Beverly Barton - Silent Killer

“You need to tell your mother,” John Earl said as he eased out of her tenacious hold. “While you’re doing that, I’ll speak to the girls and do my best to allay any fears they might have.”

Their gazes locked, each aware of what the other was thinking. In a marriage such as theirs, when the love and commitment were both strong, words were often unnecessary.

John Earl watched his wife as she walked out of his study, a room she had personally decorated for him. He was a very lucky man to have such a devoted wife. Years ago, in the early days of their marriage, he had been uncertain of her love, but never of her devotion. As the years went by, he had come to trust the love she professed for him and now knew beyond any doubt that she was as much in love with him as he was with her.

“Help me, dear Lord, to say whatever my daughters need to hear. I’ve done all within my power to protect them from the ugliness of this world. I need Your continued guidance to lead them along the path of righteousness.”

“Daddy?” Charity called from the open doorway.

He forced a confident, all-is-well smile and motioned to her, inviting her to enter. She came toward him, her younger sister directly behind her. His daughters were quite different in appearance and personality. Although Charity was as pretty as her mother, with her dark hair and eyes, she shied away from makeup and fashionable clothes. She possessed Ruth Ann’s gentle nature and was their studious, conscientious child, the one who strived so hard to please. On the other hand, Felicity had his fairer coloring, his gray eyes and wide mouth, and although not quite as pretty as her older sister, she was far more flamboyant. She kept her hair dyed that hideous black, wore violet contacts and bore the most vulgar tattoos that he had reluctantly agreed for her to get, as proudly as if they were badges of honor. She was his little rebel.

John Earl indicated the overstuffed settee. “Sit down, please. I need to talk to both of you.”

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” Felicity said.

His lips curved in a genuine smile. How many times had his parents heard him, as a teenager, say those very same words of denial? Considering what a hellion he had been in his youth, he had every reason to believe there was hope for Felicity.

Ruth Ann knocked on her mother’s closed bedroom door.

“Yes?”

“May I come in?” Ruth Ann asked.

“Yes, of course.”

When she opened the door, she found her mother sitting on the window seat gazing down at the backyard below. Faye Long was two years shy of her sixtieth birthday, yet she looked much older, as if life had worn her out prematurely. As a child, Ruth Ann had thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, with her willowy figure, her long, lustrous dark hair and her large, expressive brown eyes. Her hair had turned salt and pepper, and her brown eyes were now void of emotion. Dead eyes.

Faye turned halfway around on the window seat and looked up at Ruth Ann. “Are we having dinner early this evening?”

“No, Mother, dinner will be at six-thirty, as usual.”

She wished she could go to her mother, sit at her feet and be wrapped in her arms. But Faye was not capable of giving her the maternal comfort she craved. The last time her mother had touched her had been the night she had dragged her from their burning home. The night her father, Reverend Charles Long, had burned to death.

“John Earl is talking to the girls. We thought it best that he speak to them while I told you about what has happened.”

“My goodness. What on earth is wrong?” Faye rose to her feet.

“Another clergyman was found dead this morning. The authorities believe he was a Catholic priest from Huntsville and that he was deliberately set on fire.”

“Merciful Lord!”

“If there is someone out there killing clergymen in North Alabama, then not one man of God is safe. John Earl could be in danger.” She took several tentative steps toward Faye. “I can’t endure the thought that my husband might become a victim.”

“Don’t you trust the Lord to take care of John Earl?”

“It’s not a matter of trusting the Lord.” Ruth Ann paused in front of her mother and hovered over her, needing an answer to a question she was too afraid to ask. “Mother…please…”

Her mother lifted her head and met Ruth Ann’s questioning gaze head-on, without flinching or even blinking. “I am very fond of John Earl. He’s a good man, a good husband and a good father. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm such a man.”

Ruth Ann sighed. “I agree. Thank you.”

Faye folded her hands in her lap, turned back around and looked out the window again.

“I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

When Ruth Ann stepped over the threshold into the hallway, her mother called her name and then said, “Do you really think I’m that much of a monster?”

Ruth Ann did not reply. She closed the door to her mother’s room. As she walked down the hall and into the kitchen, her eyes misted with tears.

Yvette Meng was one of the most exotically beautiful women that Nic had ever seen. She moved with a fluid grace that made her seem to float instead of merely walk. Every small, perfect feature, from her almond-shaped eyes to her full, sensuous lips, proclaimed her Eurasian heritage. Her remarkable beauty and intelligence was a unique combination of her Chinese father and French mother.

“Please come in.” Yvette gestured a warm welcome with the sweep of her slender arm.

“I appreciate your meeting with me this evening.”

The moment Yvette smiled, Nic realized that she suspected why Nic was here. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here with the intention of confronting her husband’s old and dear friend. But it was too late to back out now. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“My private quarters are not completed yet, but my office is,” Yvette said, her voice like a soft, soothing melody. “We will go there so that we will not be disturbed. I sensed from your phone call that we have much to discuss.”

As Yvette led her out of the large, marble foyer and down the hallway to the right, Nic noted the pale green walls and dark wooden floors. And she was acutely aware of how quiet it was, so quiet you could almost hear a pin drop. Where were all of Dr. Meng’s psychic students?

“Where is everyone?” Nic asked.

Yvette paused by a set of closed French doors, glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “This is my private wing of the retreat. My students have rooms on the other side of the building.”

Yvette swung the double doors open to reveal an eighteen-by-eighteen square foot room with a fireplace and sitting area in one corner and an enormous bay window spanning half the back wall. Her private office reflected her Asian heritage, with a black lacquer desk and chair, no doubt both priceless antiques, facing the windows. Two massive, hand-painted black lacquer chests flanked the fireplace.

Yvette glided toward the windows, paused and gazed out at the lake behind the retreat that Griffin had built for her. Hesitantly, Nic walked over and stood beside her.

“I should have invited you here sooner,” Yvette said. “I have been very busy with the contractor and with making sure my students are settled.”

“You refer to this place as a retreat-is that how you see it?”

Yvette faced Nic. “It is my retreat, yes, but it is more a sanctuary for my students than anything else. And I refer to them as students for lack of a more appropriate term. They are people with unusual gifts that have alienated them from their families, talents that have turned them into outcasts. I, too, have always been an outcast.”

“So everyone living here has psychic abilities of some kind?”