by Tony Hayden
“Red Feather County Sheriff’s Office,” she said.
“Deputy Ryan Watts, please,” Mike said hurriedly.
“Who may I ask is calling?”
“Deputy Mike Haller. Please hurry, this is urgent.”
After a moment of silence, the woman came back on the line. “Deputy Watts is off duty for the weekend and is out of town. May I leave a message?”
Mike pushed “end” and threw his phone to the floor.
forty-five
“Will you teach me to shoot a handgun?”
“Sure, Sara. I thought you hated guns.”
“Life events have changed my opinion.”
“We’ll go to the shooting range tomorrow morning. I bet you’ll be an excellent shot.”
Mike reached the northern outskirts of Denver and stepped on the accelerator. He was now only an hour from Ranch Springs. “Why the hell did she not confide in me?” he wondered. “She knew the whole time it was Gary Popineau who had raped and tried to murder her.” Mike passed a long line of cars. “Why didn’t she want him brought to justice?”
He jumped at the blood curdling screams of Sara. Every night she woke, bathed in sweat and quaking to her core. And every night he sprinted to her room and held her in his arms while she sobbed and shared stories of the brutalities she had suffered. He held his daughter close while quietly cursing the men who had robbed her of her innocence. He took comfort in the fact that he had ended the life, or at least thought he ended the life of the man who had hurt his little girl.
Mike tucked into traffic, slowing as he passed another highway patrolman sitting on the side of the interstate. His ears burned red hot and his breath came heavy, in short rhythmic puffs. The epiphany exploded in his brain. He now realized why Sara was doing this. Her nightmares would only end after Popineau was sent to hell where he belonged.
Sara sat in her car, running her fingers over the Ruger. She expertly checked to see that the safety was on and that a .45 caliber round was seated snugly into the chamber. She released the magazine, counting eight rounds. Plenty to complete the job. Through her open window she could hear hymns being sung by the small group partaking in a Saturday evening devotional. At times, she thought she could make out the booming voice of Pastor Gary Popineau. Her skin crawled. She had been kept waiting for over an hour now and her resolve only grew stronger by the minute.
Mike blew past the towns of Loveland and Windsor, almost missing the exit that would take him through Old Town Fort Collins directly to Ranch Springs. His tires squealed as he climbed the oval on-ramp to Highway 14. He knew he was too late to stop this from happening, and he wasn’t sure what his reaction would be once he found Sara. His heart pounded. Of course he knew what his reaction would be.
Popineau stood at the double doors to the chapel and shook hands with the last of his congregation. Sara watched with contempt as Pop hugged the teenage daughter of a smiling middle-aged couple. She thought he held the embrace just a little too long, and wondered if the young girl was as repulsed as she was by the smell of Popineau’s cologne and sweat.
He finally waved goodbye, then closed the chapel doors to the world. Sara sat, breathing deeply as the lights in the church went out, followed by the lights in the ministry quarters switching on. She waited until the last car had pulled away, then quietly stepped from her Honda and walked to door of Pop’s home.
Mike tried to accelerate but the winding road to Ranch Springs forced him to slow his Taurus to a manageable speed. He expected to see flashing lights from ambulances and state cruisers as they sped to the murder scene of Pastor Gary Popineau, but found himself alone on the two-lane highway instead. Maybe she hadn’t done it. Maybe she couldn’t do it. Maybe, Mike had over-reacted to this entire fucking mess.
“No,” he thought to himself. “Sara is going to kill him.”
Sara tried the front door. Ssurprised to find it unlocked, she opened it slowly and slipped inside. Sounds of running water mixed with the clanging of pots and pans could be heard coming from the kitchen. A soft glow of yellow light spilled into the hallway as Sara inched along the wall, listening intently for voices from any person other than Pop. Over the running water she could hear the throaty humming of “Bringing in the Sheaves”. She smelled him before she saw him, but fought the urge to run. Raising the .45 from her side, Sara entered the kitchen.
Mike turned off the highway onto Ranch Springs Road and passed the corner store/café. A sheriff deputy’s Ford Explorer and three other vehicles sat out front. He was astounded that the town was quiet. This was not the scene he had expected for the past three hours. He slowed to a crawl and inched up the hill toward Chapel of the Pines.
She turned the corner and spotted him at the sink. His back was turned to her; his black Stadelmaier shirt draped over the back of a kitchen chair. Pop stood in a worn and stained undershirt, his black slacks unbuttoned and loose. He soaped and scrubbed a dirty saucepan with deliberation.
“Hello, Pop.” Sara said, just loud enough to startle the heavy man. “Do you remember me?”
Popineau jumped and turned, spilling soapy water down his front as he did.
Sara stood, legs shoulder width apart, comfortable–not tense, .45 raised in front of her pointed directly at Pop’s heart.
“Oh, sweetheart, you startled me,” he said, smiling at first, then frowning as he took the scene in before him.
Sara relaxed a bit, then pulled the hammer back on the Ruger with her thumb.
Pop held out a wet hand. It shook as he struggled for words. “Now, sweetheart, you will want to lower that gun. God is in this room with us, and He condemns any violence in His house.”
“What would you know of God?”
Popineau took a step closer to Sara. “I know that you may think differently, but I am simply a tool of the Lord.” Pastor Gary smiled and cupped his hands together in prayer. “I am a carpenter, just like Jesus. I build the circumstances that bring men closer to God. Your father, Sara; he was a lost soul until you and I met.”
“Through adversity, man finds God?” Sara asked.
Popineau tilted his head. A proud look spread over his face. “Yes, my child. I build the staircase and point the way upward. Now you understand who I truly am.”
Sara lowered the handgun. “I know who you are,” she said. “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves.”
Pop grew furious. “I am a ferocious wolf, you little bitch,” he yelled. “This time I will cut you into pieces as you beg for my forgiveness.”
Sara had rehearsed for a year, exactly what she would say at this moment. She had envisioned herself yelling obscenities at this demon; forcing him to beg for his worthless life. She had pictured him squirming, gasping for breath as his blood spilled onto the floor in a pink and frothy stew.
She raised the gun and squeezed the trigger once. A small hole appeared between Gary Popineau’s eyes, and she watched a mass of blood and brain paint a gruesome portrait of death on the wall behind him. Pop’s knees folded, causing him to drop straight to the floor. In Sara’s mind, she envisioned him continuing to fall to the fires that awaited him.
Remembering the book she read at the cabin of crime scene investigations, Sara bent, picked up the spent casing of the bullet she had just fired, then turned away.
Mike pulled in behind Sara’s Honda. The car was empty. He slid from behind the wheel and closed his door silently. As he crossed the street, the front door to the ministry quarters opened and Sara stepped out. There was no surprise on her face when she saw him. There was not so much as a tear in her eye.
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