KnockOut - Catherine Coulter [66]
“No, you won’t, Joanna; you really don’t want to.” His voice continued, soft and soothing, deeper now. In her mind she felt his voice turn to thick liquid that was flowing warm into her blood, then racing through her veins to her heart. As if from a great distance, she saw him raise Autumn’s pajamas in his hands and rub them against his cheek, and her heart pounded, filled to overflowing with revulsion, and something else. He said, his voice making her blood boil inside, “You can’t, and you know it.”
Joanna couldn’t help herself; she jerked her head up, met his eyes for only a fraction of time, and fired.
33
THE EXPLOSION WAS HUGE in the small room. It deafened her instantly, and the recoil made her stumble back a step to keep her balance. The room was spinning around her, and she felt nausea roil up into her throat. She wanted to fall down, but she didn’t, she just stood there, weaving like a drunk, the gun now hanging loosely at her side.
The world stopped, simply came to a halt and left her standing alone with nothing on her mind, her only focus Blessed, standing directly in front of her, closer now, his eyes, hazy and deep, like fingers, lightly feathering her face, and his mind flowed in her blood, smooth and sweet. No, that couldn’t be. Why was she thinking like that? Why wasn’t he dead? She’d shot him straight-on. But he was standing in front of her, studying her face as if she were an insect he’d never seen before. She stared back at him, felt his mind probing at her, and she hated him, hated him so much she was choking on it. Why couldn’t she move?
Autumn, she thought, but the image of her daughter floated away.
In a very deep part of her, Joanna knew she’d failed. But she couldn’t fail, she had to destroy this evil. She tried to focus the gun on him again but couldn’t find the will or the strength to even lift it. She heard him laugh, heard him say, in that same soft velvety, singsong voice, “You were mine the second you walked into the room, Joanna, and you’ll do what I want you to. You’re not going to use that gun, except maybe in your mind, or on yourself. I want you to lie down on the bed and fold your hands over your chest, look like you’re dead rot, lying in a casket. That’s a nice start.”
“Mama!”
Autumn ran into the bedroom, her eyes on her mother, not on Blessed, who was smiling at her. “Mama! Are you all right? Mama, what’s wrong?” Autumn ran up to her mother and hit her hard on the arm. Joanna didn’t move; she was looking at the bed. She took a step toward the bed but Autumn shoved her back.
“Come here now, Autumn. Come to your uncle Blessed.”
Autumn looked him dead in the eye and said, “No. You’re a bad man. Go away. Leave us alone.”
“Don’t be afraid of power, Autumn. You and I will go away together to where you’ll be surrounded by people who will value you, who will help mold you into what you’re meant to become. Your mother doesn’t understand, she never will. She’s common, unimportant, merely shackles to be cut away to free you.” He extended his hand to her, the thick veins bulging madly, purple and ugly.
Autumn yelled as she hit her mother again, “You’re horrible! Let my mother go! Mama, come back.” She kept hitting her mother, on her arm, on her shoulder, jerking on her hand.
Blessed looked bewildered. “You’re an amazing girl, Autumn—you can look at me and still you can resist me.” He slowly shook his head at the child who was staring right into his eyes. He then spoke in his natural voice, higher and sharper, with a kind of a country whine, “You’re really looking at me, aren’t you? Well, it makes sense, since you’re Martin’s daughter. I couldn’t stymie Martin either. See, you don’t know what you can do because your mother can’t teach you anything; she can’t even accept you for what you are, what you will become.
“Come here now, Autumn. You and I have a long road to travel. I imagine that idiot sheriff will be coming along real soon now. We have to go.