The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,92
‘You made a promise,’ she said. ‘Like the others.’
What promise?
‘You made a promise, and now he will take his due.’
The woman began to slowly undress Michelle. Michelle could do nothing to stop her. Piece by piece the woman removed her clothes, folding them neatly on the floor next to the mattress.
When the woman removed the last of Michelle’s clothing she took a white cloth from her bag and put it over Michelle’s eyes.
Michelle heard footsteps. How much time had passed? She had no idea. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t fight.
‘Thyatira,’ came a whisper. ‘Jezebel.’
Seconds later Michelle felt the mattress sag. First one side, then the other. Someone was on the bedding with her. Someone was kneeling over her.
‘If you let me keep my daughter I will do anything. I will even make a deal with the devil,’ the voice whispered in her ear.
Michelle began to cry. Those were her words. She had gotten her wish and now she was going to pay for it.
‘Ego te absolvo,’ the whisperer said.
The moments of Michelle Calvin’s life blistered through her mind – shadow-ridden images, long-forgotten voices, coils of memory unfurling at hellish speed.
‘A peccatis tuis.’
Michelle felt a fingertip at the base of her throat. The touch was gentle, probing, almost sensual. Try as she wanted, Michelle could not recoil from its touch.
‘In nomine Patris.’
The finger was replaced by something else. Something cold.
‘Et Filii.’
In the last second of her life, in the hollow place between two breaths, Michelle Calvin knew what it was.
‘Et Spiritus Sancti.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Byrne walked into the office, a converted rowhouse on Thirteenth Street, at just before 10 a.m. The waiting room was standard issue – rugged loveseat and two chairs, all upholstered in a non-threatening navy blue fabric. Two cheap mall prints on the wall, also non-threatening. The woman behind the reception desk was mousy but efficient-looking, with dull brown hair, freshly scrubbed skin. She wore a twenty-year-old Timex. Her nametag identified her as Antonia.
Byrne put on his best new-patient, not in the least bit crazy smile. Antonia looked up, returned a half-smile of her own.
‘Hi,’ Byrne said.
‘Hello.’
‘I have a ten o’clock appointment with Dr Goodwin.’
‘Okay.’ She turned to her computer. ‘And your name?’
And just how many people have a ten o’clock appointment with Dr Goodwin today? ‘Byrne,’ he said. ‘Kevin Byrne.’
The woman typed for twenty seconds. Byrne couldn’t imagine that the appointment calendar was ten folders deep on the computer, but he waited patiently.
‘Here we are,’ the woman said. ‘Could you verify your full address and home phone number, please?’
Deep breath. Calm, Kevin. He gave her his street address, and home number, which really wasn’t a phone at all, but rather a wire connected to an answering machine. He really didn’t want to get calls on that line, and Antonia reinforced the notion.
‘Could I get your full address, please?’ she asked. ‘Including the city and zip code?’
Ah, Byrne thought. This was a test. They were testing his patience – his anger threshold – in the outer office. The session had already begun!
‘That would be Philadelphia, 19147.’
‘Got it.’
‘That’s in Pennsylvania.’
The woman flicked him a chilly glance. ‘I assumed the Pennsylvania part.’
Yet the 215 area code didn’t clue you in to the Philadelphia part. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, then. Just have a seat. I’ll let Dr Goodwin know you’re here.’
‘Thanks, Antonia.’
The woman bristled at the familiarity, but that was the effect Byrne was going for.
He picked one of the chairs, cruised the rack of magazines. Harper’s, Real Simple, Web MD. All his favorites. Then again, keeping copies of Guns and Ammo probably wouldn’t be prudent, considering the number of psycho cops that came through here.
After a surprisingly short period of time, Antonia came around her desk, opened the door to the inner office. ‘You can go right in.’
Dr Sarah Goodwin was younger than Byrne expected. That was happening to him a lot lately. When you’re in your twenties, all the people who matter – doctors, lawyers, judges – are older. You want them to be older. Once you hit forty and the great beyonds the paradigm began to shift.
Dr Goodwin was petite and graceful, with deep chestnut hair to her shoulders. She wore a smart black suit, white blouse.
They introduced themselves, shook hands. All very clinical and professional.
The inner office was small but comfortable, lacking any real warmth: de rigueur couch with roll arms, a pair of stern-looking chairs facing an uncluttered desk, a browning ficus in the corner. Byrne picked a chair. Dr Goodwin sat at the desk, turned the flat