AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Thought about how she’d reacted that night, how intense her need to save herself and her child had been. She would have killed her attacker if given half a chance. Anyone would have.
Right?
And another thought struck her—what about one of his rabid fans? A loose cannon or a deadly minion? Some religious nut who thought he or she was doing God’s bidding by attacking her? People were crazy these days, oftentimes starstruck and worse yet, fiercely loyal. They thought nothing of brandishing weapons—anything from knives to assault weapons—all in the name of a cause. She eyed the TV where Mandel had riled up the parishioners, all standing and saying praises to the Lord. Was it such a leap to think anyone of the thousands who were in the audience, either live in the church, or watching remotely on television or computer screens, would take up arms against the enemy of their presumed savior?
It was sick.
But a definite possibility.
She turned to her laptop and found a YouTube video of one of Reverend Mandel’s shows. He stood at the pulpit, a handsome man in a light aqua suit, dark shirt and tie, and after a short sermon and prayer he came down to a main stage where he was backdropped by a group of musicians and a choir in crimson robes with silver stoles that glittered under the lights.
Music swelled, Mandel preached, and the choir sang, members swaying slightly with the beat. The camera panned the studio audience where the flock was on their feet, nearly dancing as they praised the Lord. It was an inspiring performance, but Kristi wondered if at least one member of the church’s congregation could be a fanatical zealot with a homicidal streak.
Mandel had publicly decried Rick Bentz and the cops in general, and he’d never failed to mention that Kristi Bentz’s book was all a fabrication, lies perpetuated by her father and glossed over by a publisher interested only in book sales, the bottom line, and best-seller lists. He’d called it a “continual travesty of justice” and each time he spoke, every time he was interviewed, any time he mentioned the “tome of Satan,” book sales would spike and he’d be feeding the “greedy maws of hypocrisy, exploitation, and mendacity.”
As she stared at the screen, she couldn’t help but wonder if any one of the people watching the Reverend Mandel speak was a fervent believer and a killer.
Or could it be the minister himself?
She walked into the living room and peered out the window to the alley where she’d thought she’d seen the dark figure. No one was loitering. No one could get into the house, but she glanced around the room to the spot where the bouquet with the black rose that included the card had been. Now the space was empty. The police had taken the vase and blooms.
Who the hell had left them for her?
There had been no florist’s card tucked between the roses, no printing on the tissue paper and cellophane, nothing etched into the vase, no identifying marks whatsoever. As far as she knew, no fingerprints had been found on the glass, but her father had insisted that there could be a trace of DNA or something on the card, on the vase, on the damned flowers.
Kristi doubted it.
Whoever had left the bouquet was a risk taker, someone bold enough to leave the vase on the porch, but that didn’t mean he was careless.
Just determined, she reminded herself, and very, very deadly.
CHAPTER 21
The double doors to Our Lady of the Grove Church were open when Bentz pulled into the nearly empty parking lot. A thicket of live oaks surrounded the little church, while its spire needled high into the heavens where the sky was morning blue, broken only by the remains of a jet trail beginning to disintegrate. The gravel lot was nearly empty, but he spied an older Olds Alero parked near the raised porch.
Opal Guidry’s car.
It wasn’t alone. A dirty Dodge Ram pickup, once painted black but now sporting one white fender, sat at the far end of the lot near a gate to a small cemetery wedged between the back of the church and a park. The truck was old, the tailgate dented, the body muddy despite the ancient mud flaps behind the back tires.
Bentz killed the engine of his Jeep, grabbed his iPad, and crossed the space to the porch, his footsteps quick against the concrete steps. Inside, he paused, crossed himself from habit, and strode into the nave.
A small birdlike woman in a housedress was standing a few rows back from the altar, above which a huge cross was suspended. Her back was to him as she polished the back of the pew in front of her, and as she did the smell of pine wafted to him.
“Mrs. Guidry,” he said, and she started, whipping around to peer at him with wide, owlish eyes covered by thick glasses, one hand flattened to her chest. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Well, you did.”
“Sorry. I’m Detective Bentz,” he introduced himself, showing his ID. “We spoke earlier on the phone.”
“Oh! Yes, yes.” The hand over her heart fell away as she let out breath. “I didn’t hear you. Of course. But, please, call me Opal.” A tiny cross dangled from a fine gold chain and glittered in the hollow of her throat, and her teased white hair didn’t quite hide the hearing aid tucked into her ear.
She dropped the oily rag she’d been using into a nearby bucket. “You’re here about the car. I mean my license plates,” she guessed. “My stolen plates.” Her lips pursed into a knot of disapproval. “Who would steal them? I mean why? And here? Right out of the church’s parking lot! At the Lord’s house.” She made tsking sounds with her tongue.
Bentz asked, “You know they were taken while you were here?”
“No. Well, not for certain, I suppose, but it’s the only place where I leave my car unattended for any length of time and sometimes I’m here at night.” Her eyebrows raised over the rims of her glasses. “Still, why would anyone do such a thing?” More tsking. “The world today.” With a sigh, she ran her gloved fingers over the top of a hymnal in the book rack fastened to the back of the pew. “Let’s talk outside,” she said, glancing at the altar. “Not here. Not in the Father’s house.” Before he could respond she was yanking off her rubber gloves, stuffing them into her bucket, then moving swiftly, pushing up a padded kneeler and walking to the side of the nave.
He followed her past the stained tracery windows and out a side door to a grassy area between the trees. Two graying concrete benches were arranged near a fountain, now dry. “Here we go.” She dusted off a few dry leaves and sat on the shaded side of the seat. “This is my husband’s bench,” she explained.
