The car’s engine died, the headlights dimmed and the driver climbed out quickly, almost as if he sensed the danger of lingering in any place too long. He hesitated, took a quick look at his little house, then turned and walked quickly toward the church.
Obviously “Father” Oliver had some sins to confess.
The Beast—that’s what the kid called him, he’d heard her whisper it when she’d thought he was out of earshot—smiled to himself, expectancy building.
It was better when his victims felt a little spasm of fear, when they sensed their precious time on earth was about to be cut short.
Somewhere nearby an owl hooted.
Bats flew from the tall bell tower, winging overhead.
The target didn’t notice, just kept walking swiftly, almost jogging, as if he was desperate.
And afraid.
Head down, intent on his own thoughts, the target hurried to the church steps and fiddled with a large key ring.
Traitor.
The Beast squinted through the darkness where the only light was a sickly pale illumination from a few lampposts scattered along the paths that cut across the watered lawns of the mission. Even the glare of headlights from passing traffic was muted, filtered by the dense bushes and trees sheltering the grounds.
It was perfect.
Licking his dry lips, he felt the zing of anticipation, could envision the blood being spilled, the flames climbing the walls, the crackle and hiss of the fire as it met the oozing red liquid.
Slow down…Take your time. It’s not finished yet.
As his next victim walked through the portico, then unlocked the door and stepped inside St. Benedictine’s Church with its tiled roof and stucco walls, he watched.
Waited.
Readied himself.
After a full five minutes had passed since the thick door had closed, the Beast reached into his small pack and withdrew his knife. His gloved fingers surrounded the hilt and he felt the weight of it in his palm.
A perfect weapon, one that could be used as a threat, to urge a person to bend to his will, or for the act of killing itself.
No one else entered or left the church.
Another two minutes passed and the bells, counting off the hour of midnight, began to peal. One, two, three…
He started moving, slinking through the shadows.
Four, five, six…
While the church bells rang, he used their dulcet tones to cover the sound of his own footsteps. Quickly he crossed the grass, exposing himself for a few short seconds as he made his way to the church.
Seven, eight, nine…
Breathing irregularly, his heart pumping in wild expectation, he stepped onto the portico, his hand reaching for the huge door handle.
Ten, eleven, twelve…
And then it was time.
A surge of adrenaline raced through his body.
At the stroke of midnight he opened the door to St. Benedictine’s Church. With silent footsteps he slipped inside.