style="font-size:15px;"> Jack stared at the photographs of Mark Cantrell’s charred body. Autopsy photos. What kind of person could douse another human being with gasoline and set him on fire? Someone completely devoid of any type of normal emotions—someone incapable of empathy or sympathy?
His own body retained the scars left from an explosion, scars no surgeon’s scalpel could ever completely erase. But he had been in the middle of a war zone when he’d been severely injured. And he had survived. Casualties were expected during a war. Mark Cantrell had been living in a small, quiet Alabama town. He had been a minister, a man of God, someone who taught love and compassion and forgiveness. His death had been unexpected and horrific in nature.
What must it have been like for Cathy to have watched her husband burn to death, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do to save him?
Jack set aside the Cantrell file and picked up the file containing the copies of the Athens police department’s report on the death of Charles Randolph. Six months after Mark Cantrell’s vicious murder, the forty-nine-year-old Randolph, a Lutheran pastor, had been covered with gasoline and set on fire. His wife had heard his screams and rushed into the backyard. She had found him burning to death in the alley, where he had gone to place their garbage for the next day’s trash pickup. Randolph had lived less than twelve hours after being rushed to the hospital. In his condition, he had been unable to tell the police anything. And neither his wife nor any of the neighbors had seen or heard anything suspicious.
Jack shoved aside the files, leaned back in the swivel chair at his desk, lifted his arms behind him and cupped the back of his head with his entwined fingers.
Other than the fact they were both clergymen, the two victims had nothing in common, nothing that would link them to each other or to the same killer.
These files told only part of the story, the official part, and that’s all that should concern him.
“Less than a week after Pastor Randolph’s murder, Cathy Cantrell had a nervous breakdown,” Mike had told him. “She spent several days in the hospital here in Dunmore, and then her mother drove her down to Birmingham, where Cathy checked herself into Haven Home, a mental-rehab center.”
Jack knew a little something about post-traumatic stress. During his recuperation from the bomb explosion, he’d gone through his own psychiatric treatment. And even now, there were times when he got the shakes and occasionally had nightmares. He hated to think about Cathy going through the torment of the damned.
Since seeing her yesterday afternoon, he had thought of little else. He was a damn fool. Whatever had been between Cathy and him had been over and done with long ago. When he’d been a kid of twenty, he had thought he was in love and had believed she felt the same. But shortly after his leave ended, his Rangers unit had been sent to the Middle East and he had wound up spending six months as a POW in Iraq before escaping.
And Cathy had married someone else.
A sharp knock on the door snapped Jack out of his musings about the past. Mike opened the door, stuck his head in and said, “I just got a call from Wade Ballard, Dunmore chief of police. A group from a local Baptist church went to Spring Creek Park this morning for a picnic and found a dead body. Looks like the victim burned to death.”
Jack shot up out of the chair. “Any idea who the victim is?”
“They found a car at the park they believe belonged to the victim. The church folks said the car was there when they arrived. Wade ran a check on the license plate. The car is registered to Brian Myers, a Catholic priest from Huntsville.”
“Son of a bitch,” Jack grumbled under his breath. “Victim number three.”
“Yeah, it could be. We’ll know more when the crimescene guys finish up and after we get a look at the autopsy results.”
Jack kept up with Mike’s hurried pace as they exited the sheriff ’s office complex and headed toward Mike’s heavyduty Ford pickup.
“There were six months between murders one and two. Why wait a whole year before striking again?” Jack might be jumping to conclusions, but his gut told him that whoever killed the priest was the same person who had murdered Charles Randolph and Mark Cantrell.
Someone was killing clergymen. What was their motive? And why had they chosen such a gruesome way to execute their victims?
Lorie gift wrapped the set of coasters and the matching placemats that Mrs. Webber had purchased for her grandniece’s bridal shower. She took extra care with this gift, choosing the most expensive paper and ribbon she kept on hand at Treasures. Margaret Webber was one of their best customers and one of the grand old dames of Dunmore society. If someone such as she could accept Lorie, even as a lowly peon, there was hope that someday a lot of other people in her hometown would also accept her. Maybe even Michael Birkett.
After placing a Treasures of the Past gold sticker on the gift, she inserted the beautifully wrapped box into one of their largest bags with handles and offered it to Mrs. Webber.
“Here you are,” Lorie said. “And please give my best wishes to your niece.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
“Have a nice day.”
“And you, too.”
Just as Mrs. Webber headed out the door, Lorie’s cell phone, which lay on the glass checkout counter, jingled. Before answering, she checked caller ID. She did a double take when she saw the name. What an odd coincidence. Michael Birkett. Her heart stopped. Why on earth would Mike be calling her?
With an unsteady hand, she picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Lorie?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, this is Lorie Hammonds.”
“Mike Birkett here. Is Cathy there with you?”
“She’s here, but she’s in the stockroom doing some endof-the-month inventory. Would you like to speak to her?” Why the hell hadn’t he called the store phone? Why her cell phone? And just how did he get her private number? He’s the sheriff, she reminded herself. He can get anybody’s number.
“No, I don’t want to speak to her. I called you directly because I didn’t want to risk Cathy answering the store phone. There’s no easy way to say this…” His voice trailed off as if he was having a difficult time with whatever news he had to share.
“You’re scaring me. Has something happened to Seth?”
“No, nothing like that,” Mike assured her.
“My God, whatever it is, just tell me.”
“There’s been another murder. The pastor, his wife and some members of the local black Baptist church found a body at Spring Creek Park this morning when they went there for a picnic.” Mike paused. “The victim burned to death. Andy Gamble says that it looks like he was drenched in gasoline. And one more thing—we’re pretty sure the guy was a Catholic priest from over in Huntsville.”
Sour bile rose up Lorie’s esophagus and burned her throat. “Damn! How can I tell Cathy about this? You know what happened when that Lutheran pastor over in Athens was killed last year.”
“You
