Bell Hath No Fury

by Jeremy Waldron

  “Of course, Mom.”

  “I’ll be there, too, reporting.” Mason didn’t react. “Do you need me to pick you up and give you ride?”

  “No, Natalie said she can take me.”

  My brows slanted. “She’s going to leave Nolan?”

  “Nolan asked her to attend for him. His dad said he would stay here, keep Nolan company. But I think Nolan is just going to sleep.”

  I asked Mason more about Nolan and he gave me a quick update. He said Nolan was tired, a bit sore, but his spirits were high. “Message me when you get there. I’d like to see you.”

  After Mason promised he would, we ended our call with my head swimming in self-reflection. I didn’t want to hold my son back, and certainly didn’t want him to stop living his life, but I was terrified about the fact that someone wanted him dead. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to let that go—at least not until this second shooter was caught.

  I found Erin and Allison already huddled around a table in the back, curling their lips around their bright green straws. I slid in next to Allison on the booth and asked, “Anyone heard from Susan?”

  “Running late but says she’s on her way.” Allison nodded and nudged my shoulder. “Hey, everything all right? You’re looking rather glum.”

  I could feel my sour mood pulling my face down. “Just worried about my son.”

  Erin brought her elbows to the table and tipped forward. She didn’t waste time in bringing up Rick Morris. After giving us context to her question, she asked, “What do you think Rick meant when he said, I will make certain you soon learn who the true villain really is?”

  Allison tucked her chin into her neck and flashed me a questioning look.

  Staring into her fudge colored eyes, I said, “I’m worried that Rick will cause further trouble.”

  “And I think he might want to increase the attacks on journalists.” Erin’s neck craned.

  Allison came up with the same conclusions as we had, unable herself to decide on anything conclusive. “But what I can tell you is that I did some digging and read the scripture he quoted.” Allison nodded once. “The guy seems like he might have a screw loose.”

  Thinking the same, I asked, “Did you find any links to the Patriots of God?”

  “Not on Rick.” Allison’s lips pinched.

  “But you did on somebody?” I glanced to Erin who was equally as curious to know what Allison would reveal.

  Allison bounced her gaze between Erin and me. Then she nodded. “Now, just to be clear, I haven’t been able to break past the firewall on Timothy Morris’s social media accounts, but I did find a public post with him in it.”

  “What did it say?” Erin blurted out.

  My knee bounced hysterically beneath the table as I held my breath, unable to control my anxiety.

  “It wasn’t what it said, it was what Timothy was doing.”

  Goosebumps filled my arms beneath my sleeves. “What was he doing?”

  Allison lowered her brow and everything went still. “Tim was getting a tattoo last month.”

  “A tattoo of what?”

  Allison raised her brows and I watched the whites in her eyes grow. “A white eagle medallion.”

  “The symbol of Patriots of God,” Erin murmured as she fell softly into the back of the booth. “I saw it when doing research on the organization.”

  My mind jumped back and forth between Professor Croft and Rick Morris. “If it wasn’t on Tim’s page, where did you find it?”

  “It was posted on the tattoo parlor’s page.”

  “I guess they haven’t figured out that they might want to disassociate themselves from a known mass murderer,” Erin mumbled.

  There was movement out of the corner of my eye and, when I turned, I found Susan stumbling across the finish line with the stooped posture of an exhausted marathon runner. She fell into the booth with a thud and leaned into Erin. “I’ve had a day to remember.”

  We were all still in shock from learning what Allison found and we quickly caught Susan up to speed. “This is so bizarre.” Susan lifted her head off Erin’s shoulder.

  “You don’t have to tell us.” Allison sucked from her straw.

  “No. You don’t understand.” Susan suddenly seemed nervous.

  We all shared a look, wondering what was going on.

  Susan filled us in on the kind of day she was having and added, “As I was leaving the office to come here, I was presented with a donation which came with a stipulation.”

  “What kind of stipulation?” I asked.

  “Can you actually do that?” Erin inquired.

  Susan shrugged one shoulder. “The donor said the money had to go to the Morris family.”

  A collective gasp circled the table. This time, I fell back into the booth with my thoughts crashing to the front of my mind in tall, never ending swells. Suddenly, everywhere we looked the Patriots of God seemed to be making a comeback.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Pastor Michaels was in his study preparing for tonight’s vigil when Youth Pastor Peter Mullen knocked on his door. Pastor Michaels’s lips fluttered soft whispers as he finished reading the last line of text before glancing up.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s time.”

  Pastor Michaels quickly noticed Mullen’s shoulder bag already draped down at his side. “I need a few more minutes. Go ahead without me, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Meeting his Youth Pastor’s eyes above the rim of his reading glasses, Pastor Michaels nodded. “It’s fine. I won’t be long.”

  Mullen nodded and smiled. “We’ll see you there then.”

  Pastor Michaels watched Mullen turn and leave his study in the same quiet manner he had entered. Casting his gaze downward, he went back to reading.

  Pastor Michaels knew that his words tonight needed to be perfect. He couldn’t afford to have any spin on his interpretation of what happened yesterday. He certainly didn’t want his own anger to come out and be misconstrued as something other than what he truly intended.

  He picked up a red pen, scribbled a couple of notes off to the side, and heard his staff leave the building. A calm silence swept into his office and Pastor Michaels felt the tension in his back release.

  The pastor loved these moments of solitude and quiet. It was when he could think the clearest and, often, when he completed his best work. He had time to search deep within his spirit, to repent and plead for God to give him the strength he often sought. However much he sought all those things, tonight, time was against him.

  Another fifteen minutes passed before the pastor was finally happy with the final product.

  Pushing back from his desk, he gathered his things and left his office with a satisfied grin curling his lips. Completely alone, his ears piqued and he listened to the sounds of his heels clacking in a rhythmic mantra as he moved to the nave.

  Inside the grand room, the sounds echoed off the ceiling and stained-glass windows. The lighting was dim and it was here he found companionship with Jesus Christ, his Lord and Savior.

  “My Lord, please give me strength to conduct tonight’s event in a respectable manner.”

  He stared up at his Lord hanging from the Roman cross. The pastor knew his community was as torn up about yesterday’s events as his own heart had been feeling—completely shredded. Over the last day and a half, he’d poured so much energy and strength into helping others grieve that he had found little time to devote attention to his own suffering.

  Dropping to his knees, he bowed his head and began to pray.

  Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will—

  Suddenly, a cold rush of air swept in behind him.

  Slowly, Pastor Michaels lifted his head, turned, and faced the front entrance.

  With his heart pounding, he watched the big door creak back and forth on its hinges.

  Tugging his eyebrows together, he convinced himself it was nothing. Pas
tor Mullen had probably simply forgotten to latch it shut when he had left nearly a half-hour ago. But no matter what he told himself, inside his heart he knew it could be something different.

  The pastor stood and walked to the door with all feelings of serenity vanishing with the wind. Now, as he made his way to the back of his empty church, a wave of fear crawled beneath his dark skin.

  A wind gust slammed the door wide opened.

  The pastor jumped back with surprise as he gripped his racing heart.

  He stepped forward and lunged for the door. Catching the edge inside his hand, he went to quickly shut it before all the heat in the room escaped. Before he could, something caught his eye.

  With one foot out the door, he darted his gaze around. The sidewalks were empty. No one was there. His breath clouded in front of his face as he stared down at the shiny metallic object laid out on the top step like a gift.

  His world started to spin.

  Everything inside of him froze.

  Bending at the waist, he plucked it from the ground and knew immediately what it was. A white eagle medallion, the symbol of a far uglier time he had hoped he would never see again.

  Standing tall, he took one glance around before retreating safely back inside his church.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  After finally getting both food and a margarita into my system, we arrived as a wolf pack to the vigil an hour later. It was just the four of us at first, but I soon locked eyes with Pastor Michaels.

  “I’ll catch up with you in a bit,” I said, excusing myself from the group.

  With my hands buried inside my jacket pockets, I skirted the sidelines and kept one eye on the lookout for my son. People seemed to be coming from all directions but none were Mason. Pastor Michaels met me halfway and immediately asked me about my son.

  Gripping my phone tight, I was waiting to hear from him myself. “He should be here soon.”

  “It would be great to see him,” Pastor Michaels said.

  “I’ll be sure he finds you tonight.” The pastor grinned. “Hey, I wanted to apologize about not being able to help spread the word about tonight. Apparently, I was too late for my publisher to sign off on the approval.”

  The pastor clasped his long fingers in front of his chest and looked around at the impressive turn out. A grin sprouted on his lips. “I think the Lord spread the word for us.”

  “So, I’m forgiven?”

  “We can only give our best efforts.”

  “Sometimes that’s all I have.” I glanced to my feet and kicked the grass around with my toe. “I was assigned to write a column on tonight’s gathering.” I lifted my head and the pastor rolled his gaze back to me. “I was hoping I could highlight you and the work you do for this community.”

  “Highlight the victims.” He nodded. “It’s their stories that need to be heard.”

  I told him my angle, how I had the same plan, when we were abruptly interrupted.

  “Excuse me, Pastor, but it’s time.”

  Pastor Michaels held up a finger to indicate he would be there shortly.

  “We’re already running behind schedule.”

  Pastor Michaels acknowledged his staff’s request, then turned to me and chuckled. “I tend to forget time exists when there are so many friends I would like to greet.”

  “It’s been good talking with you.”

  The pastor’s brows slanted. “Sam, there is something I would like to speak with you about. Tonight. In private.”

  As my watery gaze danced inside his aging eyes, I could see something serious was on his mind. His mood had flattened, along with his lips.

  “Will you find me before you leave? It’s important.”

  “Yes, certainly,” I breathed.

  The glimmer of light came back to his eyes when he reached for my shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Lord’s work is calling.”

  I watched him leave, unable to peel my feet off the grass floor. He’d left me feeling completely unsettled. Something had him spooked.

  As I looked for the girls, I teetered on the balls of my feet. Thoughts bombarded me about how vulnerable we all were, standing out here in the open, waiting to be picked off by the second shooter I knew was still out there somewhere.

  Two arms were waving overhead, fifty yards to the north. I felt my mouth curl as I noticed the familiar face. But it was the flutter in my heart at the sight of King that had me excited to see him. And, when Mason popped up behind King a second later, I dug my toes into the dirt and sprinted toward both of them.

  Leaping into Mason’s arms, everything else became blurry. I heard nothing but his breath. Felt nothing but his lungs breathing. By the time I had Mason blushing in complete embarrassment, I released him and turned to King. As soon as I latched on to him, I could feel how tense he was.

  “Hey.” His voice was crushed gravel.

  The moment my heels hit solid ground, I asked, “Are you all right?”

  I didn’t expect him to answer. Not in front of Mason. But I could see it in his eyes, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. Having the vigil outside made for the perfect ambush. We were all sitting ducks—even with the police securing the area.

  Not voicing my concerns, I asked, “Did you look further into the Patriots of God?”

  King was looking everywhere but at me. “Sorry, Sam, too much work at the school. The place is a war zone.”

  A woman approached, passing out candles. We each took one and our conversation was quickly drowned out by the sounds of a microphone.

  Pastor Michaels and his team were on-stage, leading the crowd in prayer.

  I caught sight of Nancy Jordan and we shared a quick glare before joining the choir in singing the first hymnal. Not long into the song, another woman passed around small white crosses. As soon as I took one into my hand, I thought of Rick Morris.

  Squeezing King’s hand, he lowered his head. Standing on tip-toes, I whispered into his ear, “I think you should look into Rick Morris.”

  He twisted his neck and arched a brow.

  I told him more about the two running theories Erin and I had about his statement and what he meant by it, who the true villain might be.

  “There’s no crime in him speaking out,” King said.

  The mood was sad, peaceful. Everyone seemed to be coming together as one. Students of all races and genders were linked at the arms in a show of unison. Some held signs with messages including Books not bullets; I want to live; No fear; and I’m not scared. I wanted to smile, I really did but, more than anything, I wanted King to see what I was seeing inside my head.

  “No, I know,” I said. “But did you hear what he said to the media today?”

  King hadn’t and I briefed him as best I could.

  “Rick was holding a cross just like this. Wouldn’t you like to know if he has any past affiliation with the Patriots of God? He could be the person we’re all looking for.” But as soon as I heard myself say it, I knew how ridiculous is sounded. If a white cross was all I had to go on, then tonight, everyone who held one was as guilty as Rick.

  That thought was quickly followed by questions: Who’d paid for these? Could it have been planned to take our eyes off one of our two prime suspects? Was Croft, then, the man we should be chasing?

  As if on cue, the air filled with shouts of anger. A burst of commotion followed a second later and, when I followed the noise with my eyes, I could see what had caused the disturbance.

  My pulse ticked so hard I could feel it in my throat.

  King gripped my hand at the same time I latched onto Mason’s coat with my other.

  I couldn’t believe what I saw next. What had begun as a peaceful gathering to mourn the dead had turned into aggressive activism by a small group of passionate protesters.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Sniper stared at the flier, wondering if he had made a mistake. He couldn’t stop wondering what the kid in the park had meant when he said, Even from you.r />
  Taking the rearview mirror into his hand, the Sniper angled it onto himself. He stared into his own glimmering eyes, questioning whether the sparkle he saw was suspicion or excitement. Perhaps a little bit of each.

  Did he know who I was? It wouldn’t be that hard to connect the dots. He’d talked to people he shouldn’t have. Said things he probably shouldn’t have. These were the same people he knew were trying to connect anyone to Tim. And, instead of hiding, he’d kept to his daily schedule hoping to hide in plain sight.

  Living on borrowed time, the Sniper knew he had to act.

  He turned his head and flicked his gaze out his window.

  The sounds of sirens wailed somewhere off in the distance. He listened intently as the sound grew faint, heading away from where he was parked.

  Since visiting Highland Park—the place of tonight’s vigil—his heart hadn’t stopped racing. Everything sent it into a frantic rhythm and he thought it might explode. Despite his self-imposed will to relax, tonight that was proving to impossible. He had grown increasingly sensitive to noises that surrounded him, spooked as easily as a cat. Some minutes he felt the walls closing in on him, while other times the adrenaline he felt pumping through his veins gave him a false sense of confidence—and his cue to go.

  Convinced his location hadn’t been blown, he took the paper flier into his hand once again and lifted it into the light. The vigil was to begin at 8PM, fifteen minutes from now. He could only hope that Pastor Michaels had received his gift.

  Inhaling a deep breath of air, his chest expanded fully and the Sniper knew that he had done his due diligence to get him to this point. He had planned and obsessed over every last detail. Now it was time to move to his next location and prepare to send this city into chaos.

  The Sniper opened his door and moved to the trunk of his car. The street lights flickered on overhead. He glanced around and made sure he wasn’t being watched before opening the back. Parked between a rusty old pickup and a two-door sedan, he remained hidden.