Dead Giveaway

by Leann Sweeney

  The house had a porch along the front with a wheelchair ramp, so I figured I was right, this wasn't Olive's house. Now what?

  Light flowed from a side window, illuminating a small garden. No drapes pulled yet. Maybe I could take a peek inside before I knocked on the door.

  I slipped from behind the wheel and eased my door shut so as not to alert anyone in the house. Gun at my side, I quietly made my way toward the garden. The little plot was bordered by stones and I had to step over them. My feet sank into newly laid pinebark mulch and the smell wafted up around me. I nearly sneezed but held it in. Flattening against the logs, I looked in the window.

  It was a living room, but very open, sparsely furnished, with wood floors. I moved closer to get a better look after I spotted Olive talking to a woman standing with the aid of a walker—one of those kind with a basket and wheels. The woman was tall and thin, with dishwater blond hair drawn back in a ponytail. She was looking down. I spied a wheelchair in a corner.

  Olive was visiting a handicapped parishioner after all. Maybe I should wait until—

  But then Olive walked away, out of my sight, and that's when the woman with the walker looked straight at the window.

  I gasped. Not a quiet gasp, either.

  24

  Still blinking in disbelief, I heard a sound behind me— heard too late. Someone grabbed my wrist and twisted the gun from my hand. It fell with a thud near my right foot.

  I felt steel against my temple.

  ''Very bad move coming here,'' the man whispered. I recognized the voice from the storage unit. ''You say one word and you're dead.''

  I nodded my agreement, my thoughts leaving the woman I'd just recognized as I shifted into survival mode. I wasn't sure I'd be spared again, but this guy didn't want the women in the house to hear, so I at least had a few minutes left. If he was going to kill me, it wouldn't happen near the house.

  This time he snapped regular cuffs on my wrists and said, ''Where are your car keys?''

  ''In the ignition,'' I said.

  ''Perfect. Now move.''

  But he didn't shove or push, just laid a hand on my shoulder to steer me around the garden. When I stumbled once on the stones, he caught me before I fell. I looked at the man.

  B.J.

  He said, ''Keep going,'' his hand resting on my back as we moved forward into the woods. We weren't going to my car as I expected.

  His touch on my back reminded me of the caress when he'd left me in that storage unit, the way he stared at me in the church. His obvious attraction made me sick right now, but it had served me well to this point and I'd use it if I had to.

  I thought about running—for about a tenth of a second. Unfortunately for me, he obviously knew this place. I didn't. Added to that, my heart was thumping and I was wearing bracelets. Escape would be about as easy as digging a ditch in the ocean.

  I risked a glance back at the house after intentionally tripping to get that look.

  B.J. said, ''You're a klutz, just like her.''

  Her? Sara Rankin? The woman with the walker? The woman I'd recognized?

  ''Yeah, that's me. Klutzy kidnap victim,'' I said as he helped me up.

  ''Real funny,'' he mumbled.

  Would Sara help me? Could she help me? Not a promising prospect.

  Turned out, the road leading to the cabin looped around after it passed the house. A short trek through the woods on a well-worn path and we reached B.J.'s car parked on a curve. This was the car that had sped by after I came along behind the van. Oh, yeah. I'd been followed again. Jeez. I could probably screw up a two-car funeral.

  Funeral. Don't think about that, Abby.

  He'd chosen black for his newest Lexus—and it was brand-new, paper still on the floorboards and thin plastic covering the leather seats. After he'd cuffed me to the seat belt and activated the child safety locks, he took out his cell phone.

  After a few seconds he said, ''Olive? There's a car in your driveway. The keys are in the ignition. You need to put that car in the garage. Now.''

  A short pause, then he said, ''Because Pastor Rankin would—''

  Olive interrupted, speaking loudly—though I couldn't catch the words, just her frantic tone.

  ''Olive, shut up. Give her some pills or one of those shots. Anything. Then hide that car.''

  He didn't wait for a reply, just snapped the phone shut and started the engine.

  B.J.'s gun was in his shoulder holster now, far from my very encumbered hands. He pressed his foot on the accelerator and we took off.

  This had all happened so fast and I was still stunned to have seen Sara Rankin in that log cabin. I kept silent for a minute or two, thinking things through. I felt calmer then, as calm as a girl could get, handcuffed next to a murderer. Still, B.J. could have gotten rid of me and he hadn't. He needed me alive for some reason.

  He made his next phone call when we reached the church parking lot. He'd pulled behind the main buildings near a row of garages. Not well lit. And deserted. He speed-dialed a number and said, ''She went to the cabin. I nabbed her before she got inside. Get everyone out, janitors included, and call me back. Then I'll bring her in.''

  I heard another agitated voice. Female, too.

  B.J. said, ''If you don't do this, I'll splatter her blood all over your church. See how well you fix that problem, Noreen.''

  My gut tightened. So much for my belief he had some odd attraction to me and would spare my life again. I was no more than a tool. And if Noreen didn't cooperate . . .

  But when I heard B.J. say, ''Good thinking,'' I knew I was safe for a few more precious minutes.

  I quietly released my breath.

  He took the gun out, held it across his lap, but said nothing. Just stared straight ahead.

  I had a little time, and knowing words were my only weapon, I said, ''What's wrong with Sara?''

  He didn't respond, just kept looking straight ahead.

  ''Her face, her mouth, the way they sag on one side. Did she have a stroke?'' I asked.

  Again nothing.

  ''Has she been in that house all these years? With no one but Olive?''

  The rise and fall of his chest picked up speed, his lips tightened. He wanted me to be quiet. But he still needed me, so I could keep hammering at him. Keep picking away. He might make a mistake.

  ''This Olive, she was Verna Mae's friend, right? Did the Rankins use Olive to sign Verna Mae up for motherhood?''

  ''Shut up,'' he snapped. This time he looked at me, but then quickly turned away.

  ''What I don't understand is why the Rankins have been keeping their daughter a prisoner. She can hardly walk, but she's still young, she's—''

  He pressed the gun barrel against my forehead. ''Amanda, shut your trap!''

  I swallowed hard. Amanda? And then I flashed back to my conversation with Kate, when we examined that grainy ATM photo. ''You look just like her,'' Kate had said.

  I closed my eyes, tried to remember all the names from Frank Simpson's notes—Amanda's ex-boyfriends who'd been supposedly cleared of her murder. Anyone whose name began with a B? Barry? No. Bob? No. An odd name. An old name. And then I just blurted it out. ''Byron.''

  B.J. turned sharply, glared for a long, cold second.

  ''Amanda dump you, Byron? Is that why you killed her?''

  ''She got religion, thought she was better than me. You look like her, you know. Even act like her. Wonder how she'd feel today if she knew I worked for the pastor.''

  ''Did she really deserve a bullet in the head?'' I wanted to add. ''Or do I?''

  B.J.'s strange smile nearly made my fingernails sweat. ''She wanted to be with God more than with me. So I helped her out.''

  The cell phone chirped, and we both flinched. A sound you hear every day and everywhere now made me want to throw up.

  B.J., eyes on me, answered, saying, ''You ready?'' A short pause followed, then he said, ''We're coming in.''

  If I didn't do something, I might be going out feet first. He came
around to the passenger side, opened the door, and when he bent to free my hands, I headbutted him in the jaw.

  He staggered, wiped at the blood dripping from his mouth.

  Not knocked out. Not what I'd hoped for. Shit.

  ''Yeah. You're just like her.'' He finished uncuffing me, being far more careful, and pulled me out of the car.

  Before I could blink, his gun grip came crashing down on my skull.

  I must have been unconscious for only a minute, because the next thing I knew, I was being carried over B.J.'s shoulder like a sack of flour. We were walking through the church kitchen, and I smelled buttermilk biscuits. Would I ever eat another one? God, I hoped so. He took me into Pastor Rankin's office and tossed me into one of the chairs surrounding the glass coffee table. By then, my senses had cleared— and I was mad as hell.

  ''Thanks, Byron,'' I said, the throbbing in my head just background noise compared to my rage. These people were going down tonight. I didn't know how, but I'd make it happen.

  ''Did she say 'Byron'?'' Mrs. Rankin asked as she came into the room.

  ''She knows. You see the problem?'' B.J. answered.

  Both she and her weirdo husband had arrived right behind us.

  Noreen Rankin, her makeup as perfect as ever and her expensive coral suit fitting every curve, began to pace, acting like I wasn't even in the room. ''You had no problem with the Olsen woman, no issue plugging that hole, B.J. I don't understand what you want from us? You could have taken care of this without bringing her here.''

  ''I'm not killing anyone else to protect your se crets,'' he said. ''Not without a better deal. If you won't fix me up, then I kill her in the sanctuary. That ought to bring a few unwelcome questions your way.''

  Rankin had sat at his desk and was giving me that stare I was beginning to know well and dislike intensely. I glared at him, and he covered his face with his hands and began mumbling. I heard ''Jesus'' and ''Lord'' a few times. Must be praying.

  Noreen walked over and rested a hand on her husband's shoulder. ''That seems reasonable, doesn't it, Andrew? We have the money.''

  Rankin didn't look up.

  These people were plotting my murder right in front of me and I couldn't do anything. Hell, maybe I couldn't even walk right now. Still, the only imminent threat was B.J. and his gun, which now hung down at his side.

  Noreen said, ''How much?''

  ''A hundred grand right away and a steady income in my new home somewhere in the Caribbean. You don't have to pay the Olsen woman anymore, so it won't hurt your budget.''

  ''That's acceptable. What will you do with her?'' she said, glancing my way for the first time.

  ''Good question. She has friends in HPD. Close friends. I'll have to take her out of town. Tonight.''

  Pastor Rankin was rocking back and forth, his hands clasped together, head still bent. But when he started this little high-pitched moan, both Noreen and B.J. turned his way.

  That was my opening. The only chance I might get.

  I dove over that coffee table and rammed into B.J., hitting him low, on the side of his leg at the knee— the closest weak point.

  The gun went flying.

  Noreen screamed.

  B.J. and I crashed into the heavy oak lectern holding the Bible. When we fell, a corner caught him in the temple. Blood poured from the wound as he thudded to the floor, out cold.

  I fell on my butt next to him and looked around. The gun. Where was the gun?

  I saw it on the floor by the pastor's feet. He was staring at it, smiling, then slowly bent and picked it up.

  He took the weapon in both hands, held it out in front of him, his hands shaking.

  Noreen smiled, cocked her head. ''Andrew? Give me the gun, sweetheart.''

  He shook his head. ''God has spoken. I have received His word. This ends now.''

  She stepped toward him.

  Their eyes locked.

  While they were occupied with their trust issues, I did what I'd been wanting to do for the last hour. I slipped my hands into B.J.'s shirt pocket for the handcuff key. Nothing like a good marital disagreement to provide distraction.

  I quickly freed my hands and stood. ''I think this long, sad story should come to an end, too, Pastor. Give me the gun.''

  Noreen looked at me, then back at her husband. ''Try to clear your mind, Andrew. You give in to her, and everyone will know what you did. How you made a deal with the devil.'' She pointed at B.J. ''That devil. The one who walked into this church nineteen years ago. You made a pact with him, not me.''

  I noticed B.J.'s phone clipped to his waist. I bent and retrieved it, ready to dial my favorite three numbers.

  Pastor Rankin said, ''Get out of here to make your call, Abby Rose,'' he said. ''May God be with you.''

  But before I could even decide whether to leave or punch in the numbers immediately, Noreen Rankin came at me like a bull out of the chute.

  And that's when the pastor shot his wife in the back.

  25

  Noreen Rankin splatted face-first, missing the glass coffee table by inches. The wound under her left shoulder blade was creating a widening round stain on her lovely, expensive suit. Keeping my eyes on Rankin, I bent and checked her pulse at the neck. Dead. I shook my head to indicate this.

  ''Praise God. Her spirit has left us,'' Rankin said, dropping the gun.

  I walked over and picked it up. Easy as breathing, I thought. And boy, could I breathe again. But though Noreen was definitely dead, B.J. wasn't, so I put the cuffs on him before I called 9-1-1. Meanwhile, Pastor Rankin went over, knelt by his wife's body and prayed, that little high-pitched moan that had offered me a split-second diversion earlier again assaulting my ears.

  I sat on the coffee table, rested a hand on the pastor's shoulder. ''Why?'' I said. ''Why did you keep your own daughter a prisoner for nearly twenty years?''

  Rankin was rocking, but he wasn't crying as I would have expected. His face was as empty as a clear sky. He used his pulpit voice and said, ''Deuteronomy tells us this, Abby Rose: 'But if the thing is true, that the tokens of virginity were not found in the young woman, then they shall bring out the young woman to the door of her father's house, and the men of her city shall stone her to death with stones, because she has wrought folly in Israel by playing the harlot in her father's house; so you shall purge the evil from the midst of you.' ''

  ''You're telling me you purged your evil daughter from your life by hiding her away, leaving her sick and alone and—''

  He covered his ears, rocked faster. ''No. I saved her from being stoned to death—stoned as we do so today. With sideway looks and whispers. I saved her, Abby Rose. It was the black boy and the baby who were evil, not Sara. They were the ones who had to be purged, who deserved to be stoned.''

  I nodded, understanding his ridiculous logic and feeling sick to my stomach. ''Okay. I get it.''

  He looked at me and smiled. ''I knew you would.''

  The man truly didn't have a clue that he was the evil one.

  While Rankin resumed his prayers over his wife's body, I called Jeff on B.J.'s phone—and offered him another odd caller ID to wonder about, the third since the case started. ''Who is this?'' he said sharply.

  ''Me.''

  ''Abby, where are you?''

  ''At the church.''

  ''We're at this log cabin, found your car in the garage and—''

  ''Would you come? I need you.''

  ''You're in trouble?'' He was sounding a little panicked—unusual for Jeff. ''I'll have dispatch send a squad car.''

  ''I'm okay. Police and ambulance are already on the way. Just get here.''

  ''DeShay,'' I heard him call away from the phone. ''I got her on the line. Let's go.''

  What I liked most about this last call to him on a strange phone was that he never hung up, even when he could hear the chaos around me as police and paramedics crashed into the office. He just said he needed to keep the connection open.

  Yeah. Me too, I thought.

&nb
sp; Thirty minutes later, I was sitting in the soft chair with B.J.'s phone still pressed to one ear when a paramedic came over and started parting my hair, examining my head.

  ''What are you doing?'' I asked.