Nickel City Crossfire by Gary Ross (popular romance novels .txt) 📗

pleasant hospital visits with Mother Carlyle and Brother Fisher—both coming along nicely, praise God—it was my intention to simply close this day of worship with a joyful noise that would lift our spirits as we went back to work this week.” Dr. Markham’s customary authoritative tone seemed unsettled. “But—” His voice cracked, and I knew he had listened to my message on his office answering machine. “But the unexpected compels me to change the order of service tonight. Would you mind if I did that, if I changed the order of service, in the name of the Lord?”

As one, the congregation said, “No!”

“Thank you, brothers and sisters. I reached the church only a short time ago and checked the messages in my office when I came in.” He hesitated. “Somebody from the police left a sad message about one of our own and a number to call back. I didn’t want to believe what I’d been told because the man didn’t leave his name, but I called back. Now I can confirm that a son of this church, our custodian, Tito Glenroy, is dead.”

The gasps were almost in unison, followed by chatter, questions, crying. I couldn’t see it as I kept out of sight but I pictured Dr. Markham holding up his hand to calm everyone.

“They said he was killed in an accident on the expressway yesterday afternoon but went unclaimed all night because there was no one to identify him. They couldn’t give me details because they’re still investigating. I imagine him there, cold and lonely, sad nobody came, wanting nothing more than to go home. Funny thing though. The man I spoke to said a note clipped to his file said his Aunt Susie was coming from California on Monday to claim the body. As far as I know, Tito doesn’t have an Aunt Susie. If any of you know differently, please tell us now.” He paused, waiting in vain for confirmation of Aunt Susie. Then he swallowed audibly. “If Tito died yesterday, that means he didn’t come in to turn up the heat this morning. It means—” Dr. Markham began to cry. “I told that boy time and again not to leave the heat so high when nobody was here, and he was good about it because he knew what our heating bills are. But this one time he must have left it on when he went about his Saturday chores—like he knew he was gonna die and didn’t want us to be cold. Should I forgive him?”

“Yes, forgive him!” a woman said, and the congregation echoed her sentiment.

“I forgive you, Tito,” the minister said. “I forgive you in the name of Jesus and for all your service to this faith community. I forgive you, and I ask that my dear wife lead the choir and all of you in ‘I’ll Praise His Name.’ For poor Tito.”

The first few notes were shaky—because, I suspected, Loni was calculating how this revelation would impact her plans. But that mattered little to me because I had plans of my own. As the tempo picked up and the sound of the gospel number filled the sanctuary, I sent another text message. Then I crept downstairs as far as I could, pulled down the tape, and peeked around the archway. A minute later Oscar Edgerton, overcoat unbuttoned, pushed through one of the swinging doors and went to the front door. Music muffled his exchange with Harlow Graves, but a rush of cold air told me Graves had agreed to Oscar’s request they step outside for a moment to discuss a matter of importance to the church.

Which was what I’d told him to say in my most recent text.

I had called Oscar from home earlier, before heading to the hospital. I laid out the case as I understood it. Though he found it hard to believe Loni Markham was behind everything, he had read about the crash and the fire and even knew a woman had been found dead in the Black Rock Canal. He hadn’t known about Tito and agreed to tell no one, not even Louisa, until the news was official. Giving me the benefit of the doubt, he’d promised to attend the evening service and keep his phone on vibrate so I could tell him what help I needed. My first text had told him to sit near the back. My second told him to get Harlow Graves outside.

Now that Graves was gone, I peeked as far as I dared around the other side of the archway. I couldn’t see all of QC, just a thick arm and shoulder stuffed into a wide-striped tan suit jacket. I clicked on the penlight I’d got from Keisha and rolled it hard toward the stairs. With the singing, drumming, and piano playing in the sanctuary so loud, I couldn’t hear the penlight bounce down the stairs toward him. I couldn’t hear whether he called out to Graves. But I knew he would come up the steps to see what was going on.

I readied myself.

Right arm inside his jacket, QC moved into view as he began to pass the arch. He was big, a bit shorter than I but heavier, with medium brown skin and a broad back. He turned, as if peripherally aware the Danger tape was missing, a mouth between fat cheeks beginning to open, beady eyes beginning to widen.

I grabbed his right arm with my left hand, jammed the glass breakpoints of my Taclight into the soft flesh of his neck, and pressed the stun button. QC jerked and made a strange hiccupping motion with his mouth. The music covered whatever sound he made, as well as the phfft of his silencer. But I felt his gun, still in its holster, jerk when the shock made him seize and squeeze the trigger. I saw the blood soaking through his pants and lowered him to the steps but kept hold of his right arm.

He looked up at me, blinking, mouth moving without