20.

Doc hadn't meant to hit her so hard. He had a long night ahead of him, and he didn't want to rush things. He hummed beneath his breath as he carried her through the rubble-strewn hallways of the old hospital annex. She barely weighed anything, and Doc was a strong man. It was easy enough to toss her over his shoulder and make his way through the candlelit passage.

The electricity had been turned off long ago. He wasn't surprised-the wiring dated from the early part of the century, with exposed black wires and white porcelain insulators up near the ceilings. It was one of the reasons the hospital had been closed in the first place-the danger and the cost of replacing the electricity. Sophie had told him she planned to open the place, fix up the rooms when she could afford it. In the meantime it was tightly sealed, so no one could get in.

She hadn't bothered to board up the main door, relying on the substantial locks that were still there. And of course he had the key.

Marty groaned, and Doc quickened his step, heading down the narrow wooden stairs to the old hospital kitchen. It wasn't the first time he'd used the place, but it would be the last. He was going to finish the night in a blaze of glory. Like the fireworks over the lake on the Fourth of July, he thought fondly. A final burst of multiple rockets and then all would be silent.

He'd killed three in one night, long, long ago. He preferred to take his time, choose his subjects carefully, but twenty years ago Lorelei, Valette and Alice had given him no choice.

Valette had come to him first, bleeding from a botched abortion. He'd used the knife on her, a fitting justice. And her father never had to know that his daughter was capable of such a great crime. Alice had shown up a few hours later, looking for her missing friend, her makeup smudged, her hair mussed, smelling of sex and sin.

And then he went hunting for Lorelei, the third of the town whores, determined to finish it all, finish God's work, and take his punishment.

It hadn't worked out that way. No one even guessed that he was the one who'd dispensed justice. No one had known Lorelei was coming to visit him except Valette. No one had seen any of the girls in hours. Except that hellion who worked up at his sister's place.

He'd never meant for anyone else to take the credit for his work. He'd acted wisely, sparingly before that dark night twenty years ago, and he'd always felt a certain pride in his deeds. But the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and the boy had appeared guilty as sin. He was, of course. Guilty, sin-ridden, a thousand crimes on his young, twisted soul. Murder would have followed soon enough-he was simply paying for his crimes ahead of time.

Since then he'd been careful, more selective, and no one had ever guessed there was any connection between Abby Ling's car accident, Sara Ann Whitten's disappearance and Doc's frequent trips out of town.

Tonight there would be four of them. Three were sinners, all in one tainted family. He should have known there was deep wickedness there. He'd chosen Marty at first glance, knowing she had come to Colby to be cleansed of her sin by sword and fire. He had no idea the wickedness ran clear through the family, striking the witless mother, even devouring sweet Sophie. She would be better off dead than living in whoredom. It was only his duty.

And Rima. She lay in her bed at home, her sightless eyes staring out into the night. She'd wept when he told her. He couldn't make her understand that this was his calling. He brought life into the world, and he took it from them when necessary. It was his love for humanity that made him do it. Wickedness must be sought out and destroyed. Surely she understood that?

But she didn't. He knew his saintly Rima hadn't been corrupted-after all, she'd suffered as he had, the loss of their unborn children, blameless infants destined never to walk this vale of tears. The last one had been the hardest. This was the pregnancy that lasted, though Rima had grown sicker and sicker. And when she'd gone into labor two months early, she'd given birth to a monstrosity that had damaged her internally, so severely that she was never well again. And he'd buried the loathsome thing in the cemetery by the village, weeping, as he heard the tramp shriek with laughter from the public beach, mocking him. And he'd known what he had to do.

He'd silenced her laughter. Not that night, when he longed to, but later, when she came to him complaining of headaches. June's headaches came from her vain refusal to wear glasses, but the town had taken Doc's diagnosis of a fatal brain aneurysm with sorrow and acceptance. And he'd followed God's work ever since.

He thought Rima knew. He'd never told her, not wanting to share the burden. And it was a burden-death was a grievous thing to hand out, when he'd been trained to save lives. But there was no turning his back on his destiny, whether he wanted it or not. This duty had been placed on his shoulders, and he had no choice but to carry it out.

He'd always thought Rima would understand. Even knew, deep in her heart, what he did when he went off to the cities of New England and came home weary and grieving. He took no pleasure in killing, only righteous justification.

But he never thought he'd kill Rima. He'd sat by her bed, his head bowed, hands clasped, as he made his confession. This would be the final night-he was going up to the inn and finish his work. Destroy the last nest of vipers in their community, and then take society's punishment. He had no illusions that the courts would understand.

There was always the chance that once more Thomas Griffin would be suspected. Doc had recognized him the first moment he'd seen him in Audley's General Store, and he'd been half tempted to do something about it.

If he'd known the man would corrupt Sophie he wouldn't have hesitated. He'd grieved over that mistake, though in truth he knew that if Griffin was able to corrupt her, then someone else would have done the same. She was ripe for temptation, another fallen angel, doomed to the sins of the flesh. He knew she would have to join her younger sister, and the others.

It was the mother who'd fooled him. He knew she'd lived a sinful life, but madness had touched her, and he thought it was punishment enough. But her madness had brought her special knowledge, and she'd known who he was and what he did. And he'd known she would have to join the children.

He set the candle he was carrying on the rubble-strewn counter and shifted his burden. She moaned again, but she didn't wake. He opened the walk-in cooler, and the stale air rushed past him, making the candlelight sputter and waver. Grace was still where he'd left her, sitting in one of the abandoned cane wheelchairs, her thin hands tied to the armrests, her head sunk low on her chest. He set Marty's unconscious figure down on the floor and moved to Grace's side, suddenly worried. Things weren't going as he'd planned. He might accidentally have given Grace a lethal dose of the powerful sedative. He might have fractured Marty's skull when he brought the gun down on her black-and-pink-streaked hair. Whore's hair, streaked now with blood.

But Grace's breathing was even. She was just knocked out, as he'd wanted. Nothing more. And Marty moved restlessly, still alive. He needed them alive. And he needed Sophie with them. He needed them to feel the bite of the flame as it cleansed their souls and sent them to heaven.

He had no doubts that that was where they would go. He was cleansing them of their sin, sending them on so they would live in eternal blessedness and never know sorrow or pain or wickedness again. His mission weighed heavily on him, but he'd never shunned it. Even when he'd had to put the pillow down on Rima's face to keep her from calling out, keep the screams from echoing over the peaceful village streets of Colby.

He had felt the tears running down his face when he'd finally pulled the pillow away. She didn't look peaceful, and it troubled him. He'd been tempted to bring her body with him, up to the inn, to join in the conflagration, but that would have looked too strange, and he was still waiting to see whether or not the Lord would once more rescue him from discovery. If so, he would simply state that Rima had had a fatal heart attack, and no one would question him. They knew his devotion.

He set the candle on the floor of the cooler. The room wasn't quite airless, and he doubted they'd suffocate. He didn't want them frightened of the dark. After all, they were facing a long journey, and he wished them no ill. He was doing this for them.

He closed the door to the walk-in cooler and stepped back. If either of them regained consciousness they could scream for help and no one would ever hear them. He knew that already-no one had ever heard Valette's screams.

He couldn't leave them in there, of course. The heavy metal walls would preserve their bodies from the cleansing fire. He'd have to bring them back out, into the makeshift chapel, and say prayers over them.

He wrinkled his nose. He didn't like the smell of gasoline-never had. But it worked the best for fires, and he didn't require that much. He'd been siphoning it out of his old truck for weeks now, the truck he'd used to try to drive Sophie off the road, so that no one would know where the gasoline came from. It would burn hot and fast and bright; there was no way the volunteer fire department could get there in time.

He walked back up the narrow stairs, whistling. All he had to do was wait for Sophie to reappear, and the night could reach its inevitable conclusion.

It only took him a few minutes to walk back through the darkened hall of the hospital. He'd been born in that building, some seventy-six years ago. He'd brought five hundred and thirty-three babies into the world-he never lost count of that number. It was only fitting that he should end this way.

There was no sign of Sophie when he reached the kitchen, shutting the door to the abandoned wing closed again. He knew where she was, he knew what she was doing. The greater the sin, the greater the repentance. He picked up the sprig of Judas tears and turned it in his hand.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon.

Marty heard the voice buzzing in her head. She didn't want to listen, she just wanted to sleep. Why were people always trying to interfere with her sleep? Was it so much to ask...?

"Marty! Wake up, child!"

She considered her options. She recognized Grace's voice, but Grace was the last person she wanted to talk to. She was also lying on something hard and disagreeable, and her head hurt like hell, and she made the mistake of opening her eyes.

"Oh, shit!" she said.

"Indeed," Grace said in a grim voice. "Untie my wrists, will you? That crazy old bastard drugged me and I can't move."

Grace's voice was sharp and cool, unlike her usual dreamy tones, and Marty struggled to sit up, peering at her through the gloomy candlelight. They were in some sort of dark, windowless room, and Grace was looking at her with thinly veiled impatience.

"Are you crazy?" Marty demanded.

"As a matter of fact, I'm not," Grace said in the brisk tone no one had heard in months. "I had the good sense to recognize that Doc was the Northeast Kingdom murderer. Not that any of you would listen. I tried to warn you all."

Marty began untying the straps around Grace's thin wrists. "Why didn't you just tell us, you stupid old cow?"

"Because I had no proof. The only thing I had was a knife I was sure he'd used. I found it in one of the old hospital rooms, and I was trying to figure out how to have it tested when someone stole it from me. I had no choice but to pretend to be as spacey as I could to keep Doc busy and away from the two of you. I should have known it wouldn't last forever."

"Doc's a killer?" Marty said in slow disbelief.

"He didn't hit you that hard, Marty. He kills women-God knows how many he's murdered over the years. I don't know why-maybe some kind of Jack the Ripper complex. Why doesn't matter. What does is that he's dangerous."

"And he's got us both locked up in here."

"But he doesn't have Sophie. With any luck she's off with that young man, and he'll have figured out what's going on."

"Why should Mr. Smith care?"

"Because he's not Mr. Smith, you little ninny. He's the boy who was convicted of the murders twenty years ago. The rest of you were too dumb to recognize him, but I could tell right away. I even left a copy of the old newspaper with his picture in it so Sophie would find it and figure it out. But she didn't." Grace's voice was sharp with disgust. "I told her she should read the books I read. She would have picked up on it in a flash."

Marty shivered, suddenly afraid. She didn't want to die. Not with Patrick Laflamme's kiss still sweet on her mouth. "What are we going to do, Gracey?" she asked in a meek voice.

Grace slid out of the chair, putting her arms around Marty's shivering body. "I'll tell you one thing, love. I'm not going to let him hurt you. I promise you that."

Grace's thin arms held her tightly, but Marty had no illusions. Grace's mind might be clear as a bell, but she was still only a slender, middle-aged woman. If it came to a showdown between her and Doc, there was no question who would win.

But she didn't say anything. She just hugged Grace back. "Sophie's gonna kill you when she finds out you were faking," she muttered.

"That's the least of my worries right now," Grace said with ghoulish complacency. "She'll forgive me."

"I just hope she gets the chance," Marty said gloomily.

"She will, love. She will."

Griffin didn't sleep. The moon scudded behind the clouds, spreading a shadow over the clearing, and he felt a sudden chill. The evening had grown cooler, and in a few minutes he'd be freezing his ass off. As would Sophie, since her delectable ass was still pointing upward as she sprawled across his body.

He wasn't about to move her, wake her up. Her skin was cooling, but she seemed so peaceful that he didn't want anything to change that. And then she sneezed, twice, lifting her head to stare at him.

"Something bit my butt," she said.

"It wasn't me. Not that I wouldn't be more than happy to, but you've been lying on top of me...." Before he could finish his sentence she'd rolled off him, scampering off the picnic table too fast for him to stop her. He could have kicked himself.

"Where are my clothes?" she asked in a worried voice, not looking at him now, intent on searching the night-shrouded clearing.

Damned shame about the moon, he thought, sitting up. He could still see her fairly clearly in the night-her pale skin and lush curves moved through the shadows with hurried grace. He reached behind him for the scattered clothing, tossing the petticoat in her direction.

"Here you go," he said amiably.

She pulled it on, and she looked quite fetching bare-breasted, barefooted in a white lacy petticoat. He really hated giving up the bra, but she was holding out her hand, so he handed the rest of her clothes over to her, with the exception of the skimpy panties. He saw his jeans come flying at him, and he caught them before they hit him in the face. He'd had every intention of walking back to the house bare-assed, but Sophie clearly had other ideas, and he climbed off the table and pulled them on. As he moved, the unused condom fell on the ground, and he just barely stifled a groan.

"What's wrong?" she said sharply.

"Nothing. Where do you think you're going?" It was a simple-enough question.

"Back home, of course. I need to check on my mother."

"Your sister can look after your mother. We haven't finished."

"We haven't?" she said, momentarily distracted. "What else were we going to do?"

"Well, I thought we could try it standing up...."

"I didn't mean that," she said hastily. "Besides, we don't need to do it tonight."

"I do," he said. "Your mother's sound asleep, Sophie. Wouldn't you like to do it in a bed for a change? Mattresses have a number of advantages, not the least of which is it's easier on the knees. Yours and mine."

He didn't need the moonlight to know she was blushing. "Come on, Sophie," he said softly. "You know you want to."

She was wavering, he knew it. He'd managed to turn a prim-and-proper spinster into a healthy animal almost as hungry as he was. He wanted her in his bed, now.

"I can't," she said. "My mother had a bad spell tonight, and Doc's watching her. I have to make sure Marty's home and that Grace is sleeping. And Doc should be able to go home and take care of Rima, and..."

"Go check on them and come back to me. They'll be fine. And when you do, find something slinky to wear," he said wickedly. "It's a crime to keep covering yourself up in those stupid ruffles."

"I like ruffles."

"You're crazy," he said flatly.

"Actually, it's my mother who really went crazy tonight, accusing people of murder, saying that the flowers were talking to her."

A sudden chill settled over him that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature. "Flowers?"

"Doc brought me some pretty yellow flowers, and Grace started insisting that the flowers were talking to her, telling her he was a murderer. Sweet old Doc, who wouldn't hurt a flea."

"Sweet old Doc," Griffin echoed in a hollow voice.

"I really have to check on her," Sophie said. "But I'll come back."

"Sure," Griffin said absently, his brain working feverishly. Pretty yellow flowers, in Sophie's kitchen, on the graves of the women who'd died. Pretty yellow flowers talking to crazy old women, telling them who killed.

He didn't even notice when she left. He was trying to remember something, and it kept eluding him. He couldn't even begin to guess what it was, he only knew it was important. A matter of life and death. And if he didn't capture that long-lost memory then disaster would flow down over all of them. One more time.

He looked up and realized Sophie was gone. She was going to be pissed, he thought. She wouldn't like the fact that he'd gone off into some kind of trance, ignoring her. He wouldn't be surprised if she went home, locked the doors to keep him out and went straight to bed, furious with him.

He'd learned more than prelaw in prison. He'd learned how to hot-wire cars and jimmy most locks. As soon as he figured out what was preying on his mind he'd pay Miss Sophie Davis a little moonlight visit. Her bed was as good as his for what he had in mind, though she was going to have to be a little quieter when he made her come. Which he intended to do, any number of times.

He headed back to the cottage, making his way through the dark woods unerringly. He hoped Sophie hadn't gotten lost again, but he imagined he'd hear her if she did. She was about as delicate as a stampeding elephant.

He chuckled to himself. She wouldn't like that comparison. She didn't seem to have the faintest idea how completely gorgeous she was. It was a crime to hide a body as fine as hers in all those layers. Though he had to admit it kept other men away, making her nicely vulnerable when he showed up.

He'd give her half an hour, and then he was going after her. He took a fast shower, threw on a clean pair of jeans and an old flannel shirt, this time pocketing half a dozen condoms. Nothing like locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, but with any luck they were still safe.

And if they weren't? He wasn't going to go there, not now. He couldn't even begin to think about what his reaction might be, and besides, he had other things occupying his mind, like talking flowers and Doc, and...

It hit him so fast he almost fell over. A shock of memory so intense, so unexpected, that he felt dizzy. He stumbled into a chair by the empty fireplace, staring sightlessly into the ashes.

Lorelei had flowers in her hair. Yellow flowers, that he'd never seen before, and when he'd questioned her, full of adolescent jealousy, she'd laughed and told him she'd gotten them from a gentleman admirer.

Things had gone from bad to worse then. He'd been angry, shouted at her, and she'd shouted back. She'd always had a fondness for rough sex, and that night had been no different, tinged with the knowledge that he was leaving her, getting the hell out of Colby with the morning sun.

She'd scratched him, as she liked to do. They'd found traces of his skin under her fingernails, even though she'd been in the lake for hours when he'd found her. The yellow flowers had still been tangled in her hair. Her blood-soaked body covered with flowers in the toolshed as he held her and cried. And Doc watched.

He dove for the telephone, panic rushing through him. She said Doc had brought the flowers. Doc, who'd been around from the beginning, who testified against him, who knew everyone and their secrets. Doc with the yellow flowers and the gentle smile. And the murderous hands.

He dialed the old-fashioned phone, thanking God that he'd remembered to scrawl the number of the inn on the old green blotter. The telephone rang on the other end, an odd, hollow ring, and a moment later it clicked.