by Blake Pierce
“Okay,” Mackenzie said, feeling the pieces fall into place. “So what can you tell me about the depictions from these churches here in DC?”
“Well, the one we see from Living Word is pretty clear, I think. It shows Christ falling from the weight of the cross on his back. Now, during the Stations, he falls three times but each time he falls, there are more people around him, depicting the gathering crowds come to watch him die. Given that there are very few onlookers in this depiction, I’d say this is the first time he fell.”
“Of the fourteen stations, where does this one fall in order?”
Benjamin took the book from her, flipped a few pages, and came to a page that listed out the order of the Stations. “Here,” he said. “That would be the third station.”
“And the St. Peter’s depiction?”
They both looked at the picture of the interior of St. Peter’s. It showed a woman, presumably Mary, coming to the side of Christ as he continued on with his cross.
“Jesus meets Mary,” Benjamin said. “That’s the fourth station.”
Another huge piece of the puzzle fell into place for Mackenzie. If the Station of the Cross depiction in Blessed Heart represents the first station, I’ve got this bastard.
Because the third station was in Living Word…and Pastor Woodall had been the third victim. And the fourth station was depicted in St. Peter’s, and Father Coyle had been the fourth victim.
Another certainty arose in her, one that made her feel more certain than ever that this was the key.
This guy could easily kill his victims in their homes. But he is electing to do it at the churches. For some reason, he feels that it needs to take place at the location where that particular station is represented. All of these deaths…wherever the murders may take place, it all ends up at a church…
Together, Mackenzie and Benjamin looked at the image in Blessed Heart. She zoomed in on the station depiction behind Father Costas. She saw Christ, standing with a few other people while another small group stood over him on some sort of large stairway or stage of some kind. The man in the center looked quite regal and authoritarian. The certainty of it fell on Mackenzie at the same time Benjamin spoke it.
“That’s the moment when Pilate condemned Christ to die,” he said. “That’s station one.”
“He’s going in order then,” Mackenzie said.
“It would seem that way,” Benjamin said gravely.
Mackenzie looked to the chronological listing of the stations. The fifth station relayed the scene of Simon coming to the aid of Christ to help him carry the cross.
“By any chance, do you know of any churches in DC that have artwork that represents the fifth station?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “But I can make a few calls and see if we can get an answer.”
“That would be extraordinary,” she said.
“It might take a while, given the hour.”
Mackenzie nodded, refusing to get discouraged again. “That’s fine,” she said. “Anything you can do to help would be greatly appreciated. Can you please call me the moment you get an answer?”
“If I get an answer, sure.”
“I’ll see what the bureau can do to also help get an answer,” she said. “Thanks again.”
With that, she left the study for the second time in less than twelve hours.
This is it, she thought. This is the connection. This is what is going to help us nail this asshole.
She ran to her car and nearly peeled out of the parking spot as she headed toward FBI headquarters.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Mackenzie had not been sure how long it would take to find a piece of random information as bizarre and out of the blue as what she and Benjamin were looking for. Still, when 4:30 rolled around and she found herself standing in a conference room with three other agents and no further answers, she started to feel as if time was slipping away from them. It reached the point where she was expecting the phone to ring at any moment—either with good news from Benjamin, or with terrible news that the killer had struck again while they were busy making phone calls to churches to ask about the art they had hanging in their halls and sanctuaries.
Ellington, Yardley, and Harrison were all in the room with her. Yardley was checking all art museum donation records from the past fifty years, looking for any indication that a depiction of the fifth Station of the Cross had been given to a local church. Harrison was apologetically calling the leaders of every church he could get the contact information for, asking about the artwork in their church. Ellington was running interference and trying to keep McGrath happy, doing what he could to properly explain Mackenzie’s discovery pertaining to the Stations.
Mackenzie, meanwhile, was continuing to research the Stations and their significance to different denominations. Maybe she could find motive buried somewhere in the history and theology of it all. She almost wished she was back in Benjamin Holland’s study, around his seemingly unlimited resource of religious texts. Instead, she settled for what she had: Google and Wikipedia.
Ellington, having been on the phone with McGrath for the past several minutes, put his cell phone down and took a seat next to Mackenzie.
“So, he’s not too happy,” he said.
“Of course he’s not. I haven’t offered some magic trick to point a finger directly at the killer.”
“Well, yeah, there’s that,” Ellington said. “But he’d still pissed about you wanting to stake out those two churches—which, by the way, he is doing. There are cars going by once every hour or so.”
“So I guess he’s upset that the four of us are huddled up in this conference room, trying to pin down this church?”
“Yeah, he’s not too happy about that. He said he’ll be back by here in about an hour or so. He’s busy with something else right now.”
“Did he say what?”
Ellington shook his head. “No. Whatever it is, he’s holding this one pretty close to his belt.”
“I don’t see what—” she started to say, but her phone interrupted her.
She answered it right away, recognizing the number.
It was Benjamin Holland.
“Please tell me you got it,” she said.
“I do. A friend of mine in Belgium is an avid collector of religious art and keeps up with this sort of thing. He actually had a list of all American churches with any sort of depictions of the Stations of the Cross. He has three listings for churches in DC that have depictions of the fifth station. One of those churches has closed in the last few years, though, so that knocks your options down to two.”
“That’s great,” she said.
“It gets better. Of those two churches, one of them dedicated their depiction to a museum for religious art somewhere in Mexico last year. So that leaves you only one church. Grace Baptist, over on Hudson Street.”
“You’re sure of this?” she asked.
“I am. I had him confirm it. I’ll text you the phone number over there. I don’t have the number for anyone on leadership, though.”
“That’s okay. This is perfect. Thanks, Benjamin.”
She hung up before he could get out his entire response of You’re welcome.
“Got it,” she announced to the room, pulling up McGrath’s number.
“Got what?” Harrison asked. “The church?”
“Yes. Benjamin Holland came through in a big way.”
“Are you calling McGrath?” Ellington asked. After she nodded, Ellington winced. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”
But it was too late. The phone had rung twice and McGrath answered in his usual curt manner.
“What is it, White?”
“Grace Baptist,” she said. “That’s where the fifth Station of the Cross is located.”
“You’re certain of this?”
“Yes. It’s information that came directly from a close friend of Benjamin Holland. Ellington and I will head over there now and—”
“No. I don’t want our manpower spread so thin over this. It’s already pretty damned thin as it is. You head over there and if it seems like it pans out, then you call. If you know for certain there’s anything to it, call and I’ll send every available agent.”
“Sir, what’s going on?”
“I’m just swamped, White. I’m up to my eyeballs in other shit. The world does not revolve around your case.”
“It sounded like it did the last time we spoke,” she said. She then snapped her mouth closed, realizing that she was smarting off to McGrath. And that could do nothing other than complicate matters even worse.
“I’m going to pretend the last five seconds never happened, so consider that a warning to your smart mouth,” he said. “Now, if you feel that this is a solid lead, please go check it out. If it comes to anything, call for whatever help you need.”
He ended the call abruptly, leaving Mackenzie with a silent phone in her hands. She stared at it, dumbfounded.
“That bad, huh?” Ellington asked.
She sighed and pocketed her phone. “I’m going to head over there and check it out. If it comes to anything, I’ll call. Be on standby, all of you?”
Yardley and Harrison nodded, Yardley with a look of apprehension on her face. Ellington, meanwhile, walked her out the door and when they were alone, he took her hands.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. McGrath is being…I don’t know. He’s hiding something.”
“I gathered that, too. I’ll see what I can find out. In the meantime, you be careful. And give me a call if you so much as smell trouble.”
She nodded and leaned in to kiss him. It was sweet and lingering, just the thing she needed to send an extra little jolt of energy into her. With the kiss having supplied a bit more energy, it was easy to ignore the fact that she had not slept last night.
Wide awake and with a promising lead ahead of her, she headed back down to her car as the night started to fade away in the wake of the approaching morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Coming to a stop at a stoplight, Mackenzie pulled out her phone and typed Grace Baptist into Google. The page came up and it only took her a few moments to find the About Us page. There, she found the name of the lead pastor: Tim Armstrong. There was no personal contact number, just the church’s number followed by an extension.
She sent a group text to Ellington, Yardley, and Harrison. I need the number for Tim Armstrong, lead pastor at Grace Baptist.
In front of her, the light turned green and she took off. Her guts were churning, her heart hammering—her instinct telling her that she was on to something. The previous stoplight, she decided, would be the last she stopped for.
Then, for the third time, she tried the number Benjamin Holland had given her. It had only directed her to a recording from the church’s welcome center the previous two times and it did the same this time as well. She was invited to punch in an extension or leave a message. She did neither; she figured if nothing happened between now and business hours starting up, she’d speak to someone face-to-face and make sure the church was under constant surveillance. The lead pastor may also need an escort. Of course, that might make finding the killer a bit harder, but—
You’re getting too far ahead of yourself, she thought as she slowed to turn into the parking lot.
The sun was just beginning to deposit a few golden hues along the horizon when Mackenzie pulled her car into the lot of Grace Baptist. The church reminded her a bit of Living Word. It was big but not overly so. It was also designed in a rather modern feel, nothing like the Baptist churches Mackenzie had grown up around.
She looked to the right and saw only one car in the sizeable parking lot. Nothing about it sent alarm bells off, but it did make her think of one thing she had neglected to do before leaving headquarters.
She walked up to the church in the fading darkness of early dawn. Like Living Word, it had large picture windows that allowed her to look inside. As she expected, there was no one inside. She tried the double glass doors and, unsurprisingly, found them locked.
In her pocket, her cell phone buzzed at her. She removed it and saw that Yardley had texted back with Tim Armstrong’s cell phone number. She tapped the number and the phone made the call for her right away. It rang five times and then went straight it voicemail. She didn’t bother with a message, knowing that more than fifty percent of the time, it did no good. People tended not to even check their voicemail unless they were expecting an important call.
She knew it was far too early for most people—just now inching past 5:30 in the morning—but she figured this was an emergency. Also, while it might be a bit stereotypical, she was pretty sure any religious leader would be up early for prayer and quiet time. Apparently not Tim Armstrong, though.
Beginning to understand why McGrath may have thought she was being far too pushy about sending as much manpower as possible out here, Mackenzie started to walk around the building. She guessed that the building itself was roughly the length and width of a football field—probably shy by a few feet, but close. So trekking around it was not any small feat.
As she rounded a corner to the back of the church, she saw a small maintenance and tool shed sitting off to the edge of the property. Behind it was a wrought-iron fence that separated the church property from a neighboring property—the entrance to a well-to-do subdivision.
A sizeable stretch of lawn sat in the back of the church. A small playground was tucked away in the corner of the lawn, again separated from the neighboring property by the iron fence. A staff parking lot sat to the other side, completely empty.
Still feeling a sense of unease, she figured she’d try Armstrong’s cell number again. Maybe if the same number called repeatedly, he’d be inclined to answer.
The phone started to ring in her ear. After the first ring, the sound was odd. It almost sounded as if it was echoing in her ear, like it was…
Like the phone is here, on the church grounds.
She removed the phone from her ear and listened closely. There it was again—the ringing of a cell phone. Without the phone to her ear, it was much easier to hear, much easier to trace.
It was coming from behind her. From the maintenance shed.
She returned her phone to her pocket and, without even thinking, unholstered her Glock.
Calm down, a small part of her said. He could just be out here to check on supplies. Maybe gassing up the mower for later today.
The wiser part of her recalled seeing the single car out in the parking lot. At 5:30 in the morning, this part of her argued.
She made her way quickly along the back patch of grass heading for the maintenance shed. It was a nicer model, one that had likely been purchased from the front lot of a Home Depot rather than built by hand. A large barn-style door was latched closed at the front. A single window was placed in the right side, reflecting the small bit of sunlight that had graced this side of the world.
She slowed her pace as she neared the shed. Rather than heading directly for the door, she went to the right side of the structure. She inched toward the window, the Glock held tightly in her hands. She turned toward the window quickly, looking in as stealthily as she could.
She saw the large planks on the floor first—one lay vertically, taking up almost the entire length of the shed. The other was horizontal, a little crooked and not quite across, but the idea was certainly there.
And then she saw the man.
He was stripped down to his underwear.
His right arm was stretched out awkwardly as he grabbed the horizontal plank.
No, she thought. He’s not grabbing it.
The glare from the window made it hard to see it clearly, but his hand had been nailed to the plank. She could see the dark circle of blood within his palm as he struggled against the pain and weight.
She looked to his face as her stomach dropped. There was a gag tied around his head. His hair was gray and the
frantic and pain-filled eyes she saw through the window had looked much happier and more peaceful when she had seen them in the photograph on the Grace Baptist website.
It was Tim Armstrong.
Mackenzie turned away from the window and headed for the shed’s door.
When another man stepped around from the corner, she was too surprised at first to act as quickly as she usually did.
He was only one foot away from her when he drew a hammer up over his head. It was coming down, aimed for her skull, when she tried to sidestep and pull the trigger on her Glock at the same time.
The sound of her gunshot and the sickening thump of the hammer striking the side of her face filled the world at the same time.
Mackenzie’s legs felt as if the bones had turned to jelly. She hit her knees, trying to raise her gun only to find that there was nothing in front of her eyes but darkness.
***
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she realized was that she could not breathe. The world was not dark, but tinted in a strange beige color. Her shoulders ached and her ankles stung. More than anything, though, her head hurt like hell.
Calm down, she thought. Take inventory. What happened?
She put the pieces together and as she did, was able to breathe again—and to get a better gauge on her situation.
Tim Armstrong was in the shed. One hand nailed to a cross that had not yet been constructed. A man came from around the corner and hit me with a hammer. But I got a shot off. Did I get him? Is he dead?
Given her current predicament, she assumed not.
As her sight started to come back—still beige-colored and blurry for now, but operable—she got a better idea of what was happening.
She was in the shed. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her ankles were bound. She was pushed into a corner, behind a riding lawn mower and a canister of gasoline.
