A Breath Away. Rita Herron

herself.

      Her father’s room was to the right, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. On the left, her grandmother’s room adjoined Violet’s. The crocheted green afghan her grandmother had used to warm her feet at night still lay at the foot of the Jenny Lind bed, the scent of her grandmother’s favorite lavender potpourri mellow, yet lingering. Violet grabbed the afghan and hugged it to her, then glanced at her own room. Had her father changed it? Turned it into a study or storeroom for the old car parts he collected? The parts that had meant more to him than she had.

      She pushed open the door and was shocked to see the sawed-off iron bed still rooted in the corner, the antique dresser laden with her childhood costume jewelry. Even more surprising, Bobo, her big brown birthday bear, hugged the pillows where she had once slept. Right next to Bobo were her Raggedy Ann doll and the stuffed pony her father had won for her at the county fair. The same pale pink chenille bedspread covered her bed, too, although it had yellowed with age.

      Tears pooled in Violet’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, she noticed the faint scents of mothballs and wood polish, as if her father had tried to preserve her room. Peculiar, when the rest of the house seemed in such disrepair.

      She flipped on the radio her father had given her for Christmas one year. Static bellowed back at her, and she fiddled with the knobs, hoping to find some soft music to calm her. An oldies station came through, so she let it play while she retrieved her suitcase. The floor creaked as she entered the house again. Could she really spend the night in this old place?

      Would the ghosts haunt her when she tried to sleep?

      Exhausted and drained from the trip, she dragged on a thin cotton nightshirt. But just as she lay down, a newscaster’s voice came over the radio. “This late-breaking story in just now, folks. The search for Amber Collins, the missing woman from Savannah, Georgia, has ended tonight.”

      Violet gripped the sheets. She didn’t need to hear the report—she knew what he was going to say.

      Amber Collins was dead.

      Still, she listened, her pulse racing. “The young woman’s body was discovered late this evening on the front steps of a church outside the Georgia state line, in what looks like it might be a ritualist killing. Sources say the coed was strangled. Although no signs of sexual abuse have been reported, one source tells us that the victim was left holding a note in her hand that read, ‘For Our Father.’ No suspects have been named thus far. Police have refused comment. We’ll bring you more information as it becomes available.”

      Violet pulled the teddy bear into her arms, stroking its ears the way she had as a child. The police hadn’t mentioned finding a bone whistle beside Amber’s body. Had the killer taken it with him instead of leaving it behind? Or had she simply imagined the whistle?

      Maybe her visions weren’t real.

      But if they were, she needed to alert the police. Would they believe her? Or think she was crazy, the way her father had claimed?

      After all, she hadn’t seen enough details to recognize the killer or even pinpoint where he’d held the woman, so how could she help?

      Her head began to pound, and she lay back and closed her eyes. Why had she experienced this vision about the coed when she hadn’t had one since Darlene was murdered? And why were all these other disturbing things happening now—her father’s death, the suicide note? It wasn’t as if they were related.

      Yet, she sensed somehow they were. And that she had something to do with all of them.

      What about Grady? How would he play into the situation—by proving her father was a killer? By finding the real one?

      As she massaged her temples, the reedy sound of the bone whistle grated through the darkness. If her premonition was right, the questions had only begun.

      And so had the killings….

      ROSS WHEELER’S HEART raced with excitement as he opened the magazine and examined the pictures. The young lovers would take away the pain. Their supple bodies were ripe for picking. Their size didn’t matter. They were firm and tender, begging for attention. Begging for him to taste them.

      But Father told him no. It was wrong to lust. To satisfy his cravings.

      How could sex be wrong when it was in the Bible? Sex was natural, a man’s God-given primal need for mating.

      But the reverend had different rules for himself. He preached abstinence, while he dipped from the honey pot himself.

      Maybe, as God’s spokesman, he thought he’d risen above human sins. Shame crept through Ross at the memory of the reverend’s condemnation over those sexual misconduct charges. How could the town accuse Ross of such a thing, especially in front of a divine man like his father? Ross was the preacher’s son, had been a good teacher, a soccer coach, a deacon himself until they’d ruined his reputation with their accusations.

      Worse, his father had believed them….

      And to think he’d always done everything to please the man.

      Would he ever receive forgiveness?

      Bible verses he’d been forced to learn as a child floated through his head, jumbled and distorted versions that made no sense. He’d hated the rigorous memorizing. The daily prayers. The sermons on hellfire and damnation.

      His gaze flicked to the pictures again.

      His hand slid down his waist, unfastened his belt buckle, pushed it aside. He slipped his fingers beneath the fabric. He was so hard, throbbing like an animal, aching for release, for the sweet fulfillment the young ones promised. He could have it, too. Pleasure lay at his fingertips. All he had to do was look at them, imagine stripping off their clothes and spreading them on the ground for his taking.

      His fingers began to stroke his member, closing around the rigid length until it surged to life and droplets of erotic nectar spilled over.

      Suddenly heavy footsteps clattered above. Click, clack. Click, clack.

      Shit, the reverend.

      “Ross!”

      He jerked his hand away, grabbed a handkerchief and cleaned himself, frustration and embarrassment burning through him.

      Now he would have to repent again, confess his sin to his father and kneel at the altar for hours on end. Damn the reverend for destroying his momentary pleasure.

      He gathered his control and went to face the master. Tonight the reverend would be busy sucking up to the televangelist who was coming in to preach at the revival.

      Ross would do whatever necessary the next few hours to please them both, but tomorrow night he’d do exactly as he wanted….