Before He Sins. Блейк Пирс

headed back to her car, pulling out her cell phone. She dialed up Agent Harrison, who answered right away.

      “Everything going well?” he asked her.

      “I don’t know yet,” she said. “Can you do me a favor and look back about ten years to see what you can find about Father Costas being accused of sexually abusing a male leader of a youth group? I’d like as many details on the case as I can get.”

      “Sure. You think it might present a lead?”

      “I don’t know,” she said. “But I think a kid who claims to have been sexually abused by a priest who was nailed to the door of his church would certainly be worth looking into.”

      “Yeah, good point,” Harrison said.

      She ended the call, again haunted by images of the Scarecrow Killer and Nebraska. She had obviously dealt with killers striking out of a religious context before. And one thing she knew about them was that they could be unpredictable and very driven. She wasn’t going to take any chances and, as such, would not leave any stone unturned.

      Yet as she got back into her car, she realized that a sexually abused boy did feel like a solid lead. Besides, other than him, the only thing at her disposal was returning to the FBI offices and seeing what she could mine from the files while hoping Forensics might be able to come up with something.

      And she knew that if she sat idly, waiting for a break in the case, the killer could very well be out there plotting his next move.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      It was 3:08 by the car’s dashboard when the pastor came out of the church.

      He watched the pastor through the windshield from a distance. He knew the man was holy; his reputation was stellar and his church had been blessed. Still, it was rather disappointing. Sometimes he thought holy men should be set apart from the rest of the world, easier to identify. Maybe like those old religious paintings where Jesus had a large golden circle around his head.

      He chuckled at the thought of this as he watched the pastor meet with another man in front of a car by the church. This other man was an assistant of some sort. He’d seen this assistant before but wasn’t concerned with him. He was very low on the food chain within the church.

      No, he was more interested in the head pastor.

      He closed his eyes as the two men talked. In the silence of his car, he prayed. He knew he could pray anywhere and God would hear him. He had known for quite some time that God did not care where you were when you prayed or confessed your sins. You did not have to be in some huge and gaudily decorated building. In fact, the Bible indicated that such elaborate dwellings were an affront to God.

      With his prayer over, he thought about that bit of scripture. He muttered it out loud, his voice slow and gritty.

      “And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are. For they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, so that they may be seen of men.”

      He looked back to the pastor, currently walking away from the man and to another car.

      “Hypocrite,” he said. His voice was a mixture of venom and sadness.

      He also knew that the Bible warned of a plague of false prophets in the end times. That was, after all, why he had set himself to his current task. The false prophets, the men who spoke of glorifying God while eyeing the collection plates as they were passed around – the same ones who preached of sanctification and purity while staring at young boys with lustful eyes – they were the worst of them. They were worse than the drug dealers and murderers. They were worse than rapists and the most deplorable deviants on the streets.

      Everyone knew it. But no one did anything about it.

      Until now. Until he had heard God speaking into him, telling him to set it right.

      It was his job to rid the world of these false prophets. It was bloody work, but it was God’s work. And that was all he needed to know.

      He looked back to the pastor, getting into his car and leaving the church.

      After a while, he also pulled out onto the street. He did not tail the pastor closely, but followed along at a safe distance.

      When he came to a stoplight, he could just barely hear the musical noise from his trunk as several of his industrial nails clinked together in their box.

      CHAPTER SIX

      She walks up toward the church, the blood moon casting a shadow of her body on the sidewalk that looks like a stretched out bug – a praying mantis or a millipede perhaps. There is a bell ringing, a large bell above the cathedral, summoning everyone to come worship and sing and give praise.

      But Mackenzie cannot get inside the church. There is a throng of people on the front stoop, congregating around the front door. She sees Ellington there, as well as McGrath, Harrison, her estranged mother and sister, even her old partner, Bryers, and some of the men she’d worked with while still a detective back in Nebraska.

      “What’s everyone doing?” she asks.

      Ellington turns to her. His eyes are closed. He is dressed in a nice suit, punctuated by a blood red tie. He smiles at her, his eyes still closed, and holds a hand to his lips. Beside him, her mother points to the front doors of the church.

      Her father is there. Strung up, crucified. He wears a crown of thorns, and a wound in his side leaks something that looks like motor oil. He is looking directly at her, his eyes wide and maniacal. He is insane. She can see it in his eyes and in the leer of a grin.

      “Has thee come to save thyself?” he asks her.

      “No,” she says.

      “Well, you certainly did not come to save me. Too late for that. Now bow. Worship. Find your peace in me.”

      And as if someone has broken her in half from inside, Mackenzie kneels. She kneels hard, scraping her knees on the concrete. All around her, the congregation starts to sing in tongues. She opens her mouth and formless words come out, joining in the song. She looks back up to her father and there is a halo of fire encircling his head. He is dead now, his eyes blank and expressionless, his mouth trailing a pool of blood.

      There is the chiming of the bell, repeating over and again.

      Ringing…

      Ringing. Something ringing.

      Her phone. With a jerk, Mackenzie came awake. She barely registered the clock on her bedside table, which read 2:10 a.m. She answered the phone, trying to shake the vestiges of the nightmare from her head

      “This is White,” she said.

      “Good morning,” came Harrison’s voice. She was secretly rather disappointed. She’d been expecting to hear from Ellington. He’d been sent off on some task by McGrath, the details of which were sketchy at best. He’d promised to call at some point but so far, she’d heard nothing from him.

      Harrison, she thought groggily. What the hell does he want?

      “It’s way too early for this, Harrison,” she said.

      “I know,” Harrison said. “Sorry, but I’m calling for McGrath. There’s been another murder.”

***

      Through a series of texts, Mackenzie pieced together all she needed to know. A rebellious couple had pulled off into the shadow of a well-known church’s parking lot to have sex. Just as things had started heating up, the girl had seen something strange on the door. It had spooked her enough to put an end to the night’s planned activities. Clearly pissed, the male who had been robbed of his exhibitionism stalked to the front door and found a naked body nailed to the doors.

      The church in question was a fairly popular one: Living Word Community Church, one of the largest in the city. It often made the news, as the President frequently attended services there. Mackenzie had never been (she had not stepped into a church since a guilt-filled weekend in college)