BEVERLY BARTON - The Wife

A flutter of noise erupted from a nearby tree, and two birds emerged from the thick foliage and sailed into the starless sky, their silhouettes spotlighted by the shadowed moonlight. The sound startled him, so much so that his heartbeat accelerated and his hands trembled. An anxious unease settled over him, accompanied by the thought that he shouldn’t be here.

He checked his watch again. Five after eleven. He would wait another ten minutes. Even though his gut instinct told him to leave now, his heartfelt concern for the person who had called him, begging for his help, overruled his common sense. Some poor, lost soul might take her own life tonight if he didn’t stay here and offer her hope for the future.

“Father Brian,” the voice called to him.

“Yes, I’m here.” His gaze circled the area around him, but he saw no one. “Where are you?”

Silence.

Had he imagined her calling his name? Had it simply been the wind?

“Please, show yourself. I’m Father Brian. I’m here to help you, my child.”

“Father Brian.” The eerily soft voice said his name again, and this time he noted from which direction it had come.

He followed the path that led past the small rose garden and two sets of concrete park benches. “Don’t be afraid.” He held out his hands in a gesture that he hoped indicated concern and caring. “Whatever is wrong in your life, God can help you. All things are possible through Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.”

A dark figure bolted from the unlit area of trees and tall shrubs and came at him so quickly that he didn’t have time to react before he felt a cool, foul-smelling liquid splatter over him from his face to his feet.

What had just happened?

Father Brian looked into the face of death, realizing too late that he had walked into a skillfully planned trap. He saw the tiny, yellow-orange flame at the tip of the Pocket Torch lighter half a second before she tossed it on him, setting him on fire.

She moved back, away from the flames, and stood there listening to the priest’s screams. She watched in utter silence, smiling. He would never again harm another child.

Vengeance is mine, thus sayeth the Lord. She was the Lord’s instrument of punishment. He had chosen her to rid the world of men such as Father Brian. Slowly, quietly, as silent as the grave, she turned and walked away.

Burn in hell for your sins, Father Brian! Burn in everlasting torment.

Tasha Phillips parked one of the two Spring Creek Missionary Baptist Church vans carrying the church’s preschoolers, and her husband, Dewan, pulled the second van up beside the first. Three SUVs followed, each carrying the same precious cargo. Every year on the final Tuesday prior to the Wednesday evening church services where the little ones participated in a graduation ceremony, the minister and his wife hosted a picnic at Spring Creek Park. As the director of the church’s preschool and day-care programs, Tasha took great pride in her accomplishments—not that they equaled Dewan’s, of course. Since they had come to Dunmore nearly ten years ago, the local church had flourished under her husband’s charismatic leadership. The once small, floundering congregation now boasted over two hundred members, a large number in a town of less than eight thousand residents, with only 10 percent of those African-American.

Mothers and fathers carrying picnic baskets and coolers emerged from their vehicles, and the teachers lined the preschoolers up and counted heads.

Once the group had congregated at the arched entrance to the park, Dewan raised his hands and called for a moment of silence. To a person, every man, woman and child quieted instantly. The murmur of the warm spring breeze and the trickle of springwater flowing over the nearby streambed provided background music for the prayer.

“Almighty God, creator of all things, benevolent and understanding, we come before You this morning asking for Your blessings for these our beloved children and thanking You for this fine day.”

Tasha bowed her head and closed her eyes as she listened to Dewan’s booming, authoritative voice speaking directly to the Lord. She was as mesmerized by him today as she had been twelve years ago when they had been introduced by mutual friends. For her, it had been love at first sight. She had never met anyone like Dewan Phillips, a man so sure of his calling to preach, a man who could have been anything he wanted and yet chose service to God and his fellow man. And when given the opportunity to be an assistant minister at a large church in Birmingham, he had chosen instead to accept the job as pastor of a needy church in the small North Alabama town of Dunmore.

At the end of Dewan’s prayer, a resounding shout of “Amen” signaled the children that they could laugh and talk, which they immediately did.

As the teachers and parents entered the park, Tasha slipped her arm through her husband’s and smiled up at him. At six-three, Dewan towered over her by a good ten inches. He leaned down, kissed her forehead and then laid his big hand tenderly over her slightly protruding belly. After ten years of marriage, ten years of praying for a child, they were, at long last, expecting a little boy in three months. They had already decided to name him after their fathers, Sidney Demetrius Phillips, but they couldn’t agree on what they would call him. She preferred Sid, after her dad, and he preferred Demetrius, after his dad. She suspected that, in the end, Dewan would win her over. He always did.

“You go on in,” he told her. “I need to get those folding chairs out of the back of the van.”

Tasha joined the others in the park, following the mothers as they walked directly toward the tables near the rose garden. There was more shade in that area because of the enormous old oak trees growing nearby. The teachers herded the children toward the play equipment suitable for their age groups while the parents busied themselves with picnic preparations. When Mariah Johnson pulled a red-checkered tablecloth from her basket and unfolded it, Tasha grabbed one end and helped her spread it across the nearest table.

“The day couldn’t be more perfect, could it?” Mariah said. “It’s as if the Lord is smiling down on us.”

While chitchatting happily, they retrieved another tablecloth from Mariah’s basket. Then, just as they lifted the cloth over the next table, a loud, terrified scream shattered the adults’ cheerful conversation and the children’s beautiful laughter. Tasha stopped dead still, the ends of the tablecloth clutched in her hands. Two of the fathers, Eli Richardson and Galvin Johnson, ran toward the screaming Monetia Simmons, who stood stiff as a granite statue, her wide eyes fixed on something lying on the ground behind the concrete tables at the far side of the rose garden. As the men neared Monetia, they paused when they saw what had made her scream.

Dewan came racing toward Tasha. “What’s wrong? I heard someone screaming.”

Eli went over to Monetia and put his arm protectively around her trembling shoulders while Galvin hurried toward Dewan. He said in a low, calm voice, “Call the police, Reverend Phillips. There’s a dead man over there. It looks like he burned to death.”

“Merciful Lord,” Tasha gasped.

Dewan gripped her arm. “You and the other ladies gather up the children and take them back to the church. I’ll contact the police, and the men and I will stay here until they arrive.”

Jack stared at the photographs of Mark Cantrell’s charred body. Autopsy photos. What kind of person could douse another human being with gasoline and set him on fire? Someone completely devoid of any type of normal emotions—someone incapable of empathy or sympathy?