Chapter Twelve

Thomas

I LEAVE DIANA some water — I do not need her throat damaged because she accidentally inhaled the hot sauce when I only meant to drizzle it on her tongue — and ensure she is locked in before I go to the rectory attached to our church, where Father Oliver and his wife spend most of their days.

Mother Catherine lets me in, her reddish curls bouncing as always. She is our success story for rescuing spouses; so different from the junkie Oliver told us about.

Oliver, an albino man with dignified white hair in a ponytail, is about ten years older than I, but he seems much more worldly than I could ever dream of being. He sits at a chair in his office, writing. No doubt for his sermon or the church's blog.

"Brother Thomas, what brings you here this evening?" he asks me in his pleasant, lilting Irish accent. "Did everything go smoothly at Diana's apartment?"

I shake my head. "Not … exactly. Do you have time to converse, Father?"

He nods. "Of course, I always have time for my fellows within the church. We are here as a family, after all."

Catherine asks, "Can I bring you anything?"

"No, dear. If we need something, we will tell you," Oliver says.

"Mother," I interject, "I was wondering if you and Sister Lisa could organize some ladies to go and get Diana's things packed within the next week? Anything suitable, we can donate to the women's shelter."

She nods, eyes alight. "What a lovely idea."

"Also … she has a pile of ratty books. Can someone take down the authors and titles for me?"

Once more, her curls bounce as she nods. "Of course, Brother Thomas. She is quite lucky to have you, isn't she?"

I smile. "And once I am done working with her soul, we will be lucky to have her, too." I wait for Catherine to leave before I speak. I am sure what she did as an addict, nothing would shock her, but I wish to spare her the details of what Diana told me.

"So, Brother, what is it you need? You look troubled," Oliver says.

"Diana's landlord may have harmed a child the night after I brought Diana here," I admit. "Because I took her, that may be partially my fault."

Oliver regards me carefully. "We cannot stop things set in motion, you know this. I wouldn't be so hasty as to blame yourself."

I nod. "I realize that, but I am but human, Father. I wish to assuage my guilt."

"We will help you as we can. What did you require?"

"Brother Joseph, whom you said helped change Catherine's information to keep her safe, I'd like him to assign that building to me. I will own it from now on."

Oliver nods. "I trust you will ensure the current landowner will not put up a struggle?"

I smile. "Oh, I hope he struggles at least a little."

The popular idiom is, if one kills a killer, the amount of killers in the world remains the same. Not so.

If one kills many killers, the amount of killers in the world diminishes. Some philosophers should at least attend math class a few times. And if one kills those who would harm innocent women and children … I consider that pest extermination.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

Hank sits behind a battered desk, his dirt-crusted boots on top of probably important paperwork, hands behind his head. His lank, greasy hair hangs loose in his face. He added a neck tattoo since I last saw him. No one would guess this man is a multi-millionaire.

Nor would they guess that about me, I suppose.

"How's the funny farm treating you and Lisa?"

I grin at him, tossing hair from my face. "Lisa settled in faster than I did, but I admit it's a nice life. Better than this one."

"And yet you still darkened my doorstep. What the fuck do you want?" Despite his coarse words, his tone is friendly. Lisa and I are the only people to leave Hank's organization and live. He can use some good, upstanding church members to back him up if the cops ever come calling. And they will, eventually. He gave us a pretty good living, so we won't hesitate to help him.

"How much to have you clean up after me tonight?"

"You taking contracts again? The church allows that?"

I shake my head. "There's a man taking advantage of vulnerable women and children. I need him gone. As part of my penance, to ensure I am worthy of my fiancée."

Hank's eyes flare. "Free. Just call me as usual when you're done. Fucker hurting kids, I hope you make it last long, Tommy."

I grin, going to the hidden cupboard in the far left wall for my weapon. "Oh, trust me, I plan on it."

It's been five days since I got Oliver's permission to take care of Rick. I had to wait until Joe hacked into the city's files and created a sale transfer of the building deed into my name.

I didn't cancel Diana's lease. I want him angry, and there at midnight, just like what he did to her before. I need to look him in the eyes as he sees the Earthly punishment God has sent upon him.

Inside the apartment, I sit on the edge of her still unmade bed, calm. My heart rate is normal, my breathing even. Even my nerves do not thrum. The adrenaline will hit soon enough, but for now I am at peace with what I am doing; I am in the right.

I check the time on my phone and quickly shut the screen so no light emerges from under the closed bedroom door.

Twelve-oh-one.

Right on time, the front door of the apartment rattles, and locks turn. The sound is as loud as a gunshot in the silence.

"Diana!" Rick's abrasive voice cuts through the still. I nearly flinch at the sound; not something I would typically admit to. It appears I'm a bit rusty. "Who the fuck do you think you are trying to skip out on rent, you little whore? The fuckin' bums you suck off for two dollars didn't pay you enough?"

There it is. My rage. Like an old friend, my rage and I have a long history, and it reminds me it exists every so often. Like when I am forced to beat Diana. It takes the edge off.

But it has been some time since I truly let the blackness out to play. Two years since there last was blood on my hands and peace in my soul.

I will remedy that tonight, and allow my rage to go back into its uneasy slumber.

The bedroom door opens, and the light flicks on.

Rick — a tall, nearly emaciated man with wisps of hair and an ill-fitting suit — stands in the threshold, staring at me in disbelief.

"You're not — where is Diana Hill?" he barks, trying to cover up his discomfort. "If you're her fuckin' John, I told her not to bring it here to this damn building, so get the Hell out before I—"

"Oh, will you shut up ?" I ask, standing to my full height. He's taller, but I am fitter, and if I may say so, more imposing. "You're the landlord?" I need to be sure before I go further.

"Yeah, and your whore is late on her rent!"

I nod, running a hand through my hair. "First of all, Diana is not my whore, she is my fiancée. Second, she owes you nothing on account of the fact she doesn't live here, and you no longer own this building."

"What nonsense are you talking about?" he asks.

"I own it now. And I dispersed the rest of your assets to other reputable landowners or sold them off; the profits will go into local women's shelters to protect them from predators like you. Now, one more question."

Rick stammers as I speak, clearly in shock, and likely he is unsure if he should believe me.

"Did you touch the child?"

"What?"

"Did. You. Touch. Whitney. Thompson?" I grind every word out, my patience dancing on a razor's edge. It will be cut at any moment, and I need his answer before that happens.

"What's it to you?"

"It means nothing to me," I lie. "But your answer is the catalyst between two things: fast or slow."

Another lie. I will need to sit down with Father Oliver after this to cleanse my soul. I have already decided it will be slow, unless he makes too much noise.

"Fast or…"

"My patience will snap at any given moment. I suggest you answer the question."

"No. The bitch mother said she's on vacation with her father's family. But she can't stay away forever. Why? Did you want a go too?"

Darkness descends upon my vision, sight narrowing down on the evil, disgusting creature before me.

Swiftly, I bend to the knife holster on my boot and produce a decent-sized dagger, my preferred weapon of choice. I have used various guns, poison, my bare hands, kitchen knives, and one memorable time, a baseball bat with a screwdriver head attached. But this specific dagger feels right in my hands as I mete out justice on God's behalf.

"I would say I'll see you in Hell, but I am honestly unsure if Satan will take you."

Rick looks at the dagger and turns to run, but my rage has snapped, making my every movement precise and fluid. Unlike others when they give in to their instinct, I do not become unraveled and uncontrolled. Rather, it is the opposite. Every sense is sharpened like an animal, and like one, I take my prey with deliberate, quick movements, ensuring I have time to play with it.

Yanking him back by his collar, I relish the fear in his beady eyes and smile. Everything moves in perfect slow motion, allowing me to handle my first thrust effortlessly, into his nonexistent stomach.

He gasps and doubles over, legs unsteady as he tries to cover the wound, but my blade is too wide for his hands to properly cover it all, not with the way I cut. Blood seeps between his fingers, staining his already rumpled and dirty shirt. He looks at me in disbelief, and I smile and shrug before I grab his jacket in one hand and continue to stab him.

Over and over and over again.

The blade cleanly renders flesh, sliding into his body as if I were cutting through cotton candy, if the confectionery could bleed, that is.

My rage controls the thrusts, never going too far so as to harm me or make me lose my grip on the cretin. I am unsure if I have blinked lately. It doesn't feel like it, but that doesn't matter.

Rick gurgles as he tries to scream, to give voice to the intense agony I am sure he must feel at the moment, as his insides have been shredded to ribbons, intestines trailing along his thighs, hitting his knees like cut rope. The smell of copper fills the room, a perfume to my senses.

Blood pours from his mouth, and he meets my eyes.

"Why?"

The word is barely intelligible, but I have heard it enough from my victims to know what he said. It amuses me to no end that those who commit the worst atrocities see themselves as some sort of heroes and cannot fathom why anyone would want to slowly slice them up as if they were a Sunday roast.

The evil always believe they are doing the work of God.

"Because I cannot suffer your sort of sin to live." I let go, slightly shoving him back so he lays prostrate on Diana's old bed. "While I am sure God has turned His ears from your pleas, if you wish to pray, you had best begin now."

His eyes are glassy; he will die soon.

I won't allow him to pass peacefully. No, he will look into the eyes of his redeemer.

Leaning over him, I ensure he can see me before I grin, waving the dagger before his gaze.

And then I plunge it into his blood-clogged throat, slicing quickly, barely avoiding the spray of blood from his carotid. I think some may have gotten in my hair.

I stand before the corpse, breathing hard, noting a wet patch in the front of his pants. I will never cease to find the way the dead cannot hold their bowels or bladder disgusting.

Undignified.

I use Diana's duvet to wipe the majority of the blood from the blade before I re-sheath it. Mother Catherine will clean it completely for me before I return it to Hank's office. Discarding one of the black gloves I wore, I text Hank the address and a bomb emoji. It's our code to "explode" the evidence.

With my still-gloved hand, I go into Rick's pants pocket and find his wallet soaked in blood. His ID is stained around the edges. I take it with me as I head home.

As always, adrenaline surges through me after a kill, tightening my pants and making my heart beat stronger. It is a gamble going to see Diana now. I may not be able to control myself in front of her, and it is not yet time for me to claim her as mine in the flesh.

I check to make sure my boots have no blood on them — they don't — before I enter my home and head down to the basement. It is past one in the morning, but Diana is awake, humming, holding the bear in one arm against her chest.

How beautiful she looks, more innocent than she is. My cock insists I take her now, but I must restrain myself, or I will undo all the work I began within her. I am no longer the man I once was, and I need to remember that. As alluring as she is, as much as my darkness demands the feel of her soft flesh beneath me, I must resist.

Being the junior pastor has its perks in that I have my pick of single women within the community to take my passions out on should I require it, though I typically choose Lisa. I'm most comfortable with her, seeing as I've known her my entire life. However, I don't want her.

I want the sweet, strong, beautiful creature in the bed before me.

Diana looks at me and her eyes widen. Does she see blood? The bulge my black jeans will not hide?

I wait as I stand at the side of her bed, wondering what she will say.

"You're wearing all black."

Huh. That was not what I expected. "Yes, I am."

"Is ... there a reason?"

I nod, handing her the blood-speckled driver's license. "Yes. I only wear black when I need to hide the bloodstains."