John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice Read Free

little blue. Better get him back in the car.”
    This time Muscle-fat himself escorted me to the car and shoved me into it. After slamming the door, he rejoined the others around the body, where they stayed for a long time, talking and laughing and waiting for the medical examiner to arrive.
    Since I had been at St. Ann’s, I had been undergoing counseling with Sister Abigail, and as I sat alone in the backseat of the patrol car, all I could think about was what she would make of all this.

Chapter Three
     
    “You did
what
?” Sister Abigail asked.
    I told her again.
    “And you were arrested?”
    I shook my head. “Steve said something about the embarrassment and humility doing more for me than a night in a jail cell could.”
    I had run into Sister Abigail on the way to my room to change into some warm, dry clothes, and she had insisted I tell her all about it first.
    “Let’s hope he’s right,” she said with a glint in her eye.
    In her midfifties, Sister Abigail’s pale skin, extra weight, and wispy reddish-blond hair made her look older than she was, but her wit and the wicked twinkle she often got in her eyes made her seem much younger.
    “Let’s,” I said.
    “You scaring yourself yet?” she asked.
    “A little,” I said. “Yeah.”
    “Good,” she said. “If you weren’t, you’d be scaring me.”
    Presently, St. Ann’s Abbey was a cross between a spiritual retreat center, a psychiatric treatment facility, and an artists’ community, but it had once been a very exclusive theological seminary and prior to that a Spanish mission.
    Dedicated to art, religion, and psychology, St. Ann’s was operated by Sister Abigail, a wise and witty middle-aged nun who supervised the counseling center, Father Thomas Scott, an earnest, devout middle-aged priest in charge of religious studies and spiritual growth, and the acclaimed young novelist Kathryn Kennedy, who was responsible for artistic studies and conferences.
    Surrounding the small but ornate chapel at its center, St. Ann’s consisted of two dormitories—one on either side—a handful of cabins down by the lake, a cafeteria, a gym, and a conference center with offices.
    The natural beauty of St. Ann’s was nurturing, and I found myself breathing more deeply as my eyes tried to take it all in. The small lake was rimmed with cypress trees, Spanish moss draped from their jagged branches. Enormous spreading oaks and tall, thick pines grew on the gently rising slope coming up from the lake, on the abbey grounds, and for miles and miles in every direction.
    “Lucky for you, this is a slow time for us,” she said. “Why don’t we move our little visits to twice a day?”
    Our “little visits” were actually counseling sessions to help me deal with my divorce, the death of my potential family, and the overall miserable mess I had made of my life.
    It was a slow time at St. Ann’s because it was early December and most everyone was already away for the holidays. Now through March was also off-season, the time when the least amount of visitors came to St. Ann’s, which was what had appealed to me most.
    “You sure seeing me twice a day won’t be too much for you?” I asked.
    “I think I can handle it, but if I have to, I can always call in backup.”
    Continuing past the chapel, we turned toward my dorm. As we did, I caught a glimpse of Kathryn Kennedy down near her cabin. She had her laptop out on the porch and was clicking away between sips of coffee.
    She was a gifted novelist and one of the reasons I had chosen St. Ann’s. Her work had entertained, enlightened, and inspired me, and I kept telling myself it was her writing and not the mysterious figure in the author photo that was the main attraction. I had yet to meet her, but hoped to soon––and to tell her what her books had meant to me.
    “Why doesn’t she wear a habit?” I asked.
    “Kathryn?” she asked, her head still down, and it bothered me that she knew who I was referring to