Colder Than Ice. Maggie Shayne
A short while later, she was running again. But this time the man ran with her. The bastard had no business there, Mordecai thought. Lizzie was his. Always had been, always would be. Dead or alive, she belonged to Mordecai.
He let them get a good distance away before starting his car and driving a little closer. He was careful not to get too close, and he never let them spot him.
God, how different she seemed…felt. The energy he sensed surrounding her was not the same as it had been before.
She’d changed.
She thinks she’s escaped you, Mordecai. Thinks she’s above you now.
Look at her, running. Trying to grow strong. She’ll fight you this time.
“She fought me last time,” he muttered. “Isn’t shooting me in the chest fighting me?” His chest ached a little at the memory, even though the Kevlar vest had ensured he only suffered a pair of broken ribs from the bullet she had fired at his heart…even as she kissed his lips.
She was weak, back then. And she still loved you, in some desperate, dependent way. She wept when she thought she had killed you.
But she’s not weak anymore. She won’t shed a tear for you now.
Mordecai decided to ignore the voices for a while, just the way he was ignoring the presence of the man, the interloper, and simply bask in Lizzie’s presence. In being able to see her, watch her. In being this close to her. God, how he’d loved her once. Still. As he should.
Jesus had loved Judas, even after his kiss of betrayal.
Mordecai followed her to where she lived, in a cottage just at the edge of Blackberry. He knew it when they slowed to a walk, entered the house. He even saw her opening the door with her set of keys.
They’ve seen the car, Mordecai.
“Yes. I know.”
You know now. You know where to find her. You can come back.
Nodding slowly, Mordecai drove past the two this time. He had to return to his rented home away from home, because there were things that needed doing. He’d begun the preparations, but he had to finish them. So he went to his temporary home. He took time to shower, to change clothes, to get a bite to eat, take his messages off the machine. The school had called. He phoned back and agreed to come in on Monday. Then he rechecked the cord he had run throughout every room of the house, along the baseboards, and the batteries in his remote control. Finally he drove out of town and got himself a different car.
A few hours later he was back at Lizzie’s house, in a dark blue, late model sedan almost as unremarkable as the first car had been. He’d transferred all his supplies into this one. The trunk was filled with various controlled substances, some of them too powerful even to be carried by the average pharmacy—like the vial of salmonella, a bit of which he’d used on poor Nancy Stillwater’s picnic lunch. Cruel, but effective. It wouldn’t kill her, though she would be terribly sick for a week, maybe longer. That was all he needed.
Mordecai didn’t kill unless Spirit dictated it. He wasn’t a murderer. He was a tool of God. Besides, Nancy wasn’t an evil woman. She’d even phoned him to see if he, too, had become sick. When he said he hadn’t, she ruled out her picnic lunch as the source of the food poisoning and wondered aloud where she could have picked it up.
He parked the car in a pull-off, where autumn foliage concealed it from view. Then he walked back to Lizzie’s house and took up a position on a tree stump just inside the edge of the woods across the street. This time he had a video camera, a digital camera and a pair of high-powered binoculars.
He never let her out of his sight for the rest of the day.
A woman delivered groceries around eleven. Beth ate an early lunch, alone at a small table in her kitchen. Yogurt and a banana. After lunch, a teenage boy showed up, and Mordecai recognized him even before he raised the binoculars for a closer look. It was young Bryan.
He and Lizzie worked over textbooks in the living room.
I have a private tutor. The boy’s voice repeated the words in Mordecai’s memory. He closed his eyes, thanked his guides for putting the boy into his path, apologizing again for doubting them earlier. The boy was more than just an honest young man and heir to Mordecai’s gift. And more than a signpost, pointing the way to Lizzie. He was connected to her in some way. Connected to him, too. He marveled anew at the intricate web of the universe and the complex machinations of almighty God. The brilliance of linking Mordecai to Lizzie through this new child. The son.
“No wonder I couldn’t find her right away,” he whispered. “She barely goes out. She’s entirely self-contained. Except for that run in the morning.”
When Bryan left, Lizzie worked out with a punching bag that hung from the ceiling in a corner of her living room, shocking him with the power and fury of her blows. Then she showered. Later she made herself a solitary dinner and went to bed. Alone.
Always alone, Mordecai. She’s changed. Like a lone wolf now, she thinks she’s independent, thinks she’s strong.
And you know why, don’t you, Mordecai? She’s waiting. She knows you’ll come for her, and she thinks she’s preparing. Thinks she’s going to be ready.
Thinks she can defeat you.
Defeat God.
Mordecai lowered his binoculars and closed his eyes. “Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie. Don’t you know you’ve only made matters worse by adding the sin of pride to the list of things for which you must be punished?”
He drew a breath. He didn’t want her proud and independent and strong. Before he revealed himself, Mordecai wanted Lizzie reduced to the needy child she had been once; the lost, confused runaway who saw him as a savior.
She has to die, Mordecai. It’s her fate. You need to correct a terrible flaw in history. She’s supposed to be dead.
He tightened his jaw. “She has to be taught. She has to be stripped of every ounce of pride and rebelliousness, and returned to a state of purity and humility. She’ll come to me on her knees then. She’ll beg me to take her back.”
Are you questioning us yet again? Haven’t you learned better? She has to die!
“Stop!” Mordecai pressed his hands to his ears, awaiting the pain that inevitably came when he questioned his guides.
The voices went silent, and the pain didn’t come. Not this time. But he was worried. If Spirit insisted, he would have no choice but to obey. Oh, if only there could be another way. Maybe, if Lizzie suffered enough, Spirit would be satisfied that she had found redemption. Maybe, if he could bring her down low enough, she could still be saved.
Impossible.
“I have to try.” He licked his dry lips and wondered why he hadn’t thought to bring along some food or water. But he knew why. The voices hadn’t told him to get those things. Maybe it was fitting that he fast while he watched Lizzie. Maybe there was a reason for it.
Lifting the binoculars again, he resumed watching her. He could see her clearly through the sheer curtains, from her blond hair spread on the pillows to the outline of her body beneath the sheets of her small bed.
She slept with the light on.
He knew now where Beth went when she went running in the morning. To that house, where the boy was living, with an old woman and a handsome man. The man who had accompanied Lizzie back to her house.
A dark flame burned in his belly. He didn’t like the man.
It’s the old woman she’s closest to, Mordecai. It was obvious from their interactions this morning.
Again he nodded. He was making progress, he thought. He was identifying the underpinnings that supported her in her fraudulent new life. She had students. She had friends. A home and a job. All of those would have to go. One by one, they would have to go.
“Whatever