Beverly Barton - Silent Killer

Jackson Perdue never knew that during their brief, passionate 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 assumed 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 assumed 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 God…” 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 God?

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 shivered 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. Hell, he didn’t want the guy anywhere near her. Call him old-fashioned, 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, sex 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 shirt, 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 sexual 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. Damn, 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 breasts. 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 hell J.B. Cantrell had put her through since her return to Dunmore.