only thing that matters is that your eternal soul is no longer in jeopardy. You'll be saved.' He gestured broadly with both arms, a ringmaster opening the circus.
A flicker of hope danced in the kid's eyes. 'Saved? What do you mean? Saved from what?'
The Avenger moved to the wooden table top where he'd placed his tools. He caressed the instruments, picking them up and examining them one by one, his fingers finally coming to rest on the particular tool designed to complement the wooden peg he already held.
The hammer was crafted entirely from oak, not a single piece of metal used in the making of it. Although it was clumsy by modern standards, he liked the heft of it in his palm. The other two pegs matched the one he held. All three had been fashioned with precision for size and sturdiness and were flat at one end, wickedly pointed at the other.
'Saved from what?' the kid screamed.
'From your sins, of course. What else?'
The Avenger angled the spiked end of the peg so that the overhead light caught it and cast its shadow against the eastern wall of the basement. The image loomed like a Bunyanesque peg leg. Carl's eyes jumped from the shadow to the wooden nail and back again.
'What are you going to do?' The bright white of his eyes was illuminated by the single light bulb. 'Wait a minute, you said I was saved,' he screamed. 'What did you mean?'
The Avenger tested the weight of the hammer.
'You can't do this! Help, somebody help me!' Carl's voice reverberated off the cement walls of the musty room while he struggled against his bindings. His voice finally fell to a whimper as he shrank from his attacker. 'Somebody please help me.'
The Avenger bent toward the kid's face, turning his head at an awkward angle so he could stare into the boy's eyes from the upside-down position. Arms splayed straight out from his sides and feet bound with a thick strand of rope tied to the other end of the wooden beam, he hung like a perverted icon.
'I was going to do this in the traditional manner,' the Avenger explained, indicating Carl's upended position on the cross, 'but the message needs to be very clear.'
'What message? What are you friggin' talking about?'
The man appeared surprised. 'Why, the message of redemption, what else? The blessed message of salvation. Are you a good Catholic, Carl? If you are, you should know all about redemption and atonement. Sinners have to pay the price for their sins.'
'What sins? What did I do?' he babbled. 'For God's sake, man, I didn't do anything.'
'Shush, Carl. Calm yourself. You don't want to meet your Maker like this.'
The man reached for the wide gray electrical tape and replaced the thick strip over the kid's mouth. 'Sorry I have to do this, Carl. This old church is pretty isolated, but I don't want to risk someone hearing your noise.'
The victim thrashed around, straining at the thick ropes that bound his wrists and ankles to the crude wooden cross. The man carefully placed the first wooden peg at the center of the right wrist. Two pegs left for the task ahead, one for the other wrist, the final one for the feet. He hoped the third peg, the longest and thickest, was strong enough for the crossed feet.
Raising the hammer, the Avenger began his work.
Chapter Nine
Just as he reached the turnoff to Placer Hills, Sheriff Benjamin Slater's pager beeped. He flipped open his cell phone and punched in the number of his dispatcher and all-around assistant. 'What's up, Connie?'
'Barrington wants you to call him ASAP.'
'How's he sound today?'
A snort came over the line. 'Prissy as usual. And a little pissy to boot.'
Slater liked Connie Glens. She cut right through the bull crap and told it exactly like she saw it. 'I'm almost at Blue Canyon Road. Be there in twenty minutes, give or take. Think he can wait that long?'
'Why not? Give the little prick something to squawk about.'
Slater grinned as he severed the connection. Nobody much liked the recently-elected district attorney of Bigler County, but Connie was outspoken enough to voice her opinion. Slater was forced to be more circumspect. As the county's senior law-enforcement officer, Charles Barrington was his direct superior. And that was just damn bad luck.
When Slater reached the office shortly after ten, he found Barrington seated behind the sheriff's desk. Ben leaned against the door jamb and amused himself by watching Charlie Barrington's bantam body try to fill up the space of the comfortable leather chair Ben had hauled out of storage when he took over the position as sheriff last year.
Someone must've told Charlie that all up-and-coming district attorneys wore three-piece Brooks Brothers suits. Today the man was clad in his gray edition, complemented by a maroon striped tie and light paisley handkerchief peeking from the pocket. In the overhead glare of the fluorescent light, his bare head gleamed whitely around the pathetic strands of a sandy-haired comb over.
Barrington crossed his legs at the knee and fiddled with the mouse on Slater's desk, glancing at the computer screen as it lighted up to reveal last year's budget report.
'Can I help you with something, Mr. District Attorney?'
Barrington jumped like a high-strung yapper dog and shoved the mouse away as if it were a dead rat. 'Uh, Slater. I, uh, I need to talk to you immediately.'
Barrington rarely called Slater by his title, almost as if he disliked conceding the position held by former Sheriff Xavier Marconi, who'd left office suddenly before his term was over. Slater didn't mind the disrespect, but he noted it.
The district attorney frowned, the expression making him look like a chubby-faced baby about to throw a temper tantrum. 'Didn't you get my ASAP message?'
'I'm here now. What do you want?' Slater eased into the room and towered over the little man. Barrington stood, but immediately sat down again when he noticed the disparity in their heights. Slater grinned and threw himself into the guest chair opposite his desk. Once he was seated, apparently Charlie felt secure enough to rise. He bounced his fingertips together several times like a professor ready to launch a lecture. Slater sighed, recognizing the signs, and not eager to waste time listening to Barrington's drivel.
'The government wants our help in a matter,' Barrington said, pacing around the office and tapping his fingertips together.
'The federal government?'
'Of course.' Barrington frowned. 'What else?'
Slater shrugged. Nothing else, but he liked getting a rise out of the little man.
'Whatever. The call I got came directly from Washington.' He slipped a sly look Slater's way, apparently expecting him to be impressed.
'Washington state?'
'D.C.,' Barrington snapped. 'I want to be sure you understand how important cooperating with federal agencies is to Bigler County.'
Slater figured Charlie was hinting at the case last year when the sheriff's office had moved ahead to track down a serial killer without consulting the FBI. Deputy sheriff at the time, Ben had used his resources to rescue Kate Myers, their forensic psychiatrist and his lover. Kate was on assignment in LA now and he missed her like hell.
'Sure, I get it.' He nodded pleasantly at the DA, wondering mildly what Charlie was getting them into with the feds.
'Your contact is an Agent Holt, Jackson Holt.'
'What?' Slater leaned forward, thinking Barrington wasn't smart enough to play with his mind like that. Thinking he must've heard wrong. Or at least, the name was a colossal coincidence. Except, he reminded himself, he didn't believe in coincidence. 'Are you sure of the name? Jackson Holt?'
Barrington flashed an impatient look. 'Of course I'm sure. Do you know him?'
