Dead Giveaway

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 secrets,' 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?'