Kate Brady - Where angels rest

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Kate Brady

Excerpt from Twice Dead copyright 2013 by Kate Brady

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ISBN 978-1-4555-0204-2

One Scream Away

Last to Die

This ones for Alta. She and the angels know why.

Many thanks to my wonderful editorsboth of them. To Celia Johnson, thanks for the start, and may your new path be filled with joy. To Selina McLemore, thanks for being there in the middle of the stream, and may our new path together be filled with success. No good things happen to writers without great editors, and I am twice-blessed.

My deepest gratitude to my agent, Jenny Bent, who makes me the envy of writers everywhere I go. How did I get so lucky?

To Carol Whitescarver, whose devotion to the process of writing and commitment to our friendship and salad bars made these characters possible. Her patience is unmatched.

To Elaine Sims, who forged the path before me and taught by example.

To Joyce Lamb, who hangs out with me even though more famous, interesting, and exciting people are always knocking at her door. Her support, her experience, and her sense of humor are godsends.

And of course, to my children and husband, whose love and devotion keep me going. Its pretty amazing that they are proud of such a twisted mind, but Ill take it.

A LONELY ROOM, naked wires clawing from the outlets and a heap of cold ash huddled in the fireplace. The ceiling joists crisscrossed in a matrix ten feet up, the floors and walls stripped to bare concrete and plaster, making the tiniest sound ricochet in the rafters. Even the faint moans of a woman nearly dead echoed like whispers in a cathedral.

The Angelmaker studied the woman, face up on a wooden table with duct tape binding her wrists and ankles. Her eyes stared at nothing in the rafters.

What do you see now, bitch?

Nothing, of course; she was almost finished. It rankled, actually. She should have held up better.

But it was too late to worry about that now. The clock was ticking, lives counted in minutes now. A week ago, whod have thought the grand finale would come so soon, or be so exhilarating? And yet, here she lay, ready for her transformation.

The Angelmaker pried a hunk of cold earth from a pile, kneaded it like artists clay, then smeared it onto her jaw. Got another handful and pushed it over the edge of the first, thumbing it smooth with practiced strokesnot too thick and not too thin. Over the slender nose, over the high cheekbone, over the seam of ugly stitches at her temple. The Angelmaker smiled at that. On the inside of this mask would be something special: the imprint of stitches and the swell of a nasty welt on the side of her face. When the authorities found this mask, there would be no doubt whose face had provided the mold.

The mighty Erin Sims. Her death would come just in time to join her brother in hell. A twofer.

That thought brought a snicker and the Angelmaker worked faster. Tick-tock, Dr. Sims.

Times up.

Seven days earlier

Thursday, November 8

Outside the Florida State Prison, Starke, Florida

11:42 p.m.

L ET ME GO.

Erin Sims jerked against handcuffs, the metal rings biting into her wrists. Tears rose to her throat but she held them back: Time was almost up. What was it, twenty til twelve? Quarter til? She couldnt see her watch but it was late. God, she had to stop them before midnight.

She took a step and a guard snagged her arm. No, he said. He was a burly black man with tattoos vining his neck and an earring winking in the darkness. His tag read Collier but people called him Collie. Erin had been coming here long enough to remember when his son made the varsity football team and his wife beat breast cancer. Now, he and another guard stood on either side of her, each with a hand on her elbows. Just in case she decided to throw herself at one of the demonstrators or incite a riot.

Stay back here, he said. Youre already hurt.

She followed his glance to her legs, where her jeans were torn and the skin of both knees ripped open. Sheriffs deputies had dragged her from the prison entrance. I wont do anything this time, she said. Just let me go back to the front. I need to see. I need to be close to him.

Theres nothing more you can do, the second guard said.

The words brushed a chill over Erins skin. There had to be something more. Eleven years of fighting couldnt end with

Kill him!

The chant started up again, cycling through thirty friends and relatives of Lauren McAllister, all gathered to witness justice, cheering and crying and waving handwritten signs: Death to Justin Sims, An Eye for An Eye, We Love You, Lauren. Nine reporters, the most permitted at an execution by law, wove among the demonstrators with their photographers trailing behind like cyclopes. On Erins side of the drive, three peoplestrangerscarried worn signs reading Stop the Death Penalty and Two Wrongs Dont Make a Right. Otherwise, Justin had no supporters. He was the murderer of a senators daughter.

Erin drew a shuddering breath. What time is it?

Quarter til, Collie said. Fifteen more minutes.

Illogically, as if to confirm the time, Erin glanced to the sky. It was a night made for tragedy: black clouds grumbling with thunder, security lights casting the air in thin shades of gray. A slivered moon had slunk out of sight, as if cowering from the travesty about to happen.

They cant do this, Erin said, her voice coming out on a thread. Victor Santos is still with the Attorney General. Hes presenting new evidence.

Collie shook his head. That might not matt

It has to matter. She rounded on him. Damn it, I found John Huggins. After all these years, I know where he is and gave them more evidence.