Silent Killer (5 page)

Cathy put the SUV in reverse, backed up and drove down the alley to the side street. On the short drive from Main Street, where their shop was located, to West Fourth, she wondered about the people who had bought the old house. Were they a young couple, middle-aged or elderly? Were they locals or people from another town or even another state?

When she parked in the gravel drive at 121 West Fourth, she noticed the door to the carriage house stood wide open. The interior of the in-need-of-repair structure was bare to the bones. Apparently the new owners had already started clearing out things in preparation for the renovations. She got out of the Jeep and searched for the owner’s vehicle, but didn’t see one. Was it possible the potential client had forgotten about their appointment? If no one was here, she could wait for them, but not for long. Seth was coming to Lorie’s tonight for dinner. Nothing, not even a rich client, was more important.

As she made her way to the sidewalk, her leather high heels marring up in the wet ground, she inspected the three-story house, one of several Victorian painted ladies that still graced the downtown streets of Dunmore. How dark and dreary this place looked, the gray paint peeling, the faded white shutters in need of repair, the wide porch empty. She rang the doorbell.

Seconds ticked by and quickly turned into minutes.

She rang the doorbell again.

Silence.

Apparently no one was at home. Should she go or should she wait?

Before she could decide, a sheriff’s car zipped into the drive and pulled up alongside her SUV. She turned and watched as the tall, muscular man in uniform emerged from the Crown Victoria.

As he approached the front porch, Cathy’s chest tightened. Her heartbeat accelerated. With slow, easy strides, he came up the walkway. His hair was darker now, a rich sandy blond, and just a tad longer than a regulation military cut. When he stepped up on the porch, he removed his sunglasses, squinted and stared at her.

“Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” he said, then stopped dead still when less than six feet separated them.

He was the same and yet different. Older, broader shouldered, harder. And battle scarred. The boyish smoothness of his handsome face was gone, replaced with an imperfect roughness.

“Hello, Jack.”

He stood there speechless, staring at Cathy Nelson. No, not Cathy Nelson—Cathy Cantrell, Mark Cantrell’s widow. He had figured that sooner or later he’d run into her, considering that Dunmore was a small town. But he sure as hell hadn’t expected to react this way—as if he’d been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four.

As a teenager, Cathy had been a pretty girl in her own shy, sweet way. But the woman standing there, her blue-green eyes fixed on his face, her mouth open in shock as if she’d seen a ghost, was more than pretty. She was beautiful. Her long brown hair, flowing freely around her shoulders, shimmered with damp highlights caused by the misty rain. Her body had matured. Her breasts were fuller than he remembered, and she was slimmer. Not skinny, just trim.

“Hello, Cathy.”

She surveyed him from head to toe, taking in his deputy’s uniform. “I—I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you and Maleah had probably sold the house.”

“I thought I left my name when I called. Maybe I didn’t. I guess you hadn’t heard that Mike Birkett hired me as a deputy. I’ve moved back to Dunmore.”

“Permanently?”

He nodded. “Possibly. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“If the deputy job works out.”

“Yes, of course. You’ve left the army?”

“Yeah.”

She glanced at the porch and front of the house. “And you’re going to restore this place?”

“That’s the plan.” When he moved toward her, she backed up as if she were afraid of him. Odd. “Why don’t you come on inside and take a look? I can put on some coffee, or, if you prefer, there’s beer in the—No beer. As I recall, you don’t drink. Unless your tastes have changed.”

She stepped out of his way as he retrieved the key from his pocket and headed for the front door. “I wasn’t sure who would show up,” Jack said. “I sort of thought it would be Lorie.”

“Lorie’s at an auction in Fayetteville.”

Jack held open the front door. “Come on in.”

When he noted her hesitation, he forced a wide smile, hoping to put her at ease. Apparently at least a part of the shy young girl he had once known still existed inside the adult Cathy.

“How about some coffee?” Jack asked. “We can go in the kitchen and talk. I can explain what I want to do to this old place, and you can tell me what you think.”

“All right.” After she entered the house, he came in behind her. Then she followed him to the kitchen. “If you’d prefer working with Lorie, we can reschedule. I’ve been away from the business for nearly a year, so I might be a little rusty.”

She was nervous.

Was she nervous because she was alone with him or because she only recently had left a mental-rehab center and was having difficulty readjusting?

“You’ll do just fine,” he said. “If you’d like the job. I haven’t even hired a contractor yet. What I need from you is someone who knows something about restoring and decorating historical houses, about fine antiques and things like that. I know little to nothing. I want this place to look the way it did when I was a kid, only better. Modern bathrooms, a modern kitchen…”

“The kitchen and bathrooms could be modern and yet reflect the Victorian style of the house. Claw-foot tubs in the bathrooms. A farmhouse sink in the kitchen. Cabinetry that has the look of antique furniture.” Cathy’s face lit up as she talked, her expression reflecting her enthusiasm about the proposed project. “This house could easily be a showplace.” She glanced at him, her gaze almost timid. “Returning this house to her former glory will be expensive.”

Jack grinned. “And you’re wondering how I can afford it on a deputy’s salary.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you can’t afford—”

“I’ve invested my money wisely,” he told her. “Nearly twenty years in the army with no wife and kids, I was able to save a lot, and I made some lucrative investments over the years.”

“I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business.”

“Let me put on the coffee. Then, if you’d like, I’ll walk you through the house. You’ve never been inside before, have you?”

“Uh…no. No, I haven’t,” she lied. She had been here one other time.

Jack hurriedly prepared the coffeemaker and then began the tour of his home, taking her from room to room.

When he had phoned Treasures of the Past and set up this appointment, he had hoped Cathy would show up. Mike had warned him to stay away from her. During this past week, as he had gone over the file on Mark Cantrell’s murder, he had asked Mike a number of questions and had learned about the hell Cathy had been through these past eighteen months. The last thing he wanted to do was create more problems in her life. But he had been curious about Cathy. His Cathy. The only girl who had ever broken his heart.

Father Brian hung up the telephone and immediately wondered if he had made a mistake by agreeing too quickly to his caller’s request. But how could he have refused such a pitiful plea for help? Not only was it his duty to help others, but he felt a deep kinship with the oppressed, children and teens in particular, because of what he had been through as a young boy. Having been subjected to drug-addicted parents who, stoned out of their minds most of the time, had beaten him on a regular basis, he knew how truly helpless the young could feel and how hopeless their lives could be. He had run away at thirteen and lived on the streets, where he had come into contact with the vilest human beings imaginable. But a kind and caring priest in Louisville had saved his life, both literally and figuratively.

Father James had not only taught the goodness of our Lord and Savior to Brian but had shown him that goodness in action on a daily basis. Thanks to the gentle old priest, Brian had come to realize that ministering to others, especially the young, was his true calling.

“Please, you have to help me,” the frightened, almost hysterical caller had said. “I can’t come to you. You have to meet me. It’s the only way. If you don’t, I’ll kill myself. I swear I will.”

His better judgment warned him against meeting his caller at a public park in Dunmore this evening, but his heart insisted that he must do whatever was necessary to save a life. The wisest course of action would be to tell Father Francis, but he knew that the parish priest would advise him against going, perhaps even forbid him to go. It wasn’t that Father Francis wasn’t a good and caring man. He was. But he was a priest who followed the rules, who adhered to the letter of the law, so to speak.

During his brief conversation with the caller, he had done his best to persuade the woman—or was she actually a teenaged girl or boy?—to come here to the church. But no matter how sincerely he had promised protection and anonymity, she had refused. The voice over the phone had been oddly hoarse, as if the person was trying to disguise it, but he believed the caller had been female. If a male, then his voice was alto in tone.

“No one must ever know,” she had said. “If he ever found out…” She had burst into tears.

“Everything will be all right. I promise that I will meet you this evening at eleven. And I will do what I can to help you.”

Father Brian had no idea who the mysterious
he
the caller had referred to was, but it had been apparent that she was terrified of this person. Her father? A male relative? A boyfriend? Whoever he was, he frightened her and had tormented her to the point that she was seriously contemplating suicide.

He, too, had once known that abject feeling of utter hopelessness. The night Father James had found him huddled in a corner of the church in Louisville, his body bloody and bruised and his spirit broken, he had been thinking about killing himself. He had been fifteen years old.

Father Brian dropped to his knees on the floor of his sitting room, folded his hands together and prayed. A prayer of heartfelt thanks for Father James, gone now these past ten years. And he prayed for the life of the person who had called, pleading with him for help. He needed God’s guidance. No matter what was going on in her life, no matter how horrible her situation, he must find a way to help her without betraying her trust. But he knew that if she was being beaten or molested, he would have to find a way to convince her to allow him to contact the authorities.

Erin McKinley reapplied her lip gloss and blush before leaving the restroom located across from Reverend Harper’s office in the basement of the First Baptist Church. It was already after six, half an hour past time for her eight-hour day to end, but as she did every day, she would knock on John Earl’s door and say good-bye before heading home. Each day she hoped that he would notice her, would see her as a woman and not just a fixture in his office. She had been his secretary for four years and had fallen in love with him almost immediately. She simply couldn’t help herself. Who wouldn’t love John Earl? Not only was he incredibly handsome, with thick, curly brown hair streaked with thin silver strands, stormy gray eyes and a tall, athletic body, but he was a truly good man. He lived his religion every day of his life. He was kind, considerate, patient and gentle. And Erin worshipped the ground he walked on. Yes, she knew it was a sin to lust after a married man, to dream of taking him to her bed and allowing him to ravish her. But she could no more stop herself from loving John Earl than she could stop the sun from rising in the east tomorrow morning.

She squared her shoulders, thrust her breasts forward, marched through the reception area and knocked before opening the door to John Earl’s office. She gasped softly when she saw that the reverend was not alone. He held his wife in his arms.

Ruth Ann Harper tilted her head and smiled at Erin. “Please, come in. I just came by to pick up John Earl. He and I have a date for a movie and dinner out this evening.”

He kissed his wife’s cheek with great affection.

Erin stiffened, but managed to force a friendly smile. She didn’t actually hate Ruth Ann. The woman was nice enough, and she did seem to truly love John Earl.
But not as much as I love him.

Erin envied Ruth Ann, and in darker moments, when hopelessness and despair took over, she even thought about killing her. Not that she ever would, of course. But how could she ever compete with a woman such as Mrs. Harper, who seemed so perfect, always smiling and friendly, always perfectly groomed with nary a dark hair out of place? A fine wife, a good mother, a real lady. Tall, slender and elegant in that Jackie Kennedy/Grace Kelly kind of way, as if she had been born knowing all the correct things to say and do.

Not for the first time, Erin wondered what the oh-so-perfect Ruth Ann was like in bed. Was she as perfect at fucking as she seemed to be at everything else? Or was she, as Erin suspected, a frigid ice queen? After all, the woman had to have some faults, didn’t she? And if her shortcomings were inadequacies in the bedroom, that meant that Erin had a shot at giving John Earl something his wife could not. Other than being a damn good secretary, Erin was a damn good lay.

“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Harper,” Erin said. “I just wanted to say good-bye to Reverend Harper.” She looked directly at him, doing her best to hide the longing in her eyes.

“Good-bye, Erin. See you tomorrow,” John Earl replied, but he never took his eyes off his wife. Having dismissed his secretary, he said to Ruth Ann, “Do the girls have plans tonight or are they staying in with your mother?”

Just as Erin started to close the door, she heard Ruth Ann say, “The girls have plans. Felicity is going to the mall with some of her girlfriends, and Charity is going to the library.”

“Charity spends too much time in the library,” John Earl said. “She needs to have a little fun.”

“Are you saying our eighteen-year-old daughter needs a boyfriend?”

John Earl chuckled. “That’s a father’s worst nightmare—his baby girl dating. But yes, it’s time Charity started dating. Some nice young man who attends church here, a boy whose parents we know.”

Erin closed the door quietly and walked away, tears trickling down her cheeks. John Earl was a man devoted to his wife and daughters. If she hadn’t been able to seduce him in four years, what made her think she ever could? And with no hope of John Earl ever returning her love, her life simply wasn’t worth living.

“You knew that Jackson Perdue was back in Dunmore and you didn’t bother to tell me!” Cathy stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, and glared at her best friend.

“I didn’t mention it because I thought you needed time to adjust to being back home and settling into your new place next week and…” Lorie threw her hands in the air in a gesture that was half plea and half exasperation. “I thought I was protecting you. After all, you’ve got enough on your plate without having to deal with Jack Perdue showing up in Dunmore after all these years.” Lorie reached out and grabbed both of Cathy’s hands. “I swear to you that when Ruth Ann told me some man had called and wanted to hire Treasures as decorating consultants, I had no idea it was Jack.”

“I believe you.” Cathy squeezed Lorie’s hands, then pulled free and turned back to the stove, where she had several pots and pans bubbling, boiling and simmering. She was making Seth’s favorite meal: meatloaf, green peas, creamed potatoes, deviled eggs, biscuits and caramel pie for dessert. This morning, she had prepared the pie and placed it in the refrigerator and had made the meatloaf that was now warming in the oven. And only a few minutes ago, right before Lorie arrived home from Fayetteville, Cathy had topped the pie with whipped cream and Maraschino cherries.

Lorie came up behind Cathy and placed her hand on Cathy’s shoulder. “How was it, seeing him again?”

Cathy lifted the lid off the green peas, stirred them, turned the stove down low and replaced the lid. “I’m not sure. At first, I was nervous. Seeing him was such a shock.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea this would happen, I’d have told you he was back in town.”

Cathy checked on the bubbling pot of sliced potatoes, then faced her friend. “He’s staying permanently. He’s moved into his mother’s house. He’s going to restore the old place, and he offered me the job as his design consultant.” Cathy giggled nervously. “Never in a million years would I have thought that someday Jack and I would…” Realizing she was on the verge of crying, she took several deep, calming breaths. “He’s different. And not just because he’s older and was injured in the war. He used to be so angry and tense all the time, but now he seems…I’m not sure—not so angry. Steadier somehow.”

“Did he tell you that he’s taken a job as one of Mike’s deputies?” Lorie asked.

Cathy nodded. “He was wearing his uniform and drove up in a county sheriff’s car.”

“Is he still as handsome as sin?”

“Yes.”

“Any old feelings resurface?”

“A few.”

“Well, listen to you, being honest with yourself and with me.”

“I don’t lie to myself anymore.” Cathy picked up two oven mitts from the counter, opened the oven door and checked on the warming meatloaf. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting that I’m still attracted to Jack. Most women probably are. He always did attract the opposite sex. Besides, he’s single and so am I.”

“Amen, sister.” Lorie patted her on the back.

“He told me that Mike has assigned him to work on two cold-case files for the sheriff’s department, and one of those cases is Mark’s murder.”

“What?”

“He was entirely up front about it.” Cathy looked directly at Lorie. “He told me he was sorry about what had happened to my husband, and then he explained that he was going over the county’s cold-cases—the unsolved homicides—including Mark’s murder.”

“But why? What possible reason would Mike have to reopen Mark’s case?”

“He’s not reopening the case,” Cathy said. “Jack is studying the files, and he’s going to compare notes with the police in Athens, where Charles Randolph, the Lutheran minister, was killed last year in the same way Mark was.”

Lorie put her arm around Cathy’s shoulders. “Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. You shouldn’t have to go over all those bad memories about the day Mark died. And you certainly shouldn’t have to work with Jack Perdue. I’ll step in and handle the consulting job myself, and that way you won’t have to—”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I can work with Jack. I’m not running away from the past. I faced a great many hard truths while I was in therapy. I learned that I can’t change the past. I can’t bring Mark back any more than I could have saved him the day he died. And I can’t deny that a part of me still loves Jack Perdue and probably always will.”

“Oh, Cathy…Honey, no, no…”

“It’s all right, really it is. I have no illusions about Jack. But he’s not the same now, and neither am I. I’m not expecting happily ever after, not with Jack or any other man. Whatever does or doesn’t happen between us, I can handle it.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

“What about Seth?”

Cathy swallowed hard. “What about Seth?”

“How do you think Seth would react if he found out the man you were in love with before you married Mark has come back into your life?”

“There’s no reason for Seth to know about my past with Jack.”

“Oh, honey, you’re lying to yourself if you think the truth won’t come out eventually. If you get involved with Jack again, all your secret little birds will come home to roost.”

He moaned and groaned and trembled with his release. She lay beneath him silent and unmoving, hating him, wishing him dead. His heavy weight pinned her to the bed—her canopy bed with white, lace-trimmed linens—as he kissed her tenderly and whispered the same words he always said when he had finished with her.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

When he lifted himself up and off her, she turned over, grabbed the sheet and pulled it over her naked body as she curled into a ball. She didn’t watch him leave her room, but she heard the door close behind him. He would go to his bathroom, remove the condom he had worn and take a shower. Then he would go into his den and spend the rest of the evening in his disguise as a man of God.

Lying there, her tender young breasts bruised from his rough hands and her whole body throbbing with shame and anger, she wanted to cry. But she didn’t cry anymore. Tears were useless. She was trapped in a nightmare without end. The only way to escape would be to end her life. But she wasn’t that brave. Not yet.

She got out of bed, took a shower to wash off his smell, dressed hurriedly and sneaked out through her bedroom window, leaving it cracked open so she could come back in later. It was nearly eight-thirty and had gotten dark early this evening because of the rain clouds. Tonight, the sky had partially cleared, enough so that the three-quarter moon peeked through the threads of murky clouds. She could stay out as late as she wanted, go anywhere, do anything, as long as no one recognized her and reported back to her father. He wouldn’t check on her again tonight. Once he raped her, he didn’t bother her again. Not until the next time. During the day, their lives were hypocritically normal. They ate their meals together every morning and evening. He asked her about her homework, her teachers and her friends. He acted like any father might. He attended all her school functions, charmed her teachers and her friends, and had the whole world fooled. Everyone believed he was the ideal father. No one suspected what happened between them several nights each week in the privacy of her bedroom.