He was so shocked to see that both of them were still alive and kicking, he almost shouted at them. He recoiled against the wall, his shoulders pressing into the cold stone. What to do? What to do? No time to plan, no time at all, but he had to do something before the opportunity slipped away.
A crowd surrounded Tom now. Stark watched as he slowly lowered the other priest to the grass, then knelt over him and whispered into the dying priest’s ear. Praying for him, no doubt, as if that would do any good.
Only, the priest he’d shot wasn’t a priest, was he? He had a gun. He was a mule, a pretender. How dare they trick him? How dare they? He was a mule all right. But now he was dying.
Stark desperately wanted to kill Tom, yet he knew he couldn’t get a clear shot at him-too many people running around like chickens with their heads cut off.
He turned his attention to Laurant. Easy pickings, he thought. She was standing by the door, against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, but every couple of seconds she turned to try to look inside. She wasn’t more than thirty feet away from him. He slowly crept forward. She looked dazed, and that gave him an added advantage.
He pulled the gun out of his pocket and hid it inside his jacket.
"Laurant," he shouted her name and tried to sound pitiful. He doubled over, his head down, but he peeked up at her as he called out to her again.
"Laurant, I’ve been shot. Please help me." He staggered closer.
"Please."
Laurant heard Justin Brady call her name, and without a second’s hesitation, she started toward him.
He pretended to stumble. Then he groaned loudly. An Academy Award. He should get an award for his flawless performance.
Laurant took a step in Justin’s direction and a sting pinched the calf of her right leg. Most likely she’d cut herself when she’d been thrown to the floor by one of the bridesmaids trying to push ahead of her into the aisle. She could feel blood trickling down into her shoe.
She was limping but moved as fast as she could. When she was about fifteen feet away from him, she suddenly stopped. Something wasn’t quite right. She heard Nick’s voice inside her head. Don’t believe anything anyone tells you. And that’s when she glanced down and saw what was wrong.
Justin watched her take a step back, away from him. He had his right hand inside his jacket, holding his gun flush against his side. He kept stumbling toward her, half doubled over, trying to look as though he were in terrible pain.
She wasn’t buying it. What was she staring at? His hand. She was staring at his hand. He looked down and then he saw it. The surgical glove. He had forgotten to remove the surgical gloves. Jolted by his own carelessness, he ran at her like a charging bull. She was turning to run away, shouting for Nicholas, when he slammed the butt of his gun against the base of her skull, silencing her scream.
Hurry, his mind told him. Get her, get her, get her. She was unconscious, falling, but he caught her around the waist before she hit the ground and dragged her back, and around the corner of the building. People were still pouring out of the church, and there were clusters of men and women and children in the parking lot, but no one tried to stop him. Did they see what he was doing? Did they see the gun pressed against Laurant’s chest? The barrel was pointed upward, the muzzle under her chin. If anyone dared interfere, Stark knew exactly what he would do. He would blow her pretty little head off.
He didn’t want her to die, not yet anyway. He might have to make a few adjustments, but he still had such grand plans for her. After he locked her in the trunk of his other car-the old souped-up Buick that none of the mules knew belonged to him-he’d drive somewhere safe and tie her up. There were lots of abandoned cabins up in this neck of the woods. He knew he’d find the perfect spot easily. He’d leave her there trussed up like a turkey with a gag in her mouth, and then he’d go shopping. Yes sir, that’s what he was going to do. He’d buy another video camera-high quality, of course, only the best would do-and he’d purchase at lease a dozen videotapes as well. Sony if they had them, because the resolution was oh, so much better. And then he would return to his sweet Laurant and film her death. He’d try to keep her alive for as long as he could, but when the inevitable occurred and the light went out of her eyes-and it would-he would rewind the tape and relive the glorious execution. Stark knew from past experience that he would spend hours and hours watching and rewatching the tape until he had every twitch, every scream, every plea memorized. Only when he was completely satisfied would he be able to rest.
Once he had disposed of her body in the woods, he would go home. He would make copies of the tapes and send them to everyone he wanted to impress. Nicholas would get one for a keepsake, a reminder of how impotent he had been, daring to go up against the master. Another tape would be sent to the head of the FBI. The director might want to use the gift as a training tape for future mules. Stark would, of course, keep several for his own personal library-even the best tapes eventually wore out after all-and the last tape he would make would be auctioned on the Internet. Although he wasn’t driven by the almighty dollar, a nice nest egg would give him the freedom to go searching for another perfect partner, and this tape would bring a fortune. There was a large following out there surfing the Internet with similar tastes in voyeurism.
Laurant lay slumped on the ground next to the van while Stark got his keys out. No one could see them, tucked in as they were between two other cars. He unlocked the door, slid the panel back, and then lifted Laurant and threw her inside. As he pulled the door closed, her long skirt got caught, but he was in too much of a hurry now to open the door again. He knew he was being sloppy, but that couldn’t be helped. Things were changing so quickly-and then there was also his own forgetfulness with the gloves. He ran around to the driver’s side, saw the ambulance threading its way up the drive, trying to get through the crowd and the cars. The siren was blasting away.
Stark knew he couldn’t get down the driveway, which was the only exit. "Not to worry," he whispered. He started the motor and slowly edged the van over the curb. Then he gunned the engine. The van lurched forward and crashed into the rosebushes. A thorny branch flew up against the window, and Stark instinctively ducked, as though it were going to slice through the windshield and strike him. He was all but standing on the gas petal now, pushing down with all of his weight. The van raced down the grassy slope, bouncing and rocking along. Stark felt like he was flying.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and then began to laugh. No one was following him. He was as safe as a bug in a rug.
Should he do it now? Blow them all to kingdom come? The detonator was just above his forehead, clipped like a real garage door opener to the visor.
No, he wanted Laurant to watch the fireworks. He decided to stick with his original plan then. He’d blow up the abbey on his way out of town. He’d already picked the spot. Best seat in the house, at the top of the hill outside of town. He’d be able to see every brick explode. And oh, what a sight that was going to be. My God, he ought to film that too. Send it to all the television stations. News at eleven. Yes, sirree…
"Green-eyed girl, won’t you wake up and play. Wake up and play… Laurant, it’s time to wake up."
He glanced down at his watch and was shocked at how little time had passed. Then he heard the screech of tires, and his head snapped up. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the green Explorer at the top of the hill. The SUV was soaring through the air, the front tires coming down as Stark watched in disbelief. His rage was uncontrollable. "Not acceptable," he screamed as he pounded his fist against the steering wheel.