Page 2 of Go Under

Except he was thirty years older than she was and had never been a looker even at his best. And the lust in her eyes didn’t really look like the kind that made babies.

“Gerald Mace,” she said.

A soft alarm went off in his mind. How did she know his name? “Who are you?”

“I’m vengeance,” she replied. “I’m justice.”

His eyes narrowed in confusion, but he rapidly understood what she might mean. His eyes widened. “You… but…”

“You hid something,” the woman said, taking a step forward. “Something that could have made things right.”

There was no doubt now. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “I… I’m sorry.”

She grinned at him, baring her teeth like a vampire. “It’s all right. The Lord will forgive you.”

She pulled a knife from behind her back. Gerald tried to close the door.

He was too late. With strength borne of rage and hate, the attacker overwhelmed him. He stumbled backward, and she fell upon him.

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, January 20th

Kate Valentine sat at her kitchen table staring at the detritus of a thirty-year medical career and the detritus of the life associated with that career. Three decades of William Valentine collected in the form of documents, notes, transcripted phone calls and text messages, emails, written correspondence, photographs, everything she and Poppy Klamath could get their hands on.

Poppy, the youngest agent at the Portland Field Office, had sent the last bundle with a card on top, an image of a koala bear holding a smiling red balloon. The koala wasn’t smiling but was holding up a card of his own with a single word on it. Sorry.

Kate knew what that word meant, but she still worked. There had to be something there. It couldn’t all have been a waste of time.

Or Cox was lying.

But he knew about the photograph, the one of Kate holding a stuffed armadillo her father had bought for her at the Lincoln Park Zoo. That photograph was tucked into a hidden pocket in her father’s medical bag. That bag sat in her locker at the field office and had sat there for the past thirteen years, ever since her first day at the field office. Before then, it had been in her duffel bag in Quantico. Cox could only have known about it if her father told him about it.

She lifted a hand to wipe sweat from her brow. That had the unfortunate—or maybe fortunate—effect of showing her a glimpse of the stain under her armpit and allowing her a generous whiff of the odor that accompanied that stain.

She moaned, wrinkling her nose at the rough, acrid smell. When was the last time she’d showered?

Marcus had left for New York two days ago to wrap up the last steps of his divorce from Cheryl. Kate had showered the night before he left because even though they weren’t sharing a bed, they were sharing an apartment, and she wanted him to be able to breathe without gagging. So, three days.

Jesus, this was only three days?

That’s what a diet selected from the bountiful shelves of your local gas station will get you, she told herself reproachfully.

She kept that reproachful look as she stared at the accumulated evidence of half a lifetime, not one iota of which told her how or if her father had ever encountered an ordained Catholic minister named Father Elijah Cox who, prior to his years-long murdering spree and his indoctrination of several weak-willed individuals into his murder cult and subsequent excommunication from the church, had been a priest in good standing. His presence at a hospital wouldn’t have batted anyone’s eye.

But it would have been recorded. Somewhere. Somehow. Either by the diocese or the hospital and probably by both. Someone would have noted his presence.

So why couldn’t she find anything? Had Cox destroyed it somehow? Hidden the evidence to force her to eat the answers from his hands?

Her vision narrowed, and when she inhaled again, she realized it was the first breath she’d taken in over a minute. Her heart smacked against the walls of her chest.

She forced herself to stand and walk to her shower. She needed to get herself under control. Marcus was already worried about her latest Cox-related obsession. The last thing she needed was for him to come home to see her hyperventilating, smelling like shit, and—

Her stomach growled. That, too.

She sighed and switched the shower on. Shower, food, television. Something dumb and mindless so her thoughts could dissipate and drift away. No more looking into her father and his possible connection to the Lawgiver. No more wracking her brain and digging through ancient history to try to find out if Cox was telling the truth about her father or if he was just messing with her mind.

With a very specific, detailed, and accurate guess.