They both laughed, and for the first time since she had arrived at the restaurant, Cathy relaxed.
That afternoon, when Mike had invited Jack to go along with him and his kids to Dutton’s Bowling Alley that night, he had declined. He figured the last thing he needed was to run into Cathy and Preacher Hovater. But before his shift ended, he told Mike that he’d changed his mind. What difference did it make if he and Cathy were at the same place at the same time? They weren’t even dating, at least not officially. And she’d made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t ready for anything more than friendship from him or any other man.
“Great. Meet us around seven and we’ll grab a bite there,” Mike had said. “They’ve got halfway decent burgers and dogs and the best greasy onion rings in the county.”
Jack had considered trying to find a date to take with him, but realized that since returning to Dunmore there had been only one woman on his mind. His female acquaintances were limited. He knew the two female deputies, but one was married and the other had a steady boyfriend. And he knew Lorie, but considering her long-standing friendship with Cathy, she was off-limits. Besides, Mike wouldn’t appreciate him showing up at the bowling alley with his old lover.
Five minutes into their meal, with Hannah seated at the booth alongside Mike and M.J. beside Jack, Mike’s gaze fixed on something or someone behind Jack.
“Did you know Cathy would be here tonight?” Mike asked.
“Who’s Cathy?” Hannah looked up at her father.
“Yeah, she mentioned it when we had a business lunch today,” Jack replied.
Looking squarely at Jack, Mike answered his daughter. “Cathy is Mrs. Cantrell. She’s an old friend of Jack’s and mine.”
“Oh, like Miss Lorie,” Hannah said.
“Sort of,” Mike mumbled.
“Hey, it’s a free country,” Jack said. “Why should I have missed the chance to spend a fun evening with you, Hannah and M.J. just because my path might cross with Cathy and her date?”
Mike’s eyes widened. “She’s dating the preacher who took over her husband’s congregation?”
“They’re just friends.”
“Hmm…Apparently.” Mike chuckled. “Most people don’t take their teenage kids along with them on a date.” Suddenly an odd expression crossed Mike’s face. He lowered his voice. “Don’t look now, but here they come.”
“Huh?” Jack turned around at the exact same moment Cathy walked by with her date and their kids.
Cathy paused, a startled look in her eyes. “Good evening.” She glanced from Jack, who rose to his feet immediately, straight to Mike. “This is a popular place tonight.” She smiled. “How’s the food?”
“Not half bad,” Mike said as he stood.
“Evening, Deputy.” Donnie Hovater extended his hand. “Good to see you again.”
Jack nodded, shook the preacher’s hand and sat back down.
He didn’t like this guy. Yeah, sure, he resented Cathy spending time with a man who had to remind her of her dead husband. But it was more than that. Jack’s gut instincts picked up some weird vibes from the preacher man.
“Enjoy your evening,” Cathy said, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Jack.
“Yeah, you, too,” Mike said when Jack remained silent.
As soon as the foursome was out of earshot, Mike sat down, his face crunched in a disapproving frown. “That went well, don’t you think?” he said sarcastically. “Why didn’t you just sock the guy in the jaw instead of shaking his hand?”
“Why should Jack have hit Brother Hovater?” Hannah asked.
“Yeah, you told us to never start a fight,” M.J. added.
“Jeez,” Mike grumbled under his breath. He pulled out a ten from his wallet and handed it to his son. “Take Hannah with you and y’all go get ice cream for dessert.”
As soon as his children headed off toward the nearby concession stand, Mike leaned forward and said, “What’s going on between you and Cathy?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. The vibes between you two were so intense, I’m surprised—”
“I want her. She wants me. But she’s not ready for anything more than friendship.” Jack slid out of the booth and stood. “I think I’ll pass on the bowling. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Running away won’t solve your problem.”
“A smart soldier knows when to retreat and work on new battle plans.”
Mike shook his head. “Is that how you think of your relationship with Cathy, as a battle? You think Donnie Hovater is your enemy?”
“I think he wants Cathy,” Jack said. “And I damn well don’t intend to let him have her.”
Jack didn’t wait around to hear what else Mike had to say. He walked out of the bowling alley and went directly to his car. After sliding behind the wheel, he sat there and stared through the windshield into the dark night sky.
What the hell was the matter with him? Hadn’t he decided, just this morning, that what he needed was to get laid? Cathy Nelson Cantrell was not the only woman in the world, not even the only woman in Dunmore, Alabama. If all he wanted was a one-night stand, he could go to any bar in Dunmore or nearby Decatur, Athens or Huntsville and probably have his pick.
As for Donnie Hovater, if Cathy preferred his type—Mark Cantrell’s type—then who the hell cared? He’d never fought for the rights to a woman, had never known one worth fighting for, except maybe his mother and definitely his sister. So why did he want to beat the living daylights out of the preacher, stomp him to the ground, walk over him and claim his prize?
Jack slammed both fists down against the steering wheel. Cathy would sure as hell love being thought of as a prize, wouldn’t she?
That woman has turned you inside out and tied you into knots.
But he couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t her fault. Some people just had an undeniable chemistry that made it difficult for them to keep their hands off each other. It had been that way for Cathy and him seventeen years ago. It was still like that for the two of them.
Jack inserted the key into the ignition, started his Corvette and headed toward Huntsville. It was Friday night, and the bars would be open well into the morning.
The house was deadly quiet as she slipped out of her bedroom at eleven-thirty. No one would miss her. Even if her bed was empty, it would be assumed that she was outside in the gazebo where she often went at night when she couldn’t sleep. No one bothered her there while she sat alone in the darkness. It was her only refuge on earth.
The doctors had given her a prescription for non—habit-forming sleeping pills, and for a while she had pretended to take them. Finally, she had admitted that she didn’t want to take drugs. Her body was a temple, not to be abused or defiled.
“Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God’s.”
She knew her Scriptures, had learned chapter and verse from her earliest childhood. God’s holy words about the sanctity of the body were found in I Corinthians 6:19–20.
Drugs were of the devil.
The devil lived in and worked through human beings, even those who professed to be His prophets and teachers of His divine word. God despised wickedness. He punished those who sinned against Him. But blasphemers were the most despised of all sinners, those who set themselves up as pure and holy, pretended to be doers of good deeds when in truth their hearts were black with sin.
She clutched the car keys in her hand. Since the houses were relatively close together, the sound of a car starting would go unnoticed. Cars came and went at all hours, especially on weekend nights. If anyone did discover that she was not at home in bed asleep, she would have no trouble convincing them that she had been restless and hoped taking a drive would relax her. Even if there were consequences, she would deal with them. All that mattered tonight was for her to accomp
lish her goal.
She was on a mission for God.
The drive to Decatur, to the Kelley house, would take approximately thirty minutes. She shouldn’t be there longer than ten minutes, fifteen at the very most. And then the return drive would take another thirty minutes. She should be back home and in bed again by one o’clock.
As she eased the car out of the driveway and onto the street, she prayed for guidance and protection. If the Lord wanted her to continue her work, to destroy more of the world’s most vile sinners, then He would keep her safe. He would watch over her and never deliver her into the hands of His enemies.
As the miles passed by, she alternated between planning and praying. The gasoline can was in the car trunk, and the Pocket Torch lighter was in the glove compartment.
“Help me, merciful God, my loving heavenly Father. Guide my hand in Thy service. I will do Thy will.”
If Reverend Kelley came to the back door tonight, it would be a sign from on high. If someone else answered her knock, she would stay hidden in the shadows and know that tonight was not the night.
Chapter Nineteen
Bruce stood in the doorway watching Mirabelle as she sat on the side of Sandie’s bed, soothing her with a tender touch and soft words. He had never felt as helpless in his entire life as he did now. During the brief time Mirabelle had been living with them, she had become his wife’s surrogate mother, sister, child and friend. In her lucid moments, Sandie treated Mirabelle as the half child, half woman she was. Bruce knew that Sandie, the woman he had loved for most of his life. In other moments, when his wife teetered on the brink and was often confused and occasionally hostile, Mirabelle became her friend, the girl’s sweet innocence seeming to somehow relate to the lost child in Sandie. And in the worst moments, when Sandie crossed over into a realm where she didn’t know who he was, who her own children were, she looked at Mirabelle and saw her mother and occasionally her sister, Allison, both women long dead.
Tonight had gone well. Sandie had been herself during dinner and for several hours afterward, but shortly before ten, she had become disoriented. For the past two hours, he and Mirabelle had done whatever they could to keep Sandie calm and reassured as they prepared her for the night. As much as he hated sedating his wife, he now knew when it was best for her—and, yes, for him, too—to be given medication to help her rest. At eleven-thirty, he had prepared a glass of chocolate milk for her and doctored it with a sedative. Mirabelle had taken the milk to her and smiled triumphantly when she’d brought the empty glass back to him.
With the medication taking effect now and Mirabelle at Sandie’s side, Bruce allowed himself to breathe a free, relaxed breath, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the doorway. Not yet. Not until Sandie was asleep. Not until he felt certain that Mirabelle would be all right on her own.
Once he felt reassured that all was well, he would go to the guest bedroom where he now slept and read for a while until God blessed him with a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
The ting of the doorbell surprised him, the sound echoing up the staircase from the ground floor. At first he hadn’t been sure what the sound was, but when the bell rang again several times, he realized exactly what it was. But who would be at their door this time of night, at midnight?
Mirabelle looked his way, and their gazes met, hers silently repeating the question he had just asked himself about who their midnight caller was.
Using hand motions, he told her he was going downstairs. She smiled and nodded her understanding.
Even though it was midnight, Bruce still wore the khaki slacks and short-sleeved plaid shirt he’d worn all day. He made his way down the stairs, across the foyer and to the front door. He turned on the porch light and opened the door, leaving the storm door locked.
There was no one there. The porch was empty.
Odd. Had some teenager playing a prank rung the doorbell and run away? He heaved a hard, weary sigh and closed the door.
The doorbell rang again.
He opened the door. No one there.
He closed the door and turned off the porch light.
Then it hit him that the back door also had a doorbell, one that was seldom used because visitors always came to the front door. Perhaps a neighbor had a problem and for some reason had chosen to go to the back of the house. Bruce trekked down the hall, through the kitchen and into the mud room. He turned on the outside lights, one on either side of the door, and peered through the half-glass back door. He saw no one.
He needed to get to the bottom of this. If someone was deliberately harassing them, he had to put a stop to it immediately. He couldn’t risk anything disturbing Sandie. Hesitant to unlock the back door, Bruce reminded himself that a burglar would hardly ring the doorbell.
With a slightly shaky hand, he unlocked and opened the door. “Is anyone there?” he called in a confident, no-nonsense voice.
No response.
“Hello, is someone out there? Do you need help?”
Except for the soft rustle of a warm June breeze rippling through the trees and shrubbery, the backyard was eerily quiet. Bruce took several tentative steps out onto the wooden deck. He glanced right and left and then out into the dark yard but saw nothing out of the ordinary, not even a stray animal.
Just as he turned to go back inside, he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision. Jerking back around, he spied a dark form hovering near the old magnolia tree a good ten feet away and to his right.
“Who’s there?”
“Help me,” a quavering female voice whispered.
Bruce moved forward until he reached the edge of the deck, all the while keeping his gaze on the small shadow of the woman in his yard.
“Who are you, and what can I do to help you?” he asked.
“God has sent me to you,” she said, her voice whispery and fragile.
A frisson of uncertainty crept up Bruce’s spine. Was the woman someone he knew, or was she a stranger, perhaps a deranged person who had sought him out because he was a minister? Could she be the Fire and Brimstone Killer?
“Show yourself,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone compassionate despite his wariness. “We’ll go inside and talk. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” He held out his hand. “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best to provide it.”
Without saying a word, she emerged from the shadows and walked slowly toward the deck. When he saw her more clearly, he sighed and relaxed. She appeared quite normal, although her expression hinted at an inner anguish.
Bruce stepped down off the deck and walked toward her. As she approached him, he noticed that she carried something held halfway behind her. A suitcase or knapsack, perhaps? Was she homeless? She appeared to be neat and clean. When she was within a few feet of him, he realized her other hand was knotted into a fist, as if she held something small hidden inside her tight grasp.
“Hello, I’m Reverend Bruce Kelley,” he told her. “And you are?”
“I am the Lord’s chosen,” she said.
A hard knot of apprehension clutched Bruce’s gut. Who was this peculiar woman? “Can I call someone for you, someone who will be concerned about you?”
When she smiled, her lips curving upward in a closed-mouth grin, Bruce looked directly into her eyes and saw sheer madness. Merciful Lord, is she dangerous? His heartbeat accelerated at an alarming pace. Real fear swelled up inside him.
He took a cautious step backward, away from his late-night visitor, but he kept focused on her face, on the wild look in her eyes.
Still smiling, she stared at him but said nothing. Her sudden silence seemed to issue a warning. Danger. Beware.
Before he realized what she intended to do, she brought what he’d thought was a small red suitcase out from behind her, lifted it into the air and flung something wet and foul-smelling on him. It took him a good ten seconds to grasp the fact that she had dropped the object in her hand—a square red can and not a suitcase—and that she had doused him with whateve
r had been inside the can.
His mind sped from the reality of the moment to several different scenarios, but too late he knew what was happening.
She uncurled her fist, held the small metal lighter in her hand, and flicked the ignition. Bruce froze to the spot.
Run! Get away from her! Do it now!
Just as he turned to flee, she tossed the lighter, the flame locked, onto his back. Instantly, the gasoline she had tossed on him ignited and quickly turned him into a human torch. As the flames ate away at his clothing, he ran in a blind panic and then realized, even through the haze of agony spreading through his body, that in running he was simply feeding the flames. He dropped to his knees as the fire and pain engulfed him.
Help me, dear God. Help me!
He managed to roll over a couple of times, not recognizing the screams he heard as being his own. Before the unbearable anguish consumed him, blessed unconsciousness came as the answer to his prayer.
She stood there for a few seconds and watched the magnificence of her handiwork. Bruce Kelley was being punished for his sins, for professing to be a man of God and yet harboring Satan’s own evil within his heart.
After picking up the hot, lighter from the ground, she slipped it into her pocket and, clutching the handle on the gasoline can, turned and walked away. She hurried out of the backyard and into the alleyway where she had parked her car. Once she had stored the can in the trunk, she opened the door and slid behind the wheel. As she slowly drove down the alley and toward the street at the end of the block, she recited an appropriate Biblical passage to herself. Her lips were silent, but her heart shouted.
“For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with His chariots like a whirlwind, to render His anger with fury, and His rebuke with flames of fire. For by fire and by His sword will the Lord plead with all flesh: and the slain of the Lord shall be many.”
Isaiah 66:15–16.
At first Mirabelle wasn’t sure if the screams she heard were real or perhaps coming from a television program. Had Mr. Bruce gone downstairs to watch TV? No, surely not. Every night after he helped her with Miss Sandie, he went to his room, and unless she needed him during the night, she didn’t see him or hear anything from him until the next morning.
Silent Killer Page 23
