Part 13 (2/2)
”Is that the reason you won't give Lorie a second chance-because of your kids?”
Mike frowned. ”I'm not discussing Lorie with you. But as for you and Cathy...You're both consenting adults. I'd just hate to see either of you get hurt.”
When Cathy came out of the bathroom, makeup removed, teeth brushed and pajamas on, she came face-to-face with Lorie.
”I thought you'd gone to bed,” Cathy said.
”No. I thought you might need to talk.”
”About Jack?”
Lorie's mouth curved into a strained smile.
”It just happened,” Cathy told her. ”Neither of us planned it. He happened to be driving by and saw me. He stopped. We talked. I told him I wanted to run away, and he invited me to run away with him.”
”And you did.”
”Uh-huh. And I'll be honest with you-it felt good to be with him. It felt good to go someplace with loud music and laughter all around us, to eat greasy, fattening food and to dance and forget about everything else.”
”But with Jackson Perdue, of all people.”
”Why not with Jack?”
”Good Lord, do I have to remind you of how your first love affair with him ended?”
”I'm not a naive seventeen-year-old girl.”
”Oh, honey, you're still halfway in love with him, aren't you?”
She started to staunchly deny it, but the words died on her lips. ”I don't know. Maybe just a little bit. Don't they say that you never forget your first love?”
”I guess you know what a risk you'd be taking getting involved with him. J.B. and Mona aren't likely to approve. And heaven help you when your mother finds out.”
”Mother isn't running my life anymore, and neither are my in-laws. I plan to make all my own decisions for the rest of my life. If I want to date Jack, I'll date Jack.”
”I'm the last person in this world to argue against rekindling an old romance,” Lorie said. ”G.o.d knows, I'd like nothing better than to get a second chance with Mike. But there's more to consider than what you want or how your mother and in-laws will react.”
”You're talking about Seth.”
”Yes, I am. If his reaction tonight is any indication, he's not going to be happy about your dating anybody. And if by some miracle he gets to know and like Jack, how are you going to deal with that?” Lorie gently grasped Cathy's shoulders. ”Jack is no fool, you know. Sooner or later, he'll figure it out.”
Chapter Eleven
Jack folded the morning newspapers-the Dunmore Daily, Dunmore Daily, the the Huntsville Times Huntsville Times and the and the Decatur Daily Decatur Daily-and dumped them into the wastebasket. Four days ago, after Father Brian's charred body had been found at the park, a hotshot Huntsville Times Huntsville Times reporter named Grant Sharpe had given the killer a particularly appropriate label, dubbing him the Fire and Brimstone Killer. The local and regional press had picked up on the t.i.tle, and now even the folks at the sheriff's department were using the phrase. So here they were, ninety-six hours after the priest's horrific murder, without even one suspect, a fact that the press pointed out in bold headlines. Sharpe's coverage of the case stated that the task force, comprised of members from both local and state law-enforcement agencies, had a serial killer on their hands and apparently weren't equipped to deal with that type of case. The reporter had all but referred to the task-force members as a bunch of redneck yokels who couldn't stick their finger up their a.s.s with both hands. reporter named Grant Sharpe had given the killer a particularly appropriate label, dubbing him the Fire and Brimstone Killer. The local and regional press had picked up on the t.i.tle, and now even the folks at the sheriff's department were using the phrase. So here they were, ninety-six hours after the priest's horrific murder, without even one suspect, a fact that the press pointed out in bold headlines. Sharpe's coverage of the case stated that the task force, comprised of members from both local and state law-enforcement agencies, had a serial killer on their hands and apparently weren't equipped to deal with that type of case. The reporter had all but referred to the task-force members as a bunch of redneck yokels who couldn't stick their finger up their a.s.s with both hands.
The autopsy results weren't in yet, but no one expected the findings to reveal anything more than the initial report had told them. Brian Myers had been doused with gasoline and set on fire. Possibly, the severe third-degree burns over most of his body hadn't killed him. Not instantly. Shock had probably set in, and without immediate medical attention, the priest's body had shut down. But even if he had been discovered quickly and rushed to the hospital, his odds wouldn't have been good. After all, Mark Cantrell and Charles Randolph hadn't survived.
Jack gathered up the crime-scene photos spread out before him and opened the file folder to replace them, but when he heard someone say his name, he laid everything down on his gray, metal desk. Glancing around the open office area-his desk was located on the left, near the windows-he saw one of his fellow officers talking to a stranger and pointing his way. The tall, lanky guy, dressed in casual yet obviously expensive slacks, s.h.i.+rt and jacket, smiled at the officer, thanked him and walked straight toward Jack. As he approached, Jack sized him up: mid-to-late thirties; about six-two; wavy, black hair in need of cutting; intelligent dark eyes; and an easy smile that projected self-confidence.
”Jackson Perdue?” the man asked.
”Yeah, that's me.”
”I'm Derek Lawrence.” The former FBI profiler offered his hand.
Jack shook hands with the guy. ”I didn't expect you to show up. I thought you'd just call or e-mail.”
”That was the original plan when Maleah first asked me to come in on this case. But once I received the information and went over it, I realized that I'd never seen a situation quite like this before. Your killer fascinates me.”
Jack looked Derek right in the eye. ”Does he? Why is that?”
”He-or she-has chosen unlikely victims-clergymen. And his method is not only cruel and painfully violent, it sends a message, one that our killer wants the world to hear.”
Jack nodded. ”Have a seat. I want to hear your theory.” Jack hitched his thumb in the general direction of the coffeemaker. ”Would you like some coffee?”
”No, thanks. I'm fine.”
Jack pulled up an empty chair and placed it in front of his desk. The two men settled into their seats, the desk separating them, and then Jack asked, ”What message is our killer sending?”
”You've probably already figured it out. Our killer is saying-no, he or she is screaming, 'I hate you. I'm punis.h.i.+ng you, and I want you to burn for your sins, for what you did to me.'” 'I hate you. I'm punis.h.i.+ng you, and I want you to burn for your sins, for what you did to me.'”
Jack grunted. ”So we're dealing with a person who at some point in his or her life was somehow wronged by a clergyman, and now he's killing that minister or priest over and over again?”
”That's pretty much it in a nutsh.e.l.l.”
”Like you said, we figured that our killer hates preachers, but I don't see how knowing this helps us catch the guy.”
”It doesn't,” Derek said. ”I've gone through ViCAP-the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data base-and come up with similar crimes, but none that are actual matches to your three Fire and Brimstone murders. Setting people on fire isn't something new. And clergymen have been killed before. What we have to concentrate on is what makes these three crimes different and what links them together.”
”You're the expert. You tell me.”
”Your killer doesn't fall completely into either the organized or disorganized offender category, but that's not unusual. An offender doesn't always reflect all the crime-scene characteristics or personal characteristics of one or the other.”
”Look, you're going to have to speak plain English to me,” Jack admitted. ”I'm new at this. I'm an ex-soldier. My experience is limited. I've been with the sheriff's department for only a few weeks.”
Derek eyed Jack speculatively. ”I'm surprised the sheriff chose you to work on the task force.”
”The sheriff a.s.signed the department's cold cases to me, sort of a way to break me in, I guess. The Cantrell murder was one of those cases.”
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