lights go. He kept looking to make sure the whole block wasn’t going to go, but it’s Just Benedict’s house.”
“Did he see anyone?” Peter interrupted.
“Patience, my friend. Yes, Mr. Williams saw someone leaving the house just a few minutes later. And this is what makes this whole thing even more bizarre. The suspect was dressed like a priest. Williams watched him walk to a car that was parked a short way down the block—too far for him to get any details, so don’t bother asking—and drive away.”
“So after a while,” Peter continued for him, “the guy’s curiosity is piqued and he comes over here.”
“Calls first actually, and getting no answer, comes over to find this mess. There is another set of footprints besides Williams’s, but the snow piled up so quick there was no way to get a good look at them.”
What the hell was going on? Peter wanted to know. That branch of the Vatican, which was pretty obviously involved here, had not been so active in a century. And Karl Von Reinman’s killing, though surely unrelated to these murders, must be Vatican work as well. What the hell were they up to?
“Why do you say ‘dressed like a priest’?” Octavian asked Marcopoulos. “Perhaps he was a priest.”
Janet Harris. Roger Martin. Dan Benedict. Did the killer know that Peter had been asking the right questions? Most probably, he thought. And so he might be next on the list. He was sure he could take care of himself.
Asking the right questions.
Meaghan had been the one asking the questions.
Ted drove. It had started snowing again.
Meaghan was wide-awake.
“Wide-fucking-awake,” she mumbled angrily to herself.
She stared at the ceiling in a vain attempt to overcome her insomnia and shake the cobwebs from her head, cobwebs that held an image of Peter Octavian that, try as she might, she could not put into focus. In the madness of the last couple of days, the more often she had tried to thrust him from her mind, the more often she had been surprised by his intrusion into her thoughts.
He disturbed her. Not only tonight, when he had left so abruptly, but from the moment they first met. There was something about him that made Meaghan profoundly uncomfortable, as if for some reason, she did not belong. Or perhaps it was Octavian who didn’t belong.
“So what’s the biggie?” she asked herself quietly, a bad habit Janet had often chided her about. “You think he’s a creep, right?”
Ah, there’s the rub, she thought.
She didn’t think Peter Octavian was a creep at all. Sure he made her nervous. But he also created a longing in her that did not originate between her legs. Not to say—she chuckled—that he wasn’t sexy as hell (if you liked the type), but that wasn’t the cause for this longing or for the fascination she felt for him. There was an empty feeling in her stomach when she thought of him.
“Christ’s sake!” she said aloud, and rolled over, sighing heavily, to face the wall. “He’s just a guy,” she told herself. “No matter how peculiar he is, he’s just a man.”
Convinced that she had rationalized quite enough for the evening, Meaghan closed her eyes and attempted to sleep. It was only a moment before she felt it growing again, in the pit of her stomach, like a tear forming in her eye. She had been through it over and over since he’d left.
She wanted him, of that there was no doubt. But that was far from normal behavior for her. Normally, it took her a long time to make that kind of decision, especially now when taking a lover, male or female, could mean risking your life. And it was not like Peter had made any moves on her, beyond some very natural flirting. Her desire was a dark secret weighing on her mind.
Certainly, he had some special quality that had touched a chord within her. But what the hell was it? There was an aura about him that attracted her like musk, but she couldn’t name it.
And then she could.
Finally. Wonderfully.
And maybe now
“Did he see anyone?” Peter interrupted.
“Patience, my friend. Yes, Mr. Williams saw someone leaving the house just a few minutes later. And this is what makes this whole thing even more bizarre. The suspect was dressed like a priest. Williams watched him walk to a car that was parked a short way down the block—too far for him to get any details, so don’t bother asking—and drive away.”
“So after a while,” Peter continued for him, “the guy’s curiosity is piqued and he comes over here.”
“Calls first actually, and getting no answer, comes over to find this mess. There is another set of footprints besides Williams’s, but the snow piled up so quick there was no way to get a good look at them.”
What the hell was going on? Peter wanted to know. That branch of the Vatican, which was pretty obviously involved here, had not been so active in a century. And Karl Von Reinman’s killing, though surely unrelated to these murders, must be Vatican work as well. What the hell were they up to?
“Why do you say ‘dressed like a priest’?” Octavian asked Marcopoulos. “Perhaps he was a priest.”
Janet Harris. Roger Martin. Dan Benedict. Did the killer know that Peter had been asking the right questions? Most probably, he thought. And so he might be next on the list. He was sure he could take care of himself.
Asking the right questions.
Meaghan had been the one asking the questions.
Ted drove. It had started snowing again.
Meaghan was wide-awake.
“Wide-fucking-awake,” she mumbled angrily to herself.
She stared at the ceiling in a vain attempt to overcome her insomnia and shake the cobwebs from her head, cobwebs that held an image of Peter Octavian that, try as she might, she could not put into focus. In the madness of the last couple of days, the more often she had tried to thrust him from her mind, the more often she had been surprised by his intrusion into her thoughts.
He disturbed her. Not only tonight, when he had left so abruptly, but from the moment they first met. There was something about him that made Meaghan profoundly uncomfortable, as if for some reason, she did not belong. Or perhaps it was Octavian who didn’t belong.
“So what’s the biggie?” she asked herself quietly, a bad habit Janet had often chided her about. “You think he’s a creep, right?”
Ah, there’s the rub, she thought.
She didn’t think Peter Octavian was a creep at all. Sure he made her nervous. But he also created a longing in her that did not originate between her legs. Not to say—she chuckled—that he wasn’t sexy as hell (if you liked the type), but that wasn’t the cause for this longing or for the fascination she felt for him. There was an empty feeling in her stomach when she thought of him.
“Christ’s sake!” she said aloud, and rolled over, sighing heavily, to face the wall. “He’s just a guy,” she told herself. “No matter how peculiar he is, he’s just a man.”
Convinced that she had rationalized quite enough for the evening, Meaghan closed her eyes and attempted to sleep. It was only a moment before she felt it growing again, in the pit of her stomach, like a tear forming in her eye. She had been through it over and over since he’d left.
She wanted him, of that there was no doubt. But that was far from normal behavior for her. Normally, it took her a long time to make that kind of decision, especially now when taking a lover, male or female, could mean risking your life. And it was not like Peter had made any moves on her, beyond some very natural flirting. Her desire was a dark secret weighing on her mind.
Certainly, he had some special quality that had touched a chord within her. But what the hell was it? There was an aura about him that attracted her like musk, but she couldn’t name it.
And then she could.
Finally. Wonderfully.
And maybe now
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