Silent Killer Part 33

"No, thank you."

Think of something to say to avert either Jack or Seth from commenting on what a coincidence it was that they both loved hot-fudge sundaes with walnuts.

She knew it was silly of her to worry about such a mundane matter. After all, millions of people loved hot-fudge sundaes, didn't they?

"This has to be the most popular place in town." She glanced around at the full-to-capacity interior. "I see quite a few people I know."

"Yeah, ever since it opened last summer, it's been the the happening place," Lorie said a bit too enthusiastically. "Even the local ministers hang out here." She laughed, the sound slightly shrill. "Look over there." She lifted her hand and waved. "There's Patsy and Elliott." happening place," Lorie said a bit too enthusiastically. "Even the local ministers hang out here." She laughed, the sound slightly shrill. "Look over there." She lifted her hand and waved. "There's Patsy and Elliott."

"Isn't that Reverend Phillips and his wife?" Seth asked, and they all followed his line of vision to where the black Baptist minister and his wife sat on bar stools at the counter.

As his gaze surveyed the room, Jack paused when he saw his boss. "There's Mike with M.J. and Hannah." Jack threw up his hand and waved. Mike motioned to Jack. "If y'all will excuse me for a minute, I'll go over to say hi."

As soon as Jack left the table, Seth stood and said, "I think I'll choose some tunes on the jukebox. Lorie, have you got a preference?"

"Just something loud and fun," Lorie told him. "Something that'll make us want to shake our booties."

Seth laughed. "I'll see what I can do."

"What about your mom? Aren't you going to choose something for her?"

"I already know what Mom will want to hear. She used to play it a lot when I was a kid." Not waiting for a response, Seth made his way through the crowded tables to the jukebox, a modern replica of the type popular in the fifties.

Cathy wanted to call Seth back, to ask him not to choose that particular song, but how could she explain to him why, tonight of all nights, she didn't want to hear what he knew was her heart's choice?

"You've got an odd look on your face." Lorie studied her closely. "You're not still concerned about Jack and Seth ordering the same dessert, are you?"

"Goodness, no. A lot of people love hot-fudge sundaes. It's not as if preferences in food are considered hereditary."

Lorie nodded. "Yeah, you're right." She glanced to where Jack stood by the booth across from their table, he and Mike talking and laughing. "I need to find myself a boyfriend. Somebody big and strong and good-looking. Somebody who doesn't give a d.a.m.n about my notorious past."

"Before you start boyfriend hunting, I suggest you stop drooling over Mike Birkett. You might find a man who doesn't give a d.a.m.n about your notorious past, but I doubt you'll find one who's willing to play second fiddle to the sheriff."

"The right man could make me forget Mike."

"Maybe."

"Did Mark ever make you forget Jack?" Lorie cursed under her breath. "Sorry, I had no business asking you. I know you and Mark had a good marriage."

"We did. And I don't regret marrying him. But to answer your question, no, I never forgot about Jack."

"Of course you didn't-not with the constant reminder you had."

Before Cathy could respond, the next song on the jukebox began playing. For a half second her heart stopped as Whitney Houston's amazing voice rose above the clatter inside the Ice Palace.

Cathy closed her eyes as the song her son had chosen for her took her mind back nearly seventeen years. The incredible Ms. Houston sang "I Will Always Love You," the song that was playing on the car radio the November night Seth had been conceived. As the mournful words enveloped her, Cathy opened her eyes, and her gaze sought and found Jack. He stopped talking to Mike, turned and looked directly at her. He, too, was remembering the last night they had spent together, the day before Jack left Dunmore to return to active duty.

She knelt in prayer. If anyone noticed her, they would think nothing of seeing her inside the gazebo alone and obviously beseeching G.o.d for His help. No one must ever suspect the truth: that she was G.o.d's angel of vengeance. Her holy mission was a secret pact between her and the Almighty. If anyone discovered her ident.i.ty, they would put an end to her righteous executions.

Only G.o.d knew what was in her heart. What she did, she did for the good of all mankind. If only someone had taken up the task of separating the wheat from the chaff years ago, not only would she have been saved from the agony she endured, but many others would have been, too. But it was not her place to question G.o.d's reasons for allowing these so-called ministers and priests and professed do-gooders to spread their evil. No, her place was to follow G.o.d's instructions and mete out punishment to the wicked blasphemers.

She lifted her face upward toward heaven and respectfully closed her eyes. Her prayers were spoken now in silence, as she suffered in silence. No one could help her. No one could change the past. But she had the power to change not only her future, but the future of others. She must be the protector of the weak and defenseless, those without the power to overcome their oppressors. By slaying those who did not deserve to live, she could wash away her own sins, the sin in which she had been born.

"Speak to me, Lord. Tell me who You have chosen for Your righteous judgment. Lead me along the right path, direct me to his doorstep. Whisper his name in my ear."

G.o.d had already shown her that Patsy Floyd was to be spared, that indeed she could erase all female clergy from her mental list of chosen ones. Only men were capable of the kinds of carnal evil that required death by fire. Although not blameless, women were to be spared until the final day of judgment. She accepted His decision without question.

"Will I visit Dewan Phillips next?" she asked. "Or is it time to strike against Donnie Hovater? Speak his name, Lord. Is it either of them, or have You chosen someone else?"

She prayed in earnest until her knees ached and tears streamed down her face. And finally, G.o.d spoke to her. Softly. Quietly. As gentle as the rustle of the wind. But she heard him.

"Yes, of course. I knew in my heart that he would be next. And yes, I will not wait. I will mete out his just punishment tomorrow night."

How fitting that G.o.d had chosen the night after Bruce Kelley's funeral to strike down yet another wicked blasphemer.

Chapter Twenty-six

This was the last place on earth Cathy wanted to be, but here she was at Bruce Kelley's funeral. A special section of the Decatur Presbyterian Church had been roped off for the family members of the other Fire and Brimstone Killer's victims. And since Mark had been the first victim, at least as far as the authorities knew, that made the Cantrells sort of the first family. Seth had been as disinclined to attend as she had been, but his grandparents had persuaded him that this was the right thing to do. Cathy had come here solely because of her son. He didn't need to go through the ordeal without her. It had been so difficult for him at Mark's funeral. A boy barely fourteen who had loved and admired his father, Seth had put on a brave front in public, being the man his grandfather had expected him to be. But in private her son had wept in her arms.

She looked at him today, sitting between her and his grandfather, and saw the man he would become instead of the boy he had been. He was on the precipice of manhood, a mixture of man and boy, testing his wings to see if he could safely fly away from the nest. He was tall at six feet, and she suspected he would grow another couple of inches in the next few years. Although he had inherited her brown hair, her smile, her bone structure and even her nose, he possessed his father's beautiful blue eyes and lanky build. Wearing his navy blue suit and red and gray striped tie, with his Bible resting in his lap and sitting shoulder to shoulder with J.B, he looked every inch Mark Cantrell's son. And for all intents and purposes, that was exactly who Seth Nelson Cantrell was, who he had been since the day he was born and Mark had claimed him as his own. But in quiet private moments within her heart, the truth still existed. And oddly enough, today of all days, when she looked at her son, so much Mark's son, she saw neither Mark nor herself, but the twenty-year-old soldier who had been her son's biological father.

Jackson Perdue never knew that during their brief, pa.s.sionate romance, they had created a child together.

"Mom, are you all right?" Seth asked.

"Yes, I think so. But I wish the service would start soon. This must be an especially difficult ordeal for the Kelley family, considering Mrs. Kelley's mental state."

"Yeah, she's kind of pitiful, isn't she? She acts like she doesn't even know where she is or who her kids are."

"Alzheimer's is a horrific disease."

"Thanks for coming here today," Seth said, keeping his voice low. "I know you did it for me."

"And you're here for your grandfather."

He leaned closer and whispered, "I think I should stay with Granddad and Nana the rest of this weekend. Is that okay with you? I know my weekends are supposed to be with you, but-"

"It's all right, honey. I understand. And I'm so very proud of you."

Seth's eyes misted.

The church's choir took their places quickly and then sang the first of six songs that were dispersed throughout the service. With her hands folded in her lap, Cathy let her gaze sweep over the audience in front of them and on either side. She recognized numerous faces. Edith Randolph, the second victim's wife, sat directly in front of her, along with the Lutheran minister's children and teenage grandchildren. She a.s.sumed the three Catholic priests to their left were here on behalf of Father Brian. On the other side of the church, not part of the reserved seating for the victims' families, she caught a glimpse of Patsy and Elliott Floyd as well as Brother Hovater, although he seemed to be alone. Undoubtedly, he had allowed Missy to skip the funeral, which in Cathy's estimation made him a good father. Reverend Phillips and his wife sat with several other black couples who Cathy a.s.sumed were members of his church.

She couldn't help wondering how many area clergymen were attending today, each one thinking "But by the grace of G.o.d..." No one knew who would be next. And no one knew how the killer chose his victims. Of all people to target, why men of G.o.d?

Anyone who had known Mark had known what a fine Christian man he was. A good husband. A good father. How could anyone have thrown gasoline on him and set him on fire?

Cathy s.h.i.+vered as the memories of that day zipped through her mind, moment by moment of that terrible afternoon replaying vividly inside her head like some eerie slide show. She heard his screams, saw him on fire, his clothing and the body beneath burning. She could still smell that distinct scent of gasoline and charred flesh. A tight knot formed in her belly.

"Mom? Mom?"

Seth grasped her arm and shook her gently. She stared at him through a haze of tears.

"You shouldn't be here," he told her. "You shouldn't have come."

"Neither should you."

"I'm okay. I-I wasn't with Dad when he died. You were."

She nodded, glad that her son understood how her memories of that fateful day were tormenting her.

"Go home," Seth said.

"I think I should leave." She kissed his cheek. "Call me this evening, okay?"

"I will."

She quietly rose to her feet and made her way out of the pew, exiting on the opposite side from the Cantrells and her mother. She knew people were watching her, some whispering about her, but she didn't care. Just as she made it to the open sanctuary doors, the first minister walked up to the podium and requested a moment of prayer.

Cathy rushed into the crowded vestibule, overflowing with people who hadn't been able to find seating in the huge church, neither upstairs nor down. When she finally managed to make her way through the horde of mourners and emerged on the church steps, she stopped dead still when she realized the churchyard was overrun and that apparently outdoor loudspeakers had been set up to carry both the choir's songs and the eulogies and addresses by various clergymen and friends.

By the time she reached her car, Cathy was trembling so badly that she dropped her keys on the pavement. And once inside her car, it took her three tries to get the key into the ignition. She beat her fists against the steering wheel in an effort to vent her frustration, but within minutes grief overcame her and she laid her forehead against the steering wheel and wept.

Jack had spent a couple of hours this morning with his contractor, Clay Yarbrough. Reconstruction efforts had begun on the upstairs of the house, with his mother's bedroom the first room to be renovated. He had told Clay that he wanted Cathy's plans followed to the letter and if there were any questions concerning even the smallest matter, he wanted to be notified. He didn't want Clay going to Cathy. h.e.l.l, he didn't want the guy anywhere near her. Call him old-fas.h.i.+oned, but he was proprietary when it came to Cathy. Maybe he didn't have a right to be, but he was.

They hadn't made each other any promises of undying love or forever after, and for now that was what they both wanted. But that didn't mean Cathy wasn't his. For two nights, he had claimed her in the oldest, most primitive way a man can claim his mate. Yeah, sure, s.e.x wasn't love, and it never had been with any other woman; but Cathy was different. The way he felt about her was different. It had been seventeen years ago and it was now.

The June sun grew hotter the closer it drew to two o'clock, so Jack removed his s.h.i.+rt, tossed it on the back fence and then picked up the weed eater he'd laid on the ground. He'd thought about hiring someone to do the yard work, and in the future, he still might. But for now, when he needed to vent some s.e.xual frustration, manual labor was the best solution. After two nights in Cathy's bed, he had felt deprived sleeping alone last night. Actually, he hadn't gotten much sleep. He'd had way too much on his mind. He had thought about Cathy, of course, and her son. He'd thought for sure he'd have to fight the boy tooth and nail, but Seth had surprised him at the Ice Palace last night when he'd all but given Cathy and him his blessing to date.

Then he'd gotten to thinking about renovating this old house and eradicating every bad memory from the place. He liked the plans Cathy had drawn for the interior and exterior, her work equal to any professional's. Around midnight, he had admitted to himself that he'd been envisioning Cathy living here with him.

If he'd never been sent to the Middle East seventeen years ago during the Gulf War and wound up as a POW, and if Cathy had waited for him instead of marrying Mark Cantrell, how different their lives would be now. He figured they would be married and have a couple of kids, but they wouldn't be living here in Dunmore.

As the night had worn on, he'd slept on and off, until a bomb had exploded in his nightmares and he'd found himself sitting straight up in bed and drenched in sweat. d.a.m.n, would those reenactment dreams never end?

Jack was so engrossed in his thoughts and with the weed eater's loud motor drowning out every other sound, he wasn't aware that a car had pulled into the driveway until he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he snapped his head around to search and find what he'd seen in his peripheral vision.

Cathy, in a neat black dress and black patent-leather heels, emerged from her old Jeep Cherokee. The first thing he noticed was the necklace of stark white pearls caressing her throat and lying against the black bodice of her dress just above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. When he'd called her this morning, she had told him that she was meeting Seth, the Cantrells and her mother in Decatur at Bruce Kelley's funeral and would probably spend the afternoon with her family. A part of him hated that she still thought of Mark Cantrell's parents as family, especially considering the h.e.l.l J.B. Cantrell had put her through since her return to Dunmore.

She walked toward him, eagerness in her step, and he realized that something was wrong. He turned off the weed eater and laid it on the ground. As she approached, he pulled a rag from the back pocket of his jeans and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and chest and the dirt from his hands. After tossing the rag on the ground, he took several long, quick steps to meet her.

"Hi," she said, her gaze fixed on his face.

"Hi." When she just stood there looking as if she might faint, he grasped her upper arms. "What's wrong, honey? Are you all right?"

She pushed herself against him, her pretty black silk dress absorbing the moisture still clinging to his bare chest.

"Hold me, Jack. Please hold me."

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her. "What happened? I thought you were going to the funeral."

Burying her face against his shoulder, she clung to him. "I went, but I couldn't stay. I tried not to think about Mark, about the day he died, but I couldn't stop the memories."

He brushed several comforting kisses across her forehead. "You shouldn't have gone."

"I know, but I didn't want Seth to go without me."

"Is Seth all right?"

"Yes, he's the one who told me to leave. He's with his grandparents." She lifted her head and looked squarely into Jack's eyes. "My son has grown up a lot since Mark died. He's becoming quite a young man. I, uh, I want the two of you to get to know each other, to like each other."

"Honey, he's your son. I already like that about him."

She looked at Jack in an odd way, a way that sent a jolt of uneasiness through him. "What is it, Cathy? Just tell me."

"I need you, Jack."

He studied her expression for a full minute. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm saying I want us to make love."

When he didn't immediately respond, she asked, "Don't you want me?"

"Night and day," he told her. "With every breath I take. But honey, if there's going to be three in the bed, I'll decline."

"Three in the bed?" she asked, genuinely confused.

Suddenly she realized what he'd meant, and she laughed.

Not the reaction he'd expected.

"You have no idea how really, really stupid that comment was," she told him. "The only time there has ever been three in my bed was when Mark was my husband."