Toussaint, Louisiana
Early evening
He was a worthy man, a brilliant, necessary man. His decisions benefited everyone in Toussaint. They would never recognize the good he did. Just as well. Their ignorance kept him free. Foolish interference with his plans would not be tolerated. Could not be tolerated.
Justice, that was his rightful name.
The final caress of warmth had seeped from the old, stone church. This wasn’t the place he would have chosen to deal with a threat to his plans, but he had no choice. Where else could he be certain of finding Jim Zachary alone tonight?
Jim must be stopped before he could do what he planned to do in an hour or so. He had forced Justice’s hand.
St. Cecil’s and the holier-than-thou hypocrites who minced through its doors represented the enemy. The people who loved to simper and whisper in the pews, to frown while they condemned the innocent for their supposed sins, and to utter pious words of forgiveness they didn’t mean, enraged him.
Judgment. He had been judged and punished. Now it was his turn to judge. And punish—and to take his reparation.
Fresh flowers spread their fickle scents, but the stench of old, rotted stems in unwashed vases ensured that no one forgot that this was a place where memories of the dead lingered. They had come here as innocent children with sweet flowers in their hands, then as adults with roses in their hair and in their buttonholes and, when it was their turn, they came with lilies on their coffins.
From behind the bronze screen that hid tables loaded with hymnals, bulletins, donation envelopes and baskets where the hopeful left prayers written on scraps of paper, he watched the side door that Jim Zachary used when he arrived for solitary evening prayer.
The knife felt slippery. Sweat wouldn’t be allowed to make the death noisy or less swift.
Zachary was late.
Around the walls of St. Cecil’s, sconces flickered on. Rather than make one lone visitor more conspicuous, the small lights reduced the interior to a wash of shadows in shades of brown.
An outer door creaked, groaned on its great hinges, and metal-capped heels clattered on stone flags.
The inner door squealed open…Voices marred the silence.
Justice half knelt to watch. His heart squeezed and thudded when scrawny little Jim Zachary entered the nave with Father Cyrus Payne behind him. The tall, well-built priest accentuated the other man’s almost childlike stature.
Weak and helpless in the strong hands of Justice.
But not with the priest around.
Father Cyrus’s laugh echoed between the walls and the pillars. He picked up a clipboard from a table near the door and said, “See you at the meeting later?”
“I’ll be there,” Zachary said.
Father Cyrus gave Zachary a wave and left.
Justice’s breathing returned to normal and the iciness in his legs thawed. You will not be at that meeting, Jim Zachary. I know what you plan to say there. I will not let you do that. Come to me. You have brought this on yourself with your bleeding-heart charity obsession. Walk this way. You know where you sit—just a few feet from where I stand. You always sit there. Did you ever think that a habit could be dangerous? It is a great help when certain plans must be made.
From a distance, Zachary’s face couldn’t be seen. He held his head slightly turned and bowed—always—in a sign of humility. Or perhaps of subservience and insecurity.
Closer and closer Jim Zachary drew, his steps small, his gray hair falling over his tilted brow in a thick, straight wad.
Into the pew, put down the kneeler, bury your head in your hands, abject in the knowledge that you are not worthy.
Justice slowly produced the Italian switchblade he treasured, fired its silken smooth action open with the slightest audible snick and wiped its grip. He held ten inches of unforgiving stainless-steel blade. The tight gloves he had pulled on had thin leather stitched to the palms and fingertips; they would serve him well since the knife handle had dried. His own hand was strong, and now it was cool.
On the balls of his feet, and rapidly, he left the cover of the screen, crossed the aisle to stand near a pillar and allowed a few seconds to pass before he got behind Zachary and slammed his left hand over the small man’s face.
At first Zachary didn’t move. He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and yanked backward over the seat. With Zachary’s head crammed against his chest, Justice raised the knife.
Zachary flung out his arms and tried to twist free. He braced his feet on the back of the pew in front of him and pushed hard, but his opponent was like an iron jaw closed on a feeble catch. Gurgles burbled from Zachary’s throat, and then a quavering scream.
He bowed his body into an arch and jerked from side to side repeatedly.
“You wouldn’t listen,” Justice said against the other’s ear. “Even when you knew your plans were wrong, you would not back down. This will make Toussaint and this parish stronger. It is for them.” And the good of Justice.
With one deft thrust, he sunk his long blade into the man’s neck and all the way through. Shoved him, headfirst, to the seat and skewered him against the wood. He jerked, thrashed. So much blood, pumping out a man’s life. Why couldn’t Zachary have stayed away from church politics? Killing him now, before Justice was completely ready, was a difficult inconvenience.
Gradually, the violent movements weakened, then faded. A rolled pamphlet was ready in Justice’s other pocket. He removed this and left it, just as he had planned.
In minutes, the great gush of blood from the artery in Zachary’s neck ebbed to a trickle and stopped.
Dead men didn’t bleed.