"Laurant!" He lunged through the doorway. He had to get back to the abbey before it was too late. As he ran through the living room, he crashed into the coffee table, overturning it. He leapt over the legs and ripped the front door open. The church. The bastard was going to grab her when she left the church. Shoving the gun back into his holster, he raced to get to the phone in his car.
He couldn’t waste valuable time trying to reach the closest authorities. Pete could sound the alarm and get him help while Nick and Noah protected Tommy and Laurant-the pawns in Heartbreaker’s deadly game.
He reached the street, shouted to Bessie Jean, "Go inside and call the Nugent sheriff. Tell him to get every available man to the abbey."
He dove into the car, leaving the door open as he reached over to pull a Glock and another magazine out of the glove compartment. He grabbed the phone and continued to shout at the stunned ladies watching him. "Go," he screamed. "And tell them to come armed."
He jerked the gear into drive and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The momentum shut the door as the car shot forward. He punched the speed dial for Pete’s cell phone. He knew he always carried it and that the only time the power was turned off was when he was home or in the air.
He got his voice mail on the first ring. Shouting a blasphemy, Nick disconnected, then hit the speed dial for Pete’s home number. As he raced up the hill, going seventy miles an hour now, he chanted into the phone, "Come on, come on, come on."
One ring. Two rings. Then on the third ring, Pete answered the phone.
Nick shouted, "It isn’t Brenner. It’s Stark. He’s using Laurant to get to me. It was a setup from the very beginning. He’s going to kill her and Tommy. Get some help, Pete. We’re all targets."
Chapter 36
Donald Stark, known to the residents of Holy Oaks as that nice, polite farmer, Justin Brady, was crouched down below the railing of the choir loft, waiting and watching for his opportunity. Oh, how he had planned for this day. The celebration was finally at hand.
It was going to be his moment of glory, and Nicholas Buchanan’s day of reckoning.
His good mood was being sorely tested now, though, by Nicholas. The mule was, in fact, making Stark quite frantic. Trying to ruin all of his wonderful plans by making him waste time worrying.
Once again he slowly inched up over the wall and searched the crowd below. He could feel the rage building inside and fought to contain it. All in good time, he promised himself. And then he looked again. Where had the mule disappeared to? After searching through the crowd a third time, Stark concluded he wasn’t in the church. Where oh where could he have gone? And then the thought occurred to him that perhaps the mule was standing in the back, under the balcony.
Stark had to be sure. He decided he would have to risk it and sneak downstairs to look for himself. He had to be certain. Had to, had to, had to. It was imperative that the mule attend the celebration. He was the guest of honor, after all.
Keeping his head down, Stark crawled back to the bench where he’d put the key to the iron gate. He was reaching up to grab it when he heard the screech of tires. Scrambling over to the window he peered out just as the mule’s green Explorer came barreling up the driveway.
Stark grinned. "Good things come to those who wait," he whispered. Then he sighed. Everything was back on schedule. The guest of honor would be strolling into the church any minute now.
He picked up the rifle, adjusted the scope, and then got into position, hunched down on his knees beside the tripod.
The video camera was focused on the altar, and he reached up and pushed the button to start the tape. Timing was everything, of course. What good was killing Father Tom and Laurant if the mule wasn’t there to watch? No good at all, Stark reasoned. He was determined to get both the murders on film too-how could he boast that he had bested the FBI if he didn’t have the goods to prove it? Stark knew he was smarter than all the mules put together, and soon now, very soon, the world would know it too. The tape would mock them, prove their incompetence, humiliate them in the same way that Nicholas had humiliated him.
"You messed with the wrong man," he whispered, his voice shimmering with hate. His fingers curled around the smooth barrel. He could feel the power under his fingertips growing stronger, more potent with each caress.
And still he waited for the pretty boy priest to finish the wedding ceremony and go up the steps and get back behind the altar table to start mass. Stark had done his homework. He knew exactly where everyone in the wedding party would be sitting. He’d been pretending to be working in the balcony while the rehearsal was going on, and he knew that the bride and groom, the best man, and the maid of honor were going to follow the priest up on the altar and sit in chairs, like royalty, slightly behind the altar table and to the right, against the north wall. Both brother and sister would be center stage in the camera’s lens.
It was going to be perfect. He would kill Tommy boy first-one shot through the center of his forehead that would look absolutely marvelous on film. And while Nicholas was still reeling from the shock-who wouldn’t, after witnessing his best friend’s death-Stark would swing the rifle to the right and kill Laurant. The camera would be capturing her reaction to her brother’s death. Stark pictured the look of horror in her eyes the scant second before he killed her, and he smiled again. It was going to be delicious. Bam, bam, thank you, ma’am. He’d get the brother and sister before the crowd had time to react. Stark was counting on the guests to panic and stampede their way like cows to the doors. He needed the pandemonium to give him time to get downstairs through the trapdoor he’d built in the floor behind the organ. He’d land in the closet off the vestibule, get outside through the front window, and blend in with all the hysterical men and women. He might even decide to have a little more fun and do some screaming too.
"So much to do, so little time," he whispered. For, in those precious two or three seconds, maybe even as many as four, before the crowd swelled from their seats, he was going to try to kill Willie and Mark. They were seated next to the main aisle, six rows from the front. Stark knew he was being greedy, but he didn’t care. He had to get rid of them. He’d been fantasizing about it for as long as he’d had to endure living with them. His housemates were pigs. Vile, filthy pigs. He couldn’t abide the thought of letting such garbage continue to pollute the world. No, that wasn’t an option. They had to die, and if he couldn’t kill them today, then he would come back and get them later. He wouldn’t bother to film their deaths, however, for like the whore, Tiffany, Willie and Mark weren’t worthy enough to be remembered.
He stifled a girlish giggle as he thought about the garage door opener he’d made such clever adjustments to. It was clipped to the visor in his van. No one would notice it or give it a second thought. It wasn’t going to open any garage doors. No, sirree. One push of the button, and wham, bam. News at eleven. Are we having fun yet? Oh, yes, yes indeed.
Because of Michelle’s metal leg brace, she wasn’t able to kneel and for that reason Tommy married the couple at the beginning of the ceremony instead of waiting until the middle of the mass, as was the usual custom. He had great hopes for this couple. Christopher was a good, decent man and very levelheaded. He believed in marriage and commitment, as did his lovely bride. Both of them had endured hardships in the past and had survived with grace and dignity, and Tommy knew that they would fight to keep their vows to each other when they hit those inevitable rocky patches.