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“I know what you did.” Montoya cut her off as the shriek of sirens reached her ears. “I saw it all. You and Cruz, both of you will have your chance to give a full statement.”
Kristi seized up the argument. “If you saw it, then you know he was only saving me. Saving my child’s life!”
“Your what?”
“I’m pregnant!” she said, and for the first time since that horrible, excruciating night she felt tears burn in the back of her eyes. How close had she come to losing this baby? Jay’s baby?
Montoya tried to clarify, “You’re—?”
“Yes!” And she felt the weight of two sets of eyes upon her, both Montoya brothers registered their surprise.
Cruz took a chance, turning to face her. “Jesus. Pregnant? And you came here and—?”
“I had a gun. It’s in there.” She hitched her chin toward the pantry that was now a morgue. “It’s . . . it was Jay’s.”
“But a baby?” he whispered, stunned.
“I know. I know. Dumb. But here we are.”
A muscle worked in Montoya’s jaw. “The law is the law,” he said, and Kristi didn’t interrupt him even though, by her father’s account and her own experience, she knew Reuben Montoya didn’t always play by the rules and was known to bend the law to the breaking point. “Cruz shot Aldo Lucerno and he’s wanted in another state. Oregon.”
Cruz nodded and said to Kristi, “It’s okay.”
“What? Are you kidding? No, no, it’s not okay.” She shook her head. “It’s not okay at all!”
“The way it has to be.” Cruz sent her a look, his eyes holding hers. “I’ll be fine. Pet your dog for me.”
“What? My dog?”
“Dave.”
“I know, but—?” What was he talking about? What did Dave have to do with anything? The sirens were close now. Screaming. Blue and red lights flashed from the front of the house.
“I stopped by your house and got him all riled up,” Cruz explained. “So please.” Again he sent her a steady look. “Let him know it’s okay. Pet him for me.” His eyes, still intent, tried to convey some silent message, one she was supposed to read. He repeated, “For me.”
“Okay, but . . .” Pet the dog? For him? She didn’t get it. She was lost.
Footsteps thundered outside, sounding like a herd of wild horses.
“The cavalry,” Montoya said, and for the first time since showing up at the Cookes’ house, a bit of relief was visible in his sharp features.
In a second, two cops burst through the back door. “Police!”
“It’s clear!” Montoya yelled. “Drop your weapons. Where are the EMTs?”
“Right behind us,” the first cop, a short woman, replied. She holstered her sidearm.
“Get them in here,” Montoya ordered. “Now!”
* * *
Sam shivered, her body still jerking from the third time Father John had stunned her. He’d sent over a hundred thousand volts through her before rolling her convulsing body in a tarp and dragging her into this godforsaken place—a cavern converted to some kind of bunker—in the swamp somewhere.
Water dripped from what appeared to be warped, rotten timbers holding up the remains of a ceiling. A small stream trickled across the flat stones of the floor where dozens of votive candles lit the wide chamber. Their tiny flames flickered and cast shifting shadows on the crumbling stone walls. Everywhere, permeating the air, was the smell of dank, moist earth.
He’d tied her to a simple straight-backed chair, the only piece of furniture on the uneven rock floor. But he’d had difficulty controlling her quivering body, her bonds not as tight as he’d intended as she couldn’t “sit still!” as he’d commanded when lashing her to the chair.
Her wobbling wrists were bound to the chair’s back where it met the seat, her legs, still trembling, strapped as best he could to its spindly legs. She was immobile aside from her head and he, that vulgar excuse of a man who dared wear the robes of a priest, who had the audacity to call himself “Father,” slowly circled her. There was nothing holy about him, nothing the least bit venerated or hallowed. He was evil personified and worse yet, that wicked, malignant soul was garbed in the dressings of the blessed along with reflective sunglasses that didn’t hide the scab running down one side of his face.
