Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [50]
“Brother Amos and Brother Ezra, hold her wrists.” There was the sound of people moving. “Brother Benjamin, rend her garment.” We heard the sound of her dress tearing, the snap of her brassiere, and then, after a pause, the sharp crack of a lash biting into flesh. Reflex made me count the blows, seven in all, each one slow and deliberate. Suzanne made one involuntary cry at the outset. After that she was silent.
The tape went on. There had been an outpouring of amens and hallelujahs, but now that was silenced. Brodie was speaking. “Sister Suzanne will spend yet another night in prayer, not in the Penitent’s Room, but here, at the altar, where she can feel our Lord’s forgiveness. In the morning we shall come again to welcome her return to the fold. Go with God. It is finished.”
I heard some murmur of talk as people filed out. The next sound was that of someone weeping. “Suzanne?” Brodie’s voice.
She made no response, although the weeping subsided. “Suzanne. Look at me. I have something for you. It’ll make it hurt less.” A pause, then he continued, his voice soft and cajoling. “Don’t try to cover yourself from me, Sister. I’ve come to minister to your wounds. It’s a local anesthetic.”
Again the silence. I could imagine him running a fleshy finger across her bleeding breasts, administering some kind of ointment.
“Thank you,” Suzanne said softly.
“I want you,” he said.
“No, please.” There was no audible spoken answer although we heard the sound of the study door closing. I was taken aback. He had asked, and Suzanne had denied him. Even the pastor himself was subject to some rules and prohibitions. It was obvious what kind of additional comfort and forgiveness he had intended to offer.
The tape clicked on and off, running only when there was sufficient sound in the room to sustain it. There was no way to tell how much time elapsed each time the voices stopped and started.
“…of-a-bitch” The voice was a man’s, muffled and indistinct. It sounded as though it might have been coming through a closed door, maybe the study.
I strained to hear. “Turn it up,” I said to Peters, and he did.
“Get out!” I could recognize Brodie’s voice.
The other man was speaking now. “…her alone. She’s my wife, not one of your whores.”
I heard the familiar menacing tone in Brodie’s voice. “You seem to forget, my word is law here.” The door slammed. The visitor’s hard-soled shoes stormed through the sanctuary. The front door slammed heavily behind him.
Now we could hear the mumble of Suzanne’s voice alone. It rose and fell. It was a prayer of some kind, but the words themselves escaped us. It continued for some time, on and off, intermittently reactivating the machine.
Then suddenly, sharply, “…t do you want?”
A sharp report of a pistol answered her, followed by the sound of an opening door. We could hear Brodie’s voice. “What happened? Suzanne?” A gunshot was his answer too, followed by silence as the machine shut itself off.
The next voice was that of Sarah, the cook: “…my God,” and the sound of hurrying footsteps. Then came the sound of another door and more footsteps, followed by Peters’ voice: “He didn’t nickel-dime-around, did he?” The recorder was switched off before anything further was said.
“That was Carstogi!” said Peters, his voice tense with excitement. “It has to be.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked. “I don’t think it sounds like him at all.”
Just then Anne asked permission to return to the living room. She was wearing the same blue suit she had worn the day before, only now her hair was pulled back and fastened in an elaborate knot at the base of her neck. She looked like a ballerina. The similarity wasn’t just in looks. I knew that her external beauty concealed the finely tuned, well-conditioned body of a professional dancer.
“Beau, I’m going to take off now,” she said, moving toward the door. She nodded to Peters. “Nice to see you again, Ron.”
Peters stood up apologetically. “I hope you’re not leaving on my account.”
She