by Jim Laughter
The lights at center stage came on revealing a large clean-shaven white man in his middle forties wearing a tailor-made three piece suit, a silk shirt, and expensive wingtip shoes. He was apparently the pastor of Mount Hope. After welcoming everyone to the concert, and after a praying a prayer that was much too long and loud for Morris’ taste, the pastor introduced the Triumphant Southern Gospel Quartet from Charleston, South Carolina.
The rest of the stage lights came on, and the lights in the rest of the auditorium dimmed. This could take a while. He knew from personal experience that the quartet would sing three or four songs before the leader of the group would introduce the singers and musicians.
Benjamin had a photograph of Philip Carroll in the file folder, but he didn’t see him on the stage yet. It was particularly eerie knowing that he was watching the last performance this man would ever make.
Chapter Thirty-One
Preach waited in the RV. He had called Matthew Barnes from the rest stop and told him he was looking for an accountant that could handle out-of-state capital gains taxes. It wasn’t exactly a lie because he intended to ask the CPA about income earned in other states as part of his ministry. But he also had no intention of hiring a man in Utah when he already had a CPA in Denver.
When he’d spoken to Barnes on the phone, he’d arranged to meet him at this rest stop on the west side of Ogden at 6 p.m., explaining that he wasn’t comfortable driving the RV to his downtown office. Since the rest stop was on his way home, Matthew Barnes agreed to meet him after work. He had no idea this would be his last appointment.
At 6:05 p.m., a black 2008 Kia Optima LX stopped in the parking spot next to the RV. Preach had pulled into one of the extra-long spots reserved for eighteen-wheelers. This could be a problem. The small car looked out of place but there was nothing he could do about it now.
Preach watched a young man, early 30s he figured, step out of the Kia and reach into his backseat for a briefcase. He looked up and down the length of the motorhome, apparently sizing up the potential client he was about to meet. Preach opened the door to the RV just as Barnes was about to knock. He stepped down onto the bottom step.
“Mr. Barnes?”
“Reverend Samuels?”
“No sir. My first name is Samuel.”
He reached for Barnes to shake his hand.
“Sam Preston, but my friends call me Preach.”
“My receptionist must have written it down wrong,” Barnes apologized. “Sorry.”
“No matter, I’ve been called worse,” he laughed and invited the accountant into the RV.
Matthew Barnes looked around the motorhome and commented on how nice it was. Preach asked Barnes to make himself comfortable at the small dining table.
“I’d offer you some coffee or iced tea, but I wasn’t sure if you drink it.”
“Why wouldn’t I drink tea?”
“Well I…”
“Mormon, right?”
“Well…”
“Relax, Reverend,” Barnes said. “I’m probably the only non-Mormon CPA in Ogden or Salt Lake City.”
“You’re not Mormon?”
“Presbyterian born and raised,” Barnes replied. “I was stationed at Ogden Air Force Base some years ago, married a local girl.”
He shied his hand to the side of his mouth as if to hide a whisper.
“A Mormon girl, so I decided to settle out here.”
“Kids?”
“Two. Boy and a girl. Six and eight years old.”
Eight? Same as Robbie.
“So what shall it be, tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please,” Barnes said. “I’ve drank enough coffee today to float a boat.”
Preach removed a pitcher of tea from his small refrigerator and two glasses from an overhead cabinet. One of the glasses already contained an ample dose of sleeping pills crushed in the bottom of it. Preach added ice, poured the tea, stirred it, and handed it to Barnes. He poured his own tea and sat down across from the martyr.
Barnes sipped the cold tea. “That’s good,” he said, taking a longer drink of the refreshing liquid. Preach smiled while he sipped from his own glass.
My ways are not God’s ways, and his thoughts are not my thoughts. He always makes a way for his will to work.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Benjamin, Keller, and Cooper sat at the dining table and watched the concert stream from the Mount Hope Pentecostal Assembly website. Morris said he was going to his room to take a nap and to call him if they found anything.
George recognized most of the songs the quartet sang and found himself enjoying the concert regardless of the fact that he was working a case. His assumption that the group leader wouldn’t introduce the individual performers until after the fourth or fifth song was correct.
“And from Bethesda, Maryland, please welcome our high tenor Philip Carroll.”
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of Philip Carroll. His small frame gave credence to his high tenor voice as he belted out the chorus of “How Great Thou Art.” When he reached the part that says ‘then sings my soul, my savior God to thee’ he went up two octaves on ‘my soul’ and carried the note for ten seconds, fifteen, twenty.
Just when it seemed his lungs should burst, the crowd of people responded by standing and clapping, some of them raising their hands into the air in praise to God. The tenor’s voice created a wave of excitement that swept the gathering of worshipers packed into the circular auditorium.
“Philip Carroll, brothers and sisters!” the group leader repeated. The congregation erupted into enthusiastic applause again. Philip stood on the stage and waved at the crowd, then raised both hands to praise God just as many other people in the church were doing.
The image of Philip Carroll on the screen and the picture in the case file barely resembled each other. The man on the screen was alive and vibrant. His skin was fair and smooth without a blemish, and his hair was combed back in a carefully styled wave. The picture in the case file showed the bloodied body of a man that had been beaten repeatedly with a whip which Benjamin assumed was the cat-of-nine-tails again. His wrists and feet had been nailed to a tree with his legs broken at the knees and up off the ground so he would suffocate. A gaping puncture in his chest where he’d been stabbed through the heart with a large blade, probably a spear, emphasized the fact that this killer understood the art of crucifixion.
Benjamin pressed the fast forward button on the laptop remote.
“What’cha doing?” Cooper asked.
“The killer isn’t on the stage,” Benjamin said. “If he’s there, he’s in the crowd. I’m looking for places where the camera panned the audience.”
The quartet sang for forty-five minutes before taking a twenty-minute break. This would be their first opportunity to sell their CDs and concert DVDs to the enthusiastic crowd of church-goers.
The lights in the sanctuary came back on and the people stood to stretch their legs, go to the restroom, and to visit with the people near them. Cameras scattered at a dozen locations throughout the large room played across the crowd.
“There!” Keller exclaimed, tapping Benjamin on his forearm.
Benjamin didn’t see what Keller had seen. He froze the image on the screen.
“Where?”
Keller touched the computer screen with her index finger.
“Right there. That’s him, the man from the coffee shop.”
Standing in the center aisle talking to a young man in a business suit was a clear image of the man they believed had kidnapped and tortured John Dupont and murdered six other people. He was dressed in a dark blue business suit, white shirt, and red and white striped tie. He was Caucasian, clean shaven, mid-to-late sixties, and weighed approximately 170-pounds. The man stood approximately five-foot seven or eight inches tall and was just a bit stoop-shouldered. He looked like any one of a thousand other people you’d expect to see at a church service. Benjamin could imagine this man pastoring a church or preaching a sermon.
Benjamin pressed the play button on the remote control. While they watched, the interstate serial killer laid is left hand on the young man’s head and prayed for him. He raised his right hand into the air. It was clawed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Matthew Barnes stirred to consciousness. He was lying down but he didn’t remember going to bed. The last thing he remembered was talking to a new potential client about interstate capital gains taxes. He felt a rush of nausea sweep over him and thought he might throw up. He tried to sit upright but couldn’t. He was being held down by something.
Barnes looked around expecting to still be inside the motorhome of Reverend Preston. Instead, he was outside. It was dark and only the light from two Coleman lanterns illuminated his surroundings. He realized that with exception to his underwear, he was naked and on the ground. He felt a rock poking his back and he tried to move off of it but couldn’t. He tried to lift his arms which were stretched out to his side but his wrists were secured by ropes tied to metal spikes driven into the ground.
A noise to his left made him turn his head where he saw Reverend Preston knelt down beside a large boulder. Barnes realized he was in the desert, far from the city. The sky was clear and the air was cold. Stars blanketed the night in brilliant gems of light.
“Preach?” Barnes whispered, his voice course from just waking up. “Preach? Is that you?”
Preach didn’t stir from his prayers. He rocked back and forth on his knees, his hands folded in front of him. Every now and then he raised his hands into the air. He moaned from time to time but didn’t speak aloud any words that Barnes could understand. Barnes watched the odd spectacle, wondering what was happening to him.
“Preach!” Barnes called again, this time with enough strength that Preach heard him. He stopped rocking and turned to face the man tied to the ground.
“Matthew, you’re awake. Good.”
Again, Matthew Barnes tried to move his arms but couldn’t. His head still swam and he felt dizzy. He realized that he’d been drugged. But why? Why would this kindly old preacher drug him? What had he done to warrant this treatment?
Preach stood and approached Matthew Barnes. He carried a bundle in his left hand and what appeared to be a sword in his right. Panic overwhelmed Barnes and he jerked at the ropes securing his wrists to the metal spikes. It was useless. He couldn’t move.
Preach knelt down beside Matthew. He hated that he couldn’t get the original spikes through customs, but the galvanized spikes were from Ethiopia so they’d have to do. He hoped the Lord wouldn’t hold it against him. Preach didn’t speak to God’s sacrifice.
“What’s going on here, Preach?” Barnes pleaded. “What are you doing?”
Preach pulled a string on the bundle he’d been carrying. A half-dozen short spears spilled out onto the ground beside Matthew Barnes. When Barnes saw the odd assortment of weapons, he realized what was happening and panic set it.
This man is going to kill me! My God in heaven! This maniac is going to kill me!
“My God, Reverend!” Barnes shouted. “What the hell are you doing? What’s this all about?”
Preach reached out with his left hand and patted Matthew’s chest. He knew he shouldn’t touch the man because of the possibility of leaving a DNA trace on his body. But the time had come to throw caution to the wind. He knew it was only a matter of time before the civil authorities caught up with him. He knew his family and friends would never understand the call of God on his life mission. But he couldn’t stop now. He had to finish.
And now here he was in a Utah desert kneeling beside a man the Lord had led him to, and he was feeling sorry for him. Had he missed the will of God by moving the sacrifice up three weeks? Would God hold him accountable for this man’s life if he had misinterpreted the sign the Lord had given to him on the cover of the travel coupon book?
Preach ran his hand up Matthew’s chest and felt his heart beating. The boy is scared. Why would anyone be afraid of the will of God? Doesn’t he know what an honor it is to give his life for the cause of Christ? Doesn’t he know that God only accepts the best of man’s gifts? What could be better than to lay down one’s life for the salvation of the world?
Preach felt Matthew’s cheeks and forehead. They were covered with sweat even though the night was cool. Matthew turned his head from side to side in an effort to remove Preach’s hand from his forehead.
He’s afraid of me. He’s afraid of death and he’s afraid of me. But why? I’m doing the will of God. God has called me to return order to the church. I hear his voice. He speaks to me through his word and through prayer. Why would he fear me?
“Reverend, please,” Barnes pleaded, his voice breaking with every word. “I don’t understand what this is all about.”
Tears streamed down Matthew’s cheeks and onto the ground.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” he cried. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but it wasn’t me. You’ve got the wrong man!”
Preach still hadn’t spoken to Matthew. He felt a tear trickle from the corner of his eye and his hand shook on the martyr’s forehead. He choked back a sob and looked up into the sky as if seeking an answer from above. With a broken voice he said, “God doesn’t make mistakes, Matthew.”
Preached picked up one of the short spears and held it in his hand. Barnes saw the weapon and panicked again.
He’s going to stab me with that thing!
He yelled out into the night, his voice carried away on the fall breeze. “My God! My God! Help me, God!”
Matthew’s words prompted an old emotion in Preach. How long had it been since he’d heard anyone else in earnest prayer? He traveled the country preaching in small and large churches, camp-meetings, and tent revivals and he knew that genuine heart-felt prayer was a rare commodity in the church today. Nowadays prayer was a rehearsed diatribe orchestrated for the people and rarely a true communication with God.
Once was the day when people arrived at church early and spent time in the prayer rooms invoking the power and presence of God. Now people stand around in the sanctuary of God visiting with each other as if eternity didn’t matter and the souls of men didn’t count.
Prayers in churches today was usually just some out-of-touch pastor or pastor’s wife saying stuff like, “We just come before you today in worship and praise and invite your blessings in our lives.” Meaningless ramblings said by people who had no idea what it means to spend hours a day in intercessory prayer, languishing before the throne of God in an effort to pull the souls of men from the fires of hell.
My mission will change all of that. Once the will of God is revealed to mankind, God will restore true prayer and worship to the church.
Preach raised up on his knees, a short spear in his hands. He raised the weapon to the sky, a new determination in his heart to finish the task God had set before him.
Barnes realized this man was really going to kill him. He cried out again but Preach didn’t seem to hear. He was praying in a language that Barnes could not understand.
After a minute or two of prayer, Preach positioned the spearhead over the inside of Matthew’s left thigh, then with a strength that belied his age, drove the spear through the meaty portion of Barnes’ leg and into the ground.
Barnes screamed at the pain that seared through his body. Blood spurted out and soaked the ground where the spear severed his femoral artery. Barnes lashed back and forth in a vain effort to escape but it was no use. The ropes holding him down were too strong and he was losing strength.
Preach picked up another spear and thrust it down through Barnes’ right thigh, severing his second femoral artery and pinning his legs to the ground. Matthew screamed again but this time with less volume.
“Reverend, please,” he begged. “Please don’t do this.”
“You should’ve never come to Ethiopia, Matthew,” Preach whispered, his voice trailing off into the night. “Peter and James and the other apostles warned you that you’d sacri
fice your life in Ethiopia.”
Preach took two more spears and drove them through Matthew’s arms just below the main muscles. Pain and blood loss weakened Barnes to the point that he could barely see.
Two more spears pierced the meaty parts of Matthew’s sides just below the ribcage, pinning his torso to the ground. Blood covered his body and he lay quivering on the ground, his life pouring out onto the desert sand.
Preach picked up the Ethiopian broadsword and knelt beside Matthew’s head. The boy was still alive, but just barely. Matthew turned his head toward his killer.
“You’re going to be with the Lord soon,” Preach said. “Heaven will honor the sacrifice you’ve made here today, son.”
“Preach,” Matthew Barnes whispered, his voice barely audible. “Damn you, Preach. Damn you to hell.”
Preach lifted the sword over his head. “Into your hands we offer this life, Oh Lord,” he prayed and brought the sharp blade down hard against Matthew’s neck. His body twitched a time or two while his severed head stared through empty eyes into the night sky.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“These photos are good,” Morris said. He held a dozen color photographs that showed the man they suspected was the interstate serial killer. There was no doubt in any of the agents’ minds that this was the man from the Clay Cup Coffee House in Murfreesboro. It would be too much of a coincidence that he was in attendance at the same gospel concert from which Philip Carroll had disappeared.
“We need to get these pictures posted to all field units and law enforcement agencies in the country,” Morris said. “We need to talk to that pastor in Hot Springs, and we need to find that young man he was talkin’ to in the main aisle of the church. Somebody has to know who this lunatic is.”
“There’s one more thing we need to do,” George said.
“What’s that?”
“We need to send out a bulletin about his next victim.”
“His next victim?” Keller asked.
Benjamin nodded.
