Sluagh(Darrell Case) Sluagh

Darrell Case


Proverbs 11:30
Leaning Tree Christian Publishers
Farmersburg, IN 47850


Copyright © 2013 by Darrell Case

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise without prior permission in writing from the author.

Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1492815426

All quotations are from the King James Bible.

Learn more information at
www.authordarrellcase.com



To my mother
Mary Belle Case
1919-2013
Who fought her own demons for many years,
But overcame them
By the blood of the Lamb.



Contents

Prologue Page 1
Chapter 1 Page 7
Chapter 2 Page 20
Chapter 3 Page 28
Chapter 4 Page 40
Chapter 5 Page 48
Chapter 6 Page 52
Chapter 7 Page 59
Chapter 8 Page 69
Chapter 9 Page 76
Chapter 10 Page 88
Chapter 11 Page 95
Chapter 12 Page 102
Chapter 13 Page 111
Chapter 14 Page 116
Chapter 15 Page 128
Chapter 16 Page 141
Chapter 17 Page 145
Chapter 18 Page 151
Chapter 19 Page 154
Chapter 20 Page 158
Chapter 21 Page 161
Chapter 22 Page 166
Chapter 23 Page 176
Chapter 24 Page 185
Chapter 25 Page 199
Epilogue Page 209
Deadly Justice Page 212
Dear Reader Page 222



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

What can I say about those who have helped me write this book? How can I express my gratitude? The praise for my writing does not belong to me but to the unseen ones whose names do not appear on the cover. Those who have typed, edited, proofread and encouraged are the invisible ones behind every author. To them I say a heartfelt thank you. Any praise for Sluagh (pronounced Sloo-ah) goes to them. Any criticism is for me and me alone.
Thank you Justin Davis of Davis Design for another fantastic book cover. Special thanks to Matthew Brown for modeling the cover.
To the pastor and congregation of Grace Baptist Church of Wilson, North Carolina, thank you for kindly allowing us to use the photo of your church.
To Sarah Stevens who took my jumbled words and edited them into something readable. To Mary Ellen Robertson for applying her art of editing to Sluagh.
To my wife, companion and friend of over 34 years, my continual love and devotion.
And as always, to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.



FORWARD

According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, Sluaghs were the spirits of the restless dead. Sometimes they were seen as sinners, or generally evil people who were welcome in neither heaven nor hell, nor in the Otherworld, who had also been rejected by the Celtic deities and by the earth itself. Whichever the underlying belief, they are almost always depicted as troublesome and destructive. They were seen to fly in groups like flocks of birds, coming from the west, and were known to try to enter the house of a dying person in an effort to carry the soul away with them. West-facing windows were sometimes kept closed to keep them out. Some consider the Sluagh to also carry with them the souls of innocent people who were kidnapped by these destructive spirits.

Max Furman considers himself a Sluagh, a ghost man. Unwelcome by those in society. An outsider of any and all actives of the human race. He has sealed his heart against every emotion.
Yet Max cannot deny his search for a mother's love. Each time he takes the life of an innocent child he believes he has stolen their mother's love. He develops into a killing machine. For years he operates without detection. But like the moth who flies ever closer to the flame so Max comes nearer and nearer to his own destruction.


*****

Prologue

Warm fluid spread beneath the child, waking him. His heart pounded. Cold sweat mingled with the urine soaking the sheet. Panic made his breath come in short, sharp spurts. Tears welled in his eyes. He tried to calm himself, to no avail. He must think. He reasoned with himself. She had warned him, if he wet the bed again she would whip him with the cord from the sewing machine. His back still hurt from the last beating. She said she would whip him worse than before.
He knew she meant it. He had suffered her wrath before. Last night after his bath, he stood before the mirror and looked over his shoulder at his back. The red marks were fading, leaving long, jagged scars. He turned away, unable to bear the image. He was ugly, his mother told him so. Loneliness and despair clamped down on his soul like a vise.
Last Sunday he had been excited. The church on the corner was having a Sunday school attendance campaign. All the children in the neighborhood were invited. Someone had tossed a flier announcing the drive on the street. He picked it up, looking around to see if anyone was watching. He stuffed the paper inside his shirt and ran behind the garage to read it. He decided to go. He had heard something of God’s love. Here at last perhaps he would find it.
His mother would never know. As long as he was out of the house and not bothering her, she didn't care where he went. Time and again she screamed her hatred at him. “You look just like your father. That worthless no good left me to raise his brat.”
She exsughted her statement by throwing the nearest idem at him . if they were in the kitchen it might be a spoon or a knife. Several time he barely missed being nicked.
At 9 AM Sunday morning, he walked to the church and entered through the side door. Everyone else was coming in the front. He watched the boys and girls stream down the hallway. They stared at him. He huddled against the wall, out of their way. He wasn't sure he would be welcome in this house of God. After all, no one had given him the invitation, he just found it.
He thought of all the birthday parties from which he’d been excluded. At school, he would pretend not to notice others pointing at him. They would whisper and laugh, their unkind remarks hidden behind hands covering their mouths. Maybe this would be different. He followed the children. One room seemed to be filling up with those his age.
A pretty woman in a flowered dress stood behind a small podium. She greeted each child by name. He sat in the back and kept his head down, hoping no one would call him out as an interloper. The other students moved their chairs away from him, crowding up against each other. The teacher, a woman in her late 20s, actually smiled at him once or twice. It made him feel warm inside. His mother never smiled at him.
Afterward he wanted to speak to her, to tell her how happy he was to be in her class and how much he enjoyed the stories she told. He hung around outside until everyone was gone. Thinking she must be alone, he approached the room, stopping short at the door. He heard a different female voice.
"If that ragamuffin child is going to attend this church, my husband and I are leaving. He will attract others of the same ilk. I will not have my son associating with children like that."
The Sunday school teacher voice was muffled. He thought he heard her say the word “Christian,” but he couldn’t be sure.
“I don't care, I'll not have my Howie in the same class with that dirty little waif."
He knew they were talking about him. He left, never to return. No one pursued him. No one came to his home. Except for a collective sigh of relief, the church on the corner was silent. If this couple pulled out their membership, its finances would suffer. What was the cost of losing one little poor boy compared to the loss of this wealthy family?
Ashamed of his ragged clothes, he tried to close the holes with safety pins. On rainy days, he slipped plastic bags over his shoes. He was aware he was different. The pitying expressions of teachers, the taunts of the children made it only too clear.
At the end of the first day of school, he came home not wanting to return. His mother laughed and called him a coward. Soon after, he began wetting the bed. His mother was livid. She yanked him out of a sound sleep and hurled him to the floor.
"You're six years old, you little creep. If you do this again I’ll whip you into next week!" she screamed. "Now get downstairs and wash these sheets." She ripped off the wet bedding and flung it at him. He struggled down the stairs with it, tripping over the trailing fabric and almost falling. He wrestled the soaked sheets into the laundry room. Stuffing them into the washer was another matter. Even with the big bird stool, he had to stand on his tiptoes. He couldn’t reach the soap.
Running to the bathroom, he grabbed the liquid hand soap. He was standing on the stool pushing down the pump when the back of her hand connected with the side of his head. He flew off, smacking his head on the wall. Tears filled his eyes. She pulled a bottle of Wisk from the overhead cabinet and squatted in front of him as he lay rubbing his head. Her face was a frightening mask of rage. “Get up there and sleep on the floor and if you wet the rug I'll wrap it around your face." He scurried up the stairs, his heart pounding. He curled up on the floor, shivering in his wet underwear.
The bed stayed dry the next night and the next and the one after that. A week later, he climbed into it feeling confident, but woke up in horror. His mother stood over him, gripping his shoulder. Her fingers dug into his flesh like a cat’s claws. The pool of urine underneath him was turning cold. She jerked him off the bed and dropped him on the floor. She wrapped the end of the electrical cord from the sewing machine around her hand. Paralyzed with fear, he lay helpless as she brought it down across his back. He howled and writhed in pain. Five more times she struck him, the cord shredding his flesh.
She stood over him seething as he blubbered on the floor, his back oozing blood. "Clean up this mess and get to bed and you better not get blood on the sheets." Then she was gone, leaving her son weeping in pain and humiliation.
Now, five weeks later, he woke quaking with fear in a wet bed. Jumping up, he tore off the sheets and stuffed them under the bed. Running to the chest of drawers in the hallway, he pulled out some clean ones. He stretched them out as best he could and leaped between them.
He heard his mother coming up the stairs. Her thumping footsteps came toward his room. He turned over, faced the wall and pretended to be asleep. She flung open the door.
"Get up and get to school." She banged the door shut and stomped back down the hall. He breathed a sigh of relief. She would be at work when he got home. He could wash the sheets and she would never know.
That afternoon he ran home, taking the shortcut through old man Bleven's yard. Rounding the house, he stopped in his tracks. Her car was in the driveway. Ever so quietly, he entered through the front door and tiptoed up the stairs. There was thunder in the air. It boomed, shaking the house. He hoped it would drown out his footfall on the squeaky fifth step.
In his room, he dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. His heart nearly stopped. The space was empty. Suddenly a hand closed around his upper arm. There was a ripping sound as she tore his threadbare shirt from his back.
For the next five minutes, he endured the worst beating of his young life. Blood trickled down his back and pooled in the waistband of his pants. He shrieked in agony and terror.
"Didn't think I’d find them, did you? You're worse than worthless," she screamed, pounding away with her arm. "I should have killed you right after I had you! I should have left you on the street in a box. Now you're too big, nobody wants you."
She finished with a lick across his shoulder that reached to his stomach, catching his bellybutton. She flung him aside. "Get out of my sight." She whipped the cord at him as he struggled to his feet, catching him on the leg.
He half ran, half stumbled to the stairs. His legs burned and wobbled under him. Halfway down, he tripped and fell to the bottom. Shaking his head, he picked himself up and charged out of the house, not stopping until he was behind the garage. He lay on the ground in a ball and sobbed. Cold rain splattered against his back. He barely felt it.
No one loved him. No one cared. His own mother wished he was dead. Mercifully, he slept. Two hours later, he awoke in the dark. The rain still fell. It penetrated to his core. He shivered violently. Something had changed. He was no longer the tortured, heartbroken little boy. Inside he felt nothing─no pain, no fear, no love, no longing. Nothing. She could beat his body and the others could laugh and point and despise him, but they would never touch him inside. He would be never tortured again. His heart was unfeeling, uncaring, dead.
Quietly, the demon ,the Sluagh entered his soul.



Chapter 1
28 years later

Andrew would not let it happen. His mandate from the Lord was clear. He must protect the child at all costs. His eyes swept the landscape. The demon was close; he could feel the evil. He tensed, readying for battle. His hand gripped his jewel-handled sword. Over the centuries, Andrew’s sword had forced legions of Satan's emissaries to retreat from a protected human.
Heedless of the danger, five-year-old Joshua Moore picked up his Tonka dump truck and trotted to the edge of the yard. The spring sun warmed him; a slight breeze tousled his curly golden hair. He kneeled on the ground where the grass was worn thin and the truck's small wheels turned easily. Pushing the truck forward, he pretended he was driving down a deserted highway. He scooped up a handful of sand and dumped it into the bed. He set up the empty soda bottles his daddy had given him. Now the truck meandered through tall trees on its way to the delivery site.
The predator grinned and crouched down, preparing to spring. The little boy would soon be his to do with as he pleased. He would toy with him for hours, then end his life. Today the strength flowing through the five-year-old's veins, the love in his heart and his very soul would belong to The Ghost The Sluagh.
Josh crawled to within two feet of the lilac bush that hid Max Furman. His bare feet trailed in the dust; his blue jumper was streaked with dirt. Tonight his mommy would bathe him, gently washing the child for whom she had prayed so long. His mother’s love for him warmed the little boy more than the sun ever could. Max wanted that love. He craved it.
Taking a plastic bag from his pocket, the predator removed a cloth from inside. The itching in his hand was maddening. He tried to ignore it. Impossible. Soon. Soon he would have this child and the itching would stop, at least for a while. He tensed but remained patient, like a lion stalking its prey. The child was his. Nothing could save him.
Drawing his sword, Andrew moved between Josh and the man. His luminous robe touched Josh's face. The child felt something and looked up. Seeing nothing, he went on playing happily with his truck.
Flittering behind the man, the demon drew his sword. Stepping through Max into the open yard, Antoine swung his blade at Andrew's head. Ducking, the angel brought his sword up to meet it. Three blocks away, the deafening metallic clang caused Mrs. Mankin to look up at the sky. Must have been a sonic boom.
Backing off, the demon shouted. "Come on, angel, don't hide behind a child."
With his face set and his eyes glued on the demon, Andrew moved from his position. Maneuvering behind the little boy, Antoine mocked, "You can't stop him. He will have the child."
"God will protect this child," Andrew answered. They spun, slashing at each other again. The clashing of their swords echoed like thunder. Angel and demon fought, Antoine cursing his foe, Andrew conserving his strength for the duration of the skirmish. Dark clouds rolled across the sun.
Antoine laughed. "God is weak. He couldn't even protect His own son. The child will meet the same fate. This man will use him and throw away his dead body as he did the others’."
"The Lord rebuke you, demon!" Andrew shouted. His anger caused the angel to swing his sword recklessly. The demon suddenly felt weak, but quickly recovered. Andrew swung his sword, just missing Antoine's ear. The demon countered, striking Andrew in the midsection and catapulting him several miles away.
The predator pounced. Sensing movement, Josh turned his head. He opened his mouth to scream. Seizing the terrified child, Max quickly placed the cloth over Josh's mouth and stepped back behind the bush. Josh fought, his small fists beating the arms that held him. His tiny bare feet kicked Max in the stomach. The predator held the cloth tightly over the child's mouth, silencing him until he went limp.
The Moores’ ranch-style home was situated on the south edge of Morgantown, Pennsylvania The home was set back 500 feet from the highway and concealed by a grove of trees. Having moved in nine years before, Julie and Ron Moore loved the house, but she hated the yard. "It's so bare. It has no personality. There's not even one flower.”
Draping an arm over her shoulder, Ron tried to assuage his wife’s frustration. "Think of it as a blank canvas, hon,” he said with an encouraging smile, “just waiting for your touch."
So Julie went to work, filling the barren expanse with flowers, shrubs and trees, virtually painting with her hands until the entire yard came alive with color and form. Inspired by their newly lush landscape, the couple went on to remodel the house, transforming the property into a showplace the former owner would not recognize.
When they married 15 years before, Ron and Julie pictured a house full of children. Their evenings would be filled with games, homework, laughter and joy. It was not to be. They tried for two years before consulting a doctor. The tests came back negative. There would be no children in the Moore household.
Ron tried in vain to comfort his wife. There were more tests, more procedures. They were getting older. They started adoption proceedings and took their place at the bottom of long waiting lists. Many lonely couples wanted babies.
Then one Sunday, the pastor of their small church preached on 1st Samuel. "Hannah's heart was broken," he said, lifting his voice. "She wanted a child more than life itself. With tears on her face and in her soul, she promised God if He would give her a child, she would give him back to the Lord. We will receive of the Lord what we desire when our hearts desire His glory more than our own."
That afternoon, Julie knelt by her and Ron's bed and promised the Lord that if He would give them a child, she would give that child back to Him to do with as He pleased. Five months later, she nearly fainted when the home pregnancy test proved positive. The doctor's test confirmed that she was three months along. As with Hannah, God filled Julie's heart with joy. The pregnancy went well, with few complications. Every day Julie and Ron lifted their hearts in thankfulness to the Lord.
The day of the delivery, Julie woke at two in the morning. Although birth pangs weren’t yet present, her intuition was. She woke Ron. When they arrived at the hospital, the nurse was reluctant to admit her. However, the doctor agreed that the time was near. She had barely settled in the maternity ward bed when her water broke. Two hours later, at 5:45AM, Joshua Samuel Moore was born. When the infant opened his blue eyes, Julie fell instantly in love. Smoothing his tuft of blond hair, she said with tears choking her voice, "Lord, here is your child. I will raise him for you and only you."
The phone rang a second time. Drying her hands, Julie reached for it. She glanced out the kitchen window. Josh was still playing with his truck. Blind to the evil lurking behind him, Julie turned her back to the window. "Hello?"
"Hi, Julie, it's Mary. I was wondering what you're bringing to the fellowship Sunday night. I don't want to bring the same thing."
Julie smiled. She and Mary had shared recipes in the past and more than once had shown up at church fellowships with the same dessert. “Oh, don't worry. I'm going to try out a dish I saw on Top Chef. If you like it I'll give you the recipe Sunday night."
They talked for a few minutes, discussing family and church. With the phone still pressed to her ear, Julie turned back to the window. Her eyes darted across the back yard. Josh's truck lay abandoned among the toppled soda bottles.
Feeling panic rise in her throat, Julie said, "I’ll have to call you back." Taking the cordless phone with her, she raced outside and circled the house. The boy was nowhere to be seen.
"Josh! Josh!" Julie shouted. Nothing. She ran around to the front of the house. Her eyes searched the tree line at the edge of the property and swept the roadway in front. Surely he wouldn’t go near the highway. She constantly warned him about the speeding cars and, though not as often, stranger danger.
Her head jerked toward the sound of twigs snapping at the edge of the woods. She saw a flash of white at the side of the road─a van bearing the letters AT&T. She ran toward it as an arrow of terror shot through her heart. A man was running along the tree line toward the van. He was carrying Josh!
The man's coat flared out behind him like a cape.
His arm was around the little boy’s middle. The child’s limp body flopped like a ragdoll. His face hung down. He appeared to be dead.
"Josh, Josh! You leave him alone, let him go!" Julie screamed hysterically as she ran at the man with tears streaming down her face. "Put him down! Leave him alone! Mommy's here, Josh! You let him go!" She got closer to the man and stuck out her free hand, intending to tear her son out of the predator's grip. She would kill or be killed to protect her child.
"Julie, Julie what's wrong!" Mary shouted through the phone. "Julie, answer me!"
Stopping short, Max turned to face the screaming woman, this child's mother. He laughed at her. The only weapon she carried was a phone. She raised it at him menacingly. His long beard and hair and dark glasses obscured his features. What little she could see of his face looked diabolical under the oversized red baseball cap pulled low on his forehead.
Pulling a silver, snub-nosed .25 from the waistband of his pants, Max pointed it at her. He never shot children, only adults. Max preferred a slow death for the children. After all, he was death. He was The Ghost Man.
Ignoring the threat, Julie charged him. She would attack this man with her bare hands if that’s what it took to protect her child. She would gladly die to save her son. But before she did, she would rip this monster’s eyes out.
The impact of the first bullet spun her around. She felt herself falling. She struggled to get up but couldn’t. Another bullet plowed into the ground inches from her face. She fought to stay conscious. "Josh, Josh, oh Joshie," she murmured, her tears and blood mingling with the dirt. A siren shrieked in the distance.
Throwing the child into the back of the van, Max heaped a dirty blanket on top of him. Dashing to the driver’s side, he jumped in, started the engine and pulled onto the highway. Topping a rise, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw a police car slide into his victim’s driveway. He cursed himself for possibly leaving a witness alive. In 68 abductions, he had never left a living witness. He couldn’t be sure if the cop noticed his vehicle. He couldn’t take a chance. He had to ditch it. Was the woman alive? Could she identify him? Did the cop even see the van? No matter. He had to get rid of it, quickly.
Trying not to draw attention to himself or the van, he drove below the speed limit for a few miles. Reaching into his bag of tricks, he held the wheel with one hand as he made a few hasty changes to his disguise. Changing caps to the one with the phone company’s logo pulling off the trench coat. Now he really looked the part of a telephone technician.
Five miles outside of town, he turned off the highway onto a gravel road leading into a valley thick with woods and corn fields. He topped a hill and rounded a curve. A ramshackle barn set back a little from the road came into view. Parked beside it was a rusty pickup. He laid the pistol in his lap.
Continuing a short distance down the lane, he spotted a gray-haired man in bib overalls cutting weeds with a hand sickle. As Max pulled up alongside, the farmer straightened up. Laying down the sickle, he rubbed the small of his back. Grinning, he ambled over to Max’s open window. "Having problems with the phones again are we, sonny?"
"I think I’m lost," Max said, looking perplexed. Where is the nearest house?"
"That would be mine, about a half mile up the road," the old man said. He pointed in the direction from which Max had come. "Then’s the Waters. They’s a mile further on."
Regaining consciousness, Josh began to moan. "What's that?” the farmer asked, craning his neck to see in the back of the van. “You got somebody hurt back there?"
Without a grain of conscience, Max grabbed the .25 and shot him in the chest. The old man fell on his back, his eyes clouded with shock and bewilderment. Max smiled down at the dying man. "You're not going to give them any description, even a wrong one." Hopping out of the van, he kicked the farmer in the side. When he groaned, Max shot him in the face.
Looking around, he noticed the old barn had large double doors. Swinging them open, Max drove the van in between two rows of stalls. The building smelled of old hay, manure and years of dust. Dragging the old man's corpse inside, Max let it drop in one of the empty stalls.
After hiding the van and the body, the predator carried the groggy child to the pickup. Placing him on the floor, he covered him with the old, scratchy blanket from the van. Then Max removed his wig and replaced it with a straw hat that was lying on the pickup’s seat. He pulled a pair of bib overalls from his satchel and wriggled into them.
Looking into the truck’s rearview mirror, he pulled off the beard and smiled at his smooth-shaven reflection. Now he was just another farmer out checking his crops. Grabbing a handful of mud from the roadside, he smeared it over the license plate. Coming around the side of the pickup, he heard Josh stir. Before he could open his eyes, Max pressed the cloth over his mouth and nose. The child quickly lapsed into a deep sleep.
He hotwired the old pickup and drove down the lane. The country road was deserted. Good. Approaching the highway, he slammed on the brakes. He heard them coming. Two state police cars roared past, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Neither trooper even glanced his way. He grinned. They’d be looking for a white van, not a beat-up old farm truck.
While they were chasing a bearded man with long hair under a baseball cap, he was right under their noses dressed as a country bumpkin. No doubt an Amber Alert had been issued. That was all right, he had evaded many of them. The child’s mother was more of a worry. Max wasn't sure of the location of her wound. The small gun he carried for close work wasn't very accurate.
After he had his fun with Josh, he would track her down. If she was alive, he would silence her forever. His right hand began to itch. Pulling back the blanket, he touched the child's neck. The itching stopped.
Hundreds of miles away in the small Indiana town of Waynesburg, Hattie Cooper paused in the middle of washing her supper dishes. A burden gripped the petite African- American woman’s heart. Blind from birth, Hattie's spiritual sight was more acute than most pastors’. The elderly saint knelt by a worn kitchen chair. "Oh Lord, you knows old Satan. He be at it agin, tryin' to do some evil. Stop him, Lord. You the only One that can. Amen."
Antoine and four other demons shadowed the pickup, one demon flying alongside at each corner and Antoine over the top of the cab. Their eyes darted in every direction, watching for heavenly beings.
As soon as he stopped spinning, Andrews's wounds had closed up, leaving no scars. Now he was joined by 15 more angels and they shot through the universe with their swords drawn. As they neared the earth, they formed a V. With Andrew in the lead, they pierced the dark clouds as a single unit. Approaching the truck from behind, they dispatched three demons before the imps could react.
Antoine whirled to face his one-time friend. Touching down on the pickup, his claws dug into the metal roof. He slashed at the swarm of angels attacking him, his sword clanging against a dozen others. The surviving imp cowered in the pickup’s bed. Seeing his chance, he fled, leaving Antoine to fight alone. Fear gripped the demon's heart. If he was wounded, he would be out of commission for weeks. His wounds might become infected. The pain would be excruciating and he would be unable to carry out his master’s commands.
Leaping from the cab, Antoine flew to a large oak tree and fastened himself face forward to the towering trunk. The angels surrounded him. Sixteen swords pointed at his coal black body. At God's command, Andrew moved back. Seeing the opening, Antoine shot through the sky. "We will fight again, angel," he cried out over his shoulder.
"Yes, we will," Andrew said as he watched the fallen angel become a speck against the setting sun.
Max felt a sudden stab of fear. Something was wrong. His confidence was gone. He glanced behind him, sure he was being followed. Not a vehicle in sight. He tried to shake the feeling. "It's just your imagination. They couldn't have found the old man yet," he said out loud, trying to calm himself.

Andrew wiped the grease from his sword. A disjointed piston tore a three-inch hole in the pickup’s engine block. A loud bang came from the engine. Smoke poured from under the hood. Oil and water splattered the windshield. The truck coasted to a stop at the side of the highway. Cursing, Max banged his fist on the steering wheel. "No, no, no! Not now, not when I'm so close!" he screamed. He cursed the truck’s owner, his no-good mother and Josh.
A mile away, State Trooper Ted Hage steered his patrol car onto Highway 135. The rise of the road prevented him from seeing the pickup. Stooping down, Andrew whispered in the officer's ear, jolting him with a bolt from the blue. He was going the wrong way, he could feel it. Swinging the car around, the trooper sped north. His instincts kicked in. They were looking for an AT&T van. But what if the kidnapper had switched vehicles?
Something was telling Hage the suspect was close, real close. Topping the rise, he spotted the disabled truck. At that instant, the predator poked his head out from under the open hood. He froze. The state trooper knew this was the Moore boy’s abductor. He jammed the accelerator to the floor.
Max raced to the driver’s door and jerked it open. Adrenaline flooded through both men's veins, making their hearts pound like sledgehammers. Reaching into the cab, Max touched Josh's neck one last time. The itching stopped. "I'll be back, little man," he croaked. He grabbed his small satchel and stuffed it into the bib of his overalls. Darting around the front of the pickup, Max kept his head low. A cornfield lay 100 yards away, its stalks waving in the breeze as though inviting him to hide himself among them. Before he could, Max had to cross the open field. He took off in a mad dash across the bumpy dirt clods.
The police car skidded to a stop with its nose almost touching the back of the pickup. Throwing open his door, Jed ran to the passenger side of the cab. If this guy wasn't the perp, why was he running? From what the trooper could tell, he didn’t match the description of the abductor. If he was wanted for some other crime, they could catch him later. Right now his priority was finding Josh Moore and his kidnapper. Hage glanced through the open window and saw a small boy on the floor trying to push off a blanket and sit up. Jed gasped. Drawing his pistol, he whirled around. Gripping it with both hands, he laid a bead on the fleeing Max Furman’s head.
In junior high school, Max was a champion sprinter. Now he ran as never before. The crazy thought came to him that if someone had been shooting at him, he would have won the meet at Grantor. As it was, he lost by five yards.
He heard shouting behind him. "Freeze! Police! Stop or I'll shoot." He was 50 yards from safety. "I said stop or I'll shoot!" Hage yelled. Max wasn't worried. The first shot would be a warning. Twenty-five yards, breathing hard, still moving at top speed. Twenty. The bullet whizzed past his right ear.
Dirty pool. He was supposed to shoot into the air. Ten yards to go. A bullet flipped the straw hat off his head. He caught it in the air. Running full tilt, he entered the cornfield. Two more bullets lopped off a couple of stalks as he passed. Hage holstered his gun. Time to call for backup. He glanced through the window of the pickup. The child was whimpering. Scooping Josh into his arms, Hage carried him to his vehicle and laid him on the back seat. He radioed dispatch. Within seconds, three more patrol cars and a SWAT team were rolling. The state police helicopter took off from headquarters. On the other side of the cornfield, Max changed his appearance again. By the time the cavalry arrived, he was long gone.
Through the open phone line, Mary could hear Julie screaming. She couldn’t make out the words. Then she heard what sounded like pistol shots. Keeping the landline open, she called 911 on her cell. The landline suddenly went dead.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
"Something is happening at the Moore home at 504 Prospect Place. I heard screaming and what sounded like gun shots," Mary yelled as she ran out the door. "What is your name, ma'am?"
"Mary Stewart. I'm on my way there now." Her hand trembled on the steering wheel as she guided the car down the narrow street. Sweat poured off her brow and stung her eyes.
"I would advise against that, ma'am. We have a car en route." The dispatcher tried to keep Mary on the line, but she buzzed off and called Ron .
Jumping into her car, Mary sped the short distance to the Moores’. Pulling into the driveway, she saw her friend lying in the front yard with blood pooling beneath her. Mary ran screaming to her. A police cruiser turned into the driveway. The officer jumped out with his gun drawn. Within minutes, the driveway of the Moore home was clogged with police and sheriff’s vehicles and an ambulance.
Julie regained consciousness as the paramedics were lifting her onto the gurney. She was able to mumble a description, from which an Amber Alert was issued on the kidnapper and van. Once at the hospital, doctors stopped the bleeding and removed the small caliber bullet from Julie's shoulder.
Julie refused any medication that would cause her to sleep. News had come that her son had been recovered and was being transported to the hospital. Three hours later, a sheriff's deputy found the van and the old farmer’s body in the dilapidated barn. The vehicle had been wiped clean of any clues to the kidnapper’s identity. Law enforcement officials could disseminate only what they perceived to be the abductor’s description across the state, then the nation.
Impersonating an Army chaplain in full dress greens, Max breezed through the Pennsylvania countryside. Three hours later as lawmen searched for him around Allentown, Max was resting at a motel in Ohio.
At the hospital, Trooper Hage reunited Josh with his parents. Ron and Julie wept with relief, believing their nightmare was over.


From Max Furman's journal

I had him in my hands. The cutest little boy. All blond hair and blue eyes. I could feel his mother's love radiating from his heart. It was almost mine. He would have been number 69. The camcorder was ready to record his last breath. I had the perfect place for him. He would be sitting in a sandbox at Little Tykes Preschool in Allentown, PA. How exquisite. I would have loved to see the teacher's face when she discovered he was dead. She would have screamed her lungs out. Alas, it was not to be. The spirits deserted me halfway through my quest.

I learned from the media the mother is alive. The description she gave the cops is of course incorrect. My performance was perfect. However, I must conceal myself for a period of time. I received a reply to the email I sent two days ago. I knew they could not resist the resume. The mark who placed the ad is rich, or will be until I'm through with him. By this time tomorrow, I will be Joshua Chamberlain, esteemed pastor of Waynesburg Baptist Church. Stay tuned.




Chapter 2

In the fellowship hall of Waynesburg Baptist Church, Jeff Inman stepped to the counter to freshen his coffee. Actually, he needed a breather from Fred Jorgensen's haranguing more than he needed caffeine. He’d have trouble sleeping tonight, but not because of the coffee. Fred’s riding roughshod over every deacon’s meeting made Jeff’s blood boil.
Why he let Bill talk him into being on the pulpit committee, Jeff would never know. Fred never listened to him, or anyone. Why should he? Fred knew everything about everything. If you didn't believe it, just ask him, he’d tell you. According to Fred, everybody but him was an imbecile.
The man always sent Jeff's stomach into knots. As the wealthiest individual in Waynesburg, things were done Fred's way or not at all. Most people found it easier to let him have his way than to buck him. Others just slunk away, hoping he wouldn’t notice them. Not Jeff. The friction caused hostility between the two. As a business owner, Jeff enjoyed some prestige in Waynesburg. However, his hardware store couldn't compare to Fred's Case dealership for income, and certainly not for clout.
"It's settled then," Fred said, scooping up the remaining application packets and dropping them into the wastebasket. He started to rise from the table, signaling the end of the discussion.
"Wait, wait, Fred, we haven't had a chance to go over all the applications," Bill Harris said as he reached into the wastebasket. He placed the rejected packets on the table.
"No need to Bill, I already have. This young man will be perfect for the job," he said, tapping the winning resume with a stubby finger.
"But we've never even met him," Bill sputtered. "We don't know enough about him to just hand him the job without so much as a phone interview."
"Fred, this isn't an employee of your dealership, this man is to be the pastor of our church,” Jeff chimed in. “I say we invite him for a weekend to meet him and hear him preach. Then vote."
Gathering courage from Jeff’s support, Bill picked up the argument. "I agree. We meet with him, find out more about him. In the meantime I can run a background check. After all, he’ll be responsible for a lot of souls."
"Gentlemen, need I remind you that I own the church building, the parsonage, and the land they sit on?" Fred asked rhetorically as he stuffed the remaining resumes in his briefcase. "Therefore, in actuality, I own the church. This property is listed as one of my assets, so the final decision is mine. Furthermore, we are extremely fortunate to have had a candidate of this caliber apply for the position. There won’t be any background check. I will not allow you to embarrass the church and me by questioning his integrity."
"I don't like it. I have a bad feeling about it," Jeff said.
"How many times have you said we live by faith, not feelings? It seems to me I heard you make that statement a few days ago in Sunday school," Fred reminded him, resorting to the bullying for which he was so famous.
Jeff leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. "The Lord also expects us to be wise, not foolish." He would stand up to this tyrant. One thing Fred didn’t own was the hardware. It had been in Jeff's family for 40 years and he was not about to be cowed by Fred.
"I've made my decision," Fred said. "You saw his letters of recommendation, including this one from the president of Harvard which, I might add, lists his personal cell number."
"Okay then, let's give the guy a call," Jeff challenged, pulling out his cell phone. Before Fred could stop him, he punched in the number.
Betty Wallace was reading a magazine and smoking a cigarette when the disposable cell phone marked Harvard buzzed. She let it ring a few times. After all, she was the president of Harvard and a very busy woman. After five rings, she picked it up. "Drew Gilpin Faust," she said in a cultured voice not her own. She had played bit parts in two movies. Buzzy paid better.

Thrown off by the female voice, Jeff stuttered, “Yes... I... er... Sorry to bother you, ma'am. This is Jeff Inman from Waynesburg Baptist Church in Waynesburg, Indiana. I was trying to contact the president of Harvard University."
"Yes, Mr. Inman, this is she. How may I help you?"
"Oh. Well, we have a candidate who has applied for the position of pastor of our church. A Reverend Joshua Chamberlain. We were checking his references and I─"
"Of course. Josh. Wonderful man, a good friend and a top-notch student. We hated to see him leave. We, I, was hoping he would join our staff here at Harvard." Betty was trying not to overdo. Give the mark a little rope. Not too much, though, or he might get suspicious. "If you decide to install Josh... er... Reverend Chamberlain as your pastor, I assure you, you will not be disappointed."
"Well... yes... thank you, Ms. Faust," Jeff stammered. "You've been very helpful.
"Certainly. Please feel free to call me anytime." Betty hit the end button. She got up and danced around the room. After two orbits, she bowed to an unseen audience. Max had paid $10,000 per contact for Buzzy Rundle's crew to answer several disposable phones or reply to letters. Buzzy provided a service for con artists, wealthy husbands with wandering eyes and in general, well-heeled dilettantes who had a need to cover their tracks. Betty's commission was a thousand, better than walk-on gigs. Even big budget movies only paid extras a couple hundred.
"Satisfied?" Fred asked smugly. Bill and Jeff said nothing. "Great. Now men, I expect you to be here at 5 PM Saturday to greet our new pastor."
"Sally has a game Saturday," Bill said plaintively. He was going to miss this game as he had so many others in the past. Fred's 10-minute meetings usually stretched to at least two hours, or more. He spent most of the time boasting of his importance to the church, community and the populous in general.
"Oh, get off it, Harris,” Fred chided. “The new field I built is straight across town. You can be there in five minutes. Sally won't miss you for a half an hour."
Bill swallowed a retort and held his tongue. Opposing Fred was like diving into a black hole.
"I must be going. Be sure to lock the back door," Fred instructed them as he picked up his briefcase. "And be sure the lights are off. Someone left one on in the basement Wednesday night."
After Fred was gone, Jeff sighed. "Do you want to get it or should I?"
"Get what?" Bill asked. Fred owned an almost controlling interest in the bank. If Bill wanted to continue as its president, he’d better swallow his pride. It left a bitter taste in his mouth and heart.
"His crown, so we can make him king,"
Normally reserved, Bill blustered some of his frustration. "I'd like to crown him with a bat and knock him off that high horse of his."
"You're his banker. Can't you do anything about him?"
"Look Jeff, I'd like to. I’ve checked every aspect of his holdings. He owns the church property fair and square." Jeff smirked. "There's nothing fair about Fred Jorgensen. At the rate he's going he'll own all of Waynesburg in a few years."
Bill shook his head. "He’ll own the bank long before that. And I'll be working for you at the hardware store." "Wait a minute, if I have a banker working for me, are you gonna tell me how much I can spend on lunch?" Jeff teased.
"Of course," Bill said, looking up and down at his friend's lean frame. "You could stand to lose some weight."
The two friends turned off the lights, locked up and parted ways, shaking their heads in bemusement.
The wealthiest man in Waynesburg, Fred owned the only Case dealership in west central Indiana. Anyone wanting a new piece of farm equipment or needing to have an older model repaired dealt with Fred. His holdings included most of the businesses in town with the exception of a few holdouts, but he was working on them. As the largest shareholder, he was quickly closing in on the bank. His idea was that if he controlled the only financial institution in town, he would hold the purse strings for all the merchants.
Not content with being one of the richest men in the state, he wanted also to be the most powerful. He dreamed of the day when he would be governor of Indiana. As its chief executive officer, he would control the state and everyone in it.
Five years ago, Waynesburg Baptist split. Some members had lobbied for a larger building. Others argued, rightly, that they couldn’t afford it. And there was resistance from elderly members who were attached to the stately old church building. Some believed, but couldn't prove, that Fred secretly organized the instigating faction. For him, a larger congregation would bring more recognition and prestige.
As attendance and offerings dwindled, the church struggled just to pay the utilities and missed six months of mortgage payments. Pastor Colburn took a reduction in salary, then no salary at all. He took a job working for a landscaper three days a week. The church missed one payment after another. Before they knew it they were seven months behind on the mortgage and facing foreclosure. The previous year Fred had begun buying stock in the bank that held the mortgage.
At a tumultuous business meeting, Fred stepped in and offered to pay off the loan. The congregation rejoiced, thanking him for his wonderful gift and thinking finally Fred had come to know the Lord. The following month they were shocked to discover Fred had actually purchased the mortgage on the church and parsonage. He demanded exorbitant rent for each. When it looked like things couldn’t get any worse, he appointed himself as head deacon. Now he ran the church as a despot.
Fred had an exceptional talent for feathering his nest. If an owner of a large, profitable farm came in looking to purchase equipment, he got the royal treatment. Fred would put his arm around the man’s shoulder and guide him through his vast array of farm equipment. His smooth talk upsold many a rich farmer to a tractor, planter or combine larger than he needed. He cultivated profitable relationships with the owners of large farms as far as 100 miles away.
The small farmers who lived on the edge of bankruptcy dealt cautiously with Fred. If they missed a payment, he would assess a higher interest rate; two missed payments and he’d send a letter with a thinly-veiled threat of repossession couched in friendly verbiage. Miss a third, 10 days later the same letter would be followed up by a phone call advising the truck was on its way to pick up the equipment.
With the remaining congregation chafing under his iron-fisted dictates, Fred allowed the church to get behind in its rent, giving him more leverage. He quickly reminded anyone who opposed him of his ownership of the church and parsonage. Many threw up their hands and left. The rest vowed to stay and fight. How to overcome the tyrant in their midst no one knew. They prayed to God to show them the way.
People became discouraged. Offerings fell to their lowest point in the church's history. To Fred, a dollar in the offering plate was enough, five dollars was generous and ten was excessive. Yet he demanded that members give more than their tithe. When the offerings continued to slide, Fred tightened the noose. The next month when the deacons met, Fred was in attendance.
"Gentlemen, I have a solution for you," he said, smiling. He fingered his gold pocket watch. The board members waited apprehensively. "You can give more to the church or I can foreclose on your homes."
Jack Tilson, the owner of Tilson's Feed and Grain Elevator, objected loudly. "We're giving more than we can now!"
"People are strapped since the shoe factory closed," Jeff Inman said.
Fred’s jaw was set. "They'll just have to do without some of the luxuries."
"Like what, food?" Bill Harris sniped, not thinking of the repercussions that could very well follow. Fred gave the banker a withering look.
Unbeknownst to them, he had bought the mortgages on all the deacon's and members’ homes. He had begun gobbling up Waynesburg one piece of real estate at a time. Fred's ultimate goal was to name the town after himself. One of his favorite pastimes was to toy with names. He spent hours poring over maps of the United States looking for towns with names similar to his. Fredericksburg was one of his favorites.
An unscrupulous man in his 60’s, the bank president was more than happy to be the beneficiary of a kickback. When his “indiscretion” was exposed, he was forced into retirement. Before Fred could take over, the bank’s board of directors named Harris as president. Now Fred's plans included removing Bill and replacing him with someone he could keep under his thumb.
Meeting privately with a lawyer, the deacons asked him to check the legality of Fred's actions. The attorney reported that although Fred's dealings could be considered immoral, his purchase of the deeds was perfectly legal.
With their backs to the wall, the members of Waynesburg Baptist dug deeper into their pockets. Many children did without new shoes or clothes, or received meager gifts for their birthdays in order that Fred be given his due.
With Waynesburg Baptist being the largest in town, Fred decided early on to it make it his home church. That didn't mean he attended services regularly. However, with his wealth and influence, not to mention his domineering temperament, he soon ran every business meeting. Fred's word became law; no decisions were made without his approval, even down to the color of the Sunday school rooms.
Pastor Colburn preached tolerance and patience among the grumbling members, hoping their cooperation would lead to Fred's salvation. The conflict came to a head when Fred started telling the pastor what to preach. Pastor Colburn believed only God should tell him the message His people needed to hear. Fred was adamant. He would allow no preaching on blood or dying and certainly not on hell. He didn’t believe in hell, but if he was going there he didn’t care to be given an early verbal tour.
After spending hours praying about it and knowing this was what the people needed to hear, Pastor Colburn stepped confidently to the pulpit one Sunday morning and began to preach a powerful message on hell. Fred's reaction was immediate. Without waiting for the pastor to complete his first paragraph, he jumped up from the pew and fired Colburn on the spot. The congregants were outraged, yet powerless to stop him. Many of them worked for Fred. Others were indebted to him for their home or business.
Pastor Colburn didn’t fight Fred's edict. After pastoring the church for over 22 years, he was tired of conflict. He also was aware that Fred would retaliate against the members who stood with him. Seeing no other way to protect those he loved, Tom Colburn tendered his resignation.
As they helped him load the small U-Haul truck, members of the congregation shed tears of sorrow, anger and frustration. Tom’s wife had died some years before. His son, Waynesburg's one and only cop, lived in a small bungalow two blocks off Main Street. The pastor packed his belongings and went to live with his daughter and son-in-law in North Carolina.



Chapter 3

Max Furman took the Waynesburg exit off Interstate 70. At the intersection of 140, he glanced at a green and white sign with an arrow pointing south.
Max preferred nondescript vehicles that attracted little notice. Most people would quickly forget a car devoid of exotic lines, distinctive markings or fancy chrome. A cheap, older automobile was advantageous for hiding from the public. The Mercedes, however, was a must to con those expecting him to be a wealthy entrepreneur, or in this case a successful pastor. This number was forty-nine grand straight off the showroom floor of the Indianapolis dealership, with just 504 miles on the odometer.
This would be his last ride. If he played his cards right, within a month Fred Jorgensen's wealth and the church's treasury would be his. Then Max could retire to a remote tropical island where he would live like a king and have access to plenty of native prey. He started down the narrow blacktop road.
Cresting the hill overlooking the town, he pulled onto the shoulder and stepped out. He stared at the small burg. The traffic was light to nil. The spire of Waynesburg Baptist Church seemed to glow in the light of the setting sun.
"Max, you devil,” he said out loud with a wicked snigger, “you've really outdone yourself this time. You, the pastor of a Baptist church? Brilliant. What better place to hide from the law?"
The streets of Waynesburg lay before him in a tidy grid. To Max it looked like a model train village. The neat lawns shaded by tall hardwood trees and the old-fashioned street lamps gave the town an idyllic feel. Large homes, some dating back to the Civil War, lined the quiet streets. The peak of the courthouse in the square rivaled the belfry of the church in height. Waynesburg seemed to be a town forgotten by the rigors of time. The streets and sidewalks were in good repair, the storefronts well-maintained. When his eyes landed on the newly constructed bank, Max nearly salivated.
The sight of the elementary school made Max's right hand start to itch. He took the tube of cream from his pocket and squeezed a generous portion onto his palm, massaging it in. His eyes gleamed as he surveyed the farm equipment dealership on the south edge of the city. He studied the lot full of tractors, combines, and other big ticket implements, estimating their worth. His stay would be brief but unquestionably profitable. He got back in the car and drove into town.
Waynesburg, he said to himself as he passed the sign at the city limits. Might as well call it Podunk Junction. Following Fred's directions, he turned onto Apple Street, the main drag through town. As he neared the elementary school, his attention was drawn to several children playing on the swings, teeter-totters and slides. He sped up, doing 35 in a 20, and rubbed his right hand on the leg of his slacks, trying to drive away the itch. The urge to murder one of those children was all but overpowering.
Max noticed the white car behind him only when the red and blue lights flashed in his mirrors and he heard the single woof of the siren. Stupid cop. Max wasn’t worried; he’d been stopped before. He could bluff his way out of it. He wouldn’t mind killing this cop but after all the trouble he took to get here he didn’t want to blow it.
He fingered the Raven Arms MP-25 in the pocket of his suit jacket. Pulling to the curb, he averted his eyes from the children. He placed his hands high on the wheel where the cop could see them. A boy about Josh Moore’s age ran to the edge of the playground and curled his fingers through the chain link fence, ready to watch the action.
Max rubbed the palm of his hand furiously against the steering wheel, then forced himself to be still. Okay, Maxxy, time for your first performance in Suckersville. He conjured his innocent face. The officer rapped on the glass. Max looked up at a sternly set jaw shaded by a Smokey Bear hat.
Hitting the switch, Max rolled down the window. "Good evening, Officer. Did I do something wrong?" Max asked with cloying cordialness.
"In a hurry to get somewhere?" the cop asked, his face expressionless.
"Yes, Officer Colburn, sorry," Max said, glancing at the officer's nameplate. "As a matter of fact I am. I'm late for a meeting at the church. Name's Joshua Chamberlain. I'm the new pastor of Waynesburg Baptist Church." He stuck his right hand through the window. Colburn shook it, tentatively. The manicured nails and the firmness of Chamberlain's handshake surprised Brice Colburn. That crisp linen suit didn't come off a rack. Brice never kept up on the latest rage in automobiles, but he had no doubt this baby probably cost twice his yearly salary.
"Well, Reverend Chamberlain, welcome to our fine city. In the future, please obey the speed limit, especially in the school zone. We love our children and want to protect them."
"Oh, I assure you, Officer, I will. I love children as well," Max said, smiling so broadly he thought his face would crack. Something in his voice made Brice uncomfortable. "Children are the backbone of the church. And may I offer you an invitation to services tomorrow?"
"Yep, I'll be there. The town council requires it. You have a good evening now." Returning to the patrol car, Colburn pulled around the Mercedes. Max watched the cop car until it turned the corner.
"Wonderful. Just what I need, a cop in the crowd,” Max muttered. He glanced at the child still watching him from behind the fence. "Later, sonny. You and I have a date with destiny." Max grinned and waved. The little boy waved back. He heard what the man told the police officer. His mommy and daddy had talked about the new preacher last night. Maybe this man would tell stories like Pastor Colburn.
Antoine hovered above Waynesburg. The battle was coming. He dreaded every fight. Each one drew him closer to the end, the final battle. In the beginning of the rebellion in heaven, he was sure he and Lucifer’s other followers would win. He quickly learned that between God and Satan there was no contest.
Deep in his heart he knew that he and his rebellious brethren would lose the final fight. He trembled at the thought. If Lucifer knew his general was having doubts, he would do worse than demote him. If Antoine dared voice his fears, he would face the wrath of the master. Most of the demons believed they were destined to rule the earth. Then they would invade heaven again. Antoine had grown sick of their delusional boasting.
The memory of heaven’s splendor haunted him. He missed the crystal palaces, the trees of every color, the flowers of all varieties reaching as far as the eye could see, the magnificent golden mansions. The beauty of the home to which he could never return mocked him. Most of all he missed the joy and peace. He was homesick and could do nothing to remedy it. The horrors of hell awaited. Each day brought him closer to his final destiny in the lake of fire.
A thousand─no, a million─times he had asked himself why he ever let Lucifer persuade him to rebel. It was too late. He knew the scriptures better than any Christian. When John was exiled to the Isle of Patmos, Antoine was assigned along with a contingent of demons to watch him. He was lounging on a nearby rock when the old man wrote of Satan’s, Antoine’s and all the demons’ fate. Antoine flew into a rage, wanting to kill the human. Despair flooded his being. He charged the circle of angels surrounding the apostle. The cuts he received took months to heal. Nevertheless, his ambition to destroy God’s truth won him a promotion to commander of one of Satan's divisions.
For all the good it did. He still bore the scars from that battle and nothing could change his fate. His anger at Satan, God and himself burned within him. That very day, bleeding from a dozen wounds, he vowed to fight until the last. He would take as many hated humans to hell with him as he could. The lion’s share of his enmity was reserved for Andrew, the one whom in heaven he had called his best friend. Nevertheless, all the hatred Satan could propagate could not change the final outcome. Antoine was fated to spend eternity burning in the lake of fire. The tears came; he wiped them away with an angry swipe of his claw.
Antoine loathed his appearance. Gone were his handsome features. Gone was the jeweled robe and sword. Gone also was his glowing body. He used to spend hours looking at his reflection in the crystal river.
He remembered the first time he saw his reflection after the banishment─the dirty black robe, tarnished sword, his belt turned to iron. Far worse was the appearance of his body: burnt black, his nose and chin sharp as a razor, his eyes a dull gray. Ragged wings like those of a bat sprouted from his back. With hopelessness stabbing at his heart, he had flown on those scraggly wings to his and Andrew's favorite spot, a high mountain overlooking miles of forest and plains.
At his approach, Andrew rose to his feet and drew his jeweled sword. Threatening Antoine with its blade, he said, "Back, demon." His voice held no hint of sympathy.
Stopping short in mid-air, Antoine looked pleadingly at Andrew and said, "Look at me, look what I have become. We were friends."
"No longer. You have rebelled against the Lord God. We are enemies."
"Why would God do this to me?" Antoine cried, stretching out his arms and wings.
"The choice was yours, now you must live with it."
"But we were bothers, created at the same moment. We have been friends for eons."
"No longer, demon. Be gone."
And so they parted, the two who were created together, who walked the streets of heaven delighting in the glory of God. Friends no more, they would be adversaries for eternity.
Antoine watched Max leer at the child. What a revolting human being. Someday Max’s reign of terror would reap the whirlwind. Antoine hoped he would be the one to deliver him to the gates of hell. He looked forward to seeing this miserable human thrown into the fire. His screams would be music to the demon's ears.
Bill Harris paced the vestibule of the church. Sally's game was long since over. Every few seconds he paused to look through the small window in the door. At 7:10, he walked back into the fellowship hall. Fred looked up from his ledger.
"Bill, do you realize the giving is down to almost nothing again? We must─"
"Look Fred, he's an hour and a half late. That’s beyond rude. Jeff has already left, Margaret and Sally are waiting for me to pick them up." Knocking at the fellowship hall door startled them.
Pulling into the church parking lot, Max had sat staring at the building. How does one approach a church? Oh, he knew on Sunday you just walked in. However, this was Saturday and with the exception of one light in the back, the building was dark. He sat in the car puzzling over it for five minutes. At one point he started the engine. Finally, he opened the car door. He needed a place to hide and this was better than most. As uncomfortable as it would be to be stuck with Christians, at least it wasn’t prison.
At 19, Max did four years in an Ohio prison, the first two in a two-man cell and the last two in isolation. He shuddered remembering the sound of the steel doors crashing shut and blocking out his freedom. The worst was not having access to children. When they released him, he made up for lost time in a killing spree across three states. He vowed he would never be locked up again, even if it meant death.
He walked around the outside of the church, taking in its features. It was larger than most he’d seen. The red brick building with white trim was well maintained. Neat, colorful flower beds graced its front and sides. The parking lot looked newly paved.
The house next door appeared a bit shabby, but livable. Evidently built at the same time as the church, its matching brick exterior could stand a cleaning. The wood trim needed painting. In sharp contrast to the churchyard, the lawn was choked with crabgrass and the flower beds overrun with weeds. The rose bushes scattered throughout the yard were badly in need of pruning. Bad for my image, Max thought. They’ll have to get somebody over here to pretty it up.
Walking toward the light, Max climbed the steps on the side of the building toward the rear and tapped lightly on the gothic style oaken door. He was tempted to call out and ask God if he was home, but thought better of it. Anyway he hoped not.
The door opened. Two men, one short and portly, the other casually dressed but with a dignified air, peered at him. The banker, Max thought. You and I are going to be friends, at least for a short time until I’m done fleecing the flock.
The short one stuck out his hand. "Fred Jorgensen. I'm the head deacon. You must be Pastor Chamberlain. This is Bill Harris. He runs the bank in town."
"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen," Max said, firmly gripping each of the men's hands. Although touching another human being’s skin made Max’s stomach turn, one of the first things he learned as a con artist was to give the mark a solid handshake. People judge a man by his handshake. No one likes pressing the flesh with a dead fish.
Bill was impressed with the preacher’s confident handshake, but couldn’t resist telling him, “We were expecting you almost two hours ago."
"Yes, I apologize. I was coming down the interstate about fifty miles east of here and saw this elderly lady whose car broke down. Being a caring Christian, I couldn’t just pass her by. Poor old lady didn't know what to do, who to call. I worked on it for over an hour and was finally able to get it started."
"What was wrong with it?" Bill asked, seeing no trace of grease on Chamberlain's hands. They were soft and lily white and his manicured nails were pristine.
"Oh, it was fairly minor. I was just glad to be able to send her safely on her way.” Max was an easy liar.
"Okay. Well, let's go into the fellowship hall and I'll give you the particulars of your duties," Fred said, turning on his heel. With a sinking feeling, Bill followed behind the two men. Despite all of Chamberlain's recommendations and his classy appearance, something was wrong.
When they were settled, Fred grinned solicitously at Max. "Joshua's great-great grandfather is the one who turned the tide in the Civil War," he bragged to Bill.
"Well, I'm sure Grandpap would disagree,” Max said humbly. “He'd say all he did was run out of bullets while defending Little Round Top at Gettysburg. He had no choice but to chase the rebels down the hill. When they saw his troops coming, the Confederates turned around and skedaddled the other way."
Bill kept quiet as he sized up the smooth talker sitting across the table. With his high cheekbones and strong chin, the single women of the church would consider Reverend Chamberlain handsome. His dark brown eyes seemed to look right through you. His dark, wavy hair was cut in a trendy style, although perhaps a little long for the older members' standards. He looked to be in his mid-30s and obviously worked out regularly. He stood about five-nine. His demeanor bespoke wealth and privilege, as did his attire. He wore an expensive linen suit and a Rolex. An eye-popping diamond ring graced his right hand. Bill had seen the top-of-the-line Mercedes when they answered the door.
Just before Chamberlain arrived, Fred had grudgingly agreed to let Bill go through his application packet. The man had graduated with honors from one of the best Christian colleges in the country and received his masters from Harvard. He presented letters of recommendation from several top religious leaders. A memo from one of his professors at Harvard extolled his studiousness and praised him as a valued assistant.
The young pastor’s background was undeniably impressive. Yet there was something about Chamberlain that bothered Bill, something dark and deadly. He tried to dismiss the feeling. Of course he must be wrong. This was a distinguished young man with stellar references. Still, the uneasy feeling kept nagging him. He pushed it out of his mind. The man was handsome, successful and, Bill had to admit, likeable.
Fred's words shook Bill out of his reverie. "Your salary will be two thousand dollars a week. Plus ten percent of whatever monies you bring in above projected revenue.” The scowl on Bill’s face was impossible not to notice. "Bill, may I speak to you in private, please? Excuse us for a moment, Reverend," Fred said, glaring at Bill.
"Of course," Max said, smiling.
The two men stepped into the hallway. As soon as Fred closed the door, Max hurried over and put his ear to it.
"Fred, you’re going way overboard,” Bill protested. “Giving is way down. We’re averaging only about two hundred a week. We're barely able to pay our obligations now."
Fred insisted on tallying all offerings himself and unbeknownst to Bill or the rest of the congregation was skimming off the top. "The people will just have to suck it up,” he answered, his face stony. “If you want the best you have to pay for it.”
"This isn't a payment on a piece of farm equipment. This man will hold the souls of the people in his hands."
"Baloney, he's a preacher. We're not electing him President."
"No, his job is more important than the President’s," Bill argued. He was aware he was losing, may as well go for broke. “That doesn’t mean we should pay him a king’s ransom, or that he should accept it.”
"How much is in the building fund?"
"About twenty thousand."
"Then we'll supplement his salary out of that. In the meantime I'll instruct him to center his messages on tithing."
"You can't tell a minister what to preach!"
"Really? Watch me."
"According to Robert's Rules of Order, we should bring up his salary at the next business meeting."
"Not necessary. These people are like sheep. They'll follow wherever we lead them."
"No, the vote needs to be taken," Bill said, fearing he was pushing too hard.
"My vote is the only one that counts."
"I beg to differ. This is the members’ church."
Fred sighed with exasperation. "Must I constantly repeat myself? I own the church, the parsonage, and the land they sit on. I'm close to controlling the bank. If you want to remain as its president, you’ll go along with my decisions."
Bill hung his head. He still held out hope he could free the bank, and the church, from Fred's tyrannical grip. If not, there would be little left to recommend Waynesburg or its Baptist church.
They re-entered the room, one triumphant, one defeated. Max sat at the table looking down at a dog-eared Bible. He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. Holding up the book, he told them, "My grandmother gave me this Bible just before she died. She said the word of God would guide me through life." He sniffled. "And gentlemen, it has." In truth, Max stole the Bible from one of his victims, a seven-year-old boy from Ohio. The child had received it as a gift from his grandmother on his fifth birthday. He carried it with him everywhere. On the day Max kidnapped and murdered him, he yanked it out of the boy’s hands and tore out the presentation page, which he later tossed into the shallow grave on top of the child’s body.
Max sidled into the subject at hand. "Gentlemen, I believe I sense your issue. If you’re concerned about finances, don't be. As you can see by my resume, I have steered other struggling churches back from the brink to financial security."
Fred smiled broadly. Bill did not.
Fred was fed up with Harris’s negativity. "Bill, you can go. I'll take Reverend Chamberlain to the parsonage and make sure he's settled in.” Despite his reservations, Bill was determined, at least for the time being, to be friendly to the new pastor. He stood up and extended his hand.
Max stood and grasped it, giving it a hearty shake. “Brother Harris, it was a joy meeting you. I look forward to working with your financial institution." Once again, merely touching the man’s flesh, Bill had an uneasy feeling.
When Fred opened the front door to the parsonage, Max was immediately hit with the musty odor. "We'll have to open the windows. It's been closed up for a while," Fred said. He strode through the house, turning on lights and unlocking and pushing up windows. A fresh breeze blew through, driving out some of the stale odor.
Max looked around with a critical eye. The place needed painting and the furnishings were worn, scratched and dented. Evidently, Fred's generosity did not extend to the upkeep of the minister's home. "My apologies, Pastor. No doubt these accommodations are not what you’re accustomed to," Fred said regretfully.
"Not at all. They’re fine," Max said, faking a reassuring smile. His insides were churning. The place was a dump.
The minute Fred was gone Max got to work making the place his own. First things first. He went to his car and took his toolbox and a small but sturdy steel wall safe from the trunk. Back inside, he pulled the range out from the wall. Measuring carefully, he cut a hole in the drywall with a small saw and wedged in the safe. In the safe he stored the DVDs of his murders.
Max both loved and loathed modern technology. He had purchased clocks, ink pens and other devices with hidden cameras. For him the availability of such items was a double-edged sword. Because of them, with each passing day the life of a child predator became more perilous. With the cameras he maintained security of his dwelling. Max feared his image, however heavily disguised, caught on a surveillance camera would someday spell his end.
After laundering the bedding, an exhausted Max lay down to sleep around midnight, confident in the belief that he had pulled off a near-perfect con.

From Max Furman's journal

They bought it. I, Max Furman, the greatest child killer who ever lived, the pastor of a church. They swallowed it like a kid eating candy. Old Fred couldn’t get enough.

The salary stinks but it will cover expenses when I disappear. Jorgensen’s Case dealership? Shazam. It should be good for at least ten mil. My mansion in the South Seas awaits, as do plenty of little ones around to keep me happy.. Look out, kiddies, Sluagh is on the prowl. I' m going to enjoy retirement.



Chapter 4

Howdy, suckers, Max said to himself as he looked out at the congregation. He leaned on the pulpit with a big smile. Christians had always been his easiest targets. They were so trusting, so gullible, so dumb. If you knew the right terminology, they believed every word you said.
On the pulpit before him lay a sermon about heaven by D.L. Moody with Max’s notes littering the margins. After printing it off last night, he practiced his sophomoric paraphrasing of it in front of the mirror for an hour. While the bedding was in the dryer, he watched two DVD's, one featuring Joel Osteen and the other with Rick Warren. He paced the living room, mimicking their hand gestures and mannerisms. When he had everything right, he slept. The parsonage was dreary, but comfortable enough. Max consoled himself with the fact that he wouldn’t be there long.
Antoine despised being in this church. But wherever Max went, he was compelled to follow. As the man's personal demon, he had worked with Max since he was 13, replacing the lesser demon who had inhabited him since the age of six. He collaborated with Max as he had other deviants before him. Just as they had, Max was etching his future in granite. Without repenting and accepting the Lord Jesus Christ as his savior, he would spend eternity in the hottest part of hell. For now, though, Max was alive and Antoine must strive to keep him that way as long as possible. The spirit of the Lord rested on many Waynesburg Baptist worshippers. Constantly hovering over the saints, heavenly beings were ready to protect them. The angels’ hands rested on their sword handles as their eyes continually followed the demon. One false move by Antoine and they would unsheathe them.
Standing behind Max, Antoine crept closer. Keeping one hand on his rusty sword, he touched Max’s shoulder with the other. The other demons milled around outside the building. Many of them were cowards. They would attack an angel only when they could sneak up behind him. If confronted by a heavenly warrior, they fled.
“No wonder we can't win this war," Antoine murmured. "I command an army of fools. Before the battle I will request that the master assign some real warriors to my battalion."
Andrew stood on the roof of the church, under orders not to engage unless he, his men, or the saints were attacked. He watched the demons, always alert to their machinations. They darted in and out of his air space, daring him to fight. Let them have their fun. Andrew would not disobey the Lord. He had only to lay his hand on his sword to send them scurrying.
After a while they grew tired of the game and perched in the trees, glowering at him and the other angels. These were just bothersome imps. The real war-hardened fighters would show up on the day of the battle. God had a reason for delaying. Andrew didn’t know it, but he would not question the Lord's wisdom. He would obey no matter what.
"Good people of Waynesburg, I can't tell you what a joy it is to be in your presence. I look forward to being your pastor." At least until I fleece you, my fat sheep. "Together we will grow in the knowledge of the glory of God and his purpose for this wonderful church."
Standing behind Max on the platform, Antoine exploded with laughter. "Attaboy! You'll be a curse from Satan and a headache for God."
Over the years, Max had become an accomplished actor. While being a child predator was his passion, he required money to finance his murderous endeavors. So he became a thief. He didn’t bother stealing small items, nor was he a robber. Too dangerous. There was always the unpleasant possibility that some victim would be carrying. Phony stocks, bonds and investments were his forte, charming rich elderly widows out of their eye teeth his stock in trade.
When his first scam blew up in his face, he spent six months in a county lock-up in Ohio awaiting trial. Convicted of felony identity theft and fraud, he was sentenced to an additional 42 month in prison. Upon his release, he run a stock scam against a wealthy widow. Taking her money he enrolled in the Oxford School of Drama under the name Jason Summers. By the end of the year, he rose to the head of the class. His instructor was so impressed, he lined him up to read for a bit part in a low-budget movie.
"Don't be discouraged that it’s only a small part, Jason,” the instructor said as he patted Max on the back. “This is only the beginning, my boy. With your acting chops, it won’t take long for your face to be known all over the world."
Max had other plans. The night before the audition, he skipped. He never appeared on stage, in a movie or on TV. He did, however, put his training to good use. For him, every day was a performance and everywhere a stage. His first successful acting feat was in Florida. Modeling himself in the image of Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame, he set out to make a killing, so to speak.
He attached himself to a widow worth seven million. She fell in love with him and entrusted him with 30 percent of her investments. He disappeared one morning right after breakfasting with her on the beach. Her wealth was reduced to five million. Her dignity was destroyed. One month later, she keeled over dead of a stroke.
At the end of two years, the money Max stole from her was gone and he had learned a valuable lesson: Pace yourself and never lose track of your goal. Now with several million in an off-shore account, Max could have retired long ago if not for his greed and his lust for murdering children.
To Max, killing was an art form. Paint a portrait of a crime. Perfect the technique. Practice daily, but don’t count on a dress rehearsal. The performance must be flawless the first time, every time. For 18 years, he concealed his identity as the artist, never taking a much-deserved bow. Now as he ended his career in the US, each time he posed a victim, the child’s body bore his signature. The masterpiece was the work of The Ghost.
Nevertheless, he knew time was running out. He would not tempt fate. Waynesburg would have to be his last gig. Soon he would ply his trade in some third world country. In America the child predator laws were becoming too stringent, surveillance cameras too ubiquitous. Several times in the last two years, the FBI had arrived at the scene of an abduction within an hour of Max’s departure. He would spend one or two months in Waynesburg, then disappear. Pastor Joshua Chamberlain would vanish off the face of the earth, along with all the money he could swindle out of these saps. Buzzy would have him on a plane within 24 hours of his call.
Max looked down at his notes. "The message today is about heaven, the beautiful home of the soul." He launched into a lecture he was sure most pastors would envy. He checked his notes and named commonly-known early Christians already in glory. True. Squeezing out a crocodile tear, he counted his grandparents among their number. False. Jeff and Bill were impressed, as were many in the congregation. Even the older men who napped through some of Colburn’s sermons never once closed their eyes. There were those among them, though, who knew better.
Wrapping up, Pastor Chamberlain declared with sweeping authority, "Dear friends, heaven is real and we will all be there someday." He looked intently into their faces. "However, until then we are consigned to the nasty here and now. And as such it behooves me to address the church’s dire financial straits." Bill and Jeff exchanged puzzled looks. Both of them knew that characterization was highly exaggerated, if not patently untrue. Yes, the church was needier after Fred had promised this man a huge salary. But the church was current on all its obligations.
Pastor Chamberlain continued, "If we want the blessing of God on our lives, we must give until it hurts. No pain, no gain. Under my leadership, we have the opportunity to become one of the largest churches in the Midwest. I have a vision of a magnificent church building with a large auditorium on the outskirts of town. Its parking lots overflowing. Yes, I said lots, plural. Seating should be at least five to ten thousand, with a private restaurant, athletic club for the faithful."
Jaws dropped. Jeff and Bill were shocked. The sanctuary buzzed. To propose building a new church when they couldn’t even fill this one wasn’t just impractical, it was insane.
Fred was beaming. The prestige of a large church with him as head deacon would be the fulfillment of a dream. As soon as they settled on a location, he would purchase the land. In doing so, he would control one of the largest churches in the country. In addition, it would launch him into the political spotlight. He could imagine his dealership growing to be the wealthiest in the region, maybe the country. With the free media coverage, perhaps he could fulfill his ultimate goal of becoming governor.
Calm and collected, Max wound up for his big finish. "Tonight we will have a special service wherein I will unveil the plans God has given me for our new spiritual center." He paused for effect. "Be sure to bring your checkbooks. No!" he shouted. “Forget the checkbooks. Bring cash! We're moving too fast for checks. Thank you and God bless."
He was about to step off the platform when Steven Wills, the song leader, whispered, "Pastor, the invitation?" Max hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to do. He knew pastors gave invitations at the conclusion of their speeches, but he always assumed it was for donations.
"Uh, we'll do that tonight," he whispered back. He was uncomfortable just being in a church. The last thing he needed was to have to deal with a bunch of moaning, crying sinners.
The people wandered out like lost sheep. In 22 years, Pastor Colburn never closed a Sunday morning service without extending an invitation to the unsaved to come forward and receive Christ. Remembering an event from his childhood, Max stepped off the platform and hurried to the double doors at the front of the church. Let’s get this over with, he thought.
Henry and Hazel Pennell shuffled down the aisle. In their 80s, they were charter members of Waynesburg Baptist, instrumental not only in establishing the church, but also in its continuous operation. At five-foot-seven and five-one respectively, Henry and Hazel were giants in their faith. Anyone having a problem could ask the couple to pray for them and rest assured that God would answer. Nevertheless, their reputation for grace and humility was irreproachable. That irritated Fred. He tried several times to have them kicked out of the church, but the members would have none of it. It was one of the very few times he did not get his way.
"Great message, young man," Henry said, rubbing his chin as he extended his hand to the pastor. "Seems I read that same sermon in a book just this past week. If I recollect, it was Heaven by D.L. Moody."
Max silently cursed the old man. Smiling sweetly, Hazel stood at Henry's side. Her eyes seemed to penetrate Max's very soul. Max forced his lips to curve into a semblance of a smile. "Yes, Dwight Moody is someone I wish to emulate," he said, jutting out his chin. "It’s true I employ many of his quotes. However, I rephrase them and make the words my own.” Let them eat that for lunch. "Reverend Moody was a great man of God." Anything Max knew of Moody was gleaned from the internet last night.
Henry smiled and nodded. He started to speak but was interrupted by Fred nudging his elbow. "Henry, Hazel, you'll have to excuse us. Pastor, we must be going." Fred took the pastor by the arm and steered him toward the back of the church.
"They's evil a-comin’," the frail African-American woman in dark glasses declared. Blocking the aisle, she pointed her white-tipped cane at Max’s chest. He felt trapped, as if she were holding a gun on him. "I tell ya, they's evil a-comin’. Satan's done it a-for and he'll tries again iff’n he can. You best be careful, young man."
Noting Max's pale face, Fred gently scolded her. “Oh, come now, Hattie, you're scaring our new pastor. Now that we have a good preacher we don’t want to run him off, do we?”
Turning her head in Fred’s direction, Hattie shook her cane at him. "We'uns had a good preacher and you the one who done run him off! But you can't run off the Spirit of God. No sir, He still be here."
Fred took a step toward the elderly saint. This was exactly the kind of rabble he didn’t want in his church. Sensing his nearness, Hattie turned toward the door. As she passed Max, she murmured, "You best watch out, young man. Yes, sir, you best watch out."
Fred shook his head as they watched Hattie’s back slowly descending the stairs. "Crazy old bat. Don't worry, Pastor, she's harmless." Fred put his hand under Max’s elbow and they continued toward the back door. He could feel the pastor trembling. Max had faced guns, attack dogs, a jury and a Bengal tiger, yet this old blind woman frightened him more than all of them put together.
Tapping with her cane, Hattie made her way down the steps to the sidewalk. A hulking demon drew his sword, intending to run it through the elderly woman. He knew he couldn’t kill her. But he could cause her great discomfort and possibly destroy her will to live. At that second, Hattie began to pray. "Oh Lord, we'uns need your help. They's evil rides that young man's shoulders. Lord, please protects your church." As the demon swung his blade, it clanged against the sword of a huge, black-skinned angel.
"In the name of our Lord, be gone, demon!" Toro shouted as he countered the next thrust. Antoine watched in disgust as Toro hit the demon with the flat of his sword, knocking him a mile into the air. That demon was one of my best warriors, Antoine thought, the operative word being was.
"These old people have been a thorn in my side for years," Fred griped.
"Well, I'm sure they mean well. Perhaps she has the beginnings of Alzheimer's," Max said, thinking he might visit the old woman some night. If she was so eager to meet her maker, he would be happy to help.
"Come on, I’m taking you to my favorite place for lunch,” Fred said, motioning Max to his shiny new Mercedes roadster. “The chef always has something special for me, and we can discuss your message for tonight." Max cringed at the thought of spending another minute with this stuffed shirt.
Henry’s hands gripped the wheel tensely as he and Hazel puttered along in their ancient Ford. "Something's terribly wrong, isn't it, dear?" Hazel asked with a look bordering on fearfulness.
"We need to pray for that man. I was hoping the new pastor would see through Fred and start pulling in the reins, but that could have been Fred up there talking about a fancy new church and spending all that money. Fred’s leading him around by the nose.” Henry glanced at his wife, a frown creasing his face. "My spirit is heavy. Pastor Chamberlain speaks like an actor. I very much doubt he knows the Lord."
"We’ll pray for him. Perhaps we can invite him to lunch one day this week," Hazel suggested, never ready or willing to give up on anyone.
“That's a good idea,” Henry agreed, his expression lightening a little. “Food always makes difficult conversations easier. In the meantime we'll pray that God will open his eyes to the negative influence Fred wields over the church."




Chapter 5

Tuesday evening Max sat in Mary Martin's kitchen sipping tea. Max hated tea, however this was business. And his business was murder.
The Sunday evening service went well enough, at least in Max's estimation. He raised over $2,000. Chump change, but it would provide him with some walking around money when he blew this burg. On Sunday afternoon he modified the plans for the new church to include a large sports complex. He had used the same plan in Miami to con an elderly couple out of their life savings.
Mary, or “M ‘n M” as she was affectionately known around town, was a retired CPA and therefore the logical choice for church treasurer. Max was going to change that. Tonight Mary would have an unfortunate accident. He left the parsonage at 9 PM wearing a black jogging suit, walking fast and keeping to the shadows. If anyone saw him, he was merely out for his evening run. Within 10 minutes, he was knocking on Mary's back door. Startled, the elderly widow peered through the glass pane. She had been about to change into her robe when she heard the knock. Seeing her new pastor, she quickly unlocked and opened the door.
"Sorry to visit so late. I was so busy I forgot the time,” Max said with a boyish smile. In truth, he had spent the day lounging in bed or in front of the TV.
"Oh, that's quite all right, Pastor." Mary smiled shyly and motioned him in. "I was just going to have a cup of tea. Would you like some?"
"I'd love a cup," Max said, seating himself at the ancient wooden table. The old gal must be pushing eighty, he thought as he studied her wrinkled face and age-spotted hands. Mary chattered on about the church, the town, her neighbors. She was thrilled to have company.
"Since my dear Charley died, I can go for days without someone visiting" she sighed as she refilled Max's cup. Max stifled a yawn. Old Charley most likely died of boredom. "Well, you don't have to concern yourself,” he told her. “As long as I'm pastor you’ll have plenty of company." Mary beamed. Such a nice young man.
"By the way, Mary, while I'm here I’d like to have a look at the books." Max curled his lips into a disarming smile.
“If you don’t mind,” he added hastily.
Mary hesitated. Fred had instructed her never to let anyone except him see the books. But surely he wouldn’t exclude this nice young man. After all, he was their pastor, and if they were going to build a large church he needed to know about the finances.
"Yes, certainly," Mary agreed. “I’ll get it.” She disappeared into the back of the house and returned with a large ledger. Placing it on the table, she opened it and pointed to a row of numbers. "As you can see, Pastor, offerings have steadily increased over the last few Sundays."
Max's eyes bulged and lit up like Christmas. The offering column showed a balance of $147,000. Fred was keeping this hidden from the people, no doubt so he could bilk them out of more. Max's mind kicked into high gear. He leaned back and tried to look concerned. "Well, considering the size of the congregation, that's not too bad. However, if we want to build a large church we’ll have to do better."
Mary’s face paled. She didn’t want to be impertinent, but she needed to understand his thinking. "But, Pastor, shouldn't we have more members before we build a church? We barely use the facilities we have."
"Mary…, M ‘n M,” he said with a patronizing grin, “remember the movie Field of Dreams? If you build it they will come?"
"Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I'm just getting too old to dream big," Mary said apologetically.
Standing, Max put his hand on her shoulder. "Let me show you, Mary. I have dreams big enough for both of us." Mary looked up at the murderer, her eyes warm and trusting. Standing at her side, Mary's lifelong guardian angel, Tora, curled his huge hands into fists. How could he stand idly by while this monster had his way with his elderly charge? He growled deep in his throat. The sound was heard only by Antoine and Andrew. At Tora's side, Andrew laid a hand on the angel's arm.
"Soon, my friend, we will have the Lord's permission."
"Not soon enough!” Tora cried in anguish. I have watched over Mary all her life, from the day she was born until this moment." Tears rained down his cheeks.
"Tonight she will be home with her Lord," Andrew said consolingly.
"Yes, and when it’s time I will make you suffer, demon," Tora promised, his eyes boring into Antoine’s. A shiver of fear made the fallen angel shudder, but he steeled himself and sneered at Tora.
Reaching into his back pocket, Max pulled out a leather sap, a weapon efficient for rendering a victim unconscious without causing serious injury. Raising it, he brought the lead-filled end down on Mary's skull. Tora cried out as if he were the one being struck. The elderly woman slumped in her chair, her teacup shattering on the linoleum floor.
After cleaning up the broken cup then Max washed and put away the one he used. Wiping anywhere he touched or might have he left the house by the back door. Mary's body lay in the bathtub, a large knot on the side of her head. As for the living Mary, her soul rested peacefully in her guardian angel’s arms as they soared through the universe to heaven.
Tora set her down gently in front of the Great Throne. Mary ran forward, feeling her body becoming younger and younger. Clouds of saints applauded and cheered, welcoming this faithful one to heaven. Rising from His throne, Christ embraced her. "Mary, my dear sweet child. Welcome to your eternal home." His voice was as comforting as the soothing strains of violin music. As she looked up at her Savior, a brilliant smile graced Mary's lovely, 20-year-old face. "Mary, look," Christ said, pointing over her shoulder.
Turning, she saw him walk through the door of the temple. He looked exactly as he did the day they were wed. "Charlie!" she cried.
"Welcome, my dear," Charlie said, taking her in his arms.

From Max Furman's journal

Dear sweet Katie. I owe it all to you, my dead sister, my first kill. You taught me how easy it would be for me to take another's life. Thanks to you, I have progressed through a career spanning 20 years. Because of that one single lesson taught by you, I have reigned down terror across this country. Oceans of tears have been shed by loved ones of those I’ve murdered. And now there is another to mourn. She died so easily.

By this time next week, I will control the finances of Waynesburg Baptist Church. The money I gain from my time here will enable me to continue my work in other countries. Soon, very soon, I will leave this pathetic burg, but the world will continue to suffer the curse of Max Furman.




Chapter 6

Max was excited. Mary's funeral would be his first. Until now he could only read of a family's grief, the futile search for the body and the sorrow of the memorial service. He couldn’t attend Katie’s funeral. If he had dared show his face, he would have been arrested for her murder and he’d still be in prison. His mother would make sure of that.
Even as he degenerated into the heinous practice of publicly displaying his victims’ bodies, he took care to not be reckless. It was vital he have no contact with the family before or after the death of the child. As much as Max wanted to witness the loved ones’ suffering, he stayed away. He was acutely aware that the police photographed all attendees of a murder victim’s funeral. Like it or not, he must remain invisible.
Of course, the media’s propensity for brutality and misery could always be relied upon. Max would pour over newspaper accounts and watch every TV report his remote could ferret out that blithely sensationalized his murderous escapades. He catalogued clippings and scanned electronic updates to a thumb drive. He labeled each with the victim’s name and stored them the small back box. Of course, for the first 18 years there were no funerals, only memorial services. The grieving parents always held out hope their child’s remains would be found. Only in the last two years since he began displaying the bodies did they have closure. Now, with Mary’s final rites, Max would experience everything first hand.
Mary’s mailman, Jim Hubber, found her the following day. Every afternoon in the summer, Mary would greet him with a glass of iced tea as he stepped onto her porch. Jim was a widower and looked forward to their visits. He would even come by when he was on vacation. Although they enjoyed each other’s company, both of them were still in love with their departed mates, so the relationship never went beyond friendly conversation.
Surprised not to see Mary, Jim called out, then began knocking when she didn’t answer. A small worm of panic told him something was wrong. His heart was thumping as he went around to the back door. Peering through the glass panel and seeing no one, he hammered with increasing intensity. Silence. Fearing the worst, he returned to the front. With growing dread, he opened the locked door with the key Mary gave him years before for this very purpose. He went through the rooms calling her name.
Twice he approached but did not enter the bathroom. "Mary, are you in there?" he asked timidly as he tapped on the closed door. He gently pushed it open. A scream rose from deep in Jim's chest and thundered in the small room. Mary's nude body lay in the tub. Shocked and horrified, he ripped down the shower curtain and covered her. Backing out with his hand over his mouth, Jim ran from the house and vomited in the bushes. Then, his trembling hand pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911.
Officer Brice Colburn was the first to arrive. When his father became pastor of the church, Mary was Brice's first Sunday school teacher. He grew to love the elderly woman and made a special effort to check on her daily. However, yesterday being his first day off in weeks, he left early for a day of fishing on the river and didn't arrive home until after sunset.
He helped Jim to the bench in the front yard,. After making sure the postman was alright Brice entered the house and examined the scene. A bar of Ivory soap lay in the tub. Her left leg in the tub Mary lay on the floor her head by the commode. He returned to the front door to find Jim pacing on the porch. "I’m sorry, Jim. It looks like she was getting in the tub, slipped on a bar of soap, and fell and hit her head," Colburn said, laying his hand on the older man's shoulder. "Is there anyone I can call for you?"
Hubber shook his head. "No, Mary and your father were the only real friends I had," he said as he slumped down on a porch step. "Sure wish your dad was still pastoring the church. I don't have any family left. That’s the curse of living too long, I guess."
"Yeah, I wish he was still here, too. Can't get used to seeing someone else living in the parsonage and preaching from his pulpit."
The warble of a siren ended their conversation. A few seconds later, an ambulance backed into the driveway. As the two paramedics carried Mary out in a body bag, Jim asked, "So you think it was an accident?"
"Well, the coroner will have the final word. But that's my conclusion. Doors were locked, no sign of a struggle. Actually, there’s nothing to indicate anyone was in the house last night but Mary."
"I better get going and deliver the rest of the mail," Jim said woodenly. He paused at the edge of the yard. "You know, Brice, with her gone my days on this job will never be happy ones."
Colburn watched the elderly postman amble down the sidewalk. Jim could have retired years before; now it was almost certain he would. Brice thought of his father and Mary. He felt as though he was witnessing the end of an era.
After the ambulance left, Brice climbed back into his patrol car. When his father was pastoring the church, Brice would notify him of all deaths, serious accidents and family disputes. Pastor Colburn made himself available24 hours a day to his congregants and anyone else in Waynesburg in need of spiritual aid. There was something about this new pastor Brice didn't like, something besides the fact that he saw Chamberlain as an interloper. His cop instincts told him something was wrong. But, he thought, he was her pastor whether I like it or not. Guess I’ll have to notify him. He’s probably the one who should tell the family.
Although he patrolled the neighborhood, Brice hadn't been in the parsonage since his father left. Stepping from his patrol car, he hesitated. Nothing had changed other than the place looking more run down. It felt strange walking up to the home he grew in. He rapped on the storm door.
Max rolled over in bed. There it was again. Somebody was banging on the front door. He buried his face in the pillow. Maybe they’d go away. It stopped. He sighed and closed his eyes. It started again, at the back now. Groaning, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was after 2PM. Last night he had celebrated his first kill in Waynesburg. Returning from Mary's around midnight, he broke out a bottle of Jack Daniels.
He spent most the night revisiting his kills. Now as he glanced around the room, he was horrified to see his laptop still open. The screen saver displayed several pictures of victim number 14, a six-year-old boy, his elfin body contorted in death throes. He had cried out in anguish as Max told him in a mocking sing-song voice that “your mother doesn’t love you, your mother never loved you.”
Max slammed down the lid, yanked out the thumb drive and jammed the machine into its case. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he toddled barefoot to the back door. A bolt of terror shot through his heart. The same cop who stopped him the other night stood on the back stoop. His piercing eyes stared at Max through the glass.
Did he know? Max thought briefly of running, but they might be surrounding the house. He decided to bluff his way through. He thought of the Glock under the mattress. If they arrested him, he would find a way to escape. He opened the door. “Good morning, Officer Colburn. To what do I owe your visit this fine day?" The muscles in his face still hurt from all the smiles he had put on for the people Sunday. All he could muster for the cop was a crooked grin.
Brice made a mental note of the odor of alcohol on the pastor's breath. "I'm afraid I have some bad news, Reverend," he said as he subtly gave the preacher the once-over, observing his rumpled hair, unshaven face and red-rimmed eyes.
Max's heart skipped a beat. He ran his hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how he must look. "Sorry about my appearance, Officer," Max said. "I was up most of the night studying." He glanced out the kitchen window. If any other cops were around, they were well hidden. Max tensed at the prospect of having to take out the cop and make a break for it.
"Mary Martin, the white-haired lady who was sitting in the third pew Sunday morning, died last night."
Max widened his eyes and stretched his mouth into a shocked “O” shape. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry." His exaggerated reaction rankled the police officer. The guy didn’t even know Mary. "She appeared to be fine in church. What happened, do you know?"
"From all indications, she fell and hit her head and drowned in the bathtub," Brice said, watching the pastor closely.
"Oh, how terrible."
"Thought you might want to notify the family."
"Of course, of course. I would need the phone number for her next of kin?" He looked questioningly at the officer.
"It should be in the church directory."
Max smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Oh, my, how silly of me. I’ve been studying all night and I think it left me brain dead." He let out a simpering little chuckle.
"I'll leave that to you, then," Brice said, touching his hat with his fingertips. "Good day to you, Pastor."
"Good day, Officer, and thank you for stopping by.” Closing the door, Max turned around, whispered "Yesss!" and pumped his fist. Once again he had gotten away with murder. The rap on the door made him jump. He turned to see Officer Colburn looking through the glass. Instantly Max’s expression changed to sad and concerned as he cracked open the door. “Yes, Officer, is there something else?"
"They took her to Kegal's Funeral Home," Brice snapped, his voice dripping with disgust. Turning on his heel, he stomped away. Shutting the door quietly, Max said to the officer's back, "Careful, copper, or the next funeral you attend will be your own."
Three days later, Max stood in the pulpit looking down at the woman he murdered. He savored the events of the last few days: the call to Mary's son Greg in Ohio followed by Greg’s weepy arrival; accompanying him to view his mother’s body; Greg’s children crying over the loss of the grandmother they rarely saw. Max fed like a ravenous animal on the family’s sorrow and distress. The tears they shed were a joy to him. He helped Greg and his wife make the funeral arrangements and select a casket. He was up until 2 AM preparing his sermon. Now came the coup de’ grace.
Each time he killed, he took photos and videos of the victim, starting a few minutes before the murder and then immediately after. Last evening he arrived at the funeral home just before it closed. He told the attendant he wanted to be alone with Mary one last time. The man nodded sympathetically and went to lock up in the back, promising to return in a few minutes. Sneaking into the visitation room, Max took a digital camera from his jacket pocket and snapped four photos.
After holding Mary’s struggling body under water, Max had released his grip just long enough to let her think he might let her live. Her choking and sputtering were music to his ears. The glassy shock in her eyes thrilled him. "Ever hear of The Ghost, Mary? The child murderer the FBI is searching for? I'm him, Mary. I'm The Ghost and I'm going to kill you." He laughed with wicked delight at her terror as he grabbed her by the neck and shoved her down again.
These four photos would complement the ones he took of her in the bathtub. It had been difficult to hold her down with one hand while clutching the camera in the other. But her horrified expression as she gaped into the face of her murderer was worth the effort.
Slipping the camera back into his pocket, Max leaned over the casket. "Well, old gal, I hope you're enjoying heaven or wherever you are. Because I sure am enjoying this little circus you brought to town."

From Max Furman's journal

Katie,

Dear little sister, I would like to tell you I miss you but I don't. I do wish you hadn't put that itch powder in my glove. How I hate you for that. I’m glad you couldn’t find the left one. You thought it was funny. The joke was on you. You didn't know I would be wearing those gloves when I killed you.

Yes, that's right, little sister, I murdered you, so leave me alone and crawl back into your grave with all my other dead children.




Chapter 7

Greg Martin could not believe his mother was gone. Even as she had gotten older, she was the picture of health. True, she no longer went for long walks, but every day except Sunday from spring to fall she still worked in her flower gardens. Her rose beds were her pride and joy. During the summer, fresh-cut roses graced her kitchen table every day. Greg had planned to build her a small greenhouse this fall so she could enjoy her flowers all winter. But now she was in an infinitely better place, a place where the roses, and life itself, never faded. He would miss their daily talks on the phone.
Greg pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He knew his mother was in heaven, but he was sure going to miss her. The preacher droned on, something about Joseph in prison. He would mention Mary briefly here and there, then go off on another tangent. People were becoming restless. His sermon seemed to have nothing to do with death, eternal life, or anything else relevant to the occasion. At least five times, though, he spoke of raising money to build a big new church.
When Max finally said, "So in conclusion," there was a collective sigh of relief. "I propose that we name a wing of the new church after Mary Martin." He waited for the applause. There was none, just blank stares on the mourners’ bored faces. Fuming, he took a seat in the front row. He had given them his best performance and all they did was sit there? Stepping to the front, the funeral director motioned to him. Puzzled, Max got up and approached him. The man whispered loudly, "You are to stand next to the casket and comfort the bereaved."
"I'm aware of that. I was just resting after giving my splendid sermon," came the sharp reply.
The graveside service was a disaster. A light mist had begun to fall as the procession got under way. By the time the snaking line of limos and cars reached the cemetery, it was a full-on downpour. Max stood under his golf umbrella while many of the mourners who hadn’t listened to the forecast got drenched waiting for him to speak. He had no idea what to say, finally mumbling a few platitudes and a short prayer. His voice could barely be heard over the drumming of the rain on the tent.
Tradition dictated that the members of the church serve a meal to the family after the funeral. Still upset that no one appreciated his sermon, Max refused to attend. Feigning a headache, he returned to the parsonage. He seethed, paced, cursed and finally forced himself to calm down. "This is the big one. Don't blow it, Maxxy," he said out loud. “This is your final performance in the US. The curtain is coming down."
Sitting at the dining room table, he made a list of tasks he must complete to make his mission successful.

1. Eliminate the treasurer of the church.*
2. Set up a bogus account in an out-of-state bank.*
3. Have the church appoint me as the new treasurer.
4. Find a way to swindle Fred out of his assets.
5. Liquidate all of Fred's holdings.
6. Put the money in the out-of-state bank.
7. Transfer the funds to my offshore account, then immediately setup another account transfer them again.
8 .Disappear, leaving Fred and the church penniless.
*Done

From Max Furman's journal

I'm on my way! I'm the new pastor of Waynesburg Baptist Church. Can you believe it? Me, Max Furman, the most prolific serial killer of children, a minister. Well, not really. I’m an actor playing a part on the stage of life.

I try to stay out of the church as much as possible. There is something about being in that building that makes my skin crawl. I tell myself it’s just brick and mortar, no different than a store, house or barn for that matter. Yet I don't believe it. I would not call it God, but something there makes me very uncomfortable.

I can't wait to be done with this hick town. For now I must endure. This will be my supreme performance. I would love to be here when they discover their beloved pastor has stolen all their money and is actually a child killer responsible for the deaths of over 70 children. That’s going be a hoot.

Fred was in the middle of taking inventory when his cell phone rang. "What is it and make it snappy." Taken aback by Fred's rudeness, Max hesitated. "Well?”
"I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" Max asked softly, turning on the charm.
"Oh, Reverend, no, no. I thought it was one of my employees," Fred said sheepishly. "What can I do for you?"
"With the tragic death of Mrs. Martin─"
"Yes, I wanted to be at her funeral, but I got wrapped up with this inventory."
Max’s voice was like liquid chocolate. "What I was thinking, Brother Fred, is that I should step in as treasurer until we can find someone both skilled in accounting and trustworthy. Of course, if you have someone else in mind─"
"I’ll go further than that. I say let's appoint you as treasurer permanently."
Max was electrified. His plan was progressing so much faster and with so much less resistance than he had anticipated. He didn’t want to appear too eager. Make Fred think it was wholly his idea. "I believe I can add the position to my duties with no trouble."
"Wonderful. We'll make it official Sunday night. Now if you'll excuse me, Reverend, I must complete this inventory today."
"Of course, thank you for your understanding and cooperation."
"Glad I could help. You need anything else, just call." The line went dead. Max pumped with both fists and danced jubilantly across the floor. "Get your clippers ready, Max, we're about to shear the sheep!" he shouted.
He spent the afternoon searching on the internet for mansions in the Caribbean islands. He found several on You Tube that sent his spirits soaring. No longer would he live a modest existence. Soon he would luxuriate in the good life, the life he had always coveted and so richly deserved. "I will be king of all I survey!" he crowed, hoping the whole world heard.
He settled on a stunning 10,000-square-foot mansion remotely perched on a cliff on a private island off the coast of St. Kitts. Three-quarters of its exterior walls were glass, providing breathtaking views of the ocean. The owners were asking $9M. Responding under a fictitious name, he made an offer of seven.
That night the nightmares returned, his hand itched and the pain came. Mild at first, it intensified until it was excruciating. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, laughing at him, cackling at his terrified cries. He was six. He felt the crack of the whip and the burning pain cutting across his shoulders. He cried out in anguish and jerked upright in a cold sweat.
Leaning against the chest of drawers, Antoine stared at the bane of his existence. How he hated this man. Yet, preserving the deviant’s miserable skin was necessary to advancing the kingdom of darkness. A flash of heavenly light shone through the window. Antoine started to draw his sword, then relaxed. It was just a watcher sent to keep an eye on his activities. The battle was not at hand, but it would come soon enough. He shivered. Each time he faced the host of heaven he was reminded his time was short.
Tears came to his eyes; he angrily wiped them away. Once again he thought of the eternal consequences of his decision to rebel against God. He hung his head in misery. It was too late, the deed was done, he could not unravel the past. He shook his head. What fools these humans were. If only they knew what awaited them after death. The agony of hell, the separation from all they knew and loved. Their final destination in the lake of fire. He could not change his fate, but he would take as many of these disgusting humans with him as possible. It would be his and Satan's final revenge against God.
Andrew hovered over the town. Beneath him, the residents of Waynesburg slept, unaware of impending danger. Still and peaceful under the shimmering moonlight, the village looked like a postcard. Streetlights added pinpoints of radiance. At this time of night, the stoplights blinked yellow. Andrew watched Antoine filter through the roof of the parsonage and sit on its peak. Andrew thought of their good times together before the war.
When rumors of the rebellion began, Andrew confided in his friend, telling Antoine what he had learned from other angels loyal to the Lord. When he discovered his friend's involvement in the plot to take over heaven, he became physically ill. Going in search of Antoine, he found him in the company of the insurgents. He tried to draw him away, to persuade him to abandon the deadly folly.
All the rebels, including Antoine, laughed at Andrew and mocked him. When he turned to leave, they rushed him and threw him to the ground, their fists pummeling his angelic body. Grasping the handle of his sword, he managed to pull it from its sheath and wave it at them. They backed off like the cowards they were. Limping forward with his robe in tatters and tears flowing down his cheeks, Andrew looked at his former friend. The bruising of his heart was far worse than that of his body. Now, eons later, he was still filled with sorrow each time he thought of their lost friendship.
Flying over the town, Andrew watched the demons. His orders were to not engage unless attacked. Antoine returned to Max’s bedroom and found him sitting on the bed sipping a glass of water. His hand shook so, he spilled half of it on the front and leg of his pajamas. Sweat beaded his face.
He cursed. "Rotten woman. What mother whips her little boy with a sewing machine cord just for wetting the bed? I should have killed her when I had the chance." Max shuddered, then laughed, spilling more water on himself. "But I got even. Poor little Katie couldn't breathe very well with a pillow over her face." Stepping to the dresser, he opened a drawer and removed a faded picture of his baby sister. Katherine born from a one night stand would be forever five. Her father like Max’s in the wind never to be seen again.
Mother had put Katie down for a nap. The little girl woke with a start as 14-year-old Max pressed a pillow over her face. At first she thought it was a game. Any second she would look up into her brother’s laughing face as he pulled the pillow away. Soon, though, her small lungs cried out, desperate for the precious breath of life.
He pulled the pillow down just enough to see her dying eyes. With her last ounce of strength she pushed it aside and screamed. Spotting the scarf that their mother had given Katie on the bed, Max wrapped it around her neck and pulled until her cry was silenced. He crushed the pillow back down on her face. He heard her death rattle.
She had fought him, her arms and legs flailing, kicking and hitting. He was far stronger. He laid his upper body across the pillow until she lay still and limp beneath him. Darting to his room, he snatched the Polaroid sitting on his dresser, ran back and snapped a picture. He watched in awe as the image of her lying there with her eyes wide open, a look of horror frozen on her face, slowly appeared. His first memento. His first kill.
He hurried back to his room to wait. Five minutes later, he heard her coming. Just as always, she called out, "Katie? Now where can my precious little girl be?"
Peeking out his door, Max saw her enter Katie's room. He waited. When he heard her screams, he crept down the hallway and stood in the doorway. His mother was trying frantically to wake the girl. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dropped from her chin onto the dead child's face. Pumping Katie's chest, she stopped every few seconds to press her lips against her daughter’s. Max took it all in with a triumphant smirk.
"Max, call nine-one-one!” his mother shrieked. Max made no move, just stood staring at her with sheer malice. "Did you hear me? Call nine-one-one!" she screamed, her face glistening with tears. She turned her head to look at him, the child she had hated all his life. He pulled the scarf from his pocket and dangled it before her eyes. Cognizance crossed her face. "Oh my God, you killed her. You murdered my beautiful little girl!" she shrieked.
"Guess all that mother love couldn't save her. Guess who’s got it now? All Katie's love. Got it right here," Max said, tapping his chest.
Gently releasing her dead child’s head, she rushed at him. "I'll kill you, you monster. You murdered my sweet baby girl. I'll kill you!" She came at him screaming, her hands outstretched like claws. Fearing for his life, he ran. Screeching that she’d tear his heart out, she chased him down the stairs, through the house and into the street. Max fled, never to return.
A block away, he hid behind Bleven’s garage and watched the ambulance arrive, followed by the police. That night he hopped a freight and by the next afternoon was three states away. He never saw his mother again.
Over the next 10 years Max stayed on the run, never lingering in any one location. His years on the street taught him to con anyone he could. His years in prison taught him to trust nothing and no one. He vowed they would never lock him up again, even to the point of death.
He didn't kill again until he was 16. The victim was the child of a drug addict. He saw the boy of about three or four hunched up against a trash bin in an alley next to a bar. It was the day after Christmas and the child was crying. "What's the matter, buddy?" Max asked, putting his arm around the shivering little boy. "M... Mommy was s’pos to get me and Sissy somethin’ f... for... Christmas. But sh… she spent the money for drugs." The child shook with sobs and the cold. "I come outside lookin' for her but I could find her."
"Well, that's because she don't love you anymore,” Max said, his eyes puppy-dog sad. “She likes her drugs more than you and Sissy."
"I know," the boy said, sniffling and hanging his head.
"Where do you live?" Max asked as an idea began to form.
"Up over the tabern." The child pointed to a rickety wooden staircase along the side of a crumbling brick building.
"You know, your mommy wouldn't care if you died," Max said, shaking his head and frowning.
The little boy's sobs turned to howling wails.
Taking a piece of plastic out of his pocket, Max spun the boy around, held him tightly across the chest and clamped the plastic over his mouth and nose. The child struggled wildly at first, his tiny fists pummeling the air, his feet stamping the ground.
Then suddenly he relaxed. Max turned him around and looked into his face. Barely conscious, the look in the toddler’s eyes was one of resignation and gratefulness. Max grabbed his arm as he toppled backward. The last thing the little boy saw was the eyes of the demon.
Max held on until he was sure the child was dead. He picked up the small body and carried it up the stairs. Balancing it on his knee, using the tail of his coat he quietly opened the door. The two-room apartment stunk. Trash littered the floor and dirty dishes overflowed the sink. In the bedroom, he found the baby sister asleep on a bare mattress. He laid the boy next to her and brought the same piece of plastic he had used to kill him over the two-year-old’s mouth. The child didn’t even wake up; she just slipped silently into eternity. Strangely, Max did not feel the same excitement he had when he murdered Katie.
He was about to leave when he heard a sound at the door. Diving behind the bedroom door, he peeked through the crack. A thin, haggard woman in her mid-20s stumbled into the room. Pushing her stringy blond hair out of her face, she staggered to the bed. Shoving the bodies out of her way, she flopped down beside them. "Mommy’s tired, get over," she muttered. Max held his breath until the woman began to snore.
He slipped from his hiding place and tiptoed to the bed. Max grinned down at the mother and her dead children. Taking the plastic from his pocket, he carefully wiped it off and tucked it into the woman's curled fingers. Sneaking out of the apartment, he made a call from a pay phone down the street. Ten minutes later, he watched two cops mount the creaky stairs. He edged closer to the building and hid under the staircase. Soon he heard the woman screaming.
"Miles, Sissy, wake up! No, no, what did I do? What did I do?"
As a crowd gathered, Max watched more police officers and the coroner arrive. Twenty minutes later, the mother was led down the stairs in handcuffs.
He followed the case in the papers, clipping articles and hiding them behind some loose bricks in an old building. The woman, Stacy Gribbon, swore she didn’t remember killing her children. Her court-appointed lawyer put her on the witness stand. Bad mistake. Stacy had been in and out of jail since she was 18. Her history of drug use stretched back to the age of 13. Despite her habit, she implored the jury to believe that she would never harm her babies. They didn't.
The judge sentenced Stacy to 20 to life. Max kept the newspaper accounts. Once he acquired a computer, he found the reports online and saved them to a zip drive. Over the years, he scoured the search engines for anything new about her. She appealed, was granted a new trial and again was found guilty.
Still shaky from the dream, Max removed a bottle from its hiding place in the closet. Dumping the remaining water into a scraggly philodendron, he poured whisky into the glass. Downing it in one gulp, he poured another, turned on his laptop and inserted a thumb drive.
For the next hour while Waynesburg slept, Max polished off the bottle and watched his victims scream, plead and die. Guarding Antoine and the predator, Andrew turned his face away from the small screen. Nevertheless, he could not stop his ears from hearing the screams and dying pleas of the children. Tears moistened his eyes and his stomach knotted.
At 3 AM, Max fell into bed. The next morning he resolved to find a child. Things were still too hot to revisit Josh Moore and he could not take a child from Waynesburg. At 8:30 AM he called Fred and told him a large church in Chicago had asked him to preach at a special service on Friday. He would return on Saturday in time to prepare for the next day’s service. Quickly packing his tools and accessories, he left Waynesburg and headed south toward Atlanta. On the road, he phoned Buzzy and requested a DVD be produced and delivered to a blind post office box.



Chapter 8

In front of her small cottage on the south edge of Waynesburg, Hattie paused from weeding her impatiens. Heaviness weighed on her spirit. Some might wonder why the sightless woman would tend flowers she could never see. Why hire the Henson boys to make sure her lawn was mowed? Her home and the picket fence surrounding it were freshly painted every other spring. The house was well-kept inside and out. Hattie knew that even if she couldn’t see, others could enjoy the beauty of her home and flowers. The Lord had given her such a delicate touch she never pulled out a flower. Besides, she spent the time in her garden in prayer. On her knees, lovingly caring for the flowers, she lifted her voice to heaven.
"Oh, Lord, they's somethin' wrong. I knows it. They's evil afoot. We uns gonna need your help, Lord. They's demons all around us, I knows it. But I knows they ain't a demon can defeat my Lord. No siree. Your Word say greater is He that is in me than he that is in the world.”
Toro stood over the kneeling woman, his sword pointing at the demons swirling above. Their bodies cast ominous shadows on the ground. "The Lord rebuke you, ye old liar. I knows you're here, Satan!" Hattie shouted. "You gonna lose. I read the last chapter and you lose." She laughed, then began to sing:

What can wash away my sin

Nothing but the blood of Jesus

What can make me whole again

Nothing but the blood of Jesus

Oh, precious is the flow that makes me white as snow

No other fount I know

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Stung by the truth, the demons, all but Antoine, kept their distance. The words of the hymn pricked his skin like needles. Still, he stood his ground. In a few minutes he would leave to follow the predator, but first he wanted to silence this godly woman. He motioned to one of his minions.
The small imp Egone was always looking for an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the master. He dove out of the sky. Egone more often than not made a fool of himself with his antics. Behind Toro's back, the imp swooped at Hattie, his dagger pointing straight at her heart. At the last second, Toro whirled and delivered a nasty cut across the arm with which Egone wielded the dagger. The imp screamed and dropped it. He fluttered weakly upward to hide whimpering behind a cloud.
"Idiot," Antoine groused.
Max left Waynesburg followed by a horde of demons, who in turn were followed by a troop of the heavenly host.
In Atlanta, Antoine felt more stings; the prayers of the saints where hindering both him and his charge. Raising his fist toward heaven, Antoine cursed, railing against God and His people.
Max was having no luck. At a mall, the crying five-year-old who had lost sight of his mother shrieked when Max tried to grab his hand. The quick reaction of a nearby security guard sent Max scurrying into the throng of late afternoon shoppers. Walking fast, he entered a men's room. A minute later he exited minus his beard, floppy hat and glasses. Back in the stolen car, he grabbed the itch cream out of his satchel and smeared his right hand with it. His predator instinct signaled danger.
Holding the child by the hand, the security officer stood just outside the main doors of the mall. The child pointed his finger in Max's direction. Easing the car out of the parking space, Max headed for the busy street, his heart pounding. Behind him, the child's mother glanced up from searching the lot and spotted her son.
"Mommy!" the little boy cried as she ran to him. The officer smiled as they embraced. The child would grow to adulthood never knowing the elderly African-American woman whose prayers saved his life even existed.
Ditching the car, Max hurried to his own vehicle hidden in an-out-of-the-way parking garage. He stole a Chevy van off the back lot of a dealership lifted a set of tags off another vehicle and left Nashville at six.
Henry sat at the kitchen table with his Bible open before him. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," he read softly. "You know, dear, when I was twenty I really didn't have the faith to believe God could take care of everything. Now I'm eighty-two, and having seen how He's taken care of us over the years, I have heart knowledge, not just head knowledge like back then."
Sitting across from her husband, Hazel refilled their coffee cups. She smiled and patted his hand. "You're right, dear. Remember how we used to worry and fuss over the bills? And when you wanted to build the new barn and I told you we couldn't afford it?"
Henry laughed. "The roof came off in that wind storm and we lost a hundred bales of hay. Boy, was I mad at you."
"If I remember right, we fussed over that barn half the summer."
"All summer," Henry said with a wink.
"I told you if you built a new barn, to just build yourself a sleeping room next to the cows’ stalls."
"Good thing you changed your mind. I'd get mighty cold and lonely out there in the winter time."
The couple laughed as they reminisced about the hard times and good times they had experienced through 60 years of marriage. They joined hands in prayer. As their supplication touched their new pastor, Antoine felt another dart pierce his back. He screamed in anger and pain.
“And Lord, don't let Pastor Chamberlain do anything foolish. Keep him from evil. Amen."
"Amen," Hazel echoed.
Outside Chattanooga, Max lay up overnight in a remote motel. The next morning he left Chattanooga, at 5AM in Atlanta he dropped the van in an area were it would be striped by noon. Walking briskly away he fingered the pistol in his waistband. If anyone bothered him he would take them out and just keep walking. A few blocks further he stole a cable company van from the back lot of a repair shop. A few miles away, he pulled into a strip mall parking lot and donned the gray uniform he found in the back. He didn't fear detection. According to a work order stuck behind the sun visor, the van had a slow transmission leak and wasn't scheduled to be repaired for two days. Cruising the streets, Max looked for wayward children.
Across the street from a park, he sat in the van watching a group around kindergarten age playing tag. Two years before, he had watched a game of tag turn into hide-and-seek. That evening he snatched a six-year-old boy. Three days later a hiker found the child's body in a state park, propped in a sitting position against a hollow log. That was The Ghost’s first display.
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves and grass. The sweet scent of honeysuckle floated through the open window. While others came to the park seeking peace and rest from the stress of everyday life. Max came seeking to satisfy his lust and find a child to murder. The odor of death wafted all around him. If luck was with him, some loving mother and father would soon face the worst horror a parent could experience.
Antoine leaned down and whispered in a little boy's ear, "Let's play hide and seek." Having been tagged five times in the last 20 minutes, the seven-year-old was growing weary of the game.
"Let's play hide and seek," he echoed to his playmates. Antoine snickered. Children always listened to him. The angels assigned to the children drew their swords. They were outnumbered two to one by the demons. Nevertheless, they would fight to protect these little ones from the destroyer.
Max couldn’t believe his eyes. Maybe his luck was changing. A girl of six or seven hugged a tree, hiding her eyes. The rest ran off in all directions. One boy of about seven hid behind a bush not 20 feet from the van. His mop of brown hair ruffled in the breeze. He darted across the sidewalk to a tree not 10 feet from where Max sat.
The burning itch in Max's hand nearly drove him wild. He glanced at the mothers sitting on a cluster of benches 100 feet away. They seemed to be involved in deep discussion. None of them was looking in his direction. Above the van, unseen by human eyes, the battle raged. Angels and demons slashed at each other, their blades clashing.
The boy hunched down, trying to make himself smaller. Before stealing the van, Max made sure the door operated silently. Finding a can of W D 40 in the van he oiled, checked, and oiled until the lubricant dripped on the ground.. Now, with his heart pounding, his hands moist with sweat and the right one nearly driving him to distraction, he clutched the chloroformed cloth in his left as he grasped the door handle.
Soon he would have the child to do with as he pleased. He checked the mirrors. No one was looking. He opened the door and put his left foot on the ground. He was confident in his stalking ability. As a boy he had trained himself to sneak up within three feet behind a rabbit.
“Hey. Wow, glad I saw you. Got a minute? Listen, my cable goes in and out every time the wind blows. Do you think you could come over and have a look at it?" The man looked at him expectantly, his thick glasses perched on an owlish nose.
Where did he come from? He wasn’t there a second ago. Max raged within himself. So close, so close. The boy ran back to his playmates. Max’s anger exploded in his gut as he watched his prey slip away. "I'm off duty," he growled. Leaping back into the van, he slammed the door and started the engine.
"It'll only take a minute" the man pressed as he stepped to the driver’s side window. "I live right on the other side of the park. Come on, please? Only take a few minutes."
Max cursed, his spittle spraying the man's face. "I told you, I'm off duty. Now get away from me." He jammed the van in gear and roared away in a cloud of dust. Watching the van until it was out of sight, Andrew morphed back into his angelic form. He smiled. It was a victory. Max would continue to prowl somewhere else, but these children were safe. Drawing his sword, he rejoined the battle.
Max forced himself to stay calm. The police were inept. He often joked they couldn’t find their own patrol car if they were sitting in it. He always eluded them, even to the point of taunting detectives assigned to his case.
One time, just for his own amusement, he strolled into the police station in the very area where he had snatched a child. He was wearing his favorite get-up, that of an elderly woman. Using a cane, he tottered in and plunked down on a bench in the intake area. Breathing heavily, he fumbled to remove a tiny bottle from a plastic bag pinned to his chest. Then he spilled the fake nitro pills all over the floor.
He stifled a laugh as officers came running and dropped on all fours to scramble after the life-saving pills, which rolled under the desks and soda machine. A few skittered under Max’s seat. With his cheeks flaming, a young officer knelt at Max's feet and reached delicately under the bench on which the child killer sat. Max almost gave himself away but managed to cover his mouth with a lace hankie to stifle his laughter. When the officer handed him his pills, he thanked him profusely and hastily stuck one under his tongue. Then he sat and listened as radio calls came in with updates on the frantic search.
A short time later, the mother of the seven-year-old boy came in and sat weeping next to him on the bench. He consoled her, patting her hand and assuring her everything would turn out all right.
All the while Max laughed inside, relishing the pain and grief she was about to endure. He reveled in the knowledge that if she knew his true identity she would kill him with her bare hands. As it was, she actually hugged him and cried on his shoulder.
At three the next morning, he bent her son’s body into a sitting position and leaned it against a tree on her front lawn. It was the same tree under which the boy had been playing when Max grabbed him. He fantasized about the child’s mother waking up to find him staring at her with unseeing eyes. He could almost hear her agonized screams.
Driving under the speed limit, Max steered the van back to the repair shop and parked it in the same spot. Pulling off the fake beard, he put on a long-haired wig and sunglasses. Hurrying to a nearby used car lot, he pilfered an old rattletrap they’d hardly miss and drove carefully out of the city.
Watching from heaven, Michael sent more angels into the battle. Soon the skirmish was over, with demons and angels retreating to tend to their wounds. The angels healed quickly and were ready to resume the fight. The wounds the demons suffered would take weeks to mend, making it necessary for Satan to replace them until they were fully functional again.
Careful not to attract attention, Max took Interstate 75 north. He needed to find a restroom, yet he dared not stop. Five miles north of Atlanta, he came upon an accident. Two cars had tangled. Traffic was backed up for a mile and a half. The itching hand was driving him insane.



Chapter 9

At FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., Special
Agent Lydia McFarland studied the evidence from the Moore kidnapping. She and Agent Kevin Kibel shuffled papers and pictures around like playing cards. "Do we have anything to go on with this one?" Lydia asked.
"Just what you see in front of you. A kid taken from the back yard of his home. His mother in the house less than a hundred feet away. The child recovered from a pickup belonging to an 87-year-old shooting victim." Kevin sighed. "The elderly farmer was found dead in a cattle stall in a barn where the unsub hid the AT&T truck."
"And we think it might have been the work of The Ghost?" she asked, using the term the media had coined for Max.
"Well, it's got all his markings and it's been two months. The longest he's gone in between is three," Kevin pointed out. "What I can't understand is why he suddenly comes on full throttle."
"The answer is the guy has been flying so low under the radar we haven't noticed him," Lydia speculated. "But he can't have gained this much expertise without years of practice."
"Any chance we can put in for some more agents? We've got to get this scumbag off the streets."
"With the budget cuts we're lucky to get ammo," Lydia answered wearily. "But if we can come up with some hard evidence, Macklin said he'll assign another fifty."
"If it is The Ghost, this is the first time he's left a living witness," Kevin said, leaning over the desk. "And he's not going to make that mistake twice."
"All right, let's see what we've got. All Joshua Moore remembers is seeing a shadow," Lydia said with a sigh. "His mother says the unsub had long red hair, a beard, sunglasses, red cap and a dirty trench coat."
Running his hand through his hair, Kevin shuffled through the papers again. "That's all they remember, and the descriptions we have from those who even noticed are all over the map─fat, skinny, short, tall, old, young, bearded, smooth shaven, long hair, short hair. The trooper who shot at him in PA swears he looked like a farmer. The guy's a chameleon. I'll tell you, Lydia, if we don't catch him soon, we never will. He's getting ready to go back underground."
"We'll get him,” Lydia replied, trying to convince herself as much as her fellow agent. He’s getting careless, leaving witnesses alive."
“I hope you're right," Kevin said. "For the sake of the kid, I hope you're right."
"The Moores are under protection, aren't they?"
"Yeah, but the local PD is getting antsy. The chief thinks this was just a random hit and he says even if it was The Ghost, he's gone. He says they're a small department and don’t have the manpower to keep it up."
"What do you think?" Lydia said, looking at Kevin.
"I think The Ghost is waiting for us to give up the ghost, ha ha. Seriously, I think he doesn't like loose ends and the Moores could be in serious danger."
The ringing of Lydia's cell phone interrupted. "Agent McFarland."
"Yes, ma’am, this is Paul Norin. I'm chief of police in Rome, Georgia."
"Yes, Chief, how can I help you?"
"We got a five-year-old abducted. The bulletin we received a while ago listed your number. Said you was chasin' the guy they call The Ghost. We think this kidnapping has his markings all over it."
"How so?" Lydia asked, chills racing up her spine.
"For one thing, he took the kid from right under his mother's nose," Norin said.
After questioning the chief further, Lydia flipped closed the phone. "Pack your toothbrush, Kevin, we're going to Georgia." Forty-five minutes later, they were in the air.
Chatting with a fellow motorist in the stalled traffic line, Max learned to his dismay that the drivers of both cars were alone in their vehicles and uninjured. Yet traffic was delayed for two hours. He had hoped to at least see some mangled bodies. Finally reaching the next exit, he left the interstate and drove into Rome. He pulled into a Burger King. While waiting for the accident to be cleared, he had donned another disguise. Now he wore a blond wig, a long, padded coat and Coke bottle-bottom glasses.
The kid fell into his lap. As he was drying his hands, the door to the restroom opened. A dark-haired boy of about five stepped in. He smiled self-consciously at the stranger and said, "I'm a big boy. Mommy let me go to the restroom all by myself."
Max grinned. Stepping into a stall, he quickly dropped the coat, pulled off the padding and tossed it to the floor. Two minutes later, he exited the restroom with the child under the coat.
The chief ordered the restaurant closed and every employee and customer detained for questioning. They were still there when Lydia and Kevin arrived. "We found this in the men’s room," the chief told the agents as he held up a large evidence bag with what appeared to be a vest-like garment with straps sewn to the top and bottom.
"He made this himself," Lydia mused as she examined the sloppy, uneven stitching through the plastic. "We need to get this to the lab right away. There's a good chance it will have traces of DNA" Handing the bag to Kevin, she asked the chief, "Where’s the mother?"
"There," Norin said, motioning to a weeping woman sitting at a table by the front window. Another woman with a somber expression sat across from her. "Name’s Vicky Rice. She teaches at the high school. The other lady's Marilyn Waymire. She's the local representative from the Center for Missing Children."
The two women appeared to be praying. As soon as they raised their heads, Lydia approached. Marilyn Waymire stood, squeezed Vicky’s hand and stepped away. Lydia smiled at her. Most, if not all of the women from the Center for Missing Children were mothers whose child were or had gone missing. Marilyn's story was one of tragedy.
Five years earlier, Marilyn's six-year-old son vanished on his way home from school. Compounding her anguish, Marilyn’s mother had died of cancer the week before. They had just buried her when the boy disappeared. No trace of him was ever found. Still, she held out hope he was alive. Little did she know─nor would she ever─her son was buried lying on top of her mother's vault.
Now she served as a volunteer with the local chapter of the Center for Missing Children. Comforting and calming the parents, Marilyn and others like her were valuable assets to the FBI. Time was always vital and the sooner investigators gathered all the information they could, the greater the chances of finding a child alive.
"Hello, Mrs. Rice. I'm Lydia McFarland, special agent with the FBI." Lydia sat down opposite Mrs. Rice. "When was the last time you saw Kenny?"
"He was so proud,” Vicky said, taking a napkin from the holder and dabbing her eyes. “This was the first time I let him go into a public restroom by himself. I should have checked it first or asked one of the male employees to. They weren't busy but I... I thought he would be okay. I hurried and went to the woman's room so I would be there when he came out."
"So you were waiting outside the men's room door? Did you see anyone exit the restroom?" Lydia said, knowing the answer.
"I told the other officer. I just stepped out of the restroom when a heavyset man with blond hair and thick glasses came out of the men's room."
"Anything about him that stood out?"
"He smiled at me, but his eyes were hard. They made me shiver."
"What color were his eyes?"
"I couldn’t really see them through the glasses. But I think blue. Even with those thick glasses I had the feeling he was looking right through me."
"Anything else? How was he dressed?"
"In a long coat. It struck me as strange in this weather to be wearing a coat. A blue baseball cap. The trench coat was dirty, too. I thought he was probably mentally challenged. You know, wearing a coat on such a warm day. He winked at me. I thought he was trying to flirt with me." She choked back a sob. "He was really big. He looked almost as if he was..." Vicky's eyes widened. "As if he was preg... She screamed. "Oh, Lord, no! Kenny was under his coat, wasn't he?" She screamed again, shaking with horror and disbelief. "Kenny was under that coat and I just smiled at that monster while he stole him! What kind of a mother am I?" Vicky covered her face with her hands and bawled.
Lydia stood up and laid her hand on Kenny's mother's shoulder. "A good mother, one who loves and cares about her child. That's the reason he took Kenny, because he saw the love you have for him." Marilyn rushed over and embraced the devastated woman.
When they were out of earshot of the mother, Lydia told Kevin, "It's him. If he follows his usual pattern, we'll find Kenny two or three states away. His body will be propped up on a park bench or in a playground somewhere. Dollars to donuts he’s already dead."
Patrol vehicles from local, county, state and federal law enforcement converged on the restaurant. The FBI helicopter waited at the far end of the parking lot, its rotors slowly turning. "We've got road blocks set up on every road for twenty miles," a state police captain shouted at them as Lydia and Kevin ran to the helicopter. "We'll get him for you this time."
As the agents boarded the chopper, a car screeched to a stop in the parking lot. A man jumped out, leaving open the door as he raced toward the restaurant. Dashing from the building, Vicky Rice ran sobbing to her husband’s arms. As the chopper hovered over the scene, Lydia said a prayer for the grieving parents. In the next 48 to 72 hours, they would experience either soaring elation or soul-crushing sorrow. When they were airborne, the pilot asked, "Why do they call him The Ghost?"
"Because he appears and disappears without a trace. He spirits his victim away without one witness other than the mother. And even she doesn’t realize she’s witnessing the kidnapping of her own child. It’s almost as if he’s invisible. This incident is a prime example. He gets perverted pleasure from taking a child right out from under the mother's nose."
For the next three hours, law enforcement searched every hill, valley, stream, road and village within a 75-five miles radius of Rome. Alerts were issued on TV, radio, cell phones and road signs. Local and regional media swarmed the city.
Speaking later to a gathering of reporters, Lydia said, "This is what we know so far. The abductor is a white male in his mid-thirties, approximately one-eighty to two hundred pounds. Five-ten to six foot."
"What about eyes and hair?" a reporter from Fox News shouted.
"We believe his real hair color is dark brown, his eyes possibly brown. We also believe he uses disguises that include colored contacts and wigs."
"Is it true you found his stolen vehicle?"
"Yes, on a back road in Benton County."
"You’re sure this is the work of The Ghost?"
"Everything we have so far points to him," Lydia said simply.
The next morning USA Today, The New York Times and other major newspapers across the nation carried the headline:

The Ghost Haunts Rome, GA

Avoiding the main roads, Max drove as fast as he dared. A half-hour away from the Burger King, he ditched the stolen car in a ravine and covered it with brush. The sleeping child was small enough to fit in the large backpack Max carried for that purpose. He bent the boy in half and crammed him into it with his knees touching his chin. With Kenny strapped to his back, Max hiked through the thickest part of the forest. Having to stop and rest every few minutes, he realized he couldn’t keep going much farther.
Several times he heard a helicopter approaching. Falling to the ground, he pulled a large, camouflage blanket over himself and the pack. Once when the chopper hovered overhead, he scrambled under a thick bush and struggled to spread the blanket over his body. The chopper came down to within 20 feet of the treetops. The wash from its rotors ruffled the edges of the blanket. Max gripped his Glock, ready to fight to the death. He expected at any second some cop to repel to the ground and yank the cover off him.
After a couple of minutes, the helicopter pulled up and flew over the ridge. He lay still until the sound disappeared, then hurried on through the forest. Whenever the child began to stir, he set the pack on the ground and held the cloth over his face. Hot on the predator’s heels, Andrew comforted Deion, the angel assigned to the little boy.
"Soon, in God's time, we will defeat the forces of evil," Andrew said, laying a hand on Deion’s muscular shoulder. Tears trickled down the guardian angel's cheeks.
Hovering over the two angels, Antoine taunted them. "He will have the child, you cannot stop him." He cackled. The sound cut Deion’s heart. "Perhaps God will assign you to another child. Then you can guard that one until the predator is ready for him."
"I request to be at your side when we attack, sir," Deion said, grinding his teeth. He eyed the demon, his fingers caressing his jewel-handled sword.
"I will present your request to my commander," Andrew said. He ached to unsheathe his sword and slice the grin from Antoine's mouth.
Time was running out. Max knew statistics. If he didn't do something fast they would catch him. He headed for the edge of the forest. Stepping beyond the tree line, he stopped short. His luck was back. A house stood in the clearing not 50 yards away. Gray weatherboard showed through the faded, peeling white paint. The weeds were several inches high in the half-mowed yard. A beat-up push lawnmower sat between the house and a leaning outhouse. Max could see a 20-year-old Chevy in the open garage. He dropped his bundle, pressed the cloth to the child's face, zipped up the backpack and hid it behind a fallen tree. He approached the house from the back.
Hidden from view, he opened a capsule and smeared chicken blood on the left leg of his jeans. He screwed the silencer onto the Glock. Holding the pistol by his side, he hammered with his fist on the back door. A few seconds later, he heard a weak male voice.
"Who is it"?
"I’m injured. I need help," Max shouted, holding his leg with his left hand. A trembling, liver-spotted hand pulled back the curtain from the pane in the door. The frail, elderly man peered through the glass at his murderer.
Max tensed as he heard the lock disengage. As soon as the door opened a crack, Max kicked it in. The edge of the door hit the old man, knocking him to the floor. His walker banged into the wall. There was a loud crack as his right arm broke. He cried out in pain and fright. Max shot him between the eyes.
"Didn't your momma teach you to never open the door to strangers?" he said, laughing. "Too late now."
"Honey? Herb?" a female voice called from farther back in the house. "Did you fall? Are you all right? What was that popping noise?"
Stepping over the body, Max rushed toward the sound. In the bedroom, he found a gray-haired woman sitting up in bed. Staring at the pistol, she said, "What do you want? Who are you? Where is my Herbert?"
"I, lady, am your worst nightmare. I'm The Ghost. As for Herbert? He's waiting for you on the other side." The terror-stricken woman watched as Max raised the gun. Her left side paralyzed by a stroke, Martha clawed at the blankets with her right. He waited as she fumbled for the phone on the night stand. When she touched the receiver, he shot her through the heart.
Behind the rotting tree trunk, Andrew and Deion stood guard over the backpack. They clutched the handles of their swords and watched the cloud of demons circling overhead. "I fear it is the child's time, is it not?" Deion asked, his eyes dark with sorrow.
Andrew laid his hand on the guardian angel's shoulder. "Yes, my friend, his time is near. Soon he will rest in the arms of his Savior."
After shoving Herbert's body down the basement stairs, Max cleaned up the blood. In the bedroom, he covered the elderly woman's corpse with a quilt he found in a chest so that from the doorway she would appear to be sleeping.
Max opened the closet and yanked a shirt and a pair of pants from their hangers. Moving swiftly, he removed his clothes and donned the old man's garments. He removed his muddy boots, threw them under the bed and put on the shoes he had pulled from Herbert's feet. A size too big was better than too small.
In the bathroom, he rummaged through the vanity drawer and found some old makeup and baby powder. After sprinkling the white powder in his hair and applying makeup, he examined himself in the mirror. "Max, you old fox, you’re brilliant." For the next 15 minutes, he practiced his sickly old man act, becoming so caught up in the role he forgot about Kenny.
Suddenly, his hand began to itch intensely. Warning bells went off in his head. Something was very wrong. Tearing out of the house, he ran stumbling in Herbert’s shoes to where he left the backpack. Falling to his knees, he grasped the zipper tab and ripped it open. Kenny appeared to be sleeping. Then he noticed the stillness of the child's chest. His lips were blue. Feeling the side of the child's neck, he let out an animalistic yowl. What was wrong with him? With as many children as Max had packed around this way, he knew to leave the zipper open enough for them to breathe.
He jerked the boy from the backpack, laid him on the ground and started CPR. It was no good. The kid had died while he was in the house primping. Balling up his fist, Max pounded the ground. After several minutes, he calmed down. He could do nothing. The child was dead. He must cover his tracks. He stuffed Kenny’s body feet first into the pack and carried it to the house. Closing the door, he laid the pack on the floor. The itching was maddening. He opened the zipper and laid his hand on Kenny's neck. No good. The child must be alive for that to work.
Ignoring the burning in his hand, he carried the pack down the basement stairs and laid it on the cement floor. He looked around. Moving around some boxes, he discovered a good-sized gap between a floor joist and the foundation.
Hauling up the old man's body, he jammed it into the space, then squeezed in the backpack and restacked the boxes to cover the opening. Back upstairs, he sprayed a flowery disinfectant around the bedroom. He sniffed. There was still a faint coppery odor of blood. He sprayed again and held his finger on the nozzle as he walked to where the old man died.
He had just emptied the can when there was a knock at the front door. Glancing out the side window, he saw a sheriff's car in the driveway. "All right, Maximillion, the curtain’s going up. Break a leg, old chum," he murmured.
In heaven, Deion placed the sleeping child in Christ’s waiting arms. The little boy opened his eyes, looked into the Lord’s gentle face and smiled. The Savior stroked Kenny's hair and spoke soft words of love and comfort to him.
"My faithful servant, you may return to your duties on earth," he said to the waiting angel.
"Yes, my Lord." Turning, Deion flew back to Andrew and the company of angels surrounding the house.
A 15-year veteran of the sheriff's department, Allan Boxman's powers of observation were keen. His knock on the front door was commanding, but not raucous.
"Just a moment, please." The voice sounded feeble. Boxman liked old people. His mother was 92 and in a rehab center after breaking her hip three weeks ago. He thought of her now as an elderly man pushing a walker opened the front door. He smiled at Boxman, who thought the old guy probably didn't receive many visitors. The house was far off the beaten path.
"Can I help you, young man?"
"Yes, sir, I'm Deputy Allan Boxman with the Benton County Sheriff's Department. We're looking for a man who abducted a child from the Burger King in Rome this afternoon. Have you seen any strangers today, anything out of the ordinary?" Boxman looked past the man into the house. The old fellow didn't seem to be under any undue stress.
"Oh my, oh my, the poor child. No sir, I haven't. If I wasn't stuck with this walker I'd help you look for him." Don't lay it on too thick, Max cautioned himself.
“Would you mind if I came in and had a look around?"
A frightened look crossed the old man's face. "You don't think he's around here, do you?" Max asked as he shuffled backward, dragging the walker with him. Underneath Herbert's sweater, the MP-25 dug into his back.
"No, sir, it's just routine. We're checking all the homes in the area."
Max stepped aside. "Of course, Officer. You're welcome to look around all you want. There's just Martha and me here and she's asleep. Hasn't been too well lately."
Twice he almost shot Boxman, the first time when the deputy opened the bedroom door and again as he descended the stairs to the basement. Max stood at the top of the stairs with his hand on the pistol as Boxman climbed the steps. Facing the officer, he asked, "Did you find anything?"
"Everything looks secure. Sorry to have bothered you. If you see anything unusual just give us a call." Max noticed Boxman wrinkling his nose as he started for the door. When the deputy suddenly stopped and turned, Max’s hand went to the pistol and started pulling it from his waistband. "By the way, there are searchers in the woods around your house. You’ll probably see some of them."
"Wish I could be out there with you, but the old arthritis has really got me," Max said, rubbing his back.
"That's okay, sir. You've been a big help. We'll get him. It's just a matter of time." Boxman put on his hat. "Have a good day.”
"You too, Officer, and thank you."
Max waited until the deputy pulled out of the driveway and was out of sight. He danced through the house, roaring with laughter. "Great performance, old man, one of your best."
He bowed to the ovation of his unseen audience.



Chapter 10

In Louisville, Kentucky, Cheryl Miller woke with vigor, ready for her morning run in Tyler Park. Let others jog, she loved a flat-out sprint into the rising sun. The glow on her face reflected the joy in her heart. In two short months she would be Mrs. Jefferson Kemble. She thrilled at the sight of the sparkling diamond on her finger.
The asphalt path wound through a canopy of huge oaks, then down to a duck pond. The pounding of Cheryl's feet echoed the beating of her heart. She glanced at the benches as she ran. On hot summer mornings like this, she would often see homeless people sleeping on the long, slatted seats. It wasn’t unusual to see even entire families sleeping on and under them. However, the sight of the small boy sitting by himself on a bench at the edge of the duck pond startled her. It was early. Where were his parents? He looked so small, so defenseless. He sat ramrod straight, staring at the pond. His clothing seemed too new and clean for a homeless child’s.
Slowing to a walk, Cheryl drew near. "Sweetheart, does your mommy know you're here alone?" she asked the boy’s staring face. He seemed not to hear. She asked again. He stared straight ahead. She touched his bare arm. The coldness of his body jarred her soul. The scream built in Cheryl's chest and exploded from her lips, alerting passing motorists.
Sitting in a stolen pickup at the edge of the park, Max watched the woman approach the bench. He smiled when she jerked her hand back and screamed. He started the truck and drove off. Ditching the pickup five miles away, he briskly walked the three blocks to the hospital and entered the parking garage where he left his car the previous day. Max kept his head down as he paid the attendant.
He hummed as he drove toward Waynesburg with the windows open to the morning breeze. It would be another couple of hours before they found six-year-old Jimmy Fluse in Florence, Kentucky's Brookside Park. Two in one session, well, if you counted Kenny. The photos and camcorder recorded the last seconds in the life of the child from Alabama. While Max had taken pictures of Kenny's body in the backpack and on the bench, it wasn’t the same. He would have preferred Kenny die at his hands. In any event, the murder would still be attributed to him and was part of Max's total take. Stopping at the post office in Indianapolis, he retrieved the DVD sent by Buzzy.
"We're chasing our tails, Kevin," Lydia said, shaking her head. "We're searching around Rome for him and he murders a couple ten miles away and slips through our roadblock dressed like the victim. While we're still looking for him in Georgia he takes a kid in Alabama. Boxman swears the man he spoke to was at least eighty.”
“The bodies in the basement were identified as Herbert and Martha Fidler. He was eighty-three and she was eighty-two. They had to be dead when Boxman searched the house," Kevin said.
"It makes me sick that he must have had Kenny in the trunk when he went through that roadblock. The officer didn't even bother to check." Lydia heaved a sigh of frustration. “ We have the DNA but no one to connect it to.”
"Ditto. This guy is good. He tells the deputy he's in a hurry to pick up a prescription for his sick wife. The cop does a quick visual inspection and lets a child killer breeze through with a dead body in his trunk," Kevin said. "No finger prints, no DNA in that house. Maybe this guy really is a ghost. He dresses up like the victim and even sounds like an old man. I tell you Lydia, this unsub could play Broadway."
Lydia’s eyes widened. "That's it!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of it before? The makeup, the costumes, the voices. Kevin, this guy is an actor."
"You know, I think you're right. Maybe not in major productions, but possibly with some community theater."
"If he is playing in a local theater, he’ll be known in the area," Lydia said.
"Right. And we know he's a loner. His Behavioral profile says he's unattached. No one, man or woman, has come forward saying they know him. Haven't found anyone he's ever dated," Kevin mused, tapping his pen on the desk. "We've never found a shred of evidence that he’s a pedophile, either. He doesn't molest kids, just murders them."
Lydia was pacing. "He moves easily from state to state. In two years we haven't come up with a single clue to any employment. Yet he seems to never want for money. He's not a bank robber or a petty criminal." She stared at the push pins on the map. "Kevin, I’m thinking this guy is a con man." Her eyes wandered over the victims’ photos spread across the wall.
"If he uses cons to finance his crimes, we might get a lead on him," Kevin said as lightbulbs went on in his head. Opening his laptop, he logged into the FBI database. Five minutes later he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "No major fraud cases in the areas of the known child abductions."
"Okay, but that doesn't mean he's not involved in other crimes. Don’t forget, he kills in one state and dumps the body in another," Lydia said. She paced in front of the map and suddenly stopped.
"Let's go over what we know. He was in Rome, Georgia Thursday at five PM,” she said, tracing the map with her finger. “He abandoned the stolen car in a ravine five miles from the Burger King. Then he hiked five miles through the hills carrying Kenny. The kid was small, but still not easy to carry that distance. So we know the guy is physically fit. Maybe he has a gym membership. He kills Fidler and his wife sometime between six-thirty and seven. At seven-thirty he opens the door to Boxman and lets him search the house top to bottom."
“Boxman couldn’t get over how calm, cool, even friendly the guy was." He had him snookered from the get,” Kevin said wryly.
"He's been at it a long time," Lydia said.
"So let’s follow this through,” Kevin said, stepping beside her at the map. "We had roadblocks set up everywhere, even on the back roads, within a half hour of the abduction. We searched homes, businesses, churches, even the high school."
"Everywhere but under our noses," Lisa sighed. "He dresses like Fidler, takes the old man’s car and passes through the roadblocks like he's out for a Sunday drive."
"Yeah, here we're looking for the car he stole in Chattanooga, meanwhile it’s sitting in a gully five miles from Rome.” The two of them stood thinking. “You know, what if he is a major actor?" Kevin finally said.
"He’d have to travel around in constant disguise,” Lydia said. “Otherwise, sooner or later he’d be recognized," Lydia said. She paced, tapping her lips with her finger. "The kidnappings, the murders, staging the dead children in plain sight. Snatching a kid in Birmingham while we're still looking for him in Georgia. It's a game to him."
Jumping back and spreading his hands, Kevin exclaimed, "No, no, not a game, a performance! The costumes, the staging, he's playing a part! A one-act play and we're his audience!" She and Kevin stared at the map and the trailing cluster of red pins stuck in it. "How many more are there that we don't know about? This guy has just surfaced in the last twenty-four months," he said.
Lydia sat down at her computer. "Let's pull up all the data we have on stranger abductions over the last twenty years. Then narrow it down to boys under ten. He only started staging his victims in the last year and a half."
"If this unsub is a major actor or from a wealthy family, it's going to be hard to pin the killings on him," Kevin said. "He'll have high-powered lawyers on retainer and he'll lawyer up before we can say boo to him."
"Maybe. But we'll get him," Lydia said with conviction. "And when we do, I'm pushing for the death penalty."
Max was on top of the world when he entered Waynesburg Saturday at midnight. He had set out to find one child and wound up with two. Okay, Kenny's death was an accident. But since if it wasn't for Max the kid would still be alive, in a way it was still a score. In any event, the two deaths should hold him until he left Waynesburg. Pushing aside angst over what he would speak about tomorrow, he hummed the theme song from the movie Halloween.
Time was short. Soon he would clear out the church's bank accounts and skip. His dream of retiring on his own little tropical island with a house on the ocean was only weeks away from fruition. It was all within his reach: a place where the weather was warm, the beaches unspoiled and the children plentiful.
Perhaps he should add a movie theater to the plans for the new church. That would make the faithful dig deeper. When he came to Waynesburg, it was only to hide from the law. Then his master scheme began to crystalize. The church's money would finance the furnishings in his oceanfront showplace. The more he could squeeze out of the people, the more opulent the decor. The money from Fred's business would add to his lavish lifestyle. The three million in his offshore account was enough to last him the rest of his life, if he handled it properly. And if he played his cards right, Fred was good for another five, maybe 10.
Entering the parsonage, reality bit. The place was a dump. The furniture was scratched, the appliances dented, the carpets ratty. That kitchen table was old when Max was born. Normally he was so focused on the hunt he didn't care where he hung his hat. He was hardly there anyway. The chase, the capture, the death of the child was his reward. He planned his adventures weeks, sometimes months in advance. The child he was after or taking down the person with too much money was his obsession.
Mansion, dump. The scales tipped and Max felt a wave of despair. He shut off the light and started getting undressed. His cell phone rang. He picked it up and groaned at the caller ID: Fred Jorgensen. He knew he had to respond to the incessant ringing. It was imperative that he stay in the good graces of the richest man in town. "Brother Fred, what a joy to hear from you."
When Max was on the hunt he would leave his car in some hospital parking garage with his cell phone shut off and locked in the glove compartment. The car was registered in a fictitious name. The cell phone was a throw-away. Security at the gate always bought his story about a gravely ill family member.
Each time before he left the car and phone, he’d wiped them clean. A mile away he would steal a vehicle to go hunting. He’d take a van, truck or car from the lot of a repair shop, nursing home, or someplace where it wouldn't be missed for several days. When he was finished with it, he would park it in the same spot from which he took it. Or, if the heat was on, he’d abandon it in some out-of-the-way place.
"Where have you been? I've been calling you all day and getting ‘unavailable’." Max could almost feel the heat of Fred's anger coming through the phone.
"I'm dreadfully sorry. The church in Chicago has an enormous congregation, and it seemed just about everyone wanted an audience with me. I counseled several troubled individuals right up until late this afternoon. Whenever I wasn’t bringing God’s wonderful message to the people, I was comforting some poor soul. Then the small amount of free time I had left was taken up with interviews. Perhaps you caught the one on CNN? I have a DVD with segments of the interview and service."
"I haven't had time to watch TV,” Fred griped. “My bookkeeper quit yesterday. She left the records in a mess and I've spent the whole day trying to straighten them out." Fred realized his annoyance with the pastor could work to his detriment. Reverend Chamberlain was important, influential and respected, all of which could be instrumental in getting Fred into the governor's office.
"What a shame. You just can't find faithful employees anymore," Max said, faking sympathy. Inwardly he was whooping with joy. "Say, Fred, I have an idea. In college my minor was accounting. Perhaps I could help you out until you’re able to fill the position. Say for a few hours on Monday, Wednesday and Friday?"
"That would be great as long as it doesn't interfere with your running the church." Max danced around the room while Fred rambled on about his bookkeeping methods.
Passing slowly by the parsonage, Brice Colburn could see a silhouette flitting around behind the drawn blinds. The preacher was dancing? Seemed odd for someone always acting so proper and reserved. Pulling the patrol car to the curb, Brice watched for a few minutes. He remembered the times the Lord answered a particularly difficult prayer for his father. Dad’s face would light up and his voice rise in praise to God. But he never danced.
"Look, Reverend, the reason I called is to tell you what to preach tomorrow."
"Of course, Brother Fred. What would you like to hear?"
"I want you to expand on what you spoke about last week. More about building the largest church in the Midwest. And throw in a comment or two about our prominent citizens running for government office." Fred’s voice had become smooth, as if he was inducing some farmer to buy equipment he couldn’t afford.
Max steamed. His hands ached to squeeze the idiot's neck. "Amazing. Simply amazing. Must be ESP. That is exactly the sermon I have prepared for the morning service," he said, gritting his teeth. He resolved to kill Fred before he disappeared.
"Great minds think alike, huh? See you in the morning. Good night." Fred’s spirits were soaring. His problem with the books was solved. Within two weeks, he would launch his campaign for governor. Not only would he be one of the richest men in the state, but also the most powerful.
"Good night, Brother Fred."
Antoine settled down on the parsonage roof. He nodded to his old friend Andrew, who gripped his sword and looked away.



Chapter 11

With Pastor Colburn at the helm, Waynesburg Baptist had fought the good fight for the Lord. Now it seemed the church was taking on water and going down fast. Max's sermon Sunday morning was a tortured adaptation of a Billy Sunday message. However, instead of speaking against alcohol, he droned on about finances. His main point was the people of God having to sacrifice on behalf of God's man. Max had searched on line for Bible references to gold and was elated to find many. He selected some from Exodus. Now he used them to browbeat his captive audience into giving to the priest, meaning him, to build a larger tabernacle, meaning the new church.
Finally wrapping up, he motioned Fred to the platform. Draping his arm around Fred's shoulders, he declared, "As we gain influence in the Midwest, we must do all we can to help the citizens of our state and this great nation. One way we can aid the populace is to elect our best people to office. Here we have a man who would make a wonderful governor, and four years after that, we’ll elect him to the office of President of the United States of America! Let's give our next governor a big hand!"
Fred's head was spinning. He had always thought of the governorship as his ultimate destination. Now he saw it as merely a stepping-stone on his way to the presidency.
Grinning like a court jester, Max dropped his arm and began clapping. There was a weak response as scattered members of the assemblage joined in. Bill, Jeff and their families would have none of it. In truth, most of the congregation was shocked into stony silence. They’d had enough trouble with Fred in Waynesburg. They couldn’t imagine how much more their lives would deteriorate if Fred was in charge of the state, much less the nation.
Hattie, however, was never one to keep her thoughts to herself. As the people exited the building, she tottered up to Max, removed her dark glasses and stood leaning on her cane. He looked into the blind eyes of the little black woman and quickly wished he hadn't. They held him like steel on a magnet. Max felt as if her unseeing eyes looked into his very soul. He felt his demons squirming, trying desperately to separate themselves from the Holy Spirit dwelling within her. From somewhere deep in his past, he heard a voice say, “God is watching.” Hoping to dispatch her, he stuck out his hand. Hattie latched onto it. He tried to pull it back. The old woman held on with amazing strength.
"Yous a-playin' with fire, young man. Yous sure a- playin' with the devil's fire and yous gonna get burnt. Sure as the world, yous gonna get burnt." Hattie felt Max’s hand tremble. He jerked it from her grasp. While he stood there dumbstruck, she smiled, turned and walked out. Standing beside Max, Fred felt waves of despair sweep over him. For every person who shook his and the pastor's hands after hearing Hattie’s pronouncement, 10 slipped past with their eyes lowered.
Brice Colburn waited until everyone but Fred and Max was gone. The spirit resting within him signaled unease about this preacher. He had tried to dismiss this feeling. Maybe it was just that Chamberlain wasn't Tom Colburn. No. His instincts as a law enforcement officer were telling him the same. Something just didn’t smell right.
He held onto Max's hand longer than was customary. Finally, the pastor pulled it away. Brice decided to confront him, to call his bluff. He wanted to see how Joshua Chamberlain would react. "May I see you in your office for a few minutes, Pastor?" Colburn asked, his eyes as hard as steel. The last word left a bad taste in his mouth, something akin to a rotten apple.
"Why certainly, Officer." Max led the way to the office as Brice watched the sweat beads pop out on the back of his neck. Fred followed three steps behind them. Entering the small room at the rear of the sanctuary, Max rounded the desk and sat down. Cornered, trapped, no way out. Well, there was one way. As he lowered himself into the chair, Max put his hand on the pistol in his pocket. Colburn stepped into the room. Shutting the door in Fred's face, he leaned against it. It seemed so strange to see another man sitting at his father's desk.
"Is there something I can do for you, Officer? If you need spiritual counseling I can setup an appointment for you at your convenience," Max said. He shifted the gun onto his lap, then pulled an appointment book from the center drawer.
"If I did, Chamberlain, if that is your name, would you know how to help me, or anyone for that matter who came to you for advice?" Brice stared coldly at the preacher. "I just wanted to give you fair warning. I'm checking you out. If I find out you’ve been lying to us I'm coming after you full bore."
"Now, Officer Colburn, Brice, I assure you my credentials are impeccable." Under the desk, Max maneuvered the gun to point at the officer's midsection. He had eluded the FBI at every turn. He would not be brought down by some hick cop. He eased off the safety. The officer’s service pistol bulged the right side of his suit jacket.If Colburn made the slightest move, he’d take him out. If it came down to it, he would shoot Fred, too, then arrange the bodies to make it look like they shot each other.
"You can see the evidence of my achievements right here on these walls." With his left hand Max gestured to the phony diplomas and certificates covering the wall behind him.
"Anybody can have fake diplomas printed or order them online. I think you're a thief, or worse. Tell you what, Chamberlain. A cousin of mine is a state trooper. I'm going to call him tomorrow and have him start a background check on you. It will take about a week. But if you resign..." Brice leaned on the desk and put his face close to Max’s. "Well, let's just say my investigation could be dropped. But rest assured, if I find out you’re not who you say you are, I'll arrest you myself."
Under the desk, Max made sure of his aim and tightened his finger on the trigger. Outside the door, Fred was ready to tear his hair out. Whatever was going on in there wasn’t going to be kept from him. He tried the door; it seemed to be locked. He jiggled the knob again, less frantically this time. It turned easily. He leaned on the door; it moved an inch. He put his full weight against it and heard something crack. It flew open. Stepping aside, Colburn watched Fred fly across the room and crash into the desk. The three of them stared, one to the other. "Remember what I said pastor, one week."
Righting himself awkwardly, Fred twisted to face the officer. “One week what? What does that mean, Colburn?" he demanded, his face a mask of anger.
"Spiritual concerns, right, Pastor?" Brice said. "You will take care of that little matter we spoke about, right?” Stone-faced, Max nodded. Turning on his heel, Brice strode down the center aisle and out the front door.
Switching on the safety, Max stuffed the handgun back in his pocket. One of the first things he learned in acting school was how to instantly alter his expression. He looked at Fred with a droopy, worried face. "Please close the door and sit down, Brother Fred. I'm afraid I have something rather distressing to discuss with you."
"Can we talk about it over lunch? The chef will have to warm up the food up if we're much later. It won’t taste as good."
"I'm afraid it can't wait," Max said with a bit of impatience poking through. He motioned Fred to a chair as he worked on getting a tear to form in the corner of his left eye. At the academy, he was taught to think sad thoughts in order to produce crocodile tears. Envisioning himself rotting on death row usually did the trick.
"Everything I’m about to tell you must be kept in strict confidence. You know that anything a member says to me is confidential, therefore the information I’m about to reveal to you must never leave this room. If it does it will undermine the building of the new church and your campaign." Fred loved juicy gossip. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
Max lowered his voice to just above a whisper. Fred had to strain to hear him. "I believe, from what he told me just now…" Max paused for dramatic effect. He could almost feel the needle pricking his forearm as he squeezed out another tear. He took a deep breath. "I believe Officer Colburn is using his position to coerce sexual favors from some of the women in Waynesburg." Max sagged in the chair as though vocalizing the allegation had drained him.
Fred jumped to his feet and pointed his finger at Max. "I knew it! His goody two-shoes act is just that, an act. His daddy always bragged on him. What a couple of hypocrites. I wanted to get rid of Brice when I kicked out his father. Now I have just cause. I'll bring it before the town council this afternoon."
"Brother Fred, if you must pursue this with them, please don't mention my involvement."
"Don't worry, Pastor, I know a woman who for the right price would swear her own mother is a murderer." Fred stood and stretched, looking hungry. "Let's discuss this over lunch. My wife is out with her girlfriends, so we’ll have plenty of time to talk about my campaign, too."
With his head bowed and his shoulders stooped as if he was carrying the weight of the world, Max followed Fred to the parking lot. Above the church, Andrew's eyes followed the Mercedes as it entered the busy street. The battle for Waynesburg would soon begin.
Max woke up Monday morning with a smile. Today he would begin shearing the sheep. The largest was proving to be the most docile. Later today he would began falsifying Fred’s dealership books. The original church ledgers were hidden in the bottom drawer of the chest in Max’s bedroom. If called upon, he could produce the duplicates he’d spent many hours cooking to perfection. With his ingenious contrivances, only an expert would be able to detect the discrepancies, and he’d need a shrink when he was done.
Yesterday Fred readily agreed to install him as chief fundraiser and financial advisor for his campaign. Mentally, Max tallied the funds he would raise for his oceanfront home. If his calculations were right, he would live like a king for the rest of his life. It was paramount he settle in an island nation that had no extradition treaty with the United States, better yet, one that was hostile to his homeland.
During their lunch Sunday afternoon, Fred made several calls. The first was to Ginger Hostettler. Then he wheedled the town council members into meeting with him at his home at three o’clock.
Ginger arrived at 2:30 to receive her instructions and her $2,000. Truth was, Ginger would have performed her act before the council for free. More than once Brice had stopped her for speeding. Hoping to weasel out of the fine, she had batted her eyes at him while alluding to a quid pro quo, but of course he never gave into her wiles.
Brice received the call at 4:30 PM. With no explanation, Fred fired him right over the phone. "Chamberlain is behind this, isn't he?" Brice asked bitterly.
"Conduct unbecoming an officer of the law," Fred sniped. "Leave your car in the lot and your uniform, keys and gun with the desk sergeant."
"I own my own piece."
"What?"
"I said the Glock is mine."
"What’s yours?"
"I own my own pistol!"
"Oh. Well, everything else, then."
"Chamberlain is behind this, isn't he?" Brice asked again.
"Conduct unbecoming an officer of the law," Fred repeated.
"Yeah right," Brice snapped, slamming down the phone.
Bill Harris’s was the only dissenting vote. Sending Ginger out, Bill confronted Fred and the rest of the council members. "Gentlemen, you know as well as I do she's lying. Brice is one of the most moral men I know. His reputation is impeccable. As for Ginger’s, it speaks for itself," he asserted. Fred glowered at him. As soon as he gained controlling interest in the bank, Bill was out.
"If Mr. Harris is quite finished, all in favor of dismissing Brice Colburn, raise your right hand," Fred said, holding his right hand in the air and moving his eyes threateningly from man to man. Reluctantly, the council members, all but Bill, followed suit. They all knew Fred was right on the edge of controlling Waynesburg. They might as well try to stop a Big Bud 747.




Chapter 12

After hastily introducing Max to the dealership staff, Fred took him to his “office,” a cramped storage room with a scarred desk and tattered chair with the yellowed foam showing through the seat. Max thought the parsonage was depressing. This was downright revolting. Fred's office, on the other hand, was fit for the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Located at the far end of the building, it was half the size of the parsonage. Fred's enormous desk was made from the old maple tree that had overshadowed his boyhood home. The wall of glass behind him looked out on the vast array of farm equipment. Awards, most of which Fred concocted for himself, covered the oak paneled walls.
Going over the books, Max was shocked at first, then started to snicker. Over the years, Max had not only become an expert at running con games, he also knew how to spot them. "No wonder his bookkeeper skipped in such a hurry. She swindled him out of more than a million bucks," he murmured. "Well, Max old chum, thanks to you, in two months he’ll be totally bankrupt. She’ll be lounging on a beach somewhere and so will you."
For the next three hours, Max worked his magic. By noon, Fred's books showed nothing but black. His business appeared to be the financially healthiest in the state. In reality he was now one of the poorest. With the mock-up Max created, Fred would never guess he’d been bilked until Max was long gone. The bookkeeper’s embezzlement was chump change by comparison.
Fred came in at noon with a bottle in his hand. Max had stuffed the original ledgers into his briefcase just moments before. "Well, how does it look?” Fred said, grinning. “Am I headed for the poor house?"
Oh, pal, if you only knew, Max said to himself. "Well, I don't think your wife will have to apply for food stamps for about another month. I can keep you afloat that long." He laughed. Thoroughly relaxed, Fred did too. Pushing aside the papers scattered across its surface, Fred set the bottle of Jack Daniels on the desk. "Reverend, I don't know how you feel about it, but in the middle of the day after dealing with these farmers, I need a little nip." Plucking two glasses from the rickety bookcase, Fred said, "My bookkeeper and I used to have a giggler.” His eyes moistened as he poured himself a shot. “So will you join me?”
It occurred to Max that the errant bookkeeper had been more than just an employee. "Jesus did say to take a little wine for your stomach's sake. Of course they didn't have Jack Daniels back then or He would have probably preferred it to wine," Max said, smiling and leaning back gingerly in the rickety chair.
"He did say that, didn't He?" Fred poured a generous amount into Max’s glass. "Here's to us," he said, holding up his glass.
"Here's to you, Brother Fred, Indiana’s next governor." They clinked. Fred grinned, blissfully unaware that Max now owned the very clothes on his back.
Brice Colburn awoke Monday morning without police powers, but with bulldog determination. After a breakfast of juice, coffee and toast, he signed on to the internet. His bluff had worked. Chamberlain had reacted as a guilty person would. Of course, at this point all the evidence Brice had was circumstantial. What he needed was proof that the pastor was either who he claimed to be or a fraud. He could contact the college, but if Chamberlain was an impostor he didn’t want to chance spooking him until his evidence was ironclad.
By 10 o'clock, he was becoming frustrated. It seemed as if there were Joshua Chamberlains in every state in the union. Several were ministers. More than Brice cared to count traced their roots back to the Joshua Chamberlain of the Civil War. He would leave calling his cousin with the state police as a last resort. If he was wrong, he didn’t want to look like a fool.
At 11:30, Brice called Bill Harris’s cell phone. Seeing Colburn’s ID on the screen, Bill began speaking before Brice could say hello. “Brice, I want you to know I opposed your dismissal. I was overruled. The rest of the council is afraid of Fred's retaliation against them and their businesses," he said in a somber tone.
"I know, Bill, and I appreciate your support. Chamberlain is behind this."
"Why would Reverend Chamberlain want you out? Unless he’s in cahoots with Fred. I know Jorgensen’s been trying to figure out a way to have you resign since he kicked your father out of the church."
"Yesterday after the morning service, I confronted Chamberlain. I told him I was going to run a background check on him. Bill, I've been a cop long enough to know when someone is lying."
"Well, I'll grant you he is the worst preacher I've ever heard."
"Yeah, I don't think he knows the Bible from a football playbook. Let me ask you this, what kind of shape are the church's finances in?"
"Brice, I'm really concerned. We're up to over a hundred and fifty thousand. He may not be able to preach, but he sure knows how to raise money."
"Wow. Is the money protected?"
"Well," Bill hesitated. "Not as much as when Mary was treasurer but─"
"What? Wait, what’s going on? Nobody should be touching that money right now. We haven't elected a new treasurer."
"Actually, Fred appointed one," Bill said, sighing.
"Who? Please don’t tell me Chamberlain."
"Afraid so. Fred gave him the authorization the day after Mary was buried."
"So the fox is guarding the henhouse."
"The account is as secure as I can make it, as long as I'm president of the bank. How long that will be I don't know."
Brice let out a low whistle. "Okay, look, I'm going to call my cousin with the state police and have him run a background check on Chamberlain. You be careful, Bill. I think the guy is dangerous."
"I don’t know about Chamberlain, but Fred sure is. Keep me posted."
At one o’clock that afternoon, Antoine possessed a man named Lamie Wiggins. A petty criminal, Lamie had never had an original thought. From an early age he was possessed by a lesser demon named Krolo. To hear the imp tell it, he got stuck with all the lowly assignments. Krolo's dream was to possess world leaders, to wield his power like a broad sword over the earth. He longed to rule mankind through his human counterpart. Instead, Antoine saw fit to saddle him with the Lamies of the world. Lamie's lot in life was that of purse-snatcher/penny-ante drug dealer hustling barflies and teenagers to sustain his miserable existence on the streets.
Krolo knew better than to challenge Antoine's authority. He still smarted from the one time he had tried it years before. At Antoine's command, he left Lamie. Bidding the little crook farewell, Krolo’s parting gift to him was a touch of his dagger resulting in a gut-wrenching stomach ache. Lamie embarked on a roller coaster ride. One minute he was deathly sick, the next he felt better than he deserved.
After reposing for an hour in the back seat of an abandoned car, Lamie recovered enough to root through the dumpster behind the Red Skillet. To his amazement, his treasure hunt yielded a fully loaded chrome .38 automatic buried under a gob of coffee grounds. Digging further, he pulled out a full box of ammunition. Being unfamiliar with firearms, he handled the pistol carefully. Thinking he had clicked on the safety, Lamie rubbed the gun on his pants leg.
"What a pretty gun," he said, admiring his face in its shiny surface. His thoughts turned to Big Donny. For years, the overaged hulking bully had tormented Lamie, taking his money, his liquor and his drugs. At times, he beat Lamie just for the fun of it. "No more, Donny ain't gonna kick me around no more."
He seemed to find new strength and courage in the snub- nosed pistol. In truth, Antoine was flexing his muscles into Lamie's arms and chest. Lamie felt power flow through his body. "I'm the man!" he shouted to the world.
Antoine whispered in the miscreant’s ear. "Go get Donny. Make him bow at your feet like the coward he is."
"Donny needs to respect me as a man. I'll make him. I won't hurt him, just make him think I'm gonna. Yup, today Donny's gonna wish he never messed with this boy."
Lamie moseyed off to look for Big Donny. After an hour or so he found him in the alley on 3rd street rifling through the trash bin behind the bank. Donny's theory was that eventually everyone threw away something of value. Donny picked through the bank's trash two or three times a day. He kept looking for that bag full of money some ditzy teller accidently tossed. Never mind that he had searched for years and not come up with so much as a penny.
Lamie sneaked up on the burly man and poked him in the back with the gun. Donny jerked and whirled around. Lamie leaped back several paces, almost tripping over his feet. His hands trembled but he kept the gun pointed at Donny's chest. Seeing it was just Lamie, Donny smiled. Staring at the pistol, his smile broadened into a sinister grin.
"Whatcha got there, little man?” Donny held out his hand. “Give it here."
"You... you gotta sst… stop beating on me, Donny."
Donny's mouth twitched and his brow furrowed threateningly. "Beating on you? You gimme me that gun or I'll show you what a beatin' is." He started lumbering forward.
"You... you... stay away, Donny... I'll shoot, I... I will," Lamie sputtered, backing up.
Pushing up his shirtsleeves and bunching his fists, Donny came at Lamie with a throaty growl. "You gimme that gun or I'm gonna beat you within an inch of your life." He bore down on the little man like a freight train on a tricycle.
When Antoine kicked Krolo out of Lamie, the little imp was glum as he shadowed his former host. After all, he had controlled this man since he was a child. Now here came the petty criminal's one shining moment and Antoine would get all the glory.
Krolo saw an opportunity. Reaching out, he grabbed Lamie's ankle, tripping him. As he stumbled, Lamie squeezed the trigger. There was a loud explosion and a dime-sized hole appeared in Donny's forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Looking astonished, Donny stopped, stutter-stepped and fell dead face down in the muck. Lamie's jaw dropped. He stared in horror at his tormentor lying like a beached whale in the mud. "Donny, wake up. Donny, I didn't mean it. I just wanted to scare you so you'd stop beating on me."
He started running in circles. "What have I done? Gotta get rid of the gun. Gotta get rid of the gun. They'll fry me. I'm a dead man, gotta get rid of this stupid gun. Donny’s dead. I didn't do it. It was the gun, it was this stupid gun."
He was about to toss the pistol on the ground. "Got to empty it, can't let some kid find it. They'll take it to school and shoot a bunch of other kids. Then they'll blame me. Gotta get rid of this stupid gun." He pointed the barrel up and fired.
Hearing the first shot from his second-story office in the bank, Bill Harris rose from his desk. He stepped to the window overlooking the alley. What he saw caused him to grab for his cell phone. A rotund man lay face down in the mud while a wiry little guy danced around the body ranting like a lunatic. As Bill dialed 911, he hit the silent alarm under his desk. "Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?"
"Yes, this is Bill Harris at First Bank of Waynesburg. It appears that a man has been shot in the alley behind the bank."
"Is the shooter still armed?"
Stepping closer to the window, Bill looked down just as Lamie looked up. Their eyes locked. A split second after he squeezed the trigger, Lamie's eyes widened with horror. Bill heard the window break. The thought entered his brain at the same instant as the bullet: Have to call Jensen's and have them replace the glass. The first bullet pierced Bill's chin and exited the top of his head. The second caught him in the chest.
As Bill’s body dropped to the carpet, Andrew caught his spirit. Feeling strong arms beneath him, Bill turned his head. The child of God smiled into the face of the angel. Peace flooded his heart. "Are we going to heaven?" he asked, watching clouds then stars whizz past.
"Yes. You will soon be in the presence of the Lord," Andrew said, smiling down at him. The darkness began to fade away to be replaced by a brilliant light.
Fifty-five years old at the time of his death, Bill was experiencing a touch of arthritis. All morning the aching in his hands had bothered him. His wife liked to tease him about his gray hair. He told her it was his crown and reward for enduring Fred's antics.
Now the pain was gone and forgotten. Bill felt young and exuberant. The light began to take shape. Andrew set him down in front of the throne. With tears of joy misting his eyes, Bill knelt at the feet of his Savior. Placing His hand on Bill's head, Christ said, "Well done, my child, enter into the joy of the Lord." The beauty of heaven swept over him, yet all Bill saw at that moment was his Savior with His nail-scarred hands. His task completed, Andrew returned to earth.
Finding Krolo, Antoine sunk his claws into the imp’s neck and carried him up as a hawk would a squirrel. Krolo’s eyes bugged out as Antoine squeezed and dug his claws into his hide. He struggled to break the demon's grip. Blood trickled down his scrawny chest and back.
"You better be glad the banker’s dead,” Antoine hissed into the imp’s pointy ears. “If you interfere with one of my operations again, I’ll roll you up in a ball and toss you into the sun. Now take this miserable little creton down to hell and then find some stupid child to inhabit." Throwing Krolo against the brick wall of the bank, he flew away. Krolo bounced off and picked himself up. He touched his neck; his fingers came away red and sticky. Making sure Antoine was out of earshot, he cursed him.
Humiliated, Krolo jumped on Lamie's head and dug in his claws. A wave of fear and remorse smacked the inside of the ne’er do well’s head like a sledgehammer. "I killed Donny. I shot the banker," he wailed. He rolled his eyes to the shattered window. "I'm a murderer." Sirens wailed, approaching rapidly. They seemed to be all around him.
Krolo whispered in Lamie's ear, "They're going to throw you in jail. Every man in there is bigger than you. They'll beat you every day, worse than Donny ever did. The police won't care; they'll pound you for killing that man upstairs. Then they'll put you in the electric chair. You're gonna fry. You killed an important man. That man at the window was the president of the bank."
Lamie plunked down, sitting on his heels. Dropping his head in his hands, he moaned," I didn't mean to hurt nobody. I just wanted Donny to quit beatin' on me. What am I gonna do, what am I gonna do?" Big tears dropped onto the gun in his lap. "What am I gonna do?" He looked down at the pistol as if suddenly remembering it. "Remember what your mammy said about heaven?” Krolo murmured. “You could go there, and then they couldn't hurt you. Heaven is beautiful, with flowers, sunshine and lots of delicious food. Your mammy is there waiting for you. Just think, no one will ever beat you again. Everyone will love you. Just put the gun in your mouth, pull the trigger and it will all be over." From the time Krolo attached himself to Lamie as a small child, he had dreamed of this day.
Throughout the eons, Krolo had guided 76 souls to suicide. He fancied himself an expert in the field of human self-destruction. Over the centuries, he had lost only four souls to Christ. Now he had to hurry. The police were within a block of the bank. "They're coming. They're going to get you. Then they'll beat you and beat you. Do it now. Stick the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. You won't feel a thing, I promise. It won't hurt at all."
Krolo grinned. Lamie didn’t know the meaning of pain. He was about to suffer the most brutal, eternally unrelenting agony a human being could. Lamie turned his tear-stained face toward the street. The sound of screeching tires, slamming doors and running feet beat against his ears. A police officer stuck his gun around the back corner of the bank. On the other side of the alley behind the hardware store, Lamey saw a dark, helmeted figure crouching with a huge rifle. Shoving the barrel of the .38 into his mouth so hard he chipped a tooth, Lamie pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded through the roof of his mouth and tore off the top of his head.



Chapter 13

Having heard some popping sounds but seeing nothing to cause alarm, the bank employees and customers went about their business. The first hint that something was amiss was the sound of sirens. Police cruisers screeching to a halt in front of the bank caused panic inside. Women screamed and men dove for cover as the SWAT team crashed through the front doors, their weapons pointing to all corners of the lobby.
Not knowing if the trouble was in or outside the bank, the leader of the SWAT team ordered everyone down on the floor. In the meantime, the officers’ radios squealed the news of a murder and suicide in the alley behind the bank. Motioning some of his cops to follow, the captain raced to the back door. Finding no threat in the lobby, the others searched the rest of the building and discovered Bill's body lying face up behind his desk.
After locking down the bank, police questioned the customers and employees one by one. Within an hour, the investigation was complete and all were free to go. The bank closed for the rest of the day and possibly longer, depending on the board of directors’ determination.
Lamie woke to something sharp and jagged digging into his back. He twisted his head to see the source of the pain. He screamed in terror as a huge demon sneered down at him.
One of Krolo's perks for taking a person to hell was his much coveted, though short-lived, bodily transformation. Just for the duration of the trip, he gained a large muscular body, a rectangular head and claws that could decapitate a human.
"You can't have me. I'm goin' to heaven," Lamie cried, trying in vain to swat at his tormenter. "My mother told me all I had to do was to be good and I'd go to heaven."
"But you weren't good." Krolo leaned down into Lamie's face, his putrid breath making the poor wretch retch. "And besides, little man, your mammy lied to you."
"No, no. My momma said an angel told her all you gotta do is be good and you'll go to heaven."
"That was me, you idiot,” Krolo cackled, “and she believed me. "Man, you humans are really stupid."
"But I aint that bad," Lamie whined, his face deathly white, his entire body trembling.
"Oh no, you aint bad, you just murdered two people and committed suicide. You aint bad at all." Krolo roared with laughter.
"Donny was a bad man and I didn't mean to kill the banker. It was an accident."
Kolo snorted. "Remember that street preacher last month?"
"The old guy with the gray hair?" Lamie sniveled, squirming under Krolo's wrenching claws. He tried to roll over on his back to dislodge the demon’s grip. Krolo slammed his face onto the asphalt. "Owww, you're hurting me!" Lamie screamed, spitting out filth from the alley. "What about that old man? He was a just a nut spouting about the love of Jesus and all that garbage."
Krolo's grin widened, exposing his blackened fangs. He loved this part. "He was right. That old preacher was right. I can tell you that now ’cause YOU’RE DEAD." He shouted the words in the flinching man’s ear. "You didn't believe him. Remember how you and Donny made fun of him and called him a nutcase? Called him an idiot? Remember how you strutted around, mimicking that old man? You're going to hell, Lamie Wiggins. You're going to hell for eternity, and there's no way out."
With that, Krolo shot through the earth with Lamie's spirit clutched in his talons. Lamie screamed as much with despair as pain. As they entered the pit, screams of agony pounded against Lamie's ears. His head throbbed with the worst headache of his life. Burning chains suddenly snaked around him from head to foot. Krolo dropped him into a sea of lava. Lamie screamed in agony and desperateness. "Oh, God, give me another chance! I'll do what the preacher said. I will, I will! I'll ask you to save me. Please give me another chance."
Krolo bellowed, his laughter bouncing off the cavern.
"There ain't no second chance, fool. Oh, by the way, you will get out one day. You’ll stand at the Great White Throne of judgment, and then you'll be thrown into the lake of fire."
Lamie’s shrieks followed Krolo as he shot upward through the earth’s sweltering interior. A worm of thought pressed at the back of the demon’s mind: Unless Satan could win the final battle, one day soon he would join Lamie in the lake of fire. He shuddered.
Returning to earth, Krolo shriveled back to his impish form. At the junior high school in Waynesburg, he entered a ninth-grade boy named Oswald and chortled as the teenager immediately cursed his teacher and beat up a classmate. Krolo settled in for a long stay.
Brice Colburn's scanner squawked chatter from the state police and sheriff's departments. As a civilian, he listened more out of habit than necessity. After lunch, he decided to give the internet one more try. If he still came up empty, he would start the ball rolling with his cousin. One site led to another, then another.
Yesterday in the pastor's office, Brice had barely glanced at the certificates on the wall. However, one, namely Dallas Theological Seminary, caught his eye. He clicked on the school's website and searched the alumni lists for anyone named Chamberlain. Deeply involved in his quest to dig up something on Max, he was jolted to alertness by the radio dispatcher's voice. "Shots fired at the First Bank of Waynesburg. Possible injuries. Suspect armed."
Jumping to his feet, Brice grabbed his Glock and ran out the door. The bank was three blocks from his home. He raced at top speed through lawns and back alleys. It never crossed his mind that the police might see him as a suspect. Fortunately for Brice, the first officer on the scene was his cousin, Kyle, the state trooper.
Leaping from his cruiser and using the car door as a shield, Kyle trained his weapon on the bank. Without taking his eyes off the building, he shouted to the approaching Brice, "What are you doing in civilian clothes? That's a good way to get shot." Reaching into the patrol car, he threw Brice a black Kevlar vest with the word POLICE in big white letters on the back.
"Got fired, tell you about it later," Brice said, struggling into the vest. Further conversation was squelched by the arrival of more officers and the SWAT team.
Each police officer concentrated on the task at hand. The shot from the alley set everyone's nerves on edge. With their weapons held out in front of them, Brice and Kyle crouched and moved forward from one end of the alley while two more officers did the same from the other. All four advanced cautiously as a second shot rang out. Seeing no movement, they approached the two bodies. Having run both petty criminals in several times, Brice instantly recognized Lamie and Donny. "Well, that's two for the devil's mill," he said dismally.
As he was bending over Lamie, Kyle's radio crackled.
"Better send for CSI. We got a DB up in the bank president's office." Before anyone could stop him, Brice sprinted into the bank, through the lobby and up the stairs. He froze in his tracks at the sight of his friend's body. He turned away, gasping and raking his hands through his hair.
During two tours in Iraq, he had seen plenty of death, but he never got used to it. He arrived at the point of knowing death was inevitable for everyone. Bill Harris's death, however, tore a gaping hole in his heart. He wiped his tears with his sleeve, looked one last time at his friend and returned to the lobby to report to the captain.
After the scene was processed, Brice spoke to Kyle about his suspicions concerning Chamberlain. "I know how you feel Brice,” Kyle said. “Something doesn't seem right." "I'll look into it, but I don't think Lamie planned this at all."
"Yeah I know. Lamie and Donny were two sores that wouldn't heal. I’m not surprised they ended up like this and I doubt there’s any connection. But I'm sure Chamberlain persuaded Fred to fire me before I could run a background check on him. And Bill told me he objected to it. Wouldn’t vote with the rest of them."
"You know I'd run a background check on the President if you asked me to." Kyle hesitated. "Listen, I have to ask you. There’s a rumor going around that you're involved with Ginger Hostettler."
"Oh, please, that hussy? I gave her a few tickets for speeding. She flirted and who-knows-what-else her way out of every one of them."
"Cuzz, I told you a long time ago you need to quit fooling around with this two-bit town and come back to the state police."
"Yeah, well, this two-bit town needs somebody Fred can't push around."
"What if I could get you assigned to this district. Would you consider it then?"
"Sure, why not? It's not like I have a bunch of options. Yeah. Get me the paperwork."
"Great," Kyle said, slapping him on the back. "I'll drop it off at your place tonight."

From Max Furman's journal

It won't be long. Fred goes around all merry and acting the fool. He actually believes he’ll be the next governor. When I'm finished with him he won't have money to buy a hot dog, let alone a TV commercial.

Soon I will leave this two-bit burg. My instincts are telling me they’re getting close. Buzzy wants half a million for the job. I think I can get him down to three hundred. But I don't want to cheap out on him. This is too important. The next performance will be my last, then I’m gone for good.




Chapter 14

After working for his Uncle Lester for seven years, Jeff Inman bought the hardware from him. Now, 10 years later, he owned Inman's Hardware free and clear.
Jeff had fashioned the interior like an old time general store, complete with a gas heater resembling a Warm Morning coal stove in the center of the store. He built benches and placed them around it. He ran the store like the hardwares of yesteryear. If somebody needed just one or two screws, Jeff would go ahead and break open a package. His customers were his friends. Many times they came in just to talk. Jeff was a friend to everyone and everyone was his friend.
With the hardware being right next to the bank, Bill Harris would often stop in before or after work, and sometimes during lunch. With the exception of one part-time man, Jeff worked the store alone. Noon was usually the store’s slowest time. About twice a week Bill would pick up a carry-out order from the Red Skillet and he and Jeff would have lunch in the back room. Their conversation centered on family, church and current events. When they disagreed, it was good-naturedly. Bill joked with Jeff when he saw he had ordered a dozen hacksaws. "It's going to take more than a few saws to break into my vault," he teased.
"Well, if I had the money you bankers make I wouldn't have to break into the vault," Jeff countered.
When Jeff heard the sirens and the commotion at the bank, he locked the front door and pulled his colt .38 from its hiding place under the counter.
Five years before, the bank had been robbed. Waynesburg was sixth in a spate of bank holdups in Indiana. For his boldness, the media compared the bank robber to John Dillinger. That day when Jeff heard his back door open, he went to investigate. The man stepped from behind a display of garden rakes, shovels and hoes and shoved a gun in Jeff's face. The barrel looked to Jeff to be as big as a cannon. At that second, there was a knock on the back door. Stepping to the side, the man held a finger to his lips. The knock came again, more insistent this time. With a trembling hand, Jeff opened the door.
Brice Colburn's cousin, Kyle, stood in the alley, the rifle in his hands pointed toward the sky. "Hey, Jeff. We're looking for a guy who robbed the bank a few minutes ago. He's about five-nine, one-eighty and wearing a gray suit.”
"Nobody’s been in here for the last hour," Jeff said, holding his head immobile while turning his eyes toward the space beside the door.
Kyle caught the movement. "Okay. Well, keep your eyes peeled. He's around here somewhere," he said, turning away.
Pretending to be closing the door, Jeff jerked it open, slamming it into the robber. Knocked off balance, the man fell into the barrel of garden equipment. Before he could recover, Kyle and Jeff were on him. They pulled him out, wrestled the gun from his fist, flipped him on his belly and secured him in handcuffs. Now Jeff kept the unloaded .38 in a pigeon hole under the counter, so well hidden not even his part-timer had a clue it was there.
Hearing the gunshots from the alley, Jeff peeked out the back door. Seeing Lamie holding the pistol and Donny lying on the ground, he loaded the .38 and called 911. He didn’t notice the broken window in Bill's office. His first indication that tragedy had befallen someone other than the two miscreants was when the second coroner’s van arrived. Even then, he was unaware it was his friend. Brice broke the news to Jeff when he saw him standing on the sidewalk. Jeff shook his head in disbelief.
"Boy, I'm sure glad he was saved," he said with tears in his eyes. "I'm going to miss him. He was a good friend."
"One of the best men I knew," Brice said. "I should go tell Margaret before she hears it on the news."
“I'll go with you," Jeff said, dreading having to face Bill's family with the awful news. Later, he turned the sign on the hardware door to Closed, where it would remain for the next three days. Seeing his car turn into their driveway, Jeff's wife ran out to meet him. Her eyes red and swollen, she hugged him tightly and affirmed her love for him. Together they grieved for their friend and his family.
Growing up, Fred lacked proper food, clothing and love. His mother and father didn’t physically abuse him, they were just a couple of drunks, barely aware of his existence. Alcohol, not their child, was their passion. Fred basically dragged himself up, becoming a cold, calculating, conniving survivor in the process. Although he didn’t resort to bullying and misdeeds until later in life, the seed of ill-gotten gain took root early in his youth. Even then, money was his god.
When Fred was 16, a train killed his father. Norman Jorgensen just sat down on the railroad tracks and fell asleep. His mother died five years later of cirrhosis. Left penniless and on his own, Fred went to work at the farm store. When he had saved enough money, he bought a used tractor. Working nights, he rebuilt it, then sold it and bought two more and rebuilt them. At the age of 30, he opened Jorgensen's Farm Equipment. By 40, he was worth ten million and climbing. Now, at 52, his net worth was nearly double. His greediness was a standing joke at the dealership, where his tight-fistedness resulted in the continuous turnover of low-tier employees.
Rumor had it Fred was involved in some shady dealings with a group of unscrupulous businessmen from Chicago. No one dared call them the mafia. Five times the FBI had investigated him and his dealership. Though the feds couldn’t prove any wrongdoing, their investigation remained open.
Other than his own, Fred was callous to everyone's feelings, including his wife's. He treated people well only if it was to his benefit. His third and current wife was 20 years his junior. She looked good on his arm, she liked his money, they saw each other two or three times a week. Everybody was happy.
Callous as he was, when the assistant manager of the bank called to inform Fred of Bill’s death, it sent chills up his spine. To have someone he knew die suddenly made death seem closer. Fred had no interest in salvation. His heaven was on earth. The only thing that frightened him more than poverty was death. He understood that with all his wealth he could buy anything except one more minute of life.
Anytime Tom Colburn had spoken to him about his need for salvation, Fred tuned the pastor out. He did the same with anyone else who tried to speak to him about his eternal soul.
Calling Max into his office, Fred shut the door. Always ready to run, Max relaxed when he saw Fred's demeanor was one of sorrow. His sad face did nothing for Max other than elicit his contempt. Of all his marks, Fred was not only one of the wealthiest, but also one of the biggest crooks. He’d acquired his $20 million or so on the backs of others. No honor among thieves. Max had no compunction about making every last penny his own.
Sociopaths are incapable of experiencing genuine emotion. Max was no exception. However, with the aid of his acting classes, he learned how to be very convincing. When Fred informed him of the tragedy at the bank, he was actually able to squeeze out a few tears. Secretly he was celebrating. With Bill out of the way, his plan would be easier to implement. "Oh, his poor widow. I must visit the family and comfort them," Max said, thankful that Fred wouldn’t recognize compassion or lack thereof if he tripped over it.
"First I need you to go with me to the bank," Fred said. Taking Max by the arm, he steered him out the door. Max cringed; he loathed the touch of another human.
"Of course, Brother Fred," Max said with an empathic half smile. Inside he was steaming at the prospect of having to maintain the charade for the benefit of a bunch of cops and bank employees. It was exhausting. He calmed himself by planning the most painful way to make Fred die. Leaving his Mercedes in the employee parking lot, Max rode with Fred to the bank. On the way Fred, made two calls. The empty window frame and the floor in Bill's office were to be covered with plastic sheeting. Tomorrow morning workers would replace the glass and the carpet.
When they arrived, the police were just completing their investigation. Fred stared long and hard at Brice. Getting into a state police vehicle, Brice returned it, his expression stony and unwavering. Fred and Max waited outside while the coroner finished up. Dead bodies made Fred uncomfortable.
They didn’t bother Max. In fact he preferred them to the living. When they brought out Bill's corpse, Fred turned his back and kept it turned until he heard the door on the coroner's van slam.
He then met with the assistant manager, a mousy little man named Mort Clark. Mort agreed with everyone and no one. He seemed to have no opinions of his own. None of the employees liked or trusted him. Mort instantly recognized the warning signs emanating from Fred. If he wanted to keep his position, he would follow his instructions. "You will work under my direct supervision," Fred said, staring the little man in the eye. "No decisions will be made without my say-so. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you for the opportunity," Mort said, nervously twitching his fingers. "I won't let you down."
"You better not or you'll be out on your ear," Fred said. He turned away, signaling the matter was finished.
While Fred was busy bullying Mort, Max’s wheels were turning. On their way out, he said, "Look, Brother Fred, this is a terrible, horrifying tragedy." He paused. He had to go easy, he didn’t want to spook Fred. "However, from what you tell me, under Bill's management the bank wasn't operating at its full potential anyway."
"That's true. I wanted to expand it, open other branches. One along the interstate. Bill was always dragging his feet and arguing that the customer base wasn't solid enough." Fred’s mind began to reel with fresh possibilities. To him there was no such thing as having too much money, only too little.
"You know, there's a vacant commercial building just off the interstate at the Waynesburg exit," Max said. "I believe it’s the right size for a bank branch and I think I can get it for a song."
"Good. Look into it." Maybe some of the Bible was true, Fred thought. Bill was always going on about all things working together for good. With him out of the way, it would be easier for Fred to take over the bank.
Fred met with the board the next day. By the time he was through blustering and browbeating, Mort was the new president and the bank would expand its presence with area branches. Now that he had complete control of the bank, Fred would soon control Waynesburg.
Max was thrilled to have another funeral to officiate. His anger bubbled up when Bill’s family insisted Reverend Colburn perform the service. Antoine had fought to keep the preacher away from Waynesburg, fearing a disruption of his plans. While Waynesburg Baptist may not have been the Lord's largest work, it was as important as any other. The Spirit of God rested on Tom Colburn, and his presence would bring fear into the hearts of the demons.
When Margaret Harris called him, Tom readily agreed to officiate. After explaining the situation to his daughter and son-in-law, he packed a small suitcase and left early the following morning. Just north of Atlanta, the engine blew on Tom's Toyota. The tow truck took two hours to arrive, then the driver delivered the disabled vehicle to the wrong shop. Followed by a friend, his son-in-law brought his wife's car for Tom to use. Knowing God had a reason for everything that was happening in his life, Tom continued on to Waynesburg.
He came through Nashville during rush hour, something he would normally try to avoid. In northern Tennessee he stopped at a rest area to stretch his legs and use the restroom. Returning to the parking lot, he saw that someone had slashed his front tires. His heart sank. "Lord, what's going on? I know Satan is fighting me, but I also know you've overcome him." As he stood staring at the damage, a man in a white uniform approached. "Looks pretty bad,” he said in a honeyed southern drawl. “Some kids in an old clunker did it. Didn't get their plate number. Too far away." He held out his hand. "Name's Joe."
"Hello, Joe. I’m Tom Colburn. Looks like I won't be making it to Indiana tonight. Do you know of a motel close by?" Colburn asked, shaking Joe's hand while thinking of Bill’s family.
"Well now just hold on, Reverend. You’re looking at Joe of Joe's Tire Shop." Squatting down, Joe squinted at the brand name and size of the tire. "I got a set used of ones I just took off of a fella's car. Be right back." He was back in two minutes carrying a pair of tires. To Tom they looked brand new.
"Now you just go in there and have a cup of coffee, I'll have these on in a jiffy."
"You sure I can't help?" Tom asked, silently thanking God for His provision.
"No sir, I'm one of them guys works better on his own. You just rest up. You got a long way to go." Within 15 minutes, Joe had the damaged tires replaced with the used ones.
"Joe I can't thank you enough. How much do I owe you?"
"You don't owe me a thing. Just keep preaching the Word," Joe said, wiping his hands on a shop towel.
Tom’s eyes were moist. "Say, how did you know I was a minister?"
"You just got that look about you, Pastor," Joe said. He shook Tom's outstretched hand. His hands looked amazingly clean for someone who had just changed a couple of tires. "You keep your head up, preacher, the battle will be fierce. You just keep trusting The Lord and you'll win."
Turning, Joe walked swiftly around the building. Curious about the strange encounter, Tom hurried across the lawn. Turning the corner of the rest area building, he came upon a maintenance man working on a light. "Where did he go?"
"Huh?"
"The man in the white uniform. He came this way no more than a minute ago."
"Mister, you're the only one I saw come this way and I been working right here for the last fifteen minutes." The man gave Tom an odd look.
"Okay, thanks," Tom said simply. He looked up and down the parking lot but saw no trace of Joe or his truck. What was it the man said about the battle? Climbing back into his daughter's car, Tom said a prayer of thanks to the Lord. He left the rest area with his heart soaring.
In Nashville, a mid-level drug dealer named Sweet returned to his vintage Cadillac. His main man leaned against the front fender, waiting for him. Sweet stared at his beloved car. The front tires were gone, yet the wheels hung suspended several inches in the air.
"Yo, Sweet, how’d it go, my man? They do the deal?"
"Where you been? I told ya to watch my car."
"I been right here."
"Then you been asleep. Somebody done stole my tires."
"Say what?" Pushing himself off the fender, Main Man turned around. His mouth dropped. "I swear, Sweet, I ain't moved a muscle since you left."
Suddenly the front end of the Cadillac crashed to the ground. The custom-made bumper hit the curb, bending the metal. With his steel-toed boot, Sweet kicked Main Man in the seat of his pants.
On the roof of rest area building, Andrew watched Tom merge onto the interstate. Twenty angels surrounded the car. Sitting beside him, Antoine said, "He’ll make no difference. Waynesburg is ours."
"We will see," Andrew answered. "You will do him no harm the rest of his journey. The Lord has commanded it."
Antoine hissed at the decree, but made no move to hinder Tom's progress. Under the Lord's rebuke, he was powerless.
He flew off to join his contingent of demons, angry that he couldn’t thwart the man of God. They flew like a dark cloud, following, but never from less than a half mile.
Some of the smaller imps grumbled, wanting to attack. Antoine hated the little hellions. They talked big, yet when a battle started they disappeared. They hid behind rocks, trees, buildings or anything that would conceal their hideous little bodies. After the fight was over, they returned to brag about their exploits.
Antoine longed to rid his force of these fools. However, they were useful as irritants. They could cause depression, worry or anxiety in Christians and non-Christians alike. The little tricksters could keep the lost from receiving the Savior or a believer from fully trusting the Lord. Subjected to enough of their nattering deceptions, even the strongest Christian could become discouraged. Some even committed suicide.
As they followed Tom's car the wiser, more experienced demons kept their distance from the angels’ sharp swords. They were painfully aware of the battle they were predetermined to lose..
Antoine's captain of the host, Eragon, flew alongside at his commander. Eragon secretly harbored the same feeling as his general. his ambition was to replace Antoine. And like Antoine, he would never voice his plan. someday Antoine would mass up then he would step in to the roll of leadership..
In Waynesburg, Brice glanced at the clock and looked out the window for the umpteenth time. His father had called two hours ago from just outside Evansville.
Conducting his own investigation, Brice could find no connection between Fred and Lamie. Yet he was convinced Fred had something to do with Bill's death. He looked forward to snapping the handcuffs on Fred's wrists.
After a nasty confrontation with Fred at the funeral home. Brice confronted Fred accusing him of paying Ginger to lie. Fred became so enraged his face turned blood red. the funeral director intervened remained them where they were. turning Brice walked out and returned to his cottage to wait for his father. At seven, Kyle came by with the forms from the state police. The captain had assured Brice he would assign him to the district surrounding Waynesburg.
Brice was reluctant to tell his father about the offer from the state police. Tom had always hoped his son would follow him into the ministry. "I'll not push you son," Tom said, laying his hand on Brice's shoulder the night he told his father he had accepted the job as town marshal. "Only God can call you. Not me or any other person, only the Lord."
At 10:20, headlights shone on the living room wall as a car turned into the driveway. Brice opened the front door and watched his father exit the vehicle. Tom stretched, then quickly crossed the lawn. Brice rushed down the steps and the two men embraced. "I'm so glad to see you, Dad," Brice said with a lump in his throat.
"I'm glad to see you too, son. I just wish it was under better circumstances."
"Me too. Come on in, I've got coffee on. I want to talk to you about some things." The two men entered the small home.
As the door closed, a dark form darted across the lawn to the back of the house. Max pressed himself against the wall under the open kitchen window. He quieted his breathing to hear what they were saying. Having never known his own father, he envied their relationship.
"You know, Dad, I spoke to Kyle today. He's still checking, but so far hasn’t found anything on Chamberlain. He asked if I wanted him to check with the FBI. I told him I’d wait until I talked it over with you."
"Brice, do you think it’s wise to involve the police? I must admit I don't like the way I was dismissed, but from what you've told me, there's no evidence this man is doing anything illegal. Immoral, unscriptural, yes, and I believe you and I should confront him."
"Well, that may not be wise. I don’t want to tip our hand, until we have enough evidence against him.”
"I'll go by his office tomorrow and invite him for a cup of coffee. I'll see if I can find out something about his background," Tom said.
"Please be careful, Dad. Every one of my cop instincts tells me the man is dangerous."
Max sneaked away from the window. Keeping to the shadows, he crept through backyards, alleys and streets, making his way to the parsonage. Charging through the backdoor, he ran through the darkened house. In the bathroom, he flipped on the light and stripped off his clothes. He turned on the shower. When it was steaming, he stepped in.
With the scalding water burning his body, he clasped both hands over his mouth and screamed. After several seconds, he adjusted the temperature. The tears came, slowly at first, then flooding from his eyes in a torrent.
He saw his mother standing over him. Wrapped around her hand was the electrical cord she used as a whip. He twisted the knob, shutting off the hot water, and fell to his knees under the icy spray. Once again he was six, hiding behind the garage and crying in the cold rain. "Mommy, oh, Mommy," he blubbered, hating himself for his weakness. "Why don't you love me? No, no, no!" he screamed, driving his fist into the tile wall. "It's your fault. You made me like this. You miserable witch!" He exited the shower and ran nude through the house screeching like a mad man.
Before he disappeared, Max would find his mother and kill her. "I should have done it already!" he squalled. "You and Josh and Josh’s mommy. Every trace of my past life." He would go to his little island where the weather was warm and the children plentiful. There he would kill for the pure pleasure of taking a life.
He toweled off haphazardly and crawled into bed shivering and shaking. He loathed himself when he got like this. Why should he miss his mother's love when he never had it to begin with? His rage reached the boiling point; his right hand itched furiously. He must find a child. Not just any child, but one whose mother adored him. Only then would his rage be satisfied. Throwing off the sheet, he jumped out of bed and threw a few items of clothing in an overnight bag. He scrawled a hasty note on a sheet of typing paper.

Dear friends,

Please pray for me. The hospital called. My mother was in a tragic accident. She is at the point of death. I must go to her immediately. I will return as soon as possible.

Your loving pastor.
Joshua Chamberlain

Taping the note to the front door, Max jumped in his car and sped out of Waynesburg. Once on the interstate, he called Fred. The conversation was not a happy one, but Fred finally relented and agreed that the pastor should go. However, he was to return the moment his mother was out of danger. Secretly, Fred hoped she would just die, thus relieving the pastor of any family responsibilities. If Fred could control the pastor, he could control the people and the town.



Chapter 15

In her office in Washington, D.C., Lydia McFarland studied the report again. Nothing new. Not a hair, fiber or print. If they kept pressing he would eventually slip up. But how many more young lives would he end before he did?
Kevin leaned into her open office door. “Boss wants to see us.”
“Kevin what are we gonna do? This unsub moves in and out at will, leaving no trace. We set up roadblocks and he slips right though. He murders that old man, then masquerades as him.”
Kevin stepped in front of her desk. “Don’t feel too bad. He was face to face with that deputy and fooled him. And Boxman was right under that roof with the bodies.”
“Right, and if he had discovered them, we would have four dead bodies” Lydia said. “No doubt he would have killed Boxman, changed into his uniform and gotten away in the sheriff’s car.”
“Afraid you’re right.”
“Let’s go see what Macklin wants,” Lydia sighed, closing out the file on her computer.
John Macklin was the quintessential FBI Investigative Specialists He stood 6’2” and weighed 225, all muscle. He was an immaculate, stylish dresser. The consummate professional, he rose quickly through the agency’s ranks. His prowess as an investigator along with his efficiency as an administrator earned him the trust of his superiors. His thoughtfulness and fair treatment of his agents were rewarded with their loyalty and respect.
Macklin stood behind his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. As Lydia and Kevin entered, he motioned them to sit. “Yes sir, thank you. We’ll do our best.”
He sighed and sat down. “That was the director. We’re getting pressure from above. The President called him wanting to know what we are doing about the one the news media has labeled The Ghost.” Lydia started to speak. Macklin held up his hand. “I know, I know you guys inherited this case just six months ago and with the budget cuts and heightened terror alerts the agency is running on fumes.”
“John, from all indications this guy has been operating for years. Each time he hits, he does it in a different state. If the locals had connected the dots we would have been called in a long time ago,” Kevin said.
“A serial killer who targets boys between the ages of three and seven is unprecedented,” Lydia added. “He doesn’t molest them, just smothers them with their own clothing.” “Never girls, only boys, and none older than eight.”
Macklin handed them copies of a report from the Behavioral Analyses Unit:
UNSUB is a white male, 30 to 40 years of age. Highly organized. Unable to sustain a relationship with a female, therefore no girlfriend or wife. Capable of changing his appearance quickly. Possibly studied acting. Finances his child-killing endeavors with proceeds from other crimes, possibly running scam operations. Has been operating for several years. Receives pleasure from abducting a child within sight of its mother. Prefers boys between the ages of 4 and 8. Does not sexually molest the child. Asphyxiates the child with a piece of the victim’s clothing
“We could have written this,” Lydia said. Kevin nodded.
“Okay, here’s what we know,” Macklin said. “Serial killers are generally apprehended because they leave the bodies where they can easily be found. Or they bury the victim in a shallow grave. This one just started displaying them in the past year and a half. Why?”
“He wants us to know this is his work,” Kevin surmised.
“Why are there more victims in the last few months than in the last year?”
“He’s escalating, coming to a head,” Lydia said. “If we don’t catch him soon, he’ll disappear.”
“There may be more victims we don’t know about. This one is very good at making the kids disappear without a trace,” Kevin said. “Remember that farmer in Ohio who buried his wife and her car in the cornfield just before it was planted?”
“Yeah, he said he borrowed the backhoe from his neighbor to work on his drainage ditch,” Lydia said. “Said water was backing up.”
“We never would have caught him if you hadn’t checked the meteorological records and found it hadn’t rained there in a month,” Kevin said, smiling. “Poor guy had a heart attack and died when we dug up the car with her in the trunk.”
“Thought he was going to inherit a three-thousand acre farm, but all he ended up with was a cemetery plot,” Lydia said.
“Saved the state a lot of money, anyway,” Kevin said. “Killers always leave evidence, but this one really is a ghost.”
“You’re right, but he does have a problem,” Lydia said, leaning forward. “First he left two victims alive. Two, he almost got shot in a cornfield.”
“Yeah, if that trooper had been a better shot we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Kevin said.
Macklin piped up. “Got a call from the Morgantown sheriff this morning. He wants to pull his deputies off the Moore protection detail. County council’s telling him they’re needed elsewhere. He doesn’t believe the unsub is coming back. What do you think?
“He’s not going to leave loose ends,” Kevin said, looking at Lydia for affirmation.
“I agree. He made a mistake and he’s going to correct it,” she said.
“I can pull a few strings. Get them protection for another few weeks,” Macklin said.
“What about witness protection?” Kevin asked.
“They won’t go. Too many family ties,” John said, shaking his head. “They say God will take care of them.” He picked up a flier from his desk. “The last victim was Senator Maymare’s niece’s son.” He handed copies to Kevin and Lydia and waited as they scanned them. “Maymare has had these posted all over the southern states.”
Lydia tossed the flier on the desk. “John, this is just going to make our job harder. Everyone with a beef against somebody else is already calling. Now he’s offering a reward of a half a million?” She shook her head.
“It gets worse,” Macklin said. “That’s the old poster. Here’s the latest one.” He handed them each another sheet. “Seems the senator has a lot of friends. The reward now is one million.”
“Wonderful, now we’ll have the greedies and crazies jamming up the tip line,” Kevin said.
“This is why I called you in here. I’m assigning 50 more agents to the task force by direct order of the President. Let’s get this guy.” Lydia and Kevin left Macklin’s office determined to do just that.
Max traveled through the night, crossing Indiana and Ohio. By morning, he was in eastern Pennsylvania. He pulled into a rest area just outside of Lancaster to sleep. He parked behind a large bush at the far end of a parking lot to obscure the car. After visiting the restroom, he settled down in the backseat. Visions of his mother berating him crowded his mind every time he closed his eyes.
“You’re no good, Max. You’ll never amount to anything. I should have given you away when you were a baby. Now you’re too old. Nobody will ever want you.” That much was true.
He searched his memory for something good. All he could find was the shock of being a six-year-old forced to stand defenselessly under his mother’s stinging barrage. He felt the pain of her words and her whip. He saw himself running into the pouring rain, falling to his knees and sobbing behind the garage. He felt his soul collapse under the weight of knowing that no one loved him or cared whether he lived or died.
He was back at school with the children making fun of his ragged clothes. Then at home, his mother hitting and cursing him. Lying in his bed, terrified he might wet it. Back behind the garage, exhausted and overcome with fear and loneliness. Falling asleep in the pouring rain only to awake alone and shivering in the dark. The world discarded him like a piece of garbage. He longed to run away, but where he could he go?
So he deadened his heart. No one would ever hurt him again. Four years later Katie was born. At 14 he murdered her, stealing the love his mother showered on her precious baby.
He awoke at noon, stretched, got a cup of coffee from a vending machine and used the bathroom. The coffee was as thick and gritty as mud, but at least it was hot. Back in the car, he suited up as an elderly Amish man, complete with the wide-brimmed, black felt hat he purchased from the rest area’s souvenir shop. Then he drove into town.
He hid the car in a parking garage and walked several blocks until he came upon a nursing home. He searched for a nondescript vehicle. Using his IPhone, he hacked into an older BMV that most likely belonged to a resident. From its layer of dust, he judged it hadn’t been driven for some time. With any luck, he would return it before anyone noticed it gone. Ninety seconds later, he pulled out of the lot, unaware of the elderly woman watching him through the crack between her curtains.
Max drove west into Amish country. He liked the Amish. They were so gentle, so trusting, so naive. He had taken an Amish child years ago. The kid was eight, older than what he liked. However, the opportunity presented itself and he couldn’t pass it up.
It took longer to break the boy than it did the younger ones. He was more confident of his mother’s love for him than any child Max had killed before. Finally, after 36 hours of continuous harassment, the boy broke. He cried, screamed, prayed and kindly forgave his murderer before he died. Max buried the boy in his grandfather’s grave. According to the news the old man had died of a heart attack the day before. There was a lot of work digging six feet down in the fresh dirt, but he allowed plenty of time for the task. When the lid of the casket finally appeared, he laid the boy on top of it and started shoveling.
He finished two hours before dawn. In a stolen pickup, he sped the 30 miles back to the city. The truck was the second vehicle he had stolen in two days. He dropped it off at the bar from which he had taken it the night before.
Back in his motel room, he watched the local news as they looped footage of the search. Because the grandfather had died of natural causes and there was no reason to ascribe any connection between the two incidents, Max was certain the child’s body would never be discovered. So far, he was right.
Now he was back in Amish country. This would be the first time he revisited an area for the purpose of taking a child. What did it matter? Six weeks from now he would be lying on his own private beach while Fred’s and the church’s money were safely hidden away in his off-shore account. With his cushy nest egg, he would live in luxury for the rest of his life.
Maybe he would sit this child against the old man’s headstone with his finger pointing down. That way they would attribute two more deaths to The Ghost. An intriguing thought crossed his mind: Once he was safe, he’d send a letter addressed to the FBI in a separate envelope to Buzzy and have him mail it. In it, he would identify the locations of all of his gravesites. They would scour the city on the postmark, but they would never find The Ghost. He would go down in history as the greatest serial killer of all time. He liked the new name the news media had given him. He always thought The Fox was too common.
In the third floor conference room at Quantico, Kevin and Lydia leaned over the table studying pictures of every child abducted in the Midwest, mid-Atlantic and southern states over the past 10 years. Kevin separated out the ones over the age of nine. Lydia separated out the ones found dead. She placed the girls in one stack and the boys in another. “Not one molested,” she said, her brow furrowed. “He’s only intent on taking their lives.”
“I think the profile’s right. He’s stealing their love,” Kevin said. “At those ages, they feel their parents’ affection more intensely.”
Lydia’s mouth dropped. In every successful investigation there’s an “ah ha” moment, a time when everything falls into place. She stared at her partner. “That’s it. We need to go back and check juvenile records. The profile says this man is in his mid thirties. We need to check on murders from twenty years ago.”
“Why so far back?”
“You were both right and wrong. He’s stealing love. But not the children’s. He’s stealing the mothers’ love. The guy is jealous of the affection these mothers have for their sons.”
“Meaning his mother made him feel unwanted, or maybe he grew up in an orphanage,” Kevin ventured.
“Twenty years ago he would have been in his early to mid-teens. Kevin, we need to go back and check for murders in the Midwest committed by boys in their teens twenty to twenty-five years ago.”
Logging into the agency’s database, Kevin began searching for the monster who was waging war on children.
Max had once seen a National Geographic documentary showing how lions stalk their prey. Waiting patiently, moving silently, they struck with such fury the animal being pulled down barely knew what hit it. Max saw himself as the lion─ waiting, watching, selecting his prey, moving quickly, silently, capturing his kill.
He watched for the lamb to become separated from the flock. The Amish were so trusting, letting their children play out of their sight in the fields, woods or by the streams. It made them easy prey for the beast. He was that beast, that monster they never dreamed was stalking.
The Amish teach their children to obey their elders, all elders. Max spent the rest of the day driving the back roads around Lancaster. At 3:20 PM, he saw the child playing on the front porch of a modest home. He passed the farm three times, altering his disguise each time. He dared not go back again. That night, dressed as a woman, he checked into a motel 30 miles from Lancaster.
The next day, disguised as the elderly Amish man, he snatched a five-year-old from a buggy tethered outside a grocery store. Pretending to come from the store’s entrance, he ran up to the buggy. The child was sitting on the seat playing with a wooden toy. “Come with me, son. Your momma’s been hurt. She needs you,” Max said, his voice soft but urgent.
With big tears forming in his eyes, the little boy cried, “What happen to her?” His crying would attract attention. Max had to get him out of sight immediately. Grasping the child under the arms, Max picked him up and set him on the ground.
“She fell down. I think she broke her leg. Hurry, boy.”
Max jogged around the side of the store. He glanced behind him. The boy was close on his heels. Suddenly, the boy stopped. “I saw her go inside. What is she doing back─”
In one motion, Max turned, grabbed the boy around the waist and shoved a cloth into his face, covering his nose and mouth. The kid struggled a little but went limp within seconds. Walking fast, Max carried him to the stolen car idling in the alley behind the store. Yanking open the back door, he threw the child onto the seat in a crumpled heap. The boy rolled off onto the floor. Jumping into the driver’s seat, Max put the key in the ignition with one hand as he ripped off the black hat, eyebrows and fake beard with the other.
Exiting the store, the mother saw her son was gone. She looked all around, calling his name. He was an obedient child; she couldn’t fathom his absence. She was running up and down the sidewalk screaming for him when Max drove past.
Lydia and Kevin were alerted to the kidnapping at 5:15. By 5:30, they were aloft in a chopper headed for Lancaster.
With the Lord’s permission, Andrew intercepted the demons on Route 340 just outside of Smoketown. Silent and invisible, the heavenly host streaked through the sky with Andrew at the apex of their V formation. Riding shotgun in Max’s stolen car, Antoine saw them coming from 30 miles away. The sheen of the angels’ robes glinting in the late afternoon sun hurt his eyes. Within seconds, the angels converged on the demon and his minions. At the head of the host, Andrew dove straight at Antoine. Coming in low, he pointed his sword at the fallen angel’s heart. Antoine burst through the car door and tried in vain to assemble his force to fight.
Oblivious to the conflict raging above him, Max suddenly felt haunted. Fear gripped his heart. If they found him, they would kill him. No trial, no years on death row, no fight for a pardon. Any cop who spotted him would shoot him on sight like a mad dog. Exiting the highway, he weaved through the countryside, becoming more and more desperate. He must find a place.
Finally, he saw an abandoned farmhouse, its yard covered with weeds and brush. He parked the car behind it. Carrying the sleeping child, he kicked open the back door and entered the kitchen. Apparently, teenagers were using the place as a hang-out. Old Playboy magazines and empty beer cans littered the floor. Clearing a space with his foot, Max lay the boy on the floor.
Antoine was furious. At the sight of the angels, half his force had fled. The few left were rapidly losing the battle. Engaging with Andrew, Antoine had already suffered two wounds that would take weeks to heal. As the angel scored another hit, Antoine screamed in pain and rage. He knew he could not win. The Lord God had declared the victory before Andrew and his force attacked. Leaving the others to fend for themselves, Antoine retreated to a safe distance. Andrew watched until the demon was a tiny speck in the sky. With the loss of their leader, the other demons quickly lost heart. One by one, they followed him.
With the battle won, the angels formed a circle around the sleeping child, their swords pointed outward. Approaching the little boy, Max ran into the point of Andrew’s sword. Although there was no physical wound, he panicked as a terrible dread washed over him. He reached out to touch the child and felt a searing pain in his wrist. He cried out in agony, swearing his hand was being severed. Holding his throbbing arm as he tried again, he felt a stab in his abdomen. He clutched at it and looked down, expecting to see blood pouring from a wound. There was nothing. Each time he reached for the boy, debilitating pain pierced some part of his body. Time was running out. The window of opportunity was closing. If he stayed here much longer, they would catch him. “Later little man,” he said bitterly.
Checking for any movement, he ran from the house. Jumping into the car, he sped away, all desire to kill the child gone. Despair hung over him like a storm cloud. Each child he killed was loved by their mother. Like an addict, he needed to take that mother’s love from the child for sustenance.
As a boy, he had stood in the shadows watching mothers dote on their sons. Later, he researched and kidnapped the children who were an only child. That way he was sure they received all their mothers’ love. When he took their lives, he felt that love flowing from them. He stole it, the mother’s love he never experienced.
Now, whenever he hid in the shadows watching, he relived his childhood─the horror of the beatings, being burned by her cigarettes, the ridicule he experienced at her hands.
In his adolescent years, he roamed the neighborhood every night watching, always watching. Staying in the shadows, he looked in windows and watched mothers feeding, caressing, hugging, kissing, loving their children. Night after night, his absence unnoticed, he pressed his ear to the side of a house and listened to a mother read bedtime stories to her son. He pretended she was his mother. He longed for his own mother to treat him with love and tenderness, knowing she never would. The hungry-eyed child watched and listened from the shadows. If anyone approached, he ran.
As he grew, his heart hardened. His desire to be loved was replaced by bitter hatred, first for his mother, then for the children basking in the love he so desperately craved. At a young age, his mother had instilled in him the belief that he was worthless, a throw-away. Time after time, she told him how she should have smothered him as a baby. His life was a living hell of cursing, beatings, and neglect. Every day and night he existed in a dark world where no one loved or cared for him. For years he cried himself to sleep. Then the crying stopped. He vowed that if he could not be loved, he would be feared and despised. Now he was dreaded, hated and hunted. Over all the earth, no one cared if he lived. However, they all wanted him dead.
Under cover of darkness, he returned the car to the nursing home. Easing it into the back lot, he shoved the ignition wires out of sight under the steering column and locked the doors. Hopefully they wouldn’t discover the damage for months. By then, he would be lazing on his Caribbean island.
After reclaiming his car from the Lancaster General Hospital garage, he left the city. Things were getting too hot. He could almost feel the FBI breathing down his neck.
Leaving the rest of the force to guard the sleeping child, Andrew searched for a police officer. The chance of attack was small. Antoine and the rest of the demons were miles away, licking their wounds.
Pennsylvania State Trooper Sam Severs was patrolling on 283. Just outside Landisville, he felt an urge to turn south. He could never explain the hunch that made him check the old farmhouse. Seeing fresh tire tracks at the edge of the property, he pulled into the weed-infested yard to investigate. Entering the house with his gun drawn, he was stunned to find the missing child sleeping peacefully on the littered floor. Bundling him up, he carried the boy to his cruiser.
With the child safely returned to his mother, Andrew turned his attention to other matters. His force was growing, with new angels being added daily. The battle for Waynesburg was about to take place. At the same time, Antoine was amassing demons by the hundreds.
With all the sense of a rabid animal, Max tried to abduct two more children, with the same failed result. Finally, he gave up and headed west. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. His nerves were shot. He left Pennsylvania cursing the state and everyone in it and vowing never to return. He crossed Ohio, stopping only for gas.
He entered Indiana at 2:45 Sunday morning and arrived at the parsonage at five. He thought of feigning sickness and begging out of delivering the morning sermon. His ache to leave Waynesburg had increased 100-fold in the last 24 hours. He wanted to be free of this hick town, its tiresome people and their stupid church. Most of all, his time was running out. The FBI was closing in. He had stayed too long in one place. His predator instinct was screaming GET OUT! After every other hunt he had felt safe returning to his hideout. Not this time.
Over the years he moved from place to place, never staying too long. He would land someplace and hole up, taking some time to savor his last abduction and the murder. He’d pass the time mentally reliving the child’s agony as he taunted him and broke his spirit, convincing him his mother no longer loved him. When the kill thrill wore off, he would freshen it with a new one, then be on his way.
Opening his laptop to look for some Christian pablum he could fudge into a sermon, he decided instead to watch one of his videos. A young boy named Roth woke to the terror of being alone with the monster. Max taunted the child, telling him his mother sold him because she didn’t love him anymore. A voyeur to Max’s depravity, the IPhone camera recorded the whimpering boy curling into a fetal position of utter hopelessness and despair. When it came time to murder him, the child appeared almost grateful. He watched with tear-filled eyes as Max folded his coat in half and brought it down over his nose and mouth. Deprived of oxygen, the boy fought as they all did. Max avoided the flailing small fists and feet. The last thing he needed was to flaunt his performance with a cluster of telltale bruises. The little boy finally quieted down, stopped fighting and died. Max leaned over and touched his mouth to the child’s lips, breathing in his mother’s love.
He sat Roth’s small body on a bench in the park across the street from his parents’ house. The first thing his mother saw the next morning was her dead son sitting there staring at her.
Each time Max killed, the itch in his right hand would disappear. It would sometimes stay away for months. The frustration of this latest, thwarted, hunt seemed to make it worse. He rummaged for his itch cream and slathered on half the jar.
In the kitchen, he made coffee. While it perked, he checked his offshore account. Just over three million. He could leave today. Just disappear. No. If he stuck around one more week he could close Fred’s and the church’s accounts next Saturday. That would triple his take, bringing his stash to twelve million. Then he could live in the Caribbean like a king. He began surfing for mansions. He found the perfect one on a private Caribbean island and sent the realtor an offer.
He immediately sent an email withdrawing the offer on the first one.



Chapter 16

There was rejoicing in the FBI’s command center in Lancaster. Except for a headache, the Amish child checked out fine. His description of his abductor, though detailed considering his age, fit that of most elderly men in the area. Local cops pulled a dozen men off the streets and brought them in for questioning. Lydia and Kevin were sure none of them was the kidnapper. Nevertheless, they spent two hours on background checks and interrogations and came up empty. The car was another story. Contacted by the nursing home, they drove over to check it out.
“He didn’t leave any fingerprints?” Lydia said, rubbing her forehead. “All I see is smudges.”
“Looks like he wore gloves,” Kevin said. “But CSI just told me they found blood traces on the steering wheel.”
“Somebody has a very nasty temper. Tell them to put a rush on the DNA.” Lydia rubbed her eyes. The kid wasn’t the only one with a headache. “Let’s get back to the house. I think we’re missing something.”
Fred was not happy. If any other employee disappeared for days on end, the next stop would be the unemployment line. At 8 AM, he drove by the parsonage and saw Max’s car in the driveway. Striding purposefully across the lawn, Fred rapped on the front door. Receiving no answer, he hammered, shaking the frame. When Max finally opened it, Fred almost felt sorry for him. Sorry, that is, if Fred could have feelings for anyone other than himself.
Max’s freshly shaved face was gray and haggard, his eyes bloodshot. Abrasions covered his right hand from fingers to wrist. “Brother Fred, come in. I was just putting the final touches on my sermon.” Max said, turning back to the room’s interior.
He wanted to kill Fred now, not when he left, not when he had drained all his assets. Now. He restrained himself. In a week, every last dime of Fred’s money would be his. Months from now, he might just sneak back into the country and kill him. Just for the fun of watching Fred die.
Walking into the cluttered living room, Fred wrinkled his nose. The house smelled awful. Newspapers covered the coffee table and overflowed onto the floor. Clothes were scattered on the couch, chair and floor. An laundry basket sat on the couch with rumpled items of clothing hanging out of it. The carpet looked as if it hadn’t been vacuumed in weeks. Dirty dishes, glasses and silverware cluttered both end tables.
Backing out of the door, Fred stood on the steps breathing in clean air. “Please excuse the mess,” Max said, feigning a sheepish look. “I lack the feminine touch. Perhaps I should hire a maid.”
“Boy, you don’t need a maid, you need a cleaning crew,” Fred said, wrinkling his nose. “What is that putrid smell?”
Max’s face flamed; a vein pulsed in his neck. This man would pay for his demeaning remarks. For the moment, however, he smiled. The movement hurt his face. His eyes betrayed his true feelings.
“It’s such a pleasant day,” Max told his visitor. “Let’s sit on the bench under the trees in the back. I’ll bring out some coffee.” Sitting in the shade across from his mark, Max used every weapon in his con man arsenal to finesse him. Within minutes, Fred had forgotten all about his pastor’s unauthorized absence and piggish housekeeping. He sat sipping his coffee, enraptured with Chamberlain’s on-the-fly strategy to launch his gubernatorial campaign. It wasn’t what you said, it was how you said it.
“I predict that within two years, Brother Fred, you will be the one of the richest and most powerful men in the State of Indiana,” Max said, smiling. “If not the entire Midwest.”
Fred’s chest swelled. His foolish grin gave him the appearance of satiated hyena. “That’s what I want to hear, my boy, that’s what I want to hear.” He slapped Max on the back. Inwardly, Max cringed, but held steady thinking of his payoff.
Any motivational speaker would have been proud of Max’s sermon that morning. Yet his brash appeal for money would have shamed every preacher. Sitting in the third pew, Tom Colburn winced. Seated next to him, Brice gave his father a knowing glance. Tom raised his eyebrows, opened his Bible and read a few passages. Max droned on about the magnificent church he planned to build outside of Waynesburg.
On her way out of the church, Hattie gave her usual caveat. “They’s evil a-comin’.”
That’s right, granny. And you have no idea how terrible that evil’s going to be, was Max’s silent reply. “Thank you for your advice, Miss Hattie. Have a blessed day.” He didn’t bother to smile. Why waste the effort?
Henry and Hazel left with no comment except to assure Max of their prayers. He smiled and thanked the elderly couple. Inwardly, he growled.
Fred wanted Max to lunch with him and continue their discussion about his campaign. Max begged off, saying he planned to spend the afternoon in prayer for the church, his mother and Fred’s journey to the Governor’s Mansion. Fred couldn’t understand why anyone would waste time praying. After all, he built his fortune by his own ingenuity. God had nothing to do with it.
Tom Colburn tried to make contact with Max, but he brushed him off. “Yes, yes, Reverend Colburn, I would love to meet with you sometime and learn more about the people from someone as knowledgeable as yourself.”
“Then, perhaps we could meet for lunch tomorrow?” Tom said, smiling. “The Red Skillet Diner makes a mean meatloaf.” His gentle voice and eyes pierced the murderer to his heart. Hovering beside Max, Antoine cringed.
Max felt trapped. “I’ll check my schedule and have my people call your people,” he said with a dismissive chuckle. “Thanks for attending the service.” He laughed and turned away from the Colburns.
Henry and Hazel were delighted to see their old pastor. They asked Brice, Tom, and Hattie to join them for lunch. Tom always made it his practice to never criticize another pastor. However, today he found that impossible.
“His sermon was all about money,” Tom said, shaking his head as they gathered around the Pennells’ table. “Not one scripture or mention of salvation or the spiritual walk of the believer.”
“It’s true,” Hattie said. “It’s like he got nothin’ ta say less’n he talkin’ bout money.”
“Best sermon he preached was the first one and that was a knock-off of D.L. Moody’s. And a bad one,” Henry added.
“He said Moody is one of his favorite preachers,” Hazel said.
“He could stand to learn something from Mr. Moody or any other pastor. Real pastor,” Tom said.
“There’s something here that’s not right and I plan to get to the bottom of it as quick as I can,” Brice said.
“You be careful, son,” Tom said. “I believe you were right in saying this man could be dangerous.”
Hattie, Henry, and Hazel nodded their heads. “He worse than dangerous,” Hattie piped up. “He downright evil.”
In spite of the trouble at church, the old friends enjoyed the meal and the fellowship. After dessert, they gathered for prayer in the living room. Henry opened, each took their turn, and Tom closed.
Hearing the prayers of God’s saints and knowing they would be answered, Andrew, Deion and the other guardians felt increased strength flowing through them. They formed a circle around the house and kept the demons at bay.



Chapter 17

Having overheard the Pennells’ lunch invitations to the others, Max felt slighted again, just as in grade school. Not that he wanted to spend time with those bumpkins, but it was the principle. He had never, not once, been invited to a birthday party, picnic or any other activity. At recess he was always the last one picked for games, if he was picked at all. Even the teachers acted uncomfortable around the strange little boy. By the time he entered junior high, he had ceased to care. Trusting no one, suspicious of everyone, he preferred being alone.
For over an hour Max paced the parsonage, his anger building. Of course they wouldn’t include him. They hated him, just like the brats in school, just like the teachers, just like his mother. They despised him. They were conspiring against him.
Watching Max steam, Antoine engaged in his favorite sport, mocking him. The demon sidled alongside and whispered in his ear, "Everyone hates you. You are the most despicable, miserable human being alive."
"Yeah," the imp at Antoine's elbow squeaked. "Nobody wants you around. Why don’t you kill yourself?"
Antoine backhanded the little demon, knocking him into the wall. He slid down in a whining heap. "Shut up you idiot, this man is a killing machine. You think I want to lose him? It's taken me years to get him to this point."
"Sorry," the imp sniffled, although he wasn’t. He skulked out of the room to nurse his bruised ego.
"They’re conspiring against you, Max. They know who you are. You must kill them all before you disappear."
Max started muttering. "I've got to take care of them before I leave. No witnesses. First the Moores. Then my mother." Max gritted his teeth and cursed. "Take my time with her. Yeah, take a long time. Show her the videos. Show her it’s her fault. Break her down. Tell her how much I enjoyed killing Katie. Make her look at the pictures." He snorted out a raspy guffaw. He must finish his business quickly. After his tirade, he slept for three hours and awoke refreshed.
Few attended the service that night. Those who showed up only did so out of oblation to the Lord, not the church. Afterward, Tom waited at the front to speak to Max, only to learn he had slipped out the back. Max was losing all perspective. All he could think about was killing a child, any child.
That night Max did something he swore he never would. He tried to snatch a kid from the area where he was hiding. To his credit, he didn’t use his own car or any vehicle. As always, he wore a disguise. The boy was the one Max had seen in the schoolyard his first night in Waynesburg. He was alone in his back yard trying to squeeze in a few more minutes of playtime before sunset. Masquerading as a hobo in ragged clothes, filthy cap and scraggly beard, Max hid behind the shrubs at the edge of the lawn.
Unseen by Max or the child, Andrew and Antoine fought, their swords ringing. "You moron!" Antoine screamed at the man, taking his eyes off the angel for a second. Andrew scored a hit.
Max was coming apart and there was nothing Antoine could do to stop it. He had groomed Max from childhood, entering him when he was only eight. He worked with Max for years, preparing him for his first kill. After murdering his sister and the toddler in the alley, killing came easy to the demon’s prodigy. Now Antoine could only watch as Max crashed and burned.
Over the centuries, Antoine had developed many murderers, including gunfighters. He could always tell when they were nearing their end. They became careless and lost their edge. Reacting a split second too slowly, they ended up laid out at the undertaker’s and Antoine was looking for a new host.
Before Max could get close enough to grab him, the child started to scream. Six more feet and he would have had him. In the child's eyes, Max was a bear. He scampered for the house, his terrified shrieks piercing the air like a siren. Max drew back into the deepening gloom. He fell backward as a shotgun blast roared over his head. Tearing through the shadows, Max made it back to the parsonage in record time.
Antoine left the fight and fled with Max. The cut to his ribs from Andrew's sword stung. He touched his fingers to it. They came away covered in blood. Andrew had received cuts to his forearm and calf. The wounds instantly began healing and disappeared within seconds, leaving no trace.
Waynesburg was in an uproar. Within minutes, word of the attempted abduction spread. Calls from townsfolk and the local media poured into the sheriff's office. Most were deflected to a spokesman who would only say that the sheriff was looking into it. Sheriff Mobley answered calls from other law enforcement agencies.
Was this the one they called The Ghost? The sheriff couldn’t be sure; his department was checking all leads. A perimeter sprang up. Within an hour, roadblocks were in place. They would remain so throughout the night. Only residents were allowed in or out; IDs were checked and rechecked. Swearing them to secrecy, Sheriff Mobley confided to his deputies that this could very well have been The Ghost. The MO matched. He notified the FBI.
Max paced the darkened parsonage with the curtains and blinds drawn and all the lights off. He dared not show the slightest activity. Dumb, dumb, dumb. He screamed silently. What was I thinking? He should get rid of all evidence. Yet the hold was too strong, going back to the scarf he wrapped around Katie’s neck, the trophies taken from each child, the zip drives, newspaper clippings, disguises. He must hide his souvenirs. But where? Yes. The belfry of the church. There was a small door, so well hidden few knew it was there. Gathering everything into a small trash bag, he cautiously opened the back door.
He could hear them three doors down. The police were searching every home. They were combing Waynesburg inch-by-inch. The FBI would be there shortly. Don't panic, Maxxy. You've been in tight spots before. Breathing hard, he crouched and ran next door to the church. Hurrying through the dimly lit sanctuary, he scrambled up the ladder to the bell tower. Removing the small panel, he placed the bag inside. He heard them banging on the parsonage door. He fairly slid down the ladder and stepped quickly to the front of the sanctuary. After lighting several candles on the communion table, he knelt at the altar.
Wearing a state police uniform, Brice Colburn entered the church. The odor of sulfur matches assailed his nose. unfamiliar with Protestant churches he had set an array of candles on the communion table. Panic surged through Max. He forced himself to remain calm. Rising from his knees, he turned to face the officer. "Mr. Colburn, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it against the law for a private individual to wear a police officer's uniform?" Max said, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"It would be if I was a civilian."
"Reverend, meet our newest recruit, Trooper Brice Colburn," Kyle said as he stepped through the open door. "We're searching for a suspect."
"Seen anyone suspicious, Reverend?" Brice Colburn asked, smiling. "Besides yourself, that is?" The two men stared at each other.
"No, Officer, I have not," Max said, biting off each word.
Two more troopers entered. "Top to bottom," Kyle told them. Flipping the switches, Brice flooded the church with light.
"Please be respectful, gentlemen. This is a house of God," Max said as he blew out the candles.
Having grown up in this church, Brice thought he knew every nook and cranny. However, he had long since forgotten about the hidden panel in the belfry. They were heading to their cars when he remembered it. Telling Kyle he’d be right back, he hurried around the outside of the church. The building was dark when he entered through the back door.
Hearing a noise, Brice switched on his Meg light and swept the beam over the fellowship hall. Nothing. Stepping into the sanctuary, he heard the door to the lower level softly close. Hurrying to the door to the basement, he opened it. A shaft of moonlight stabbed across the floor below. Shutting off the flashlight, he ran down the stairs. Stepping quickly to the side door, he caught a glimpse of Max entering the parsonage through the back door. Silently, Brice crept to the house, keeping to the shadows. He almost ran into Max carrying out a trash bag.
"Oh, Officer Colburn,” Max said, placing his hand on his chest as if he was startled, “I thought this block was cleared."
"You thought wrong, preacher. Whatcha got in the bag?"
"Well, you caught me. I confess, we men of God generate garbage. Would you care to search my table scraps?” Yanking the bag from Max's outstretched hand, Brice opened it. The smell of rotting food assailed his nose. "All right, Chamberlain, maybe you dodged a bullet this time. But there will be another day," he said, shoving the bag into Max’s chest.
"My, I trust that wasn’t a threat,” Max said with a cocky grin. “Officer, you need psychological counseling. I will be happy to schedule some sessions for this week if you’d like. As you will learn, I'm very well schooled in the travails of the human psyche." Brice sneered at him and turned to walk away. "I'll pray for you," Max called after him. “Right before I kill you,” he muttered under his breath.
Colburn spun around. "What was that?"
"Nothing, Officer. Have a pleasant night." Colburn's glare bored into Max.
Back in the church, Brice clambered up the ladder to the bell tower. His flashlight revealed minuscule scratches in the paint; the screws in the panel appeared to have been recently dislodged. Using his pocketknife, Brice removed them. They turned easily. He shined the light into the opening. Nothing seemed out of place. Yet his instinct told him something had been put there a short time ago. Replacing the board, he started down the ladder.
Opening the side door a crack, Max trained the Glock on the bottom of the ladder. The pistol was fitted with a silencer.
As Brice's descending feet came into view, Max silently coaxed him down. Come on copper, let Maxxy help you get to heaven. He jumped. A voice from the back of the church called out, “You here, Brice? I turned around and you were gone." Hearing Brice’s affirmative answer, he continued up the center aisle.
Closing the door quietly, Max melted into the shadows.



Chapter 18

At three AM, the sheriff suspended the search until daybreak. The roadblocks stayed put. While listening to the chatter on his police band radio, Max dug through the garbage and pulled out the sealed parcel In the kitchen, he up-ended the trash bay. Leaving the garbage strewn on the floor,. He would clean it up later . Laying the sealed package on the table and wiped the outside carefully with a damp cloth.
"No way they’ll catch me," he murmured. "I'm too smart for them. I'm The Ghost. I appear and vanish at will." His words of affirmation weren’t comforting. Time was running out. He needed to finish his business here and be gone.
In Brice’s home three blocks away, Kyle couldn’t sleep. Brice had told him why he went up to the belfry. Kyle remembered the secret place. The two of them had discovered it when they were children. Although they incurred Brice's mother’s wrath for climbing the ladder, they weren’t deterred. The tower was the perfect fort. From its vantage point, they could surveil the entire town and protect it from all enemies. They stuck their broomstick machine guns out the windows and pretended they were surrounded.
When Mrs. Colburn saw them from her kitchen window, she didn’t cry out. Instead, she came to the bottom of the ladder and calmly ordered them down. Reluctantly, they left the belfry to receive her lecture about dangerous places for little boys. Shortly after that episode, Pastor Colburn closed off the belfry.
Just before dawn, Kyle decided to check it out for himself. He thought about waking Brice, but his cousin’s quiet snore made him decide against it.
The streets were quiet. Everyone was exhausted from the late-night search. Kyle relished the coolness of the air before the sun would rise to its scorching zenith. He spotted someone digging through the trash at the back of the parsonage. Instinct told him to be still. As the figure straightened, he recognized the reverend. Max carried the black bag into the kitchen. Sneaking up to the slightly open window, Kyle watched as he dumped its contents on the floor. Sorting through the mess, the preacher pulled out a small black container. He laid it on the table, grabbed a rag and wiped off the coffee grounds and greasy residue. The kitchen window was raised two inches. Hearing the preacher’s voice, Kyle put his ear to the window. His heart pounded as the muttering wafted through the opening. "I'm too smart for them. I'm The Ghost. I appear and vanish at will."
Max exited the kitchen, taking the container with him. Kyle reached for his radio and remembered he left it at Brice's. Staying in the shadows, he moved from window to window and peeked in. Max had disappeared. Kyle crept behind a blue spruce to watch the house. What should he do? If he went for help, Chamberlain might get away. Three times he almost left. Finally, he settled down to wait.
Five minutes later, the back door opened. Through the branches, Kyle saw the preacher stick out his head and look around the back yard. Then, with the container tucked under his arm, Max hurried to the side door of the church. As soon as he vanished into the building, Kyle raced to the back door. As he opened it, the hinges gave a slight squeak. He stopped and stood still, his hand poised on the knob. Hearing nothing, he slipped into the fellowship hall and eased it closed.
From a dark corner of the room, Max watched the state police sergeant tiptoe down the hall. A shiver of fear mixed with elation went up Max’s spine. Taking a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, he slipped them on.
The cat thought he was chasing a mouse. The cat didn’t understand the mouse was a beast. Not bothering to be quiet, Max moved toward the bell tower. Halfway up the ladder, he looked down into the half-light of dawn creeping across the sanctuary. Beside him, Antoine felt a thrill. Yes, Max was coming apart. Soon he would either fade away or be killed. But right now he was about to take another life. Antoine lived for Max’s kills.
Unlike most bell towers, this one was large enough for two adult men to stand up in and move around. Kneeling at the side of the platform Max pretended to remove the panel. He coiled himself like a rattlesnake and waited to spring.
He heard Kyle climbing the ladder. He waited until Kyle was two feet behind him. Stupid cop, Max said to himself. Hovering over the church, Antoine sneered, mirroring Max's expression.
Tears moistened Andrew's eyes; he was under orders to stand down. There was nothing he could do. The course of events would play out as God intended.
"Hold it right there, preacher," Kyle shouted as he burst through the opening. Max twisted his head around and stared at the trooper. The evil grin on his face made Kyle's pulse quicken. His heart felt like it would burst out of his chest. "You... you st... hold it, right there." He struggled to control himself. After all, he was a veteran Indiana state trooper, not some rookie fresh out of the academy. He looked into Max's eyes; they were like hard bits of granite. They took on a yellow tint while his grin widened and seemed to envelop his entire face. Kyle's heart beat faster. A sharp pain began in his left forearm and traveled up to his chest.
"What can I do for you, Officer?" Max said, straightening from his crouch. He opened his mouth in a crazed yaw. Kyle was sure he was looking into the face of a demon. The nose was razor sharp, the face gray and mealy like burnt charcoal. The teeth looked like lion’s fangs.
Kyle reached for his Glock. It dropped from his trembling fingers, clattering to the floor of the bell tower. Max came at him like a freight train, stopping within an inch of his face. Standing nose to nose, Max exhaled the stench of death into the trooper's face. Kyle stumbled backward and felt the edge of the window sill in the small of his back. Suddenly, the glass burst, exploding into a million pieces. Kyle was falling into darkness.



Chapter 19

Antoine pulled back and broke into his victory dance. He loved superimposing his face over Max's. Hearts of unsaved humans, those not imbued with the Holy Spirit, quaked at the sight of him. The big bad cop had folded like a cheap suit. Antoine's chortling echoed through the countryside, but was heard only by the angels and demons surrounding the church. Andrew gripped his sword. Soon the battle would begin. He would make the demon pay for his cruelty.
Max watched the cop fall out the window, but had to forgo the pleasure of seeing him crash to the ground. If Kyle lived through it, his cries could wake the neighbors. Max fairly flew down the ladder. Ripping off the gloves, he stuffed them into his pocket. Racing through the church, he charged out the side door and sprinted to the parsonage.
In the bedroom, he flipped on the light. Watching through a slit in the blinds, he waited. A cop ran up to the crumpled figure sprawled face up on the church steps. Running to the front of the house, Max flung open the door.
Brice was the first one to reach his cousin. Feeling for a pulse, he shouted to the others. "He's alive!" He yelled into his radio, "Dispatch, this is Colburn. I need an ambulance at Waynesburg Baptist Church stat!"
Buttoning his shirt as he strode across the lawn, his hair sticking out in all directions, Max stifled and yawn and asked, "What's going on? Is someone hurt?"
Jumping up, Brice grabbed him by the front of the shirt and fairly spat into his face, "You did this, Chamberlain!"
"Did what?" Max asked, trying to pull away from the cop's iron grip. "What are you speaking of? As you can see, I was sleeping. I wasn't aware of any activity outside my door until I heard a cry."
At that moment, an ambulance roared to a stop in front of the church. Two paramedics jumped out, grabbed their bags and hurried to the fallen trooper. After assessing his vitals, they hooked him up to the defibrillator. "Clear!" one of them shouted as he held the paddles two inches above Kyle's chest. His partner sat back on his heels. The paramedic lowered the electrodes. Kyle's body jerked. Nothing. The medic tried again. "He's coming back!" he yelled.
"You better pray he lives, Chamberlain," Brice growled, still gripping the twisted front of Max’s shirt. "If he dies you’ll have me to deal with."
Max smiled inside and thought, try it and you'll end deader than him. "I assure you, Officer Colburn, I had nothing to do with his injuries."
"Let him go, Brice," the captain ordered. "Right now, we have to get Kyle to a hospital. There will be plenty of time for an investigation." Brice shoved Max backward. Max stumbled, caught himself and turned away to hide his grin. Knowing better than to stand around antagonizing Brice, he retreated to the parsonage. Turning off the bedroom light, he peeked through the blinds to watch the activity outside. His luck was running out. He must make his exit soon.
Brice spent the next few hours at Mercy General, first in the emergency waiting room, then surgery's. At 9:50, the doctor entered. Brice jumped up. "How is he?"
"He had a severe heart attack."
"Is he gonna be okay?"
"He's holding on by a thread. We lost him twice on the table but were able to bring him back. It's a miracle he made it this far. His heart is very weak."
Brice ran his hand through his hair. "What caused it, do you know?"
"Could have been any number of things. I believe he suffered some sort of shock that made his heart race uncontrollably. It’s possible something terrified him."
Brice looked at the doctor quizzically. "So you think he’ll make it?"
"The next thirty-six to forty-eight hours are critical. He's in a coma and the longer he remains so, the worse his chances for a full recovery, or any recovery."
For his part, Kyle watched the proceedings from above, not quite awake, not quite asleep. A dark figure came rushing at him, morphing into an enormous demon as it drew near. It was the demon from the bell tower. Its claws stretched out to grab him. He screamed but made no sound. He tried to run; his legs felt like iron. The second before its talons closed around his neck, Kyle saw a flash of brilliant light. The light grew until it was a radiant glow. Forms began taking shape, becoming shining beings as they surrounded Kyle. Their garments glowed and their faces radiated with light that seemed to come from within. In their right hands were golden swords with handles encrusted with diamonds, emeralds and rubies. Beside him, Andrew whispered, "Peace be unto you Kyle. The Lord God has given you another chance."
Finding his voice, Kyle said. "Another chance? At life?"
"At salvation and life," Andrew said, keeping his eyes on Antoine.
Below them, the paramedic prepared to use the paddles. Antoine rushed the angels and was rewarded with a nasty cut on his arm. He screamed, baring his sharp, jagged teeth. "Back off, demon,” Andrew commanded, pointing his sword at Antoine. “The Lord has claimed this one as his own." A surge of hope coursed through Kyle's heart. At the same time, he felt a tremendous shock jolt his body. The world turned into blackness. The angels and demons faded away.
An hour after Kyle was brought to the hospital, Lydia and Kevin arrived in Waynesburg. They went directly to the sheriff’s office.State Police Captain Weber and Sheriff Mobley briefed them on the attempted abduction and subsequent search. "I understand one of your troopers believes the minister is an imposter?" Lydia queried.
Weber was a diplomat, but too much a good cop to lie. In addition, his Christian beliefs mandated that he be truthful.
"Brice Colburn. His cousin's the trooper who was injured in the fall this morning and Brice's father was the former pastor of the Baptist church before he was forced out."
"You don't think it could be sour grapes? Revenge? New pastor taking over, then his cousin being injured?" Lydia looked questioningly at the two policemen.
"Or maybe he just doesn't like the guy?" Kevin said as he settled back into the comfortable overstuffed recliner. If he was ever home more than a few days he would buy one of these. Easing into a matching recliner, Lydia thought the county's budget must be better than the feds’. She fought to stay awake. She never could sleep on the plane. Her runaway thoughts about where and to what she was going wouldn’t let her.
"No!" Weber exclaimed, his anger rising at the implication. "Brice is one of my best men. He quit the force to take the job as town marshal because he believed Waynesburg needed him. Took a big cut in pay. Got fired for rubbing the town bully the wrong way. Then came back on the force. No, if Brice Colburn tells me there's something there, I'm going to take a look."
"Okay, okay,” Lydia said. “What do we know about this minister? Where’d he come from, what's his background?"
"Fred Jorgensen hired him,” Weber began. “Fred’s kind of an anomaly in Waynesburg, and like I said, the town bully. Owns the biggest farm equipment dealership in this part of the state. Appointed himself as head deacon of the church. He's the one Brice butted heads with."
"Big fish in a small pond," Lydia mused.
Weber nodded. "Exactly."
"Why did the congregation put up with him taking over?" Kevin asked.
"Didn't have a choice. Jorgensen owns most of the town, including the church," Weber said with a dour expression. "Both the building and the property."



Chapter 20

"So what do you think?" Lydia asked as she and Kevin strolled hand-in-hand down Main Street. They had worked undercover together before, but never posing as husband and wife.
"Typical small town. Unsophisticated. The kind The Ghost would like. But if it is him and he followed his usual pattern, he's long gone. Probably two states away by now."
"Mmm, maybe not. What if he's right here under our noses? He likes to play games, flaunt himself in front of the cops," Lydia said. "Let’s give it a few days, check out this minister. Could be a dead end. But if he's not The Ghost maybe we'll nab us a con man."
"So we'll be UC for the next few days. I always thought you’d make a nice wife," Kevin said, squeezing Lydia's hand.
"Don't get carried away. Holding hands is okay, but don’t give any thought to kissing," Lydia said, grinning.
"Ah, come on. Just a little peck on the cheek?" Kevin said, laughing.
"All right, a kiss on the cheek, but keep in mind we’re having marriage problems,” Lydia said quietly. Then louder, "If you hadn't cheated on me, our marriage wouldn't be in trouble."
"But she was so pretty. She came on to me. You did say you forgave me," Kevin replied, looking hurt.
"Not yet I haven't. Maybe once we’ve had some counseling sessions with the reverend."
As they approached the Red Skillet, their expressions turned sour. As Kevin opened the door for her, they started arguing. "I don't know why you have to bring that up again," he groused. "I thought we agreed what’s past is past and we were starting out fresh."
"Is it past? I saw the way you looked at that woman," Lydia sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "You used to look at me like that. Not anymore."
Kevin rolled his eyes as they walked to a booth facing Main Street. "I can't talk to you," he said, sliding into the seat. Lydia plunked down across from him.
Roxanne Gibbons stepped from behind the counter. A plump, jovial woman, Roxanne, or Roxy as she was known to her friends, was an observer of the human race. She could always peg a couple having marital problems. She’d let them get their bellies full, then speak to them about where to find help. "Mornin, folks. What'll it be?"
"Coffee, couple eggs over easy, bacon," Kevin said, gazing at the placard on the table.
"Same" Lydia said, not lifting her eyes.
"Sure. Be right back with your coffee." Roxy turned away. She recognized the signs of a couple in conflict. But for now she’d keep still.
Fifteen years ago, Roxy and her late husband, Roy, had been on the brink of divorce. A friend suggested they meet with Pastor Colburn. Reluctantly, they agreed. Without pushing, he gently guided them into salvation with the Lord and a solid relationship with each other. Five years ago, Roy suffered a massive heart arrack. One minute the couple was laughing over the cat’s antics, the next he was gone. Tears moistened Roxy's eyes as she poured the coffee. She still missed him.
After giving the cook the order, Roxy returned to the table with the steaming coffee. "You folks must be new in town. Haven't seen you around before. Name’s Roxy," she said with a warm smile as she set down the two mugs.
"Yes, we got in yesterday," Lydia said. Why did she feel uncomfortable lying to this stranger? Her cheeks burned. She hoped it didn't show.
"Hi, Roxy. I'm Jed Fields. This is my wife, Sally. Like the actress," Kevin returned her smile as he and Lydia offered their hands.
"Well you couldn't find a better place to settle down than Waynesburg," Roxy said. "Friendly people, good school, best food in Indiana. Right here at the Red Skillet, that is." She giggled.
"I heard you’re looking for a waitress. I worked at a restaurant in Seattle," Lydia said, looking up at the older woman. That much was true; she was working undercover. "They had a hundred tables, but I kept up."
Roxy’s smile broadened. "Wow. Well, honey, this ain't Seattle, so I think you'll do just fine. When can you start?"
"As soon as we find a place to live," Lydia said.
"Do you mind living in an apartment?"
"Not at all, right hon?” Kevin said, glancing at Lydia. “We'd be grateful for just about any place. We’re tired of motels.”
"Jeff Inman rents a small apartment over his hardware just down the street. The couple lived there moved out last week. I could give him a call. See if it's still available," Roxy offered. "He rents it for a reduced rate if the tenants don’t mind keeping an eye on the store."
"Sounds great," Kevin said.
"Yes, thanks," Lydia agreed.
A few minutes later Roxy was back with their order. "Jeff says to come over soon as you're through eating. He's got it all cleaned and he’s happy to show it to you. He says if you're lookin' for work he's got a part time opening, too."
"Oh, wow,” Kevin said with a big smile. “Thank you, Roxy, we really appreciate it." Lydia smiled at the waitress.
"You're welcome, glad I could help. By the way, breakfast is on the house. A ‘Welcome to Waynesburg’ kind of thing."
"Small town USA," Kevin said as she walked away. "I’ll tell you, when I retire I'm moving to a place like this."
"It would be a great place to raise a family," Lydia agreed.



Chapter 21

Max entered the Case dealership with a sense of dread. The trap was closing. He must escape before they discovered he was The Ghost. Fred rushed into Max's office as soon as he saw his car in the parking lot. "There's a corporate farm based in Fort Wayne taking bids for seven combines, ten tractors, and four chisel plows. I want you to work up a proposal that's ten percent below their lowest bid," he gushed as he handed Max a file.
"I'm sorry, how do I know what’s their lowest bid?" Max asked with an irritated frown.
Fred chuckled and held out a piece of paper. "By calling this number. I've got a guy on the inside. He's being paid good money to give me information about the bids."
Max’s frown turned upside down as he glanced through the folder. The cost of the equipment was in the millions. He looked at the bottom line on the last sheet. His breath caught in his throat. A thrill shot through his heart. This was it. His ticket to paradise. He raised his eyebrows and gulped.
Fred nodded, a smile of self-satisfaction spreading across his face. "That's right, it’s the biggest deal I've ever done. If we handle this right, there will be more contracts to follow. Not bad for a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, huh?"
"You certainly are a shrewd business man, Brother Fred," Max said with a greedy grin. Fred started to turn away.
Thinking fast, Max stopped him. "Brother Fred." This was his ticket out of Dodge until the cops completed their search and went home. "This is too important to trust to the internet or snail mail. If I were to hand-carry our bid to the company headquarters and meet with their purchasing agent face to face, I know I could convince them of the financial soundness and integrity of your dealership."
Fred studied him for a few seconds. He slammed his fist down on the desk. "You're right! Why didn't I think of that?" He pulled some bills from his pocket. "You're gonna need money for expenses."
Max forced a chuckle out through his steaming gut. "Oh, no, Brother Fred, not necessary. I have a friend who owns a motel chain." Cheapskate, making millions on this deal and too much of a skinflint to spring any more than a hundred bucks for gas and a motel room.
"Okay, then. How soon can you leave?"
"I'll type up our bid, stop by the house and throw a change of clothes in an overnight bag and be on my way."
Fred fairly skipped out the door. Such a wealthy man, and his only his desire was to be richer. Instinct told Max he was playing too close to the edge. He should cut and run. Forget about this deal. But the payday was too great to pass up.
At AGCO headquarters, he would present himself as Fred Jorgensen. The man who gave Fred the information was too far down the food chain to be aware of the deception.
As he approached the parsonage, Max saw a few cops around the church mopping up the operation. When he returned from his trip, they’d be gone. Things would be back to normal in Waynesburg. This was June 20th. He’d have until the end of the month to conclude the con.
He chuckled thinking of Fred's reaction when he found out he was broke. His mansion, dealership, church and all his holdings were a hair’s breath away from being liquidated. A few more key strokes and he’d would be as poor as the proverbial church mouse. He wouldn’t have the wherewithal to run for dog catcher, let alone governor.
Getting out of town was a breeze. The roadblocks had been dismantled .The way was clear. North of Waynesburg he made a few calls to check on accounts he’d set up under bogus names. Soon he would close them out and be gone.
"We couldn't have asked for a better set-up," Kevin said as he looked out of the apartment’s front window.
"Yeah, it’s a good view of the church, all right. Wish we had a clear shot of the parsonage, though." Lydia said. Her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket. “Hello?"
"Agent McFarland, this is Captain Weber. I was just informed that Reverend Chamberlain has left Waynesburg to go on a business trip."
"Any idea how long he’ll be gone?"
"’Til at least tomorrow. We have a trooper trailing him," Weber said. "You know, this is all speculation. We have no real evidence that Chamberlain is The Ghost."
"I realize that, Captain. However, it’s the best lead we've had."
"Right. I'll keep you informed."
Lydia pressed the end button. "The reverend’s out of town. May be back tomorrow, maybe not."
"Wish we could bug his house," Kevin said.
"Me too. But if he is our unsub we have to play it by the book. No missteps on this one."
"Something's going on with this guy. He has no trail. Nothing. How does anyone live almost thirty five years in this country today and stay not just under the radar but off it?” Kevin wondered.
An hour later, the captain called again. The trooper had been in an accident. He was all right, but his radio was disabled in the crash. He lost track of his quarry. Max was gone.
To buy time, Antoine had distracted the driver of a minivan, causing it to drift sideways into the passing police cruiser. Though there were no injuries, the impact was severe enough to disable the radio.
Lydia and Kevin tossed the idea of questioning Fred back and forth and finally discarded it. If Chamberlain was The Ghost, they didn’t want to spook him. Not yet.
Kyle's condition remained unchanged. Brice paced the waiting area in the hospital lobby until his cousin was moved to a room. Shortly after her husband arrived by ambulance, one of the troopers brought Kyle's wife, Amy, to the hospital. With puffy, red-rimmed eyes, she told Brice, “Every time he went on duty I prayed for his safety. I had nightmares about him being shot or run over by a drunk driver. I couldn't believe it when they told me he had a heart attack and fell through a window."
"I know, I know," Brice said, enfolding her in his arms. He held her until her tears stopped. "Thank you," she murmured, slightly embarrassed. Together they waited.
Tom came in a short while later. "We've got the prayer chain going. Any change?" he asked. Brice shook his head.
At 10:35, the doctor, a man of Indian descent, came in. He spoke perfect English. "Officer Colburn has a severe head injury, causing bruising of the brain tissue and bleeding from several small lacerations in the brain. His heart seems to have stabilized."
"Is he going to be all right?" Amy asked, clutching a handful of tear-soaked tissues.
"He will recover. However, we are unsure of the extent of the damage to his brain. The next twenty-four hours will be critical."
"We'll be praying," Tom said.
"As will I," the doctor said.
Guarded by Andrew, Antoine's captain, Wogon, stood in the doorway of the waiting room. An old warrior, Wogon carried almost as many battle scars as Antoine.
Max's meeting with AGCO went well. None of the company’s principals had met Jorgensen, so he had no problem passing himself as Fred. Anyone who knew Fred would have laughed at Max’s get-up, though. Max was too tall and his toupee kept slipping. The tinted contacts irritated his eyes and kept making them tear up. He almost removed them. But if he did his eyes would be the wrong color.
"Mr. Jorgensen, your dealership, financial status and business practices all appear to be in fine shape," Steve Nelal said, extending his hand to Max. "I believe we will enjoy a long and lasting partnership."
"Thank you, Mr. Nelal, that means a lot to us. I personally guarantee we will treat you right and make every delivery on time."
"Here's the deposit for our first order with the balance payable upon delivery," Nelal said, handing Max a check for one million. Fred had insisted on a check; the rest was to be deposited via wire transfer. "If you don't mind my saying so, you look so much better in person. The photo on your website makes you look older and heavier."
You imbecile, Max said to himself. Maybe you should get contacts. "Thank you. I told that photographer the lighting was bad. Got a good picture of the combine behind me, though." Max chuckled as he gripped Nelal’s outstretched hand.
"I look forward to doing business with you in the future," Nelal said.
"Thank you again," Max said. “The pleasure’s all mine.” He hastily exited the purchasing agent's office and hurried past the secretary as the toupee slid down over his eyes.
Settling behind the wheel of his rented Cadillac, Max fingered the check. "Tour de force, you old fox. Only the best actors are paid a million dollars for a single performance. And there's more to come."



Chapter 22

Andrew placed Horne, his second in command, in charge of guarding Kyle. The two angels had fought side-by-side in many battles against Satan's forces. Horne was capable of stepping in if Andrew became incapacitated.
Andrew returned to Waynesburg. His host now numbered in the hundreds, enough to safeguard the saints in the small town. The angel marshaled his forces into a hedge around the countryside. Small imps, useless in battle, could only spy on the angels’ maneuvers.
At 10 AM, Hattie called a prayer meeting at her home. When he answered his cell phone, Tom had to smile. Hattie seemed to be more in touch with the Lord than many a sighted person he had known. "Pastor, you be sure and tell Mrs. Amy we alls gonna be prayin' for her and Kyle. He gonna be all right," Hattie said. Tom could hear the strength in her voice. "The Lord's gonna use this to bring His salvation to this young man."
"Thank you, Hattie," Tom said. "When you pray, God always answers."
"But sometime He say wait awhile and that's d’hardest part."
"For me as well, Hattie. Thank you." Flipping closed the phone, Tom conveyed the essence of his conversation with the elderly saint to Amy and Brice. For the first time since the ordeal began, peace flooded Amy's heart.
Kyle saw a bright, flickering light. It seemed to be everywhere. He shielded his eyes and moved toward it. His feet seemed to glide. Suddenly the light took shape and a beautiful angel stood before him. The angel grasped Kyle’s hand tightly. "Come with me." As they moved closer to the light, the peripheral area darkened, becoming almost black.
To his horror, Kyle saw a crater opening before him. Black smoke churned up, choking him. The acrid smell hurt his nose and burned his eyes. The angel’s face changed. Its features became dark, its nose and chin sharp, its black eyes glinting like anthracite. The beautiful form disappeared and was replaced by a charcoal body with ragged wings. The hands changed into talons that dug into Kyle's hand, tearing his flesh. Blood dripped from his fingers.
Kyle opened his mouth to scream. No sound came out. The demon dragged him closer to the opening. He resisted, hammering with his free hand on the dark, boxy body. The demon laughed. "You are destined for the fires of hell," it said, its face inches from Kyle's. Its breath stank of rotting flesh. "There you will join your friends."
Finding his voice, Kyle cried, "No, no, please! I'm a good person."
The fiend sneered. “Come now, Kyle. Remember how you joked with Brice? You were going to have a party with all your friends. ‘Oh, sorry, the party’s not in heaven so you're not invited,’ you told him.” They were at the edge of the chasm. The heat from the fire seared Kyle's face. The smoke choked off his breath. Picking Kyle up, the demon hurled him into the darkness. Screaming in horror, he hurtled into the roaring flames.
Sitting on the edge his bed, Amy bathed Kyle's face with a cloth dipped in ice water. "You’re burning up," she murmured, pressing the cloth to his forehead. Her fingers ached from the ice water; still she immersed the cloth again and again, wringing it out and applying it to her husband’s face. Kyle moaned. Sweat poured from his body, soaking the sheets. As Amy gently dabbed Kyle’s forehead and cheeks, she whispered repeatedly, "I love you. You're my hero."
On the road, Max was hunting again. He hid the Cadillac in an abandoned shed and stole a Ford Escort from a repair shop. It was a nondescript brown car, not unlike a million on the road. Wearing a faded tye-dyed t-shirt, ripped jeans, scruffy long-haired wig and beard, he looked like a Haight-Ashbury throw-back.
Antoine flew above the car while his small contingent of demons surrounded it. It was strangely quiet. The demons kept looking nervously over their shoulders, expecting to be attacked at any time from any direction. Any point of light sent a shiver of fear through their deformed bodies.
At County Road 22, Max veered off Interstate 65. The itching in his right hand was driving him wild. Antoine had tried to dissuade Max from this course of action. He had seen this 100, no, 1,000 times. The predator was coming off the rails, getting sloppy, and there was no way Satan's general could stop it. All he and his horde could do was try to keep him alive and hunting as long as possible.
Max told himself if he could just see a child that would help. He would just look and not touch the kid. He could resist the temptation to kill. He’d just take a photo of the child with his cell phone. That would be enough to satisfy him. Antoine knew it was a lie.
In Upland, Max drove down Second Street past Eastbrook Elementary School. The playground was deserted. He drove around the block. Nothing. All the children were locked away as safely as if they were the President's. On his second pass, a police officer stood on the sidewalk in front of the school. Max dared not go past again and risk drawing attention to the stolen car. He counseled himself: You can look Max, but don't touch. Not today. Remember, Fred knows where you are. He found some comfort knowing he would kill Fred before he left. But not yet. It was still too soon.
Max’s head ached. His frustration grew. Beside him, Antoine cursed this mortal, the God who made him and His saints. His great plans for this child killer to operate for many more years was in shambles. Max was going down in flames. If Antoine wasn't careful he would take him with him and his next assignment would be enticing some kindergarten kid to steal from a cookie jar.
Then Max saw him, a tiny little guy trudging down the street. The boy pulled his cowboy hat down lower over his eyes. Adjusting his twin six-shooters, he turned into the alley. This was Dodge City and he was Marshal Dillon. The guys in black hats were robbing the bank and he was going to stop them.
His mommy had yelled at him for tracking in mud on her freshly mopped kitchen floor. She even swatted his butt. The only thing it hurt was his feelings. Nobody paddled Marshal Dillon. He'd show her. As soon as he took care of the bad guys, he was running away. His stomach rumbled. Maybe tomorrow.
Max slowed down, watching him. He judged the child to be about four or five. The urge was too great. He pulled to the curb. His eyes searched the street. It looked deserted. “Perfect, just perfect,” he murmured.
"Careful," Antoine whispered in his ear. "You don't want this one. Let him go. Wait a week and we’ll hunt somewhere safe." Max wasn't listening. "No! No! No!" Antoine screamed, his mouth an inch from Max's ear. "You stupid human. Stop! Leave right now before someone sees you."
Pulling a blanket from the back seat, Max quietly opened the door. On high alert, he approached the child from the back.
Antoine cursed and turned away in frustration. Max was on his own. Confused, the demons milled around aimlessly. What was Antoine doing? They always assisted Max with his kills. They fed on the children’s terror.
Cody Sheldon dragged his feet. He didn’t really want to run away, but he ought to anyway. He didn’t like Mommy for scolding and spanking him. She’d be sorry when she looked in the back yard and saw he was gone. Maybe he’d hide out in the back of Daddy’s hardware store, just to scare them. There were lots of places he could hide and no one would find him. Nobody but Daddy. Cody smiled. When he found him, Daddy would tickle him and call him his little munchkin.
Just last week while Daddy was waiting on Mrs. Elburn, Cody sneaked away. Mrs. Elburn took a long time looking at garden hoses. Just when Daddy thought she had chosen one, she went back to the one she looked at before. Finally she walked out without buying a thing. From his hiding place under the bathroom sink, Cody heard his daddy sigh.
A tear trickled down Cody's cheek. Maybe Mommy wasn't so bad. He knew she loved him. Every night Mommy or Daddy would read him stories. Sometimes they tucked him in together and prayed with him and kissed him good night. Daddy would tickle him a little and say, “Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite.” Most nights Cody would fall asleep with a smile.
He turned into the alley behind the store. It led from the back of the hardware to the back yard of his house. He could see his mommy half a block away. She opened the back door and looked around the yard, calling his name. "Cody, Cody honey. Time for dinner."
Cody opened his mouth to answer. The man was right there, grabbing his shoulder in an iron grip. His fingers dug into the child's flesh. The pain made Cody dizzy. Max spun him around. The cowboy hat fell to the ground. His nice white hat. He was one of the good guys, so he kept it clean. He never wanted it to get dirty. He watched it fall as if in slow motion onto the dusty asphalt.
Cody started to cry out just as Max stuffed a cloth in his mouth. It tasted awful. Everything began to look fuzzy. He tried to reach for his hat. His arms wouldn't move. From far away he heard his mother calling. Her voice seemed tinny and high. Darkness overcame him. He lapsed into a deep sleep. He dreamed his mommy and daddy were searching for him. He was trapped inside a mirror. He could hear them and see them, but they looked right past him. He screamed and beat the glass with his fist. They kept calling and searching.
Max sped out of Upland heading south. He was coming apart. Never before had he carried out an abduction while working for a mark. Never were his kidnappings spur of the moment. Before this one and the attempt in Waynesburg, he planned each one down to the smallest detail. He had to rid himself of this kid and fast. Up ahead on the right was the shed where he stashed the Cadillac. The roof of the rundown old place was falling in; its right wall bulged outward. The double doors hung precariously on their rusty hinges.
Jumping out of the car, he opened the doors carefully and drove the Escort inside. The bumpers of the two cars almost touched. The back bumper of the Ford stuck out a little, leaving a small gap between the doors.
The child still slept. His nightmares were gone. Now his dreams were pleasant. His father was pushing him on the swing in their back yard. Each thrust sent him higher. Then he was eating cake and ice cream on his fifth birthday. Mommy kissed him and Daddy called him his big boy. Suddenly he smelled something really, really bad. He opened his eyes.
Pulling the boy out of the car, the man propped him against the left front wheel while holding something under his nose. With his pudgy hand, Cody tried to push it away. "Wakey, wakey, little man," Max said in a low growl. The child squinted, trying to focus on Max's hard, flinty eyes. They seemed to glow with a yellow light. Terror gripped the boy’s tiny heart.
Arriving at the scene, Antoine superimposed his face over Max's. As much as he wanted to leave this man, he could not resist the kill. Cody shivered. Whatever this thing was, he wanted it to go away. Tears sprang from his eyes. "I want my mommy," he sobbed. "I want my mommy now!"
"Well, your mommy doesn't want you. She told me to take you away," Max snarled as the blubbering child recoiled. Max stood up and leaned against the side of the car. He grinned down at the sniveling boy, taking pleasure in watching his chest heave with sobs. Normally Max took several hours to break a kid. This time he didn’t have even one. He had to get back to Waynesburg. He adjusted his camcorder, zooming in on the child's tortured face. "My mommy and daddy loves me," Cody wailed, tears dripping from his chin.
"Not anymore, little man. Your mommy said you're a bad little boy and she sold you to me," Max said, grinning wickedly. He opened his mouth wide. The boy shrunk in horror at the sight of the jagged, black teeth.
Terrified as he was, Cody screamed hysterically, "You're a bad man! You're not s’post to lie!"
Antoine whispered in his ear telling of the morning.
Max had a sudden Intuition.
"Did your mommy spank you?"
Wobbling to his knees, then his feet, Cody hung his head and tried to back away from the monster. "What did you do?" Max demanded. Grabbing him under the arms, he hauled the child up and shook him ferociously. He had to hurry with his kill. "I asked you what you did!" he shouted in the boy’s face.
"I... I play in the mud," he whimpered, limp from the shaking. The tears cascaded down his tormented face. He couldn't believe his mommy and daddy would give him away. But Mommy was awful mad when he came into the kitchen with mud on his cowboy boots.
"And your mommy spanked you, didn't she?" Cody gasped and shook with sobs but didn’t answer. "I asked you a question, brat!" Max screamed, his face inches from Cody's. The monster’s breath stunk like rotten meat.
Cody nodded. To him it was a real spanking, though in reality she only swatted his rear end once.
"You’re a naughty little boy, aren't you?"
"Yes, but Mommy forgives me. She always does."
"Not this time, little man. You crossed a line. Your mommy sold you to me for a dollar. And you know what? I think I paid too much!" Max bared his teeth again as the boy hung like a rag doll in his grip.
"Maahmmy!" Cody screamed, his little soul in pure misery. "I SORRY, MAAHMMY!" Dangling the child by one arm, Max doubled up his fist and punched the tiny boy in the jaw, knocking him cold. He crumpled to the ground, his face pressed against the tire. Folding the sweater the child had been wearing, Max pulled back the boy’s head and pressed it against his nose and mouth. Semi-consciousness, Cody stared up into Max's face. His features were pure evil. His hands were Antoine's hands. He pressed the sweater down harder, shutting off Cody’s breath.
Antoine grinned at the helpless child. He could taste death. Cody's arms and legs wind milled weakly. Max wasn't surprised. Every child he had killed over the years reacted the same way. Even as they welcomed death, they panicked at the last moment.
Max held on. "Let it go, little man, let it go," he said, leaning over Cody's face with his lips almost touching the boy's. "Give me your mommy's love." Through the cloth, Max gave the child the kiss of death. As Cody breathed his last, Max breathed in, holding the cloth over the child's face until he was still.
In the loft of the old barn, Cody's angel, Nathan, wept. Under orders he did not understand but would obey, he did not interfere. That morning he sat on the swing in the back yard and watched his small charge play. He had watched over Cody since his birth. He loved the tiny lad. The little boy was fortunate. He had a mother and father who loved him and were raising him with Christian values. Every day was a good day for this child. Every night he went to sleep sure of his parents’ love. Each morning his mother woke him with a hug and a kiss.
Now Nathan gathered the child's spirit in his arms for the trip to heaven. As with Kenny and all children who leave the earth, Cody would wake in the arms of the Savior.
The call came in at 5:15 PM. Cody's father had found his son's cowboy hat in the alley behind his hardware store. At 5:45, an Amber Alert was issued.
Kevin and Lydia were torn between continuing their undercover surveillance and going to Upland. After consulting with Macklin, they drove out of Waynesburg on a seldom used gravel road. Five miles out, they met an agency helicopter. At 6:15, they passed over Interstate 65, unaware that their quarry was driving south beneath them. Max saw the chopper and kept up a steady speed of 70. As he crossed the county line, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Not out of the woods yet, Maxxy,” he said out loud. "Just keep your head on straight and you'll be all right."
By seven o’clock, all roads leading out of the county were blocked. One hundred twenty searchers scoured Upland and the surrounding countryside. At 8:23, a deputy discovered Cody propped against an oak tree alongside County Road 800 in the Taylor wilderness. His chin lay on his chest as if he was sleeping.
Not wanting to alert the media and therefore the killer, the sheriff called Lydia on her cell phone. Filled with dread, she went to the Sheldon home and made the notification. As she climbed back into the helicopter for the flight back to Waynesburg, she could still hear the mother's screams and the father's sobs. The sounds of the parents’ anguish haunted her as they flew across the dark landscape. The sight of the dead child's parents holding each other as their world fell apart tore at her mind.
"This morning he came in the house with mud all over his boots,” Mrs. Sheldon stammered through her sobs. “I scolded him and slapped his butt. Dear Lord, I wish he was here now. I'd play in the mud with him." Cody’s mother broke apart.
"Oh, Cody, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, little buddy. When you were born, I promised to protect you. I failed, I failed," Mr. Sheldon moaned, his shoulders shaking.
"Kevin, we have got to get this guy," Lydia said, her face a mask of determination. "I can't take another scene like the one I just went through. Telling parents their baby boy is dead." Her tone was rife with disgust.
"We're close, Lydia, I can feel it," Kevin said, looking out into the night.
"Not close enough. I want to just wrap my hands around this unsub's sorry subhuman neck and squeeze ‘til his eyes pop out."
Somewhere below them, a deputy stopped a late model green Chevy. He shined his flashlight on three sleeping children in the back seat. A boy the same age as Cody woke up and squinted into the beam. The deputy smiled at the mother and turned off his light. Stepping back, he watched her drive away. He prayed she would never face the horror Cody's parents were suffering at that very moment.
In heaven, Nathan laid the sleeping child in Christ's arms. Cody woke to a gentle hand stoking his hair. He looked up into the Lord's compassionate face, the kind eyes glistening with tears. "Cody, you are a treasure to me, I love you so much," Christ said. His voice was soothing. "You are such a good boy." He smiled. Cody returned it. In his short life, he had never felt so happy. Christ hugged the little boy. "That man lied. Your mommy and daddy love you very, very much, and soon they will join us here." Cody beamed.
"Look," Christ said, pointing to a group of children playing in a field of beautiful flowers. Kenny stopped chasing another little boy long enough to wave his hand in invitation. Cody looked into the face of the Lord. Christ's smile broadened. "Go play, little one. Enjoy the place prepared for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you, my wonderful child." Christ set the little boy on his feet. Cody ran to the group of children. Christ watched them play, His smile radiant.
He turned to the kneeling angel and touched his shoulder. "Nathan, my faithful servant,” He said, “you may return to earth. You will assist Andrew in the battle for Waynesburg. Soon you will avenge the death of this dear sweet child and the many others who have died at the hands of this predator."
"Yes, my Lord." Rising to his feet, Nathan turned and flew out of heaven.



Chapter 23

Lydia reported for work at six the next morning. Jovial as ever, Roxy showed her the routine. When Max came in at 7:30, Lydia was ready for him. With what little evidence they had, Macklin was able to convince a judge to issue a search warrant for the parsonage and church. So as not to alert Max, Lydia would distract him while Kevin conducted the search.
Lydia pressed a button on the cell phone in her pocket, sending a signal to Kevin. The warrant also allowed the Feds to tap Max’s phone. The two agents weren’t optimistic about that. According to the BAU profile, The Ghost would be a loner with few friends or none. Two minutes after receiving the signal, Kevin stepped inside the parsonage. While pouring his coffee and taking his order, Lydia kept chatting with Max. Absorbed in the afterglow of his kill, Max found her babbling irritating.
Kevin found the camcorder in the bedroom. Flipping on the viewing screen, he watched a hyped-up Fred Jorgensen make his pitch as to why people should vote for him for governor. He came across like a kid running for student council president. It was more like a screed than a speech, so silly and overwrought Kevin almost felt sorry for the man.
Over at the Red Skillet, Lydia was pouring out her heart to Max about her troubled marriage. "And Jed has a wondering eye. Just yesterday I caught him looking at a woman the way he used to look at me." She stopped to take a breath. She wanted to give him enough bait, but not scare him away. "Our son Jeddy is staying with my mom until we get settled."
Max had been on top of the world until Lydia's started with her jibber-jabber. It felt to him like a cup of cold water being thrown in his face. Until she mentioned the son. "So Roxy said you might be able to help us." She looked pleadingly into Max’s eyes. He squirmed. The last thing he wanted was to sit for an hour listening to two losers whine about their lousy marriage.
Lydia whipped out a photo of the child. The boy looked to be about five or six, with blond hair, blue eyes and a bright smile. He appeared small for his age, almost elfin. The perfect target for The Ghost.
"Certainly, as a man of God I have helped many a couple navigate the rocky path of matrimony," Max told her, mentally gritting his teeth. He would love to hold the child and feel the energy flowing through his small body, then take his life and the love his mother obviously bestowed on him. "I will be happy to counsel you and your husband. However, at this time I'm helping one of my parishioners with his business. Perhaps we could schedule an appointment for later this week."
Lydia teared up. Earlier she had rubbed a peeled onion onto a handkerchief, which she now brought to her face. "Couldn’t we do it tonight? I get off work at two and Jed’s done at four-thirty." She sniffled.
Max had plans. This afternoon he would relive the death of Cody. Then he would finalize his plans to escape this lousy one-horse town. Lydia brought the hankie to her eyes again. "Once we get our marriage on solid ground, we'll be looking for a church." One more thing. “The sooner we do that, the sooner Jeddy can join us. I miss him so much."
Max smiled. "I’ll see if I can squeeze you in. Is there a number where I can reach you or should I call you here?"
Lydia wrote her cell number on a napkin. "Thank you, Reverend. You’re a godsend." She brought the handkerchief to her face again.
"Yes, yes. I must go. I will contact you later." Rising from his chair, Max hurried out of the restaurant, leaving his breakfast half eaten. Watching him scurry down the sidewalk, Lydia pressed the button on her phone to alert Kevin.
In the parsonage, Kevin quickly attached the last listening device to the underside of the coffee table top. He eyed the house critically. If this man was innocent, it wouldn't matter if a few things were out of place. If he was the unsub, it was vital that Kevin leave every item exactly as he found it. Criminals might place a pillow a certain way for the very purpose of knowing whether the cops had been sniffing around. Rushing through the rooms careful not to touch anything, Kevin opened the back door.
As he entered the house through the front, Max felt a soft rush of wind on his cheek. Had he left a window open? Clouds were coving the sun. There was a 60 percent chance of rain and he didn't want to have to clean up a mess. Closing the back door softly, Kevin hurried to the far side of the garage. As he rounded the corner, he saw Max’s back as he stepped through the front door.
Although he saw no one and nothing obviously amiss, Max's instincts kicked in. Something didn’t feel right. In fact, something smelled very wrong. Beside him, Antoine whispered, "The cops were here. Time to clear out."
Silencing the thought, Max mumbled to himself as he returned to the living room. Antoine was furious. The stupid man was not listening. Up until the last few days, Max had never failed to pay attention to the demon. Gritting his teeth, Antoine shouted in his ear, "Check the house, dummy!"
Max's high dissipated. Always after a kill, he was on Cloud Nine for days, sometimes weeks, as long as he could feel the dead child's strength flowing through his veins. Not this time. Within hours, the fix was gone. For all the good his death had done, Cody might as well still be alive.
In the kitchen, he moved the stove out from the wall. Removing a cut-out section of drywall, he took a small black box from the opening and turned the devise on. Twisting the dial, he went to the bedroom. A blinking red light on the box replaced the green one. He approached the bed and watched the light intensify as its pulses increased. The same thing happened in the living room and kitchen. Max smiled. So they want to play. He had played games with the cops before and always won. This time would be no different.
"You idiot, they're going to catch you. They're going to strap you to a gurney and kill you!" Antoine shouted. He wanted to leave, find some other human to inhabit. He had no choice. The master had ordered him to protect this slayer of children, this thorn in God's side. If Antoine lost Max, Satan would not be happy. Again he spoke in Max's ear, trying to dissuade him. "Leave it alone. You have enough money to last for years. Leave now, before they come for you. You can’t win."
Antoine had seen this happen before. Hitler believed he would rule the world. The child killer Albert Fish thought he was invincible. He almost signed his name to the letter he wrote to Grace Budd's mother. Antoine convinced him not to. However, he still sent it. It didn't matter that the letter was anonymous. They caught him. After Fish landed in prison, Antoine abandoned him and attached himself to another serial killer.
Loathing to get on his knees, Max said loudly, "Oh, Lord, let them find the one who killed the little boy in Upland yesterday. And Lord, let me be a help to this young couple. Amen."
Hearing him through the bug, Kevin winced. Why did he get the feeling this pastor was happy the child was dead? He would love to grill Chamberlain and find out if he really was The Ghost. It was too soon. If the minister was the unsub, Kevin needed solid evidence. He wasn’t about to see him walk on a technicality.
Max left the house and sped to the Case dealership. He wasn’t worried about being stopped. The town council had yet to pick a replacement for Brice. And Max was late. Not that it mattered. Today was Tuesday. By Saturday, he’d be gone and so would Fred's millions. He almost wished he could stick around to hear the man’s howl when he found out he was dead broke. Governor? Max laughed. The fool wouldn't have enough to buy a hamburger.
Fred strutted around the grounds of the dealership, barking orders. He strode across the parking lot with a big grin as Max pulled in. The suit he wore cost a couple grand easy, the silk tie probably $150. As Max stepped out of the car, Fred slapped him on the back. " Josh my boy, we really put together a winner. With this AGCO deal, I’ll be one of the wealthiest man in this part of the Midwest” he said grinning.
Max forced himself not to cringe. Nobody touched him and lived. Reaching to the small of his back, he fingered the Raven Arms .25 automatic. He took a step back. He wanted to kill this man right now, right here in the parking lot. He wanted Fred to feel the pain of losing everything. He held himself back. Perhaps after he was established in paradise he would come back and visit. He could disguise himself as a rich old woman and go to Fred's place of employment. Maybe he’d be pumping gas at a Caseys or working in the Dollar General store. He almost laughed at the thought. Then he would sneak into his house at night and kill him and his lovely young wife. That is, if the wife hadn’t left the bankrupt jerk by then.
"Glad I could be of assistance, Brother Fred." Max forced a smile. He was so sick of this charade he felt like saying, Ah shucks, t’werent nothin. He fingered the .25 again, thinking of the night he would wake Fred with its barrel in his nostril.
By noon, Max was fed up with Fred's slap-happy attitude. The man fairly reeked with cheerfulness. He was so giddy over the AGCO deal he wouldn’t shut up about it and Max couldn’t get anything done. At 1:30, he feigned a headache and left.
The next few days passed without incident. Max boiled Fred’s books like a witch over a cauldron, laid low and planned his escape. He prepared the transfer of Fred's wealth into his offshore account. His last act would be to transform him from the richest man in Waynesburg to most indigent. Fred was about to lose everything.
Kyle remained in a coma, now drug induced. Amy, Brice and Tom took turns sitting by his bedside. The doctors were encouraged. Kyle's heart was regaining strength. They planned to bring him out of the coma no later than Monday.
Hattie stayed on her knees, sometimes for an hour, praying for Kyle, Tom, Brice and the salvation of Waynesburg. Henry and Hazel joined her in prayer, sometimes by phone, sometimes in person. The prayer chain was active and alive, holding onto the God of heaven. The saints of Waynesburg were preparing for a battle they were as yet unaware would happen.
Max met with Lydia and Kevin and was completely fooled by their carrying on about their non-existent marriage. As for The Ghost? He seemed to have faded away.
Lydia attempted unsuccessfully to get Max's fingerprints. Whenever he visited the restaurant he would wipe the silverware and the edges of his plates with a napkin before leaving. Macklin directed her to give it a few more days, then follow other leads.
Max heard the news about Kyle from Lydia over lunch at the restaurant. Watching him closely, she gauged his reaction. "Hey, Reverend, Roxy just told me that cop, the one that fell out of the belfry, is gonna be all right," she told him with a big smile as she refilled his cup. Max remained calm, smiled and assured her this was an answer to his prayers. Inwardly, he steeled himself. He must conclude his business in this hick town by Saturday. Sunday evening right after the service, he’d be gone.
"That is such wonderful news. Praise God,” Max said as he glanced at his watch. He pushed himself up from the booth. "I must hurry. Please give my best to Roxy."
"I will. Have a good day."
Max realized his mistake as soon as he walked out the door. He whirled around and watched through the window as Lydia placed his coffee cup in an evidence bag. Now he knew what he had suspected what he found the bugs. The FBI was in Waynesburg. He looked forward to the challenge.
The Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System confirmed the minister was a fraud. His name was Max Furman. He did four years in an Ohio prison, then vanished. At Macklin’s request, an FBI SWAT team would be sent to Waynesburg. Lydia and Kevin would continue to work undercover until they could obtain solid evidence.
Kneeling before Satan, Antoine bowed his head, his eyes glued to the fallen angel's feet. Like his own, the Prince of Darkness’ once beautiful feet now resembled the claws of a vulture. "A thousand more demons?" Satan roared. "For a tiny hamlet like Waynesburg?"
"We're not sure how many the enemy will assign to the battle, Master."
"Are you losing your edge? Perhaps I should replace you," Satan said, his eyes taking on a yellow cast. He looked nothing like the beautiful creature he once was. Antoine could feel the heat of his master's glower on his back. "Did you learn nothing fighting by my side in heaven?"
"Yes, Master," Antoine said quietly. Fighting and losing, he thought, then quickly stifled his attitude. He dared not show even the slightest hint of disloyalty.
"Oh, very well, you shall have your thousand. Now leave. I have work to do." Satan turned his back dismissively. Relieved, Antoine rose. He was certain the addition of thousand would not help. However, it would prove he did his best. "One more thing, Antoine," Satan said without turning to face the warrior. "If you lose this battle I will have a new assignment for you."
"Sir?" Antoine said, his face turning pale.
"There is a child who is not doing well in school. A friend will urge him to try marijuana. I'm looking for just the right demon to lead him down the path to destruction." Satan looked over his shoulder at Antoine, his blazing eyes boring into him. He roared with laughter. "I'm sure you could convince the youngster to disobey his parents."
"I will not fail," Antoine assured the master, looking up to see the master had vanished. He had just lied to the originator of lies. Maybe, just maybe it was not a lie. He would fight. He would slash any angel, even if the retaliatory wounds took months to heal. He would meet Andrew in the skies over Waynesburg and take him on in the battle of all battles.
As for Max, he was a lost cause. It was just a matter of time before he was captured or killed. Antoine wanted to abandon the man now. But as with Hitler, as with Fish, his assignment ended only when his host's life did, or─he shuddered─when the one he possessed received Christ.
His mind traveled back to the day Christ had cast him out of the maniac of Gadara. Even though he and his fellow demons possessed the hogs for only a few moments, it made him deathly ill. The stench, the mud, the heaving of their waddling bodies and the grunting as they ran to the sea─Antoine couldn’t think of a more wretched experience. He tried to put it out of his mind, but the horror of his years of degradation stuck like a fishhook in his brain. He had been destined for greatness. Then the rebellion, the battle for God's throne, the casting out of heaven destroyed his beauty and honor forever. Tears misted his eyes. Furiously he wiped them away, hoping no fellow demon noticed. His future beckoned from the lake of fire. He would take as many of these hated humans there with him as possible.
Andrew watched the exchange between Satan and his demon from afar. He would not feel sorrow for his former friend. After they heard rumors of a rebellion, he and Antoine both pledged their loyalty to the Lord. Several times Antoine promised Andrew he would never be a part of any revolt. When he found Antoine conspiring with the others, he felt as if his heart had been ripped out. They beat him so badly, it took him weeks to recover. The physical wounds healed, the spiritual wounds, never. Now, centuries later, their lost friendship still pained him.
Today Andrew would fly to heaven to receive his finale instructions from Michael. Tomorrow they would engage in battle. Each warrior who had lost a child would be assigned to Andrew’s command. Each one was eager for the fight.
In the parsonage, Max silently raged. He was tired of being good, or at least pretending to be. He wanted to rip the listening devices from their hiding places. In times past, he had enjoyed his solitude. Back then he could pull out the zip drives and relive his kills. Not now. Now he had to pretend to be a minister even in private.



Chapter 24

Reverend Chamberlain had met with the phony waitress and her “husband” three times. He looked downcast and concerned as they told him their tale of woe, then lied through his smiling teeth about his marriage-saving successes. He played the game, enjoying the danger. The FBI had never been this close.
The woman feigned an attraction to Max. During the counseling sessions when Kevin looked away, she would make eye contact with him. He always felt uncomfortable around women. He only pretended to want their affection if he was running a con.
He retired to the office in the church. He felt uneasy, as if God were watching. At least it wasn't the FBI. He had checked the office for bugs and found none. He was looking through clippings about Cody's abduction and murder when there was a knock at the door. Shoving the clippings into a desk drawer, he called, "Come in."
Lydia walked in and plopped down in a chair without being asked to. She held a hankie to her nose, hoping Furman, aka Chamberlain, wouldn’t smell the onion.
She and Kevin were convinced the phony pastor was The Ghost. Macklin wanted concrete proof. After a quick discussion, it was decided Lydia would meet with him alone and unannounced. The wire was well hidden. The SWAT team and helicopters were standing by. Roadblocks were being assembled. Waynesburg was on lockdown.
Max saw that Lydia's eyes were red and puffy. Inwardly he sighed. Just what he needed, an FBI agent posing as a lovesick wifey messing up his plans. Maybe he could kill her and still get away. He fingered the blackjack in his jacket pocket. Ideas ran through his mind. He smiled sympathetically. "How can I help you?" He glanced out the window. No sign of SWAT, yet he knew they were close.
Holding her hankie to her face, Lydia breathed deeply. The tears came in a torrent. "Oh Reverend Chamberlain, he did it again. He looked at another woman. He says he hasn't been with her, but I know better."
Max mentally ground his teeth. The .25 was in his suit coat pocket. Maybe he should shoot her. No, he had to get rid of her some other way. If he had three minutes he could disguise himself and escape.
Taking another deep breath, Lydia took the plunge. She placed the hankie in her lap and looked doe-eyed across the desk. "What I need, Joshua, for me and my son, is a real man. A man like you." She rose from the chair and came around the desk. "Saturday I'll be going to Ohio to get him."
She laid a photo of the boy on the desk. His heart- shaped face smiled up at Max. His eyes seemed to be peering into Max's very soul. According to the profile, he was the type of child The Ghost preferred. Max's breath caught in his throat. The child was the embodiment of everything he desired. He could be Cody’s twin. He forced his face to stay impassive. The FBI was playing hardball.
He looked away from the photo, but not before his right hand began to itch. He dropped it into his lap. Sweat formed on his forehead. He tried to inconspicuously swallow the drool that was collecting behind his grimacing lips. Please don’t let her notice. But she did. She was standing next to The Ghost. She was sure of it. Her threat level peaked.
Steadying his voice, Max smiled. "Perhaps you and your son will attend Sunday services?" His hand was making him crazy. He raked his nails across his palm. His mind whirled, trying to figure out his next move. They weren't just fishing, they knew.
In their apartment over the hardware, Kevin listened closely. He could hear the nervousness in Max's voice. The entire team was poised to go in. “It’s him, Lydia,” he whispered in her earpiece. “Get out of there."
She needed more evidence. She reached out and caressed Max's forearm as he fingered the small pistol in his pocket. Lydia edged closer, so close she could smell his breath mint. She brought her lips down to his. She had no intonation of kissing him ,however she most make him think she would. He slid his chair back, banging it into the wall. Undeterred, she moved in front of him. Her warm lips touched his. Max pushed her away and scrambled to his feet. "You... you must leave, now!" he shouted, pulling the chair from the wall.
"Why fight it, Joshua?” Lydia purred. “You're the man I need, not Jed. We could go away, find a place where nobody knows us, start fresh." She came at him again. Max pushed the chair between them, forming a barrier. His fingers closed on the .25 and pulled it free. Holding it an inch from her stomach,. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Before he could fire there was a wild banging at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Fred barged into the office. "What's the meaning of this, Chamberlain?" he shouted, waving a piece of paper in the air. Max jammed the pistol back in his pocket.
In the apartment, Kevin groaned. Lydia stood back and watched the drama unfold, hoping to salvage something from this mess. Fred ignored her. Slamming the form down on the desk, he shouted, "I want an explanation and I want it now!"
Max looked at Lydia. "If you will excuse us, I will call you and set up an appointment as soon as possible." Taking Lydia by the elbow, he led her to the door. "Thank you for coming," he said, pushing her into the hallway and shut the door her face.
Dropping his facial muscles into an expression of concern, Max turned to face the raging bull. He thought about just shooting Fred and making a break for it. The FBI was waiting outside, but for 20 years he had eluded every law enforcement agency. He could do it again. No, he wouldn't shoot Fred now. He relished the thought too much of him waking up some night to a gun in his nose. "Now, Brother Fred, what seems to be the problem?" Max’s voice was calm. In his mind, he calculated his escape.
"The problem... the problem?" Fred bellowed. "The bank says this check you got from AGCO is bogus!" Even though the remainder of the transaction was to be wired into Max's secret account, Fred had insisted on a check for the down payment.
Over the years, Max had perfected his talent for bluffing. When a mark discovered something amiss, he knew instinctively how to get around it. "What?" he said, his voice rising. He snatched the fake check off the desk and scrutinized it, his face registering shock. "This is outrageous. Anyone can see this is a counterfeit" Buzzy had charged him five thousand for the forgery. A mere pittance compared to the size of the check. In his mind, he chuckled. Wait until you’re looking for the wire transfer, Brother Fred.
Max had contracted to sell every piece of equipment from Fred's dealership at a 30 percent discount. Already other dealers were on their way to clean out his inventory. He even sold the building. Two hours ago, Max received word the remaining nine million had been deposited into his account, along with down payments from the buyers totaling another three million.
A short time later, Fred's wealth had sped through the wires from bank to bank. In a matter of minutes, it landed in Max's offshore account. "What are you trying to pull, Chamberlain?" Fred shouted, grabbing the check out of Max's hand.
"Brother Fred, the check I gave you was the one I brought directly from AGCO's office. This obviously is not it," he said in a soothing tone.
"Then where’s the real check?" Fred blubbered, his face blood red. A vain in his neck throbbed. A little more and I won't have to kill him, Max thought. He'll die of a heart attack right here.
"I have no idea," Max said, his face a study in puzzlement. "You didn't perchance leave it lying where someone would have access to it, did you?"
Fred's face changed from rage to disbelief as he thought. "The copier was out of paper. I wanted a copy to put on my wall," he said, his face falling. "I left it on the glass, but I was only gone two or three minutes."
"Long enough for a thief take action," Max said, shaking his head. "Now don't worry. We'll find out who took it." Max began to pace with his head down as if he were concentrating. Suddenly, he whirled on his heel and faced Fred. "Who was working in the area when the check disappeared?"
"Only my counter man, Johan. He's been with me twenty-five years."
Max looked contemplative. "Understand, I'm not accusing him. However, you do need to speak with him. Perhaps he may have seen someone around your office." He looked intently at his mark.
Folding the counterfeit check, Fred put it in his shirt pocket and headed for the door. "You coming?" he asked over his shoulder.
"You go ahead. Possibly he will open up to you if you speak to him privately. I’ll be along shortly."
"Yeah, good thinking. Give me some time to sweat it out of him." Fred hurried from the office. Seconds later Max heard his car squeal away.
After leaving Max's office, Lydia hid among the pews. She debated her course of action, then hurried over and retrieved her Glock from the sound cabinet. Unwilling to face the predator without a weapon, she hid it there upon entering the church. Now that she knew he had a gun, she was glad she had trusted her instinct.
From her vantage point, she watched Fred hurry out the side door. She stayed low until she heard Max’s office door being closed. She thought about going back and picking up where she’d left off with him, but dared not for fear he would know she’d been listening. As she crept to the back of the church, Max suddenly stepped into the hallway.
A shaft of light fell across her. She froze, praying he didn't see her. He was in too much of a hurry to notice her. She peeked over the pew and saw him rushing to the side door with a small black case in his hand. Once he was gone, she ran out and crouched at the far side of the building.
In the apartment, Kevin tried to stay calm as he waited to hear Lydia’s voice. Suddenly she was speaking to him. "It's him, Kevin, he's The Ghost, I'm sure of it. He has a weapon. Have all units move in. We've got him."
"Lydia, stay out of sight," he urged. "The cavalry is on its way." But Max was on the move and she wasn’t going to lose him.
"He's running,” Lydia cried as Max dashed to his car. "Let's close in."
"All units, suspect is on the move!" Kevin shouted into his radio. He raced from the apartment, almost tumbling down the stairs. Catching himself, he jumped the last five steps.
Tossing the package onto the seat, Max leaped in and started the engine. Tearing around the corner of the church, Lydia ran to the Mercedes and stood glaring through the windshield four feet in front of the driver’s side headlight. Assuming a shooter's stance, she pointed her Glock at his head and shouted, "FBI! Get out of the car!"
Max sat perfectly still and grinned at her as his face twisted into the demon’s. Lydia's heart quaked. It felt as if it would pound out of her chest. Max gunned it. She dropped and rolled. The bumper missed her by inches. Regaining her footing, she fired at the back of his head. The back glass shattered. Ducking, Max sped across the parking lot. Antoine and his contingent of demons zoomed forward, surrounding the car. They would do all they could to protect the predator, but the angels were coming. The age-old fight for the souls of men had begun.
In heaven, Michael stepped to the front of the columns of angels. The jewels on his robe reflected the light of the glory of God. His face shone like with a silvery glow. "Heavenly warriors, God has given you the victory. Satan cannot win. The saints of Waynesburg are earnestly praying for you. The battle is yours. Go in the glory of God and with His blessing." He turned to his chief captain, Andrew. "The Lord has granted you victory."
Flying to the front of the division, Andrew drew his sword. Pointing its tip to the earth, he shouted, "For the Glory of God and the preservation of His saints!" Behind him, thousands of angels echoed his declaration. They streamed in the direction of earth, their glowing robes sending shards of light to the farthest reaches of the universe. At the thunder of their battle cry, the dark cloud of demons surrounding Waynesburg quivered. Their fate lay in the hands of the Living God against whom they had rebelled. Antione lifted his piercing dark eyes to heaven, his face set like stone. Watching them advance, he shouted, "Come angel! It's time we settled this!"
Looking up, Lydia stared in amazement. Roiling dark clouds surrounded the town, blotting out the sun. The air was so heavy she was having trouble breathing. Nevertheless, she ran full tilt, cutting across the lawn to try and get in another shot before Max turned the corner.
Roaring up in the agency's black SUV, Kevin screeched to a halt just as she reached the curb. Jumping in, she shouted, "GO, GO!" As she scrambled to fasten her seatbelt, Kevin pounded the gas pedal to the floor. Sirens sounded from every direction. An FBI helicopter swooped overhead. They had him, they had The Ghost. They would not let him get away. At the end of this chase, Max would either be in cuffs or dead.
Lightning flashed, splitting the clouds. The people of Waynesburg ran for cover. The wind kicked up, ripping through the small town. Ear-piercing thunder echoed and re-echoed.
Their swords held straight before them, angels and demons met in a clash that shook the earth. Flying at lightning speed at the apex of their respective contingents, Andrew’s and Antoine's swords and bodies collided. They reeled backward. Recovering first, Andrew shot through the air in pursuit of Antoine. He caught him over the church. Their clashing swords clanged, raining down sparks on the building.
In the Red Skillet, the lights flickered and went out. Roxy stood anxiously at the front window as lightning flared, bathing the town in an eerie glow. In front of the hardware, a transformer exploded into a huge fireball. A car parked under the pole burst into flames. A furious gust of wind tore the bell tower from the church. The huge metal bell crashed down in the middle of the street and rolled into the restaurant, shaking the building.
Inside Henry and Hazel's farmhouse, the small group stayed on their knees, their prayers strong and powerful. The wind howled around the house, sounding like a wounded animal. Lightning struck a tree in the back pasture, setting it ablaze.
"Oh, Lord we'ens need your help. Old Satan, he be attackin' us again. Send Yous holy angels to protect us." Hattie prayed, her voice rising above the roar of the wind.
"Amen," Henry and Hazel said in unison.
A cluster of demons geared up to attack the house. Just before landing on the roof, they were confronted by a company of angels led by Kenny's guardian angel, Deion. Shouting, "This is for Kenny!" he slashed left and right, wounding and scattering the demons. The battle raged furiously, but the vanquished demons finally took flight, ravaged by wounds that would take months to heal. Leaving a squad of angels to protect the saints, Deion headed for the hospital.
Racing to get out of town, Max punched in the numbers of Buzzy's personal cell phone.
"Yeah?"
"Almost ready, I'll call you in an hour."
Hearing sirens through the phone, Buzzy said, "Sounds likes things are heatin' up."
"A little bit."
"We'll be ready. Oh, yeah, Max, it's gonna cost you another hundred grand. Short notice and all."
"Sure." Max threw the phone down on the passenger seat. He needed to concentrate on his driving. He blew two stoplights and slid around a corner doing 50. The Mercedes rocked, fishtailed, and roared out of it at 65. The two cop cars behind him didn’t fare as well. The first smashed a parked car and was slammed in the rear by the second.
For a few seconds, Max thought he was home free. Then a state police cruiser swung around the corner, blocking him. Max swerved into an alley. Halfway down the block, an elderly woman was taking out her trash. Doing 60, Max sideswiped her garbage cans sitting at the edge of the roadway. They flew through the air and crashed down inches from where the old gal was standing. Screaming, she dropped the plastic bag and hightailed it back to her house. Max laughed so hard he almost lost control.
Three bullets hit the trunk and pinged off the car’s body. The forth ruptured the gas tank. He hated to lose the Mercedes. Not to worry. With Fred's money he could buy a dozen. Too bad he didn't have time to drain the church's bank account. Compared to Fred's, it was chump change anyway.
They cornered him at Fifth and Elm. He bailed, running through back yards and alleys. Seconds behind, they lost him at Eighth and Cherry. After running around for 10 minutes, all they found was an old man rototilling his garden. When the trooper raced up, he shut off the machine and raised his liver-spotted hands. His fingers were twisted with arthritis. He looked to be in his eighties. His paunch stuck out, giving him a pear-like shape. Breathing hard, the trooper asked, "Did you see a man run this way?"
The old guy took his time answering. Rubbing his chin, he said. "Yup, saw a young fella in a gray suit heading that way." He pointed down the alley. "Sure was in an awful hurry." The trooper tore off in that direction.
Grinning, Max stepped into the shed at the edge of the yard. "Good luck, copper," he snickered. He ripped off the bib overalls and wiped the makeup from his hands and face. He pulled another disguise from the small suitcase he had grabbed on exiting the car. Seconds later Max emerged from the shed in a blue jacket with POLICE printed in white letters across the back. A pair of mirrored aviator glasses covered his eyes. A short, salt-and-pepper beard obscured the lower half of his face
He strode confidently in the direction from which he came 20 minutes before. Max couldn’t believe his eyes. There at the curb sat the state police cruiser that had blocked his escape, driverless, its engine idling.
Stepping out of the alley a block away, the trooper stopped and looked around. All he saw were other cops. He ran another block before it struck him: Why would the elderly man be working in his garden in a storm? He sprinted back the way he came. The old man was gone. The tiller sat in the garden, its tongs buried in the dirt.
In the hospital, Kyle moaned and opened his terror-stricken eyes. Amy gasped, then smiled. "Welcome back honey. I missed you," she said through tears of relief and joy.
Kyle tried to clear his throat. He struggled to speak. "You, Brice, Uncle Tom," he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. "You... were right."
"Right about what, dear?" Amy asked, placing her ear close to her husband's lips.
Tears trickled from the corners of Kyle's eyes and fell on the pillow. "I saw hell." He swallowed hard. Amy held a straw to his chapped lips. He drank deeply. "I don't want to go there." More tears rolled down his cheeks as she stroked his forehead and whispered words of praise and gratitude to the Lord.
Brice and Tom entered the room. "Well, would you look who's back from the dead?" Brice said, smiling.
"You've had a lot of people praying for you, son," Tom said. Reaching out, he grasped each of their hands.
"Is... is it too late for me? Can I still get saved?" Kyle said, his eyes wide with panic.
"It's just the right time for you to come to Christ," Tom assured him. Letting go of their hands, he reached inside his suit jacket and brought out a New Testament. As the battle raged around them, two of Andrew's lieutenants stood guard while the Lord brought another lost soul into His kingdom.
With the question of his salvation settled, Kyle's mind turned to other matters. "That preacher,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “The one at the church. He's The Ghost. I heard him say it when I was standing at a window outside the parsonage."
"You actually heard him say it? You're sure?" Brice asked.
"Absolutely sure. He was talking to himself. I heard him say ‘I'm The Ghost’." Brice sucked in his breath.
Andrew swung his sword at Antoine's head, missing by a hair. Antoine skittered away, then darted back with his sword slicing. Lightning scissored between the fighting pair and slammed into the earth. Neither felt it. Antoine halted in mid-flight, whirled and caught Andrew on the right forearm, producing a deep cut. Andrew's grip faltered. Antoine slashed his the right shoulder. Blood spurted from the gashes, weakening the angel’s arm and causing the sword to slip from his grasp and plummet toward the earth. His wounds already healing, Andrew chased after it.
Grabbing the weapon by its jeweled handle, the angel spun and faced his enemy. Blood flowed from a wound in Antoine's forehead, blinding his right eye. Blood oozed from a dozen cuts in his body. He screamed. He would be incapacitated for weeks and he was fighting a foe who was invincible. All around them angels and demons continued to battle. Blood dripped from their wounds, evaporating before it touched the earth.
Hovering over the village, Satan watched the battle, furious that his force was losing. His general was wounded so severely he would have to replace him soon or take him out of commission altogether. With the wag of a finger, Satan summoned another thousand demons into the fight zone.
The tide began turning. Outside of town, a substation blew, plunging Waynesburg into total darkness.
Brice sprinted through the hospital. In his patrol car, he flipped on the radio. It crackled with the news, they had him. The Ghost was cornered within a three-block radius. Minutes later, Brice hit the city limits of Waynesburg, lights flashing, siren shrieking. Entering town, he slowed to 50. A block in, he passed a state police car speeding in the opposite direction. He didn’t recognize the trooper, and he knew most of them. The cruiser was going full out with lights and siren.
The thought occurred to Brice, if The Ghost is trapped, why is that cop heading out of Waynesburg? He watched in the rearview mirror as the squad car slid around a corner and disappeared.
Posted at a roadblock on State Road 46, the two deputies heard the screaming siren two miles away. They were standing by their cruisers when Max topped the hill doing 80. At a hundred yards, he didn't slow down. He was prepared to run the roadblock. Like the gangsters in the movies he saw as a kid, he knew he might not survive. And like the bad guy in the film, he would go down in a blaze of glory. He laid the Glock on the passenger seat.
Glory would never be his.
Leaping into their vehicles, the two deputies backed up, giving Max just enough room to pass. He pressed the accelerator to the floor. With a quick wave of thanks, he blew past them at 110. They pulled their cars forward and closed the gap. Max grinned. The Ghost had fooled the cops again. He topped the hill leading out of the valley at 120 and was gone.
In Waynesburg, the trooper returned to the empty spot where his cruiser had been. His face flaming, he reluctantly keyed the mike on his shoulder and told his captain the bad news. Two minutes later, the deputies at the roadblock were notified. Too late, Max was five miles away and moving fast. They found the cruiser the next day, hidden in an ancient barn.
Three days later the Fenwood Nursing Home in Spartan, South Carolina was in an uproar. Margaret "Maggie" Furman ate a hearty breakfast, then visited with her friend Rose in room 203. She returned to her room and was found dead at around 11. Her deceased daughter's scarf was knotted around her neck. A look of horror was frozen on her face. During the investigation, one of the residents said she saw a strange orderly outside Maggie's door at 10:30, one half hour before a nurse found her dead. The nurse notified the director, who notified the police. Lydia received the call at 6 PM. Max's mother was dead and foul play was suspected.
After he killed his mother, Max considered going after the Moores, but decided against it. He was sure the cops were expecting him to do just that. He thought about killing Fred, but changed his mind. Sometime in the future he would return and kill them all. The police were totally inept. They could be guarding Fred and Max in the same room and he could still slit his throat. He was The Ghost, after all. He was indestructible. Besides, to Fred, losing all of his wealth would hurt worse than even a slow death.
After duplicating the zip drives, Max had left the copies in the Mercedes. Now they knew who he was─the greatest serial killer of children who ever lived. No one could top his accomplishment. Seventy children and 10 adults, including his witch of a mother, all dead by his hand. With the information he left behind, the authorities would be able to find every grave. Walking into the night, Max disappeared.
Over the hills of West Virginia, the Piper Cub sputtered. Something was wrong with the engine. The pilot frantically worked the controls. He pulled back on the yoke. The engine caught, sputtered, and died. The nose dropped. The plane shot through the air like an eagle diving for a fish.
In West Virginia on Coon Creek Road, Gregg Hanson walked out to his front porch. He sat down in his favorite rocker with his after-supper cup of coffee. A woodworker for Morris Construction, Gregg had a big piece of land and fancied himself a gentleman farmer. He eyed his new barn. It was a beauty, constructed of grade A oak. It cost him a bundle, but was worth every penny. There wouldn’t be any animals to dirty up this barn. No, siree.
Gregg built his man cave in the southwest corner of the loft. It featured a comfortable Lazy Boy, 72-inch flat screen and a small refrigerator. A wall of glass overlooked the pond and the forest beyond. One of the guys he worked with had agreed to wire it this weekend. Then it would be finished, just in time for Sunday’s game.
A shrill whistling sound split the quiet evening. Gregg watched in horror as a small plane dropped from the sky and plowed into his barn. The aircraft exploded, sending debris flying every which way for a hundred yards. Gregg dropped to the floor as pieces of the plane peppered the south side of the house. The propeller pierced the porch roof over his head. The blast blew out all the windows. Gregg's pregnant wife, Linda, barely escaped being cut. The inferno buckled the barn’s siding. Fearing the house would catch fire, Gregg ran for the garden hose and soaked it down. He was sure there could be no survivors.
Linda called 911. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the barn was a smoldering pile of rubble. Those on board the plane would have to be identified by dental records. First the TSA would have to identify the plane and its occupants through flight plans. After a brief investigation and dental records check, the TSA notified the FBI. It was confirmed: Max Furman, aka The Ghost, was dead.



Chapter 25

In the Caribbean, Max lounged on his own private beach on his own private island, his dreams fulfilled. Six months ago, he died in a fiery plane crash in West Virginia. That night, Max Furman, The Ghost and Slaugh all perished. Now he was reborn and living in paradise. Using Fred's money, he purchased the island under the name Lou Griffin.
By all appearances, he was an affluent industrialist with business interests in several countries. He became known around the islands as a reclusive millionaire. The money he gained from his criminal activities had made him independently wealthy. His investments were providing excellent returns.
Max could have afforded a full household staff. He wasn’t concerned about housekeeping and preferred to live in solitude. The Ghost had become the terror of the Caribbean.
Convinced of his death, the FBI took him off their 10 most wanted list. The one time Max checked the agency’s website, the word DECEASED was plastered in big red letters across his picture. He printed off several copies and kept them in a file. Every few days he’d take one out for a good laugh.
Children periodically disappeared from the surrounding islands. Usually he picked up a street kid wandering alone; occasionally he would snatch a child out from under a poor family. The child would just disappear without a trace. The outcry was brief or nonexistent. So many islands, miles of ocean─ excellent places to hide a small body. He didn't display the children any more. What would be the point? The Ghost was dead.
With the thumb drives he left in the Mercedes, the FBI was able to locate all the bodies, at least what was left of them. For months, Max’s exploits were the topic of both print and television news magazines. Speculation about whether or not he could still be alive was constantly bandied about on social media.
The man Buzzy hired to break into the dentist’s office and switch his records was a professional. He left nothing out of place, no trace of any tampering. The homeless man was alive, but unconscious when the plane hit Handson's barn.
The guy piloting the plane bailed out a scant two miles before the aircraft hit the earth. Another one of Buzzy's men waited on one of the many back roads for the pilot's signal. The man parachuted down to within 500 feet of Interstate 79. They were miles away by the time Handson and his wife regained enough composure to call 911.
Max's hand only itched sporadically. Whenever it did, a short trip to one of the surrounding islands provided a quick cure. After he murdered his mother, Max’s proclivities changed. Now he killed for the pure pleasure of taking another's life.
As the red sun sank into the ocean, he drained his glass.
"Another beautiful day in paradise," he said out loud. There was no one to hear but the gulls and pelicans on the beach.
He chuckled. Regardless of the weather, neither this nor any day was a good one for Fred Jorgensen. According to the Indianapolis Star, Fred was indicted on racketeering charges. Seems old Brother Fred had been involved in money laundering along with his other illegal actives. The IRS seized what was left of his assets and froze all his accounts. Fred's trophy wife left him and the bank he once owned foreclosed on his mansion. His dealership folded and good old Freddy was facing five to 10 in the Federal lockup.
Max refilled his glass. "Here's to you, Fred," he said, lifting it. "I really do appreciate my island."
The closest humans were a couple on a yacht four miles out. Max would watch them from time to time as he lounged on the beach in the afternoons. He didn't like boats anchoring within sight of his island. However, these people seemed harmless. With his binoculars, he’d watch them swim, fish and dine on the upper deck.
Max poured himself another glass of Dal Forno Romano and toasted the sunset. Standing and stretching, he walked toward his mansion. The gulls and pelicans scattered as he came closer. He saluted them and drained his glass.
He never drank when hunting; however, this time was different. This time the child, a street kid, was safe in the bunker, a secure room hidden in the lower level. Undetectable, unless you knew where to look. So far, Max had kidnapped and murdered five children. The police on the islands were clueless. Soon this one would be number six.
The mansion was situated at the tip of the island and fronted the ocean on three sides with walls of glass in the great room, bedroom, kitchen, and den. The first time he saw it on the internet, Max knew he must have it, no matter what the cost. He ended up striking a deal for $13M, three down and a million a year for the next 10 years. With his investments, he could easily cover the mortgage.
In the great room, he settled back in his favorite overstuffed chair and put his feet up. The alcohol was beginning to buzz. Clicking on the monitor, he watched the child. Approximately six or seven, the boy had offered no resistance. He had stared at the kindly man in the expensive white suit, hoping for at least a meal, at most a few days living as the man's son. It had happened before, a rich white man or couple rescuing a poor child. That is, until they grew bored and dumped the kid back on the streets.
The ride on the yacht was amazing, the big house beautiful, the meal delicious. The boy hadn’t eaten a full meal since his mother died five months ago. Max fed the hungry kid steak, chops, mashed potatoes, corn, beans and spiked Kool Aid. The boy practically licked the plate. Max filled it again and poured more Kool Aid, then loaded him up a third time. Afterwards, the boy couldn’t keep his eyes open.
The 72-inch TV gave Max a larger-than-life view of the small child in the bunker. Through the speakers, he could hear the boy moaning. With a solid steel door and no windows, the room resembled a jail cell. Reaching for the wireless microphone, Max spoke into it, his voice soft at first, then becoming harsher.
"Wakey, wakey, little man." The child stirred in his sleep. "Wake up, almost time to die." Groggily, the child sat up and looked around. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I said wake up, you insolent little brat!" Max screamed into the mike. "I'm going to eat you!"
The little boy's eyes widened with terror. He began to sob. "Mama, Mama."
"Mama can't help you, she's dead. Just like you will be by morning." Max howled with laughter. To the frightened child it sounded like a hound from hell. He ran frantically around the cell, searching for a way to escape. Max grinned malevolently at his frenzied panic. At one point, the kid tried to climb the wall. He actually made it up about a half a foot before falling in a sobbing heap to the floor.
Max clicked the intercom to silence. "Tomorrow… you… will… die," he said with exaggerated slowness. The buzz was deepening. He refilled his glass for the fifth, or was it the sixth, time. "Hereee’s to you, little mmman," he slurred, raising his glass to the screen. In the dungeon, the child circled the room like a trapped animal. "And the pleasure your death will bring ol’ Maxxy."
Setting the empty glass on the end table, Max started to get up. Dizziness overcame him and he fell back into the chair. “Guess I'm drunker than I thought.” His eyes closed and soon his snores told the world he slept.
On the screen, the exhausted boy curled up on the floor and stuck his thumb in his mouth, a habit he had given up three years before. He cried himself to sleep.
In Max's dream, he was swimming in the ocean. The water felt soothing, so relaxing. The tropical sun caressed his skin. As he floated on his back in the balmy water, a tiny shark appeared. It swam at him, its mouth open. Rows of miniature needle-like teeth lined its jaws. Max laughed. "What are you going to do? Bite my finger?" He tried to grab it. The shark slipped through his fingers and swam around his head. He whirled to face it. It came straight at him. Suddenly, fear gripped his heart. He started swimming for the beach. The shark went for his ear, its razor sharp little teeth biting through the cartilage and into his skull. Coming fully awake, Max screamed.
On the roof of the mansion, Antoine lay looking up at the stars. On the day of their birth, he marveled at how quickly they came into being. Other fallen angels gathered around him. They observed the creative genius of the Living God in silent awe. A sick feeling weighted the pit of Antoine’s stomach. It was pure lunacy to rebel against a God who could so easily speak the stars, the earth and all the intricacies of the universe into existence.
The wounds he sustained during the battle of Waynesburg were nearly healed. He would forever bear the scars, the pain was subsiding. A few more weeks and his body would be whole.
"Wake up, scumbag," Lydia snarled, poking the nose of her Glock in Max's ear. Max flinched and came fully awake, instantly sober. Stepping back, Lydia trained her pistol on the side of his head.
"Go ahead, move. Give me an excuse to kill you," Kevin said, his weapon pointed at the bridge of Max's nose.
Regaining his composure, Max smiled. "Well, agents, how nice of you to visit. Welcome to my island hideaway."
He had planned to go where was no extradition treaty with the US. He let the beauty of the island seduce him. He cured himself for being a fool.

Antoine started. Andrew stood before him, his sword pointed at the demon's heart. Suddenly, the entire landscape lit up with a heavenly glow. A thousand angels surrounded the house. Antoine clambered to his feet. "What are you doing here, angel? We defeated you at Waynesburg."
"No. God's plan was to make you think you had obtained victory over His forces."
Lydia stepped closer. She twisted the barrel of the gun, grinding it into Max's ear. A drop of blood trickled down his neck. On the screen, the child still slept. Moving back, Lydia said, "On your feet, Max, and don't make any sudden moves. On second thought, please do. My partner and I would love to take you back in a body bag."
"You’re the couple on the yacht," Max said, kicking himself for how easily he’d been deceived. "Close enough to keep an eye on me, far enough out that I couldn't distinguish your features."
"A wig, a little makeup, and you become a different person," Lydia said, taking another step back. "But of course you know that."
Max slowly rose to his feet. He ran his hand over the arm of the chair, caressing the crushed velvet covering as if wanting to capture the luxury of his surroundings one last time. He rubbed his lips with the back of his hand and looked around the richly appointed great room.
"Ah, don't worry about your mansion,” Kevin said, grinning. I understand the Justice Department is going to seize all of your assets. Something about making this a vacation spot for Federal employees. Your yacht is much nicer than our rental. I'm going to enjoy sailing on it"
"Hands behind your back," Lydia ordered. “We'll send you some pictures to enjoy while you’re rotting in the Federal prison at Terre Haute." She snapped on the handcuffs. "Is that too tight? I certainly hope so."
"No, actually they're very comfortable. Thank you," Max cooed. "Tell me, how did you know I was still alive? I paid a great deal of money to disappear."
"You’d be surprised how little we paid for the information of your whereabouts," Lydia said.
"Let’s just say a little bee told us,” Kevin said. “A little buzzy bee? A few less years in a Federal lockup can be very persuasive.”
Max laughed. "I'll have to request a refund."
"Won't do you any good. Buzzy boy’s out of business."
"Pity. Good help is so hard to find."
"Don't worry. We have a new identity all ready for you," Lydia said, shoving the Glock in his back. "Sorry you can't be numero uno. But rest assured the authorities on death row will assign you a number no one will ever forget," Lydia said.
Twisting around to look her in the eye, Max said with a sneer, "Lady I've always been number one."
"Where’d you get the kid?" Kevin asked, nodding toward the TV.
"Street kid. They’re a dime a dozen down here. No one considers them of any importance. If they’re gone, good riddance, one less mouth to feed."
"Shut up. We're going put you so deep in the hole you'll never even see, much less touch, a child again," Lydia said, fighting back tears. "All it would take is a little squeeze of my finger and you'd be in the hell you deserve."
Max squared his chest and faced her, grinning. His smile broadened when she lowered the pistol a few inches. The bullet missed him and smashed into a lamp, shattering it. Max didn't flinch, but Kevin jumped as if he was the one who’d been shot. “Careful, Lydia, we don't want this piece of garbage to get off on a technicality,” he said.
"My finger slipped," Lydia said, glowering at Max with eyes like granite, her face flushed.
Surrounding the mansion, Royal Police Force officers from St. Christopher heard the shot. They and the FBI SWAT team readied for an assault. Lydia keyed her mike. "Stand down, everything's under control."
It was clear to Kevin that his partner was losing perspective. If they didn't start moving they would have a dead suspect and Lydia would be the one doing time. "Let's go get the kid," he said.
"That's just a DVD," Max said, hoping they’d buy it. At some point, he would escape. By then, if the boy hadn’t starved to death, he would come back for him.
Lydia put her face an inch from Max's. "Bull. We've been tracking you since you snatched him."
"We have the blueprints of the house," Kevin said. "We know about the safe room."
Max shrugged. "Can't blame a guy for trying."
In the elevator, Kevin pressed Max's face against the wall, his pistol poking into the middle of his back. On the short ride to the lower level, the prisoner remained silent.
Antoine's small force glared at the angels. There was no means of escape. The heavenly host had surrounded them, forming a bubble with Antoine and his horde in the center. The angel's swords pointed at the demons like a thousand needles. If they tried anything, their bodies would look like pincushions.
The elevator door opened and Lydia led the way out. The narrow hallway opened up to a concession area outside a 25-seat theater. Here the attendees, if there ever were any, could get popcorn, candy and soda. There also was a bar for the adults. They walked into a garage larger than most auto dealers’ showrooms. Opening a false breaker box, Kevin pushed a button. A portion of the wall slid open, revealing a steel door. Holstering her weapon, Lydia punched in a code. The door clicked.
In response to Max’s baffled expression, she said, "The former owner gave us the code." Grabbing ahold of the recessed hand grip, she slid the heavy door open.
The child lay curled on the floor. Teardrops clung to his eyelashes and salty residue streaked his cheeks. Lydia stooped down and gently lifted him.
On the mansion’s slate roof, Antoine looked Andrew in the eye and drew his sword. "Don't do it, demon," Andrew warned.
"I must," Antoine said wearily.
Andrew approached his old friend with sadness. This would be their last battle. He squared his shoulders and met Antoine's onslaught. Their swords rang through the night. The thunder of their blades muted the sound of the crashing waves. Angels and demons watched their leaders fight, their swords idle at their sides.
Smiling, Lydia turned. The child stirred in her arms. "Ah, isn't that sweet? Mommy and sonny," Max sneered. Behind him, his fingers were busy jimmying the small piece of metal he had taken from the chair into the handcuffs’ lock.
The child woke. Seeing Max, he cried out. Lydia hugged him to her breast. "He can't hurt you, sweetheart. He’ll never be able to hurt anyone ever again." Tears moistened her eyes. "What's your name"? she asked.
"Sammy Allan," the little boy said. His trusting eyes looked into her face. She hugged him tighter. Here at least was one child they had saved. Their ploy worked. Max had let his guard down long enough for them to catch him.
Kevin smiled. Sometimes they did win. And when they did the taste of victory was sweet. He sensed movement and turned his attention back to the prisoner. Terror shot through his heart. Max was loose. Like lightning, Max smashed his fist into Kevin's face. Stunned, Kevin fell back against the wall. As he did, Max went for the agent's gun. The two men tumbled to the floor, wrestling for their lives. The child jumped out of Lydia’s arms and ran to the far end of the cell, huddling in the corner. He shook with fear and wracking sobs. The monster was free.
Gripping it with both hands, Antoine swung his sword at Andrew, slicing open the angel’s forehead. Blood poured into Andrew's eyes, blinding him. He swung wildly, his sword finding only empty air. Ordered not to interfere, the angels watched the fierce encounter. Their task was to make sure no demon escaped.
Restored to the pastorate of Waynesburg Baptist Church, Tom Colburn contacted the saints on the prayer chain. The first was Hattie. "I already knows it, Pastor. I's been on my knees for the last twenty minutes." Her raspy voice had tears flowing through it. "Ol’ Slew Foot, he done be up to his old tricks again."
"Like always, Hattie. Like always," Tom said with a bittersweet smile. The elderly, blind, black woman had more power with God than 100 preachers.
"We'll be a-prayin', Pastor. You can be sure o' that."
"Thank you, Hattie." He punched the end button and called the next one on the list.
Lydia dropped to one knee and aimed her Glock at the fighting pair, seeking a shot. The movement in her sights was too fluid. "Stop!” she yelled at Max. “Drop the weapon or I'll shoot!" She may as well have been shouting at the wind. With both their hands still on the gun, Max twisted his wrist and pointed it at Kevin’s head. Dancing around them, Lydia desperately looked for but could not find a clear shot.
Working his finger into the trigger guard, Max squeezed. The gun fired. The bullet grazed Kevin's head and tore a hole in his ear. Reflexively, the agent grabbed at the wound and spun around, loosening his grip on the weapon. Moving like lightning, Max wrenched the gun from Kevin's hand and shot Lydia in the chest, throwing her back into the cell. Her Kevlar vest took the full impact. Her pistol flew out of her hands. The child screamed and coiled into a ball with his hands over his ears.
In the sky overhead Andrew's sword stuck Antoine in the temple. If the demon had been human, the blow would have been fatal.
Turning the gun on a stunned Kevin, Max shot him in the forehead, killing him instantly. Disoriented and gasping for breath, Lydia instinctively reached for her gun.
Everything slowed to a crawl. The FBI agent and the child killer fired at the same instant. Max's bullet struck Lydia in the upper thigh. Hers pierced his chest. With a shocked expression, he stumbled backward, tumbling over Kevin's corpse and crashing into the cement wall. As he slid down, Lydia kept firing, replaying in her mind the anguish she saw in Cody’s, Kenny’s and every other victim’s mother's face. The Glock clicked on an empty chamber.
Sluagh the ghost man, the demon of the night was dead.




Epilogue

Antoine awoke to darkness, his arms, legs, and wings bound with heavy chains. He screamed in frustration and misery. He would remain here until the Day of Judgment. Relentless tears coursed down his cheeks.
During his Saturday radio address, the President praised Kevin for his bravery, dedication and willingness to sacrifice his life so others might live. "Because of the brave service of agents Kevin Kebel and Lydia McFarland, and the law enforcement officers who assisted them, our children will no longer have to fear The Ghost. Their determination to pursue Max Furman literally to the ends of the earth sends a message to all child predators. No matter how far you run, we will find you, and you will pay for your crimes." He added that Lydia and Kevin had received commendations for service above and beyond the call of duty.
Because of his service in the military, Kevin was buried in Arlington National Cemetery. A memorial service for the fallen agent was held at the FBI’s Hall of Honor. As part of the ceremony, Kevin's name was etched into the memorial. His name also was added to the FBI’s website of Agents Killed as the Direct Result of an Adversarial Action.
At the memorial, John Macklin spoke of Kevin's readiness to tackle even the most difficult cases, his positive attitude and his loyalty. He presented Kevin's sister, his only living relative, with the FBI Star, Shield of Bravery, Medal of Valor and Memorial Star.
Still on crutches, Lydia spoke of the cases she and Kevin had solved together over the years. Her voice broke and tears spilled down her cheeks. "Kevin was more than my partner, he was my trusted friend. He gave his life for what he believed in and... for me." She swallowed several times before she could continue. She placed her hand on Sammy Allan's shoulder. "Because of Kevin’s dedication to our mission, this little boy is alive today." The young American couple who were in the process of adopting the child smiled, warming Lydia's heart.
"I will always be inspired by Kevin's determination to see a case solved, his belief in the system and his ability to see the bright side of every situation."
The following day Lydia walked through the cemetery, thinking of death and the brevity of life. What happened after you died? Was it just, as some said, oblivion? Was this life all there was? She stopped at Kevin's grave. Carved on the stone under his name were his dates of birth and death with a space between the two. The stone said nothing about his smile, his laugh, his dreams or his loyalty to her and the agency.
Lydia's father had been an atheist, her mother an agnostic. She shared neither of their beliefs. She wasn’t sure if there was a God, but she yearned with all her being to know Kevin still lived, somewhere.
She was still sitting on the cool grass when Tom Colburn appeared and sat down beside her. Brice and Tom along with hundreds of other law enforcement officers attended the memorial service. For the next few minutes, they sat in silence staring at the headstone. Finally, Tom said, "He sure was a brave man."
"He gave his life for me," Lydia said, her eyes glistening.
"So did Someone else," Tom said softy, taking a New Testament from the pocket of his shirt. And so it was, in the presence of death, a new life was born.

The End


*****


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Dear Reader:

While Sluagh is fiction, it is based on fact. According to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, each year an estimated 115 children are victims of what is known as "stereotypical" kidnapping. These are children held overnight, transported 50 miles or more. The child in this type of abduction are killed, ransomed, or held with the objective to keep the child permanently.

A 2006 study indicated that 76.2 percent of children in this type of abduction will be murdered within three hours of the kidnapping.

If you see what you believe to be an abduction or a missing child call 911. Try to remember as much information as possible. Time is of the essence. You may be saving a child's life and helping to apprehend the abductor.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. I hope the characters of this tale have become as real as your next-door neighbor.

As always, I trust you enjoyed Sluagh and look forward to Deadly Justice where we will explore new worlds together.

May our God bless you.

Darrell



Like this book? Please leave a review on Amazon. Thank you.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darrell Case is the author of several books. He and his wife Connie live in central Indiana.


For news on Darrell’s latest books excerpts and free offers visit
http://darrellcase.org

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