Silent Killer (2 page)

“He might. You won’t know until you—”

“I know. Believe me. He will not understand. I can’t ask him to choose between Yvette and me.” She could, but she was afraid to ask her husband to make that choice, because deep down inside she wasn’t completely certain that he would choose her.

“It’s not a matter of choosing between the two of you,” Maleah said. “Not really. It’s a matter of making him understand how you feel.”

“I feel jealous, and Griff doesn’t understand why because Yvette is his friend, because she’s like a sister to him, because he owes her his life. He’s not in love with her. He’s in love with me, but…”

“But recently you feel that he is putting her first. You’re his wife. You have every right to expect him to always put you first.”

Nic heaved a heavy sigh. “Griff has become so involved in whatever it is that Yvette is doing with that project of hers, that school or laboratory or sanctuary or whatever the hell it is, that he has all but turned over the running of the Powell Agency to me.”

“I still don’t see why you won’t take my suggestion and get involved in Yvette’s project yourself, if for no other reason than to find out what’s going on. And it would give you more time with Griff.”

“I suppose if I insisted, he’d ask Yvette to include me, but she’s been so secretive about the whole thing, and whenever she comes for dinner and I mention the project, she clams up.”

“Look, none of this is my business, except that you and I are friends and you’ve shared your concerns with me,” Maleah said. “But you’re Griff’s wife and co-owner of the Powell Agency and of Griffin’s Rest. You have every right to know what kind of operation Yvette Meng has going on in those buildings that Griff had built for her less than a mile from your home.”

“I just don’t want to come off sounding like a jealous wife, even if that’s what I am. But if I don’t get some of this off my chest pretty soon, I’m going to explode, and that won’t be good for me or my marriage.”

“So talk to Griff. Talk to him tonight.”

Nic nodded. Maleah was right, of course. These feelings had been growing gradually, beginning with the day Griff told her that he would be constructing a housing complex for Dr. Yvette Meng at Griffin’s Rest, a place where some of her gifted “psychic” students would be safe and protected from the outside world.

But when Yvette had arrived six months ago to oversee the project, Nic’s concerns had escalated, and not without foundation. Even though she didn’t doubt Griff’s love for her, she couldn’t shake the suspicion that neither he nor Yvette had been totally honest with her about their past relationship.

She trusted Griff as she had never trusted another person in her entire life. She loved him so much that sometimes it frightened her. That combination of love and trust was now being tested.

He did not deserve to live. He was like the others, pretending to be good when, in his heart, he was evil.

I have to punish him.

That’s what You want me to do, isn’t it, God?

Yes, yes, I hear You. I accept that it is my purpose in life to rain hellfire and brimstone down on the false prophets.

I will do Your bidding, Lord. I will seek out those who profess to do Your work and instead are in league with the devil. The liars. The blasphemers. The adulterers. The most vile of all sinners, those who transgress against Your holy word.

I didn’t understand completely, not at first, but I do now. I cannot wait for them to reveal themselves to me. I must search for them and do so with all diligence.

Give me the strength to do what I must do. Show me the way. I am, now and always, Your obedient servant.

What?

Yes, Lord, I see him. And I know him for what he truly is. The priest has harmed dozens of little boys, and he’s gotten away with his crimes over and over again. He must be stopped. He must be punished.

Jack had gotten, at most, a total of two hours’ sleep. He was still occasionally having nightmares about his last Rangers’ assignment, and since his return to Dunmore, old boyhood nightmares had resurfaced and gotten all mixed up with the ones about the war. These days if he got four hours of sleep and didn’t wake in a cold sweat, he called it a good night.

He had slept in his old room, on the same antique double bed and lumpy mattress that were almost as old as he was. If he stayed, he’d have to buy a new mattress. He hadn’t ventured into any of the other upstairs rooms yesterday, but if he intended to air out the place, he would have to go into every room, including his mother’s bedroom, a room she had shared with Nolan.

Tossing back the musty blanket and sheet, he got out of bed, stretched, scratched his chest and tromped toward the bathroom down the hall. After taking a leak, he peered into the dusty mirror over the pedestal sink and barely recognized the man looking back at him. He was no longer the teenage boy who had run away from Dunmore to escape his tyrannical stepfather, nor was he the angry man who had returned five years ago for his mother’s funeral. Although the surgeons had done an excellent job, the left side of his face would never be the same.
He
would never be the same. He was still reasonably young—just turned thirty-seven. And despite his extensive injuries, the doctors had put Humpty Dumpty back together again so that he was strong and healthy. And although his career in the army was over, he now had a new job that offered him a chance to start over, to build a new life.

Out with the old and in with the new. Starting today.

Jack dressed hurriedly in faded jeans and a gray T-shirt, then headed up the stairs to the third story. He opened all the windows that hadn’t been painted shut and descended the stairs, back to the second floor, and went from room to room, tying back curtains and lifting windows to let in the fresh springtime air. When he reached his mother’s bedroom, he paused, steeled his nerves and opened the door. Except for the massive pieces of burl walnut furniture that had been in this room for generations, Jack didn’t recognize anything. The room was as cold and dreary as his stepfather had been, the walls an off-white, now faded, the wooden floor unpolished for only God knew how many years. Heavy, brown brocade drapes closed out all light from the row of windows, and a matching bedspread covered the antique bed, the bed in which his maternal grandmother had been born.

As he closed his eyes just for a second, memories of his childhood flashed through his mind. He and Maleah running into their parents’ bedroom and jumping into bed with them. His beautiful blond mother’s arms opening wide to embrace them. His big, rugged father smiling as he ruffled Jack’s hair and planted a kiss on Maleah’s forehead.

Jack marched across the room, reached up and yanked the drapes, rods and all, from the windows and left them lying in dusty heaps on the floor. Morning sunlight flooded the room. He managed to open two of the four windows. As he stood and looked at his handiwork, he knew then that this would be the first room he would clear out, clean and restore.

With the windows open and the house airing out, Jack went down the back stairs and into the kitchen, which hadn’t been remodeled in a good twenty years. He’d made a stop at a mini-mart on his way into Dunmore yesterday and picked up a few supplies, enough to tide him over for a few days. All the nonperishable items remained on the kitchen counter, where he’d left them last night.

After searching through the cabinets, he found the coffeemaker, washed it thoroughly and then put on a pot of coffee. Once the strong brew was ready, he poured himself a cupful and headed out the back door.

He had faced one demon—his mother’s bedroom. How many times had he walked by her closed door and heard her crying?

He might as well face another demon, the one that made repeat performances in his nightmares. Standing in the middle of the backyard, he stared at the old carriage house, now little more than a dilapidated, unpainted hulk. He was surprised a high wind hadn’t already toppled the rickety structure. His father had kept his fishing boat there, nothing fancy, just a sturdy utility boat with a 5-HP 4-cycle motor that they had taken out on a regular basis for their excursions on the nearby Tennessee River. Nolan had sold Bill Perdue’s boat less than six months after his marriage to Bill’s widow. Jack and Maleah had watched from the kitchen window as the new owner hitched the boat trailer to his truck and drove away. While holding his arm comfortingly around Maleah’s trembling shoulders as she cried, it had been all the thirteen-year-old Jack could do not to cry himself. Selling their father’s boat had been the least of Nolan Reaves’s crimes, but it had been a forerunner of things to come.

Jack inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet smell of honeysuckles covering the back fence. His stepfather had kept the wayward vine cut to the ground, calling it an insect magnet and otherwise worthless. Jack allowed his gaze to travel over the overgrown shrubbery and the ankle-deep grass. Nolan had been a stickler for keeping the yard neat. Flowers were not allowed, despite the fact that Jack’s mother had loved them. He would never forget the expression on her face when Nolan had cut down every bush in her beloved rose garden and then dug up the roots and burned them.

Jack finished his coffee, set the mug on the ground and marched toward the carriage house. He swung open the wooden gate that led from the backyard to the gravel drive. The closer each step took him to the side door of the carriage house, the louder and faster his heart beat. The last time his stepfather had beaten him, he had been a sophomore in high school and had just turned sixteen. He had stood there and taken the punishment Nolan Reaves administered with such deliberate pleasure. A strap across Jack’s back, butt and legs. That time, the beating was not to atone for a mistake Nolan believed Jack had made, but one he thought Maleah had made. Three years earlier, after the first time Jack saw the bloody stripes across his eight-year-old sister’s legs, he had made a bargain with the devil—from that day forward, he would take his own punishment and Maleah’s, too. The deal had seemed to please Nolan, who took a sick delight in beating the daylights out of Jack on a regular basis.

Jack’s hand trembled—actually shook like he had palsy—when he grasped the doorknob. Son of a bitch! Old demons died hard. He was a trained soldier, an Army Ranger, one of the best of the best, and yet here he was acting like a scared kid.

The boogeyman is dead. Remember? And even if he were still alive, there would be no reason to fear him.

He tightened his grip on the doorknob, turned it and opened the door. Nolan had always kept the door locked. Jack had no idea where the key was or even if there was a key. Neither he nor Maleah had mentioned the carriage house when they had discussed the possibility of him living here.

Leaving the door wide open, Jack entered the dark, dank interior of his teenage hell. In the shadowy darkness, he could make out the workbench, the rows of waist-high toolboxes, the table saw, the push mower, the Weed Eater and various other yard-work devices. His gaze crawled over the dirt floor, around the filthy windows and cobweb-infested walls, to the triangular wooden ceiling. He stopped and stared at the row of menacing leather straps that hung across the back wall. He counted them. Six. At one time or another, Jack had felt the painful sting of each strap.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Lorie Hammonds poured herself a second cup of coffee, laced it liberally with sugar and cream and set the purple mug on the bar that separated the kitchen from the den.

Cathy glanced at a silk-nightgown–clad Lorie as she hoisted herself up on the bronze metal barstool, picked up her cup and took a sip. Lorie was thirty-five, a year older than Cathy, and sophisticated and worldly-wise. She was also beautiful in a voluptuous, sultry way that drew men to her like bears to honey. Her long, auburn hair hung freely over her bare shoulders, streaks of strawberry-blond highlights framing her oval face. She stared pensively at Cathy, a concerned look in her chocolate-brown eyes.

“Call your mother and tell her to bring Seth over here this afternoon,” Lorie said. “Just because J.B. and Mona demanded a command performance doesn’t mean you have to oblige them.”

Cathy sighed. “They expected me to show up for services this morning, with Mother. I’m surprised she hasn’t called me by now.” Cathy glanced at the kitchen wall-clock. “Church probably let out about fifteen minutes ago.”

“If you weren’t ready to make an appearance at church today, what makes you think you’re ready for a family dinner?”

“I have to be ready. I want to see Seth. I need to talk to him. And by agreeing to dinner with my in-laws and my mother, I’m showing all of them that I am more than willing to meet them halfway. The last thing I want is to alienate Mona and J.B.”

Her mother was another matter entirely. There had been a time when she had jumped through hoops to please her mother. But after a year of therapy, Cathy had come to realize that pleasing Elaine Nelson was impossible. Pleasing her in-laws might be just as impossible, but she felt she at least had to try because they were her son’s legal guardians, something she intended to change as soon as possible. And for Seth’s sake and in honor of Mark’s memory, she intended to remain on good terms with the Cantrells.

“Want some advice?” Lorie asked.

“Something tells me that you’re giving it to me whether I want it or not.”

“Just come right out and tell Mark’s parents that you plan to find a house soon, and, when you do, you expect Seth to live with you.”

“What if Seth doesn’t want to leave his grandparents? After all, he’s been living with them for a year now and—”

“You’re his mother. He loves you. He’ll want to live with you.”

“I’m a mother who had a nervous breakdown and fell apart in front of him. Every time he came to see me at Haven Home, I could tell how nervous he was just being around me, as if he was afraid I’d go loco at any minute.”

“The more time you spend with Seth, the more he’s going to see that you’re the wonderful mother who raised him.” Lorie took another sip of coffee.

“But that’s just it,” Cathy said. “I’m not that same person. I’m different.”

“Yeah, I know, but you’re still Seth’s mother. You still love him. He’s still the most important person in your life. None of that has changed.” Grinning, Lorie cupped the purple mug in her hands. “Besides that, you’re different in a good way.”

Cathy nodded agreement. The changes in her
were
good changes. She had no doubts about that fact. She was stronger, more confident, more independent and absolutely determined to never, under any circumstances, allow anyone or anything to undermine her new, hard-won self-confidence. Gone forever was the meek, subordinate pleaser who had deliberately buried the real Cathy Nelson Cantrell deep inside her.

“You’re right.” Cathy straightened the Peter Pan collar on her simple, navy blue shirtwaist dress, touched the single strand of pearls resting on her chest and smoothed the pleated shirt. “How do I look?”

Lorie inspected her from head to toe. “We need to go shopping and buy you a new wardrobe. God, honey, that dress is awful. It screams dowdy housewife.”

Cathy smiled. “Mark liked this dress. It’s suitable attire for a minister’s wife. J.B. and Mona will approve.”

Lorie shook her head. “I thought trying to please other people is no longer on your agenda.”

“It’s not, but just for today I don’t want to do anything to antagonize my in-laws. I want them to turn Seth over to me without a fight, and if that means placating them, at least temporarily, I’m willing to make that compromise.”

“And if they’re not willing to meet you halfway, just remind them that your wicked friend, Lorie, has Elliott Floyd’s phone number on speed dial. Everyone in North Alabama knows Elliott is a top-notch attorney who hasn’t lost a case in the past fifteen years.”

Mona and J.B. Cantrell had lived in the same house since they were newlyweds. The house had belonged to J.B.’s parents, with whom the couple had lived their entire married life, until his father died eighteen years ago and his mother had moved to an assisted-living facility. The elder Mrs. Cantrell had died four years ago at the age of eighty-nine. Mark’s paternal grandmother had disliked Cathy on sight and had made her disapproval abundantly clear to everyone. J.B. had always been cordial to Cathy, but she suspected he shared his mother’s opinion of her as an unsuitable mate for “our Mark.” On the other hand, Mona had been friendly and had accepted her from the moment Mark announced their engagement.

“I’ve always wanted a daughter,” Mona had said as she’d placed a kiss on Cathy’s cheek.

From that day forward, Cathy had used her mother-in-law as a role model, hoping to please Mark, his father and his grandmother in the same way Mona did. And over the years, that was exactly what she had done—proven herself to be a supportive, agreeable, above-reproach helpmate. In retrospect, she now realized that what she had become was an almost robotic doormat.

She parked Lorie’s Edge in the driveway, but after killing the motor, she sat there for a few minutes, garnering her courage.

She could do this. She had to do this!

While giving herself a pep talk, she ran her gaze over the 1940s bungalow. The original wood-shingled exterior had been covered with red brick sometime in the sixties. Black shutters and a black architectural roof added to the traditional appearance of the house, as did the six-foot-high white picket fence surrounding the backyard. Mona’s green thumb was evident in the beauty of her late-blooming azaleas and various springtime flowers dotting the flower beds.

Cathy got out of the SUV, squared her shoulders and marched confidently to the front porch. When she reached out to ring the doorbell, the front door swung open and her mother shoved her backward as she came out onto the porch and closed the storm door behind her.

“Why weren’t you at church this morning?” Elaine demanded, her hazel-blue eyes filled with condemnation.