Meg O'Brien - Sacred Trust

Marti, still bound, was able to roll herself onto her side. From that position she used the fingers of one hand to write in the dirt. She prayed the darkness would cover the word, that it wouldn’t be seen until the police arrived.

She prayed for other things, too. For the souls of her dead mother and father, for her own soul, for that of her friends. She prayed for the child she had given up so many years before. And when her killer dragged her to the makeshift cross and lashed her to it with rags so tight they cut into her skin, when it dawned on her what he planned to do, she even found it in the long-lost depths of her soul to pray for the person who was doing this hideous deed.

But even as Marti prayed, she knew it was far too late for that. The mother of God didn’t come around much anymore.

“O’Brien realistically captures the devastating psychological aftermath of childhood trauma. She illustrates its far-reaching effects by giving voice, through intelligent dialogue…”

—Publishers Weekly on Crashing Down

CRASHING DOWN

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This one’s for Emily Hope

No book is written in a vacuum, and I would like to thank some of the people who helped me throughout the writing of Sacred Trust, either in technical areas or in providing support in a variety of ways.

Many, many thanks to:

The Carmel Police Department, and especially Officer Joe Avila, who generously took me on a ride-along and provided me with invaluable insight into the workings of the Carmel PD. If there’s anything in this book that’s incorrect about local law enforcement, it’s not his fault, but mine.

Al & Pat Tracy, of Tracy’s Kenpo Karate Studios, for advice and technical support in writing the Kenpo scenes. Your generosity in reading those excerpts and assuring me of their authenticity is most appreciated. Special thanks to Pat, good friend, for her ongoing online support.

Cathy Landrum, invaluable friend and research assistant. As always, Cathy, a fabulous job—especially regarding crucifixion and the inner workings of the Catholic Church after Vatican II. I couldn’t have made it through without you.

Merrill Leslie, for being a sensitive Carmel landperson who left me to my endeavors and only showed up when I needed her—a writer’s dream.

The Carmel Il Fornaio coffee group, especially Nancy Baker Jacobs, who offered friendship, advice and support in the darkest of times. One must not, of course, forget “The Master of the Game,” Robert Campbell; “The Curmudgeon,” Bob Irvine; and “The Young Turk,” Bob Norris. Thanks for the great talks, the advice and for being there every day. Oh, and Jeannie?—keep up the excellent artwork. Sol? Not to worry—the Sol in this book bears no resemblance to you, other than his name. I’d never accuse you of being a lawyer.

My editor at MIRA, Amy Moore-Benson, whose excellent direction and editorial skills are beyond compare. Thanks for your faith in me and in this book.

Last but not least, special thanks to my son, Greg, whose wise advice as a reader and writer in his own right, helped me to iron out the plot for Sacred Trust. I must also acknowledge that the ideas for the trepan scenes sprang from his dark, twisted, writer’s mind. Guess the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.

PART 1 Part 1 Land of Milk and Honey Mishne 13: “Indeed, the blessing of an abundant and profuse nature will cause them harm, by allowing them to slumber in the bosom of idleness…or to fall into evil ways.”

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9 9

PART 2

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

EPILOGUE

Mishne 13: “Indeed, the blessing of an abundant and profuse nature will cause them harm, by allowing them to slumber in the bosom of idleness…or to fall into evil ways.”

He grabbed her in the lot of the supermarket in Seaside, grabbed her from behind as she was stepping into her car. He shoved her face forward into the back seat, then blindfolded, bound and gagged her before she ever had a chance to see him.

She thought it must be a him because of the strength it had taken, trying to fight him off. Not once did he let her raise her face off the vinyl seat, his hand and knee pressing her down so hard she thought she would smother.

He took her keys, and she heard him lock the back door then slide into the driver’s seat. He drove forever, it seemed, and she wondered if they were on Highway 1. Along the way she tried desperately to remember every detail, counting three stoplights, three red then greenish hues making their way through the blindfold. If I can remember light and sounds, she thought, I might be able to tell the police where he took me.

At that point she still believed she might live to tell the police. He might rape her, then let her go. Rape would be terrible, but it was something she could find a way to live with, just as the women she’d been interviewing tonight had found a way.

It wouldn’t be easy, she knew. But if God were with her, if all her old saints were with her, she could do it.

Silently, she began to pray the words of the Memorare, words from the early days that took no effort but tumbled over and over from her mind like a mantra: Remember, oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Remember, oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled…

When the car came to a stop, the prayer did as well. And when he dragged her from the car and shoved her to the ground, tearing her clothes off piece by piece till she was naked, she tried to scream and plead through the gag, “Please don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.” But then he began to beat her, and she knew the flogging for what it was—an old familiar ritual when gently done, but now powered by the seeming hatred of a demented soul. The leather thongs had small metal balls attached to their ends, and he brought the flagrum down full force, first on her breasts, then, as she tried to squirm away, on her back. She felt the blows cut into the outer tissues, felt the capillaries break, then the veins. She knew when the blows reached into the muscles, when arterial blood began to spurt and her skin to hang in strips.

Smothering would have been a blessing, was her only coherent thought. If only she had smothered and had it done with.

Marti Bright never got to tell the police the many details she stored away that night. Not the way his hands felt on her mouth, the musty paper smell, nor the scuffling sounds he made after the flogging as he dragged her to the place on the hill.

She didn’t get to tell the police the way he wheezed and coughed with the effort it took to kill her, high, piercing sounds that were almost like that of a woman. Or the way she knew, finally, why this was being done to her. The why, if not the who.