The Lord Is My Shepherd (12 page)

What did they know of God, or his cleansing fire? What did they know of sacrifice, repentance? They tried so hard to scrub the evil from their souls, pretending it was never there. And look at the people they put their trust in, leaders more corrupt, more black-hearted than they knew or guessed.
They believe him to be a holy man. Fools!

They were all sinners, every one. He stood in the shadows and waited with no illusions. Like all others he had fallen short of the glory of God. He had fallen so very, very far. Unlike them, though, he didn't feel the need to hide it like some secret shame.

First, the woman arrived, unlocked the front door, but left the closed sign in the window. Then, a few minutes later, the man walked quickly, looking constantly over his shoulder. He ducked inside the door, ashamed to be seen, wanting to hide. Just like a cockroach in the pale light of morning.
But I see him, and he cannot hide.

He waited a moment, but the woman did not return to lock the door. Foolish. He finally slipped from the shadows and entered the door himself. There the two were, the man engaged in his secret shame, that which he would not share with his friends in the light of day. Such a simple, intimate thing with a significance neither dreamed of. They were unworthy, but they would have to do.

“Hello,” Mark said, answering his phone. He glanced at his watch. It was just past eight in the morning. That meant he'd only slept about three hours. He had been up late pouring over everything he could get his hands on about the Passion Week Killer from Raleigh.

“A couple of bodies were found at Glamour Girl, the beauty parlor on Fifth Street,” Paul said.

“I'll see you in fifteen.” Mark hung up, relieved that it wasn't another religiously themed murder. Maybe they'd make it through Wednesday without one. It would be nice.

When he arrived the crime-scene photographer worked the far end of the room, and Paul talked to a distraught blonde woman, the owner it seemed. She smoked and waved her arm wildly, sending the toxic fumes through the air. Mark covered his mouth to avoid sucking it in. He walked toward the photographer.

“Hey, Jack.”

“Hey.”

Mark turned to look at the bodies. A man wearing a dark suit sat in the chair, his eyes frozen wide in terror. His throat had been cut. His bare feet were immersed in one of the pedicure tubs filled with blood. Beside the tub lay a woman with long, dark hair that fanned out around her on the floor. Her throat had also been slit. Each of her hands held one of the man's ankles.

He stood for a moment, taking it in. Paul joined him, and together they stared at the crime scene. “His name is William O. Carruthers.”

“What does the “O” stand for?” Mark asked.

“Ollie. She's Mary Gomez.”

“It figures.”

“Why?”

“She's washing his feet,” Mark said quietly.

“Yeah, so?”

“There's a story in the Bible about a woman who washed Jesus' feet and wiped them dry with her hair.”

“During the week leading up to his death?”

Mark nodded. He passed his hand over his eyes. Any lingering doubt evaporated. “We're dealing with a serial killer. And I'm pretty sure this is an old game for him.”

“I was hoping you weren't going to say that.”

“Yeah, well, I'm saying it.”

“How many more events of Easter week are we looking at?” Paul asked.

“A lot. The Garden of Gethsemane, arrest, trial, execution on the cross, Resurrection,” Mark said.

“What comes next?”

“Tomorrow's Thursday. I think we're about to see an escalation.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Last Supper,” Mark said. “Jesus and his twelve disciples.”

Paul swore under his breath.

“How far down the list of Shepherds did you get yesterday?”

“About half. All of them had their crosses. All of them had alibis for Sunday night.”

“I'm not liking this,” Mark said. “We've got to move faster.”

“You still think the church killing is related?”

“Yeah, I think Ryan Bellig came looking for the man who killed his wife and daughter. And I think he found him.”

“Too bad it didn't work out so well for Ryan. It would have saved the rest of us a lot of grief.”

Mark grunted. “I found the hotel where Ryan was staying. Let's go check it out when we're done here, then we can split up the remaining Shepherds. Somebody on that list has got to be missing a cross.”

Mark knelt down to get a better look at the woman. “What's the story here? Owner came to open up and found them?”

“Yes. Apparently Mary came in early some days, by appointment, to handle some of the male clientele who didn't want to come during regular business hours.”

“Didn't want people to know they got manicures and pedicures?”

“Apparently. Weird.”

“Lots of high-end corporate types do the manicure thing, part of that whole 'polished' look,” Mark said. “I know a guy in the D.A.'s office who does, though he'd deny it.”

“She's getting me a list of all Mary's other male clients and any others that had reason to know about this little routine.”

“So our victim opened up shop, and the killer came right in?”

“Looks as though.”

“Tell the owner I'd like to see her appointment schedule for two weeks in either direction, just to be sure.”

“Already done.”

“And?” Mark asked, looking up.

Paul shook his head. “You're not going to believe who's scheduled to come in today at twelve-fifteen.”

“Our friendly, neighborhood church secretary?”

“Bingo.”

Mark stood up. “You know, I really think the killer is performing for her.”

“She's fast becoming the one constant in this mess. Only flaw in that theory is that she didn't witness donkey guy.”

“Accident, oversight perhaps? Or maybe she didn't catch his attention until the church.”

“What about Raleigh? Was he performing there for anybody in particular?”

“Not that I can tell. I'm going to call in the F.B.I. and see if we can get some help with this, especially since it looks like the same guy might be operating in a second state.”

“Get them to check out their files and see if it might go further back,” Paul suggested.

“Good idea. You know, maybe we'll get lucky. The woman washing the man's feet were the last bodies they found in Raleigh.”

“He quit mid-week?”

“Yeah.”

Paul stared at him intently. “I take it you don't think he's going to stop after this one, though?”

Mark shook his head. I can't explain it, but I have a feeling this guy's just getting started.”

On Wednesday morning Cindy timed her arrival at the church so she was not the first one there. There was no way she was going to risk stumbling across another dead body when she was alone. She glanced over at the adjacent parking lot and sighed with relief when she saw Jeremiah's car. It made her feel better, knowing that he was nearby. After all, she hadn't been completely alone on Monday. He had been close enough to hear her screams and come to her rescue.

Inside the office everyone was jumping. Staff and key ministry leaders dashed back and forth, tending to last-minute details as they readied for prayer services. They'd already had two early in the morning, but the large one was scheduled for noon.

Geanie arrived at Cindy's desk and offered her a soda. The assistant sported a white shirt, short plaid skirt, and white knee-high socks with Mary Jane shoes.

Cindy took the can. “I'm not going to like this, am I?”

“
I
don't like this. You should be bringing me soda.” Geanie crossed her arms.

“I like the look, but you do remember we're a Protestant denomination, right? As in
protesting
the Catholic church.”

Geanie flipped a braid over her shoulder. “Be nice, it's the most churchy thing I own, and you know it.”

“Fair enough. What's the problem?”

“The problem is Royus.”

Cindy groaned. That was code for a Roy-Gus disagreement that affected everyone else. “What happened?”

“Roy decided this morning that he wants to cut the first thirty minutes of the Thursday night performance and preach a sermon about the events leading up to the crucifixion instead of showing them.”

Cindy cringed, knowing how hard Gus, the actors, and the rest of the creative team had worked on the play. “And what was Gus's response?”

“He declared that he wants to cut the sermon Sunday morning about the Resurrection in favor of doing an interpretive dance about it.”

“And?” Cindy asked.

“Both sides have dug in deep and are now firmly entrenched.”

Cindy wondered if it was too late to go back to bed.

“I'll see what I can do,” she promised Geanie.

“Thank you.”

“You said your drop-dead deadline for Thursday's program was this afternoon?”

“Yeah. Two o'clock. And tell the gentlemen if they can't reach an agreement by then, that I will decide what's going to happen on Thursday. And assure them that neither of them will like it.”

“I don't blame you, Geanie.”

“Then don't try to stop me,” she warned.

“You'll have resolution by two o'clock.”

Cindy took ten minutes and personally delivered the ultimatum to both men. When she returned to the office, a stranger waited in the chair in front of her desk.

“The prayer service isn't until noon.” She forced a smile.

The man stood. He had sandy hair and light-colored eyes and was only slightly taller than her. “I'm not here for the service. I was supposed to meet a friend of mine. I think maybe I got the time mixed up.”

“Who are you meeting?” she asked.

“Oliver Johnson.”

“I don't think he's here right now. He'll probably show up for the noon service, though. You're welcome to stay.”

“I wish I could, but I've got an appointment then. Could you do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

“If you see him, could you tell him Karl stopped by? Tell him I'm sorry I missed him, but I'll catch him later.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, ma'am, I appreciate it.”

Cindy kept the smile plastered on her face as Karl left, even though she wanted to wring his neck for calling her ma'am. She sat down and stared at the mound of paperwork on her desk. More than anything, she wished she could just do some research instead. She had braved her house the night before but had been too freaked out to search online for more info on psycho killers with a taste for the religious.

Two hours later she sent email reminders to both Roy and Gus that they needed to make a decision about the Thursday program or suffer Geanie's wrath. Finished, she returned to the stack of papers that, if anything, seemed to grow rather than shrink.

When she glanced at the clock again it was noon. She could hear the muted sounds of the organ and considered spending her lunch hour in the prayer service. Then it struck her that she hadn't canceled her appointment with the manicurist. She reached for the phone and tried in vain to recall the name of the shop. She glanced over at Geanie, but the other woman was on the phone.

She stood up, deciding she might as well go. It had been a long time since she had a manicure, and it would be rude to
cancel so close to her appointment even if she could remember the name of the shop to get the phone number.

It took her ten minutes to drive to Fifth Street. As soon as she turned down it, she realized she should have canceled. She recognized the yellow police tape from halfway down the block.
Just keep driving. You don't want to know.
When she got close to the shop, though, she swung into a parking space.

She got out of the car and approached the beauty salon. Policemen were everywhere, and two techs carried out a body bag.

“I took the liberty of canceling your appointment for you.”

She spun around and saw Mark standing behind her. “This is insane. I've never even been inside this shop before yesterday evening. I came as they were closing, and they made an appointment for me today.”

“You mean, this isn't part of your normal routine?” Mark asked, growing noticeably paler.

“No, why?”

“Cindy, I think you'd better come with me.”

“Why?”

He stepped forward and grabbed her arm, eyes darting all around. “Because I'm pretty sure the killer's watching you,” he whispered.