In A Town Full Of Secrets
To most people, men like Mark Cantrell are fine, upstanding pillars of the community, completely beyond reproach. But their killer knows better. They are sinners of the worst kind, and they must burn on earth before they burn in hell…
Trusting The Wrong Person
Eighteen months after her husband’s unsolved murder, Cathy Cantrell has returned to her Alabama home, eager to build a new life for herself and her son. But pieces of her past are everywhere—including Jackson Perdue, the town’s deputy sheriff. The spate of recent deaths—each victim burned in the same horrifying manner—leave Jack and Cathy in no doubt that a serial killer is at work, one whose rage grows more vicious each day…
Can Be Fatal…
Now as a twisted killer moves in for a final, brutal act of vengeance, buried crimes are coming to light once more. And this time, justice will be swift, merciless, and as silent as the grave…
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.
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
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
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.