“Did Father Ike have any close friends?”
She looked up, almost an eye roll. “The Archbishop.”
“Shit. Sorry.” So much for that line of questioning. No way was he going to the Archbishop. Katherine would lose her job in a minute.
“I understand.” She smiled kindly. “They’re old friends from seminary. They went hunting together every November. Frankly, I don’t know anyone who knew him better than I did.”
“I believe that.”
“You saw him on television tonight?” she asked. Cyrus nodded. “He wants everyone to think Isaac was depressed. Isaac was not depressed. He loved his work, his life. At least I thought he did.”
“You said you found something?” he gently prompted.
“Yes. This way.”
Cyrus followed her up the steps. She had a nun’s way of walking—head bowed low, clinging to the side-wall so people could pass her coming down the stairs with ease. A humble walk for a humble servant.
As they neared a door at the end of the hallway, Sister Margaret pulled her keys from a pocket in her voluminous skirt he hadn’t noticed until her hand was deep inside it. That took him back to Catholic school—the sisters with their habits and all their hidden treasures. Hidden rosary beads, hidden keys. Hidden candy for students who impressed them. Hidden apples and packages of crackers for students who’d come to school hungry.
“This is his apartment?”
“It is. Was,” she said, correcting herself. She paused outside the door and briefly rested her forehead against the frame in a moment of quiet grief.
She stood up again and opened the door. Inside Cyrus found a neat little living room, not much bigger than the sort he’d seen in your average three-star hotel suite. Green love seat, green and brown rug, coffee table, side table, a few books on a wooden bookcase with a bottle of Scotch and a shot glass on top. Either a brand-new bottle or Father Ike wasn’t much of a drinker.
“The bedroom’s through this door.”
She led him to another room with little in it but a full-size bed covered in a red and white quilt, a closet, a floor lamp, a cross hanging on the wall and a nightstand.
“I found it in the nightstand when I went to look for an address book, phone numbers. I suppose no one has those anymore.”
“You never know,” Cyrus said. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. Sister Margaret went into the living room and closed the door. He had no idea what he was looking for, no idea what he would find, but whatever it was, Sister Margaret clearly didn’t want to see it again.
Bracing himself, Cyrus eased the top drawer of the nightstand open and saw something that would have jarred anyone, religious or not. It was metal with a round section connected to a curved tube of sorts only a couple inches long with a little padlock holding it together. Gingerly, Cyrus removed it from inside the drawer and found it surprisingly heavy. He turned it this way and that, examining it in the lamp light. If he’d been forced to guess, he’d say it was possibly some sort of metal codpiece, but who the hell wore codpieces in this century? And even if someone did wear a codpiece, it probably wouldn’t have little metal spikes on the inside.
Metal spikes. Cyrus shuddered looking at the thing. Surely there was more to this thing than he understood. He looked around, saw an empty waste basket with a fresh plastic bag inside. He took the bag out, and carefully wrapped the metal object in it.
When he returned to the sitting room, he found Sister Margaret on the sofa, her head bowed in prayer.
“Well?” she asked when she finally looked up at him.
“I don’t know what it is, either. I don’t think I want to guess.”
“Whatever it is, I think it’s…well, it’s not good.”
“I’d guess you’re right. I’ll take this and ask someone who might know what it is.”
“Who?”
He looked at the sister in her habit, her veil, with her rosary beads clutched in her small pale hand.
“Trust me,” he said. “Nobody you know.”
Chapter Nine
Nora took Gmork back to Kingsley’s, where she put him in his outdoor doghouse with food and water. She petted his head and told him she’d see him tomorrow. He started to whine as she walked away. “Sorry, buddy,” she whispered. “Mamma needs get to laid.”
Before Nora left the house, she ran upstairs to her bedroom, threw open the closet door, and pulled down a rosewood box on the top shelf. From it, she took out her white leather collar, wrapped in velvet, and slipped it in her bag.
She drove to the French Quarter and parked on a side street near the Hotel Richelieu. Of course Søren would get them a room at a hotel named for the most infamous cardinal in all of Catholic history.
Søren had left her a key at the front desk. As she made her way to the room, her excitement built to a fever pitch. Once, she’d seen a cat on a windowsill vibrating with excitement over the sight of a fluttering moth on the other side of the glass. That was her.
Her hand shook so hard she could barely get the key into the lock. But then it was in, and the knob was turning and she was inside the darkened room.
She locked the door behind her, dropped the key on the floor. She’d find it later when keys mattered again. Maybe tomorrow morning. Maybe never.
Her eyes adjusted quickly. The room wasn’t completely pitch black—this was the French Quarter. The lights outside never went out. She slipped out of her red heels and stepped deeper into the room. No sign of Søren.
She walked barefoot to the dormer window that overlooked Chartres Street. Pedestrians passed by, some sober, some not. Some laughing, some not. Two lovers kissed in the glow of a streetlamp before stumbling off to darker corners for deeper kisses.
The floor creaked under the carpet behind her. Nora smiled.
Although she desperately wanted to turn to him, look at him, drink him in, she kept her eyes forward and down. She removed her collar from her bag, and dropped the bag onto the floor. She held her collar up in the palm of her hand.
He took it from her without a word and locked it around her neck.
When he lifted her hair and kissed her neck, Nora tensed. Instinct told her to panic, to pull the curtains closed and to step back into the dark where no one could see them together. Habits die hard, especially the habit of hiding that she was the mistress of a Catholic priest.
But now…Nora let go.
Søren brought his hands to her head and tied a sash around her eyes. Two cool fingers slipped under the straps of her black dress. He slowly brought the straps down her arms, down her body, down her legs, down to the floor. Black panties came next. In seconds, she was naked but for the blindfold. She felt the scrape of soft fabric on her bare back. He was still dressed.
She felt a hand between their bodies—her lower back and his waist—and the brief touch of cold metal. A belt buckle. Then the rush of sliding leather on bare skin as he pulled his belt out of the loops. It grazed her skin as he brought it around her.
She didn’t need to see to know that he held the ends of the leather belt in both hands in front of her. First, he pulled it taut against her hips, forcing her back against him so that she couldn’t run or flee if she wanted to, and no, no, no she did not want to, especially not when he kissed her naked shoulder. The kiss felt different. Off, somehow…like it wasn’t him. She stiffened in fear and confusion. Had someone tricked her into coming here?