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The Wife
BEVERLY BARTON
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…Prepare to lose sleep with the spine-tingling thriller from the Sunday Times and New York Times bestselling author.Danger lurking around every corner. Suspicion rampant. Is anyone safe? Is anyone blameless?A twisted serial killer, dubbed the Fire and Brimstone killer, is loose in Dunmore, Alabama, on a merciless revenge mission to punish priests who do evil instead of good. What dark and depraved secret is the Church hiding to drive someone to perform such sacrilegious acts?When a minister is doused in gasoline and brutally set alight on his own doorstep, the religious community are left in shock and Cathy Cantrell, widow to the killer's first victim, is left mentally unstable.Returning to Dunmore to rebuild the relationship with her son 18 months later, the past comes back to haunt her when another minister suffers the same gruesome fate as her husband. As the murders intensify, suspicions are rife and suspects are formed. Is Cathy prime suspect or prime target to a killer who won't stop until all sinners burn in hell…?
The Wife
BEVERLY BARTON
Copyright (#ulink_46ceed8a-e1fb-58df-98f1-edc270cb0c04)
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain as The Silent Killer by HarperCollins 2009
This eBook edition published 2018
Copyright © Beverly Barton 2009
Cover design © Diane Meacham Design 2018
Cover photograph © Shutterstock
Beverly Barton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9781847561374
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780007334582
Version: 2018-06-04
Contents
Cover (#u2b6a12d1-e11e-5a36-a672-15958446fda4)
Title Page (#u59e7e477-73f0-5575-bc43-86b311b7fd0a)
Copyright (#uf8ca3f83-0f4f-5429-95ac-3e4eb4a50945)
Prologue (#ua9b8d850-700a-5690-87fb-5079c215d071)
Chapter One (#ufaef12c7-913d-5205-9b13-c75bb893d70b)
Chapter Two (#uefa90643-ceb7-5e88-bf50-5bffc2371977)
Chapter Three (#ub830622c-d1be-5b68-887d-550728afef73)
Chapter Four (#u509becae-dfab-569c-9ce4-c54ac82715ec)
Chapter Five (#uc52cf76b-10d7-5ee8-b147-95f305ed285e)
Chapter Six (#u79b4d045-16be-5f65-9836-42af1c74fa99)
Chapter Seven (#ubb3b4caa-0216-59e7-86dc-6deb6658cc90)
Chapter Eight (#uc3520c9a-da91-5e0f-9c64-049ce591b754)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Beverly Barton (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_cecb4638-7971-5601-894d-4a5a4a69d506)
Catherine Cantrell loved her husband. She hadn’t always loved Mark, not in the beginning. But day by day, month by month, year by year, she had grown to care for him deeply. He had become her best friend as well as her husband. She only hoped that she was a worthy helpmate. God knew she tried her best to be everything he wanted in a wife.
The oven timer chimed, reminding her that the apple pie she had prepared from scratch was done. As she donned a pair of oven mitts, Mark breezed into the kitchen. When she smiled warmly at him, he returned her smile. She opened the oven door, reached inside and removed the hot pie, then set it on a cooling rack atop the granite counter.
“Something smells good,” he told her as he placed his empty coffee mug in the dishwasher.
“Apple pie for dinner,” she said.
When he nodded approval, something inherently feminine within her longed for him to touch her. She needed a kiss on the cheek or a pat on the butt or a little hug around her shoulders. Any basic act of affection would do. But Mark was not the affectionate type. She should have accepted that fact long ago. After all, it wasn’t as if they were newlyweds or a couple who had been and always would be madly in love. But they did have a solid marriage, one based on mutual respect and admiration. That was far more than most couples had.
“How’s next Sunday’s sermon going?” Catherine asked.
“Not well. For some reason I can’t seem to keep my mind on my work this afternoon.”
On Mondays, Mark worked at home instead of his office at the church. And she was home on Mondays, too, since she and her business partner, Lorie Hammonds, closed their antique store on Sundays and Mondays.
“You were up late last night with the Jeffries family. I heard you come in after midnight.” Catherine removed the oven mitts, stuffed them into the drawer with the pot holders and turned off the oven. “And you were so restless that I doubt you got more than a few hours’ sleep. Maybe you need an afternoon nap.”
“I couldn’t get that family off my mind,” Mark admitted. “It’s been difficult for Debbie and Vern coping with the loss of their only child. It has truly tested their faith.”
“Losing a child has to be the worst thing that could happen to a person. If anything ever happened to Seth, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“If, God forbid, that ever happened, and we lost our only child, we would do what I’m trying to get Debbie and Vern to do—put our trust in the Lord.”
Catherine sighed quietly. A good minister’s wife would never question God’s plan for each of His children. But in her heart of hearts, she knew that if she ever lost Seth, she would die. Her son was her heart and soul.
When Mark looked at her, apparently wanting a reply to assure him that they were in agreement, she avoided making direct eye contact with him. She didn’t doubt Mark’s love for Seth, but she also knew that her husband would never love their child as much as she did.
“Catherine—”
The distinct doorbell chime saved her from having to either lie to her husband or disagree with him and be lovingly chastised for her lack of faith.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “Why don’t you go in the den and take a nap?”
“Maybe later. I’ll get the door. It could be FedEx delivering my birthday present.”
Catherine smiled indulgently. “We just ordered that new set of golf clubs two days ago. They probably won’t arrive until next week.”
“A man can hope, can’t he?”
Laughing softly, she shook her head as Mark, whistling to himself, hurried out of the kitchen. Her husband had four great loves: God, his family, his parishioners and golf.
She doubted that his much-anticipated fortieth birthday present had arrived so soon. More than likely their visitor was not FedEx but instead her mother, who had phoned shortly after lunch to ask if she could drop by on her way home from her weekly trip to the grocery store.
Catherine wiped her hands on a dish towel, laid it aside and removed her apron. She was a messy cook and had learned early on the necessity of wearing protective covering when she baked.
As she opened the kitchen door and made her way toward the foyer, she thought she heard the murmur of voices. Mark was talking to someone, but she couldn’t tell if the visitor was male or female.
Just as she turned the corner in the hallway that led her by the staircase, an agonized scream echoed through the house. Shock waves shivered along her nerve endings. Dear God! Who was screaming in such pitiful torment?
She rushed into the foyer, planning to help Mark comfort the poor soul in misery. The front door stood wide open. Outside, on the front porch, Mark’s six-foot body writhed in agony as lapping flames consumed his clothes and seared his flesh. Momentarily transfixed by the inconceivable sight, Catherine screamed as she realized her husband was on fire. Forcing her shock-frozen legs to move, she ran out onto the porch, yelling at him, telling him to drop and roll, which he did. While he lay on the concrete porch floor, hollering with excruciating pain, she grabbed the doormat and beat at the dying flames eating away his clothing.
She dropped to her knees beside him, inspecting his charred body.
Oh God, God!
He was no longer screaming. He lay silent and unmoving. But he was still breathing. Just barely.
“Hang on, Mark. Hang on.”
She jumped up, ran into the house, grabbed the extension phone in the living room and dialed 911. Barely recognizing her own weak, quivering voice, Catherine managed to hold herself together long enough to give their address and tell the dispatcher that her husband was severely burned over his entire body.
She carried the phone back onto the porch and sat down beside Mark. He was still breathing. Still alive. But she didn’t dare touch him. There wasn’t a spot on him that wasn’t badly burned. His face was charred beyond recognition, his flesh melted as if it had been made of wax.
Merciful Lord, please help Mark. He’s such a good man. Ask anything of me and I’ll give it—just take care of him.