Heaven's Prey

by Janet Sketchley

  Ruth squinted at the number on the screen. “Yes.”

  “I used to watch TV to see what the press said about me.” He snorted. “Now, I just want to know if the cops have any idea where I am.”

  He slid a package of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and tossed the rest onto the coffee table. Ruth’s nose wrinkled at the sharp smell.

  The picture on the television screen zoomed in to a close-up shot of the smiling co-anchors and the opening theme swelled to a dramatic finish. “Good afternoon, and welcome to Global’s Thursday edition of the News at Noon. I’m Moira Simmonds, here with Dennis O’Neill.

  “Today’s stories include a look at a group of local students who have taken a creative approach to the summer job search. Kevin Findlay has a report on the Provincial government’s latest efforts to boost the tourism industry, and we go behind the scenes at Nova Scotia’s oldest advertising office.

  “But first, our top story. Dennis?”

  Dennis O’Neill adjusted his glasses and faced the camera with a look of grave concern. “Nova Scotians were shocked today to learn that the subject of a Canada-wide manhunt is at large in our province. Harry Silver, convicted serial rapist and murderer, was spotted last evening in a Halifax area convenience store. He abducted a local woman.”

  On the couch, Harry raised two fingers in salute, then cocked them at Ruth. “There you go, your fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Ruth held her tongue. Would they say anything about Tony?

  The picture split to show Dennis on the left side of the screen, with an image of Harry’s face on the right. “Please familiarize yourselves with this man’s picture. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Police are advising women across the province to take extra safety precautions and to avoid going out alone.”

  “They could have picked a more flattering photo.” Harry sounded offended. What did he expect, a publicity shot from his glory days?

  Cut back to Dennis. “Now to Moira, who has more details about last night’s incident.”

  Moira, an attractive chocolate-skinned woman in her mid-thirties, spoke with controlled anger. “At approximately ten o’clock last evening, Harry Silver walked into a convenience store on the Bay Road. A female cashier was alone in the store at the time.

  “Police speculate that the cashier, a blond teenager, was Silver’s original target. There was a power failure, caused by last night’s high winds, and Silver may have panicked. He fled, abducting one of two customers who had just entered the store.”

  Ruth remembered the terror in the girl’s eyes, her shaking shoulders. How she’d pulled away from a comforting touch as if Harry had already abused her. If his threats could do that, what would they do to her future? Lord, please protect this young woman’s heart from fear and anger, and from guilt.

  On the television, Moira consulted the paper in her hand. “Here’s what we have so far, Dennis. The abducted woman is Halifax resident Ruth Warner.

  “The police report describes her as average height, with short, brown hair, and in her mid-forties. There is some degree of hope she may be released unharmed, since Silver’s past offenses have shown he preys on younger, blond women.”

  Harry’s mocking laugh made Ruth jump. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ve been through that. You’ll do.”

  Ruth steamed. So many times growing up, she’d wished to be prettier. Taller, blond like her sister Lorna. Now here she was, wishing to be full-out ugly.

  Moira set the paper down. “Ms. Warner’s husband is unavailable for comment, as is her companion at the store last night. Neighbours describe Ms. Warner as friendly and outgoing, but say the couple only moved into the neighbourhood within the past year.

  “Frank Carter, who lives next door to the Warners, spoke with me this morning.”

  The picture changed to show a middle-aged man in a grey trench coat, talking with Moira outside his home. Talons of wind snatched at Moira’s fashionable rain bonnet and slapped the man’s briefcase against his legs.

  He moved away from the house. “I’ve gotten to know the Warners a bit since they moved in. Nice folks. Ordinary people, the sort these things shouldn’t ever happen to. I don’t mind saying, I’m finding all this hard to believe.”

  Was this what it felt like to hear her own obituary?

  “Have you been able to talk to Mr. Warner? Any idea how he’s handling this?” Moira held the microphone closer to Frank’s mouth.

  “I went over this morning as soon as I heard the news, but he didn’t come to the door. I imagine he’s taking it pretty hard—who wouldn’t?”

  The man edged toward his car. “That’s all I can tell you. If I don’t get moving, I’ll be late for work.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Carter. One last thing. Can you tell me where Ms. Warner works, or where I might find some of her friends who could give my viewers more background?”

  He paused, then shook his head. “No, the name won’t come to me. I’m sure she told me. Fabrics or crafts or something. I don’t remember. As for friends, I’ve seen them, but I wouldn’t have a clue as to their names. Oh, wait, I suppose you might try her church.”

  Moira brightened. “Which church would that be?”

  “Up on Highlands Avenue. It has a different sort of name, for a church. Lighthouse, or something like that. We went with her at Christmas. Nice people, and she goes regularly. Maybe someone there could help you. Now, I really must go.” He ducked into his car and closed the door against the rain.

  The television screen switched back to the news studio, where Moira continued her report. “That was my conversation with Frank Carter earlier this morning. Since then I’ve been unable to get through to anyone at Ms. Warner’s church, but we’ll keep on making every effort to learn more about this family, caught in such a horrible situation. And now— Yes, Dennis?” She turned her eyes away from the camera.

  Her co-anchor’s face replaced her. “This just in. One of our reporters has finally made contact with the minister at The Beacon Church. He knows Ms. Warner, and is willing to talk with us. Before our next item, we’ll go live to Philip Gordon. Phil, you’re on.”

  The young reporter wore a tentative smile, as if this were the first news story he’d covered on camera. He adopted a solemn expression and cleared his throat. “This is Philip Gordon with Global News. I’m here at The Beacon Church in Halifax with Rev. John Linton.”

  The sight of her pastor made Ruth’s eyes well. John represented comfort, a haven. He’d become a mentor since the night he challenged her to pray for Harry Silver. Tony had been so uncomfortable in that meeting. But he’d made her go because he knew she needed help. God, nobody knows where I am. I’ll never see the people I love again.

  Philip Gordon turned to the man beside him. “Rev. Linton, I understand you’ve known Mr. and Mrs. Warner for some time. Can you elaborate on the details of this tragic situation?”

  John Linton still had on the blue shirt he’d worn at the prayer meeting the night before. He needed a shave, and his pale eyes burned in his pockmarked face as if he hadn’t slept. “I got a call late last night from Norma Martell, who was with Ruth when she was abducted.”

  He raised one hand to ward off the question Ruth could almost see forming on the young reporter’s lips. “Mrs. Martell is quite upset about the whole thing, and does not want anyone from the media questioning her.

  “As I understand it, the two women stopped at the store on their way home from church. Silver threatened to kill them. The power went off, and the cashier escaped and called the police. When they arrived with lights to search the store, Norma realized Ruth was gone.”

  Harry snorted. “That was one twitchy woman. Probably would have died of fright on the way here. Or driven me nuts. Guess you’re not a worst-case scenario after all.”

  Ruth ignored him. She focused on the television, where Philip nodded sympathetically at the pastor. “Can you give us a more personal look at Ms. Warner? Our viewers are naturally concerned about he
r in this tragic situation, and want to know her a little better.”

  John Linton paused, the shadow of a smile chasing across his acne-scarred face. “Ruth is an active member of our church family. She works at Harrington’s Fabric Hut, downtown. And she makes the best blueberry pies I’ve ever tasted.”

  His lips twisted. “There’s a horrible kind of irony to this. When I got to know Ruth, she and her husband were working through a deep personal tragedy. It could have crushed her, but instead she chose to allow God to use it to deepen her faith and teach her to pray.”

  The reporter bobbed his head in two quick nods of encouragement, clearly hoping for more. Pastor Linton passed a hand over dark-rimmed eyes. “We’ve organized a round-the-clock prayer vigil at the church. I’ve been here most of the night. The last few years have made Ruth a survivor. Harry Silver got more than he bargained for this time.”

  Ruth gulped. They were praying for her. Her spiritual family cared, hadn’t given up. Her lips trembled, and she couldn’t hold back her tears. She peeked at Harry, hoping he’d be looking at the screen and miss her reaction.

  Their eyes met. He lifted an eyebrow. “Survivor, huh? You’re no match for me.”

  Ruth knew it. She looked back at the television. What did John mean, more than Harry bargained for?

  On the screen, John Linton seemed to grow taller. He faced directly into the camera and raised his hand, palm forward. “Harry Silver, I command you, in the power and the name of Jesus Christ, to leave His servant Ruth alone. You have no authority over her, and you will not harm her in any way.”

  The young reporter’s jaw dropped. Blinking rapidly, he pulled the microphone close to his chest. The transmission ended abruptly.

  In the cottage’s living room, there was the sharp hiss of indrawn breath. Harry’s feet dropped to the floor. He half rose from the couch, fists clenched.

  On the television screen, Dennis ignored the sudden break in the interview. “Thank you, Phil, and a special thank you to Rev. Linton for giving us more insight into this story. I’m sure Ms. Warner will be in all our thoughts and prayers in the days ahead.”

  He glanced down at the desk. “Now, our next item. I spent yesterday afternoon at the home of Jeff Conrad. He and some of his friends at Sackville High have come up with an unusual approach to finding a summer job—”

  Harry’s thumb on the remote control cut him off. He turned on Ruth with a look that held all the hatred of a wolf at bay. “You didn’t tell me you were a Christian.”

  The banshee shriek of the wind, hurling rain against the sides of the cottage, echoed his fury. Tension arced in her stomach. “Does it matter?”

  “No.” He stuck another cigarette between his lips. The hand holding the lighter shook. “And don’t think what that fool preacher said will make any difference. Words are useless.”

  He sprang to his feet, glaring at her. “The last one tried that trick. And it didn’t do her any good. If there is a God, then He either isn’t interested or isn’t able to save His own people.”

  The last one. Susan. Grief clogged Ruth’s throat, pushed her thoughts out in a whisper. “Her body was so badly battered... worse than your other victims. Is that why?”

  “It can happen to you, too.” Despite the hatred in his tone, it was Harry who looked away first.

  Chapter 9

  Harry couldn’t look at the woman hunched in the rocking chair. He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette but nicotine gave no relief. Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades as he fought waves of memory that rose to batter him, remorseless and unstoppable as the incoming tide. Outside the cottage, the wind’s wild lament echoed the turmoil in his mind.

  He threw back his head and howled, one long primal cry of anguish. Let his would-be counsellor make of that what she willed. Let her tremble at the depth of fury he’d soon turn her way.

  Susan. Why did she have to be a Christian? So perfect, so inviting, then hitting him with God when his defences were down.

  He’d been minding his own business when she walked into his life. She was fresh, pure, perfect. A sun goddess miraculously transplanted into the ice-bound citadel of dirty snow that was Toronto in January. She glowed that way now, in his mind.

  No. He stabbed his cigarette into the heavy glass ashtray on the coffee table. He wouldn’t think of Susan, not now, not with another religious woman watching him.

  If this one started preaching too, he’d go mad.

  His breath came fast and ragged. Harry spun away from her, his legs suddenly rubbery as if he were in the final stage of a marathon. No matter how loudly he swore, he couldn’t drown out the soft words that welled in his memory.

  Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you...

  Harry clamped his hands over his ears, fingers gouging into the sides of his head, but her voice came from the recesses of his own mind. He sank onto the couch, bracing his elbows on sagging knees to support the weight of his mental agony.

  The rocking chair creaked. Harry’s head snapped up as his hostage eased herself to her feet.

  “Sit still.”

  She froze, the colour draining from her face. Without taking her eyes from his, she subsided into her chair.

  Harry’s face dropped into the futile protection of his hands.

  Excuse me... Susan’s voice echoed louder in his mind. Her words were iron chains, dragging him into the surge of memory. A shuddering sigh escaped the depths of his lungs as he sank.

  ~~~

  He sat alone at a red metal table. The mall’s food court lay nearly deserted, giving him the rarity of solitude in a public venue. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching. He stared into the glossy darkness of his coffee, hoping the uninvited visitor would take the hint.

  After a moment, she spoke. Resigned to the inevitable, he looked up—and was lost. He felt the passion taking hold, burning her image into his brain. Soft, honey-blond hair flowed over the shoulders of her teal blue wool coat, rippling as she inclined her head toward him.

  Her blue eyes, uncertain at first, filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

  His mind fumbled to translate her voice into mortal English, and prodded him to reply. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice level.

  “I’m fine. Just daydreaming.” He clenched the Styrofoam cup, his trembling hands sloshing hot liquid over the sides. Pain jolted his fingers, piercing the delicious sense of excitement that had blossomed inside of him.

  For one wild moment he thought of fighting it. He could get up and walk away. She’d think he was rude, but she’d never know how narrowly she’d escaped. He braced one hand on the edge of the table, leg muscles tensing to rise.

  “You are Harry Silver, aren’t you?”

  The sweet softness of her voice dragged his unwilling gaze back to her face. A hint of doubt clouded her eyes as if she was afraid she’d mistaken his identity. The glimpse of vulnerability caught his breath and he sank back into his chair, defeated.

  He flashed a grin, friendly and inviting. “That’s me. Sorry—I must have zoned out.” He pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. “Have a seat, and let’s start over. I’m in the game now.”

  She stood undecided, one hand resting lightly on the back of the bright red chair. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  Harry lifted his hands, palms up in surrender. Desire had full possession of him now. The tremors had passed. “My time is yours. I was getting lonely here with my thoughts.”

  “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.” The girl sat on the edge of the chair.

  Harry’s hands played idly with his bent cup. “Have a coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I have to be at work soon.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Harry watched her, his muscles taut. She had no idea of the electricity sparking inside of him.

  She leaned forward and the spell increased. “I feel really silly bothering you, but I know someone who’s been one of your fans since you started racing
. He’d be thrilled to have your autograph.”

  Harry kept a brittle smile in place to mask the sudden antagonism that flared toward her nameless male friend. She belonged to him now. There was no room for another man.

  He kept his voice light. “Your boyfriend, I assume?”

  A low chuckle escaped the soft curve of her lips. She shook her head, her long, golden hair cascading around her shoulders.

  “My uncle, actually.”

  Relief flooded him, as senseless as the flash of rage. Reaching out, he touched her forearm as it rested on the metal table between them. The thick wool coat yielded under his fingertips.

  “Listen,” he said, as if struck by a sudden idea. “Your uncle would probably appreciate something better than my scrawl on a crumpled napkin from Sam’s Café.” His hand left her arm to prod the little square of paper on the table, one corner coffee-sodden from his spill.

  “I’ve got some spare publicity photos in my apartment. How about I sign one for him, and you can meet me somewhere tomorrow to collect it?”

  White, even teeth chewed delicately on her bottom lip. Her blue eyes looked doubtful. “I couldn’t put you to that much trouble.” She opened her tiny black purse. “I must have some paper in here, somewhere.”

  He gave a slow wink, well-practiced charm filling his voice. “Nothing is too much trouble when it’s a beautiful woman who asks. I insist.”

  Her hands stilled, then closed the little purse. Harry felt the barrier that rose against his words. Instantly realigning his approach, he held out one hand. “I’m sorry, Miss. That was a stupid thing to say.”

  He offered a warm smile, hoping he sounded properly contrite. “Around the track, we all talk that way. I know it’s sexist, but it doesn’t mean anything. Most of the female fans I meet seem to expect it. They don’t take it seriously, but it gives them a bit of a thrill to flirt with the man under the crash helmet.”