
“If that was a sin, I’ll take my lumps with God—if and when.”
“Penance,” Lino demanded.
“Rebirth,” Jenkins preached.
Together they shoved at the table of the altar so that it crashed to the stage, broke into jagged pieces of stone. From the coffin beneath, the bloody ghost of her father rose. And smiled.
“Hell’s waiting, little girl. It’s time you joined me there.”
Without hesitation, Eve drew her weapon, flipped it to full. And killed him again.
