Page 57 of The Devil's Advocate

‘I heard,’ said Francis.

‘How does that make you feel? The boy who killed your little girl is at home right now, in bed with a bellyful of chicken and cornbread. You tell me, is that right?’

‘No, of course not. He should get the needle or, better still, the chair. I wish they would just let me have ten minutes with him, in a locked room.’

The Pastor nodded in agreement, asked, ‘And what would you do to him? Tell me.’

‘I’d make him suffer,’ said Francis.

‘Well now, look at the house again. See the beginnings of a track. Follow it to the right and there, you see that SUV?’

‘I see it, barely. It doesn’t have any lights on.’

‘In that Chevrolet is one of the lawyers who represents Andy Dubois. Think about that. They want to put him back on the street. I can’t let that happen.’

‘What can you do?’ asked Francis.

‘Come along and watch,’ he said.

The Pastor moved to his left, where the drop wasn’t so steep, and moved quietly down toward the SUV. Francis followed him, but at a distance. The Pastor came out of the trees behind the vehicle and waited for Francis to catch up. He beckoned to Francis to wait there, just on the side of the track, about thirty feet from the car. The next few minutes would be crucial. This was a turning point. Once he took the next step, there was no going back. He had an idea how Francis would react. He hoped he was right. If he had guessed wrong, and Francis reacted badly, then he might have to kill him. And that would be disappointing.

The Pastor turned his attention back to the SUV. A single occupant. A male in the driver’s seat. The only thing visible was the back of his head – a crop of gray hair. His chin was resting on his chest, as if he had fallen asleep.

It was almost too easy.

He took a knife from his back pocket, flipped it open. The ivory handle always felt a little too slippery in his grip, especially when wearing gloves. This was not a knife that should be used to cut. It had a very different and singular purpose behind its design. The point was incredibly sharp and hard, toughened steel. A slight curve in the blade didn’t alter its strength. This was a knife made for stabbing. And many years go, when it was an early prototype of the switchblade, it had been used for that exact purpose. A flower had been embossed onto the base of the handle.

A white camellia. It had belonged to one of the founding members of the group, and as soon as the Pastor saw it, he knew he had to have it. The weapon was said to have been used to murder a man in the Louisiana legislature who was anti-slavery. The blade had been put though his eye. It had cost several thousand dollars through a discreet dealer who also traded in Nazi and KKK memorabilia. Like all such artifacts, the provenance was difficult to verify. The Pastor knew it was the real thing as soon as he held it in his hands. Somehow, he had sensed the blood that had licked over this blade.

The Pastor knelt at the driver’s door of the SUV, listening. Making sure there was no one else around. Then, he reached for the door handle, took it in his grip, ready to pop it open at any second.

Francis was watching. His fists clenched, lips drawn back over his teeth. Eyes narrowed.

The Pastor smiled. The rage inside of Francis was pure. The anger that only a bereaved parent can muster.

He would need to be quick now. In one fluid movement, he yanked open the driver’s door of the SUV, pushed up from his knees and twisted his torso. Years of working the land as a young man had made him strong. Time in the gym had added immense power. And he used all of it in one explosive movement, swinging his arm, using his shoulders and core. A quick burst of torsion in the muscles. Like a prizefighter coming up out of a duck, straight into a right cross. A snap to the movement. There was less than half a second between the door being flung open and the thrust.

The knife found the spot on the old man’s neck. The blade disappeared through the flesh and bone, all the way to the hilt.

He saw the look in Francis’s eyes then. There was no time to waste.

The Pastor beckoned him over.

They stood for a few seconds, looking at the old man dead in the driver’s seat. The knife jutting from the side of his head.

‘We become brothers tonight, Francis. There’s no going back. We will fight to the death for you, and we expect the same in return. Tell me you’ll swear to that.’

Sweat covered his face, and he was breathing hard with the adrenaline pumping through his system like hot motor oil. He held out a hand to the Pastor, said, ‘I swear.’

‘Good. Very good. Now give me a hand with something from the pick-up,’ said the Pastor as he pushed the driver’s door shut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EDDIE

Running at full speed in a hundred and ten-degree heat, with eighty-nine percent humidity, is a lot like swimming through hot soup. The air doesn’t feel the same. It’s too warm and wet. I pumped my legs as I turned onto the dirt track. Patricia’s home lay in the well of an incline. The single lane mud road was all uphill and steep as hell. Not so bad for a car, but in leather-soled shoes it was slippery.

I could see the outline of the SUV up ahead. It was a darker, harder shape against the dull grey black of the dirt road. I looked for the back of Harry’s head in the driver’s seat, and at first I couldn’t quite make out what I was seeing.