by Robin Caroll
He gave her a sheepish grin. “I called Luc.”
“But I didn’t answer his call.”
“Yeah, and he wasn’t too happy about that. There’s still a killer out there, and you should be more careful.” He slipped a lock of her hair behind her ear.
The gesture felt intimate, and heat fanned her face. Better to steer clear of these emotions. At least while she still couldn’t discern what she felt. She leaned away from him. “So, how’d he know I was here?”
“When you didn’t answer, he got worried and called your driver.”
She was surrounded by meddling men. “I’m going to hire my own driver, a person whom Luc doesn’t keep on the payroll,” she mumbled.
“Don’t be too hard on either of them. They’re just concerned for you. We all are.”
Really? Hmm. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m quite capable of handling myself, yes?”
“I know that. But you aren’t my baby sister, either.”
She sat silent for a moment, digesting the emotion in his tone. And waited.
Spence gave a huffy sigh and leaned back against the pew. “You know, I’ve never sat here and stared at the altar. Interesting view, isn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmm.” While she’d be willing to listen, she wouldn’t make his sharing any easier, either. He had, after all, kept this vital piece of his past from her, even though he’d known how she struggled with what had happened to her grandfather and Frank, and how she abhorred violence.
“Speaking of little sisters…”
She twisted to face him and arched an eyebrow.
“I need to explain. Will you hear me out before you say anything?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I had a little sister. Carrie. Sweet and innocent. Eight years younger than me.” His face took on a faraway gaze. “She was the sunshine in my life. Our father died before she was born. I helped my mom in raising Carrie from birth. She was a little miracle.”
Heart thumping, Felicia nodded. Babies were truly a blessing from God.
“When she was sixteen, she got a weekend job at a local McDonald’s just out of Alexandria.”
Felicia realized she didn’t know where Spence was from, or why he came to Lagniappe. All CoCo had told her about her preacher was that he was from Louisiana and, after seminary, had wanted to move to a small community. Felicia’d never questioned more. Maybe she should have.
“Carrie was scheduled for closing one Saturday night, so we didn’t expect her home until after midnight. I was going to LSU-S, but came home every weekend to help Mom and Carrie.” He leaned forward and held his head in his hands. “I’ll never forget that night. One o’clock rolled around, and Carrie wasn’t home. Mom woke me up and asked me to go looking for her. I knew the route she’d take from work. We were concerned because the old clunker Carrie drove was famous for breaking down. Throwing the timing belt.” He shook his head.
“I meant to get her a better car once I had a job.”
Felicia’s hands trembled. Her muscles tensed. She knew he was about to tell her something horrible.
“I drove the route and never saw her car. When I pulled into the parking lot of McDonald’s, I spotted her car right off. Parked in the back, almost behind the Dumpster.” He sat upright, his focus on the cross over the altar. “No one was around. The lights were out in the building, so I went to her car to check things out.”
Pain distorted his handsome features. Felicia laid a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his intense gaze to her face. “I found her, Felicia. Naked in the back seat. Still.” Tears spilled down his face. “She was dead. I checked for a pulse, laid my head on her chest to try to hear a heartbeat. Nothing. She was gone.” His body shook as he sobbed.
Felicia’s own eyes filled with tears as her heart constricted. She inched forward, wrapping her arm around his shoulders.
Spence wiped his face and took in a long breath. “The police came. So did the coroner. Reports came back. She’d been raped and strangled. Time of death not even an hour before I found her. An hour.” He twisted to stare at Felicia. “I was at home sleeping while someone raped and strangled my sister. My sweet Carrie.” Rage held his tears in place.
“That’s not your fault.” Felicia’s voice cracked.
“Maybe not.” He ran a hand over his shaggy hair, composing himself. “Weeks later, the police arrested a suspect. A man who was on parole for a sexual assault charge.” Spence clenched his jaw, the muscles popping. “Trial date was set. Mom and I geared up to attend, no matter how painful.”
Felicia swallowed. Such pain he’d endured. How awful. She knew—been there, done that, never wanted to experience anything like it again.
“Three days before trial, the district attorney called Mom and told her they had to drop the charges as their case wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“What?” Shock and outrage stiffened Felicia’s spine.
“Yeah. Exactly what I said.” He leaned back against the pew. “Apparently, the police had illegally searched the guy’s room. The evidence they recovered linking him to Carrie’s murder couldn’t be used in court because the police had failed to get a proper warrant.”
“Oh, Spence. How horrible.”
“Yeah. So, her killer would go free. Nothing we could do about it.” He let out an exaggerated breath and stood, leaning against the railing of the altar. “I tried to forget. I graduated college with a degree in literature. I tried to move on, get on with my life.”
Felicia held her breath, knowing more would come and wanting to know the whole story, but her heart broke for Spence.
“Mom committed suicide the night of my graduation. What a present, huh?”
“Oh, Spence!” Felicia pressed her fingers to her lips. What unimaginable horrors he’d endured. She grabbed her cane, fisting her hand over the handle.
“I went home the next weekend to clean out the house and meet with the real estate agent. I’d made up my mind—I wanted to get away. Far away from the painful memories. I’d finished my business and was heading out of town when I noticed a bar. Even back then, I wasn’t much of a drinker. I don’t know what made me stop there that day.”
He glanced up at the cross, his facial expression unreadable. “Maybe it was God’s hand. I still don’t know. All I remember is that I sat at the bar and ordered a draft. As I waited, I heard a voice I recognized but couldn’t place. I turned on the bar stool and saw him.” Spence faced Felicia, meeting her stare. “The man who’d killed Carrie.”
ELEVEN
After all these years, telling the story hadn’t gotten easier.
Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat. It didn’t settle any smoother in his gut. Empathy wrapped Felicia’s face. With his last statement, her amazing eyes had widened and her expression turned to one of dread. He could tell she suspected what was coming. Might as well get it all out.
“I stared at him. Openly. I glared, putting all my hatred into the look.” Hadn’t he felt murderous at that moment?
Within his very spirit. He shivered now at the memory.
“What happened?” Felicia whispered, although there were only the two of them in the church.
“Believe it or not, I turned back to the bar and downed the frosty mug in front of me.”
“Then…?”
There always had to be more. He’d asked himself a million times over why he hadn’t just gotten up and walked out. But he hadn’t. “I heard him laughing. Telling his friends who I was.” Shame pressed his head until it hung. “Talking about Carrie like he did…”
The laughter tormented Spencer. The names the scum called Carrie. Even now, Spencer clenched his hands into tight fists. “I didn’t think. I jumped from the stool and attacked him. Hit him several times. Wrapped my hands around his throat and squeezed.”
The memory washed over him like swamp over submerged stumps.
“I kept squeezing, despite him kicking and punching me. I wouldn’t let go.” Remorse tigh
tened his throat. “His buddies, the guys there with him, tried to pull me off, but I was too full of rage. I never even felt their fists as they tried to pull me off of him.”
Felicia let out a whimper and shook her head. Crying for him out of pity or disgust? He tried to tell from her expression but came up with no conclusion.
He had to make her see. Make her understand all of it. “I wanted to kill him just like he killed Carrie. I felt the murderous desire in every part of me. For all practical purposes, I’m a murderer. The urge seared my heart.” His voice filled with anger.
Tears streamed down her face. “You didn’t kill him, yes?”
He let out a long breath, releasing the anger and self-disgust. “No, I didn’t.” He shook his head. He had to be totally honest with her, just as she’d asked. “But I wanted to.”
“Yet you didn’t.” She moved closer to him, resting her hand on his forearm.
“Don’t you get it? I wanted to. With everything I am.”
She tightened her hold on him. “What happened?”
“His eyes bulged. I don’t know. Something inside told me to let go. Let go of him and let go of the hatred burning in my chest.”
“God.”
Spencer nodded. “I’d like to think so.” He blinked back the memory. “Anyway, I had the bartender call 911. The police showed up right behind the ambulance. The guy pressed charges. I pled guilty, waiving a trial. Didn’t want a plea bargain. Served three years of a five-year sentence.”
He let out a ragged breath. He had to continue, had to finish, had to stop being a coward. “God met me in prison and put a call on my life. I left prison and went straight into seminary. Moved here because I’d met the previous pastor at seminary, and he asked me to replace him.”
Pain rolled over him. “My first appointment was in Calcasieu parish. A little church, bigger than Vermilion Community, but not by much. I shared my story with the congregation on my first Sunday in the pulpit. How God could see my heart and use me.” He shook his head. “The congregation called for my immediate replacement. I left quietly, started the center and had no intention of going back to preaching. But God had other plans.
“I met with the chair of the pastoral committee by accident.” He smiled. “No, by God’s intervention. Mr. Fontenot introduced me to the other elders. I told them up front what I’d done, what had happened at my previous church. They agreed to hire me on and gave me the option of when and how to tell my congregation.
“All that to say, I’m on parole for another year.” There, he’d said it all. Bared his soul and secrets. The rest was up to her.
And that scared him worse than his first night in prison.
She blinked as if fighting for focus, but her gaze never left his. “You had the chance to kill him, but you didn’t. You turned away from him until provoked. It’s completely understandable. And you paid for your crime.”
“Are you trying to excuse my actions to me or yourself?” He detested how desperate his voice sounded, but he had to be sure of her. He wouldn’t let himself cross the hidden emotional line if she couldn’t get over his past.
She licked her lips. He straightened and stared at the cross again.
Please, Lord, help me. Give me the strength.
He spread his hands in front of her. They shook with the intensity of his passion. “These hands, Felicia. They were wrapped around a man’s neck with the intent to squeeze the life out of him.”
Her tears fell like fat raindrops. “What are you trying to do to me, Spence?”
His heart nearly broke at the sadness in her voice, but he had to go on. Had to know the truth of what she could forgive. He waved his hands under her nose. “Can you look at them, at me, without seeing a monster? Without remembering I almost killed a man?”
She stared at him with agony glimmering in her orbs. Then she shook her head, grabbed her cane and rushed as fast as her disability would allow down the aisle and out of the church.
The door slammed with the combination of her force and the wind whipping.
Spencer sunk to his knees at the altar, staring up at the cross.
Father, forgive me.
“Home. Take me home.” Felicia slammed the back door and swiped at her tears.
Blessedly, the driver didn’t question her order. She didn’t think she could’ve kept any sort of composure had he asked her anything. She sniffed, fighting to gain control.
Why, God? Why let me feel something for him and then drop this bombshell on me? Oh, sweet Jesus, I can’t handle this. I abhor violence.
Her heart ached. Physically. Torturously.
Her tenuous hold on her control threatened to shatter. She clenched and unclenched her fists and willed her stomach to stop roiling, at least until she got home and could be sick in private. Confusion and conflict warred for control of her mind.
The winding dirt roads of the bayou tossed her about in the back seat, causing her nausea to attack in waves. She rolled down the window and drank in the cool air carrying a hint of fish. Within minutes, the driver pulled into the parking lot of her apartment. He appeared at the door, holding out his hand to assist her. “Ms. Felicia, let me walk you to the door. You don’t look so good.”
Too distraught to argue, she let him lead her around the corner and down the sidewalk. Sick. She was going to be sick.
He jerked her to a stop outside her apartment.
She stared at her door. Standing ajar.
He stepped in front of her. “Call the police from your cell. I’ll check things out inside.”
Same hymn, different verse. She grabbed his elbow. “No. We’ll wait at the car and call the police.”
He nodded and followed her back to the parking lot. She called 911, informed Missy of the situation, then closed her phone and stared at the driver whispering into his own cell. “Who’re you talking to?”
He snapped his phone closed and feigned innocence. “Are the police on their way?”
“Dispatch is sending Sheriff Theriot. Stop avoiding my question. Who were you talking to?”
The look in his eyes confirmed her suspicions. “You called Luc, yes?”
He didn’t answer, but nodded.
Great. Now Luc would rush over and jump feet-first into the investigation. She let out a sigh, not bothering to give the driver a piece of her mind. What was the use? No one ever bothered to listen. Everyone thought her a simpleton. At least that’s how they treated her. With kid gloves.
Like a cripple.
Indignation straightened her spine. The nerve of everyone. It was high time she took charge of her circumstances again. With work. Jolie’s murder. Kipp Landry. Luc.
And especially with Spencer Bertrand. Her throat closed. Well, once she figured out how she felt about his revelation. She’d sort through that emotional mess later.
A siren wailed in the distance. Then drew closer and closer until the police cruiser spun gravel into the lot. Sheriff Theriot stepped from behind the wheel and ambled toward her. “What’s going on, Felicia?”
Funny how she’d never noticed the soft lines around his eyes. Gentleness webs, her grandmother used to call them. Felicia gave herself a mental shake and focused. “My apartment door is open.”
“Did you go inside?” The sheriff took steps toward the sidewalk.
“No. We saw the door ajar, came out here and called it in.”
He spared her a quick glance. “Sure you shut it when you left?”
Cooyon! “Of course, I’m sure. I’ve been double-checking ever since…since someone killed Jolie.”
They rounded the corner. He motioned for her to stay and withdrew his weapon. “Looks like it’s been forced open.” Gun aimed, he eased to her door and, with his toe, inched it open. Then he disappeared into her apartment.
Felicia held her breath and realized her driver behind her did the same. The corners of her mouth crept up. Seconds fell off the clock. Finally, the sheriff stuck his head out of the doorway. “It’s clear, but you n
eed to come see, Felicia.”
Dread dogging her every step, she leaned heavily on her cane as she made her way inside her apartment.
As before, the place was in complete disarray. But this time it wasn’t ransacked as if someone was searching for something. No, this was a deliberate trashing of the place. Furniture overturned. Picture frames smashed. Pillows and cushions slashed, the stuffing tossed all over the floor.
Destruction.
Felicia’s heart pounded. Who would do such a thing? She faced the sheriff. “Kipp?”
“First thing I thought of. Radioed the deputy tailing him. Kipp’s been at his place since we released him.”
Then who? Her mind raced. She didn’t have any enemies. Not that she knew of, anyway.
“You’ll want to see this.” Sheriff Theriot nodded down the hall to her bedroom.
She gasped as she took it all in. Her comforter lay in shreds. The mattress was sliced to pieces. Even the drapes had been cut. Felicia’s heart caught in her throat. “I just can’t imagine who’d do suc—”
“Look at the bathroom mirror.”
As she stepped into the master bath, her heart skipped a beat. Written in lipstick on the mirror were the words You’re Next. Her mouth went as dry as Louisiana in August. She caught the sheriff’s expression in the mirror.
“Any ideas?” he asked in a mere whisper.
She shook her head and didn’t know whether to collapse or be sick. Too much. This was all just too much.
“Whoa. Easy there.” Bubba’s gentle hand steadied her as he walked her to the bed. Well, to what was left of it. She sank onto the box springs, careful to avoid the deep gashes which would have her falling through to the floor. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
He ambled down the hall while Felicia rubbed her arms. The goose bumps wouldn’t disappear. She let her gaze drift over her dresser, now void of drawers. They were sprawled over the floor, some in splinters. Someone had to hate her with a vengeance to destroy so much.
Bubba returned with a glass of tap water. She took it with trembling hands and forced down a sip. The water boiled in her stomach.
