by Lisa Jackson
It had been easy to find an adoring doctor, an alumnus of the college, to write him the necessary prescriptions…and he’d never abused the drugs, just used them to help control the raging pain and seething anger that accompanied it.
With no professional contract in the United States, he had briefly considered playing ball in Europe but knew he’d face the same problems overseas that he would have in the States. Then there were all the cards and notes he’d received and saved from the people who had reached out to him, the people who believed in him, the people who had asked for signed pictures of him, or wanted his old jerseys and basketball shoes. Adoring fans. Loving fans. People who believed in him.
He’d taken the lack of a professional contract as a sign from God to “play on Jesus’s team.” No fool, Billy Ray had realized that he could be a part of that team for the rest of his life, perhaps make as much money as in the NBA, but for substantially longer.
He could still be a star.
And so it was.
The same rage and dedication that had fueled him on the basketball court had helped him create a parish of thousands. No one knew where that rage came from, the lies his entire life had been founded upon. No one knew how betrayed he’d been when he’d discovered that his parents—two hardworking, loving people—had lied to him from the get-go.
They’d never told him he’d been adopted; never once mentioned that he wasn’t of their own loins. He’d found out by a simple class in genetics when he took biology at fourteen. Blue-eyed people did not give birth to brown-eyed children…that was a simple biological fact, so either his mother had committed the sin of adultery or he’d been adopted.
Easy enough to find out, and find out he did.
Now he tapped his pen on the desk and scowled at the perfidy. How many times had he tried to forgive those poor simple people, and how many times had he come up short?
“Give me strength,” he whispered as he sat in the study, darkness surrounding this part of what the negative press had dubbed his “compound.” Let them say what they would. Who cared? Billy Ray believed that there was no bad press. As long as reporters were writing about him, people were hearing his name and that was what mattered.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was tired and should turn in. He had an expansive bedroom here in the study—a king-size bed, huge flat-screen television, even a gas fire that could be flipped on with a remote. He spent most of his nights here rather than in the huge antebellum-looking house his wife had spent years building.
He dutifully stayed in the main house each Saturday night, slept in their marriage bed and made love to her as if he still cared. The next morning they always ate breakfast in that monster of a dining hall, dressed for church service, then left in separate cars, she with the children, he alone to drive to the church.
There had been a time when they’d been passionate. He’d even been so moved as to once have had sex with her on that huge table, but that had been a few years back. Before she’d grown cold. Before she’d been so wrapped up in the children’s lives that she had no time for Billy Ray. Before she’d relegated sex to once a week and had lain there, barely moving, a statue who, because of her wedding vows, let him rut over her.
He hated it.
Sex with one’s wife should not feel dirty.
He had considered taking up with a younger, more vibrant, more alive woman than Aldora. He’d even flirted with the new church secretary, a recently divorced mother of two who wore high heels, tight skirts, and had a tendency to show a smile and wink at him when she talked.
So far, he hadn’t stepped over that line.
Yet.
Had no plans to.
But…a man had to feel loved, not only by God, but by a woman as well. These days Aldora just wasn’t holding up her end of the marriage bargain.
He felt a simmering anger as he unbuttoned his golf shirt and stared down at the words he’d scrawled on a yellow legal pad. He’d been working on his sermon all week, ever since hearing about Luke Gierman and Courtney LaBelle’s murders. Their horrendous deaths presented an opportunity to bring more people to the Lord.
He’d already managed to get a lot of press over the killings; now he wanted more. Which was no problem. Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson’s murders had provided more grisly fodder.
Billy Ray had a feeling that this Sunday his church would be filled to overflowing. Fear brought out the piety in people. It was interesting, he thought, how his words of the Lord’s wrath, of punishment for evil deeds, of fire and brimstone, were such a magnet for his followers. He’d found that the more harshly he spoke, the more he shook his hands toward the heavens, the more his voice boomed in fury, the more the veins in his neck throbbed with his convictions, the more the parishioners tithed. He even had a half-hour radio program on WNAB at nights and there was talk of television.
They all wanted a show.
Passion.
Wrath.
Power.
And above all else, a deep-seeded love of the Lord.
Billy Ray had them all.
So this had to be a great sermon, about the wrath and love of an all-powerful God, about the compassion of Jesus and about…He looked up. Had he heard something? A footstep? He waited, his ears straining, and there was no other sound. Nothing but the wind outside, rustling through the dry leaves of autumn. He hadn’t heard anything. He was just tired, his body reacting to a week of strain, of being “on” for the cameras, of showing his own sympathizing nature for the families of the victims, his own rage at the murdering maniac let loose on the streets of his city. Yes, yes, that was it. Picking up his pen, he began writing in swift sure strokes, his sermon spewing forth faster and faster. He would edit the text on the computer in the morning, clean up any mistakes. By writing his thoughts on paper, he let loose some of his anger, the pen nearly ripping through the top page as he scrawled on and on and…
Creak.
Again he looked up.
This time he was nearly certain he’d heard the squeak of floorboards. He leaned back and listened. “Anyone there?” he called, feeling a fool. His bodyguard and personal trainer had left hours ago and he’d heard the gates close behind Kyle’s Chevy Blazer, seen the wink of the SUV’s taillights through the open window.
Again there was nothing but silence.
He was just agitated tonight.
Perhaps he needed to pray. Dropping his pen onto the desk, he took in a deep breath. Then swiping his face with his hands, he leaned back in his chair, squeezed his eyes shut, and asked the Lord for inspiration, for clarity, for God’s will to be spread through his sermon. For that’s how it happened, the reverend believed. He was inspired by God, touched by Him as if the Father actually reached down from glorious heaven and placed His fingertips onto Billy Ray’s crown. In that moment, God’s thoughts entered Billy Ray’s brain, sizzled through synapses down his nerves to his fingers, where the words—right from the Lord’s mouth!—flowed onto the pages of this legal pad.
“Lord help me,” he said aloud. “Let me see the light, let me feel Your presence, let me be Your mouthpiece…”
Again the noise.
Billy Ray opened his eyes.
He gasped and leapt to his feet.
There, standing before him, holding a Taser pointed right at the preacher’s heart, was Satan.
Before Billy Ray could utter a word, Lucifer pulled the trigger.
Sister Maria sensed something in her sleep.
She rolled over.
A gloved hand clamped over her mouth.
Panic shot through her and she was instantly awake. Her room was pitch dark; it was long before morning prayers. She couldn’t see her attacker, but he was strong.
Determined.
Angry.
She felt his fury, smelled his sweat.
A sickeningly sweet smell filled her nostrils.
Ether!
She recognized it from her days at the hospital.
No! she thought. No, no
, no!
Sister Maria struggled. Tried to scream. Fought with all the strength in her body, but as she writhed and flung her useless arms upward, she breathed rapidly. Deeply.
The thick chemical wound its way into her lungs, dulling her mind, weakening her limbs, causing her eyelids to droop. She gasped, struggling for breath, but more of the noxious sleep-inducer was dragged into her airways.
Her movements turned sluggish.
She knew what was happening but was unable to fight the inevitable.
In the end, she gave up, her body going limp, the blackness oozing through her brain.
Forgive me, Father, she prayed dreamily, for I have sinned…
CHAPTER 22
Billy Ray Furlough wasn’t going down without a fight. Blindfolded, gagged, strapped to a chair, he’d been left by his abductor somewhere that smelled of rot and dirt and dampness. He guessed he was near the swamp as he smelled thick, stagnant water, heard bullfrogs croaking and ominous splashes. He imagined alligators slipping through inky depths, only their eyes visible over the water’s smooth surface, and he thought of cottonmouths or copperheads slithering down cypress trunks and roots to glide into the swamp water.
A chill ran down his spine, but as dangerous as the creatures of the swamp were, they were nothing in comparison with the man who had captured him. A tall, broad-shouldered son of a bitch dressed in a black neoprene suit and ski mask. He was deadly, swift, and determined to kill. Billy Ray knew it. He’d read enough about the recent local murders to understand that the man who had kidnapped him was the killer.
There would be no ransom demand of Aldora.
No negotiating for his release.
Not even the slicing off of an ear or finger to prove that he was abducted. No, there was only certain death. Unless he did something to save himself.
The Lord helps those who help themselves.
How many times had he blithely handed out that piece of advice? So now he had to take it. He had to help himself. He’d been left alone, so he had time to plan, time to get ready, time to figure out a way to save himself.
He wondered who the psycho was. Why had Billy Ray been chosen as a victim?
It made no sense. No one wanted him dead. He was adored by his parishioners and the news media alike. There was even a movement within his church pushing him toward local politics. But someone hated him. Someone with the balls to scale his fence and walk straight into his inner sanctum.
Yet bad as this was, at least Aldora and the kids were safe…right? The psycho wouldn’t have gone back for any of his family, surely not.
But didn’t this guy kill in pairs?
A man and a woman?
Assuming this was the same killer…maybe this nut job was a copycat, but whoever he was, he was strong and determined. Deadly silent. Without a word he’d walked into the study, stunned Billy Ray, and easily and efficiently trussed him up like a tom turkey before Thanksgiving supper. The only way Billy Ray could possibly get the drop on him was to pretend compliance, even fear, act as if he didn’t yet have control of his body. Then he might just have a chance to overpower the man.
Maybe…but he’d have to be quick, surprise the creep. Even in as good a shape as Billy Ray was, this larger man was stronger, tougher. As soon as the Taser gun had sent Billy reeling backward and flopping on the floor like a landed catfish, his attacker had been on him, pinning him down, forcing his hands behind him, wrapping them in duct tape and doing the same with his ankles. A blindfold had been forced over his eyes, tape slapped over his mouth.
It had been over in a matter of minutes and then the brute had carried him fireman style into the garage, where he shot Billy Ray with the stun gun again. Hundreds of thousands of volts had shrieked through the preacher’s body and he’d been tossed into the backseat of his Mercedes SL600.
The bastard had fired up the sleek car and breezed down the lane using Billy Ray’s own electronic gate opener to leave the estate. And all the while Billy could do nothing. Nothing. Never had he felt so powerless.
Lying on the smooth backseat, smelling new leather, Billy Ray had prayed, oh, how he’d prayed, for salvation. He’d had no idea where they were going. He’d lost track after the driver had turned west onto the main highway then north…probably on Gatlin Road, but after that, with all the twists and turns, Billy Ray had lost all sense of direction. Nor did he know why he’d been kidnapped. But he had a dark fear that this psychopath was the same one responsible for the deaths of four other people.
About a half an hour from the time he’d been abducted, he’d felt the car shimmy as it was turned too quickly onto a rough road. The Mercedes had bounced and lunged over potholes.
Within minutes, the car had stopped suddenly and the driver had climbed out. He’d opened the back door and given Billy Ray another shot for good measure. The rest of the abduction was blurry. Billy Ray was briefly unbound, stripped, then forced into a chair, his naked butt feeling a crack in the plastic seat. His hands had been tied behind him with tape, and his legs were strapped to the legs of the chair.
Then the assailant had said the first and only words he’d uttered since walking into Billy Ray’s study.
Leaning close, his breath hot against the reverend’s ear, he’d uttered, “The power of God be with you, Brother.”
Billy Ray had felt a chill like no other.
Then his abductor had left. Billy Ray, shaking in his shackles, had heard the smooth sound of the Mercedes’s engine purr off into the night.
At that point, he’d known he had to work fast. Either the bastard planned to return to torment, torture, then finish the job, or Billy Ray had been left here indefinitely to die of dehydration while the creatures who called this place home waited patiently.
He’d tried everything. Throwing himself forward in the chair, knocking it over, struggling to slide to whatever doorway there was, yanking at the tape at his wrists until his arms ached, kicking his feet so hard that pain screamed up his legs to his lower back.
With all his strength, he’d shoved and scooted the chair over the dirty floor. Dust and filth pushed into his nostrils. His left ear was scratched raw as he inched toward what he hoped was the door. Slowly the chair scraped over the smelly linoleum, past pieces of cloth, over tiny hard pellets that he assumed were rat feces. There had to be something…anything he could use as a weapon.
Minutes ticked by. He was sweating, his naked skin rubbed to bleeding where his shoulder pushed over the floor. Suddenly his nose ran into something soft…cloth of some kind? He explored with his face and felt metal, cool, smooth, attached to a thin, long…snake! Sweet Jesus! He scooted back rapidly, waiting for the sleeping serpent to coil and strike.
But he heard no warning hiss.
Sensed no movement.
Was it dead? Caught in a mousetrap? Lying on a pile of forgotten clothes? Why else the metal…? But smooth metal. Polished metal. Expensive metal? Out of place here…and the cloth hadn’t been dusty or rotting. No foul odor had assailed his nostrils; if anything, he’d smelled a gentle musky scent.
His heart leapt.
Not a snake!
Not a damned serpent!
His belt. Right? His clothes? He’d found the spot where his abductor had tossed his pants and shirt after stripping them from his body. And the psycho had been in a hurry. Billy Ray had sensed that. As if the lunatic were running out of time. So the clothes had been left, along with anything in his pockets. Along with his Pomeroy Ultra pocket tool, the one his son had given him for Christmas last year. From needle-nosed pliers to a tiny saw to toenail clippers, the Ultra was a handyman’s dream and boasted fifteen blades. Billy Ray needed only one. Any would do.
The other selling feature had been that the Ultra was easily accessible, meaning that with the push of a small lever, two of the most commonly used blades would flip out. He remembered his son, eyes shining, back-dropped by the eighteen-foot Christmas tree. Garlands of greenery, lush poinsettias, tissue paper, and ribbons litte
red Aldora’s gleaming hardwood floor, while his son proudly told Billy about the flip lever that made the Ultra “kind of like a switchblade of tools.”
At the time Billy Ray had just smiled and thought, Darn it, son, who needs that? Now he was grateful for the function.
He worked feverishly, scooting the chair into position in front of his pants. Quickly his fingers searched through the pockets while his shoulders screamed in pain.
Breathing deeply, praying minute by minute, he remembered all of the pain he’d endured as an athlete: broken fingers, a crushed nose, bruised elbows, torqued knees in addition to his ankle. He could endure this. He would! Anger started to burn bright in his chest as he set his jaw and found one pocket. Good! He pressed onward, his fingers searching and coming up with…his lighter. Perfect. Carefully, he set it aside. It could come in handy. Now, the other front pocket. His fingers brushed over his fly, feeling the metal teeth of his zipper, then discovered the pocket. Straining, he pushed his hands downward into the lining. It had to be there! He always carried it with him! Sweat burned his eyes. Panic started to surge through him.
Then he felt it…the Pomeroy Ultra! It was hard to grab hold of, his fingers slick as they were with sweat, but with sheer guts and determination, Billy Ray grabbed the tool and, inch by inch, slid it from his pants. Eventually it was free…Now, God help me, he thought, his fingers trembling as he tried to open the spring mechanism.
The Ultra fell out of his hands. He nearly swore, but caught himself. He wasn’t alone. God was with him. And yet he was angry at his clumsiness. “Give me strength,” he muttered behind his gag and found the tool again. Closing his eyes behind the blindfold, he used a technique he’d learned long ago when trying to deal with his rage. He pictured the Ultra in his hand and, breathing slowly and calmly, rotated it until it felt comfortable. In his mind’s eye he saw himself flipping the lever—where was the damned thing? There! He felt the nub and pushed.
