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She heard the knock on the door and pasted a sultry smile on her face, double-checking the mirror once more to see that every detail was just right, then pulled the curtain across her staging area and whispered under her breath, “showtime.”
At the door she paused, took in a deep breath, and slid the dead bolt to peer into the darkened hallway.
A tall man in a poncho stood waiting. “I’m here for Helen,” he said in a low voice that caused a little spark that started in her tailbone and sizzled up her spine.
“You found her.” She let the door fall open and stepped back as he came inside.
In that second she sensed something was wrong. He wasn’t what she’d expected from a john. This tall man in dark glasses was wearing a clerical collar beneath a poncho, a slash of white as if he were with the clergy. It was a little more than theatrical and she thought he was wearing thick face makeup—concealer of a sort—as if he were hiding acne, or some other facial imperfection, maybe even a tattoo? But why? For vanity’s sake? Or because he could be recognized? Warning bells clanged in her head. She’d read about some freak who’d dressed as a man of the cloth and had strangled women with a rosary.
Surely this wasn’t the guy. No way. She couldn’t be that unlucky.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said, covering her case of nerves, which only increased as she watched him slowly slide the dead bolt into place. “I was expecting someone. Is there—” Was his hand in a pocket? Did he have a gun? A knife? A damned sharpened rosary? “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes.” His voice was low. Almost sexy.
Still, the mood was off.
She wasn’t buying it.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said. “I don’t do business with a . . .” She motioned with her hand to his clerical collar, so stark and white. “Not a priest.” Even for her, that was a bridge too far.
“Why not?” He was advancing and withdrawing whatever it was from beneath the poncho.
A crisp hundred-dollar bill. As if that were enough. What was with this guy? Then she noticed the bill was marred. Ben Franklin’s eyes had been blacked out with a marker or something.
Oh. Jesus.
He laid the bill on a small table, then retrieved something else from his pocket, a rattling of glass and then deep red rosary beads winked in the light.
Her heart stopped for a second. “Not in my wheelhouse,” she said, backing away. “This isn’t happening. Take your money. No harm, no foul, Father.”
“We had a date,” he reminded her.
“Right. But I changed my mind and—”
“You can’t. We had an agreement.”
No money had changed hands, but she knew he wouldn’t accept that. “Listen. You need to leave,” she said firmly, her voice no longer a whisper. “Just go.”
“Why?”
“I told you—I don’t do priests.” Not even freaks dressed up in clerical garb. “Get out.” She pointed to the door and saw a smile crawl across his face. An evil, determined leer that turned her blood to ice.
Time to end this.
Time to end itnow!
She pushed a button on her watch, which connected her directly to 9-1-1.
Too late!
He leaped, the rosary over her head, encircling her throat. She kicked upward. This was not happening!
She felt the strand tightening and his weight against her body as his muscles flexed, drawing the beads—so sharp—into her flesh. No. No. No! Struggling, she flailed, reached behind to the makeup counter, her fingers knocking over tubes of lipstick and bottles of nail polish to the floor.
Desperately she tried to breathe, to suck in any air as he pressed forward, determinedly walking her backward.
She was light-headed, her lungs on fire.
