Defenders of the Faith Page 19

  ~ * ~

  "We'll do nothing," Paul said to the boy. "We're stopping now. There will be no more killings, no more threats. We'll have to let God judge and act for himself, and if we work for him we'll have to do it through the accepted legal means. But we can still do that together, if you like."

  It was what Peter had expected to hear, so he was not surprised. "I would, yes," he said.

  They were in Paul's office. The door was closed, so no one would hear them. "You have to understand, Peter," Paul went on, "what last Sunday did to me. It was never my intention to have you do what you did. I never wanted you to kill anybody. Whether or not he deserved it is a moot point. I didn't have the right to put you in such jeopardy."

  "I'm not afraid, Paul."

  "It's not a question of being afraid. I know you're not a coward, but I didn't want you to be a killer."

  Peter wanted to tell him that killing in the name of Christ is no sin, but remained quiet.

  "And I don't want it to happen again," Paul finished quietly.

  Peter nodded. "It won't, Paul." And as Paul nodded back, his face sorrowful and sober, Peter couldn't help but think that lying in the name of Christ was no sin either.

  ~ * ~

  Olivia Feldman had been working around the clock since Douglas Ryan's murder. She had taken breaks only to eat, go to the bathroom, and take a couple of hour long naps on the ratty sofa in her office when she was too weary to keep her eyes open any longer.

  She was looking, not for the killer, but for the connection that she felt sure must be there somewhere. She had painstakingly entered every small detail about the four murders in which the .38 had been used, as well as the killing of Ryan. But by inputting the data, she discovered what linked four of those five long before the computer began to check it for her, and held the concept in her fastidious mind for several seconds before the computer threw the matching words onto her screen.

  She barely had time for a small laugh of self-congratulation before the door opened and Zielinski hurried in. "The little Ryan girl?" he said. "You were right. She told Pam everything. Her father's been at her for years. The medical exam bears her out. Somebody did that little girl a favor."

  "Yeah, and that somebody happens to be one of our good Christian neighbors."

  "Huh?"

  "I found the link between the killings -- at least four of them. Look." She gestured to the blue monitor screen.

  Zielinski leaned over her shoulder and read the words, COMMON FIELD MAJORITY: Buchanan County Bible Church. "Your hunch was right then -- about a religious motive?"

  "I think so. At the time of his kidnapping, Peter Hurst and his family attended Buchanan County Bible Church. They still do. The Tuckers, who were both killed by our .38, had employed Kevin Greene to drive stolen goods to Philly for them, and he died in the process. His family went to BCBC."

  "The birth control counselor?"

  "The thing that started that whole mess was when Jennifer Yalebrough was accused of prescribing self-abortion to a girl whose family went to -- you guessed it -- BCBC. And finally we've got the Ryan killing. With little Charlie safe in the arms of Mother Church while her father was being murdered."

  "By a fellow church member?"

  "I wouldn't be at all surprised. Now if you take the other two murders in which scumbags died, Rafael Santiago and the couple in the bookstore, there's no church link in either of them. But just because I can't find it doesn't mean it's not there. The magic .38 was used on Santiago, so maybe he sold drugs to a good little Sunday school girl or boy. And maybe Aston and Bronston videotaped some church kids and our crusader covered it up when he killed them."

  "Yeah, but there's no ballistics tie-in to the bookstore killings," Zielinski said.

  "Maybe he didn't get a chance to use his gun that night."

  "And what about the .45 used on Ryan? The M.O.'s totally different."

  "I don't know about that one. But if it wasn't the same perp, I'd bet they're at least linked." Olivia pushed her chair away from her desk and gave a huge sigh. She was exhausted, and couldn't wait to go home, climb into a hot tub, and then fall into bed.

  "So what's next?" Zielinski asked. "You gonna grill the congregation after the Wednesday night prayer meeting?"

  "No, I think I'll just start fishing around. I haven't been to church in ages. Maybe it's time to start again. Anybody in the department go to BCBC?"

  "Dunno. I'll ask around."

  "Subtly, please. If anyone asks, it's spiritual renewal I'm after, and not the Crusader."

  When Olivia arrived back at work the next day, she felt as though she had been reborn without benefit of religion. She had slept a solid ten hours, had had two good meals, and had taken a shower and washed her hair on arising. She found Darrell Stover waiting in her office, and when he told her that he and his family attended Buchanan County Bible Church, she told him what she wanted and why.

  Although he seemed uncomfortable that she suspected someone from his congregation, he readily agreed to take her along to church the following Sunday. He also promised to say nothing to anyone about her real reasons for attending. When she started to pick Darrell's brain about the members of BCBC, she quickly found that he knew few people there, since he had only joined a year before.

  Olivia had not been inside a church since her husband's memorial service, and she dreaded it. But when she entered the glass double doors of BCBC, she was greeted with smiles and handshakes as Darrell and Ellen, his wife, introduced her to the parishioners. They all seemed happy to have her there, but she couldn’t help wondering how genuine the smiles of greeting were. At least the sanctuary was bright inside, with sunshine streaming through the stained glass windows on the left side of the room.

  It was not at all like the dark, dismal churches of her youth, with their gray stones and nearly black woods, but had been built only twenty years earlier, when the congregation outgrew their more traditional looking home on Third Street. The wood of the pews was light ash, and the paint that covered the plastered walls between the windows was a muted salmon. Instead of rich, vibrant colors, the stained glass was pale pastels which let more light inside, so much, in fact, that blinds covered the top panels to keep the sun from beating in upon the choir in their loft. The bottom of the blind cut off young David's head. Ironic, Olivia thought, since he was holding that of Goliath's in his hand.

  The mood of friendliness continued after the organ prelude, when the minister came down from his seat behind the pulpit and into the center aisle, where he welcomed the congregation and they responded en masse, gave several announcements, and then admonished them to greet each other in the name of Christ and "say hello to someone you don't know."

  Olivia was inundated with more handshakes and smiles, and was surprised with how at home she felt in spite of herself. What surprised her even more was when she turned around and saw, standing two rows behind her, the beaming face of Paul Blair.

  He seemed as equally taken aback when he saw her, but retained his smile and reached out his hand for hers. He shook it warmly, said, "Good to see you," and then they began to sing the first of many hymns and praise songs.

  During the offertory she leaned over to Darrell and asked in a whisper what he knew about Paul Blair. "Good man," Darrell whispered back. "Real active, knows everybody...and everything about them."

  The passage of the brass collection plate interrupted them, but Olivia had heard enough. She already knew Paul Blair, and would just have to get to know him better. He sounded ideal for her purposes. If the Crusader were a member of First Methodist's congregation, odds were that Paul Blair knew him.

  There was something else about him that made her feel certain that he would be willing to talk to her. It was the way he looked at her, almost as though they had once been very close, and he wished to resume the relationship. And when she excused herself from the Stovers and talked to him after the service ended, there was no mistaking the excitement in his face.

  "
I'm surprised to see you here," he said to her.

  "Not displeased?"

  "Heavens, no," he said, and she believed him. "I'm always glad to see new visitors."

  "Even snoopy policewomen?"

  "Oh, especially them!" They both laughed. "Any hot new leads since I last saw you?"

  "No," she said, and her expression sobered. "But two hot new murders."

  "Douglas Ryan. And the other?

  "Jennifer Yalebrough. At the family planning clinic," she added, when the name seemed to register no recognition.

  "Oh yes," he said. "I guess I've been thinking so much about Mr. Ryan I forgot the young lady."

  "Did you know Ryan?"

  "I've met him. He stopped coming to church several years ago. But to give him credit, he always brought Charlie to Sunday school. You don't know who did it yet?" His eyes, she thought, looked sad and concerned.

  "No. Not a clue." She glanced to where Darrell and Ellen were chatting with an older couple. "Listen, I came with the Stovers, and they're probably anxious to leave. But I'd like to see you again. I understand you know just about everyone in this church."

  "Quite a few. Why, is this official or something?"

  "Sort of. Would you have some time this week to talk to me?"

  He frowned slightly, and his worry lines deepened. "At the station?"

  "No, nothing so formal. Maybe over coffee."

  "How about lunch? I'll buy." He grinned. "My tax dollars at work. Tuesday at The Ranch House?"

  "Sounds good." They shook hands on it.

  ~ * ~

  Her hand was not at all like Evey's, Paul thought. Evey's hand had been small and delicate, but Olivia Feldman's hand was large, with long fingers. Still, it was soft, as soft as Evey's had ever been. He released it with regret and watched Olivia walk away.

  He had had to agree to talk with her. To refuse would have made him look as if he had something to hide, and he did not want her to think that. For he realized that she had found the link.

  That link was his dearly beloved church, and the ties to it that the various people had who were involved in the killings. Far from helping his church to achieve glory, he had blackened its name, so that a police officer now knew that a killer was to be found among its worshippers. It was one more sign, along with Peter's dreadful shooting of Ryan, that Paul had only been fooling himself when he had imagined that God's grace shone upon his violent and worldly schemes.

  Now the only thing to do was to hope the cases would remain unsolved. He had to be precisely what Olivia Feldman thought he was, a kindly, sociable, middle-aged, reasonably religious clothier whose only flaw was a piety that could at times seem humorless. That, and a curiosity about the foibles of his fellow men.

  He would meet her and tell her what she wished to know. But he would say nothing to cast any suspicion on Peter Hurst. In a way, her wanting to talk to him was a blessing. This way he could steer her attention away from himself and Peter. He would place it upon no other person, but he would present Detective Olivia Feldman with a maze holding an infinitude of suspects.

  And try as he might to deny it, he had been glad to see Olivia again for another reason. When he spoke to her, when she stood before him, it was like having Evey back. The women were so similar in appearance, if not in manner, that Olivia's presence produced in him a long unspoken fulfillment, as well as an aching guilt that he was betraying his late wife by feeling the way he did toward this stranger with her face.

  So, despite the dangers, he was looking forward to the prospect of having lunch with her on Tuesday. It was an emotion even stronger than the expectation with which he had looked forward to killing those he had once thought deserved it.

  Chapter 39

  "Violence is not the way!"

  He spoke, and they all listened to him. Whether they honestly agreed or not, the heads nodded, and a few shouts of Amen! were heard. Peter Hurst had the young crowd right where he wanted it. It wasn't as good as shooting a gun into the body of a sinner, but it came close.

  "We might not agree with what Jennifer Yalebrough did...and we might have heard the stories about how a certain man was betraying the trust of his own child and breaking God's commandment. But that does not give any one of us the right to take the law into our own hands! We must leave judgment to God alone!" The Amens increased. "We will do what we can do, as Jesus would have us do it. Never forget that we worship and follow the Prince of Peace, not of bloodshed. And anyone who raises his hand against another child of God, save in defense of his country..." And his Lord, Peter thought furtively. "...has no business in the company of believers."

  Polite applause filled the room then. It was not a flood of agreement, because Peter thought that a great many of the people in that room actually felt the way that God knew Peter did -- that they would have loved to have gone out and killed that bitch abortionist and that bastard child molester themselves, if they had only had the inspiration, the courage, and the zeal that he had been blessed with. If Peter had been true to himself, he would have called the Conservative Christian Youth Coalition to arms, and led them into the streets to take back the city, the country, and finally the world itself for Christ.

  But what he had already done made things otherwise, made him preach a non-violence he did not feel, to throw off whatever suspicion might be resting on him. Still, they accepted it readily enough, especially when he couched it in terms of following the statutes of Christ.

  As he wound down his tirade, he wondered if Rand Evans had arrived yet. The boy had called him from Gardner College over in Donegal, and asked if he could deliver a pitch for the Christian music festival coming up in the spring. Though Peter privately disparaged Christian rock, many CCYC members liked it, and it had brought a lot of young people to Christ. So Peter had agreed to Rand Evans's appearance.

  He was just about to ask Reverend Wilber for the closing prayer when the double doors at the back of the hall boomed open, and four long-haired young men entered lugging large amplifiers. Despite the cold outside, they were wearing leather vests with t-shirts underneath, and jeans with large holes in the knees. Behind them came three girls carrying instrument cases and a keyboard. Peter was shocked to see that one of them was Jessica Keller.

  For years he had worshipped Jessica, but was too shy to ever ask her out on a date. There were times when he had tried, but no matter how eloquent he might be in front of his chosen audience, he became a muttering buffoon when trying to speak to Jessica Keller. Like the foolish boys on the fifties television shows that were his mother's viewing staple, he had called her home several times, asked for her, then hung up in terror as soon as she said hello. And now here she was with a bunch of musicians who looked like they had just come from playing a heavy metal gig.

  "Excuse me," Peter said firmly, his voice given added weight by the lectern microphone. "Are you folks in the right place?"

  "I guess so," one of the boys said. He was tall and preternaturally thin, and blond-brown hair swept back from his forehead to fall several inches below his shoulders. "If you guys are the CCYC."

  "Well, that's us," Peter said. "But who are you?"

  "Sacred Fire," the boy answered. "I called you. Rand Evans?"

  Peter nodded. "You were just going to tell us about the festival in May, right?"

  "Yeah, but I thought it might, uh, jack people up if they actually heard a little bit of something, you know? So I brought the rest of the group. We got just a drum track on the keyboard tonight because we couldn't bring the whole set along, but it'll give you an idea anyway."

  Peter couldn't believe it. They actually wanted to play here and now. He looked at Reverend Wilber, but the older man just sat there in the first row, a noncommittal look on his face. Peter gave a short laugh that did nothing to cow Rand Evans's cocky manner. "Look, for one thing I don't think we have the power that you're going to need."

  "Oh yeah, these don't take much -- just two plugs and we're set." Rand led the rest of his group up
the center aisle, their female roadies tagging along behind.

  "Now look," Peter went on, "I don't think we have the time for all this..."

  Now it was Rand's turn to laugh, and the other three laughed with him. "What, five minutes? You people will really dig this, no lie. Okay," he said as they plugged their power cords into the sockets on the front of the stage platform, "we guys are Sacred Fire, we play our music to glorify God and bring people to Jesus, his son, and we're going to be playing at the Glorisound Festival in May, which is being held right here in Buchanan for two days at Stedman Park."

  Ignoring Peter, the band turned on their amps, while one of the guys set up the keyboard. Jessica took an electric guitar from one of the cases, and the other two girls readied another guitar and an electric bass. As Jessica straightened up, she looked at Peter for just a moment and smiled in recognition, rendering him powerless to protest any further.

  Rand rambled on, talking a mile a minute while Jessica handed him his guitar and he slung the black leather strap around his neck. The guitar was black too, but the neck was fretted with shiny gold metal. On one side of the strings, the body bore a large inlaid cross that shimmered like mother-of-pearl, and on the other was an inlaid flame surrounded by a gold crown.

  Rand, the lead guitarist, and the bass player tuned quickly, while Rand continued to talk about Sacred Fire and the sacred fire of Christ, and how it would sweep this generation before it like cattle before a prairie fire. Then Rand yanked on a headpiece with a foam ball mike in front of his mouth, and strummed a crashing series of chords that nearly deafened Peter, who was standing right by the amps. He backed up in annoyance, and looked at the faces in the crowd.

  Although some looked dubious, and others looked as though the volume pained them, most of the young people seemed entranced by the cacophony. The Reverend Ronald Wilber had his jaw clenched tightly, but was watching with interest. Peter sat down in the empty chair next to Wilber. He didn't watch the band so much as he watched Jessica Keller, standing with the other girls against the wall, listening to their boyfriends play.