The Final Kill. Meg O'Brien

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      Add to that Jancy’s attitude. The child exuded anger and pain out of every pore, which could either be normal teenage acting out—or a sign of abuse. But Gerry? Was he really capable of that?

      Abby didn’t know. She hated to think that way, but she hadn’t been around him recently enough to spot signs of abuse.

      Her questions, or some of them, were answered moments later. Before Jancy, Helen and Alicia even made it to the landing between the first and second floor, there was a loud, abrupt banging on the front door.

      All four women stopped moving and stared at one another.

      “It’s them!” Alicia said in a low, frightened voice. She didn’t say who, and there was no time to ask questions. Abby raised a finger to her lips, while with her other hand she motioned for them to keep going. Alicia turned and ran farther up the stairs, with Helen doing her best to keep up. But Jancy still stood as if frozen, staring down at the carved double doors. They were old and thick, of Spanish design and meant to protect the early Carmelites from intruders. They couldn’t be broken down by anything less than a battering ram, but there were newer windows here on the first floor that were far more vulnerable.

      Abby’s automatic reaction was to protect the woman and child under her care and ask questions later. Running as silently as possible up the stairs, she whispered to Helen to go back down and give them a minute or two before she opened the door. Grabbing Jancy’s arm, Abby pulled the girl after her. She followed numbly, as if in shock.

      “It’s okay, you’ll be okay,” Abby whispered, but by the time they had reached the second floor and the Sacred Heart statue, Jancy was sobbing. Abby grabbed her arm and forced Jancy to face her.

      “Stop it! Stop it right now! They’ll hear you!”

      Jancy gulped and nodded, then rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. The heavy makeup was wearing off, and she looked more her age now, young, frightened and vulnerable. Abby saw that Allie was waiting for them, half-hidden behind the statue. Allie took Jancy’s hand and pulled her down the corridor to the left, whispering for Allie to follow.

      They ran to a room near the big, oval solarium that overlooked the front gardens. By this time, the noise at the front door had escalated. The banging continued, growing louder and louder. Then a male voice shouted. “Abby? Abby, open up!”

      Confusion set in. Ben?

      Another voice followed his. “FBI! Open the door!”

      A quick look at Alicia and Jancy told Abby they were terrified. She knew everyone in the Prayer House must be awake by now, and Helen would have to open the door, or someone else would.

      Pulling on Alicia and Jancy’s hands, she whispered to them to crouch down as she led them into the solarium. Although the room was pitch-dark, there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. It was possible that anyone moving about in here could be seen by someone standing way out in the garden, by the rim of trees.

      Abby, going ahead, dropped to her knees, then inched along the inner wall in a belly crawl. There, she felt along the edge of one oak panel. Finding the right spot, she pressed. The bottom third of the panel swung open, revealing a small, dark cubbyhole.

      “Here!” she whispered to Alicia and Jancy, urging them to crawl across the floor the same way she had. They did, and when they got to her she said, “You’ll have to squat down, and it’ll be a tight fit, but I’ll come for you as soon as it’s safe.”

      “What is this?” Alicia asked, peering into the dark hole with a tremor in her voice.

      “A modern-day version of a priest’s hole,” Abby said. “I remodeled the solarium, and I’m the only one who knows it’s here. Get in! There’s a lock on the inside so no one else can open it from out here.”

      She pushed them both harder than she meant to, but the male voices were louder now, as if coming from inside the downstairs foyer. Her own anxiety ran high, and she began to shake. What the hell was going on?

      Making sure the two women were safely in the priest’s hole and the inside lock was in place, she went quickly down the stairs. Entering the foyer, she slowed and rubbed her eyes as if she’d just woken up.

      She didn’t have to pretend much to look surprised; the scene in her foyer worked pretty well as a wake-up call.

      Ben stood there with another man, talking to Helen. Abby studied the other man before walking up to them. He was dressed in a dark blue blazer and khaki pants, and he was tall, even taller than Ben, who was just over six feet. He had silver hair that complimented his tanned face and steel-gray eyes, and he held himself with an air of assurance. When he looked up and saw Abby, he nodded to Helen and said politely, “That’ll be all. Thank you very much, Sister.”

      Helen shot a glance at Abby. She nodded and Helen left, walking toward the kitchen. Abby noted that the front doors were open behind Ben and this man. In the semicircular gravel drive, the bright motion lights revealed two police cars and at least three unmarked cars. There were several figures in dark suits, some of them on one knee behind the open car doors. They had guns drawn and pointed directly at the Prayer House, as if expecting an attack by insurgent nuns on the lam.

      “What’s going on?” Abby asked Ben, trying to steady her voice. “What is the FBI doing here?”

      “We want the two women who came here earlier,” the other man answered for him.

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Special Agent Robert Lessing,” he said, holding out a hand. Abby shook it. His palm was dry and warm. No nerves, she thought, for this fellow. Too bad that couldn’t be said for her.

      “We know they’re here,” Lessing said. “And I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Northrup, but this is FBI business. We need to take those women in for questioning.”

      “I still don’t understand. Who are you talking about, and what did they do?”

      “Please, Ms. Northrup,” he said irritably, “it’s been a long night. Trying to hide these women can only make it worse for you. Do you really want to be charged as an accessory?”

      “Accessory?” She looked at Ben. “To what?”

      “Murder, Abby,” Ben said.

      “Murder!”

      “Chief, I asked you not to—” Lessing began.

      Ben ignored him. “I got a call on my cell phone, on my way back to the station. A man was murdered in a room at the Highlands Inn. There was an envelope of photos in the room, photos of two women—actually, a woman and a teenage girl.”

      Abby was shocked, but went for total innocence. “So you identified the woman and girl in the photo as the women who came here earlier? Without even having seen who was actually here?”

      “Abby, I heard Sister Helen on the intercom. She said there was a woman and a teenage girl seeking sanctuary. This is a small town, and I don’t believe in coincidence. Besides that, this sort of thing doesn’t happen here every day.”

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