The Lord is My Shepherd

  “Geanie the graphic designer, the janitor Ralph, Danielle the children's pastor, Gus the music minister, Loretta the organist, and Sylvia the business manager.”

  “Okay,” he said, looking at the list. “I think it's safe to eliminate you.”

  She smiled. “That's very generous of you.”

  He shrugged. “I'm that type of guy. Okay, so let's also put down here the ministry leaders that have keys.”

  “Drake Stryker, head of the men's ministry. Jesse Raybourne is head of the women's ministry. The last would be Harold Grey; he's the head usher.”

  Jeremiah added the names to the list and stared hard at the last one. “Harold Grey, your landlord?”

  “Yes, that's right.”

  He thought of the bloody cross on the floor of the sanctuary. “Would any of these people have a Shepherd's cross?”

  She nodded. “Harold's a Shepherd.”

  “Anyone else on this list?”

  “No.”

  He looked up at her and saw the moment when what she had said sunk in. Her eyes widened. “No, not Harold! I can't believe that.”

  Jeremiah shrugged. “Maybe his cross just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Or someone's trying to frame him.”

  “Could be.” He didn't believe it, though.

  She looked like she was about to cry. He stood up from the table. “The police probably have a suspect in custody. Let's not worry until we know more. How about I drive you back to your car so you can go home?”

  She bolted up from the table. “No!”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “Howard has a key to my house.”

  “We have no reason to believe he means you any harm,” he said, and then paused. Grey had been in the house when they arrived and had seemed nervous the entire time. What had he been doing there? Had he really been checking on the air-conditioner?

  He looked at Cindy and could practically taste her fear. Safety was a big deal for her, perhaps more than for anyone he'd ever met. Slowly he nodded. “Okay, you should probably check into a hotel for the night.”

  Cindy walked into her room at the Ramada Inn. She bolted the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't have anything with her because she hadn't wanted to go home to pack. Jeremiah had dropped her at her car and then followed her to the hotel to make sure she was okay. They had said goodnight in the lobby.

  She crossed over to the window and looked down on the street. A church and a few businesses were scattered on the other side of the road. One church had a large, blazing cross on the front of it. It was situated next door to a strip mall where a check cashing place flashed its open sign next to a laundromat that was closed.

  After she pulled the curtains to shut out the world, she undressed in the darkness and gratefully slipped between clean sheets. She prayed for safety and for the police to catch the murderer.

  As she tried to fall asleep she couldn't block the image of the murdered man from her mind. She shivered as it played again and again in her memory. Then she thought of Jeremiah, swooping in to save her like some avenging angel. Although, she had to admit, she had thought him a demon when she first saw him.

  She wondered why he had moved to America and resolved to ask him later. If I even see him again. They weren't even friends. It was unlikely Jeremiah would want to continue with their rescuer/rescuee relationship.

  Cindy flipped onto her side and pounded her pillow into submission. She didn't normally like hotels. Only a thin bit of wood separated her from countless strangers. She always felt so exposed sleeping in a hotel, and she had no idea how Kyle did it as part of his job. Then again, they had always been opposites.

  She turned to her other side, trying not to think about her brother. From where she lay she could see the door of the room. In the dim light she stared at the doorknob, and half a dozen times she started up, thinking she saw it move.

  “Stop being an idiot,” she told herself. She forced herself to close her eyes even as her mind tried to figure out how many hotel workers had a key to her room. There were probably as many keys to her room as there were to the church sanctuary.

  Please, God, let it not be Harold. She couldn't cope if it was. He had a key to her house. If she found out he was a murderer, she was sure she would never feel safe in any house she rented.

  She finally drifted to sleep. Her dreams were filled with dark figures that lurked in the shadows, wanting to hurt her. Mocking laughter filled her nightmares, and someone chased her, a key ring jangling on his belt.

  He stood in the shadows, watching. It wasn't quite time, but he could wait. Just a little longer. He stared intently at the building. The neon sign blazed out, identifying and distinguishing the small shop from the buildings on either side. “CHECKS CASHED” it screamed for all the world to see. A young woman, her frail arms shaking from the effort, pushed open the barred door and staggered outside. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She deserved better, and so did the other wretched examples of humanity that passed through its doors every day. It was time to put an end to it.

  He moved toward the door and pulled it open, the bell chiming as he stepped inside. The owner stood behind the counter, cold eyes sweeping over him, sizing him up.

  “What can I do for you this evening, sir?”

  “The question is what can I do for society?”

  Mark stood in the middle of a sea of glass and wood shards and for a moment believed he had stumbled into a war zone. He walked slowly into the building, glass crunching beneath his shoes, and looked around. What once had been a long counter had been hacked to pieces with an axe and the remnants scattered through the room, out the door, and onto the street outside. Every fixture had been destroyed. Even the fluorescent lights had been shattered. Illumination came from some portable lights the uniformed officers had set up. Money had been flung around the room, and he noted that much of it was covered in blood.

  He thought briefly of the scene at the church, where the secretary's cards had landed on and around the body. Only here, there was no body. He turned as Paul walked up beside him.

  “Unhappy customer?”

  Mark shook his head slowly. “Angry customer kills the guy, runs off. Thief kills the guy, robs the till, runs off. This is different. The killer systematically destroyed everything in here and didn't take anything.”

  “Except the body,” Paul pointed out.

  “Have you found it yet?”

  Paul shook his head. “No, just the blood.”

  Mark looked up at the wall where the words Get Out! had been written in blood in foot-tall letters.

  He took a deep breath. “This is … something else.”

  “What?”

  Mark continued to stare at the letters. “It's almost like a command or a warning.”

  “To whom?”

  Mark shook his head slowly. “The panic button was never pushed?”

  “No, the guy must not have had time,” Paul said. “There was never any alarm sounded.”

  Mark took another look around and then walked outside, needing some fresh air to clear his head. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning. The call had come in just after midnight from a driver who had been using the parking lot to turn around and had noticed that the doors were hanging off their hinges. He had already been questioned and sent on his way.

  The detective walked the parking lot, looking for something, anything that would give him a clue. His thoughts turned back to the blood inside. There had to be a body. Why would the killer have taken it with him, though?

  It didn't seem right. The killer must have left the body somewhere; they just hadn't found it yet. He turned to go back inside, and his eyes fell on the building next door. It was a small church with an electric cross glowing on its front. A sick feeling twisted his gut, and he walked slowly toward it.

  Something fluttered on the lawn. He approached, and in the light from the electric cross he look
ed down. A table, a twin to the one that was smashed up in the store, lay flipped upside down. Lying spread-eagled on it was the body he had been looking for. The man's eyes were frozen wide in terror. His throat had been slit. The victim's shirt had been ripped open to expose deep furrows that had been cut into his chest. Bloody dollar bills were clenched tight in each fist.

  “Paul!” Mark shouted.

  Moments later his partner stood next to him. The other detective whistled low.

  “Looks like we found our body,” Mark said grimly. There was something familiar about it all, something he felt he was missing. Paul bent down to take a closer look.

  “So, why leave Mr. Moneybags on the church lawn?”

  “Good question,” Mark said.

  “Wild week. Three murders so far.”

  “And the week's only getting started.”

  “At this rate imagine how bad it's going to be by Easter,” Paul said. Mark swore to himself. “What is it?”

  “Easter week. Someone's recreating Easter week.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First, the guy on the donkey—the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. The next thing he did was drive the money changers from the temple.”

  “That's what this is?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah, think about it. Money changers took advantage of people who didn't have much choice. These check-cashing places charge insane fees and prey on people who are down on their luck, those who don't have bank accounts, or need quick loans.”

  “Yeah, they make it nearly impossible for people to survive while at the same time earning the gratitude of those who need their services,” Paul said.

  “Exactly. The whole driving-the-money-changers-from-the-temple thing. Jesus smashed up their tables and equipment.”

  “Just like inside,” Paul noted.

  “And he drove them out with a whip.”

  “And this guy has certainly been worked over with a whip,” Paul said, indicating the lacerations on the man's chest.

  “Sick. Two events of Easter week have already been recreated.”

  “What about the guy in the church? What did he represent?” Paul asked. “I mean, aside from the location, there was nothing unusual about that one. Nothing like this or the donkey guy.”

  Mark shook his head slowly. “You got me.”

  “Maybe we should talk to somebody who might know.”

  “I think you're right.” He looked back down at the dead man. “We've got to catch this guy before he kills again.”

  Paul gestured to the building across the street. “I'll head over in a little bit and find out from the management which of the rooms facing this direction are occupied tonight.”

  “Maybe somebody saw or heard something,” Mark agreed. “At least, let's hope so.”

  6

  CINDY AWOKE TO A KNOCK ON THE DOOR OF HER ROOM. SHE GLANCED at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was just after six-thirty.

  “Just a minute!” she called.

  She got up, threw her clothes on, and opened the door with a yawn. There in the hallway stood the detective from the day before. He looked almost as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

  “Well, Ms. Preston, funny seeing you here. Where's your Good Samaritan?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Not here, if that's what your suggesting,” she said, flushing angrily.

  “May I come in?”

  She stepped back, and he walked inside. He headed straight for the window and threw open the curtains, making a clucking sound as he did so.

  She stepped away from the door, but left it open. She had no desire to be closed in with the man, even if he was a detective. Questions crowded her brain as she tried to figure out what he was doing here.

  “Interesting view,” he noted.

  “The church looked nice,” she said.

  “Not as nice as it was.”

  Curious, she stepped forward, but he turned and faced her, and she stopped halfway to the window.

  “So, you checked in here last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “Around eight-thirty.”

  “Did you look out this window?”

  “Yes, why?”

  He ignored her question and pushed on. “Did you see anything unusual?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual last night?”

  “No, what's going on?”

  “See for yourself,” he said, motioning to the window.

  Cindy approached, keeping one eye on him. Finally, she reached the window and looked down. There were half a dozen squad cars in the street in front of the church and the check-cashing place. Police officers were walking around the area and talking to people. Then she saw the body on the lawn being loaded into a black bag.

  She jumped backwards with a cry and nearly collided with the detective. He put a hand on her arm.

  “Now are you sure you didn't see or hear anything last night?”

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Then perhaps you'd like to explain why you were staying here last night, and why there's a killer running around who likes to leave bodies where you'll see them?

  Tears streamed down her face. “I don't know.”

  “Why didn't you sleep at home last night?” he demanded.

  “I was too scared.”

  “Of what?”

  She turned to look at him. “Jeremiah and I were talking about it last night, and I realized that the only Shepherd who has a key to the sanctuary is Harold Grey. He's my landlord. He has a key to my house, and he was in there yesterday when I left the church in the morning.”

  He glared at her and said through gritted teeth, “What part of 'call me if you think of anything' didn't you understand?”

  She started to cry in earnest. “It couldn't be Harold; he's a sweet man.”

  “Yet, you were so afraid that you felt the need to check into a hotel for the night. And now, right beneath your nose, someone else has been murdered.”

  Cindy pulled away and sat down on the bed, burying her face in her hands. It was all too terrible to believe. Could both bodies really have been left for her to see? Who would do something like that?

  “Cindy, do you have any enemies?”

  She looked up at him. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then what can you tell me about this Harold Grey?”

  “He's been a member of the church for years and years. He's retired. He's the head usher, which is why he has a key to the sanctuary, and he's a Shepherd. He owns a couple of houses in the area, and I'm renting one. Yesterday, when Jeremiah drove me home, he was in the house when we got there. He said he was checking out the air-conditioner before the heat starts. He said he'd left me a message on my answering machine about it the week before.”

  “Did he?” he prompted.

  “No, not that I ever heard.”

  “Do you ever find yourself on Palm Avenue on Sundays?”

  “I guess. I'm not sure. Are you talking about the guy on the donkey?”

  “How did you hear about that?” he asked.

  “Oliver works for the newspaper. He came to my house yesterday to interview me about the body in the church. He let it slip, but I don't think he was supposed to.”

  “You got that right,” he growled. The detective took a deep breath. “Okay, so the Palm Sunday guy. Now this one, the money changer thrown out of the temple.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Yeah. No question about that.”

  “That's terrible!”

  “Someone is sending a message. Do you have any idea what part of the Easter week story the body in the church could represent?”

  She thought about it for a long minute. Nothing about the man or the way he'd been found or the place rang any bells. “No, I'm sorry.”

  “Does the name Miguel Jesus Olivera mean anythi
ng to you?”

  “No, I don't know a Miguel.”

  “How about Jason Schneider or Ryan Bellig?”

  She shook her head. “Are these the men who were killed?”

  He didn't answer, but instead flipped through his notebook. “Is there anything more you want to tell me about Harold Grey?”

  “I can't think of anything.”

  “Okay. I need you to not leave town until I clear you to do so.”

  “Why?” she burst out.

  “Also, if you plan on staying here again tonight, I'd suggest changing rooms. We'll be in touch.”

  As he left the room, she found herself more bewildered and frightened than before. After locking the door she grabbed her cell phone. A moment later she remembered that Jeremiah's card was still sitting on her kitchen table. Why hadn't she bothered to program the number in when she had the chance?

  If she went home and changed clothes, she could get his number. She shivered, not sure she was ready to go back home. Ten minutes, that's all it will take to get in, change clothes, and get out.

  Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and her keys, and headed for the lobby, where she checked out of the room. If Harold was the killer, the police would surely arrest him within hours. If he wasn't, then she had nothing to fear from staying at home.

  Unless the killer really is targeting me, and it's someone other than Harold.

  She tried to push the thought from her mind. The killing had been random. There was no way the killer could have known she had checked into the hotel the night before. The only person who knew that was Jeremiah. Her heart skipped a beat for a moment but she reminded herself that he couldn't be responsible for the dead man in the church.

  Soon she arrived home and sat in her car, building up courage. The house looked normal. Finally, she forced her- self out of the car and when she went to the front door she discovered it was locked. Just like I left it. But then so was the sanctuary.

  She opened the door with a hand that shook and stepped hesitantly inside. It only took a moment before she screamed.

  Unable to sleep well because of worrying about Cindy, Jeremiah rolled out of bed. She should have been perfectly safe in the hotel. Still he went through his morning ritual, cursing himself for not having gotten her cell phone number. He was just about to leave the house and head over to the hotel to check on her when the phone rang.