“I don’t want to attempt the side doors, too risky, too close. With the acoustics, if the place is quiet, any racket from the halls will carry into the sanctuary.” Marlowe guided their attention with a laser pointer. “The church is small. We have the main auditorium here, and two short hallways access the main worship area to the left and right. The pastor’s study is here, no outside access. Four classrooms along this wing, but they require an exit and entrance to the main building through one of the three doors. It’s basically a separate structure. There’s a basement, but no external entry.”
“We go with your plan then,” said Kline, hesitant.
“Everyone agreed?” Marlowe glanced around the briefing room. The officers and team nodded. “Okay, two hours ‘til show time. Let’s gear up and meet two blocks north of the church at eight-thirty. We still have the lookouts on scene?”
“Yeah. Two. Same positions,” said the sheriff.
“Okay, let’s do this,” said Marlowe.
* * *
Evan shoved the zip ties into the jacket’s outer side pockets, the .45 into his waistband, and left the five-gallon container and flares where they sat. He waited until no more footsteps tapped past the closet, eased out into the hall, and pushed through the door granting admittance into the sanctuary. The congregation had settled, a few stragglers meandering up the aisles. Two rows of pews, ten to each side that seated six to seven comfortably, held a hundred-plus people when at maximum attendance. As he’d suspected, with the funerals for Ms. Crimshaw and Brother Cecil yesterday, the crowd numbered a little more than half-capacity. He examined faces as he passed; a few he recognized, most not. No one paid him much attention, only a smile or glance here and there.
Near the back of the room, a face he did know. Evan had seen the man on television. A detective. Yes, Detective Gentry, from the Seraphim Killer and the Churchill Murders. A wave of pride swelled Evan’s chest. He had earned their best. Good, very good. Let him bear witness. The detective eyed him for a moment, sending his pulse thumping, but turned his head to others in the auditorium. Evan bristled, his eyes darting around the room. The congregation, aside from the detective, consisted of elderly members and parents with children. No possible cops casting clandestine glances, but he must keep his guard up and remain vigilant. He sighed with relief and wiggled past three parishioners to take a seat directly behind the detective.
With a deep breath, Evan gazed around the sanctuary, recalling every tiny nuance from so long ago—the smell of hymnals and Bibles, the paper and the leather bindings, long octagon lamps that flickered sporadically hanging overhead, the feel of soft carpet on his toes when sometimes he would remove shoes and socks as a boy. The emotions stirred brought on the whispers and the laughter. He rubbed his temples and fought to ignore the unsettling wave churning his stomach.
No choir in the loft today, and no Kids’ Church, all the members sat stoic in the pews, sorrow on the faces of most, unrest causing the handful of children to fidget, unwilling captives of zealous parents. A man stood from his seat upon the dais and went to the lectern. Thin and pallid, his light brown hair cropped close, giving him a stern military appearance. Evan did not know him, but assumed he was the pastor who had replaced Brother Cecil.
“Brothers and sisters, thank you for coming out today. Tragic events have left us all in mourning. Yesterday, we laid two of our most beloved to rest, and so we meet now with heavy hearts. Many remain too grief-stricken to attend today. Do not think poorly of them. All must mourn in their own way. Would any like to speak in remembrance of Brother Cecil and Sister Teresa?”
Several older adults stood in turn to recall memories of their dear friends. Evan listened with indifference. He felt no grief or regret for the liars. How many had they led astray? Why should they be remembered and celebrated when no one cared for his loss? God stood ambivalent in the heavens, unconcerned for any of them, and these fools prayed and sang as though He heard or cared. Fools. Soon they would see even eternity can die. With hope of an afterlife extinguished, a commitment to the present would follow, each day precious. If no chance to reclaim love and affection with family or friends existed in some distant, mythical paradise, they would cherish one another now, every second. True forgiveness and earnest devotion would come not from a god, but with certain knowledge no tomorrow could offer an opportunity for redemption or reconciliation.
“Let us sing together, Nearer My God to Thee, so our Lord might lift our spirits and grant us comfort.” The pastor drew a book from beneath the lectern and flipped through the pages.
A commotion drifted through the congregation as they fumbled with hymnals and found the proper hymn. Voices blended and rose, carrying sadness and supplication. Tears gathered in eyes with a quiver of lips. Evan’s skin crawled, a thousand tiny needles pricking up and down his arms. As the song continued, the whispers grew and the laughter increased. A cacophony, like great bells, clanged in discordant rhythm. He dug his nails into his thighs, his mind swimming with ghosts, fleeting images of pain, guilt, and regret. The pistol felt heavy against his back. His fingers found it and gripped the handle. Louder and louder, God’s infernal glee, the shrill of millions urging him to his knees.
Evan whipped the gun from beneath his coat and swung it in a wide arc, connecting with a crack against the back of the detective’s skull. The man swayed and dropped onto the pew. A moment passed as those nearest attempted to process what had happened. Confused murmurs increased to shouts of accusation. Evan brandished the gun. The people in the parallel pews skirted away, and others, across the building, yelled and stampeded toward the exit.
“Stop! Not another step. I will kill you.” Evan waved the .45, motioning people out of his way.
Keeping one eye on the congregation, he worked his way to the detective, tied his hands behind his back, and removed the gun from his shoulder holster. Often, in the movies, cops carried a second weapon strapped to their ankles, but not in this case. A quick frisk of his pockets revealed nothing threatening. Already coming around, Detective Gentry rocked and stumbled as Evan helped him to his feet.
“One move and I’ll kill you!” Evan shouted to the crowd. “Don’t test me. Sit down, all of you. Sit down.”
Evan walked the woozy detective down the aisle. He stepped carefully, moving backwards and keeping everyone within his field of vision. Once onto the dais, he laid the man down, bound his feet at the ankles, and placed the detective’s gun on the lectern with his own. The cop mumbled something like “I’m okay” and went still. Evan returned his attention to the crowd.
“All of you,” he said, indicating those in the right-hand pews. “Please move to the other side and everyone have a seat. Do it slow. Anyone tries to run, I’ll shoot.”
Old and infirm or parents with children, no heroes presented in the group. They did as told, moving like herded sheep. Once packed in and seated, Evan strolled forward.
“Place both hands on the pew in front of you. Do it now.”
Again, they meekly complied. The pews consisted of wood with a single cushion running their length. The back of each bore a twelve-inch gap between a railing and a solid piece.
“You,” He pointed to one man in his late seventies. “Tie their hands like this.” Evan demonstrated—two plastic ties worked together to form handcuffs and fixed to the railing with another.
The man did as instructed, eyeing Evan nervously all the while. Evan followed behind to check the strength of each binding. Once satisfied the crowd was bound securely, Evan retrieved the kerosene and flares from the utility closet. Moving down the aisle, he flung the container back and forth, dousing the congregation in the clear liquid. Faces paled and many wailed in terror as understanding hammered home. Men yanked against their restraints, women attempted to shield their children with their bodies. Streams soaked skin, the pews, the carpet. There would be no escape. Evan drew a trail from the front pew and onto the dais. The remainder he poured over his head. It burned as it seeped beneath his
eyelids, into his ears and mouth, fumes filling his nostrils, but he relished the pain. Self-anointed savior, deliverer. A flare sizzled as Evan struck it to life. The heat on his face brought on a sinister smile.
CHAPTER
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His stare lingered on the congregation as they cried and tore at their bindings. Children tried to wiggle into mommies and daddies’ laps, hoping strong arms might shield them. The old prayed, rocking back and forth, bellowing like wounded beasts. Evan spread his arms, allowing the ambiance to wash over him. The scent of the kerosene and the sounds of fear pushed his head back; he closed his eyes and envisioned it all.
Flames leapt to life in a grand conflagration. Hues of brilliant red, orange, and white swelled around quaking bodies. The flock bleated, terrified sheep with no shepherd and nowhere to hide. They fought their rebirth with tears and gnashing teeth. Skin melted away to reveal true selves. Slaves transformed from meat and blood to golden figures, shining in the inferno’s brilliant glow. The stench of smoldering flesh congealed with agonized screams, a trumpeting that summoned the Lord God from His throne on high.
Evan felt no awe as the deity descended and hovered above the dais, gazing down on him. Only disgust and revulsion filled him. He clasped hands upon the celestial creature’s feet and tugged Him downward. They fell through heaven and earth, plummeting through the black abyss, until smashing onto an island in the same Hell Evan had visited before—that nightmarish place where souls languished in eternal torment, where his wife and daughter suffered the rape of body and spirit. Demons and angels disintegrated in the radiance of their God and showered the infernal depths in blackened ash. God Himself, omnipotent and all-powerful, drowned amidst screams beneath bubbling, molten waves in the lava sea. Evan soared into the sky, crashing through the Gates of Hell, tearing them asunder, and sealing the pit forevermore. Without the Force of creation, Heaven faded and dimmed, until it vanished into oblivion.
All the peoples of the world sang in adoration, thankful as their chains fell away. Joy and freedom transcended the fear of death; empathy triumphed over arcane moral dictates and dread of retribution. Enveloped in a comforting peace, Evan floated above previous concerns and embraced life. Life undirected by gods, where good and evil lay at the industry of humankind. Credit and blame solely the province of the actor, devoid the influence of divinity or deviltry. Elation, euphoria.
Evan opened his eyes, the vision branded into his mind. Full circle, he stood where he was born all those years ago. Born again into the spirit and dunked beneath baptismal waters, fitting it should end here. Now he would wait for the presence of his enemy. The Father would come to save his children, His bride, and would face His accuser. Evan would have his answers and end the questions. The voices chanted his name in adulation, the laughter no more than a frightened whimper. Let Him come.
* * *
Agent Lori Kline paced the yard, head down, face pinched with consternation. Twenty minutes had passed since Gentry entered the church, five since he mumbled assurance he was okay into his wire. They heard Marshall’s voice crackle over the line, too faint to make out every word, but those that were discernable spoke in tones of uncontrolled madness. This could go south at any minute, and she wouldn’t know until too late. Lori refused to stand pat regardless of orders. Not one to buck a command, but this plan left too much to chance. There must be something she could do.
“Stay put. I’m going to take a look around.”
A portly sergeant nodded, but appeared confused and none too pleased. Lori made her way to the rear of the building. She scanned the loft beneath the steeple where a loud speaker rang out an imitation of bells on Sunday mornings, signaling the worship service. Perhaps it offered access into an attic section. A glance along the rear and side walls showed no way onto the roof. Unless they called for a ladder, which would take longer than she wished to wait, the loft wouldn’t help even if it did lead inside. Near the center of the back wall, she noticed a cluster of weeds grown tall ,while the surrounding grass appeared recently cut. Closer inspection revealed a glimpse of wood beneath the thorny tangle. Disturbed not long ago, weeds and vines torn loose, rough, grained brown shone in the barren middle. Lori yanked the coverage away, tiny thorns jabbing into her palms, to expose a cellar door. It didn’t look well-maintained, but someone had accessed it recently. Along with the removed vegetation, flakes of rust from the hinges appeared dislodged and strewn over the surface.
The heavy door opened with a groan. Lori clicked on her flashlight and stepped into the dark, batting cobwebs from her face. A basement of sorts, with a dozen or so folding chairs, and a narrow table to one side that held a Bible as well as an assortment of paperback study guides. An ancient projector pointed to a tattered screen pushed against the back wall. A thick film of dust and clinging gossamer webs indicated years of disuse. A few inches to the left of the screen, a set of stairs led upward. Lori crept to a door at the top and eased it open, finding herself in a hallway within the main building.
The corridor passed an office and one of the exits leading outside. Farther up, she spied a hallway and a door with a thin, rectangular window inset head-high. Her shoes made an unavoidable tap tap on the linoleum-tiled floor, so she removed them and set them against the wall. Cold beneath her feet and uneasy, trembling hands made her pause as she collected herself. Distressed whines and a man’s voice emanated from the other side of the door.
No chance of entering the auditorium unnoticed. An opening on her left, with three steps carpeted in gold-orange, granted access to the choir loft. Three rows of seven fixed chairs, with seats that folded up like those in a movie theater, occupied the loft behind the dais. Lori eased to the top step and slid onto her belly, crawling forward on her elbows. At the midway point, she pulled her feet under her butt in a squat and braved a peek over the railing. Gentry lay across the platform, bound hand and foot. Marshall stood directly in front of her, facing the congregation and holding a lit flare. She slid her .38 from its holster and brought it to her chest. With a deep breath to settle her racing heart and steady her aim, she edged higher over the banister. Movement to her right brought her head around.
“No. Get down,” mouthed Gentry.
Lori ducked low and only then caught a whiff of kerosene.
Shit.
Another glance over the railing confirmed Marshall stood in a pool of the stuff. If she shot him now, the flare would ignite the fuel and send this place up like a tinderbox.
* * *
Marlowe could hardly move, his muscles grown stiff from the constraint. At least he got out a warning to the team that he was fine and to stay put. Now Kline had worked her way in somehow. Could be a good thing, but he needed to figure out how to use her. Marshall’s attention focused on the crowd, or rather something above them. The guy lacked more than a few marbles upstairs; this could go wrong in a million different ways. Waiting around for a miracle wasn’t going to get them out of this, though. Only option, somehow manage to get Marshall away from the saturated carpet. But how?
What the hell? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Except a fiery death. I hate this shit.
Marlowe coughed.
Marshall pivoted to the sound. “Ah, Detective, I’m glad you’re awake. I hoped you’d witness what’s to come.”
“Evan, stop this, let these people go. You’ve already hurt enough innocent people.” Marlowe wiggled into a semi-seated position with his back against a wooden panel framing the podium.
“Innocent? No. Liars, or as bad, guileless sheep, so easily led to slaughter.” He waved the flare, causing the congregation to yelp and jump in unison. “I don’t hate them, or even blame them. I was just like them not long ago. These, and the others, necessary sacrifices to free mankind. You should understand more than most. I remember you, your story. Your wife murdered, your daughter traumatized.” He rubbed his eyes. “Are you a believer, Detective? Did you trust God to keep them safe? Did He ignore your prayers like he did mine? If so, I would
think you’d hate Him as much as I do.”
“I believe you’re bat-shit crazy, that’s what I believe. Someone told me, a long time ago, everyone can’t be saved. I didn’t want to believe it. My heart hoped even the worst could find a way back to…humanity. Love, kindness, empathy…something. No matter how far they had fallen. But I was wrong. I know that now. Some are too far gone. I don’t care if you’re sick or just fucked up. Doesn’t matter. Not everyone can be saved, and not everyone should be saved. Some people are rabid animals that need to be put down.”
That got his attention.
“So I’m the evil one here? I’m wrong?” Evan’s voice rose with anger. “God. The merciful, loving God, allowed your wife to die, allowed my family to die. He caused it with negligence and apathy. He calls us to serve Him and turns from us when we need him most. A test of faith?” Evan scoffed. “Use one person, cause them pain and suffering, only to test others with equal pain and suffering. What sense does any of it make to you? And you call me the villain?” He took a step toward Marlowe, out of the soaked carpet, glanced down, and paced back. “I worshipped Him all my life, you know. I taught my family His ways. From the moment my daughter was born, I consecrated her life to Him. She too, did everything the Bible commands. A sweet child, so delicate and trusting. She loved Him with all her heart. And how did God reward her? Or me? Or anyone? Pain, agony, and loneliness. Why should we continue to believe in such a hate-filled monster?”
“That’s bullshit, Evan. Somewhere deep down you must remember the truth. You were married less than two years. Jenny was thirteen when you met her. She never loved you. In fact, she hated you. Julie may have loved you at first, but more likely, she only used you to get out of a bad situation. Regardless, she hated you too, in the end.” Marlowe wiggled his hands together, trying to work them free, but no use.
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