Till Murder Do Us Part

by James Patterson

  “I’m…I…” Mark wheezes, badly slurring his words. “I…think I fell.”

  “Jesus Christ! Fell from where?! How?!”

  Mark smiles, his teeth drenched with blood. “I dunno. Guess I thought I could fly.”

  Hitching a ride in the back of the speeding ambulance, John watches in stunned silence as a team of German paramedics work quickly to bandage and stabilize his teammate and friend.

  Mark, on the other hand, is flailing around wildly, screaming gibberish at the top of his lungs like a madman.

  It’s obvious he’s in utter agony from his injuries. The booze and endorphins must be wearing off, and the pain meds haven’t yet kicked in.

  Still, thrashing and shrieking, Mark looks like a tweaker strung out on PCP.

  “You’re gonna be okay, Gator!” John calls out. “Hang in there, buddy! They’ll have you stitched up and back to your old self in no time!”

  But deep down, John knows there’s no way that’s true.

  Whatever happened to Mark, it’s a damn miracle he’s even still alive.

  Chapter 11

  Fall 1990

  For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever. Amen.”

  A chorus of voices repeats “Amen.”

  Sitting on a metal folding chair, Mark Rogowski lifts his bowed head and flutters open his eyes. His expression is one of total peace and serenity.

  Seated beside him, Augie Constantino smiles and rests a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Thank you, Mark. That was lovely.” Then he turns to the rest of this intimate, nine-person prayer circle. “Now let’s all get out there and have a blessed and joyful day!”

  Mark, Augie, and the other participants file out of Calvary Chapel. In the parking lot, the group exchanges hugs and good-byes under the warm morning sun.

  Mark gets into Augie’s car with him. “I was thinking,” he says, “maybe we could hang out on Scripps Pier today. It’s the start of fall break at UCSD. La Jolla’s beaches are gonna be packed. Just think of all the students we could talk to, all in one place.”

  Augie practically shines with pride. “Mark, that’s an inspired idea!”

  Later that morning, Mark and Augie take up positions on opposite ends of the boardwalk. Augie is on cowboy-booted foot, but Mark is on his skateboard. With a Bible quite literally in hand, he’s riding slowly up and down the pier, trying to strike up a conversation with anyone who will listen.

  He’s not having much luck.

  But then Mark notices a trio of teenage boys strolling along, one of whom is holding a skateboard of his own. Seeing his way in, Mark rides over to intercept them.

  “Hey, guys, what’s up? Got a couple minutes to hear about the Lord?”

  “Sorry, dude,” one of them says. “Not interested.”

  Another adds, “Yeah, don’t waste your time with us anyway. We’re huge sinners—and proud of it!”

  The group laughs. Mark doesn’t.

  “Hey, I get it. I used to be that way, too. Until I saw the light. Now I—”

  “Shit, hold up,” says the third young man, the one holding the skateboard. He looks at Mark with surprised recognition. “I know you…You’re Gator Rogowski!”

  Mark politely shakes his head.

  “No, I’m not. My name is Mark Anthony.”

  “Huh? Dude, I had a poster of you up in my bedroom when I was a kid! Used to watch you skate at Del Mar all the time. You’re the man! You’re Gator freaking Rog—”

  “I’m not,” Mark answers, more firmly this time. “Not anymore. Gator was my name before I was saved. And Rogowski was the name of my father—who abandoned me and my mother when I was three. Now I have a new father. A heavenly one.”

  The teen makes a face. “Damn, Gator. What the hell happened to you? You used to be a total badass. Now you’re, like, selling Bibles?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” Mark replies. “A few months ago, I was on tour. I had a terrible accident. I almost died. I should have died. But I didn’t. I believe Jesus Christ spoke to me through that accident. I used to be a blind dude, but now I can see. And I’m not selling a thing. God’s love is infinite and all around us, and completely free.”

  The three teens trade snarky, skeptical looks.

  “Whatever, man. You want to be some Jesus freak now? Cool. Not us.”

  The trio moves on, whispering and cackling.

  Mark is disappointed but undeterred. He continues his skateboard evangelizing for a few more hours until he and Augie break for lunch: boardwalk hot dogs and ice-cold sodas.

  “So how’s it been going on your end?” Augie asks, squirting a packet of mustard on his dog.

  “About the same as always,” Mark answers. “It’s tough to talk about God to people who aren’t ready to listen. But I think I’m getting better.”

  “That’s awesome! Every soul you connect with matters. Even if it’s just one. And even if you’re just planting the seed. Eventually, that seed will grow.”

  Mark nods. He knows he’s living proof.

  After he came home to San Diego a few months ago following his near-death ordeal in West Germany, Mark suddenly began to feel a strange but powerful spiritual calling, one he’d never felt before. He reached back out to Augie, who rushed to his bedside, and stayed there for every step of his physical recovery and religious rebirth. Since then, the two have become nearly inseparable friends—and recently colleagues, too.

  “Thanks, man,” Mark replies. “I know you know the work that we’re doing is important. I just wish the other people in my life understood that. Like, last night in bed, I was trying to talk to Brandi about it, but she kept—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Augie says, holding up a palm. “What bed?”

  Mark groans. “Man, come on. Don’t start with that right now, okay?”

  “Mark, why is this so hard for you to understand? Of course Brandi isn’t going to fully understand the spiritual journey you’re on. We’re all sinners, but you two are actively choosing to live in sin…together! Either marry her or move out and stay celibate until you do—and until she sees the light. You can’t have it both ways.”

  Mark hangs his head. He’s deeply torn.

  What are they going to do?

  Chapter 12

  What do you mean, What are we going to do?” asks Brandi.

  She’s in the kitchen, chopping lettuce, making a simple salad for dinner.

  Mark has just arrived home after another long day spent wandering up and down the boardwalk, pestering strangers, rambling about Jesus.

  He already has a beer in his hand.

  It’s already almost empty.

  “I mean, I’ve been thinking,” he says, “and we gotta make some changes around here, babe. This isn’t the way God wants us to live. It isn’t the way I want us to live.”

  Brandi was in a fine mood just moments ago. Now she’s feeling tense. She has her guard up, bracing for a fight with her newly born-again boyfriend.

  Mark’s extreme religious beliefs are starting to take a real toll on their relationship. It’s driving a wedge between them. And it’s only getting worse. It’s been a few months since Mark’s drunken accident in West Germany sparked this sudden, fanatical interest in Christianity, and Brandi is still getting used to it.

  Truth be told, she still isn’t sure she buys it. Not completely. Nor do plenty of mutual friends she’s talked to about it. Brandi has often wished she could confide in Jessica, her onetime best friend back in Arizona, but the two have lost touch.

  Part of Brandi suspects that Mark’s religious awakening is all an act. A gimmick. A last-ditch marketing effort to reinvent himself and revive his floundering skating career.

  Or maybe she just hopes that’s what this is. Because her boyfriend sure hasn’t been making much money lately. Not from skateboarding, not from modeling, not from anything else.

  “What kind of changes do you want us to make?” Brandi asks warily.

  “Well, for starter
s,” Mark says, “I still wish you’d convert. Or at least seriously think about it some more. Maybe you’ll reconsider.”

  Brandi stiffens. “Mark, we’ve talked about this. You can pray and worship however you want. That’s fine by me. Really. But I am not converting to some religion I don’t believe in. It’s not gonna happen.”

  “Baby, I used to feel that way, too. I was—”

  “Blind and now you can see,” Brandi snaps. “Yeah. I know. You’ve only told me that a hundred times.”

  With a grimace, Mark twists open another bottle of beer.

  “Okay, fine. But if you’re not gonna get baptized, you have to at least start coming to church more with me and Augie.”

  To Brandi’s credit, she did try going to Mark’s new church, Calvary Chapel, a few times, but it wasn’t her thing at all. Too boring. Too preachy. Too creepy.

  But that’s not why Mark’s comment gets under her skin.

  “I have to go to church, do I? I don’t have to do anything, thank you very much.”

  Mark’s nostrils flare in anger. “You’re wrong. We all have to follow the words and teachings of Jesus Christ, Brandi. At least those of us who don’t want to end up in hell.”

  Brandi sets down her knife and spins to face her boyfriend.

  “Are you even hearing yourself, Mark? You sound nuts! And for someone so worried about going to hell all of a sudden, you sure do drink a lot—and have plenty of premarital sex!”

  Mark takes a long pull of his beer.

  “That’s another thing we gotta change. We can’t do that anymore. Not until we’re married. In fact, you can’t keep living with me, either. Not until you’re my wife.”

  Brandi throws back her head and laughs. What Mark just said is beyond absurd.

  “You’re joking, right? Now, after years of screwing our brains out, you’re telling me we have to stop—and you’re kicking me out?! You’re gonna toss me out onto the street?! That sure doesn’t sound very Christian to me!”

  Mark’s eyes narrow. His voice rises. “You don’t know the first thing about being a good Christian!”

  “And you do? Hanging out with that weirdo all day makes you an expert?”

  “Watch it,” Mark warns. “Augie’s my spiritual adviser. He’s my friend. And he’s brilliant!”

  “Gimme a break! He’s a washed-up loser, with nothing else going for him in his life except his stupid religion…just like you!”

  Mark turns away from Brandi, visibly hurt.

  He simmers silently for a few seconds.

  Then he turns back.

  And without warning, he lunges at her.

  Brandi shrieks with terror as Mark shoves her out of the kitchen and drags her down the hallway.

  “Mark, what the hell? Stop! You’re hurting me!”

  Blinded by rage, Mark ignores her pleas.

  He flings open the door of the coat closet. It’s stuffed with clothes and old skateboarding gear. There’s barely any room inside.

  “Now get in there and keep quiet!”

  “Mark, what are you—”

  But Brandi is powerless to resist as Mark hurls her into the closet and slams the door.

  Inside, it’s instantly, terrifyingly pitch-dark.

  Brandi hears Mark scrape a piece of furniture along the floor outside the closet. Then she hears him storm out of the condo.

  Brandi crumples to the ground in a heap of sobs. She has never, ever seen that side of her boyfriend before.

  And it scares her to death.

  After a few moments, Brandi pulls herself together. Satisfied that Mark isn’t coming back, she tries to push open the closet door.

  But she can’t.

  She tries again.

  It won’t budge.

  Finally, with a great deal of effort—because Mark seems to have hastily dragged an easy chair in front of the closet door to keep Brandi “locked” inside—she manages to get the door open a few inches. Pushing with all her strength, she is able to slip out.

  Brandi catches her breath. Wipes her eyes. And makes a plan.

  Mark says he wants her out of their house?

  Fine. He’ll get his wish.

  Brandi decides she’s leaving that night—and never coming back.

  Chapter 13

  Six weeks later

  This lasagna’s delicious, Mrs. McClain. Thanks again for having me over for dinner. It’s totally rad getting to meet you guys!”

  “You’re very welcome. We’re glad you’re here. Brandi’s told us both so much about you.”

  Brandi smiles and nods in agreement and then reaches over and tenderly touches her new boyfriend’s arm.

  It’s been about six weeks since Mark blew a gasket and locked her in a closet. It took less than half an hour for Brandi to gather up all her clothes and belongings, pile them into her white Mercedes convertible, and hit the road before he came home—which was both the easiest and the hardest decision she’s ever had to make.

  Brandi loved Mark deeply. Over the three years they were together, she was by his side, through his professional highs and lows. And she felt she did her very best to be patient with his career struggles and supportive of his religious awakening. But she wasn’t ever going to convert to Evangelicalism. She wasn’t going to start going to church. She wasn’t going to get married anytime soon, or give up having sex.

  And she definitely wasn’t going to put up with any physical abuse.

  But with her nascent modeling career and her new friends all in Southern California, Brandi wasn’t about to move back to Arizona.

  Luckily, she didn’t have to. Brandi’s mother and stepfather recently relocated from Tucson to Canyon Lake, a quiet, gated community about halfway between San Diego and LA. After crashing on a friend’s couch the first night she fled Mark’s condo, Brandi made the hour drive north and moved in with her folks.

  Brandi also started casually dating a new guy.

  Blond, blue-eyed, built like a Viking, he’s supremely chill and laid-back. And he doesn’t give a hoot about religion. The only commandment he seems to follow is, “Thou shalt have as much hot sex as possible.”

  “Brandi tells us you’re a professional surfer?” her stepfather asks.

  “Yeah! I’ve been catching waves since forever, but I didn’t turn pro until I was—”

  Suddenly, the phone rings.

  And all four people at the dinner table freeze.

  Brandi’s stepfather starts to push back his chair. “Excuse me. Let me get that.”

  “No,” Brandi replies sternly. “Don’t. It could be him. It probably is. I just know it.”

  Her stepfather frowns, frustrated, but obeys as the phone keeps ringing.

  At last the answering machine picks up. After the beep, Brandi, her new boyfriend, her mother, and her stepfather all collectively hold their breath.

  A man’s voice growls, “Pick up the damn phone, you bitch! I know you’re there!”

  The voice belongs to Mark Rogowski—who hasn’t been taking their breakup well at all.

  For the past few weeks, he’s been showing up at the clothing boutique where Brandi has been working part-time. He’s started following her and her new boyfriend around town. Increasingly jealous and obsessive, he’s been accosting them. Threatening them.

  Most recently, Mark somehow learned Brandi’s mother and stepfather’s home phone number. He’s started leaving long, angry, deeply disturbing messages at all hours of the day and night.

  “You can’t keep ignoring me forever, you dumb bitch! You think you know what I’m capable of? You have no idea, Brandi, no idea at all! You’re gonna fry in hell!”

  Mark slams the phone down, and the answering machine goes silent.

  “That’s it,” Brandi’s mother announces. “We’re calling the police.”

  Dabbing her moist eyes, Brandi replies, “Mom, no. I don’t want to.”

  Brandi’s stepfather interjects, “Honey, we have to. Mark’s behavior is getting worse. His
messages are getting scary.”

  Brandi knows her parents are right. But somewhere inside her, she also feels a lingering sympathy toward her former longtime boyfriend. She wants him to stop bothering her, but she doesn’t want to ruin his life.

  “I know,” Brandi answers. “It’s just…Let’s give him a little more time, okay? He’s upset. They’re just words. He’s just blowing off steam. I’m sure he’ll cut it out soon.”

  “How can you be sure?” her mother asks. “You just heard what that boy said, honey. We have no idea what he’s capable of!”

  Brandi chews on her mother’s ominous words.

  She’s scared and hates to admit it.

  But her mother is absolutely right.

  Chapter 14

  Pedaling her bicycle along a quiet, tree-lined road through the foothills of Canyon Lake—she’s heading home after a daytime shift at the boutique—Brandi inhales deeply. The pleasing scent of freshly fallen leaves hangs in the crisp, clean air.

  Around the corner is the main entrance to the private community where she continues to live with her mother and stepfather.

  Brandi brakes as she arrives at the gatehouse. It’s about the size of a large toolshed, with a mission-style red-tile roof. A middle-aged man wearing a navy-blue uniform and sporting a bushy mustache steps up to the window.

  “Hi, Lou,” calls Brandi with a friendly wave.

  “Evening, Miss McClain,” answers the security guard. “Welcome home.”

  A moment later, the retractable metal arm lifts and Brandi continues riding down the private road.

  She’s been living here for a good two months now and has gotten to know most of the guards well enough that they no longer ask her for ID every time she enters. Was it a small nuisance at first? For sure. But Brandi was, and continues to be, extremely grateful for the extra security—especially given her ex-boyfriend Mark’s recent behavior.

  Which, thankfully, appears to be in the past.

  Mark hasn’t shown up at her work or left any threatening phone messages on her home machine in nearly two weeks. Just as Brandi hoped, it seems as though they’re both finally moving on with their lives, no police intervention necessary.