Defenders of the Faith Page 20

  The lyrics, when Peter could understand them, had to do with something about celebrating Jesus in everything you do, every word you say, every song you sing, every note you play, put him in everything. That was the gist of the chorus, sung by all four of the musicians. Rand sang the verse alone, in a low, guttural voice with his eyes closed as if in feigned passion for his Lord (or, Peter thought angrily, for his girlfriend). His intensity made the words nearly unintelligible to Peter.

  There was a solo by the keyboard player, who had set the drum machine to pound out a driving rhythm underneath his left hand chording and right hand pyrotechnics. Then the lead guitarist played a solo that sounded to Peter like a cat being flayed. Despite himself, the sheer energy and volume of the music moved him, and he thought that the instrumentals would be a good soundtrack to his violent fantasies. As he listened, he glanced over at Jessica several times, and thought he saw excitement mounting in her as well.

  There was a final chorus, and the song came to an end with five pounding chords, a final scream from the keyboard, and an orgasmic wail from Rand. Peter started to his feet, but the Reverend Ronald Wilber was quicker, and beat him to the lectern mike. "Praise God for your music, boys! It's as loud as the final trump and as fiery as the hell that awaits those who won't hear your message!" Peter had no doubt that Reverend Wilber knew a good thing when he saw it.

  "Now there are those," Wilber went on, "who find this kind of music offensive. But when you use the music of the young to praise the Lord, and when it brings the young to Jesus, well then I say hallelujah and thank you Lord!"

  The hallelujahs came fast and furious from the elated throng. Jessica didn't call out, but kept smiling at Rand as he stood there soaking up the praise that, thought Peter, rightfully belonged to God. "Did you boys bring tickets along for your festival?" Wilber asked.

  Rand had, and sold a few dozen after Wilber dismissed the crowd with a prayer and they all gathered at the back for refreshments. When Jessica finally left Rand's side to get him some punch, she saw Peter standing there and smiled again at him. "You're, um, Peter, right?" He nodded. "How've you been?"

  "Good. Are you at college now?" he asked, although he knew exactly where she was going to school.

  "Yeah, over at Gardner. How about you?"

  "Bible College here." For the first time he thought the Bible College sounded nerdy, and tried to keep from blushing. The feeling angered him, and he felt as though he had betrayed Jesus by being ashamed of his school. "I really like it," he added defensively.

  "You planning to go into the ministry?" she said, making it sound, he thought, like a pretty good decision.

  "Yes, I am. I want to...do something. Something that makes a difference. This country’s in such lousy shape."

  Her face seemed to light up. "I know what you mean. Me too, only I don't quite know what I want to do yet."

  This was more than Peter had ever talked to Jessica Keller in his life, and he began to feel more confident. "What's your major?"

  "English. Liberal arts. My folks think I should get a teaching degree, but I really don't want to teach,"

  "Are you into music? I see you're with the band."

  "Oh, I like Christian rock, but not much of the other stuff. That rap and metal -- a lot of it's so gross. But you know, I'm a Christian, and I think using this kind of music for Christ is pretty cool."

  "Right. Whatever works. You, uh...play anything?"

  "Oh no. Rand's asked me to sing backup, but I just couldn't. I get embarrassed in front of crowds."

  Peter made himself grin. "Rand doesn't."

  "No, he's really really good. He plays great too, don't you think?"

  "Fantastic," Peter lied. "So are you two...?" He left it unfinished.

  She giggled, and Peter thought she'd been telling the truth about getting easily embarrassed. "Yeah, sort of. We've been dating, and I come to most of his gigs." She seemed to remember then why she was standing near the refreshments. "And I need to get him something to drink while he's selling tickets!" She laughed. "It was cool to see you, Peter. Maybe you’ll be at the festival?"

  "Wouldn't miss it. But look, why don't you come to a meeting or two here? We meet every Sunday night, and can always use new members."

  She smiled and nodded. "Well, thanks. Maybe I'll do that." Then she got two Styrofoam cups full of punch and walked back up to Rand, who beamed at her and put an arm possessively on her shoulder.

  Peter hated him as much as he loved the girl. She had been his ideal for years, and now that he had finally had a conversation with her, he was not disappointed. There was spirituality there, he could feel it. She was searching for what he knew only God could give her...

  ...And that he could give her.

  He knew beyond doubt that God had intended them for each other. He had seen the admiration in her eyes when he had told her of his plans for the future. And why not? He was handsome and tall and strong and had a vision for himself and for the woman who would share his life. Jessica Keller would make an ideal preacher's wife. She was humble and bright and deferential, from the way she had gotten punch for her boyfriend -- or her current boyfriend, Peter thought. It wouldn't be long before Jessica was his girlfriend, and, a few years down the road, his wife.

  Killing Douglas Ryan had done wonders for him. He had felt so confident with the girl, not at all timid or foolish. He would call her, and soon, following up on his invitation to come to a CYCC meeting. He would not take no for an answer.

  Peter looked at Rand Evans, with his long hair and rocker's clothes and easy grin, and thought about the fragility of flesh and bone. No, he would never take no for an answer again.

  Chapter 40

  The Ranch House was crowded when Olivia Feldman and Paul Blair walked in, but Paul had made reservations, and the waitress showed them to a second floor table overlooking the plaza below, where shoppers bundled against the cold March wind scurried from shop to shop. "Did you ever wonder," Olivia asked as they sat down, "how a ranch house can have a second floor?"

  Paul smiled and sat across from her. "Are you always so literal?"

  "I have to be in my work. Most of the time anyway. I can't afford the time to play hunches."

  "And that's what you want to talk about? Your work?"

  "Yes. Specifically several of the recent murders in the city. And one not so recent."

  She thought he looked slightly shocked. "Murders? Hardly good luncheon conversation."

  "Not good conversation anytime, really. But necessary."

  "Why talk to me?" Paul asked. He seemed childlike in his innocence.

  "Because I understand that you know as much about the people who go to your church as anyone."

  "Whoa, now hold it a minute. What do murder and my church have in common?"

  "Douglas Ryan, Heather Heisey, Kevin Greene, and Peter Hurst."

  At first Paul looked as if he didn't understand, but then the color drained from his cheeks. "What...you mean...links in those murders?"

  "That's right, Mr. Blair. There's a possibility that someone from your church could have been motivated to commit murder because of acts against other church members."

  "But why? How? What does…what would Heather Heisey have to do with it?"

  The line, she thought, was too innocent to be real. "If you know as much as you're supposed to, Mr. Blair, you already know the answer to that. And so do I, so you're not damaging the girl's reputation any further. You do know, don't you? Because I know that you already knew about Peter Hurst, after what you told me in the car. I was the first officer on the scene that night, and he told me his name."

  Some of the blood had come back to Paul Blair's face, and he nodded sadly. "Yes. I knew. And I know about what Douglas Ryan did to his little girl, and who was partly responsible for Kevin's death. And I've thought about it too, about how so many things seem to point back to...to my church. But to have someone like you come right out and say that there's a link..." He shook his head. "To think tha
t someone I may have known for years might be capable of these things..."

  The waitress brought menus and asked for the beverage order. Olivia ordered coffee, Paul iced tea. She wrote it down and walked away.

  Paul gave a short, bitter laugh. "And to think that someone in the next pew might be breaking that great commandment...you can see why I find this so upsetting?"

  "Of course. I'm sorry, really. If I am correct as far as the motivation goes -- that this is almost a religious crusade for the killer -- then it may be the result of something traumatic that happened to him or her, something that they've never gotten over. So I guess I'm asking you, as a fairly observant church member, if there's anyone you can think of who might fit that description."

  Paul sat looking down at his place setting, looking up only when the waitress brought their drinks and requested their order. Olivia asked for a turkey and Swiss on rye, and Paul wanted only a bowl of soup.

  "I don't know," he said when the waitress had left. "These are good people. I can't imagine anyone in our church murdering someone, no matter what their reason."

  "Well, would you say that someone like...Peter Hurst fits the psychological profile?"

  "Peter?" Paul practically spat out the word. "That's ridiculous. That boy's been a model student, never gotten into any trouble. He attends Buchanan Bible College, he's going to be a minister."

  "I know. I've already done a great deal of checking up on Peter Hurst."

  "Have you...talked to him?"

  "Not personally. But I've checked just the same."

  "Well, I'm sure then you realize that Peter couldn't have killed his own...molester. He was only five at the time."

  "I know that. But he's a big boy now."

  "And you think that because of what happened to him, he's killed people?"

  "I'm not saying it was him. I just say that I can see where someone who went through what he did might feel himself motivated to perform such killings, thinking that they were acts of justice."

  "And they were, weren't they?" His face had gone rigid, his voice cold. "There are a lot of people who would agree with that."

  "I don't," she said. "Justice is what I do. Justice has a court and a trial and a sentence. What you just called justice is murder in my book."

  "Legally, yes," Paul said. "But morally? Ethically?" His voice sank low. "The man who raped Peter Hurst was a monster. He destroyed children's lives, if he didn't kill them. And if you would put most people -- me included -- at the side of a man who had just done that to a little boy, and put a gun in their hands, I think they just might kill that man."

  She was quiet for a moment. "You included."

  "Yes. Me included."

  "And whose fault was it that Kevin Greene died?"

  "If he hadn't been seduced into breaking the law, he'd still be alive."

  Olivia was about to ask about the others when the waitress returned with her sandwich and Paul's soup. When she left, Paul looked at Olivia with wry self-deprecation. "I'm sorry," he said. "Here we are about to have a nice lunch, and I fly off the handle." She started to interrupt, but he held up a hand. "No no, you're right, of course. No matter how much our emotions might run away with us, there's still no excuse for breaking the law. That's...hardly the Christian way, is it?"

  Though he smiled as he gently broke crackers into his soup, Olivia had been startled by the power of his indignation. It was almost wrathful, and the word in her mind made her think of those Old Testament prophets calling down the wrath of the Lord upon the ungodly.

  He seemed, however, like a different person throughout the remainder of the meal, cheerful and witty, mocking her suspicions rather than being offended by them. It was as if he had gone too far in one direction, and now wished to pull both of them back to where they had been before. But Olivia had seen a side of Paul Blair that she had not known was there, and they would never be back in that safe place again.

  She got nothing more out of him after that, and as they parted amicably, he apologized once more for his outburst. She dismissed it with a smile, and asked him to please contact her if he had any ideas or suspicions.

  But Olivia had suspicions of her own. She could not help but think that the temper she had seen Paul Blair reveal could have led to something violent, maybe even murder. She drove back to headquarters thinking that Paul Blair might even have been responsible for one or more of the killings.

  ~ * ~

  That was exactly what Paul wanted her to think.

  As soon as he had heard her mention Peter Hurst, he had decided to put his own head on the chopping block if need be. It had not been difficult. All he had had to do was to say what was in his own heart. He had wanted to allay her suspicions about Peter by bringing them to rest on himself, and from the look on her face, he had done so all too successfully.

  Still, it was his fault, wasn't it? He had turned Peter into a killer by foolishly taking him along to see Douglas Ryan. The boy must not suffer for what the man had done. He had killed only once, and then in a state of easily understood fury. He would not kill again, and if it came down to it, Paul would bear the blame for that first and last killing.

  Chapter 41

  The weather grew warmer, the days longer, and the first week in April, Jessica Keller attended her second CCYC meeting. Peter was delighted to see her, and doubly delighted to find that she had come alone.

  After the meeting, Peter gathered all his courage and asked her if she would like to go to a Buchanan Symphony concert the following weekend. Jessica seemed surprised, but quickly regained her composure, and told Peter that she could not because she had a date with Rand Evans. When he asked her about the weekend after that, she seemed embarrassed, but admitted that she and Rand were dating steadily, and that she would feel uncomfortable going out with someone else.

  She had only confirmed what Peter had suspected, and it made him hate Rand all the more. But he only smiled and apologized, and said that he hoped his persistence wouldn't make her stay away from future meetings. She promised it wouldn't, and was true to her word, showing up the next week.

  The more he talked to her, the more convinced he became that she was intended for him. He was comfortable with her, due partly to the fact that she seemed to be moving toward him mentally, honoring his position of importance in the organization, and listening avidly as he spoke, both publicly and for her ears alone. It was easy to see that she needed him. If only, he thought, Rand Evans were out of the way, there would be nothing to stop her from doing what she as well as he knew was right.

  Though his need for her and his hatred of Rand burned within him like twin flames, he went on earning excellent grades at the Bible college and working for Paul Blair several days a week. Though Paul had not invited him to shoot pistol again after the Douglas Ryan incident, he still talked to Peter frequently, and they spent a lot of time in Paul's office, discussing the moral tone of the community. He was glad that Paul had not turned away from him after the killing. Though he loved his father, Paul Blair was the father that he wished he would have had.

  ~ * ~

  And for Paul, Peter Hurst was the son that had been taken away from him with the death of his wife. He loved the boy, and often thought that it was because he had saved his life when he was little. When you save a small creature, you take it home and love it forever, don't you? Yet his love for Peter was mixed with pity at what he knew this fine young man must be harboring inside, the hurt and the shame, deep enough to make him kill when confronted with a simulacrum of the man who had harmed him all those years before.

  But Peter was fine now. He had not harmed anyone else, nor had he even spoken of violence. When they talked of society's problems, Peter's theories and suggestions always safely remained within the system, and his work with the CCYC was constructive and life-affirming.

  Still, Paul would not take him shooting. To see the boy fire a pistol would all too vividly bring back that tragic day when they had destroyed an unrepentant sinner's l
ife at too great a price. That did not, however, keep Paul from shooting on his own. He went to the indoor range every Tuesday morning. Most of the gun club members had day jobs, so he was often alone.

  But one Tuesday in April he was shooting his Hi-Standard .22 when the door opened and three people walked in. The man in front was a policeman Paul had seen there before, firing his service revolver. Paul did not know the second man, but the third person was Olivia Feldman.

  They were carrying pistol cases, and the first man had a sheaf of targets under his arm. He greeted Paul, and Paul said hello back and smiled at Olivia, who came over and talked to him while the two men put up the targets.

  "I didn't know you were a marksman," she said, and he wondered if he should read anything into it.

  "I don't know if I'd go that far," he told her. "But I enjoy it. I haven't seen you in here before."

  "I generally practice at headquarters -- we have a range in the basement. But they're replacing the sound baffles this week, so Frank brought us here. Hope you don't mind."

  "No, not at all. This is a pretty lonely place during the day."

  "Do you mind that?"

  He didn't know how he should answer, so he just smiled and shrugged, trying to look inoffensive.

  "You mustn't, or you wouldn't come now, would you?" she said.

  He thought it over. "No, I guess I wouldn't."

  ~ * ~

  Of course he wouldn't, she thought. He was a loner. He had never remarried. And although he was a social animal, he seemed to be a man who valued his privacy.

  A loner. And what was it, oh great detective, that they always said about loners?

  A nice man, but he kept pretty much to himself...

  Neighbors described the accused killer as a loner...

  He was always a pretty quiet fella -- we never heard him choppin' them people up...

  Sure, she could haul out the clichés and stereotypes as easily as any layman. But the funny thing about clichés was that much of the time they were true. That's how you got psychological profiles. And here was a man who had lost a wife to a drunk driver, whose fellow church members were harmed by sinners, and who had told her that he was capable of sending those sinners to divine retribution.