Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“Get back together? Renew old ties?”

Andrea shuddered. “No, no, nothing like that. I literally wanted to see him. Look at him in person, hear his voice. That’s all.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.”

“I don’t. It makes no sense. There’s no logic to it. From a rational standpoint, he’s the last man I would ever… The whole thing is crazy. It’s almost…” She let her words trail away.

“Yes?”

“Miss Bannister…” She frowned. “Is that your real name?”

“No, but it’ll do. You can call me Abby.”

“I suppose that’s an alias also.”

She ducked the question. “It’s a name I answer to. You were about to say something.”

Andrea faced her with a searching gaze. “Do you believe in demons?”

Abby kept her voice and expression neutral. “Do you?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Are you having demon problems?”

Andrea got up, embarrassed. “Now you think I’m a lunatic.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You think I’m saying evil spirits drove me to seek out Congressman Reynolds. But that’s not it. By demons, I mean… dark forces inside us. They move us to do… inexplicable things.”

Abby selected her words with care. “I believe we all have motivations we don’t understand. I wouldn’t think of them as demons.”

“But what’s a demon, if not a dark part of yourself that can take control? Possess you, make you do evil?”

Abby didn’t stir. But she was beginning to wish she had held on to her gun.

“Have you been planning something evil?” she asked gently. “Something that involves the congressman?”

Andrea shook her head in violent denial. “No, not him-not anyone-not anymore. It was years ago.”

“What was?”

Andrea didn’t seem to hear. She paced the room, arms crossed over her chest, hands squirming fitfully.

“I only showed up at his events because I wanted to be in the same room with him. I had no intention of doing harm. Something just made me do it. Something…”

Abby ventured a guess. “The same thing that made you buy a gun?”

Andrea shook her head violently. “No. No, nothing like that at all. I bought the gun for self-defense. There’s a lot of crime in this area.”

Paranoia about crime would not be inconsistent with the woman’s psychology, but somehow Abby suspected there was more to the story. “Have you ever used a gun?” she asked.

“That gun? No.”

“But you’ve used another one?”

“I used-I’ve done-” Andrea whirled, flushed with sudden anger. “I don’t have to answer these questions.”

Abby sat motionless, aware that any shift in her position might be read as a threat. Her voice was low and steady, uninflected, almost hypnotizing.

“Andrea, you admit you’ve been seeing the congressman. You admit there’s a history of some sort between the two of you. You admit you own a gun, and you seem to know how to use it. And you talk about demons that drive people to evil acts. Now, am I wrong to be a little concerned?”

The tone worked. Andrea was calmer. “I told you,” she said quietly, “I have no intention of harming anyone. I’ve never intended …”

“What?” Abby asked.

“I’ve never intended to do any harm.”

Abby nodded. “You have, though. Haven’t you?”

Silence for several heartbeats. “Yes.” A whisper.

“You harmed someone?”

“A long time ago.”

“Twenty years?”

Andrea didn’t answer, but assent was written on her face.

“Who was it, Andrea?”

Abby waited. She was pretty sure she would hear it now-whatever the secret was.

“My name”-Andrea spoke slowly, each word pulled from her with painful reluctance-“isn’t Andrea Lowry. At least it hasn’t always been. It used to be… I used to be Bethany Willett.”

The statement hung in the room between them, heavy with a significance Abby couldn’t grasp.

“So?” Abby asked finally.

Andrea blinked. “You don’t know me?”

“Should I?”

A mixture of sadness and relief passed across Andrea’s face. “I suppose not. You’re too young. But twenty years ago I was quite a celebrity.”

“Were you?”

“Why, yes.” Suddenly she smiled, a cold smile empty of amusement. “I was the most evil woman in the world, or so they said.”

“Why would anyone call you that?”

The words spilled out in a rush. “Because twenty years ago I took a gun and loaded it and carried it into the nursery where my babies were asleep. Twin boys, ten months old.”

She raised her head defiantly, as if inviting judgment.

“And, well, I killed them, you see. I shot them both to death.”

Dylan Garrick guided the van into the alley behind the old lady’s house, past an overflowing Dumpster. Masses of oleander bushes screened the alley from the backyards of the homes on either side. That was good. Even in daylight, it would be easy to climb the hurricane fence without being seen.

He parked the van and killed the engine.

“We’re here,” he announced loudly enough to rouse Bran in the back.

Funny thing about Bran. He could sleep through any fucking thing. Fall asleep on the way to his own execution, probably. Of course, in this case he was on his way to somebody else’s.

Tupelo was a different story. He was always wide awake, annoyingly so. Throughout the drive from Santa Ana he’d been twitching and itching in the passenger seat, knocking his shoes together like a restless kid, talking too much and twiddling the radio knob, changing stations, until Dylan told him to cut it the hell out.

Pain in the ass, was Tupelo. Good with a gun, though. All that nervous energy made him quick on the trigger, and his hyperactive wariness meant he never missed a thing.

Dylan was familiar with his crew’s quirks and strengths. The three of them, in their mid-twenties now, had been together since they were teenagers. They’d learned their trade well. They had the experience and the moves, and each of them had proved himself a stone cold killer more than once.

“All right,” he said briskly, “looks like she’s home. Her car’s in the carport.” This was added for Bran’s benefit. He’d been snoring like a lawnmower when the van made its pass in front of the house.

“She alone in there?” Bran asked, stifling a yawn.

“Probably. No other cars out front. Curtains are all closed.”

“She got cats?” Tupelo asked.

“What?”

“Cats. Lotta these little old ladies that live by themselves, they got a whole mess of cats.”

Dylan shrugged. “Boss didn’t say nothing about cats.”

“Hope she don’t got any.” Tupelo shifted in his seat. “I hate cats.”

“How old is this bitch, anyhow?” Bran asked.

Dylan glanced back at him. “I dunno. Like, fifty, I guess.”

“Well preserved?”

“Fuck should I know? Who gives a shit?”

Bran had that dreamy look he got sometimes. “Some of these women, they’re still plenty fuckable at fifty. You know, if they got like plastic surgery and shit.”

Dylan was getting pissed. “You wanna fuck some Valley grandma with a nip-and-tuck job, you do it on your own time. Our job’s to go in, get it done, and be gone.”

“Still say it would be smarter to wait.” That was Tupelo, his voice jumpy and high. “Nighttime is when shit like this goes down. Whack her in her sleep, she never knows what hit her.”

Dylan was inclined to agree, but his orders were clear. “Boss says it’s urgent. Time-sensitive, is how he said it.”

“This bitch has lived fifty years. She can’t live another couple hours?”

“I don’t ask questions when it’s the boss on the phone. Neither should you. Case you forgot, we took a goddamned oath.”