He dropped his arm, caught her staring, and scowled. “That Bible.” He swore, his voice a harsh croak. “Where did you get it?”
She traced the spine of the small, leather-bound book with her index finger. “It was in my purse. My friend and I were on our way home from church when we stopped at that store.”
Nearly forty-eight hours ago now—it felt like a lifetime. “We were praying for you that night. We just didn’t plan to come face to face with you.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Dear God, please strike that horrible man with lightning.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
Ruth flattened her lips into a tight line and breathed out through her nose. “We did ask that you wouldn’t be allowed to harm anyone else and that you’d be recaptured, but whether you believe it or not, some of us were honestly concerned for your soul.”
She looked down at her lap, her fingers pleating the soft denim of her borrowed skirt. How would he react to what she had to say next? “After I learned you were the one who killed Susan, God told me to pray for you.”
Harry snorted. “I’ll just bet He did. What are the voices in your head saying now?”
Smack him and get out of here tied for loudest. Ruth ignored them. “It’s true. I’ve been praying for you nearly every day since then. And you have no idea how shocked some of those dear people at Bible study were when I first asked our group to pray for you.”
Harry made a mighty effort to sit up. Ruth tensed, but the pain that carved his face kept him pinned to the couch. “You have got to be crazy. Or do you think I am, that I’d fall for such a line of garbage?”
Ruth rocked silently, watching him.
Harry glowered. “Her parents tried that with me at the trial, through the lawyers. Sent me a Bible. I tore it up. Chaplain in prison offered me another one. I nearly tore him up.”
Ruth’s conscience twinged. She’d meant well, asking for him to have that Bible in prison. The poor chaplain.
His fingers twitched, as if he wanted to rend something now. “Your whole family’s nuts. Do you expect me to believe anyone cares about the likes of me? I have tortured, raped, and killed eight women. Even I don’t think I deserve to live.”
He hurled a stream of profanity at her. “She was your niece, for God’s sake. Give it up, woman.” He rolled over on the couch, turning his back on her. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it won’t work.”
Eight? Ruth frowned. He’d only been convicted of seven deaths.
Her index finger traced the raised letters on the cover of her Bible. “When you were arrested it gave me a name and a face to hate, for what you’d done to Susan. She was... she was one of those people who made everyone happier just by being in the room. Patients in the hospital loved her. We all loved her.”
Harry didn’t move.
Ruth dabbed a stray tear with a tissue. “I couldn’t handle the anger. When my pastor said I’d find healing by praying for you, I refused. So God got my attention a bit more dramatically. You don’t have to believe me, but every night—every night—I saw you dying. Horribly. Lost. The grief was indescribable, worse than I’ve ever known even for Susan. God was showing me how He felt about losing one soul—your soul.”
The weight of loss hit her again, and the shadowed living room closed in on her like a collapsed mine shaft. She fought to breathe. God, he needs You, and You want him so badly—
Ruth pulled a handful of tissues from the box on the table beside her and wiped her face, but the tears kept coming. Snuffling, I’m blubbering, for goodness’ sake, she gulped air and tried to finish her story before he decided to roll over and start mocking her again. “I thought God was just helping me get over my grief. I didn’t realize He was preparing me to actually meet you.”
Harry’s only response was an exaggerated snore.
Ruth watched him, a prayer flitting through her soul. He was awake, all right. Too awake to risk sneaking the tantalizing bulge of a cell phone out of his back pocket. The stiff set of his shoulders told her he’d heard every word.
She leaned forward in the rocker. “Tell me—when you were a child, would your parents have turned away from you when you did wrong? Even now, with everything you’ve done, don’t you think there’d still be a spark of love alive in spite of the horror?”
Harry was silent for so long that Ruth wondered if he’d fallen asleep after all. Then he rolled back to face her, his blue eyes burning with misery.
When he spoke, his voice was low and unsteady. “My father would have taken me apart with his bare hands and walked away without looking back. But my mother—she’d still be trying to help me, if the news hadn’t killed her.”
“She must have loved you very much.” Ruth looked directly into his eyes. “God loves you, too. He’s put a lot into reaching you. It was no accident that sent Susan and me into your path. God didn’t abandon either of us. He was willing to involve His own people in getting through to you.”
She gripped the arms of the rocker. “You killed Susan, and you want to kill me.” Her throat muscles constricted as she spoke the words, but a new thought distracted her. “I wonder. Could you kill me in cold blood?”
Harry raised one eyebrow and stared. “What?”
“You said it’s a compulsion—something you can’t stop. Well, you seem pretty self-controlled right now.”
“I don’t think I’ll have much trouble when the time comes, sweetheart.” His eyes were bright, his sneer only a little pale.
God, keep him down until dark, so I can get out of here safely. Ruth forced herself to maintain eye contact. “All that would get you is two voices in your dreams. Mine and Susan’s. God doesn’t give up that easily.”
~~~
Silence thickened the air. Harry pushed himself into a sitting position. He had to get to his feet, put an end to this crazy woman and her talk.
The room spun around him. He leaned forward, his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees.
Her attitude made no sense. How could she sit there and spout that kind of trash? And expect him to take it seriously?
He gritted his teeth against a stab of pain. He’d dismissed the girl’s parents’ message of forgiveness as some weird by-product of shock. Or an attempt to infuriate him. But this woman had to be nuts. Still her beliefs gave her courage, and more peace than he would ever know.
Just like Susan. She’d been so young, so vulnerable, but she faced him bravely. His mind replayed her death, leaving those haunting words echoing in his head.
It couldn’t possibly be true, but how could a person cling to false hopes after what he’d done to her? How could she claim Jesus loved him, claim she forgave him? To forgive him, indeed. She had no right. The same futile rage swelled inside him.
Fingertips massaging his throbbing temples, he willed himself not to lose consciousness. As the dizziness faded, the pounding in his head settled down to a dull, steady ache.
When he looked up, his tormentor was watching him. His sight must still be affected. He thought he saw a shimmer of tears in her eyes.
She held out a hand. “Please, Harry, don’t keep turning away from God.”
~~~
Ruth squeezed the Bible in her lap, wrapping her fingers around it to hide their shaking. Had she pushed too far?
She tried to read his face. Father, reach him somehow.
“Stop that.” Harry’s voice sliced razor-sharp. Anger sparked in his eyes. His focus didn’t waver.
Ruth sucked in a gasp. Was he strong enough to stand?
“Stop what?” She braced her feet and let go of the Bible. Should she grab her crutch? But then he’d know her weakness.
“You were praying for me.”
Her hand gripped the knife handle. The blade lay point-forward. If Harry lunged faster than she could move, all she had to do was lift it. His momentum would do the damage. “How did you know?” And how did he plan to stop her?
“Your face. My mother used to get that look when she prayed f
or us.” Sadness crept back over his features, but anger still hardened his jaw.
“She didn’t have to die.” He hurled the words at Ruth like rocks at a pane of glass. “Why couldn’t this God of yours protect her?”
Ruth bit her lip. She met Harry’s eyes. “How did it happen?”
“A car hit her while she was crossing the street. A freak accident. An accident that meant nothing to your God.”
So this was the tragedy. Ruth’s heart ached at the pain in his voice. “I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love.” Oh, no. He’d take that as an attack. But the words were out now. She pushed on.
“I think God did care about her death. I can’t tell you why He let it happen that way, but I know God cares about His people. You said she knew God, knew Him well enough to pray for you.”
Harry opened his mouth, but Ruth held up her free hand, the other one out of sight still clutching the knife. “She’s with Jesus now. She’s all right. If you’ll only let Him into your life, let Him forgive you, you’ll see her again when you die.”
“I don’t want His forgiveness. And He’s not getting mine.”
Ruth leaned forward in the rocker. “I don’t understand.”
Harry jabbed a shaky finger at her. “My mother was the gentlest, kindest woman I have ever met. Your God led her to believe in Him, knowing full well she’d suffer for it. It tore my family apart. My father couldn’t handle the competition. He started beating her.”
He dropped his head into his hands and sat there, elbows on his knees, studying the floor. His fingers wound themselves tightly into his dark hair.
The clock marked five minutes’ passage. Ruth thought he was finished. When he spoke again, his voice shook. “I was only a kid. Dad used to hurt her so bad, and I couldn’t stop him. And she’d just take it.”
He glared at Ruth. “I asked your God to help, and He did nothing. Nothing, do you hear? He let it go on. That’s how a so-called God of love treats His own.”
Tears misted Ruth’s eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“What do you care, anyway?” His fists were so tight his forearms trembled.
“I do care. I care about a woman who faced so much hurt from someone she loved. The same thing could have happened to me when I became a Christian. My husband was upset, too, but he decided it was a phase he could wait out.” Thank You, Father, for reaching Tony.
The anguish on Harry’s face tore at her heart. “I care, too, about a little boy whose innocence was shattered by such terrible pain.”
Harry grunted and hunched forward, resting his head back on his hands.
As if the rug were a safer focal point than her words. “Maybe God decided to take her out of that situation. Who knows how much worse things would have become? She’s safe with Him now. Nothing can hurt her anymore. And...” She paused, then let the burning thought out. “Aren’t you glad she didn’t have to find out about you?”
Harry’s only response was an expletive. He pushed himself to his feet.
Ruth lunged for her crutch, but he ignored her and staggered into the bathroom. When the door closed, she pushed to her feet. Pain stabbed her knee, but the leg took some weight. She kept a grip on the knife, just in case.
She limped to the kitchen, leaving the light off so Harry couldn’t see her as clearly. Her knee throbbed by the time she reached the back door. Panting, she released the deadbolt. She leaned on the broom and grabbed the doorknob.
The bathroom door opened, and light spilled into the living room until Harry shut it off. He staggered to the couch without a glance in her direction. Ruth let go of the doorknob and pressed her hand against her heart.
Chapter 22
Gritting his teeth against a stomach-churning swirl of vertigo and pain, Harry stayed on his feet until he reached the couch. He allowed a groan to escape his lips as he collapsed, face down, along its length.
Let the woman see how sick he was. He felt a bit of strength returning—and he’d need it all to get rid of her. He’d slake his anger in the process. Overpowering her would be easier if she had no warning.
So the drug lord had goons watching the place. Probably to get rid of the car once he’d gone, maybe even clean up any evidence. Including the body. Bet there’d be an extra charge added to his escape cost for that.
They’d scared her, bringing her back. Good. He’d scare her more before he finished with her. Stupid sheep—how long did she plan to hang around to see if he got better? And why hadn’t she stuck a knife in him while he was out of it?
He felt himself drifting toward sleep and anxiety clutched his chest. What other tortured memories lurked in the dark corners of his dreams? Better to keep awake, even with his self-appointed nurse’s preaching.
Harry scowled into his cushion. No, he probably couldn’t kill her in cold blood, but that didn’t matter. She’d given him enough fuel to stoke his rage. Just let him get his hands on her, and he’d show her—and that God of hers.
Anger eclipsed his fears, and his battered brain forgot the battle to stay alert. At first he slept, body and mind resting undisturbed. Eventually he drifted into semi-wakefulness, and his thoughts wandered, sifting memories, revisiting places he thought he’d buried.
He was a pre-teen again, pushing his limits dangerously far, trying to prove... what?
Too much had happened before his mother’s death for his family to pick up the pieces and move on. Two years after the tragedy, each one still dealt with their common grief alone. Carol played the model teen in her father’s presence, but Harry heard the rumours at school and didn’t trust the look of her new friends.
She’d pulled away from him as well as from their father. It should have hurt more, but Harry was already numb. He spent as much time as possible away from home. Pick-up basketball games, hanging out with friends at the mall, long solitary bike rides. Anything to keep moving, keep his mind off the void in his heart.
A few of his teachers urged him to try harder at school. Some of his crowd prodded him to graduate from the occasional illicit cigarette to street drugs. Others taunted that he wasn’t cool enough to shoplift.
Harry ignored them all. There was no point in listening. He didn’t care what they thought. He simply didn’t care.
His father hadn’t seemed to care either, and somehow that made things worse. What would it take to force a reaction from him? To Harry’s mind, even an abusive parent would be better than an emotionally absent one. He’d lost both of his parents that terrible day.
He saw how hard his father worked to provide for them physically, but if Dad recognized his children’s pain, he made no effort to ease it. Mom’s name was never spoken.
From time to time Harry’s bicycle rovings led past the garage where his father worked. One humid summer day he noticed a low tire and stopped for air. Harry drifted inside for a can of orange soda. Before he finished, his dad entered from the service bays, wiping oily hands on a stained cloth.
Suspicion flared in Dad’s eyes. He walked over to Harry. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. I was out on my bike, and I got thirsty.” Harry dragged his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.
His father’s expression relaxed, but he made no effort to move. Harry gulped his soda, wishing he hadn’t stopped. There were other stations where he could have filled his tire. Why had he come here?
“Going somewhere?”
“Nowhere special. I won’t be late.” Harry tossed the empty can into the trash and edged toward the door.
“Want to stick around? I’ve got one more job, then I can drive you home.”
Harry stared at his father. He couldn’t tell much from the neutral tone. Was this just what the words said, a break on a hot day, or could it be an offer of companionship? He scuffed the toe of one dirty running shoe along the floor.
“Well, okay. If you’re sure you won’t be long.” He had nothing better to do, anyway.
His dad snatched the work order for his next assignment, then turned
and jerked his head in the direction of the service bays. “Come on through.”
Harry followed wordlessly into the din and leaned against a clear spot of wall beside his father’s dented red tool chest. He knew the safety rules back here, though he hadn’t been inside very often.
With an ear-splitting roar, Dad backed a gleaming, late-model Cadillac into his bay. His hand lingered on the deep blue paint of the hood before he raised the car on the hoist. Harry paid little attention to his father’s movements as Dad installed a new muffler.
When the car was finally lowered to the ground, Dad started the engine. He stood still, head tilted to one side like a robin on the hunt. Harry leaned his head back against the wall. He knew that look. They could be here for a while.
Dad’s frown faded. Killing the engine, he turned to the tool chest and grabbed what he needed. He spared a brief smile for Harry, and ducked under the engine hood.
Resigning himself to more waiting, Harry slid to a sitting position on the floor. His father surfaced a few times to start the engine. At last he nodded. To Harry, it sounded the same.
“Tourist car.” Dad pointed to the North Carolina license plate. “Too far to run with a rough engine.”
Harry pushed to his feet. As if that justified sweating an extra half hour in this noisy hole. He wandered back into the store while his father parked the car outside and cleaned up his workspace.
Two men entered as Harry finished an ice cream on a stick. He eyed them indifferently. One wore a blue chauffeur’s uniform, the other, immaculately pressed cotton trousers and a soft-looking pale green shirt. The land-yacht’s owner, here to collect it.
Harry studied them as the American spoke to the garage owner. Living in a run-down part of the city, he didn’t see many rich people. This man was quiet and authoritative, not pushy and arrogant like the stereotypes on television.
Dad came through the connecting doors. Harry moved toward the exit, but his father approached the group at the counter. Harry waited, one hand on the door, stifling the urge to storm off on his bike. Surely it couldn’t be much longer.
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