Heartbreaker (Buchanan-Renard #1)

Heartbreaker (Buchanan-Renard #1) Page 47

“Oh, good Lord,” he whispered loudly.

His daughter heard him. She saw the panic on her father’s face. “What’s wrong, Daddy? Did someone faint?”

“I forgot the Vanderman sisters,” he told her.

“Daddy, you can’t go get them now. The wedding’s starting.”

Her father frantically looked around for help, spotted Nick, and grabbed him. “Could you please go and get Bessie Jean and Viola? They’re probably waiting on the curb, and I’ll never hear the end of it if they miss this wedding.”

Nick didn’t want to leave Laurant, but he was the only available man or woman in the vestibule who wasn’t in the wedding. He knew it would only take him a couple of minutes to drive down the hill and back, yet he still resisted.

Laurant saw his hesitation. She got out of line and hurried over to him, her silk skirt rustling about her ankles. “You won’t miss anything,” she said loud enough for Michelle’s father to hear. Then she leaned closer and whispered, “It’s over, remember? You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “I’ll go in just a minute, after you walk down the aisle.”

“But if you hurry—”

“I want to watch you walk down that aisle,” he said a bit more abruptly than he’d intended. In truth, what he wanted was to make sure she was in Noah’s capable hands before he left the church.

He didn’t give her time to argue further, had that been her inclination. He slipped inside the church and hurriedly walked along the back wall to the south corner so that he was directly in line with the sacristy. He was waiting for Tommy and Noah to come out so that he could get Noah’s attention.

A hush of expectancy fell over the crowd. Then Tommy walked out, and with a noisy clatter, the guests got to their feet. Tommy was wearing his ceremonial white and gold robes, and he was smiling as he slowly made his way around the altar to take his place at the top of the three steps in front of the main aisle. Once he was in position, he folded his hands, then glanced at the pianist and nodded.

The second the music started, the crowd turned in unison to the double doors, craning their necks and shifting for the best view when the bride appeared at the entrance.

Noah had followed Tommy out onto the altar, but he stayed in the background by the sacristy door with his arms folded across his chest. His hands were hidden inside the sleeves of his black cassock, his right hand curled around the butt of his Glock as he slowly scanned the audience.

Nick raised his hand and motioned to Noah. The first bridesmaid had just started walking toward Tommy when Noah went down the side steps and crossed to the side aisle heading for Nick.

By the time he reached the corner where Nick was waiting, the second bridesmaid had just stepped into the main aisle.

“I got stuck doing an errand,” Nick said. “Once Laurant’s down at the altar, I’ll leave. I’ll only be gone a couple of minutes, but I need you to cover her and Tommy until I get back.”

“No problem,” he assured him. “I won’t let either one of them out of my sight.”

Nick looked relieved. “I know I’m being stubborn about this . . .”

“Hey, you’ve got to go with your gut,” Noah said. “I’d trust your instinct over Wesson’s hard evidence any day of the week.”

“Like I said, I’m only going to be gone five, ten minutes tops.”

Noah nodded toward the back doors. “There’s Laurant. Lord, she’s hot.”

“You’re in church, Noah.”

“Right, but man oh man, does she look . . . good.”

Nick barely glanced at her. While Noah slowly made his way back to the altar—getting waylaid by young women who grabbed hold of his hand to say hello as he passed their pews—Nick searched the faces in the crowd.

Nick spotted Willie and Mark near the front. Neither one of the men had shaved, but they had changed their clothes to short-sleeved shirts and ties. They, too, focused their complete attention on Laurant.

As soon as she reached Tommy and turned to join the other bridesmaids at the bottom of the steps, Nick went out the side door. He ran to his car, cursing loudly when he saw that the parking lot was crammed with cars blocking his exit. He got inside, started the motor, and then drove over the curb, and down the manicured lawn, trying to avoid the flower beds brimming with impatiens and rosebushes.

He went at a snail’s pace until he reached the main driveway. Then he floored it and sped down the street. He was fighting the instinct to turn around and go back to the church. He tried to reason away the panicky feeling. Laurant and Tommy were safe with Noah. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to them. As long as they were in church, they were okay. The ceremony and the mass would take about an hour, depending on how long Tommy’s sermon ran. Even if Nick was delayed, everything would be fine.

He wouldn’t be so tense if he had the results of the damned reports. What was taking so long? Nick thought about calling Pete now to find out if he knew anything more, but then he changed his mind. He knew Pete would call him the second he had the information.

He was going sixty by the time he reached the Vandermans’ street and had to brake hard to come to a screeching stop in front of their driveway. The car was still rocking as Nick shoved the gear into park. Bessie Jean and Viola were waiting on the sidewalk. He left the motor running as he jumped out and ran around to the other side to open the back door for them. He noticed Viola was holding a large plastic container but didn’t want to waste time asking her what it was. Besides, Bessie Jean was lacing into him, irritated that she was missing the wedding.

“I just hate to be tardy. I don’t like to be late for anything, not even—”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Nick said, cutting into her complaints. “Let’s go, ladies.”

“We might as well take our time now,” Viola said. “We’ve missed the bride walking down to meet the groom, haven’t we?”

“Well, of course we have, Sister. The wedding was set to start at seven o’clock, and it’s after that now.”

“Let’s get in the car, ladies,” Nick urged, trying to hold on to his patience.

Viola wasn’t going to be rushed. “Nicholas, will you be a dear and run this cake across the street? Put it in the kitchen, please. The boys aren’t home.”

“They’re at the wedding,” Bessie Jean said. “They probably got there in plenty of time too.”

“I baked the cake for Justin,” Viola said, “because he helped with the flower bed.”

“Couldn’t you take it over tomorrow?” Nick asked, his frustration near the boiling point.

“No, dear, it will go stale,” Viola said. “I would carry it over, but I’m wearing my brand-new patent leather shoes, and they’re pinching my toes. It won’t take you but a minute,” she added as she held the cake out to him.

It was quicker to do what she asked than stand on the curb arguing with her. Nick grabbed the cake out of her hands and ran across the street.

“I told you to wear sensible shoes, but you never listen to me,” Bessie Jean chided Viola.

Nick crossed the yard and ran up the stone steps. He wanted to leave the cake at the front door, but he knew Viola was watching, and if he didn’t follow her instructions, she might nag him into going back.

What a pain in the ass, he thought as he shoved the door open. It was dark inside, and cool, the only sound the gentle hum of the central air conditioner kicking on. He crossed the cluttered living room, stepping on old newspapers and discarded pizza boxes and empty beer cans littering the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a cockroach scurry into one of the boxes. He noticed the beer cans and bottles on all the tables and on the carpet by the coffee table, that also was piled high with old newspapers and empty beer cans. On top of the stack of papers was a large pink and yellow seashell, obviously meant to be decorative, but instead being used as an ash-tray. The shell was overflowing with cigarette and cigar butts, and the air in the room was rank and stale.

The place was a pigsty. The dining room table was covered with an old, torn, paint-splattered tarp, and on top were several unopened cans of house paint and a couple of big plastic sacks from the local hardware store with paintbrushes sticking out. A swinging door connected the dining room to the kitchen, exactly like the one in Laurant’s house. Nick pushed the door open and then stepped into the kitchen.

The first thing that struck him was the pungent smell. It was strong, acrid . . . familiar. Whatever the stringent combination was, it made his eyes tear and his throat burn. Unlike the other rooms, the kitchen wasn’t cluttered. No, it was immaculate. The counters were bare, spotless, shining . . . like another kitchen he’d been in. Recognition was sudden. He remembered the odor . . . vinegar and ammonia . . . and he remembered exactly where he’d smelled it before. His gaze frantically searched the kitchen. Truth slammed into him like a wrecking ball. Everything clicked into place. He dropped the cake and instinctively reached for his gun as he whirled around toward the table, guessing before he looked what he was going to find. There in the center of the table, placed neatly between the salt and pepper shakers, was an extra large, clear plastic, quart-size jar of antacid tablets. Pink. The tablets were pink, just like he remembered. And right beside the jar sat a tall, narrow-necked bottle of red hot sauce. The only thing missing was the cocker spaniel trembling in the corner.

“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.