Heather Graham - The Evil Inside

“I wasn’t really suggesting that Abraham Smith killed Peter Andres…” Jenna said.

“But it’s possible. He had motive. And he certainly owned an ax!”

“You didn’t find an ax at the murder scene, did you?”

John scowled. “You’d know if we had. Right, right, the bloody ax was at the Smith house. Andres was a scythe. Maybe Abraham Smith killed Peter Andres-and his son knew it and just went crazier and crazier because Peter Andres was his one hope, his one salvation…and his father had killed him.”

“As far as I understand, several witnesses saw Abraham Smith on the day Peter Andres was killed,” Jenna said. “And, as you said, and as I believe, people are basically decent. It’s the odd man out who usually causes death and mayhem. And if Malachi Smith was going crazy with fury against his father, why kill Earnest Covington first?”

“Maybe Earnest saw the kid getting ready to kill his folks,” John suggested.

“No, that didn’t happen,” Jenna said, thinking about her experience in the Covington house.

John wagged a finger at her. “And how do you know that, Jenna? A ghost told you so?”

“John, be rational,” she said, not about to share the workings of her inner mind with him. John Alden certainly had to know something about her official work and their team, but she’d never tried to explain to him that she could see ghosts. “Covington couldn’t have possibly seen Malachi-or anyone-from inside that parlor of his. And if he’d been outside, Malachi would have attacked him there, right? Besides, Earnest Covington’s door was open. He had just gone back in his house and was killed while thinking about his son. The evidence shows that.”

“The evidence in your mind!” John said.

“We know that the costume worn by Peter Andres’s killer came from the drama department at the school,” Jenna reminded him.

“Abraham Smith could have gotten a hold of it.”

“I doubt it! He would have been reported at the school-he, as in any member of the Smith family. Malachi Smith was out of school then, and pretty much so despised,” Jenna reminded him.

“I’m not buying your explanation,” John said.

“Well, Abraham and Malachi as both being murderers doesn’t makes sense to me.” Jenna stood. “John, I know I’m pushing it, but could we get copies of these photos?”

“I’ll think about it,” he told her. “Sam has already been shown photos regarding the Smith family. Malachi hasn’t been charged in the other murders yet, and I don’t know if Sam will pursue warrants and subpoenas on the other murders yet-he doesn’t have an eyewitness to support him anymore.”

She leaned on the desk. “There’s the horned god costume, John. He’ll pursue the whole thing. I know he will.”

John groaned. “I’ll think about it-until a warrant comes or I decide! Damn, but you can tell you’re Jamie O’Neill’s relation-cuter, but a damned bulldog. Please, let me have the rest of my Sunday? God’s day of rest, you know?”

Angela Hawkins sat among a crowd of about one hundred at the Old Meeting House. Pastor Goodman Wilson was at the pulpit, preaching. She surveyed the congregation. The pastor’s flock looked like ordinary people, but, as a group, they were a bit different than most congregations she’d been a part of before. Here, the dress was conservative, down to the last person. There were no short skirts among the women, and certainly no plunging necklines. The men wore suits beneath their coats, button-down shirts and ties. Church wasn’t exactly formal, but it was conservative and proper.

The service had been going on for some time when she arrived, but an usher at the door, open and friendly, had guided her in.

Goodman Wilson was preaching about tolerance.

So far, nothing that she heard suggested anything ominous or particularly different from what she might hear in a sermon at a more commonplace church.

“My friends,” Goodman Wilson went on, “we are all here because we choose to be here. The world offers so many subversions. Satan does remain at the door. I say this, because Satan stands at the doors to our souls. We all know that he doesn’t really play out there in the woods, trying to seduce the unwary to dance naked with him!”

That brought about a spate of laughter, which, it seemed, the pastor had intended.

“Our community is facing a time of trial again. We are often ostracized because our devotion is so deep, and because we see perpetual invitations to sin in those things others often see as innocent. But, my friends, we stand fast in our faith. We do not consider that we rise above others. We only know in our hearts where we want to go. While we practice tolerance-patience with our fellow man, though our fellow man often has no patience for us-we must also realize that we are part of this community. Jesus Christ suffered the mockery and cruelty of others so that we might learn to live our lives with His help to free us from sin. I am asking all of you to open yourselves up to the mockery of others. A terrible injustice is being done now. Though it will open you up to the mockery of others, I’m asking that any who can help in the matter of the deaths of our brother Abraham Smith and his loved ones, look deep into your hearts, and open your hearts, souls and even your lives to those who are so desperately investigating the truth in this matter. My friends, my brothers, my sisters, I don’t ask that you act in haste-I ask that you search your own souls. I don’t believe that anyone in the Smith family was a murderer. I believe that those investigating the case can use all the help they can get.”

Angela stared at the pastor.

He had just baldly asked his congregation to step forward.

“Go in the peace and goodness of our Almighty God!” Goodman Wilson said. “May God’s blessing follow you as you leave this place of worship, and may you do His work in all things. Peace be with you.”

With that, the service was over and Angela stood. A number of people eyed her, but most of them shook her hand and welcomed her to the church and asked her to return.

She was surprised when Goodman Wilson approached her after the service, but she thought that the pastor would probably welcome any newcomer.

“Ah, welcome-Miss Hawkins,” Goodman Wilson said.

She smiled. “You know who I am. Was that sermon for my benefit?”

“No, Miss Hawkins, it was not. It was written last night as I sat at my desk and pondered all that was going on.”

“Do you think that any members of your congregation truly know something?”

He hesitated. Angela saw that he was looking toward the door. She turned, and saw a woman hurrying out with a young teen and a little girl with blond hair.

“Can I tell you that for a fact? No. But I do have members who have seen their children tormented by other children for their religious affiliations. If any of them does have information, I hope that my words will help them see what is right,” Wilson said.

“That’s kind of you,” she said.

“No. That’s what my God dictates I do, Miss Hawkins.” He bowed to her slightly. “Good day, Miss Hawkins. I wish you Godspeed in your quest.”

He walked away from her. Angela hurried out. She saw that the woman with the teen boy and small girl were getting into a car.

She made a mental note of the plate number, hurried to her car and wrote down the number. Then she put a call through to Jake Mallory.

Sam and Jackson had just stepped from the shop when Jackson paused to answer his phone. “It’s Will,” he said briefly to Sam.

From where they stood, Sam could actually look over the heads of the crowds to see Will’s “magic” tent and the area before it where a number of people, young and old, in costume and not, were already gathering for the next performance. Will, inside the tent area, had his back to them as they talked.