Only, I knew what desperate men did when they were about to be pushed off a cliff. They took everyone in their sights with them over the edge.
“This murderer is perverting biblical scripture to his own ends, attempting to craft a story where he is the hero exorcising sinners from our community so that we will all live in a ‘better, more holy’ place. I don’t usually speak about religion on the show, and if you’re sensitive to this subject matter, I understand if you skip ahead or tune out. But I have to say the work of this killer is not the work of the God I know. The God I’ve trusted since I was a child, whom I’ve looked to for guidance over the years and learned about from countless study does not sanctify murder by any means. He teaches us kindness, patience, and peace, even if it must come from forgiveness. This is my God, and I believe this is most Christians’ God. I will not be idle while this murderer seeks to twist the words of a kind God into the mandates of madness.”
I sucked in a deep breath, surprised to see my hand trembling on the white tabletop.
“‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves’,” I quoted from Matthew 7:15. “This man is hiding behind religion to mask his horrific crimes in misplaced holiness. If you know who he is, if you subscribe to his teachings or have any idea where he might be, please call in now to our line and help put a murderer behind bars where he belongs.”
We waited for one, long, unendurable moment in buzzing silence.
Then Eric’s switchboard lit up, and a second later, the old-fashioned landline began to ring. My friend looked up at me before answering, a wealth of hesitation in his eyes.
I nodded because while I’d been willing to bet that quoting scripture against the killer would incite him to action, I could only hope the goad would work.
Eric put them through and the cops started to trace the call. Lion had warned me that even if or when they pinpointed the location, they might not be able to get units to the scene in time to catch him, but it was worth a try.
“Hello, this is Little Miss Murder,” I said merrily as I usually did.
Silence.
A shadow descended over me as Priest took up sentry behind my chair.
I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello? This is Little Miss Murder podcast. Do you have a tip or question about the murderer?”
“I think you mean the Prophet,” a deep voice answered back.
It was obviously put on, the depth and growl of that tone.
It was also, obviously, him.
“A prophet is an inspired teacher of God’s will and practices,” I responded carefully. I was terrified, but I told myself I had been preparing my entire life to negotiate with psychopaths. “The murderer who has been killing off innocent women for sport is not following any divine practices I’m aware of, and I’ve been a member of First Light Church since I was a girl.”
“Innocent women?” The chill of that voice spilled over me like a bucket of ice water. “These women were all sinners, and beyond that, they tried to seduce others to their unholy ways.”
“Cleopatra Axelsen was not a sinner,” I bit back, then dragged a deep breath through my nose to stay calm. It wouldn’t do to be hot-headed with this man. “She was the purest heart I’ve ever known.”
A silence seethed through the phone. Silence with texture and weight that seemed to pollute the entire room.
Priest stepped closer, the edge of his stiff leather cut brushing my hair.
“The others were sinners,” he said finally, resolutely. “And you, Bea, have sinned. I didn’t want you to have to pay for your crimes against God. I wanted to spare you. But, of course, someone needed to pay penance, and I understand that girl was very close to you…It seemed fitting to take my measure of flesh from her instead.”
A sob clutched my throat so hard I couldn’t breathe. Guilt submerged me like a tsunami wave. I floundered, eyes open and sightless, heart pounding an erratic percussion beat that throbbed painfully through me.
Priest’s hand went down heavily on my shoulders, pinning me in my seat, anchoring me back against him. Slowly, maybe so I could protest if I couldn’t handle it, one hand moved over my collarbone up to wrap around my throat. No true pressure, just a collaring, a reminder that I was not owned by anything or anyone other than this man behind me.
Finally, I breathed, the exhale a loud whoosh through the mic.
The killer heard it and chuckled, a smooth rumble of noise that was utterly self-satisfied. “I know you are remorseful, and I am a forgiving man with the grace of God. You’ve been wicked, Bea, so wicked of late, but this time, I will give you a chance to confess and pay penance.”