Heartbreaker

Chapter 36

Donald Stark, known to the residents of Holy Oaks as that nice, polite farmer, Justin Brady, was crouched down below the railing of the choir loft, waiting and watching for his opportunity. Oh, how he had planned for this day. The celebration was finally at hand.

It was going to be his moment of glory, and Nicholas Buchanan’s day of reckoning.

His good mood was being sorely tested now, though, by Nicholas. The mule was, in fact, making Stark quite frantic. Trying to ruin all of his wonderful plans by making him waste time worrying.

Once again he slowly inched up over the wall and searched the crowd below. He could feel the rage building inside and fought to contain it. All in good time, he promised himself. And then he looked again. Where had the mule disappeared to? After searching through the crowd a third time, Stark concluded he wasn’t in the church. Where oh where could he have gone? And then the thought occurred to him that perhaps the mule was standing in the back, under the balcony.

Stark had to be sure. He decided he would have to risk it and sneak downstairs to look for himself. He had to be certain. Had to, had to, had to. It was imperative that the mule attend the celebration. He was the guest of honor, after all.

Keeping his head down, Stark crawled back to the bench where he’d put the key to the iron gate. He was reaching up to grab it when he heard the screech of tires. Scrambling over to the window he peered out just as the mule’s green Explorer came barreling up the driveway.

Stark grinned. "Good things come to those who wait," he whispered. Then he sighed. Everything was back on schedule. The guest of honor would be strolling into the church any minute now.

He picked up the rifle, adjusted the scope, and then got into position, hunched down on his knees beside the tripod.

The video camera was focused on the altar, and he reached up and pushed the button to start the tape. Timing was everything, of course. What good was killing Father Tom and Laurant if the mule wasn’t there to watch? No good at all, Stark reasoned. He was determined to get both the murders on film too-how could he boast that he had bested the FBI if he didn’t have the goods to prove it? Stark knew he was smarter than all the mules put together, and soon now, very soon, the world would know it too. The tape would mock them, prove their incompetence, humiliate them in the same way that Nicholas had humiliated him.

"You messed with the wrong man," he whispered, his voice shimmering with hate. His fingers curled around the smooth barrel. He could feel the power under his fingertips growing stronger, more potent with each caress.

And still he waited for the pretty boy priest to finish the wedding ceremony and go up the steps and get back behind the altar table to start mass. Stark had done his homework. He knew exactly where everyone in the wedding party would be sitting. He’d been pretending to be working in the balcony while the rehearsal was going on, and he knew that the bride and groom, the best man, and the maid of honor were going to follow the priest up on the altar and sit in chairs, like royalty, slightly behind the altar table and to the right, against the north wall. Both brother and sister would be center stage in the camera’s lens.

It was going to be perfect. He would kill Tommy boy first-one shot through the center of his forehead that would look absolutely marvelous on film. And while Nicholas was still reeling from the shock-who wouldn’t, after witnessing his best friend’s death-Stark would swing the rifle to the right and kill Laurant. The camera would be capturing her reaction to her brother’s death. Stark pictured the look of horror in her eyes the scant second before he killed her, and he smiled again. It was going to be delicious. Bam, bam, thank you, ma’am. He’d get the brother and sister before the crowd had time to react. Stark was counting on the guests to panic and stampede their way like cows to the doors. He needed the pandemonium to give him time to get downstairs through the trapdoor he’d built in the floor behind the organ. He’d land in the closet off the vestibule, get outside through the front window, and blend in with all the hysterical men and women. He might even decide to have a little more fun and do some screaming too.

"So much to do, so little time," he whispered. For, in those precious two or three seconds, maybe even as many as four, before the crowd swelled from their seats, he was going to try to kill Willie and Mark. They were seated next to the main aisle, six rows from the front. Stark knew he was being greedy, but he didn’t care. He had to get rid of them. He’d been fantasizing about it for as long as he’d had to endure living with them. His housemates were pigs. Vile, filthy pigs. He couldn’t abide the thought of letting such garbage continue to pollute the world. No, that wasn’t an option. They had to die, and if he couldn’t kill them today, then he would come back and get them later. He wouldn’t bother to film their deaths, however, for like the whore, Tiffany, Willie and Mark weren’t worthy enough to be remembered.

He stifled a girlish giggle as he thought about the garage door opener he’d made such clever adjustments to. It was clipped to the visor in his van. No one would notice it or give it a second thought. It wasn’t going to open any garage doors. No, sirree. One push of the button, and wham, bam. News at eleven. Are we having fun yet? Oh, yes, yes indeed.

Because of Michelle’s metal leg brace, she wasn’t able to kneel and for that reason Tommy married the couple at the beginning of the ceremony instead of waiting until the middle of the mass, as was the usual custom. He had great hopes for this couple. Christopher was a good, decent man and very levelheaded. He believed in marriage and commitment, as did his lovely bride. Both of them had endured hardships in the past and had survived with grace and dignity, and Tommy knew that they would fight to keep their vows to each other when they hit those inevitable rocky patches.

It was a joy to marry them. He smiled as Christopher put the wedding ring on Michelle’s finger. Her hand was trembling so, it took the groom two tries. Christopher was as steady as an old oak.

Tommy gave the blessing and then turned to go up the stairs. The choir began to sing "O Precious Love." While the other members of the wedding party quietly filed into the front pews, the bride and groom, flanked by the best man and the maid of honor, followed Tommy up to the altar. Crossing behind him, they walked to the chairs against the wall and took their seats. Laurant straightened the long train on Michelle’s wedding dress and then sat down next to her. None of them would get up again until communion was served.

The two altar boys, cousins on Michelle’s side of the family, sat on the opposite side of the altar by the sacristy door. Noah stood beside them. As Tommy was coming around the altar, he noticed Noah slouching against the wall. He frowned at him and, cupping his hand at his side, motioned for him to stand tall. Noah immediately complied.

Tommy turned to the congregation then. He bowed his head, braced his hands on the cool marble top, and then slowly genuflected.

And that was when he noticed the flowers. There, tucked under the altar was a beautiful crystal vase filled with white lilies. Tommy assumed the flowers had been placed there by the florist to get them out of the way while the altar was being prepared for the wedding ceremony. Whoever had put the white linen cloth across the marble top had simply forgotten to put the flowers back. Tommy bent down and leaned in to pick up the vase, but as he was lifting it, he saw the tiny, pin-size, red light blinking at him.

Puzzled, he leaned in to get a closer look. Then he saw the oblong block attached underneath the altar top. It was about the size of a brick covered in a mass of gray duct tape. There were red and white and blue wires protruding from the tape, and in the center was a red light.

He knew exactly what he was looking at now. It was a bomb. And from the size of it, Tommy thought there was enough there to blow the church apart. The blinking red light indicated the bomb had already been activated.

"My God," he whispered, so stunned he couldn’t move. His heart felt as though it had just stopped. His immediate reaction was to jump up and shout a warning, but he was able to stop himself in time. Stay calm. Yes, he had to stay calm. The last thing he wanted to do was cause a panic. He let go of the vase, then grabbed it before it toppled over. His hands were shaking violently now, and he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead.

What in God’s name should he do? Still down on one knee, he half turned toward Noah and motioned for him to come to him.

Noah saw Tommy’s stricken expression and immediately hurried toward him. He thought Tommy was sick. His complexion was as gray as the marble.

Tommy had to grip the edge of the altar to get to his feet. All he could think about was getting the congregation outside. His mind raced. He hadn’t been down on his knee for more than four, five seconds at the most, but it was still long enough for the crowd to wonder what he was doing. He held on to the altar top with one hand, grabbed the vase with the other, and stood up just as Noah reached him. Tommy forced a smile on his face, put the flowers on the altar, next to the microphone, and then stepped back. He didn’t want the microphone to pick up his whisper when he told Noah what he had found.

Noah moved to stand in front of Tommy with his back to the congregation. "What’s wrong?" he whispered.

Tommy leaned close and whispered into his hear, "There’s a bomb under the altar."

Noah’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded as he whispered, "Let me have a look."

Then he turned toward the crowd, made a hasty sign of the cross the way Tommy had taught him, and knelt down. He wanted the congregation to think he was participating in the ceremony. Bowing his head, he ducked lower and leaned in. "Lord," he whispered. He’d wanted to see what he was dealing with, his hope that it was a simple, homemade device that could easily be dismantled. No such luck. One glance told him the explosive was damned complex, too complex for him to deal with. It would take an expert to figure out which wires to clip, and where in God’s name were they going to find an explosives expert in a town the size of Holy Oaks?

Noah pulled back and looked up at Tommy. "Can’t undo it."

As he raised to his feet, Tommy whispered. "Okay, we’ve got to get them all out of here. I’ll get Christopher to help. You get the altar boys moving."

Tommy hurried toward the groom. He was halfway there when he stopped and motioned for Christopher to get up and come to him. He didn’t want Michelle to hear what he was going to say. She was watching him closely, a puzzled look on her face, and then she leaned toward Laurant and whispered to her. Laurant shook her head slightly, indicating she didn’t know what Tommy was doing.

In a low, urgent whisper, Tommy said, "We’ve got a problem here, and I need your help getting everyone outside. There’s a bomb under the altar. We don’t want a panic," he added when he heard Christopher’s drawn-in breath. "We can do this. They’ll follow you and Michelle. Now go," he ordered.

"The grotto," Christopher whispered. "Tell everyone to follow us to the grotto, like I’ve got a surprise for Michelle."

"Yes, good," Tommy whispered. He quickly turned around and headed back to the altar. Adjusting the microphone, he took a breath and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Christopher has a surprise for Michelle. Please follow the bride and groom to the grotto at the bottom of the hill."

Christopher had already reached Michelle before Tommy began his announcement. She looked quite stunned when he pulled her to her feet, then swept her up into his arms.

"Christopher, what are you doing?" she whispered.

"Just smile, honey. We have to get out of here." Michelle wrapped her arms around his shoulders and smiled as he had instructed.

She whispered, "Am I going to like this surprise?"

Christopher didn’t answer her. He strode across the altar, down the steps, and up the center aisle.

His enthusiasm made Laurant smile. Christopher was practically running. She and David, the best man, waited until Tommy had finished his announcement. Then they stood. Laurant slipped her arm through David’s and followed the bride and groom, but at a much more sedate pace.

A murmur rolled through the crowd, and it became quite noisy as the wedding guests gathered up their possessions, kicked the kneelers back, and stood up to file out of the church.

Stark couldn’t believe what he was seeing. They were leaving. No, his mind screamed. This was not acceptable. No one could leave. What surprise was the priest babbling about? Leaving early wasn’t part of the rehearsal. The grotto? Why were they going to the grotto? What had he missed? His mind was speeding now, his thoughts getting jumbled together in his mind. Not acceptable. Laurant. She was leaving too. No, No, No. She’s walking across the altar now. Tom first, then Laurant. Like he planned. But the mule, the mule had to see it happen.

The priest was speaking into the microphone again. "Those of you who are close to the side doors should go out that way. It will save time," he added.

Stark, shaking with fury, could feel his control slipping away, disintegrating, but then, just as he was about to leap to his feet and start shooting, he saw the side door open, and there he was, the mule himself, trying to get inside as the crowd was pushing out. Nicholas had finally arrived. "There now, there now, it’s all right now," he whispered. He felt like shouting with joy. He was so thrilled to see the mule, he wanted to wave to him. Good to see you, Nicholas. Yes sirree.

There was still time… show time… if he acted quickly. Swinging his rifle up, he went for his first target. "Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh," he whispered, but the thrill was so exquisite, he didn’t know if he could stop himself. He looked through the scope as he slipped his finger on the trigger. Gentle now. Gentle now. Wait for it.

Noah had just nudged the altar boys toward the side door and was turning to intercept Laurant before she reached the center aisle. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight. She would leave with Tommy and him.

He was about twelve feet away from Tommy when he saw the beam of light bouncing across the wall. He instantly reacted. "Gun!" he shouted as he pulled his own weapon from his sleeve and raced toward Tommy. His attention was focused on the choir loft as he fired at the source of the light.

Nick had seen the laser beam skipping across the altar toward Tommy just as Noah shouted the warning. "Get down!" he yelled as he shoved his way through the startled crowd.

Tommy didn’t have time to react. He heard a spitting sound, and a chunk of the altar splintered into the air. One second Noah and Nick were shouting, and the next, Noah was firing his gun at the balcony as he made a diving leap at Tommy and knocked him to the floor. Noah’s head struck the edge of the marble top as they went down, and then he fell like a dead weight on top of him. Tommy pushed himself free and scrambled to get the unconscious Noah behind cover. As he struggled to pull him back, Tommy saw the blood pouring from Noah’s left shoulder.

The screams from the crowd, frantic to get out of the church, pierced the air. The aisles were crammed with hysterical men and women. Nick had his Sig Sauer in his right hand, and as he pushed forward, knocking people out of his way, he reached behind him under his jacket and pulled out the loaded Glock from his waistband. He leapt onto a pew and opened fire. Running along the tops of the benches, he fired the guns in succession, trying to keep the bastard pinned down.

Stark ducked behind the railing. What was happening? The blond-headed priest had pulled out a gun and started shooting at him, and he’d been able to get off only a few shots. He’d seen Father Tom go down, then the other priest, and he was sure he’d hit both of them.

Now he had to get Laurant. Stark inched the gun up and got her in his sights. She was down on her knees at the bottom of the altar steps. She was struggling to get up when he fired. She went down again, but he couldn’t tell where the bullet had struck her. Gunshots were blazing away at him. He dropped the rifle and scrambled on his belly to get to the trapdoor. The videotape. He had to get the tape. The air around him sizzled with bullets. One nearly got him in his hand as he reached for the video camera. Couldn’t get it, but he couldn’t leave without it. Stark crawled to the outlet next to the organ, then jerked the cord. Gunfire and screams ricocheted around him. The camera crashed to the floor, shattering, and he reeled it toward him. A second later, he had the tape. He shoved it into the pocket of his windbreaker, zipped it closed, and then scrambled behind the organ and lifted the trapdoor. Swinging his feet in first, he slid down onto the ledge he’d built in the ceiling below. Then he reached up, pulled the trapdoor closed, and slipped the bolt in place.

There was so much noise he didn’t worry about anyone hearing him kick through the ceiling. He landed in the closet, opened the door, and peeked out. No one was inside the vestibule, but he could see the swarm of people pushing and shoving to get out the front doors. Stark decided to blend in with the mob. He ran through the vestibule and then elbowed his way into the crowd. An old woman grabbed his arm to keep from being pitched forward, and gentleman that he was, he wrapped his arm around her and helped her outside.

He glanced back once and had to fight the laughter. Nicholas was probably still fighting the crowd, trying to get to the iron gate. Eventually, he’d make it up the stairs, but would he find the trapdoor? Stark didn’t think so. It had been so cleverly designed. He could just picture the mule standing there, scratching his head in puzzlement. Where oh where had Justin Brady gone? Yes, that’s who the mule would be looking for, but when Nicholas next saw him, Stark was sure the FBI agent wouldn’t recognize him. The beard would be gone, the farmer’s haircut would be longer, styled, and dyed a different color. He’d also change the color of his eyes, maybe green or blue. He had such a nice collection of contacts to choose from, every color of the rainbow at his disposal.

Stark believed he was the master of disguises. Subtle changes, that was the ticket. Nothing dramatic, just a little of this and a little of that to make a world of difference. Why, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him today if he’d walked up to her and tapped her on her shoulder. Of course, Mother Millicent wasn’t seeing much of anything these days, rotting as she was in her backyard under the petunias she was so partial to. Still, if she could see him in his farmer’s getup, Stark was sure she’d get a kick out of it.

He didn’t let go of the old woman on his arm but dragged her along with him as he turned the corner. He kept close to the building so that when the mule got up to the loft, he wouldn’t see him if he looked out the window.

The hag was crying. He reached the side door where the crowd was spilling out of the church, and she started to resist. "Let me go. I have to find my husband. Help me find him."

He shoved her away from him and watched her fall into the bushes. Then he moved on, pushing his way through the throng of people and turning again to make sure the mule wasn’t hot on his trail.

He let out a low squeal. Father Tom was rushing outside, and the crowd was parting for him. He was carrying the other priest. Tom’s white vestments were bloody, but Tom didn’t look any the worse for wear. And Laurant. God Almighty, she was coming out of the door with him.

He was so shocked to see that both of them were still alive and kicking, he almost shouted at them. He recoiled against the wall, his shoulders pressing into the cold stone. What to do? What to do? No time to plan, no time at all, but he had to do something before the opportunity slipped away.

A crowd surrounded Tom now. Stark watched as he slowly lowered the other priest to the grass, then knelt over him and whispered into the dying priest’s ear. Praying for him, no doubt, as if that would do any good.

Only, the priest he’d shot wasn’t a priest, was he? He had a gun. He was a mule, a pretender. How dare they trick him? How dare they? He was a mule all right. But now he was dying.

Stark desperately wanted to kill Tom, yet he knew he couldn’t get a clear shot at him-too many people running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

He turned his attention to Laurant. Easy pickings, he thought. She was standing by the door, against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, but every couple of seconds she turned to try to look inside. She wasn’t more than thirty feet away from him. He slowly crept forward. She looked dazed, and that gave him an added advantage.

He pulled the gun out of his pocket and hid it inside his jacket.

"Laurant," he shouted her name and tried to sound pitiful. He doubled over, his head down, but he peeked up at her as he called out to her again.

"Laurant, I’ve been shot. Please help me." He staggered closer.

"Please."

Laurant heard Justin Brady call her name, and without a second’s hesitation, she started toward him.

He pretended to stumble. Then he groaned loudly. An Academy Award. He should get an award for his flawless performance.

Laurant took a step in Justin’s direction and a sting pinched the calf of her right leg. Most likely she’d cut herself when she’d been thrown to the floor by one of the bridesmaids trying to push ahead of her into the aisle. She could feel blood trickling down into her shoe.

She was limping but moved as fast as she could. When she was about fifteen feet away from him, she suddenly stopped. Something wasn’t quite right. She heard Nick’s voice inside her head. Don’t believe anything anyone tells you. And that’s when she glanced down and saw what was wrong.

Justin watched her take a step back, away from him. He had his right hand inside his jacket, holding his gun flush against his side. He kept stumbling toward her, half doubled over, trying to look as though he were in terrible pain.

She wasn’t buying it. What was she staring at? His hand. She was staring at his hand. He looked down and then he saw it. The surgical glove. He had forgotten to remove the surgical gloves. Jolted by his own carelessness, he ran at her like a charging bull. She was turning to run away, shouting for Nicholas, when he slammed the butt of his gun against the base of her skull, silencing her scream.

Hurry, his mind told him. Get her, get her, get her. She was unconscious, falling, but he caught her around the waist before she hit the ground and dragged her back, and around the corner of the building. People were still pouring out of the church, and there were clusters of men and women and children in the parking lot, but no one tried to stop him. Did they see what he was doing? Did they see the gun pressed against Laurant’s chest? The barrel was pointed upward, the muzzle under her chin. If anyone dared interfere, Stark knew exactly what he would do. He would blow her pretty little head off.

He didn’t want her to die, not yet anyway. He might have to make a few adjustments, but he still had such grand plans for her. After he locked her in the trunk of his other car-the old souped-up Buick that none of the mules knew belonged to him-he’d drive somewhere safe and tie her up. There were lots of abandoned cabins up in this neck of the woods. He knew he’d find the perfect spot easily. He’d leave her there trussed up like a turkey with a gag in her mouth, and then he’d go shopping. Yes sir, that’s what he was going to do. He’d buy another video camera-high quality, of course, only the best would do-and he’d purchase at lease a dozen videotapes as well. Sony if they had them, because the resolution was oh, so much better. And then he would return to his sweet Laurant and film her death. He’d try to keep her alive for as long as he could, but when the inevitable occurred and the light went out of her eyes-and it would-he would rewind the tape and relive the glorious execution. Stark knew from past experience that he would spend hours and hours watching and rewatching the tape until he had every twitch, every scream, every plea memorized. Only when he was completely satisfied would he be able to rest.

Once he had disposed of her body in the woods, he would go home. He would make copies of the tapes and send them to everyone he wanted to impress. Nicholas would get one for a keepsake, a reminder of how impotent he had been, daring to go up against the master. Another tape would be sent to the head of the FBI. The director might want to use the gift as a training tape for future mules. Stark would, of course, keep several for his own personal library-even the best tapes eventually wore out after all-and the last tape he would make would be auctioned on the Internet. Although he wasn’t driven by the almighty dollar, a nice nest egg would give him the freedom to go searching for another perfect partner, and this tape would bring a fortune. There was a large following out there surfing the Internet with similar tastes in voyeurism.

Laurant lay slumped on the ground next to the van while Stark got his keys out. No one could see them, tucked in as they were between two other cars. He unlocked the door, slid the panel back, and then lifted Laurant and threw her inside. As he pulled the door closed, her long skirt got caught, but he was in too much of a hurry now to open the door again. He knew he was being sloppy, but that couldn’t be helped. Things were changing so quickly-and then there was also his own forgetfulness with the gloves. He ran around to the driver’s side, saw the ambulance threading its way up the drive, trying to get through the crowd and the cars. The siren was blasting away.

Stark knew he couldn’t get down the driveway, which was the only exit. "Not to worry," he whispered. He started the motor and slowly edged the van over the curb. Then he gunned the engine. The van lurched forward and crashed into the rosebushes. A thorny branch flew up against the window, and Stark instinctively ducked, as though it were going to slice through the windshield and strike him. He was all but standing on the gas petal now, pushing down with all of his weight. The van raced down the grassy slope, bouncing and rocking along. Stark felt like he was flying.

He glanced in the rearview mirror and then began to laugh. No one was following him. He was as safe as a bug in a rug.

Should he do it now? Blow them all to kingdom come? The detonator was just above his forehead, clipped like a real garage door opener to the visor.

No, he wanted Laurant to watch the fireworks. He decided to stick with his original plan then. He’d blow up the abbey on his way out of town. He’d already picked the spot. Best seat in the house, at the top of the hill outside of town. He’d be able to see every brick explode. And oh, what a sight that was going to be. My God, he ought to film that too. Send it to all the television stations. News at eleven. Yes, sirree…

"Green-eyed girl, won’t you wake up and play. Wake up and play… Laurant, it’s time to wake up."

He glanced down at his watch and was shocked at how little time had passed. Then he heard the screech of tires, and his head snapped up. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the green Explorer at the top of the hill. The SUV was soaring through the air, the front tires coming down as Stark watched in disbelief. His rage was uncontrollable. "Not acceptable," he screamed as he pounded his fist against the steering wheel.

The van careened onto the main street, sideswiped a parked car, and slid into a spin sideways. Stark slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, sped forward, and fishtailed around the next corner. He was going eighty now as he raced toward the park. The van almost turned over as he took another corner on two wheels, but it righted itself as he swung the wheel hard to the left. He turned yet another corner and there it was, the back entrance to the park through the preserve.

The mule wasn’t behind him now, and Stark was certain he’d lost him. Giggling, he slowed down and entered through the joggers’ path. The van bounced along the black tarred surface, the left wheels gliding on smooth surface and the right wheels grinding over rocks at the edge of the path.

He thought he heard Laurant groan. He had to stop himself from leaping over the seat and tearing her skin to shreds with his bare hands. The rage was getting stronger, and the thoughts were coming so fast now, he was having trouble concentrating. He reached up to adjust the mirror so he could watch her. She was huddled in a ball on her side with her back to him, and she wasn’t moving. His mind was playing tricks on him, convinced now that she hadn’t groaned. He’d only imagined it.

He was so busy watching her, he almost drove the van into the lake. He swerved back onto the road, then adjusted the mirror again so he could see behind him. Because of the angle the path took, he had to slow the van down even more. He couldn’t slow his mind though. He glanced over his shoulder to look at Laurant again, but it wasn’t Laurant that he saw. It was the whore, Tiffany. He shook his head. Then, just as suddenly, it was Laurant again.

He wanted to stop and close his eyes. He wanted time to clear his mind and get organized again. He had to be organized. He was a planner, meticulous down to the very last detail. He didn’t like surprises. That’s why he was so rattled, he decided.

The surprise of seeing the blond priest leap in front of Tommy boy. The priest with the gun, shooting at him. The priest who wasn’t a priest at all. Stark couldn’t get over the fact that the mules, as stupid as they were, had actually tricked him. He’d never considered, not for one second, that Tommy’s friend was a mule in disguise.

Oh yes, that was why he was so rattled now. They had tricked him into making a mistake. He sighed then. He could feel himself becoming centered again. The thoughts weren’t bombarding him. Control, that was the ticket. He was getting his control back.

"Almost there," he sang out to Laurant. He slowed the van so he could edge through the pines when he reached the main road that wound around the lake. Then he increased the speed again. The Buick was about two hundred yards away, parked between the trees behind the abandoned shack. He couldn’t see it yet, but he knew it was where he’d left it, ready and waiting.

"Almost there," he repeated. All he had to do was drive around the entrance to the park, then along the curve, and hide the van among the trees.

He had just reached the road to a cabin when he saw the green Explorer again. The SUV shot through the entrance of the park and then slowed to take the turn.

"No." Stark slammed on the brakes. There wasn’t time to back the van, turn it around, and try to outrun the mule. He couldn’t go forward either. Nicholas would see him and block him. What to do? What to do? "No, no, no, no," he chanted.

He threw the gear into park, grabbed his gun, and jumped out of the van. Because he’d removed the door handles on the inside so that his lady friends couldn’t escape while he was busy driving, he had to run around and open the door from outside.

He shoved the gun in his jacket and then reached with both hands to lift her. A new plan. Yes, a new plan. He could do it. He’d get her inside, where it was nice and dark, and he’d work on her there, with the doors locked. The mule would be outside, trying to get in, listening to Laurant’s screams. The mule would make mistakes then. Yes, he would. And then Stark would kill him.

Laurant didn’t come awake slowly or in a foggy daze. It was instantaneous. One second she was unconscious, and the next she was struggling to keep from screaming. She could feel the bile burning the back of her throat

She was inside his van. She didn’t move for fear he would see her in the mirror or hear her groping around the floor for something to use as a weapon. She dared a quick look, saw the toolbox, but she’d have to move to get it. It was against the back door. Could she get out that way? Swing the door open and jump? Where, where was the latch? She squinted in the darkness, and then she saw the gaping hole in the back door. The madman had taken the handles off. Why would he do that? Her feet were pressed against the side door, but she couldn’t see if that handle had been removed as well unless she moved, and she didn’t dare.

She was shaking now and tried to stop, terrified that he would notice and know she was awake. The van hit something in the road. She was lifted and then thrown into the back of the front seat. A second later, she was thrown back again when the van lurched forward. She felt cold metal against her chest. The safety pin was pressing into her skin. She fumbled to get it open. Her hands were trembling, so she almost dropped it, and she caught the whimper before it escaped. She unhooked it and then bent it until it was straight. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it, but it was the only weapon she had. Maybe she could drive the pin through his throat. Tears stung her eyes. Her head hurt so much, it was an effort to think at all. Was he watching her now? Did he have a gun in his hand? Maybe she could jump him from behind, surprise him.

Ever so slowly she moved her legs up, thinking she could turn and spring upward, grab him by the neck, and then slam his head into the steering wheel. But something was holding her. Her skirt was caught. She was afraid to turn her head and look for fear that he would see.

The van suddenly came to a jarring stop. She did drop the safety pin then, but she grabbed it from the floor before she heard the door open. Where was he going? What was he going to do?

Oh God, he’s coming for me.

She had to be ready. When he tried to get her out of the van, she, would have to be ready. Frantic, her hands violently shaking now, she hooked the pin around her middle fingers, just above the knuckles. The metal fastener dug into her skin, tearing it as she hooked it there, anchored so that the long needle was sticking straight out. She cupped her left hand around it, trying to hide it.

Don’t let him have his gun in his hand. Please, God, don’t let him have the gun. She couldn’t spring up and get him if he was holding the gun. He’d kill her before she touched him. If he does, I’ll wait. Make him carry me. He’ll put the gun down if he has to carry me.

The van moved when the side door was slid open. Her eyes were tightly closed, and she was trying not to cry as she silently prayed.

Help me, God, please help me…

She could hear his harsh breathing. He grabbed her by her hair and jerked her toward him. When he bent down to pull her out of the van, she opened her eyes and saw the gun. His fingers dug into her sides as he lifted her over his shoulder.

He was strong, terribly strong. He ran with her draped over his left shoulder as though she weighed no more than a speck of dandruff on his collar. Laurant’s eyes were wide open now, but she didn’t dare lift her head for fear that he’d feel the movement. As long as he thought she was unconscious, he wouldn’t focus on her. She recognized the abbot’s cabin up ahead.

She heard a car coming toward them, then the madman’s obscenity. He ran up the steps and then suddenly stopped.

She heard him jiggling the doorknob, but it was locked. A second later, a gunshot went off next to her ear. She flinched, and she was sure he felt it.

Stark was in such a state to get inside, he kicked the door and tore it from its hinges. He hit the wall switch, and two lamps, one on a credenza by the door and another on a table upstairs on the balcony, lit the cabin. Still holding her on his shoulder, he ran across the front room and into the kitchen. He put the gun down on the countertop and ripped the drawers open, throwing them to the floor.

"There we are," he cried out gleefully when he found the drawer of knives. He grabbed the biggest one there. A butcher knife. It looked old and dull, but he didn’t care if it was sharp or not. The work he intended to do wasn’t going to be meticulous. There simply wasn’t time. This one would do nicely. Yes, sirree.

He grabbed his gun, then turned around and ran back into the living room, kicking drawers and utensils out of his path. When he reached the center of the room, he stopped and shrugged her off of him. She crashed into the coffee table, then hit the floor, her left side taking the brunt of the impact.

He waited until she was down, then grabbed her by her hair again and jerked her up to her knees.

"Open your eyes, bitch. I want you to look out the door. Look at the mule when he comes running in here to save you."

As he was speaking, Stark realized he had the butcher knife and the gun in the same hand. He let got of Laurant and switched the knife into his left hand. "There now," he said. "What was I thinking? Can’t shoot and cut with the same hand, now can I? Look at me, Laurant. See what I have for you?"

She was still up on her knees, and he squatted down behind her. Her body would shield him from Nicholas’s gun. He held the knife out in front of her face. "Now what do you think I’m going to do with this?"

Although he hadn’t expected an answer, he was still disappointed she didn’t cry out when she saw the knife. She would though, once he started working on her. Oh yes, he knew how to get what he wanted. He was still the master. He jabbed her left arm with the knife and then chuckled with delight when she screamed. Blood spurted down her arm, thrilling him. Then he stabbed her again. "That’s my girl. Keep screaming," he encouraged, his voice eerily high-pitched, manic with excitement. "We want Nicholas to hear you."

He squatted and waited. He braced her shoulders against his with his arm as he pointed the barrel of the gun at the open doorway. He kept his head down behind hers, but he peeked around her toward the door. He jabbed her again, just for fun, but she didn’t cry out this time. He put the tip of the bloody knife against the side of her neck.

"Trying to be brave, Laurant? When I want you to scream, by God, you will."

He heard her whimper and smiled. "Don’t you fret. I won’t shoot the mule right away. I want him to watch me kill you. Tit for tat," he sang. "What’s taking Nicholas so long? What’s that boy up to? Maybe he’s trying to sneak in through the kitchen door. Oops, there isn’t one. He can’t do that, can he?"

Had he not been talking, he would have heard the faint creak above him. Nick had come in through the bedroom window. The tree branch had given way just as he grabbed hold of the window ledge, but the crashing noise he heard from inside covered the sounds he made.

The bedroom door was open, and Nick crept forward. He could see Laurant and Stark below the balcony, halfway across the room, facing the front door. Nick had his gun in his hand, and the Glock tucked into the back of his waistband.

He couldn’t get a clear shot at the bastard. If the bullet went through his body it would hit Laurant. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t go down the stairs either. Stark would see him. What the hell was he going to do?

Laurant looked up and saw the shadow on the ceiling. It moved ever so slightly, and she knew that Nicholas was upstairs. It was only a matter of time before the man behind her saw the shadow too.

"Why are you doing this, Justin?"

"Shut up. I have to listen for the car. I have to hear the mule coming."

"You were too quick for him. He must not have seen your van, and he turned north instead of south. He’s on the other side of the lake."

Stark strained to hear footsteps on the gravel outside, but he was smiling. "Yes, I was quick, wasn’t I? A mule can’t outsmart me."

"Are the mules the FBI?"

"Yes," he answered. "You’re a very clever girl, aren’t you?"

She had to keep him talking. Keep him focused on what she was saying so he wouldn’t look up. "Not as clever as you. Why did you choose me? Why do you hate me?"

He drew his thumb down the side of her face. The rubber glove was cold. "Hush that talk. I don’t hate you. I love you," he crooned. "But I’m a heartbreaker. I break hearts."

"But why me?" she persisted. Her head was down, but her eyes were looking up, watching the shadow slowly creep forward.

"It wasn’t you at all," he said. "The mule killed my wife, and then he bragged about it in the newspapers. Oh yes, that’s what he did. All that time and energy training her was wasted. She was almost worthy. I sought perfection, and she was getting there. Yes, she was almost perfect. Then Nicholas killed her. They called him a hero. He ruined my life, and they called him a hero. They said he was oh so smart. I couldn’t have that, now could I? I had to prove to the world that I was the master."

She cringed at the hate in his voice. She didn’t have to ask him another question. He seemed to want to explain himself to her. The words were coming faster now. He wanted to tell her everything, to brag about how he had fooled the mules.

"When I read the newspaper article and knew who had killed my wife, I had to retaliate. Don’t you see? I was forced into it. Your brother was mentioned in that article, and I wanted to know more about good old Father Tom. I read that he and Nicholas had been best friends since they were little boys. At first, I thought I’d kill Tom and then go after the mule’s family, but then I thought, why give Nicholas the home advantage? Holy Oaks was the perfect town for what I had in mind. It’s so nicely isolated. I did my research, found out everything I could about Tommy boy, and imagine my joy when I found out about you.

"It was Nicholas I was after all along," he said, snickering. "Until I met you. Then I wanted you too. When I met my wife, there was something about her that reminded me of my mother. You remind me of her too. There’s a bit of perfection in you, Laurant. Had the circumstances been different, I would have trained you.

"Mother’s gone now. There wasn’t any reason to keep her alive. She had reached perfection, and I knew I had to act quickly."

The second he stopped, she blurted, "Who was Millicent? Did she exist?"

"Ah, so you listened to the confession tape, did you?"

Laurant felt him nod against her. She could smell the sweetness of the Calvin Klein cologne mixed with the sourness of his breath.

"Did Millicent exist?" he repeated. "Maybe."

"How many did you kill?"

"None," he answered. "Mother doesn’t count. You can’t kill perfection, and whores don’t count either. No, of course not. So you see? You’ll be the first."

He saw the shadow. He swung Laurant around and shouted, "I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her. Drop the gun, Nicholas. Do it now, now, now, now."

Nick had reached the center of the balcony. He put his hands up, but he didn’t drop the gun. The dining room table was directly below him. If he could just get over the railing…

Stark was still crouched behind Laurant, trying to turn her with him so he could face the steps and be fully protected by the wall behind him.

"Drop the gun," he shouted again. "And come on down and join the party."

"You aren’t going to be able to sneak away this time," Nick said. He could see the terror and pain in Laurant’s eyes. If he could just get Stark to move away from her, just a fraction, he could get a shot before he got hit.

"Of course, I’m going to get away. I’m going to kill Laurant and you, and I’m going to get away. The stupid mules will be looking for the hick farmer, Justin Brady. I’ll cut her throat if you don’t drop the gun."

Nick let go of the weapon. It barely made a sound as it dropped onto the carpet at his feet.

"Kick it out of reach," Stark screamed, waving his gun as he gave the order.

Nick did as he was told but slowly lowered his hands until they were level with his shoulders. Every second would count. He wanted his hands close to the railing so he could spring when the time came.

"I’ve got you now, don’t I, mule?" Stark shouted. "Who’s the master? Who’s the hero? They’ll never find me, no sirree," he gloated. "They don’t even know who I am."

"Sure they do," Nick called out. "We’ve always known. You’re Donald Stark, and we know all about you. You’re a sleazy filmmaker. You use prostitutes to simulate amateur death scenes. S and M crap," he added. "And not at all believable. Homemade stuff. You barely make a living selling the junk on the Internet, and you’ve got a lot of dissatisfied customers."

"Dissatisfied?" he roared.

Nick deliberately shrugged. "You aren’t any good, Stark. You ought to get in another line of work. Maybe you can learn a new trade in prison."

Stark’s full attention was riveted on the balcony. He wasn’t aware that he’d lessened his grip on Laurant or that the butcher knife was now pointed at the doorway and not her throat.

"No, no, you’re lying. No one knows who I am. You heard me talking to Laurant, and that’s how you knew-"

"No, we’ve always known who you are, Stark. The article we planted in the papers was just a way to draw you out. Everyone was in on it, even Tommy. We planned it down to the last detail."

Nick could tell that his lies were working. The bastard’s face was red and blotchy, and his eyes bulged out of his head. He hoped that Stark’s anger would push him into making a mistake. Nick only needed a second.

Come on. Come and get me. Forget about her. Come after me.

Laurant saw the barrel of the gun coming up, felt the madman tense against her. He was trying to lift her up with him as he shot Nicholas. Then she heard the screech of tires on the gravel outside the door. Was it Tommy? Oh, God, no. Whoever came through the doorway was going to get killed.

"No," she screamed as she twisted in his arms and threw herself backward. Her shoulder knocked the hand grasping the gun. Stark fired wild, hitting the glass picture window, shattering it. The blast was so close to her face she could feel the burning heat. She kept fighting and pushing as she turned, but he was too strong. He wouldn’t let go of her and he wouldn’t be budged.

Stark’s gun was swinging upward again just as Jules Wesson appeared in the doorway. Crouched down in a shooter’s stance, his arms straight out, both hands on his gun, he waited for a clear shot.

Laurant jerked back, twisted again, fighting with all her might until she faced Stark. Then she attacked. Her left hand gripped his wrist, her nails digging into his skin to keep him from aiming his gun. He tried to reach around her to stab her hand with the knife, and that’s when she swung her right hand up and rammed the needle into his eye.

Stark screamed in agony. He dropped the knife and reached for his eye, howling like a crazed animal.

The second Laurant struck Stark, Nick grabbed hold of the railing and swung over. Shouting for her to get down, he reached behind him, grabbed the Glock and started firing.

Stark leapt to his feet, uncontrollably firing his gun. Wesson dove for the floor, narrowly missing a bullet, and then he too fired.

Nick fired in midair, landed on the table and fired again. The first bullet struck Stark in the chest. Wesson blew the gun out of Stark’s hand, and Nick’s second shot got him in the head as he was turning to run. The third shot struck his leg.

Stark was on his back, one leg twisted under him, his eyes wide open. Nick stood over him, his chest heaving as he tried to calm his rage.

He heard a sob and whirled around. Laurant was on the floor, her head in her hands. As Wesson rushed forward, Nick dropped to his knees beside her and put his hand out to touch her. Then he stopped. He was afraid that he would only make her pain worse.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered. "God, I’m sorry. I brought this to you and Tommy. It’s all my fault."

She threw herself into his arms. "Is he dead? Is it over?"

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. Then he closed his eyes. "Yes, love. It’s over."