One Deadly Sin (18 page)

I
n the days that followed, Edie couldn’t shake the jumpiness. She took the bike to Myer’s, but Andy couldn’t tell whether that cut had been intentional.

“Could be,” he said with a shake of his head. “Could as easily been something you picked up on the road.”

Accident
, her brain screamed. Yeah, right. Just like all the rest.

“Lucky you didn’t break your neck,” Andy added.

True, that. But was her luck someone else’s disappointment? Was someone stalking her? Looking for a way to get to her the way they got to Fred Lyle and Dennis Runkle?

Was that someone Holt’s father?

Since that night at the bar, he’d made himself scarce. But he hadn’t spilled his secret either. If he had a secret to spill, and hadn’t just been making idle conversation.

God. Could anyone blame her for being jittery?

Holt noticed it, too. Blamed the accident—which he’d learned about by way of the bruises on her right side and Andy’s big mouth—and lectured her about the dangers of speed. To get him off her back, she asked if he was going to send her to traffic school, and he grinned in that sexy, evil way of his.

“You hurt yourself again, I just might do that.”

The day of the Drennen All-Star party started bright and sunny. A far cry from the way Edie felt when she woke. She’d tried to come up with a reason not to go, but every time she started making noises about not showing up, Holt threatened to drag her there in handcuffs. She always backed off, knowing persistence would only lead to questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.

But the thought of facing James rattled her. Who knew what he had planned for her? Maybe he was waiting for a public venue for his tell-all. Or maybe he had something even worse up his sleeve. Just to be sure, she’d take a cab. Pick up a can of mace. Something…

She shuddered.

Holt said there’d be a crowd. What if James hadn’t tampered with her bike and it was someone else? The thought that she might be shaking hands with whoever had almost killed her sent her into a tailspin. Especially since she didn’t even know if someone
had
tried to kill her.

She grabbed her hair, shook her head. Growled into the empty room as if that could shake things loose.

Nothing doing.

She kicked off the covers and slid out of bed. Look at her—the whole thing was driving her nuts. She longed to be free of the weird, scary, sticky web. If only she hadn’t come to Redbud. Hadn’t delivered her little goodies. Would those two men be alive? Would she be safe?

She paused on her way to the bathroom, an idea blooming hot in her head. She’d started things, hadn’t she? So wasn’t it up to her to end them? She could throw herself on Holt’s mercy and decency, and tell him herself who she was and what she’d done. Tell him her suspicions about the bike accident. If she took him into her confidence she’d take the stinger right out of his father’s behind.

She chilled. It was a risk. But not telling was equally risky. Either way she was heading down the trail to losing Holt. Not to mention her life.

A wail crawled up her throat. She wasn’t ready to let go of either, and that was frightening in its own right. So much easier to drift without attachments.

Too late now.

God, she’d made a lovely mess of things.

But hell, if she had to be cut loose better she did the hacking than someone else.

She showered quickly, threw on some clothes, and let herself out of the apartment. If she was going to end things she had to end them. Cut the last link to the mission she’d come to town with and now wanted only to abandon.

She straddled her bike and took off, heading for the neighborhoods just off the square.

The Redbud Community Church occupied the corner of East and Courthouse, so wasn’t hard to find. She pulled into the drive and parked in the lot behind the church. It was empty except for a ten-year-old Saturn. The preacher’s? For a moment, she hesitated. What would she do if he was there? Pretend she’d come to pray? Confess? If she asked for her angel back, she’d reveal herself. Then she remembered. Clergy were like lawyers, right? Anything she said would be confidential. But still…

She swallowed. Better get it over with.

She tried the back door; it was open. Inside, the sound of a vacuum cleaner told her that whoever owned the car was probably behind the noise. Relieved, she crept away from the sound, exploring hallways until she found the offices. A discreet gold plate on one door labeled one the Reverend Kenneth Parsley’s.

Edie paused to listen for the vacuum. It was still a ways off, but she hesitated. What if Parsley had walked to church and was behind the door? Did she really want to do this?

The answer was a definite no, but she torqued her courage and knocked lightly anyway. No answer.

Slowly she opened the door. Peeked in. Empty. Quickly, she plunged inside, closed the door behind her. Books and papers littered the desk. Shelves of books lined the walls. A credenza in the corner held stacks of magazines. It would take hours to search everything.

What the hell had she been thinking? That he would have kept the black angel in his office in a place where anyone could find it? Yeah, right. She’d mailed it from Hammerbilt weeks ago. He’d probably thrown it away by now.

But some stubborn do-the-right-thing impulse made her continue just in case. First, she listened at the door. Was the vacuum cleaner closer? She looked back at the office, cursed her idiocy, and bolted to the desk.

She yanked open the middle drawer. Pens slid to the front and rolled back. Pink phone slips, a pamphlet on spiritual healing, and several pads of sticky notes. Three side drawers yielded Bibles, a hymnal, a thesaurus, and a folder of old sermons. Ditto the top of the desk. A closet held a raincoat, a nylon jacket with the church’s name embroidered over the left breast, and a pair of ratty running shoes. She checked all pockets, turned the shoes upside down. All she found was a peppermint and a scrap of a flyer announcing a Run for Jesus.

Okay. She’d had enough. Her better self was appeased. Time to rock and r—

“Hey, what are you doing?”

She froze. Caught her breath. Her mind raced for a reasonable excuse for being there. She pasted a smile on her face, whirled to confront whoever was there, and found Terry Bishop standing in the doorway with the vacuum cleaner.

A pretext popped into her head the minute she saw him. “Looking for you.”

“In the preacher’s office?”

She glanced around. “Is that where I am? I was just trying to figure out what you’d cleaned and what you hadn’t.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “What do you want?”

“To talk to you.”

“About what?”

“You know something, don’t you? Something about Fred Lyle and the Hammerbilt plant.”

“What if I do?”

“Information can be dangerous, Terry. But if you share it, you share the danger.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Satisfy my curiosity.”

He twisted the vacuum’s power cord between his hands, stared at her with sullen menace. “Curiosity can get you killed.”

The bald threat set her pulse racing. Was he behind the attempt on her life? He always seemed to have a grudge against her, though she didn’t know why. Then again, there must be a lot she didn’t know. She forced herself to smile again. “I do something to piss you off?”

He didn’t answer. But something in his face softened, and she took advantage of it. Advanced on him. “You do know something, don’t you? You should tell. You’ll feel better if you do.”

But instead of pushing him to reveal what he knew, she’d pushed him in the opposite direction. His eyes hardened. He dragged the vacuum cleaner into the office and plugged in the cord.

“Leave me alone,” he said and turned his back on her.

She repressed her instinct to scream, keeping her voice calm and cool. “Fine. But do me a favor, okay?” She paused to see if that elicited a response. It didn’t. She continued, “Keep an eye out for the preacher.”

He wrapped a hand around the handle of the machine, flicked a suspicious look her way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just… make sure he’s okay.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think I’d do something to him?”

“No, that’s not what mean. It’s just… a lot of people have died recently.”

He thrust out his chin belligerently. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

He took a threatening step toward her. “Get out of here.”

“Okay. Okay.” She held up placating hands. “I’m going. But if you ever want to talk, I’m—”

He switched on the machine and the rest of her sentence was lost in the noise. Okaaaay.

She left the office and, just to make sure, vowed to check her bike before mounting. Overly cautious? Whatever. She wasn’t going to let carelessness cost her everything. Catastrophe might be on the horizon, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. And you could bet it was going to be a damn good down-and-dirty brawl.

22

T
he Reverend Kenneth Parsley was having a rough day. His Sunday sermon—which he wrote in longhand and usually had in draft form by Tuesday so his secretary could type it—was still only a blank page, though he’d dutifully sat at his desk in his church office all afternoon.

Using a handkerchief, he dabbed at the sweat on his forehead and behind his wide neck. Lately, he was always sweating. Maybe it was the heat, or he had some kind of flu bug. Or, as his doctor said, he needed to lose a few pounds. Either way, he couldn’t concentrate. Tired of looking at the empty yellow pad, he shoved it in a desk drawer, and stood. The air inside his office was stuffy. Or maybe it was his head that was stuffy. Or his immortal soul.

Deep inside him, his belly twisted at the thought, and Reverend Parsley told himself it was a hunger pang. He thought about a snack, but no matter how much he ate, he was always hungry. Ever since that meeting at the quarry, nothing satisfied. And then with Fred Lyle keeling over and the terrible accident that took Dennis Runkle, it seemed as if the world around him was toppling. As if the Lord himself was finally passing judgment.

Then why hadn’t he passed judgment on him? Wasn’t the hypocrite the worst offender? He rubbed his face, tired, too, of the endless recriminations. God forgive him for a coward. Forgive him and show him the way to redemption.

Without, of course, exposing him.

He shuddered to think of the public humiliation, and concentrated instead on the good he’d done and could still do. Hadn’t he fought the Lord’s battles here on earth, bringing umpteen people to the Savior? Only last week, he’d ushered the Tewksbury boy into God’s grace. Wasn’t that worth something on the balance sheets?

Maybe that’s what he should talk about this Sunday. Life as a balance sheet, with hope that the good outweighed the evil we do. Relief washed over him. Yes, that’s what he’d do. Eagerly, he plopped back down and reached for the yellow pad. The minute he picked up his pen, though, words deserted him and he couldn’t think how to begin.

He jerked to his feet again. He needed something to munch on. An energy boost. There’d be cookies in the church kitchen. And he could use the walk. The exercise would clear his head. Help him pray.

He took the long way around, giving himself ample time. And if he was avoiding the sanctuary he didn’t admit it. It was only that everything was so tight. His shirt collar pinched his neck, the sleeves imprisoned his shoulders. Even his skin pressed tight against his skull. He needed to loosen up. That’s why the words wouldn’t come. He ducked into the men’s changing room behind the baptismal pool. Unbuttoned his shirt and wet a paper towel, which he dragged across his face and neck. He thought about last Sunday’s baptism. Tried to recapture the joy, but it was out of reach.

He left through the baptistery door, down the ramp that led to the pool. He’d always liked the way the light from the stained glass at the front of the church gave the water a godly glow. Usually, it was serene and calming. Today, it just looked green.

He blinked. Of course it looked strange. There shouldn’t be any water. The thing should have been drained days ago. They’d had trouble with the pool before. He thought Terry Bishop had fixed it.