The breath left his body. Rick took a step backward. Val arranged the break-in? “Those two coked-up pieces of human refuse, you sent them to my home? Where my child slept?”
“But it didn’t go according to plan. Always the cowboy, you decided to take them out all by yourself.” Val lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean for Sam to die. But it happened. So I used it to my advantage.”
He faced Rick, expression triumphant. “I switched the ballistics report so you believed you had killed your own son.”
A sound passed Rick’s lips. Primal. A terrible howl of pain and fury.
“That’s right, buddy, your bullet didn’t kill him.”
Rick sank to his knees, doubling over, the pain too great to bear. Val, who he had trusted completely, had betrayed him. Val, who he had thought of as a brother, was responsible for the incident that had taken Sam. He squeezed his eyes shut, his head filling with the memory of that night. Of holding his precious boy as his life ran out of him.
“You can’t imagine how I enjoyed watching you suffer. The way I suffered, Rick. Watching you get everything I wanted. Including Jill. She was supposed to be mine. Mine!”
He growled the last. “This island and everything on it should belong to me. My people, my ancestors settled her. We fed and developed her. Yet people like you come down here and take it all-enjoy all her riches while we catch your fish, scrub your toilets and serve your food.”
Val began to laugh, the sound high and wild. “Not anymore, my friend. Not anymore!”
Rick lifted his gaze to the crucifix mounted behind the altar, his vision blurred by tears. The sixteen-foot-tall cross was rough-hewn, as the real one must have been; the carved depiction of Christ beautifully rendered, showing his very human suffering.
Rick’s vision shifted, moving past the crucified Christ to the stained-glass window behind it. Circular, at least twenty feet in diameter, it depicted the risen King, glorious and triumphant.
It wasn’t over. Adrenaline surged through him. His vision cleared. He wouldn’t give up and let this piece of shit win. Not ever.
He shifted his gaze to Liz. She met his eyes. She understood his intention-if necessary, he would give his life trying to save them. Trying to bring Valentine down.
Rick straightened. “I loved you, Val. You were my brother. My friend.”
“Go to hell.”
He was already there. With a roar, he charged Val. He caught him by surprise and sent them both sprawling. The gun flew from Val’s hand. Rick used his height and weight advantage and pinned Val beneath him. He drew back and sent his handcuffed wrists crashing into Val’s handsome face.
The man howled. Blood spurted from his nose. Rick rolled sideways, scrambling for the gun. He closed his fingers around the grip.
As he did he heard the unmistakable sound of a cylinder clicking into place. He looked over his shoulder. Heather had Liz from behind, gun to her temple.
“You have a choice,” she murmured. “What’s it going to be?”
Rick curled his fingers around the gun’s grip, the feel of it nestled in his palms both familiar and foreign. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of Sam. And Liz. Assessing their options. He could take one of them out, maybe both of them.
But Liz would die. That was a given.
He couldn’t do it.
“Noble,” Heather murmured as he dropped the gun, amusement coloring her tone. “But stupid. Get to your feet, Wells. Now.”
CHAPTER 63
Wednesday, November 21
11:25 p.m.
Liz watched as Rick got slowly to his feet. Val snatched up the gun and crossed to Rick. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. He brought the gun up and pressed the barrel between Rick’s eyes. He cocked it. Liz saw that he trembled with fury.
“Go ahead,” Rick taunted. “Pull the trigger. I dare you.”
“Don’t push me, Wells. I’ll do it, I swear I’ll-”
“Go for it, you prick! Make my day!”
“No!” Liz cried. “Don’t!”
Heather tipped her head back and laughed, the sound almost childlike in its glee. It was as if she fed on the negativity, the fear and hatred, the bloodshed.
“Admirable, Liz,” she murmured. “Loyalty. Love. Commitment. I’m touched, really.”
Heather turned to the two men. “Make sure that doesn’t happen again, Valentine.”
“Throw me some rope,” the man responded tightly. “I’ll make sure this prick doesn’t move a muscle.”
Heather did as he requested, then turned her attention back to Liz. “I wonder if your boyfriend here would do the same for you? Cry out, get down on his knees and beg for your life to be spared. I wonder if your beloved sister would?”
Heather looked over at Rachel, slumped in the chair. “Liz is in this situation because of you, Rachel. Because she loves you so much.” She all but hissed the last and a chill raced up Liz’s spine. “She’s here because of your ridiculous faith in Him.”
Liz shifted her gaze to the carved depiction of Christ. She thought of the little Rachel had managed to tell her, and the pieces began clicking into place.
“I don’t think she would,” Heather continued. “I think she might just let you die.” Liz jerked her gaze back to the woman. “She let Tara die. And Naomi Pearson. Why not you?”
A sound slipped past her sister’s lips. One of horror. Despair.
“Three little words, that’s all I asked of her.” Heather bent. From the black sack, she removed a pair of rubber gloves and fitted them on. “Three words,” the woman continued. “Do you know what they were?”
Liz shook her head. Heather looked back at Rachel. “But Rachel does. Don’t you, love. Say them with me. I…deny…Him.”
Her sister bowed her head, her shoulders shook with her tears. Fury took Liz’s breath. She understood now. She thought of Father Paul, of the things he had said. In the desecration of the holy, evil extends its putrid grasp.
“That’s all I asked of her, all these weeks, day after day. As I brought her near death, then pulled her back, always giving her another chance. But she refused me. She insisted on holding on to her pathetic belief in her nonexistent savior.”
Heather shook her head. “I see that you despise me, Liz. But it was she who turned away from the food I offered. The water. The end to pain. Because of Him.” She pointed again to the crucified Christ, her features twisted with hate. “He is the source of her agony, not I!”
The evil that emanated from the woman made Liz’s skin crawl. “You won’t get away with this,” she spat, struggling against the ropes that held her wrists. “Gavin Taft didn’t get away with it. You’ll fry just like he’s going to.”
“But we will,” she said softly, cutting her off. She bent and retrieved a black-velvet package from the sack. Reverently, she peeled the velvet back, revealing a knife. She held it up. The blade glittered in the candlelight and Liz went weak with fear.
“Unfortunately, Val doesn’t arrive soon enough to save you and your sister from the knife. But even though you and your sister die, even though Wells wrests away Val’s gun and Walters is killed, in the end Rick Wells is stopped. Thanks be to God.”
Liz shuddered at the sarcastic emphasis she put on the Lord’s name. Heather Ferguson, she realized, was not just an evil being-she worshiped evil. She delighted in it.
“You see, the lieutenant’s been amassing quite a collection of evidence against poor troubled Mr. Wells. Evidence of his involvement with Larry Bernhardt and Naomi Pearson, physical evidence linking him to Tara and Carla’s murders. Enough evidence that with the lieutenant’s explanation of events, the case will be closed. Nice and tidy, all bodies accounted for.”