Read John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice for Free Online Page B

that which eluded me nearly as much as equanimity.
    I dreamt I was floating weightlessly in a world of clear, sky-blue water, arms and legs dangling beneath me. Hearing the sound at the door, like the knock of an oar against a boat, I rose to the top, cresting the surface into consciousness.
    “Get dressed, I need your help,” Steve said.
    In the split-second I saw his face before he spoke, I knew something was wrong, his words and tone only confirming it.
    Suddenly, there was nothing between us—no competition, no unresolved conflict, no past at all, only the present, only the task at hand. Now he was just a cop, I, his best hope for help.
    Without saying a word, I quickly put back on the jeans, shirt, jacket, and tennis shoes I had donned earlier to walk the lake, silently praying nothing had happened to Kathryn or Sister Abigail.
    When I was dressed, he turned and began walking down the narrow corridor, his rubber-soled shoes nearly soundless on the dull tile floor. I followed a step behind him, waiting for him to tell me what had happened and what he needed from me.
    “I need to know I can count on you to act like a cop and not a chaplain,” he said.
    I nodded.
    He turned and looked at me, slowing a step so I could walk beside him, which I had to do with my shoulders at a slight angle for us to fit.
    I nodded again so he could see it.
    “No matter how you might feel about these people, you’ve got to help me preserve evidence, protect the crime scene, secure statements.”
    “Crime scene?” I asked.
    He nodded.
    “Where?”
    “One of the cabins.”
    My heart, racing since I first heard the banging on my door, seemed now to stop completely.
    “Who’s the victim?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”
    “What?”
    “The cabin’s empty,” he said.
    “Then how do you know it’s a crime scene?”
    “All the blood.”
    When we stepped out of the dorm and into the night, a cold gust of air slapped me in the face, tiny needles pricking my cheeks and nose, tears stinging my eyes, and I heard what sounded like a child screaming, but it was so faint and far away it could have been the howl of the wind.
    “Did you hear that?” I asked.
    “What?”
    With no clouds to diffuse it, the full moon lit up the night, its bright glow casting long, dark shadows on the dew-damp ground. Like the trees surrounding them, the buildings of St. Ann’s were silent, the only sound, the whistle of the wind through the woods.
    The airy whine sounded lonely and eerie, and it made the abbey feel desolate, the dark woods around it disquieting, and I realized how different it seemed now from earlier in the evening when it had nurtured and inspired me.
    Wordlessly, we walked past the chapel and down the hill toward the cabins and the moonlit lake beyond, our breaths visible the brief moment before we walked through them.
    “Which cabin?” I asked.
    “It’s not Kathryn,” he said.
    Relief washed over me—followed immediately by gratitude, then guilt.
    “How’d you discover the—what are you still doing here?”
    “Fell asleep. Something woke me—a scream, I think. When I came out here, I saw the door to the last cabin open and the lights on inside. It’s supposed to be empty, so I walked over to check it out.”
    “From where?”
    “From where what?”
    “You woke up and came out of where?”
    “Kathryn’s cabin,” he said.
    I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I was shivering now, feeling as cold within as without as I tried unsuccessfully to still my shaking body.
    As he stopped in front of the last cabin on the right, I came up beside him and waited. The door was now closed, the lights off, no sign of violence visible.
    “I turned off the lights to keep from attracting any attention while I went to get you,” he said.
    “That was smart.”
    “I’m a good cop.”
    “I know.”
    He nodded, his expression one of gratitude, though he didn’t say anything.
    “You seen a crime scene lately?” he