gently into her lower lip, then opened the top drawer. She didn’t attempt to look downward. She couldn’t see anything at all in the darkened house.
Only shadows.
And darkness.
Haunting, lonely, darkness.
She didn’t need to see. She drew out the hefty Magnum there. She was a scholar. Well read. And she’d read about suicide. Pills might just make her sick—if she could find a druggist who’d give her enough of the guaranteed-dead kind.
No. This was the way she chose.
All she had to do was put the gun in her mouth and squeeze the trigger. It would be fast—and foolproof.
Rowenna felt the cold steel. Lifted the gun. Set it into her mouth. Choked, but didn’t withdraw it. She moved her fingers against the trigger…
And froze.
To her amazement, there were…
Voices.
“I thought you said she wasn’t going to do it now?”
“Well, I’m sorry. I was wrong. Who’d have imagined she’d be in such a hurry?”
“She is suicidal, remember?” An angry hiss.
“But even then—” A husky, masculine whisper.
“We can’t argue! What now?” The female voice again, aggravated, anxious.
I am losing my mind! Rowenna thought. First she had lost everything she’d lived for, then her sight. Now she was definitely losing her mind as well.
Squeeze the trigger! she commanded herself. It’s easy, just squeeze …
“No! Don’t you dare. Drop that!” she suddenly heard. No longer a whisper. Words. Shouted. Angry, threatening.
The gun was slapped from her. Her finger caught in the trigger.
She heard the explosion…
Then dimly…
So dimly…
Words, again.
Curses!
“Oh, dammit to hell! Now I’ve gone and done it!”
“Don, your language!”
“What difference does it make now? I think I’ve managed to kill her myself!”
Chapter 8
S ISTER MARY CLAIRE COULD feel Death.
It was coming.
And she was terrified.
Horrified. All of her life, she had felt her calling. Had known that she was meant to endure mosquito bites, bee stings, cold nights, hot days, and long, endless hours. She had taken her greatest pleasure in helping little children lost in the world, and it hadn’t mattered where. She had enjoyed the time she had taken to raise her own nephew because she had always believed she had time. Time to be with children. Who were young. Who were life. She had always believed…
Even when the cancer had come. Even when she had been in pain. Pain was a part of life. She had believed in her Heavenly Father, and she had known that everything would be all right. She had been cheerful through every moment of her illness.
Until now.
Now there was no pain. Now there was morphine. Father William was at her side. He had given her the last rites, and she had managed to listen, but she had wanted to scream, wanted to shout out that it was all a hoax, that words didn’t matter, that the Church didn’t matter. She was Sister Mary Claire. She was supposed to be so good—a candidate for sainthood, just about. Her endless, never-questioning faith inspired those around her. Her patience, fortitude, and good cheer …
It was a lie.
That was what was so horrible! It was as if her whole life had been a lie, a pretense. She had thought she had believed—when there had been nothing. All of her life she had said that she believed.
But she hadn’t been dying then.
And now …
Now she was.
And she didn’t believe.
It had all been a lie. Her whole life. Like millions of others out there, she had just been paying lip service to a fantasy.
Once, there had been life and magic.
Now, there was just death.
She was in her room at the home. Father William—that little puppy, too young to have learned much about the way of the world!—was at her side. It was a spacious enough room. She lived in a wonderfully generous community, and thought, by the very nature of their lives, retired religious did not need much in the way of material luxuries, her surroundings were pleasant. A beautiful painting of Christ beamed
Only shadows.
And darkness.
Haunting, lonely, darkness.
She didn’t need to see. She drew out the hefty Magnum there. She was a scholar. Well read. And she’d read about suicide. Pills might just make her sick—if she could find a druggist who’d give her enough of the guaranteed-dead kind.
No. This was the way she chose.
All she had to do was put the gun in her mouth and squeeze the trigger. It would be fast—and foolproof.
Rowenna felt the cold steel. Lifted the gun. Set it into her mouth. Choked, but didn’t withdraw it. She moved her fingers against the trigger…
And froze.
To her amazement, there were…
Voices.
“I thought you said she wasn’t going to do it now?”
“Well, I’m sorry. I was wrong. Who’d have imagined she’d be in such a hurry?”
“She is suicidal, remember?” An angry hiss.
“But even then—” A husky, masculine whisper.
“We can’t argue! What now?” The female voice again, aggravated, anxious.
I am losing my mind! Rowenna thought. First she had lost everything she’d lived for, then her sight. Now she was definitely losing her mind as well.
Squeeze the trigger! she commanded herself. It’s easy, just squeeze …
“No! Don’t you dare. Drop that!” she suddenly heard. No longer a whisper. Words. Shouted. Angry, threatening.
The gun was slapped from her. Her finger caught in the trigger.
She heard the explosion…
Then dimly…
So dimly…
Words, again.
Curses!
“Oh, dammit to hell! Now I’ve gone and done it!”
“Don, your language!”
“What difference does it make now? I think I’ve managed to kill her myself!”
Chapter 8
S ISTER MARY CLAIRE COULD feel Death.
It was coming.
And she was terrified.
Horrified. All of her life, she had felt her calling. Had known that she was meant to endure mosquito bites, bee stings, cold nights, hot days, and long, endless hours. She had taken her greatest pleasure in helping little children lost in the world, and it hadn’t mattered where. She had enjoyed the time she had taken to raise her own nephew because she had always believed she had time. Time to be with children. Who were young. Who were life. She had always believed…
Even when the cancer had come. Even when she had been in pain. Pain was a part of life. She had believed in her Heavenly Father, and she had known that everything would be all right. She had been cheerful through every moment of her illness.
Until now.
Now there was no pain. Now there was morphine. Father William was at her side. He had given her the last rites, and she had managed to listen, but she had wanted to scream, wanted to shout out that it was all a hoax, that words didn’t matter, that the Church didn’t matter. She was Sister Mary Claire. She was supposed to be so good—a candidate for sainthood, just about. Her endless, never-questioning faith inspired those around her. Her patience, fortitude, and good cheer …
It was a lie.
That was what was so horrible! It was as if her whole life had been a lie, a pretense. She had thought she had believed—when there had been nothing. All of her life she had said that she believed.
But she hadn’t been dying then.
And now …
Now she was.
And she didn’t believe.
It had all been a lie. Her whole life. Like millions of others out there, she had just been paying lip service to a fantasy.
Once, there had been life and magic.
Now, there was just death.
She was in her room at the home. Father William—that little puppy, too young to have learned much about the way of the world!—was at her side. It was a spacious enough room. She lived in a wonderfully generous community, and thought, by the very nature of their lives, retired religious did not need much in the way of material luxuries, her surroundings were pleasant. A beautiful painting of Christ beamed
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