There was still time . . . show time . . . if he acted quickly. Swinging his rifle up, he went for his first target. “Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh,” he whispered, but the thrill was so exquisite, he didn’t know if he could stop himself. He looked through the scope as he slipped his finger on the trigger. Gentle now. Gentle now. Wait for it.
Noah had just nudged the altar boys toward the side door and was turning to intercept Laurant before she reached the center aisle. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight. She would leave with Tommy and him.
He was about twelve feet away from Tommy when he saw the beam of light bouncing across the wall. He instantly reacted. “Gun!” he shouted as he pulled his own weapon from his sleeve and raced toward Tommy. His attention was focused on the choir loft as he fired at the source of the light.
Nick had seen the laser beam skipping across the altar toward Tommy just as Noah shouted the warning. “Get down!” he yelled as he shoved his way through the startled crowd.
Tommy didn’t have time to react. He heard a spitting sound, and a chunk of the altar splintered into the air. One second Noah and Nick were shouting, and the next, Noah was firing his gun at the balcony as he made a diving leap at Tommy and knocked him to the floor. Noah’s head struck the edge of the marble top as they went down, and then he fell like a dead weight on top of him. Tommy pushed himself free and scrambled to get the unconscious Noah behind cover. As he struggled to pull him back, Tommy saw the blood pouring from Noah’s left shoulder.
The screams from the crowd, frantic to get out of the church, pierced the air. The aisles were crammed with hysterical men and women. Nick had his Sig Sauer in his right hand, and as he pushed forward, knocking people out of his way, he reached behind him under his jacket and pulled out the loaded Glock from his waistband. He leapt onto a pew and opened fire. Running along the tops of the benches, he fired the guns in succession, trying to keep the bastard pinned down.
Stark ducked behind the railing. What was happening? The blond-headed priest had pulled out a gun and started shooting at him, and he’d been able to get off only a few shots. He’d seen Father Tom go down, then the other priest, and he was sure he’d hit both of them.
Now he had to get Laurant. Stark inched the gun up and got her in his sights. She was down on her knees at the bottom of the altar steps. She was struggling to get up when he fired. She went down again, but he couldn’t tell where the bullet had struck her. Gunshots were blazing away at him. He dropped the rifle and scrambled on his belly to get to the trapdoor. The videotape. He had to get the tape. The air around him sizzled with bullets. One nearly got him in his hand as he reached for the video camera. Couldn’t get it, but he couldn’t leave without it. Stark crawled to the outlet next to the organ, then jerked the cord. Gunfire and screams ricocheted around him. The camera crashed to the floor, shattering, and he reeled it toward him. A second later, he had the tape. He shoved it into the pocket of his windbreaker, zipped it closed, and then scrambled behind the organ and lifted the trapdoor. Swinging his feet in first, he slid down onto the ledge he’d built in the ceiling below. Then he reached up, pulled the trapdoor closed, and slipped the bolt in place.
There was so much noise he didn’t worry about anyone hearing him kick through the ceiling. He landed in the closet, opened the door, and peeked out. No one was inside the vestibule, but he could see the swarm of people pushing and shoving to get out the front doors. Stark decided to blend in with the mob. He ran through the vestibule and then elbowed his way into the crowd. An old woman grabbed his arm to keep from being pitched forward, and gentleman that he was, he wrapped his arm around her and helped her outside.
He glanced back once and had to fight the laughter. Nicholas was probably still fighting the crowd, trying to get to the iron gate. Eventually, he’d make it up the stairs, but would he find the trapdoor? Stark didn’t think so. It had been so cleverly designed. He could just picture the mule standing there, scratching his head in puzzlement. Where oh where had Justin Brady gone? Yes, that’s who the mule would be looking for, but when Nicholas next saw him, Stark was sure the FBI agent wouldn’t recognize him. The beard would be gone, the farmer’s haircut would be longer, styled, and dyed a different color. He’d also change the color of his eyes, maybe green or blue. He had such a nice collection of contacts to choose from, every color of the rainbow at his disposal.
Stark believed he was the master of disguises. Subtle changes, that was the ticket. Nothing dramatic, just a little of this and a little of that to make a world of difference. Why, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him today if he’d walked up to her and tapped her on her shoulder. Of course, Mother Millicent wasn’t seeing much of anything these days, rotting as she was in her backyard under the petunias she was so partial to. Still, if she could see him in his farmer’s getup, Stark was sure she’d get a kick out of it.
He didn’t let go of the old woman on his arm but dragged her along with him as he turned the corner. He kept close to the building so that when the mule got up to the loft, he wouldn’t see him if he looked out the window.
The hag was crying. He reached the side door where the crowd was spilling out of the church, and she started to resist. “Let me go. I have to find my husband. Help me find him.”
He shoved her away from him and watched her fall into the bushes. Then he moved on, pushing his way through the throng of people and turning again to make sure the mule wasn’t hot on his trail.
He let out a low squeal. Father Tom was rushing outside, and the crowd was parting for him. He was carrying the other priest. Tom’s white vestments were bloody, but Tom didn’t look any the worse for wear. And Laurant. God Almighty, she was coming out of the door with him.
He was so shocked to see that both of them were still alive and kicking, he almost shouted at them. He recoiled against the wall, his shoulders pressing into the cold stone. What to do? What to do? No time to plan, no time at all, but he had to do something before the opportunity slipped away.
A crowd surrounded Tom now. Stark watched as he slowly lowered the other priest to the grass, then knelt over him and whispered into the dying priest’s ear. Praying for him, no doubt, as if that would do any good.
Only, the priest he’d shot wasn’t a priest, was he? He had a gun. He was a mule, a pretender. How dare they trick him? How dare they? He was a mule all right. But now he was dying.
Stark desperately wanted to kill Tom, yet he knew he couldn’t get a clear shot at him—too many people running around like chickens with their heads cut off.
He turned his attention to Laurant. Easy pickings, he thought. She was standing by the door, against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, but every couple of seconds she turned to try to look inside. She wasn’t more than thirty feet away from him. He slowly crept forward. She looked dazed, and that gave him an added advantage.
He pulled the gun out of his pocket and hid it inside his jacket.
“Laurant,” he shouted her name and tried to sound pitiful. He doubled over, his head down, but he peeked up at her as he called out to her again.
“Laurant, I’ve been shot. Please help me.” He staggered closer. “Please.”
Laurant heard Justin Brady call her name, and without a second’s hesitation, she started toward him.
He pretended to stumble. Then he groaned loudly. An Academy Award. He should get an award for his flawless performance.
Laurant took a step in Justin’s direction and a sting pinched the calf of her right leg. Most likely she’d cut herself when she’d been thrown to the floor by one of the bridesmaids trying to push ahead of her into the aisle. She could feel blood trickling down into her shoe.
She was limping but moved as fast as she could. When she was about fifteen feet away from him, she suddenly stopped. Something wasn’t quite right. She heard Nick’s voice inside her head. Don’t believe anything anyone tells you. And that’s when she glanced down and saw what was wrong.
Justin watched her take a step back, away from him. He had his right hand inside his jacket, holding his gun flush against his side. He kept stumbling toward her, half doubled over, trying to look as though he were in terrible pain.
She wasn’t buying it. What was she staring at? His hand. She was staring at his hand. He looked down and then he saw it. The surgical glove. He had forgotten to remove the surgical gloves. Jolted by his own carelessness, he ran at her like a charging bull. She was turning to run away, shouting for Nicholas, when he slammed the butt of his gun against the base of her skull, silencing her scream.
Hurry, his mind told him. Get her, get her, get her. She was unconscious, falling, but he caught her around the waist before she hit the ground and dragged her back, and around the corner of the building. People were still pouring out of the church, and there were clusters of men and women and children in the parking lot, but no one tried to stop him. Did they see what he was doing? Did they see the gun pressed against Laurant’s chest? The barrel was pointed upward, the muzzle under her chin. If anyone dared interfere, Stark knew exactly what he would do. He would blow her pretty little head off.
He didn’t want her to die, not yet anyway. He might have to make a few adjustments, but he still had such grand plans for her. After he locked her in the trunk of his other car—the old souped-up Buick that none of the mules knew belonged to him—he’d drive somewhere safe and tie her up. There were lots of abandoned cabins up in this neck of the woods. He knew he’d find the perfect spot easily. He’d leave her there trussed up like a turkey with a gag in her mouth, and then he’d go shopping. Yes sir, that’s what he was going to do. He’d buy another video camera—high quality, of course, only the best would do—and he’d purchase at lease a dozen videotapes as well. Sony if they had them, because the resolution was oh, so much better. And then he would return to his sweet Laurant and film her death. He’d try to keep her alive for as long as he could, but when the inevitable occurred and the light went out of her eyes—and it would—he would rewind the tape and relive the glorious execution. Stark knew from past experience that he would spend hours and hours watching and rewatching the tape until he had every twitch, every scream, every plea memorized. Only when he was completely satisfied would he be able to rest.
Once he had disposed of her body in the woods, he would go home. He would make copies of the tapes and send them to everyone he wanted to impress. Nicholas would get one for a keepsake, a reminder of how impotent he had been, daring to go up against the master. Another tape would be sent to the head of the FBI. The director might want to use the gift as a training tape for future mules. Stark would, of course, keep several for his own personal library—even the best tapes eventually wore out after all—and the last tape he would make would be auctioned on the Internet. Although he wasn’t driven by the almighty dollar, a nice nest egg would give him the freedom to go searching for another perfect partner, and this tape would bring a fortune. There was a large following out there surfing the Internet with similar tastes in voyeurism.
Laurant lay slumped on the ground next to the van while Stark got his keys out. No one could see them, tucked in as they were between two other cars. He unlocked the door, slid the panel back, and then lifted Laurant and threw her inside. As he pulled the door closed, her long skirt got caught, but he was in too much of a hurry now to open the door again. He knew he was being sloppy, but that couldn’t be helped. Things were changing so quickly—and then there was also his own forgetfulness with the gloves. He ran around to the driver’s side, saw the ambulance threading its way up the drive, trying to get through the crowd and the cars. The siren was blasting away.
Stark knew he couldn’t get down the driveway, which was the only exit. “Not to worry,” he whispered. He started the motor and slowly edged the van over the curb. Then he gunned the engine. The van lurched forward and crashed into the rosebushes. A thorny branch flew up against the window, and Stark instinctively ducked, as though it were going to slice through the windshield and strike him. He was all but standing on the gas petal now, pushing down with all of his weight. The van raced down the grassy slope, bouncing and rocking along. Stark felt like he was flying.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and then began to laugh. No one was following him. He was as safe as a bug in a rug.
Should he do it now? Blow them all to kingdom come? The detonator was just above his forehead, clipped like a real garage door opener to the visor.
No, he wanted Laurant to watch the fireworks. He decided to stick with his original plan then. He’d blow up the abbey on his way out of town. He’d already picked the spot. Best seat in the house, at the top of the hill outside of town. He’d be able to see every brick explode. And oh, what a sight that was going to be. My God, he ought to film that too. Send it to all the television stations. News at eleven. Yes, sirree . . .
“Green-eyed girl, won’t you wake up and play. Wake up and play . . . Laurant, it’s time to wake up.”
He glanced down at his watch and was shocked at how little time had passed. Then he heard the screech of tires, and his head snapped up. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the green Explorer at the top of the hill. The SUV was soaring through the air, the front tires coming down as Stark watched in disbelief. His rage was uncontrollable. “Not acceptable,” he screamed as he pounded his fist against the steering wheel.