Anne Frasier - Play Dead

"Make me stop thinking," Flora begged.

Little blue lips.

Little blue hands.

"Just for a little while," she said. "I want to forget. I have to forget."

They tumbled across the bed and he plunged inside her.

Deep and dark.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

Each stroke took him closer to oblivion.

David was asleep and Flora didn't want to wake him. She followed her trail of clothes and quickly dressed in the living room while David's cat, Isobel, sat on the couch, eyeing her with suspicion. Since Enrique's murder, Flora had been staying at Strata Luna's. She'd promised she'd be home by midnight. It was past three o'clock.

Flora didn't like the way Strata Luna was suddenly acting as if she owned her. The woman had always treated her like a favorite, but Enrique was the one she'd lavished attention on.

Flora checked her cell phone.

Damn. Three calls from Strata Luna, one less than an hour ago.

She slipped out of the apartment, the door closing with a loud click. In the center of the hall, she passed through a cold spot and stopped.

"Enrique?"

She waited.

She listened.

The chill faded. What was that smell? A little herbal. A little earthy. A little like the cologne Enrique wore…

Flora had always wanted to see a ghost, and now that Enrique was dead she hoped he would come back to visit. But he wouldn't be hanging out in Mary of the Angels, she told herself as she continued down the hall. Not Enrique, who'd been scared to death of the place.

Outside, Savannah was quiet except for the sound of a street sweeper.

Flora got in her car, slamming the door.

The smell from the hallway was stronger now. Almost overpowering.

"Enrique?" Flora asked loudly. "Is that you?"

A shadow fell across her from the backseat. A gloved hand pressed to her mouth, something sharp against her throat.

Flora reached behind her with both hands, grabbing for eyes.

The sharp object sank into her flesh. One long slice, and she could no longer breathe, no longer make a sound. She felt a blanket of heat on her chest as blood soaked the cotton of her top. At the same time, her hands and fingers turned to ice.

She tried to see who had cut her throat, but she couldn't make her eyes work. And it really didn't matter anymore anyway. Nothing really mattered. Not Strata Luna, or Black Tupelo. Not even David Gould.

In movies, dying people always whispered the killer's name. That wasn't right, Flora now realized. Because in that last minute you've already moved on. You suddenly understand that the world is just a bunch of silly people doing silly things____________________

A phone conversation with someone named Sister Evangeline had given Elise the rough sketch of Lo-ralie's present existence, along with an invitation to visit.

Although a cliche^ it was understandable that a person who'd had a hard life might choose to hide from the world in a cloistered monastery. Elise's birth mother wouldn't be the first person to turn to such a sanctuary in a time of need. Elise herself had known a few people who'd lived in a monastery until they'd gotten their lives together, but she didn't know anybody who'd stayed indefinitely without joining the order.

The Savannah Carmelite Monastery was located in Coffee Bluff, on a dirt road that ran from Back Street all the way to the Forest River. As Elise bumped along the overgrown lane, she was reminded of her ill-fated visit to LaRue's home. The weather was similar, hot and humid, and she hadn't met another person since turning off Back Street.

She stopped at a pair of open iron gates, car idling, air conditioner blasting. In the distance, down a straight and flat dirt road draped by trees and flanked by shrubs, stood a sprawling two-story brick colonial. It looked a little like an old hospital or school.

Should she be doing this?

Most of her life she'd wondered about her real mother, but after today there would be no more wondering. And sometimes the unknown was better than the known.

Elise stepped on the gas and eased the car forward through the pillars that marked the boundary where the real world ended and seclusion and counterculture began. She might end up regretting the visit, but it was something she had to do.

In earlier times, the Carmelites had no contact with the outside world. When the rare visitor came, he or she was forced to speak to the nuns through an iron grate that looked like a confessional screen. Times had changed. Now they could visit face-to-face.

An ancient nun in a brown habit met Elise in the entryway and introduced herself as Sister Evangeline.

"She's expecting you," the nun said, leading Elise through a chapel and out a side entrance. At the end of a short path stood a small log cabin with a red door. On either side of the door was a window with white panes and green planters overflowing with red petunias.

Elise's mother was inside that house.

Things were beginning to get surreal.

"The cabin had been empty for years when Loralie showed up here," the nun said. 'The Carmelites' lives are all about prayer, and although we shun contact with the outside world, we took a vote and decided we couldn't send her away. Our numbers had dwindled, and the cabin was empty… That was twenty years ago," she said with a conspiratorial expression.

Elise's heart was pounding, and it was hard for her to concentrate on what the woman was saying. She responded with a weak, distracted smile that was nothing but a lie of politeness.

"I'll let you go the rest of the way by yourself," Sister Evangeline said, coming to a halt, hands tucked under a layer of brown fabric. She turned and serenely followed the path back to the chapel.

Elise stared at the red door.

She wished Sister Evangeline hadn't left. She wished she herself hadn't come. She wished she'd talked to the woman inside first. On the phone. As an icebreaker.

Before her panicked thoughts took over completely, she stepped forward and knocked-a little too loudly.

A voice from deep inside the small building answered immediately, telling her to enter.

Elise opened the door, but remained with one foot on the threshold, the other on the flagstone step. The interior was dark, and Elise's eyes needed time to adjust.

One large room. Table in the far corner. Someone sitting there.

"Shut the door."

The voice was harsh, like somebody who had a sore throat, or someone who'd been born with a cigarette in her mouth.

Elise's breathing was weird and shallow; her palms were sweaty.

As a detective, she'd faced a lot of dangerous people in her years without a fluttering pulse or a rise in blood pressure, but this was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

As the room gradually lightened and objects became more distinct, she stepped inside. "Thanks for agreeing to see me." Her voice was tight, but nothing someone who didn't know her would notice.

The woman who was her mother lit a cigarette with a small butane lighter and tossed the lighter on the table. It had been too fast for Elise to get a good look at her. Shoulder-length hair. Possibly dark. That was all.

"When Strata Luna called," Loralie said, "I told her no. Told her I couldn't face you, couldn't see you, but when I thought about not seeing you… well, I would have regretted it. Plus I owe you this."

She sure as hell did.

Elise crossed the room, the soles of her shoes sounding hollow on the wooden floor.

There wasn't much furniture. No pictures on the walls. No rugs. Nothing to absorb the sound.

The table was small and narrow. Elise pulled out the only other chair-a fragile, brittle antique-and sat down, her legs shaking.

Loralie leaned back and crossed her arms, the cigarette held between two fingers. "She was right. You do look like him."