Silent Killer

by Beverly Barton

  The only way she could convince her son and her best friend that she was not going to fall apart was simply not to do it. Yes, whenever she had a quiet moment, such as now, memories of the day Mark had died bombarded her. Unless a person had experienced it, no one could imagine the horror of seeing someone you loved die in such an agonizing way. Mark had gone into shock, and that had lessened his chances for survival. The shock combined with the extent of the third-degree burns covering his body had made recovery impossible. Even now, Cathy asked herself if there was anything she could have done to save Mark.

  His death is not your fault. There was nothing more you could have done. Even the paramedics who treated him for shock had been unable to save him.

  Tears burned her eyes and tightened her throat. She had needed to cry all day, but had kept her emotions in check, as much for Seth’s sake as to prove to herself that she was in control.

  When the doorbell rang, she hesitated. Please, God, not more company, not now when she was on the verge of crying her heart out.

  As she swung her legs off the sofa and stood, she called out to Lorie and Seth, “I’ll get it.”

  Barefooted, she padded to the front door. The moment she peered through the viewfinder and recognized her visitor, she swung open the door. Jack Perdue stood on her porch, a five o’clock shadow darkening his face.

  “Hi, honey. How are you?”

  “Holding it together,” she replied.

  “I can’t stay long. The task force is meeting for a big powwow in about an hour, but I wanted to come by and check on you.”

  She stepped back, allowing him room to enter. The moment he closed the door behind him, he reached out and ran his hand over her cheek. She gasped at his touch, his gentleness breaking the dam that had held her emotions in check all day. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. Jack swiped the tears away with his fingertips.

  “Ah, babe, don’t do this to yourself.”

  She swallowed her tears as she stared up at him.

  Without saying another word, he pulled her into his arms and held her firmly against him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. Odd how comforting his embrace felt.

  He rubbed her back as he kissed her temple. “If you need to cry, go ahead and cry. I’ll hold you. You’re safe. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Not ever again.”

  His words were her undoing. She wept in his arms, her body trembling as she released the pent-up emotions that so desperately needed release.

  “Mom, who was at the—?” Seth’s question died on his lips the moment he saw Jack.

  Cathy lifted her head and looked at her son, but Jack held fast, refusing to release her.

  “Uh, the sandwiches are ready,” Seth said. He looked right at Jack. “We’ve got more than enough if you’d like to eat with us, Mr. Perdue.”

  A sense of overwhelming relief spread through Cathy. Her son’s cordial invitation to Jack had surprised her. Was it possible that he was finally accepting the fact that she and Jack were friends and her relationship with Jack or any other man was not a betrayal of her marriage vows to his father?

  “Thanks,” Jack replied. “I haven’t had anything since a quick bite of breakfast late this morning when Mike and I stopped by McDonald’s.”

  Cathy eased out of Jack’s arms and grasped his hand. “Come on. Let’s eat. I suddenly feel very hungry.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Harper family left the courthouse with uplifted spirits and thankful hearts. John Earl gave God the credit for their good fortune. Judge Stevens had taken many things into consideration, including Felicity’s genuine regret and promise to stay out of trouble in the future, before announcing his decision in the juvenile court proceedings. Of course, Sheriff Birkett putting in a good word for Felicity hadn’t hurt. The judge greatly respected Mike’s opinion.

  After they all piled into the family’s SUV—that “all” included not only Ruth Ann and both of their daughters, but also his mother-in-law and his secretary, Erin McKinley—John Earl asked for a moment of silence in which to pray. He kept his words to a minimum.

  “Merciful heavenly Father, hallowed is Your name. I, Your humble servant, come to You with a grateful heart. I ask that You look down upon my younger daughter, Felicity, and help her in her efforts to atone for her misconduct by doing the community service appointed to her by Judge Stevens. Let her learn from this experience. We all thank You for taking care of Felicity and helping her to see the error of her ways. Bless us, oh Lord, and may we always strive to do Your will. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Ruth Ann said softly, “Amen.”

  Before he started the engine, he glanced from his mother-in-law to his secretary. “Would either of you like to go home?”

  “I’m rather tired,” Faye said, her hands folded securely in her lap. “It’s been an exhausting afternoon.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well, Mama?” Ruth Ann asked.

  “I’m quite all right, just tired,” Faye replied.

  “Perhaps John Earl should take you home.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Faye said. “I should go to the prayer vigil. Every prayer is important.”

  “If you don’t feel up to it, I can easily drop you off at the house on our way,” John Earl said. He didn’t love his mother-in-law, didn’t even especially like her, but he put up with her for Ruth Ann’s sake. And also because it was his Christian duty.

  “Please don’t make such a fuss over me. I want to go to the prayer vigil.”

  After a few moments of silence, Erin said, “I’d very much like to accompany y’all, if you don’t mind my tagging along.”

  “Of course we don’t mind,” John Earl assured her. “The more people asking God to help Reverend Kelley, the better. There is great strength in numbers. Having so many voices rising up to heaven will certainly gain the Lord’s attention.”

  Ever since the Decatur minister had been set on fire four days ago, the citizens of Dunmore and the surrounding small towns and the cities of Athens, Decatur and Huntsville had been praying for his recovery. According to reports on Bruce Kelley’s condition, the poor man’s every breath was drawn in agony. And although all clergymen and their families had become wary and vigilant, John Earl and many others had stood at their pulpits this past Sunday and proclaimed that God would protect them and that the monster who had killed four innocent men would soon be caught and punished by man’s laws.

  This evening at six o’clock, before Wednesday night services at their own churches, the good Christians of Dunmore would meet at the black Baptist church, where Reverend Phillips would lead them in a thirty-minute prayer vigil. Patsy Floyd had phoned John Earl yesterday morning, and they had discussed the matter.

  “Dewan Phillips came by to see me quite early,” Patsy had said. “He would like to invite all the area churches to join his congregation Wednesday evening for a prayer vigil for Bruce Kelley. I was wondering if you’d help me get the word out as quickly as possible.”

  He had, of course, agreed, and when he had telephoned other clergymen, not one had declined the offer. John Earl expected the small black church to be filled to capacity, possibly overflowing.

  Tasha Phillips stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck. She loved him with her whole heart. He and their unborn child were her reason for living.

  Dewan lowered his head and kissed Tasha, his mouth warm and moist, great tenderness and love in his actions. He cupped her buttocks and held her close.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asked him. “I’ve looked out into the sanctuary. It’s nearly full, and it’s only twenty till six. I never imagined so many people would actually show up here this evening.”

  “Why?” he asked, a soft smile curving his wide, full lips. “Because I’m a black minister and this is a black church?”

  “There would have been a time when—”

  “Things change. Slowly and with great difficulty,
but they do change. The people of this town are coming together to pray for a man of God. A good man who has devoted his life to others. Any petty differences and age-old prejudices are being set aside for a greater good.”

  Tears misted her eyes. “I love you, you know. You’re my husband, my lover, the father of my child”—she glanced down at her belly—“and my hero.”

  “Don’t put me up on too high a pedestal,” Dewan warned her. “After all, I’m only human.” He pressed his cheek against hers. “And later tonight I’ll show you just how human.”

  Tasha giggled softly. He kissed her again and then shoved her gently backward as he slid his hands down her arms and grasped her hands in his. “I need a few moments alone to talk to God and prepare myself.”

  “I’ll be sitting in the front row,” she told him as she eased her hands out of his. “I’m so very proud of you.”

  Tasha left him alone in the small study at the back of the church. She opened the door to the sanctuary and paused before entering, amazed that the church was now almost filled to capacity and the deacons were bringing in folding chairs to place in the aisles.

  She didn’t know Reverend Kelley, but she had met his elder daughter, Kim Randall, through her community service, and her heart went out to the Kelley family. The life of every clergyman in the region was at risk, including Dewan’s life, a thought she could hardly bear. But everyone had to be wondering who the killer would target as his next victim.

  With her head held high and a brave expression on her face, she entered the sanctuary and found her spot in the front row between Deacon Fuqua and his wife, Dionne.

  She leaned across and spoke to the deacon. “Should someone adjust the air-conditioning? With so many people packed inside the church, it’s bound to get hot.”

  “It’s being done,” Deacon Fuqua told her. “Can you believe this crowd? I see God’s hand in this prayer vigil that Dewan organized.”

  “God’s hand is in everything my husband does,” she said.

  A flurry of activity up on the podium at the front of the sanctuary gained Tasha’s attention. The members of the choir, decked out in their white and gold robes, were taking their places and preparing to sing God’s praises. She closed her eyes, her every thought a prayer for all those whose hearts were heavy tonight.

  Patsy and Elliott Floyd had arrived in time to find seats in the middle aisle, a few pews from the back of the building. As she glanced around, Patsy was pleased to see so many of her parishioners here this evening. She had sent out e-mails to the entire congregation and made numerous personal phone calls. Tonight’s prayer vigil was of great importance on several different levels. First and foremost, Bruce Kelley needed the combined strength of this type of group praying. Second, holding this vigil at the black Baptist church went a long way toward bridging the gap between black and white Christians in the area. Third, this was an example of how all churches, regardless of their doctrine, could support one another. And coming together to pray for one of their own would bring strength and comfort to the ministers and their families who were living each day with fear in their hearts.

  As they sat quietly side by side, Elliott reached between them and took her hand in his. They had been married for nearly thirty years, and they had stayed together through thick and thin. They had argued often in the early years, mostly because Elliott had never been at home and she’d been trapped there with two toddlers. She had not been as understanding as she should have been. After all, Elliott had been holding down a part-time job and putting himself through law school. The bills had piled up, and even a new tube of lipstick had been too expensive for their tight budget. Seven years into their marriage, she’d had an affair which had nearly destroyed their union. But because of the two children they shared, they had stayed together. And they’d both been miserable.

  Then, twenty years ago, Patsy had experienced a minor epiphany and realized that she had been called to preach. It had not been some miraculous moment when God spoke directly to her in a loud, commanding voice. Actually the exact opposite had happened. In her efforts to bring her children up in the religion in which she’d been raised, Patsy took her son and daughter to church every Sunday, and one Sunday a visiting missionary spoke to the congregation about her years of service to the Lord. In the quiet corners of her heart, Patsy had sensed that she, too, should be spreading the gospel and giving aid to the less fortunate.

  Oddly enough, Elliott, who had not been inside a church since he was a teenager, encouraged her to pursue her goal. He had supported her in a way that she had never supported him, and as the years went by, she found herself falling in love with her husband all over again. He was her rock, her helpmate, the love of her life. And she thanked the Lord for their marriage every day of her life.

  As she squeezed Elliott’s hand, she turned to him and smiled. When he returned her smile, she mouthed the words “I love you.”

  Cathy had ridden to the prayer vigil with Lorie, and they had found empty spots on the last pew, several rows behind Patsy and Elliott Floyd, and on the same bench with Seth, her mother and her in-laws. Shortly after Donnie and Missy arrived, Missy managed to squeeze in beside Seth, who sat in the middle of the pew between his grandparents. Donnie dragged a folding chair up directly behind Cathy, who sat at the end of the pew. When he reached out and gently clamped his hand down over her shoulder, she turned and smiled at him.

  “Great turnout,” he said. “Must be a quarter of the town here tonight.”

  “I doubt anyone from our church would be here if you hadn’t encouraged them to see this not as a religious service, but as a community event.”

  “It is a community event,” he said. “It’s a community prayer vigil that just happens to be taking place inside a church building.”

  The choir leader came to the microphone and announced that before Reverend Phillips spoke, they wanted everyone to join them in one hymn. Within minutes the chorus and the visitors joined together to sing an old spiritual that had been popular for generations, “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” Halfway through the song, Cathy caught a glimpse of someone in her peripheral vision, someone who had set up a folding chair alongside the end of the pew, right beside her. When she turned to see if she knew the person, her heart skipped a beat. Jackson Perdue, still in his deputy’s garb, smiled at her.

  Although he had called her a couple of times every day, she hadn’t seen him since Saturday night, when she had wept in his arms. She understood that he’d been working night and day with the task force, trying his best to find a killer who seemed to be unstoppable. And until this very moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him and how badly she’d wanted to see him.

  She knew that Seth and her in-laws expected her to leave here and go directly to Wednesday night services with them, and that had been her original plan. But now she wished she could slip away with Jack.

  She listened as Reverend Dewan Phillips spoke to the crowd. The man was a spellbinding orator, the type who could charm the birds from the trees.

  But he was full of himself. A blowhard. He claimed to give God all the praise, but she knew he lied, knew that in his heart all he cared about was himself. Since it was so obvious to her that this man possessed an evil heart, she didn’t understand why everyone couldn’t see him for what he was.

  Is he to be punished next, Lord? Guide me so that I will know Thy will.

  Taking the opportunity to search the crowd while the audience was mesmerized by this silver-tongued devil, she sought out the visiting clergymen and was surprised to see so many different denominations represented. Even Rabbi Tischler and Father Benedict were here. Black and white, Jewish, Catholic and Protestant, the clergymen—and clergywomen, counting Patsy Floyd from the Methodist Church—of Dunmore had come here tonight to pray for the life of Bruce Kelley. Didn’t they know that they were praying for a soul already lost to Satan? There was a special place in hell for people such as he, and very soon he would join Mark Cantrell, Charles
Randolph and Brian Myers for the eternal punishment he deserved. They had all been false prophets, men professing to do good works, proclaiming they were chosen of God.

  Liars! Blasphemers!

  The Bible said, in the seventh chapter of Matthew, “Beware of the false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.”

  Her gaze fell on Patsy Floyd, an attractive middle-aged woman who exuded warmth and caring. But was she truly the saint people believed her to be?

  Show me the way. Point out the evil ones among us.

  There were others besides Dewan Phillips.

  A voice inside her head whispered a name. She scanned the audience so others would not suspect anything out of the ordinary when her gaze settled briefly on the demon sitting at the back of the church in one of the many folding chairs.

  Yes, of course. It was quite obvious to her now who the next false prophet was that God wished for her to punish. A man who committed the most grievous sins, a man she should have already sent straight to the fires of hell.

  How many unholy men of God were rapists? Pedophiles? Adulterers? Far too many. All of them needed to be wiped from the face of the earth. It was her duty to act on God’s behalf as His angel of death and execute the wicked.

  I am blessed to have been chosen.

  My life should have been an abomination, and if not for Thy great benevolence, it would have been. But in choosing me as an instrument of Thy punishment, I have been saved.

  The prayer vigil ran over by a good fifteen minutes, which left the visitors who attended Wednesday night church services elsewhere approximately forty-five minutes to make their way through the crowd, get to their vehicles and drive to their own churches. Since she was sitting on one of the back pews, Cathy surmised that she should be able to exit the building fairly quickly, but once she stood and looked behind her, she saw dozens of people standing up, all the way from the final pew to the open doorway. And the crowd spilled outside onto the front steps and into the churchyard.