Chapter 23 #2
Understanding dawns in his eyes, quickly followed by anger. “Stop playing games and let me out of this.” He attempts to stand and lift the desk to free the handcuff, but it doesn’t budge. Perfect.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He pats his pockets, searching for his cell phone, until he realizes it’s on one of the bookshelves furthest from him. Out of reach.
“Seriously, what’s this all about? Who sent you?” He’s still angry and confrontational, but panic laces his tone now.
“Maybe God sent me.” I smirk.
He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“The truth is,” I say, “I’ve seen you in the news and wanted to figure out what was going on for myself. There seem to be a lot of people saying you’re using your status to manipulate the members of your congregation.”
“Those are just allegations from people who don’t have the full context. My lawyer is dealing with it.”
I shake my head in mock disappointment. “Why would so many people accuse you of something so heinous if it wasn’t true? You’re supposed to be a man of God, after all. People trust you. But I suppose that’s how you managed to fuck over so many people in the first place, right?”
His eyes narrow on me. “Like I said, the media has taken everything out of context. People are just angry that they didn’t get as much money from their dying relatives as they expected to, so they’re looking for someone to blame.”
“Hmm, is that really the story you’re going with?” Leaning down to rummage through my tote bag, I pull out a book of matches and place them on the small table beside me.
Pastor Delaney casts a wary glance at them, then pins me with a glare. “Those people wanted to help the church. I don’t know what the hell you want from me, but you’re going to regret this.”
I smile as I lean down again to pull out the gallon of gasoline in my bag.
“One more chance…”
His face pales when he makes the connection, and he pulls against the cuff around his ankle, causing the metals to clang together. “Seriously, this isn’t funny.”
“It’s not meant to be. I was hoping it might elicit a confession, though.”
“Okay, okay,” he says in a panicked tone, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I might have persuaded some of these people a little more than I should have, but it was all for the church!”
I cock my head, waiting for him to elaborate.
“So much needs to be fixed in this building, and I don’t have money for the repairs, and everything’s getting more expensive these days.”
“So why haven’t there been any renovations?” I ask. I don’t know if there actually have been, but from his reaction, I seem to have guessed accurately.
“I’ve been planning them, I swear!”
Without a word, I uncap the gas can and pace to the other end of the room, making sure to keep a wide berth. When I tilt the can and allow a small amount of gasoline to splash into the carpet, his eyes widen.
“Okay, okay, wait! Maybe I used some of the money for myself, but I swear I meant to put it back into the church once I was more financially stable.”
“And how did you convince these people to sign their assets over?”
He swallows hard. “I—I told them it was God’s will. That they could do more good by helping the church than holding onto material possessions. That this would benefit the whole community. Most of them were older and easy to convince.”
Another part of the article I’d read about him flashes through my mind.
“I also saw a statement from a young woman saying she went to you for help about her abusive parents years ago, and that you brushed it off. What was that all about?”
He stammers, trying to come up with an excuse that won’t incriminate him further. “I—I don’t know. Her parents were good people, helped out at community events, and I just… I thought she was exaggerating, I don’t know.”
My stomach twists. “For someone who’s supposed to stand up for what’s right, you’re kind of a coward.”
He ignores my statement. “You won’t get away with this. People will find out.”
I shrug. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Please, just let me go. I’ll do better, I promise.” He’s getting desperate now, clearly troubled by the level of disgust and lack of pity in my eyes.
“Anything else to confess?” I ask, ignoring his pleas. “I have a feeling you’ll be meeting your creator very soon.”
He lunges toward me. I step back, easily avoiding his grip, and he cries out in pain as the handcuffs dig into his ankle.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he begs. “God will forgive both of us for our sins. Please don’t give into temptation.”
“God might forgive you, but I won’t.” And if judgement day comes for me, I’m already screwed. May as well make the most of it.
I step as close to him as I can without being in his reach and splash the gasoline across his desk, watching it splatter across his button-down as he attempts to shield himself with his forearm. Still, he coughs and spits as some gets into his mouth.
I walk across the room toward the door and my matchbook, trying to keep as much distance between us as possible in the small space.
The pastor is still struggling, attempting to lift the desk to no avail.
But before I can register what he’s doing, something flies through the air.
The textbook he’d ripped from the bookshelf strikes my head, hard and heavy, and I stumble.
He takes the opportunity, managing to lunge toward me and catch the edge of my shirt.
I stumble again, and he yanks my arm backward at an odd angle with his fingers digging into my skin.
A sharp flash of pain shoots through my shoulder, and I cry out just before he snags a handful of my hair and yanks it down, smashing my head into the desk.
A heavy ache blooms behind my forehead, and the room spins.
I barely manage to twist out of his grasp, though strands of hair rip from my scalp in the process, and I flatten myself against the wall, out of his reach.
He's desperate now, a cornered animal fighting for its life. He swipes at the bookshelf again, hurling books at me in an attempt to slow me down or incapacitate me. I use my good arm to block them as much as possible, the other one hanging limp at my side.
The sharp corner of one hardcover grazes my cheek, and the sting is immediate. Warm blood trickles down my face, but I don’t have time to worry about it.
I’m at the door now, matchsticks in hand, ducking his frenzied throws.
His eyes widen in terror as I open the office door, take one step backward, and light a match.
“No, no, no, please,” he begs.
Deep down, I know I should feel some sort of hesitation, but much like the incident with the bartender, I’m consumed by the need for justice after discovering how many people he’s wronged.
Maybe he’s done good in his life as well, mentored those who needed it and guided them down better paths.
But unfortunately for him, that doesn’t matter to me right now.
I’ve now become judge, jury, and executioner, and I’ve decided he deserves to die.
Maybe it’s extreme, maybe I’m completely fucked in the head, but it’s too late to go back now.
“What’s that phrase?” I mutter. “Baptism by fire?”
I toss the match onto the desk, and the wooden top ignites in a whoosh of flames. In an instant, the pastor’s shirt is burning, the flames licking up his torso and around his neck.
His screams pierce the air, and I shut the door between us.
I don’t know how close I have to be to him in order to absorb his life, but I don’t want to take my chances by leaving the building before it happens.
Light from the back door filters through the glass at the end of the hallway, so I have a clear escape route.
Despite my lack of guilt at killing this man, the sounds of his tortured screams make my stomach roll. His death shouldn’t take long, but the seconds pass agonizingly slowly when each of them is filled with the knowledge that I’m burning a man alive.
Maybe I should have made it quicker, less painful.
He deserved punishment, sure, but this might be too much.
The smell is the worst part—beneath the scent of the melting plastic and books catching fire, I swear I can smell the acrid stench of burning hair and skin.
An image pops unbidden to my mind of his skin turning pink, then blistering in painful burns, then charring black as his consciousness fades.
Bile rises in my throat as I wait. And wait. And wait.
The air around me warms as the fire grows, likely consuming the bookcases and furniture fully by now. I imagine him choking on the thick black smoke, and while part of me is disgusted by what I’ve just done, the other part of me wishes I was there to witness the light leave his eyes.
The screams stop, and after what feels like an eternity, the stone against my chest pulses with energy, and I know he’s dead.
The only sound inside the church is the whoosh and crackle of the growing fire as flames consume the room.
And as I exit the back door and make my way into the weirdly normal afternoon cast in sunlight, I can only hope that whatever deity Ambrose spoke of is more forgiving than the one worshipped within this church.