When Father Brian parked his Honda Civic, he noted that his was the only vehicle in the small paved lot adjacent to the park entrance. On several trips to Dunmore during the past couple of years, he had passed by Spring Creek Park, but he had never stopped and checked it out. The entrance was well lit, as the entire park seemed to be, with pole lights placed strategically throughout the acreage. After closing the car door, he took in a deep, steadying breath and instantly caught the scent of damp earth. He closed his eyes for a peaceful moment and inhaled that glorious smell left behind after a good, soaking rain.
He sighed, opened his eyes and checked his lighted digital wristwatch. Ten fifty-seven.
She should be here soon, if she showed up at all.
Please, God, let her come to me so that I can help her.
Although it was late May and the daytime temperatures ranged from the high seventies to the low eighties, the nights were still often quite chilly. Feeling the cool breeze whipping through the trees, he was glad he had worn his jacket.
The stone archway that led into the park appeared to be quite old. No doubt this park had been in existence for generations. Often parks were located near underground springs and other bodies of water, so he assumed Spring Creek Park was near Spring Creek. The sidewalk ended abruptly less than fifteen feet inside the park. Three dirt paths, leading in different directions, branched off from the sidewalk.
He paused, looked around, getting the lay of the land, so to speak, and felt an instant shiver of apprehension shoot through his body. Standing perfectly still, he listened to the quiet nighttime chorus of wind and nearby water and the gentle song of unseen creatures.
Suddenly the headlights of a passing car flashed across the park entrance and startled him. No reason to panic, he told himself. But what if the car had belonged to a policeman? What if he was questioned about what he was doing here, alone in the park, at this time of night? Why hadn’t he considered the possibility that someone might mistake him for one of those men who performed deviant sex acts in public places?
A flutter of noise erupted from a nearby tree, and two birds emerged from the thick foliage and sailed into the starless sky, their silhouettes spotlighted by the shadowed moonlight. The sound startled him, so much so that his heartbeat accelerated and his hands trembled. An anxious unease settled over him, accompanied by the thought that he shouldn’t be here.
He checked his watch again. Five after eleven. He would wait another ten minutes. Even though his gut instinct told him to leave now, his heartfelt concern for the person who had called him, begging for his help, overruled his common sense. Some poor, lost soul might take her own life tonight if he didn’t stay here and offer her hope for the future.
“Father Brian,” the voice called to him.
“Yes, I’m here.” His gaze circled the area around him, but he saw no one. “Where are you?”
Silence.
Had he imagined her calling his name? Had it simply been the wind?
“Please, show yourself. I’m Father Brian. I’m here to help you, my child.”
“Father Brian.” The eerily soft voice said his name again, and this time he noted from which direction it had come.
He followed the path that led past the small rose garden and two sets of concrete park benches. “Don’t be afraid.” He held out his hands in a gesture that he hoped indicated concern and caring. “Whatever is wrong in your life, God can help you. All things are possible through Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.”
A dark figure bolted from the unlit area of trees and tall shrubs and came at him so quickly that he didn’t have time to react before he felt a cool, foul-smelling liquid splatter over him from his face to his feet.
What had just happened?
Father Brian looked into the face of death, realizing too late that he had walked into a skillfully planned trap. He saw the tiny, yellow-orange flame at the tip of the Pocket Torch lighter half a second before she tossed it on him, setting him on fire.
She moved back, away from the flames, and stood there listening to the priest’s screams. She watched in utter silence, smiling. He would never again harm another child.
Vengeance is mine, thus sayeth the Lord. She was the Lord’s instrument of punishment. He had chosen her to rid the world of men such as Father Brian. Slowly, quietly, as silent as the grave, she turned and walked away.
Burn in hell for your sins, Father Brian! Burn in everlasting torment.
Chapter Six
Tasha Phillips parked one of the two Spring Creek Missionary Baptist Church vans carrying the church’s preschoolers, and her husband, Dewan, pulled the second van up beside the first. Three SUVs followed, each carrying the same precious cargo. Every year on the final Tuesday prior to the Wednesday evening church services where the little ones participated in a graduation ceremony, the minister and his wife hosted a picnic at Spring Creek Park. As the director of the church’s preschool and day-care programs, Tasha took great pride in her accomplishments—not that they equaled Dewan’s, of course. Since they had come to Dunmore nearly ten years ago, the local church had flourished under her husband’s charismatic leadership. The once small, floundering congregation now boasted over two hundred members, a large number in a town of less than eight thousand residents, with only 10 percent of those African-American.
Mothers and fathers carrying picnic baskets and coolers emerged from their vehicles, and the teachers lined the preschoolers up and counted heads.
Once the group had congregated at the arched entrance to the park, Dewan raised his hands and called for a moment of silence. To a person, every man, woman and child quieted instantly. The murmur of the warm spring breeze and the trickle of springwater flowing over the nearby streambed provided background music for the prayer.
“Almighty God, creator of all things, benevolent and understanding, we come before You this morning asking for Your blessings for these our beloved children and thanking You for this fine day.”
Tasha bowed her head and closed her eyes as she listened to Dewan’s booming, authoritative voice speaking directly to the Lord. She was as mesmerized by him today as she had been twelve years ago when they had been introduced by mutual friends. For her, it had been love at first sight. She had never met anyone like Dewan Phillips, a man so sure of his calling to preach, a man who could have been anything he wanted and yet chose service to God and his fellow man. And when given the opportunity to be an assistant minister at a large church in Birmingham, he had chosen instead to accept the job as pastor of a needy church in the small North Alabama town of Dunmore.
At the end of Dewan’s prayer, a resounding shout of “Amen” signaled the children that they could laugh and talk, which they immediately did.
As the teachers and parents entered the park, Tasha slipped her arm through her husband’s and smiled up at him. At six-three, Dewan towered over her by a good ten inches. He leaned down, kissed her forehead and then laid his big hand tenderly over her slightly protruding belly. After ten years of marriage, ten years of praying for a child, they were, at long last, expecting a little boy in three months. They had already decided to name him after their fathers, Sidney Demetrius Phillips, but they couldn’t agree on what they would call him. She preferred Sid, after her dad, and he preferred Demetrius, after his dad. She suspected that, in the end, Dewan would win her over. He always did.
“You go on in,” he told her. “I need to get those folding chairs out of the back of the van.”
Tasha joined the others in the park, following the mothers as they walked directly toward the tables near the rose garden. There was more shade in that area because of the enormous old oak trees growing nearby. The teachers herded the children toward the play equipment suitable for their age groups while the parents busied themselves with picnic preparations. When Mariah Johnson pulled a red-checkered tablecloth from her basket and unfolded it, Tasha grabbed one end and helped her spread it across the nearest table.
“The day couldn�
��t be more perfect, could it?” Mariah said. “It’s as if the Lord is smiling down on us.”
While chitchatting happily, they retrieved another tablecloth from Mariah’s basket. Then, just as they lifted the cloth over the next table, a loud, terrified scream shattered the adults’ cheerful conversation and the children’s beautiful laughter. Tasha stopped dead still, the ends of the tablecloth clutched in her hands. Two of the fathers, Eli Richardson and Galvin Johnson, ran toward the screaming Monetia Simmons, who stood stiff as a granite statue, her wide eyes fixed on something lying on the ground behind the concrete tables at the far side of the rose garden. As the men neared Monetia, they paused when they saw what had made her scream.
Dewan came racing toward Tasha. “What’s wrong? I heard someone screaming.”
Eli went over to Monetia and put his arm protectively around her trembling shoulders while Galvin hurried toward Dewan. He said in a low, calm voice, “Call the police, Reverend Phillips. There’s a dead man over there. It looks like he burned to death.”
“Merciful Lord,” Tasha gasped.
Dewan gripped her arm. “You and the other ladies gather up the children and take them back to the church. I’ll contact the police, and the men and I will stay here until they arrive.”
Jack stared at the photographs of Mark Cantrell’s charred body. Autopsy photos. What kind of person could douse another human being with gasoline and set him on fire? Someone completely devoid of any type of normal emotions—someone incapable of empathy or sympathy?
His own body retained the scars left from an explosion, scars no surgeon’s scalpel could ever completely erase. But he had been in the middle of a war zone when he’d been severely injured. And he had survived. Casualties were expected during a war. Mark Cantrell had been living in a small, quiet Alabama town. He had been a minister, a man of God, someone who taught love and compassion and forgiveness. His death had been unexpected and horrific in nature.
What must it have been like for Cathy to have watched her husband burn to death, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do to save him?
Jack set aside the Cantrell file and picked up the file containing the copies of the Athens police department’s report on the death of Charles Randolph. Six months after Mark Cantrell’s vicious murder, the forty-nine-year-old Randolph, a Lutheran pastor, had been covered with gasoline and set on fire. His wife had heard his screams and rushed into the backyard. She had found him burning to death in the alley, where he had gone to place their garbage for the next day’s trash pickup. Randolph had lived less than twelve hours after being rushed to the hospital. In his condition, he had been unable to tell the police anything. And neither his wife nor any of the neighbors had seen or heard anything suspicious.
Jack shoved aside the files, leaned back in the swivel chair at his desk, lifted his arms behind him and cupped the back of his head with his entwined fingers.
Other than the fact they were both clergymen, the two victims had nothing in common, nothing that would link them to each other or to the same killer.
These files told only part of the story, the official part, and that’s all that should concern him.
“Less than a week after Pastor Randolph’s murder, Cathy Cantrell had a nervous breakdown,” Mike had told him. “She spent several days in the hospital here in Dunmore, and then her mother drove her down to Birmingham, where Cathy checked herself into Haven Home, a mental-rehab center.”
Jack knew a little something about post-traumatic stress. During his recuperation from the bomb explosion, he’d gone through his own psychiatric treatment. And even now, there were times when he got the shakes and occasionally had nightmares. He hated to think about Cathy going through the torment of the damned.
Since seeing her yesterday afternoon, he had thought of little else. He was a damn fool. Whatever had been between Cathy and him had been over and done with long ago. When he’d been a kid of twenty, he had thought he was in love and had believed she felt the same. But shortly after his leave ended, his Rangers unit had been sent to the Middle East and he had wound up spending six months as a POW in Iraq before escaping.
And Cathy had married someone else.
A sharp knock on the door snapped Jack out of his musings about the past. Mike opened the door, stuck his head in and said, “I just got a call from Wade Ballard, Dunmore chief of police. A group from a local Baptist church went to Spring Creek Park this morning for a picnic and found a dead body. Looks like the victim burned to death.”
Jack shot up out of the chair. “Any idea who the victim is?”
“They found a car at the park they believe belonged to the victim. The church folks said the car was there when they arrived. Wade ran a check on the license plate. The car is registered to Brian Myers, a Catholic priest from Huntsville.”
“Son of a bitch,” Jack grumbled under his breath. “Victim number three.”
“Yeah, it could be. We’ll know more when the crime-scene guys finish up and after we get a look at the autopsy results.”
Jack kept up with Mike’s hurried pace as they exited the sheriff’s office complex and headed toward Mike’s heavy-duty Ford pickup.
“There were six months between murders one and two. Why wait a whole year before striking again?” Jack might be jumping to conclusions, but his gut told him that whoever killed the priest was the same person who had murdered Charles Randolph and Mark Cantrell.
Someone was killing clergymen. What was their motive? And why had they chosen such a gruesome way to execute their victims?
Lorie gift wrapped the set of coasters and the matching placemats that Mrs. Webber had purchased for her grandniece’s bridal shower. She took extra care with this gift, choosing the most expensive paper and ribbon she kept on hand at Treasures. Margaret Webber was one of their best customers and one of the grand old dames of Dunmore society. If someone such as she could accept Lorie, even as a lowly peon, there was hope that someday a lot of other people in her hometown would also accept her. Maybe even Michael Birkett.
After placing a Treasures of the Past gold sticker on the gift, she inserted the beautifully wrapped box into one of their largest bags with handles and offered it to Mrs. Webber.
“Here you are,” Lorie said. “And please give my best wishes to your niece.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
“Have a nice day.”
“And you, too.”
Just as Mrs. Webber headed out the door, Lorie’s cell phone, which lay on the glass checkout counter, jingled. Before answering, she checked caller ID. She did a double take when she saw the name. What an odd coincidence. Michael Birkett. Her heart stopped. Why on earth would Mike be calling her?
With an unsteady hand, she picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Lorie?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, this is Lorie Hammonds.”
“Mike Birkett here. Is Cathy there with you?”
“She’s here, but she’s in the stockroom doing some end-of-the-month inventory. Would you like to speak to her?” Why the hell hadn’t he called the store phone? Why her cell phone? And just how did he get her private number? He’s the sheriff, she reminded herself. He can get anybody’s number.
“No, I don’t want to speak to her. I called you directly because I didn’t want to risk Cathy answering the store phone. There’s no easy way to say this….” His voice trailed off as if he was having a difficult time with whatever news he had to share.
“You’re scaring me. Has something happened to Seth?”
“No, nothing like that,” Mike assured her.
“My God, whatever it is, just tell me.”
“There’s been another murder. The pastor, his wife and some members of the local black Baptist church found a body at Spring Creek Park this morning when they went there for a picnic.” Mike paused. “The victim burned to death. Andy Gamble says that it looks like he was drenched in gasoline. And one more thing—we’re pretty sure the guy was a Catholic pr
iest from over in Huntsville.”
Sour bile rose up Lorie’s esophagus and burned her throat. “Damn! How can I tell Cathy about this? You know what happened when that Lutheran pastor over in Athens was killed last year.”
“You don’t have to tell her. I’ll do it. But word’s got out already, and I thought I should warn you before somebody comes into the shop and blurts it out.”
“Oh God, oh God.”
“Pull yourself together,” Mike told her. “Jack and I will be there in twenty minutes or less.”
“Jack? Why bring him?”
“Jack’s one of my deputies, and since I put him in charge of the department’s old cases, including Mark Cantrell’s murder, he’s been exchanging info with the detectives in Athens who headed up the Randolph murder. With this third murder, we’ll probably be calling in the Alabama Bureau of Investigation and forming a task force. I’ll be assigning Jack to work with the other law-enforcement agencies involved with this new murder investigation.”
“Cathy is going to have a hard enough time today hearing the news about another murder similar to Mark’s. She doesn’t need to have to deal with Jackson Perdue at the same time.”
“You’re overreacting, aren’t you? Jack and Cathy’s little romance lasted what? Two weeks? And that was nearly twenty years ago.”
“No, Cathy and Jack’s little romance wasn’t quite that long ago,” she said. “It ended about the same time ours did, right after I left Dunmore and went to LA.”
Silence. Mike didn’t make a sound.
Why on earth had she brought up their past history? Now was not the right time. Actually there probably never would be a right time.
“Sorry,” Lorie said. “We weren’t talking about us, were we? But then there is no us and there’ll never be an us, not ever again.”
“Do what you can to keep Cathy from finding out about the murder before I can talk to her.” Mike ignored her comment about the two of them. “And…uh, I won’t bring Jack with me.”
Silent Killer Page 7
