Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [66]
“Mrs. Meloney—I left my elements by the lectern,” said Colette. “I should go back for them.”
“Don’t be rude, dear,” replied the older woman, pulling firmly on Brighton’s arm, who in turn pulled Colette.
The kneeling figure began to stir as they approached. A hood covered its head.
“Yes, don’t desert me, Miss Rousseau,” said Brighton. “I’ll have Samuels collect your things.”
Colette didn’t answer. Her tongue had gone dry. The hooded figure had stepped into the aisle, blocking their advance. It was a woman. Wispy red hair emerged from the hood. One bony hand rested on a scarf around her neck—hiding something that seemed to bulge out from beneath it.
“Can we help you, dear?” asked Mrs. Meloney.
Colette knew she ought to say something, to cry out in warning. But she found herself transfixed. The gaunt creature’s eyes seemed to call out to her. They seemed to take in the connection between her and Mr. Brighton and Mrs. Meloney—the linking of their arms, their apparent unity—and to condemn it. A hand rose up toward Colette, beckoning her. Colette felt herself surrendering. For reasons opaque to her—perhaps it was simply that she was in a church; perhaps it was the accumulated effect of the harrowing incidents of the last two days, breaking down her resistance—Colette felt she had to meet the creature’s outstretched hand with kindness, not horror. Whatever the reason, Colette reached out to the shrouded woman. Their fingers made contact.
The touch was repulsive, damp, communicating illness or contagion as if the creature had emerged from a fouled pool and would soon return there. The hooded figure clenched her fingers around Colette’s and took a step backward, pulling Colette with her.
“Stop that at once,” said Mrs. Meloney, as if addressing children with bad manners.
“Yes, stop that at once,” said Brighton. The hooded girl turned her eyes on him and pointed an outstretched hand at his face. He fell back, letting Colette go. “Samuels?” said Brighton weakly.
The shrouded woman drew Colette another step back, always keeping one bony, blue-veined hand on the scarf around her neck. Colette didn’t resist. It was the wristwatch—the gift from Brighton, now only a few inches from the hooded girl’s face—that broke the spell.
In the greenish luminosity of the watch dial, Colette saw eyes that struck her momentarily as sweet, like a doe’s. Then the eyes changed. They seemed to become aware of the glinting diamonds at Colette’s wrist, and they filled with fire. With sharp nails, the creature began clawing at the watch and its diamond-studded band, scratching Colette’s skin, drawing blood. Colette tried vainly to wrest her hand away.
“It’s a thief!” cried Mrs. Meloney.
In a fury, the red-haired woman scraped at Colette’s flesh and spoke for the first time: “Give me—give me—”
Colette’s breath caught in her throat: the woman’s voice was guttural, like a man’s, only lower in pitch than any man’s voice Colette had ever heard. In her thrashing, the woman’s scarf fell away from her chin. A pair of thin, colorless lips was the first thing to appear. Then the scarf fell farther down, and Mrs. Meloney screamed at the sight, just as Betty Littlemore had.
“My God,” said Colette.
The hooded figure, fixated on the diamond watch, drew from her cloak a shaft of glinting metal—a knife. Colette was now pinioned. Mr. Brighton had retreated, but the bold Mrs. Meloney had taken his place, evidently believing that she could best render aid to Colette by seizing her free arm and refusing to let go. The redheaded woman, wild-eyed, raised her knife. Colette, with one wrist seized by her assailant, the other by her would-be protector, was helpless.
Mrs. Meloney cried out: “She’s going to cut off her arm! Someone help!”
A shot rang out. A bullet ripped into the crucifix behind the pulpit, tearing a