Chapter Twenty-one

professor of psychology at NYU, but I'm actually an advanced re­searcher in the physiology of the brain."
"What research?" She had to keep him talking. Then she could just close her eyes and let the sound of his
voice relieve her anxiety.
"You talk, Patricia. I want you to talk too."
"You've told me so little."
"You tell me something, then I'll tell you something more."
"I guess Mary told you I'm an Our Lady of Victory girl." She did not care for the word "orphan." "I went
to Clark Secretarial and got a job at the Hamil Bank. Totally unglamorous."
"Not to me. You might be the most beautiful woman on earth. I just want to look at you. Am I making
you nervous? Too much heavy breathing?"
She nodded—and instantly regretted it. If only she could dare her fear and let him hold her.
"Excuse me." He went over to her faded maroon Barca-lounger, the one she had bought third hand (at
least) from Rebecca Stangers at the bank. "This better?"
She wanted terribly for him to come back to her and carry her into the bedroom and undress her and do
with her exactly what she had intended to save for her husband. She wanted that a thousand times more
than she had wanted anything else in her life.
And he wanted the same thing—anyone could tell by the intensity that had come into his expression. His
dark brows were slightly knitted, the green eyes gone from gentle to piercing. His lips were sensuous but
firm. If only he would do it, he could take her. She would not allow herself to stop him.
How could it be happening like this? She was actually desperate for him, yet she had just met him a few
minutes ago. It was an awful and yet a delicious feeling. As if sharing her need, he stood up and held his
hands down to her. She rested her hands in his, hoping he would draw her up from the couch. He towered
over her. But he also trembled and beads of sweat formed along his upper lip. He squeezed her hands like a
supplicant. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know I'm coming on too fast for you. I just can't help myself."
In reply she smiled. He was encouraged, and began to pull her to him. Their embrace brought her
immediate relief from her fear and left no question about what would happen next.
The bedroom was dark, at once inviting and menacing. Sister Dolorosa had explained what the nuns
called "the clinical necessities," so Patricia was not afraid of her inexpe­rience. She knew what would be
expected of her. But this was for marriage. This was for marriage!
They were sitting on the side of the bed when Patricia sensed movement in the room. Seeing it too,
Jonathan cried out. In the same slow motion that her nightmare always imposed on her, Patricia turned to
him, only to see him being taken in a hammerlock by a shadowy, fast-moving figure that had burst out of
her closet.
Then someone seized her and pulled her back onto the bed with terrific force.
Impossibly, incredibly, she recognized Mary Banion among their assailants. Her surprise was so total that
what should have been a healthy scream came out as a gasp.
Somebody tried to put a wet, ethery cloth over Patricia's face but she fought free. "Patricia, calm down!"
She was not calming down. Two big, vicious-looking men already had Jonathan tied up. Patricia leaped at
them, tear­ing her dress as she tried to keep her balance.
"Get her!"
That was Mary Banion. Definitely. Patricia ran for the apartment door. She reached it, worked the locks,
threw it open.
Feet pounded behind her as she raced down the hall and slammed her hand against the elevator button.
"Oh, God, get her!" Mary really sounded frantic.
"Mary—you must be crazy!"
"Stay right there, Pat. That's a good girl." The men coming after her were horrible, big but quick, in black
raincoats and hats pulled down to disguise themselves. Patricia took the fire stairs four at a time, bursting
out the back exit of the apartment building.
She intended to race around to the front and get the doorman to call a cop, but on the way she saw old
Franklin Apple, an elderly gentleman who had come to one of the parish seniors suppers she had served.
"Oh, Mr. Apple! Mr. Apple, thank the Lord you're here! I need help, I—"
He smiled at her and grabbed her wrists in his dry, clawlike hands. For an instant she was stunned, then
filled with cold, prickling terror. His skeletal old face was grin­ning. He cooed at her as he might at an
agitated baby. His fingers around her wrists were as cold and hard as stone.
Chapter Two