"Even so, I'd have thought he'd put a more seasoned deputy on the task force. Do you feel as if you're in over your head?"

"Maybe." Jack shrugged. "Guess I'll learn as I go. And I did bring in an expert to help us out, didn't I?"

Derek chuckled. "Yes, so you did. That probably earned you a few brownie points with your boss."

Jack grinned. "So tell me, Mr. Expert, all about how you can't pigeonhole our killer."

"Be glad to. It's simple. The killer planned these murders, chose his victims in advance and personalized the victims, all characteristics of an organized killer. But on the other hand, he probably knew his victims or at least knew who they were. He left his victims in plain view at the scene of the crime, and with the use of gasoline and the Pocket Torch lighters left at the scene, the weapon couldn't be hidden. Those are all characteristics of a disorganized killer."

"A killer with a split personality?"

"Our killer is what we refer to as a 'mixed personality,' which is actually fairly common."

"Are you saying that in trying to come up with a profile of our killer, you've struck out?"

"No, I wouldn't say that." Derek grinned. "How about that cup of coffee?"

"Cream? Sugar?" Jack asked.

"Black."

Jack got up, went to the coffeemaker and poured two Styrofoam cups three-fourths full of the strong, black brew. He returned to his desk, handed Derek one of the cups and sat back down.

After taking a couple of sips, Derek said, "We a.s.sume the same person killed the two ministers and the priest. Why?"

"All three victims were clergymen. All three lived within a fifty-mile radius of one another. All three were doused with gasoline and set on fire, using a torch lighter that enabled him to lock the flame before using it. And all three murders occurred within an eighteen-month time span."

"It's unlikely that the similarities of the murders were coincidental. So think about it. What other similarities were there?"

"So far, all the victims have been white. All have been between thirty and fifty years old, and all have been Christians."

"Charles Randolph had been accused of stealing from his congregation. Had the other two committed any type of crime?" Derek asked.

"No. If they had, I'd have included that information in the files I sent you."

"Hmm...Stealing is a sin, right? So what if the other two ministers didn't commit crimes, but did commit sins?"

"And just how would we go about trying to discover what sins these men might have committed, if they actually did?"

"Talk to people who knew them."

Jack tapped the manila folder on his desk. "That's been done. Family and friends were interviewed extensively after each murder. Mark Cantrell was a saint according to everyone who knew him. His only weakness seems to have been his love for golf. And so far, Father Brian is coming across as d.a.m.n near perfect."

"No one is perfect." Derek took another sip of coffee. "All humans have numerous weaknesses, and few are true saints. Perhaps our killer either knew something no one else knew or he projected someone else's sins onto these men. In his mind, our offender is probably killing the same person over and over again, perhaps punishing him for his sins."

"How does this help identify our killer?"

Derek picked up his cup and took a couple of swigs of the cooling coffee.

"Using the info we have at this point, it's likely that our killer is a young, white male with a 'mixed' personality who is punishing his victims for the sins of someone who possibly harmed him in some way. He's also mobile. His victims, though living within a fifty-mile radius, did not live in the same town, which means he probably either owns a car or has access to one."

"That certainly narrows it down," Jack said sarcastically. He finished off his coffee, crushed the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket atop the morning's newspapers.

"Profiling is not an exact science. It's mostly putting puzzle pieces together and coming up with an educated guess. I hate to say this, but the more murders the offender commits, the more clues we'll have, and that means a more thorough profile."

Jack huffed. "I suppose I expected too much from you."

"Sorry I can't pinpoint your guy and hand him to you on a silver platter. But if you don't mind, I'd like to go over all the files again and stick around, maybe talk to a few people."

"Who do you want to talk to?"

"People who knew the victims. Friends and family."

"Not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Don't you think the families have been through enough without being questioned again?"

"Even if it might help catch the killer?"

Jack looked Derek square in the eyes. "Can you promise me that it will?"

"No, of course not, but-"

"Run your request by Sheriff Birkett," Jack said, reasonably certain that Mike would say no.

"Thanks, I'll do that." Derek dropped his empty coffee cup into Jack's wastebasket, paused, eyed the newspapers and then glanced at Jack. "I'll put my official report in writing and give it to you before I leave Dunmore."

Elliott Floyd met Cathy in the middle of his tastefully decorated office. He glanced over her shoulder, smiled at his secretary, who closed the door, and then he reached out to take Cathy's hand.

"Come in and sit down, Mrs. Cantrell."

After they shook hands, he led her to one of two leather armchairs facing his large, mahogany desk. Once she'd taken a seat, she subtly studied him from the top of his thinning dark hair to his expensive Italian leather loafers. Probably in his late forties, Elliott Floyd dressed the part of a successful lawyer, his suit no doubt tailor-made to fit his trim, five-nine body.

"My friend Lorie Hammonds recommended you, Mr. Floyd," Cathy said as she folded her hands together in her lap.

"Yes, Lorie's a friend of my wife."

"I had hoped not to have to do this-hire a lawyer-but I realize that I don't actually have a choice, and, according to Lorie, you're the best lawyer in Dunmore, possibly in the whole state."

Elliott smiled, creating dimples in his apple-round cheeks. "I see. So, tell me why you need my services."

"A year ago, I had an emotional breakdown. I checked myself into Haven Home in Birmingham and underwent extensive psychiatric care. I was released as an outpatient six months ago and then given a clean bill of health last month. I have a fifteen-year-old son who has been living with my in-laws for the past year. They have legal custody of him." She leaned forward, her hands entwined in a prayerlike gesture. "I want custody of my son."

"I take it that his grandparents are opposed to your having custody."

"Yes."

"What does your son want?"

"Seth is torn between wanting to please his grandfather and not wanting to hurt me."

"Is there any reason why your in-laws are not proper guardians for your son?"

"No. J.B. and Mona are good Christian people. They're well liked and well respected by the community. J.B. is an elder in the church."

"I take it that you've tried talking to your in-laws about this and making some type of arrangement that-"

"My father-in-law has made it perfectly clear that he believes I'm emotionally unfit and he has no intention of allowing Seth to live with me now or ever."

"Will your psychiatrist testify to your emotional stability?"

"Yes."

"Can you financially support your son?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything in your personal life that would make you an unfit mother?"

"Other than the entire town knowing I've been at Haven Home?"

Elliott nodded.

"I can't think of anything else."

"You're a widow. Is that correct? Your husband was a local minister, the one murdered by the person the press is now referring to as the Fire and Brimstone Killer."

Cathy inhaled and exhaled, then replied, "Yes, that's correct."

"Seth is your only child?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he'd talk to me? I'd like to get a sense of what he wants and how he feels about his grandparents retaining custody."

"And how he feels about me?"

"Yes, that, too."

"Does this mean you'll take my case?"

"If it comes to that, yes, I'll represent you, Mrs. Cantrell."

Cathy rose to her feet. "Thank you. I'll speak to Seth, and if he agrees to talk to you, I'll call your secretary and make an appointment."

Elliott stood, rounded his desk and escorted Cathy out of his office. When they reached the outer door that led to the sidewalk, he patted her shoulder.

"We'll do everything we can to settle this matter without going to court."

She forced a smile.

When he turned around and went back inside, she stood there and looked at the renovated antebellum cottage that had been converted into Elliott Floyd's office. In the past dozen years or so, many of Dunmore's older downtown homes had undergone facelifts, some as simple as fresh coats of paint and new roofs, others far more extensive.

Cathy checked her watch. She had a lunchtime appointment with Jack and his contractor, Clay Yarbrough, whom she'd never met.

Lorie had offered to take over as the consultant on this job, cautioning her about what it might cost her to renew her friendship with Jackson Perdue. But she had spent a lifetime playing it safe, doing what was expected of her, fulfilling other people's wishes. Never again.

"You can't turn back the clock," Lorie had told her. "Even if you and Jack reconnect, it won't be the same."

No, it wouldn't be the same. She didn't expect it to be. Actually, she didn't expect anything in particular. But whether she worked with Jack professionally or dated him or became his lover again, the decisions were hers to make.

Seth had jumped at the chance to do Brother Hovater's yard work. He had three very good reasons: it pleased Granddad that their minister had asked Seth; it gave him a chance to earn some money this summer to save toward buying himself a car; and, last but most important, it gave him the opportunity to be near Missy.

Being here at his old home, cutting the gra.s.s and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the hedges that he had once helped his dad cut, seemed odd. He halfway expected his mom to come out the back door and bring him a bottle of Gatorade. But this was no longer his home. He and his mom and dad didn't live here anymore. Sometimes his old life seemed like little more than a dream, as if it had been some other guy's life.

"Hey, you," Felicity called loudly as she came up behind him. "Why don't you take a break? Missy and I are fixing to eat lunch, and we made enough sandwiches for all of us."

Seth turned off the Weed Eater, propped it against the fence and yanked a rag from the back pocket of his old, tattered shorts. As he swiped the perspiration off his forehead, he turned around and faced Felicity.

"Her dad's not here, if that's what's worrying you. He's gone to Decatur to set up a gospel meeting with the church over there."

Seth glanced past Felicity. Missy, all summer-tan brown in khaki walking shorts and a sleeveless red blouse, set a tray of sandwiches and iced tea down on the patio table. His gaze met hers. She smiled, then waved and motioned him to come on over.

"You like her, don't you?" Felicity asked.

When he didn't reply, she socked him in the arm. "What'd you do that for?" he asked.

"She's nearly eighteen, you know, and you're only fifteen. She's not going to date a guy younger than she is."

"I'll be sixteen soon," Seth said. "In August."

"You don't even have a car," Felicity reminded him. "Besides that, your grandparents won't let you date."

"What makes you think-?"

"Just how many dates have you had, not counting being Shannon Moore's Homecoming Court escort?"

"I'll be dating when I turn sixteen, and I'm going to get a car, too. That's one of the reasons I'm doing yard work this summer."