Still Lake - Anne Stuart [102]
He set the candle on the floor of the cooler. The room wasn’t quite airless, and he doubted they’d suffocate. He didn’t want them frightened of the dark. After all, they were facing a long journey, and he wished them no ill. He was doing this for them.
He closed the door to the walk-in cooler and stepped back. If either of them regained consciousness they could scream for help and no one would ever hear them. He knew that already—no one had ever heard Valette’s screams.
He couldn’t leave them in there, of course. The heavy metal walls would preserve their bodies from the cleansing fire. He’d have to bring them back out, into the makeshift chapel, and say prayers over them.
He wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like the smell of gasoline—never had. But it worked the best for fires, and he didn’t require that much. He’d been siphoning it out of his old truck for weeks now, the truck he’d used to try to drive Sophie off the road, so that no one would know where the gasoline came from. It would burn hot and fast and bright; there was no way the volunteer fire department could get there in time.
He walked back up the narrow stairs, whistling. All he had to do was wait for Sophie to reappear, and the night could reach its inevitable conclusion.
It only took him a few minutes to walk back through the darkened hall of the hospital. He’d been born in that building, some seventy-six years ago. He’d brought five hundred and thirty-three babies into the world—he never lost count of that number. It was only fitting that he should end this way.
There was no sign of Sophie when he reached the kitchen, shutting the door to the abandoned wing closed again. He knew where she was, he knew what she was doing. The greater the sin, the greater the repentance. He picked up the sprig of Judas tears and turned it in his hand.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon.
Marty heard the voice buzzing in her head. She didn’t want to listen, she just wanted to sleep. Why were people always trying to interfere with her sleep? Was it so much to ask…?
“Marty! Wake up, child!”
She considered her options. She recognized Grace’s voice, but Grace was the last person she wanted to talk to. She was also lying on something hard and disagreeable, and her head hurt like hell, and she made the mistake of opening her eyes.
“Oh, shit!” she said.
“Indeed,” Grace said in a grim voice. “Untie my wrists, will you? That crazy old bastard drugged me and I can’t move.”
Grace’s voice was sharp and cool, unlike her usual dreamy tones, and Marty struggled to sit up, peering at her through the gloomy candlelight. They were in some sort of dark, windowless room, and Grace was looking at her with thinly veiled impatience.
“Are you crazy?” Marty demanded.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” Grace said in the brisk tone no one had heard in months. “I had the good sense to recognize that Doc was the Northeast Kingdom murderer. Not that any of you would listen. I tried to warn you all.”
Marty began untying the straps around Grace’s thin wrists. “Why didn’t you just tell us, you stupid old cow?”
“Because I had no proof. The only thing I had was a knife I was sure he’d used. I found it in one of the old hospital rooms, and I was trying to figure out how to have it tested when someone stole it from me. I had no choice but to pretend to be as spacey as I could to keep Doc busy and away from the two of you. I should have known it wouldn’t last forever.”
“Doc’s a killer?” Marty said in slow disbelief.
“He didn’t hit you that hard, Marty. He kills women—God knows how many he’s murdered over the years. I don’t know why—maybe some kind of Jack the Ripper complex. Why doesn’t matter. What does is that he