The Lord Is My Shepherd (21 page)

Ultimately, that fact decided her evening. The last thing she needed was to sit alone at home worrying about who the killer was or what he was doing or whether or not he was really targeting Oliver or if it was somehow actually her after all.

Marie's home was expensively but tastefully furnished. They stepped into the dining room, and Cindy could feel the excitement in the air. A man and three children were already seated around the table, all looking eager to begin.

“Cindy, this is my husband, Eric,” Marie said. “Eric, this is Cindy Preston.”

Eric rose and shook her hand warmly. “The girl from the church next to the synagogue?”

“That's me,” Cindy admitted.

He smiled at her. “I guess I've been rather misinformed. I was told you were a girl, but you are far more woman than child.”

“Thank you, I think,” she said, coloring slightly.

“These are our children: Josiah, our oldest; our oldest daughter, Erica; and Greta, the youngest,” Marie said.

“It's nice to meet you all.” Cindy smiled at them. She turned back toward Marie, “And thank you very much for inviting me.”

Marie opened her mouth, but Eric cut her off. “Is this your first Seder meal, Cindy?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then we are honored that you are allowing us to share our traditions with you. Now, Cindy, Rabbi, if the two of you would take your seats then we can begin.”

Cindy was relieved to find that she was sitting next to Jeremiah. She was reasonably sure that he, at least, wouldn't
attempt to poison her food or stab her with a fork. She also planned on watching him like a hawk so that she could do what he did and not ruin the dinner through ignorance.

Each person had a plate with six different things carefully arranged on it. Four cups sat at each person's place. She glanced over at Jeremiah, wondering if it would be rude to come right out and ask him what it was all for.

Jeremiah smiled at her. “This is the Seder plate,” he said, indicating the plate each person had before them that held a variety of things. “Every item is symbolic.”

“What does it all mean?” Cindy asked.

“Starting at the top, that is Chazeret.”

“It looks like Romaine lettuce,” Cindy observed.

“It is. The root of the lettuce is bitter and is used as one of the bitter herbs that we are commanded to eat with the paschal lamb and the unleavened bread. It does not have to be the lettuce; it may be some other bitter herb such as a radish.”

She nodded her understanding.

“Then we move clockwise,” Jeremiah said. “This is the Zeroa, a roasted shank bone or chicken neck. Here it is a chicken neck as you can see.”

“And what is it symbolic of?” Cindy asked.

“It is symbolic of the Paschal lamb offered as the sacrifice. It also serves to remind us of the might of Adonai.”

“Next we have the Charoset which is a mixture of apples, nuts, wine, cinnamon, and sugar,” Jeremiah said.

“It has an interesting texture.”

“It's supposed to remind us of the mortar our ancestors used when building buildings for the Egyptians,” the youngest daughter piped up.

“Thank you,” Cindy said.

“Then we have the Maror, the other bitter herb,” Jeremiah said. “Often it is horseradish root.”

“And I'm guessing these bitter herbs also serve to remind you of the bitterness of captivity,” Cindy said.

“Very good. That's exactly what they are for. Are you sure you're not Jewish?” Jeremiah teased.

Cindy smiled despite the fact that she was pretty sure she could feel Marie glaring at her.

“Next we have Karpas.”

“Also called parsley,” Cindy said.

“Parsley or celery is commonly used. This vegetable is dipped into salt water, which represents the tears of the Jewish slaves.”

“Okay.”

“And finally we have the Beitzah, a roasted egg. It is symbolic of sacrifice, mourning, and is also a symbol for spring.”

“So, eggs are common to both Passover and Easter celebrations?” Cindy asked, surprised.

“Yes, and also it seems, to the secular chocolate bunny holiday,” Jeremiah said with a smile.

Everyone at the table smiled at that one.

“I'm guessing you're a fan of the chocolate bunny holiday?” Cindy asked Greta.

“I'm a Peeps girl,” she said with a toothy grin.

“Me too.” Cindy gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“I'm a chocolate bunny girl,” Erica said.

“Personally, I like jelly beans or those Cadbury eggs,” her father added.

“Enough with talk of Easter candy,” Marie said, unable to hide the irritation in her voice. “This is Passover, and that is
what we are going to celebrate and discuss tonight.” She took a deep breath and that seemed the cue for her husband and children to drop their eyes to their plates and look contemplative.

“Let's get started,” Marie said.

Cindy listened in awe as Marie's husband recited a blessing. Following it, she did as the others and drank one of the four cups of wine sitting in front of her. Finished, Cindy put down her goblet and a moment later started to choke.

It couldn't have been more perfect if he had designed it himself. He stood outside the house, listening to the greetings. It was almost time. In the past he had never been able to implement this part of his plan. He saw now that it was as it should have been. Never before had he encountered such an opportunity.

Sacrifice was an important part of life. And this would be a great and terrible sacrifice. He had spent all day carefully mapping out and implementing his plan. At any moment the people inside the house would die.

Twenty minutes later when all sound had ceased from within, he entered through the kitchen door he had used earlier. He passed through the house and found his prey, dead as he had expected. It should have been perfect, but something was wrong. Someone was missing.

He refused to let it spoil the moment. He told himself the symbolism was even more appropriate this way. He smiled and went to work.

M
ARK WATCHED AS OLIVER WAS RELEASED. HE KNEW THE TWO OFFICERS who had been assigned to shadow him. They were both good at their jobs. With any luck the whole case might be wrapped up in a few more hours. Not that he actually believed that.

With the confessions made by Oliver, and the strong possibility that he had killed Ryan in self-defense, the picture was becoming even fuzzier. He and Paul had speculated that the sanctuary killer could be a secondary killer, unrelated to or copying the first. Still, he didn't understand why Oliver kept insisting he had committed all the crimes.

He had spent half an hour on the phone with various friends and colleagues who all swore that Oliver had never shown any signs of mental illness. Still, it wasn't inconceivable that guilt over killing Ryan could have made him snap. That was especially true if they had once really been friends.

Following up on the information he had gotten from Cindy, Mark had faxed Oliver's picture to police and church officials in Austin, Boston, and Raleigh. Given the time difference and the holiday week for two major religions, he
didn't expect to hear anything until the next morning. And even that seemed iffy.

As soon as Oliver left the building, Mark turned and walked back into the war room set up with pictures, charts, everything they had or guessed about the killings. He had spent half of his day staring at the wall hoping for something, anything.

And all he got for it was nothing.

If the killer was the same one who had left his stamp on those other cities, there was a good chance he was done. The feet washing had been the last murder every other time. Why? Was it as far as the killer was willing to go or had he just not found the right blend of theatrics and audience yet? One thing was for sure, he had finally nailed the theatrics of it.

Paul walked into the room with a fresh cup of coffee. “Think we're going to get lucky?”

“No. I think this is nowhere near over,” Mark said.

“Where does that leave us?”

“Unfortunately, no better off than we were this morning. I think we can be guaranteed that if he's going to keep going, his next move is to recreate the Last Supper.”

“Where do you think that's going to happen?”

“It could be at the Olive Garden for all I know,” Mark said, gritting his teeth in frustration. “Although, it's probably going to happen in someone's house.”

“What makes you say that? All the other scenes have been public. A street and two businesses.”

“I don't know, just a feeling. The Last Supper should be an intimate thing. He'll also need time to set it up right.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Should I ask you where you were yesterday morning?”

“Very funny. I was at the Intergalactic Circus of Sleep.”

“Got somebody who saw you there?”

“The dancing bear can vouch for me.”

“Nice.”

“I thought so.”

Paul sipped his coffee for a minute. “They doing anything like a Last Supper tonight at the church?” he asked.

Mark shook his head. “Nah. First Shepherd has some sort of drama tonight. The synagogue had a Passover Seder last night. I have a couple of officers attending the drama, just in case, but I'm not hopeful.”

“There goes that theory.”

“You got another one?”

“Not that's worth anything.”

“Me either.”

“So, we just wait for the next unhappy lot to bite it?”

“You're a real caring guy, Paul.”

“So my wife tells me.”

“Wait a minute,” Mark said.

“What?”

“The Last Supper includes Jesus.”

“So?”

“So, if the pattern is what we think it is, someone with Oliver in some part of their name will be there,” Mark said. “Call the paper. Find out if Oliver has had any interviews, anything with anyone whose first, last, or middle name even slightly resembles Oliver. I'll call the church and see if any of the other members have Oliver in their names.”

“Good idea,” Paul said, already reaching for the phone in the room.

Mark pulled out his cell phone and called the church office. A minute later he hung up as he got the automatic recording stating that it was after hours.

Fortunately, Paul seemed to have reached someone at the paper. Mark tried dialing Cindy's phone, but it went straight to voicemail. He checked the board and dialed Harold's number. Harold Grey, head usher, First Shepherd to First Shepherd, must have a member directory.

“Hi, Harold, it's Detective Mark Walters.”

“Detective, what can I do for you?” Harold asked.

“I need to know if you have a church directory.”

“Yes, why?”

“Great, I'm coming over,” Mark said, grabbing his coat and heading for the parking lot.

“Is there anything I can look up for you?” Harold asked, sounding perplexed.

“I need you to look and see if any one has a name that is some variation on Oliver. You know, like Ollie, Olivera, anything like that. Check for any middle initials of O as well.”

“What's this all about?”

“I'm trying to stop the serial killer from striking again,” Mark said, as he started his car. “Write down any names and addresses for me. I'm about five minutes away from you.”

Mark looked at the clock on the dashboard and felt his chest tighten. It was just after six o'clock. The killer could strike at any moment.

“Well, there's Oliver, of course,” Harold said.

“Yeah, I already know about him,” Mark answered.

“Hold on a minute,” Harold said, and Mark could hear him moving around. He waited, hoping the older gentleman found the directory before he got there.

“Does gender matter?” Harold asked suddenly.

“I, I don't know,” Mark admitted. “Why?”

“Well, my wife's middle name is Olive.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Detective, there's someone at the door. I'll have to call you right back.”

“Don't answer it!” Mark screamed, but it was too late. Harold had already hung up.

Mark threw on the lights and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, shooting through a red light and barely missing two cars. He grabbed the radio and called for police and ambulance to meet him at the house.

“No, no, no!” he shouted after he disconnected.

Two minutes later he drove up onto Harold's lawn. He could hear sirens in the distance as he leaped out of the car and raced toward the open front door.