Beverly Barton - Silent Killer

The lighted face of her digital watch allowed her to check the time in the dark. The watch had been a birthday gift, one she treasured.

Ten-forty. She should have waited until later, but she was so eager to do God’s bidding that she had sneaked away early.

Wait. Be patient.

But she didn’t want to wait. She was pumped with adrenaline and filled with the Spirit. The Holy Ghost had entered her and guided her every move. The Almighty’s desire to punish Dewan Phillips raged inside her, begging for release.

Nothing could go wrong.

No one could hurt her.

She couldn’t be stopped. Not when she was guided and protected by a higher power.

Slowly, carefully, she slipped out of the car, opened the trunk and removed the gas can. After checking her pocket for the lighter, she crossed the street. Glancing around, she saw no one, just a couple of stray dogs half a block away. She noted an SUV in the driveway and wondered why either the reverend or his wife had parked outside of their double garage. People often used their garages for storage, making it impossible to park their vehicles inside. That was probably the reason.

She made her way quietly across the yard, her gaze fixed on the front door. A smile warmed her from within. Courage roared inside her like a mighty lion. While doing the Lord’s work, she was invincible.

Be careful. Don’t do anything foolish.

She didn’t need to worry. God would take care of her. The Holy Ghost possessed a power unknown to mortals, a power that now surged through her veins.

Cloaked in the Spirit, held in the very palm of the Lord Almighty’s hand, she knew no fear. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

The door opened. A tall black man’s outline was silhouetted in the doorway, his muscular body backlit from the light inside the house.

“Yes, may I help you?” he asked.

His voice sounded odd, but he was probably surprised to see a stranger on his doorstep at this time of night.

She smiled. God has sent me to you.

“Are you sure you’re at the right house? This is Reverend Phillips’s home.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she uncapped the gas can she held behind her back, then hoisted it high and threw the contents straight at her target. Before he had a chance to react, she dropped the can, flipped open the lighter and using both hands locked the flame. She tossed the open lighter toward his chest. The lighter hit the edge of his gasoline-soaked silk tie.

Burn in hell for your sins.

The Holy Ghost surged through her, the feeling stronger than ever before.

She backed away from the man on fire and watched him burn. Then she quickly bent down, picked up the metal torch lighter and put it in her pocket.

A woman’s voice screeching for help warned her that she must leave quickly. She had accomplished her goal and done God’s bidding. It was time for her to return home, to rest, to recoup, to prepare herself for the next time.

She yanked the gold chain from her neck and tossed it down on the sidewalk. Then, without a backward glance, she walked away, crossed the street and got in her car.

Jack sat on the back porch, his gaze unfocused as he went over in his mind, again and again, what Cathy had told him. He wasn’t sure how he felt, other than being pissed as hell. But what lay beneath the anger?

He had a son.

He was Seth Cantrell’s biological father.

The logical part of his mind understood why Cathy had married Mark Cantrell and even understood her reasoning about why she’d never told him the truth. But his gut told him he had every right to be angry and hurt, to never forgive Cathy for what she’d done.

I was young and stupid and let Mark and my mother make all my decisions.

Damn Elaine Nelson!

And damn Mark Cantrell. He couldn’t have a son of his own, so he stole my son from me.

Why had he thought, even for one minute, that this time around, he’d get it right? He should have known better than to believe he could finally live a somewhat normal life. He had actually thought he and Cathy had a chance. God, what an idiot he was.

A real home and a happy family weren’t in the cards for him. Never had been. Never would be.

Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself. You’re not the first man who’s been in this situation, and you won’t be the last.

He had no idea what to do. Would Cathy tell Seth? And if she didn’t, did he have the guts to do it? He sure as hell had the right.

Jack wished he could cry. But the last time he’d shed a tear, he’d been a bruised and battered boy, scared to death of his stepfather. He held the tears inside, a pain without any form of release.

When his cell phone rang, he hesitated checking the caller ID, halfway certain it would be Cathy. But when he saw that it was Mike, he answered.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“The Fire and Brimstone Killer has struck again,” Mike told him.

“Who?” Jack asked.

“We’re pretty sure the intended victim was Reverend Dewan Phillips.”

“What do you mean the intended victim?”

“The reverend and his wife had company, Perry and Dionne Fuqua. Perry and Dewan are about the same size, close to the same age…”

“Fuqua got turned into a human torch instead of the reverend?”

“He’s still alive. It doesn’t look good,” Mike said. “But we caught a break. Seems Fuqua’s wife saw a glimpse of the killer as she ran off.”

“She?”

“Yes, she. Our Fire and Brimstone Killer is definitely female.”

Jack felt like shit. Not only had he gone all night without any sleep, but he’d been working with the ABI team since midnight on the new Fire and Brimstone Killer case. The urgency of the situation at work had left him with no choice but to push aside his own personal dilemma. Mike had left the office thirty minutes ago, leaving Wayne Morgan, Jeremy Vaughn and Karla Ross here at the office with Jack. They had gone over the information from the crime scene and Dionne Fuqua’s description of the person she had seen leaving the Phillipses’ yard moments after she heard her husband’s first agonized screams. There hadn’t been any point in bringing in a sketch artist, because the deacon’s wife had not seen the woman’s face.

Medium height, medium build, which covered 80 percent of the women in Dunmore.

“All I saw was a woman hurrying away. I never saw her face, and it was too dark to see her hair color. She was wearing pants, and she was carrying something square, about the size of an overnight bag, in her hand.”

The first officers on the scene had taken Mrs. Fuqua’s statement, and Mike had chosen not to requestion the lady whose husband had died less than an hour ago. Perry Fuqua was the sixth victim, a man who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one had any doubts that Dewan Phillips had been the intended victim, and only the fact that Deacon Fuqua answered the door at the Phillipses’ home had saved the reverend’s life.

“I don’t think Missy Hovater is our killer,” Karla Ross said, breaking the silence that had lingered in Mike’s office after he left.

Her boss, Special Agent Wayne Morgan, who was busy preparing a fresh pot of coffee, paused for a half second and asked, “What makes you say that? You must have a specific reason.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy Vaughn from the Huntsville PD added. “We’re pretty sure the locket found on the Phillipses’ sidewalk belongs to her. It has her name engraved on it, and the picture inside the locket could be her mother. You’ve got to admit that there’s a strong physical resemblance.”

“Sure, the locket probably belongs to her, but I think it was planted at the scene to make us suspect her,” Karla said. “The killer has been very careful not to leave behind any evidence the first five times. Why would she be so careless this time?”