He didn't wait for a reply, just snapped the phone shut and started the engine.
B.J.'s gun was in his shoulder holster now, far from my very encumbered hands. He pressed his foot on the accelerator and we took off.
This had all happened so fast and I was still stunned to have seen Sara Rankin in that log cabin. I kept silent for a minute or two, thinking things through. I felt calmer then, as calm as a girl could get, handcuffed next to a murderer. Still, B.J. could have gotten rid of me and he hadn't. He needed me alive for some reason.
He made his next phone call when we reached the church parking lot. He'd pulled behind the main buildings near a row of garages. Not well lit. And deserted. He speed-dialed a number and said, "She went to the cabin. I nabbed her before she got inside. Get everyone out, janitors included, and call me back. Then I'll bring her in."
I heard another agitated voice. Female, too.
B.J. said, "If you don't do this, I'll splatter her blood all over your church. See how well you fix that problem, Noreen."
My gut tightened. So much for my belief he had some odd attraction to me and would spare my life again. I was no more than a tool. And if Noreen didn't cooperate...
But when I heard B.J. say, "Good thinking," I knew I was safe for a few more precious minutes.
I quietly released my breath.
He took the gun out, held it across his lap, but said nothing. Just stared straight ahead.
I had a little time, and knowing words were my only weapon, I said, "What's wrong with Sara?"
He didn't respond, just kept looking straight ahead.
"Her face, her mouth, the way they sag on one side. Did she have a stroke?" I asked.
Again nothing.
"Has she been in that house all these years? With no one but Olive?"
The rise and fall of his chest picked up speed, his lips tightened. He wanted me to be quiet. But he still needed me, so I could keep hammering at him. Keep picking away. He might make a mistake.
"This Olive, she was Verna Mae's friend, right? Did the Rankins use Olive to sign Verna Mae up for motherhood?"
"Shut up," he snapped. This time he looked at me, but then quickly turned away.
"What I don't understand is why the Rankins have been keeping their daughter a prisoner. She can hardly walk, but she's still young, she's—"
He pressed the gun barrel against my forehead. "Amanda, shut your trap!"
I swallowed hard. Amanda? And then I flashed back to my conversation with Kate, when we examined that grainy ATM photo. "You look just like her," Kate had said.
I closed my eyes, tried to remember all the names from Frank Simpson's notes—Amanda's ex-boyfriends who'd been supposedly cleared of her murder. Anyone whose name began with a B? Barry? No. Bob? No. An odd name. An old name. And then I just blurted it out. "Byron."
B.J. turned sharply, glared for a long, cold second.
"Amanda dump you, Byron? Is that why you killed her?"
"She got religion, thought she was better than me. You look like her, you know. Even act like her. Wonder how she'd feel today if she knew I worked for the pastor."
"Did she really deserve a bullet in the head?" I wanted to add. "Or do I?"
B.J.'s strange smile nearly made my fingernails sweat. "She wanted to be with God more than with me. So I helped her out."
The cell phone chirped, and we both flinched. A sound you hear every day and everywhere now made me want to throw up.
B.J., eyes on me, answered, saying, "You ready?" A short pause followed, then he said, "We're coming in."
If I didn't do something, I might be going out feet first. He came around to the passenger side, opened the door, and when he bent to free my hands, I headbutted him in the jaw.
He staggered, wiped at the blood dripping from his mouth.
Not knocked out. Not what I'd hoped for. Shit.
"Yeah. You're just like her." He finished uncuffing me, being far more careful, and pulled me out of the car.
Before I could blink, his gun grip came crashing down on my skull.
I must have been unconscious for only a minute, because the next thing I knew, I was being carried over B.J.'s shoulder like a sack of flour. We were walking through the church kitchen, and I smelled buttermilk biscuits. Would I ever eat another one? God, I hoped so. He took me into Pastor Rankin's office and tossed me into one of the chairs surrounding the glass coffee table. By then, my senses had cleared— and I was mad as hell.
"Thanks, Byron," I said, the throbbing in my head just background noise compared to my rage. These people were going down tonight. I didn't know how, but I'd make it happen.
"Did she say 'Byron'?" Mrs. Rankin asked as she came into the room.
"She knows. You see the problem?" B.J. answered.
Both she and her weirdo husband had arrived right behind us.
Noreen Rankin, her makeup as perfect as ever and her expensive coral suit fitting every curve, began to pace, acting like I wasn't even in the room. "You had no problem with the Olsen woman, no issue plugging that hole, B.J. I don't understand what you want from us? You could have taken care of this without bringing her here."
"I'm not killing anyone else to protect your secrets," he said. "Not without a better deal. If you won't fix me up, then I kill her in the sanctuary. That ought to bring a few unwelcome questions your way."
Rankin had sat at his desk and was giving me that stare I was beginning to know well and dislike intensely. I glared at him, and he covered his face with his hands and began mumbling. I heard "Jesus" and "Lord" a few times. Must be praying.
Noreen walked over and rested a hand on her husband's shoulder. "That seems reasonable, doesn't it, Andrew? We have the money."
Rankin didn't look up.
These people were plotting my murder right in front of me and I couldn't do anything. Hell, maybe I couldn't even walk right now. Still, the only imminent threat was B.J. and his gun, which now hung down at his side.
Noreen said, "How much?"
"A hundred grand right away and a steady income in my new home somewhere in the Caribbean. You don't have to pay the Olsen woman anymore, so it won't hurt your budget."
"That's acceptable. What will you do with her?" she said, glancing my way for the first time.
"Good question. She has friends in HPD. Close friends. I'll have to take her out of town. Tonight."
Pastor Rankin was rocking back and forth, his hands clasped together, head still bent. But when he started this little high-pitched moan, both Noreen and B.J. turned his way.
That was my opening. The only chance I might get.
I dove over that coffee table and rammed into B.J., hitting him low, on the side of his leg at the knee—the closest weak point.
The gun went flying.
Noreen screamed.
B.J. and I crashed into the heavy oak lectern holding the Bible. When we fell, a corner caught him in the temple. Blood poured from the wound as he thudded to the floor, out cold.
I fell on my butt next to him and looked around. The gun. Where was the gun?
I saw it on the floor by the pastor's feet. He was staring at it, smiling, then slowly bent and picked it up.
He took the weapon in both hands, held it out in front of him, his hands shaking.
Noreen smiled, cocked her head. "Andrew? Give me the gun, sweetheart."
He shook his head. "God has spoken. I have received His word. This ends now."
She stepped toward him.
Their eyes locked.
While they were occupied with their trust issues, I did what I'd been wanting to do for the last hour. I slipped my hands into B.J.'s shirt pocket for the handcuff key. Nothing like a good marital disagreement to provide distraction.