Silent Killer Page 0,27

back of his head with his entwined fingers.

Other than the fact they were both clergymen, the two victims had nothing in common, nothing that would link them to each other or to the same killer.

These files told only part of the story, the official part, and that’s all that should concern him.

“Less than a week after Pastor Randolph’s murder, Cathy Cantrell had a nervous breakdown,” Mike had told him. “She spent several days in the hospital here in Dunmore, and then her mother drove her down to Birmingham, where Cathy checked herself into Haven Home, a mental-rehab center.”

Jack knew a little something about post-traumatic stress. During his recuperation from the bomb explosion, he’d gone through his own psychiatric treatment. And even now, there were times when he got the shakes and occasionally had nightmares. He hated to think about Cathy going through the torment of the damned.

Since seeing her yesterday afternoon, he had thought of little else. He was a damn fool. Whatever had been between Cathy and him had been over and done with long ago. When he’d been a kid of twenty, he had thought he was in love and had believed she felt the same. But shortly after his leave ended, his Rangers unit had been sent to the Middle East and he had wound up spending six months as a POW in Iraq before escaping.

And Cathy had married someone else.

A sharp knock on the door snapped Jack out of his musings about the past. Mike opened the door, stuck his head in and said, “I just got a call from Wade Ballard, Dunmore chief of police. A group from a local Baptist church went to Spring Creek Park this morning for a picnic and found a dead body. Looks like the victim burned to death.”

Jack shot up out of the chair. “Any idea who the victim is?”

“They found a car at the park they believe belonged to the victim. The church folks said the car was there when they arrived. Wade ran a check on the license plate. The car is registered to Brian Myers, a Catholic priest from Huntsville.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jack grumbled under his breath. “Victim number three.”

“Yeah, it could be. We’ll know more when the crime-scene guys finish up and after we get a look at the autopsy results.”

Jack kept up with Mike’s hurried pace as they exited the sheriff’s office complex and headed toward Mike’s heavy-duty Ford pickup.

“There were six months between murders one and two. Why wait a whole year before striking again?” Jack might be jumping to conclusions, but his gut told him that whoever killed the priest was the same person who had murdered Charles Randolph and Mark Cantrell.

Someone was killing clergymen. What was their motive? And why had they chosen such a gruesome way to execute their victims?

Lorie gift wrapped the set of coasters and the matching placemats that Mrs. Webber had purchased for her grandniece’s bridal shower. She took extra care with this gift, choosing the most expensive paper and ribbon she kept on hand at Treasures. Margaret Webber was one of their best customers and one of the grand old dames of Dunmore society. If someone such as she could accept Lorie, even as a lowly peon, there was hope that someday a lot of other people in her hometown would also accept her. Maybe even Michael Birkett.

After placing a Treasures of the Past gold sticker on the gift, she inserted the beautifully wrapped box into one of their largest bags with handles and offered it to Mrs. Webber.

“Here you are,” Lorie said. “And please give my best wishes to your niece.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Have a nice day.”

“And you, too.”

Just as Mrs. Webber headed out the door, Lorie’s cell phone, which lay on the glass checkout counter, jingled. Before answering, she checked caller ID. She did a double take when she saw the name. What an odd coincidence. Michael Birkett. Her heart stopped. Why on earth would Mike be calling her?

With an unsteady hand, she picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Lorie?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, this is Lorie Hammonds.”

“Mike Birkett here. Is Cathy there with you?”

“She’s here, but she’s in the stockroom doing some end-of-the-month inventory. Would you like to speak to her?” Why the hell hadn’t he called the store phone? Why her cell phone? And just how did he get her private number? He’s the sheriff, she reminded herself. He can get anybody’s number.

“No, I don’t want to speak to her. I called you