CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Laura pulled up outside the largest church in Pacific Cove, both by actual size and by congregation, as far as her research had suggested. She ducked her head, looking through the car window for a sign of life. There was light, she thought, shining through the stained-glass windows towards the back of the building. Someone must have been in there.
Laura got out of the car, holding her breath against the blast of cold that hit her. The night had fallen in earnest now, bringing with it even lower temperatures than the day. She tried not to think about a woman laying out there somewhere on the cold ground, her life bleeding away from a hole in her neck. Because if she thought about it too hard, Laura feared she was going to give in to absolute despair. And maybe there was still time. Yes, it was dark now – but it was winter. If the killer truly wanted to wait until night instead of evening, maybe she had an hour or two, some desperate small window to get this done.
She approached the massive entrance doors of the church and pushed; to her surprise, they opened easily and without much pressure. Stepping inside, she immediately saw the source of the light she had seen from outside. Candles – dozens of them – all set up together in front of the altar on a long, low framework designed for the purpose. Memorial candles.
Laura approached them, feeling hushed as she always did in a church environment, like she needed to watch her step, in case her shoes were too loud. The rest of the church seemed empty, even though that meant the candles were unattended – strange, Laura thought, and bad practice in a town where a candle store had burned down so recently. She crossed right down the aisle between the empty pews until she was standing in front of the candles, looking into their flames.
Into flames that seemed so familiar. A pattern that seemed engraved in her memory.
And now she knew. The flames – these were the same ones she had seen in her vision. The candles, too, were the same kind that were placed with the bodies. A few different kinds, which explained something about why those on the bodies had shown slight differentiations in size and thickness. To one side, Laura spotted a long, thin device with a kind of cup on one end: an old-fashioned candle snuffer. If one were to place it down on top of these flames…
Just like that, they would go out, leaving behind only smoke.
“Can I help you?”
Laura jumped at the voice, spinning around to face the source of it, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hand even flew towards her gun, though she didn’t draw it. She stopped herself when she saw him coming towards her out of the vestry, his black clothing and white collar a clear indication of his occupation.
“Hi,” she said, trying not to give away the fact that her heart was still beating rapidly against her ribcage, making a deliberate attempt to physically relax herself. “Are you the Pastor here?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, smiling gently. He was younger than she had expected, perhaps in his forties. “My name is Pastor Williams. And you are?”
“Laura Frost,” she said, not quite sure why she wasn’t using her official title. She hadn’t even made the decision to skip it until the words were coming out of her mouth. “I’m interested in the candles. They kind of drew me in from outside.”
“Ah, our memorial candles.” Pastor Williams stepped closer, approaching the candles himself. His dark hair was only just shot through with gray at the sides, lending an air of distinction to an otherwise weak jaw and large nose. “Yes, they’re very popular with our congregation. Do you know how they work?”
“I don’t,” Laura lied, because she wanted to hear it from him. She was interested in him, this Pastor. Because who would be better acquainted with the idea of candles and what they could represent than someone who actually worked in the church?
“Well,” Pastor Williams said, with the kind of fatherly tone that Laura had noticed most priests tended to adopt, no matter the age of the person they were talking to. He reached out to take a long match from a stand beside the candles and lit it. “They represent the dead, for many of us. Or, rather, our prayers for the dead. When you light a candle, you think about a loved one who is now sadly departed, and you think of their soul in heaven. You pray that they are at eternal rest. You may even pray that you will see them again someday, when your souls are in the same place.” As he spoke, he touched the match to three candles, one at a time.
“You keep them lit after the person has gone?” Laura asked.
“Well, of course,” Pastor Williams said. “We want God to hear those prayers. And it’s very reassuring for us to see that others have loved ones they are thinking of, too. When we approach these candles, we can feel the weight of all those prayers, all that goodwill. See how the flames continue to burn bright and strong? They represent more than just prayer. They represent life, purity, and the strength and brightness of our eternal souls.”
“That’s a lot of meaning to pack into a single flame,” Laura said.
Pastor Williams gave a deep chuckle. “You may think so,” he said. “I believe it’s a kind of purification, keeping them lit. As they burn, they can take our worries with them. For the good of the church and for my parishioners, I like to let them burn as long as they can. To purify us all.”
Three candles, Laura thought. He’d lit just three. No more, no less. Could it be that he was thinking of three people who had been lost in the town recently?
Three young women whose lives had been taken by someone who believed in the power that candles held?
“Did you know Evelina Collins?” she asked softly, watching him with a pasted-on innocence on her face, wanting to see his true reaction, trying not to make him suspicious about why she was asking.
The Pastor sighed sadly, his gaze flickering over the candles. Almost as if one of them was specifically for her. “Yes, I’m afraid I did. She was a regular member here at our services. Poor soul.”
“What about the others?” Laura asked. Another test. She wanted to see if he knew their names. It wouldn’t mean he was guilty, but if he didn’t know who the latest victim was, then he might be innocent.
“Young Ashley hadn’t been to services for a while,” he said, shaking his head mournfully. “We always hope that the lost lambs will come back to the flock, but when something like this happens, it takes away that chance. I hope she’ll find peace, wherever she is.”
“Me, too,” Laura said, actually meaning it. He hadn’t mentioned the latest one, yet. Maybe he didn’t know…
“The worst of them is Cici Powers,” the Pastor said, sighing again. “Not long ago, I remember her standing up here and reading a poem during her father’s memorial service. The poor mother is a widow and now bereft of a child as well. It’s enough to test the strongest of our faiths. But I do believe she is with God now – and her father. That has to be something we can take as small comfort.”
Laura let a respectful silence lie between them for a moment, but she wasn’t done. Far from it. The new facts they had just added to the table were spinning inside her mind. One: all three victims had attended this church at one time or another, which finally gave her a concrete link between both the women and the precise type of candle left with their bodies. Two: this Pastor was also connected to all three of them by virtue of his connection to the church. Three: he was clearly obsessed with the candles, seeing something deep in their meaning.
“Were you here, when it happened?” Laura asked softly.
The Pastor sent a look in her direction, though it was far from a panicked one. “Why do you ask?” he said mildly.
“You’re here now,” Laura said, shrugging. “It was around this time that each of them was found, wasn’t it? Or a little later, perhaps.”
“You may be right, there,” the Pastor conceded. “Yes, I was here. I’m always here. Tending the candles, waiting for someone to come in. You’d be surprised how often we have a visitor this late at night. There’s no telling when someone will need the calming presence of God to reassure them, or to help them through a difficult time in their lives.”
“Always?” Laura asked. “Don’t you ever go home, Pastor?”
“I am home,” he said, giving her a beatific smile. “My apartment is attached to the rear of the church. It’s a solitary existence, but I am never alone. My God is always here with me.”
Laura translated that in her head. The Pastor had no alibi. No one would be able to confirm that he was here on his own at the time that the murder happened. She doubted that anyone was going to accept the word of God as a testimony in court.
It felt kind of weird, accusing a Pastor. But Laura wasn’t naïve. She knew that all kinds of people could be evil – and the church didn’t exactly have a great reputation all the time. She had to do it.
“ Pastor Williams,” she said. “My name is Special Agent Laura Frost with the FBI. I need you to come with me to answer some more questions.”
“Am I going to need a lawyer?” he asked, with the same placid calm.
Laura didn’t know why she was so surprised. He’d probably known she was an agent from the moment she walked through the doors; news traveled fast in a town like this, after all. “You are entitled to one,” she said. “At the moment, you aren’t under arrest, and I’d just like to talk in a more formal setting.”
“Then lead the way,” Pastor Williams said. “I’m more than happy to tell you whatever you need – but I can tell you now, I had nothing to do with these dreadful killings.”
Laura held out an arm, indicating for him to come along with her out of the church and towards her car. “Even so,” she said, and she couldn’t tell whether she was hoping to be right or not.
Because if she was right, then it was yet another example of a figure who should have been trusted betraying that trust and abusing his authority. But if she was wrong…
The killer was still on the streets, and the evening was not getting any younger.