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His devotion seemed real; she remembered that he’d been an actor, if only briefly before the slaying of his wife. She recalled the high-profile case against him, and as she did, she caught his gaze, saw that he was focused on her.
Her throat went dry, but she stared back at him, refused to be intimidated. Mandel gave a little nod, as if to let her know he’d seen her, then without skipping a beat, spoke to the congregation at large and the newcomers in particular, asking them to take Jesus into their hearts, to join the congregation, to take this first step onto the long, beautiful staircase into heaven.
Near the end of the service, he brought up his wife, the woman he married not three months after Filipa’s murder and before he’d been arrested and charged, as the investigation had hit a couple of snags and other potential suspects were weeded out. His second wife, Chandice, had, too, been a model. Originally from Jamaica, she was a statuesque woman with perfect skin, a sexy smile, and intelligent eyes. In a shimmering green dress, she along with their three stepping-stone children joined him at the front of the church and, the entire group smiling, sang the Lord’s praises together. The two boys in suits that were identical to their father’s, the six-year-old missing a front tooth, the eight-year-old hanging his head until his father touched him on the shoulder. Then he straightened, stood military erect. The youngest, a girl who looked barely two, sported curly pigtails with pink bows that matched her dress. Mandel picked her up and held her as the music started again, and over the introduction, he said, “Friends, come and join me in praising the Lord.” And then the choir began singing and he, his wife, and children joined in.
Was it real?
Or all for show?
If Mandel Jarvis had all this—an ever-growing congregation where he was idolized, enough money to live an extravagant life, a loving, healthy family, then why would he, all of a sudden, risk it all to attack her and kill Jay?
Psychotic is psychotic. There is no reasoning process. Don’t be fooled!
Kristi had seen enough, and as the hymn came to a close, she looked for the nearest exit.
“Friends!” Mandel said again, louder this time, and when Kristi glanced at the altar again, she found the preacher staring directly at her. Hard. His smile was still in place, his daughter held tight, as he said, “And may we all ask the Lord for his blessing, may all our sins, old and new, be forgiven. May we step away from the past and all the darkness and temptation.” His eyes held Kristi’s. Dark and intense, his gaze seemed to drill into her soul. A plea? Or a warning? His voice boomed. “May we step forward into the future and the Light. May weallfollow in Christ’s blessed footsteps!”
A chorus of “amens” rang through the nave, and after another prayer and the collection plate being passed, he slipped through a door and returned in a black choir robe to lead the last song while his family returned to their seats. After a final prayer the service was over.
Kristi waited no longer. She hurried out of the double doors and felt Mandel’s eyes still on her as she fled—as they had been for the last several minutes of the service. Even through all the good words and shouts of “hallelujah” and “amen, brother,” she’d felt a deep-seated animosity and hatred emanating from the pulpit and aimed directly at her.
Outside, night had fallen. Streetlamps glowed and above them she spotted a plane as it rose to the heavens from the nearby airport. Its lights were blinking, the roar of its engines audible over the hum of traffic on the interstate.
Get a hold of yourself!
She took deep breaths and told herself she was imagining it all.
Yet, the questions still dogged her. Was he angry that she’d dared step into his sphere? Or was it deeper? Had he, a family man, ostensibly a man of God, really taken the time to craft notes with Bible verses and leave them to terrorize her? Had he lain in wait for her in that dark alley next to St. Louis Cathedral and attacked her and then turned and used his knife to kill Jay? Physically, he would be capable of murder. But emotionally?
Remember Filipa!
“Hey!” a male voice yelled, and she turned to spy Jarvis jogging rapidly toward her. He ran easily, an athletic gait that belied the fury that knotted his facial features. “Hey. Wait!” In that moment, seeing the black choir robe billowing around him in the night, she froze. Memories of the night in the darkened alley by St. Louis Cathedral flashed through her mind, blazing in bright, angry frames:
She was running through the sheeting rain.
Seeing someone approaching.
Hearing Jay’s warning shout.
Catching sight of the glint of a blade.
The agony of pain.
Jay’s startled cry.
The roses . . . the roses . . . all around them.
“Kristi Bentz?” Jarvis said, jolting her back to the present. He wasn’t even breathing hard, no sweat dotted his brow. “What are you doing here?” His dark gaze bored ruthlessly into hers.
“I came for the Newcomers’ Night.”
“Sure.” He didn’t believe it. Glanced back at the church. “Look, I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever it is, just stop.”
“I thought everyone was welcome.”
His lips flattened. Rage sparked in his eyes.
“Look, whatever your game is, it’s over. Got it?” His teeth gnashed and then, as if realizing he was showing a face he didn’t want seen, he took a deep breath. In that moment a calmness came over him. “I know what happened to you. Read all about it. Saw the reports on TV. And . . . and I’m sorry about your loss.”
