The Butcher Legacy (Dr. Wren Muller #3)

Prologue

Detective Lucas Hart takes a seat right in the middle row of pews.

He slid in early, tactically positioning himself to secure the best vantage point of the sanctuary’s every corner.

The congregants begin to drift in, speaking to one another in hushed tones, a steady stream of gossip and pleasantries kept quiet in a kind of sanctimonious respect.

He can see they are comfortable here. It’s a shared ease without pretense.

This is somewhere it seems they can all shed their daily skins for what they view as a soul cleansing, laid bare beneath images of sinners and saints.

Hart has already cast a watchful eye upon some of these congregants, taking a special interest in those who seem as if their devotion to the church, and to Pastor Philip, teeters close to dependency.

Being new to the Kingsborough Police Department in western Massachusetts, Hart has spent a lot of time studying.

He studied cases, and he studied people.

It wasn’t just the criminals he was interested in; it was the people in their orbit and even the people tasked with putting them away.

The officers there had a bond he hadn’t seen at his previous department.

Sure, there are always bonds among officers.

When you might rely on each other to make it home from work alive on any given night, it’s important to really connect and have a sense of responsibility to one another.

But there was something different there.

It felt desperate somehow, like the ties that bound them together were angry tentacles laced with some kind of fast-acting poison.

One wrong move and they would all be stung to death.

He doesn’t like it. The bonds feel empty but so heavy all at once.

It’s here, in this room, where he spots a few of his fellow officers.

Most of them simply nod his way when they notice him, not wanting to interrupt the opening organ music for the service.

He can see a few of them whispering to each other, glancing over their wives and children to point out that he’s here.

After weeks of sharing how important their faith and this church are to them, they must feel like they have finally converted another sheep.

Hart’s purpose is different than that of the flock mingling around him, ready to be led to salvation.

He doesn’t want the type of spiritual enlightenment that most are seeking here.

His is a darker purpose, focused on cutting off the rot of an unholy treason.

He’s here to see Pastor Philip Trudeau in action.

Hart is here to see him inspire and cast his wicked spell.

The organ rises to a crescendo; the procession of preservice rituals begins.

Inside him is a mix of emotions. He wonders what exactly his game plan is as he sits in this place.

He tries to ignore the gazes of his coworkers and lets his eyes wander to the ornate windows, each depicting a biblical scene rendered with vivid colors.

Some of the scenes are hopeful, some are sad, and some convey what can be described only as horror stories.

There is blood and suffering, death and fear.

He sees a few children staring at them too, and his brows knit together as he wonders what nightmares these images will conjure tonight.

As he takes in the craftsmanship—the designs look to have been made by extremely skilled hands—he notices something interesting.

The artist crafted the faces in a particular way.

In every scene, the people don’t have pupils.

There are just empty holes where their humanity should be.

Open orbits, like deep, dark oubliettes to throw people into so they can be forgotten.

It’s a strange artistic choice and subtle enough that it might be overlooked, but Hart curiously feels like he has seen this strange quirk before today. There’s a familiarity to it.

One thing he has discovered about himself is that he has keen observational skills.

He finds things that other people miss, and that’s what makes him fit for the position he holds.

But now he can’t seem to put the pieces together; it’s just a chaotic mess of ideas and connections in his mind.

He closes his eyes, letting the voices around him grow quiet as he searches through his memories, searches for the image of another painted face with dead eyes.

Where did I see it?

Suddenly the memory comes into focus like a photo developing in a darkroom.

He sees the blurry beginnings, a cabin deep in a wooded area, and then, as the scene becomes more vivid, he recalls the stained glass sign hanging from a rugged old post. The image it depicted was an unidentifiable person with those dead, bottomless eyes casting an empty gaze toward the heavens.

The person looked up not in adoration or awe but in terror.

After he researched the Bible verse written on the same sign, Hebrews 10:31, he’d felt an ominous anxiety of his own.

It is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.

That sign has haunted him. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

It sat in the front yard of Pastor Philip’s home, off to the side of the property’s cabin.

Hart had been visiting with Detective James Warren on a follow-up interview after the pastor’s name turned up in association with serial killer Jeremy Rose, who was on the run.

Every time Hart had walked away from a window, he would find his eyes drawn back in the direction of that sign, searching for another window to see it from.

It felt like both a welcome and a warning.

When he’d asked the pastor about it, Philip confessed he had in fact made the stained glass sign with his own hands.

There was a sparkle in his eye as he humbly gushed about his passion for creating biblical art mostly out of found items.

He made these windows too. These dead-eyed people are his creation, his signature.

The organ music comes to an end, and amid the sudden silence, there he is. Pastor Philip approaches the pulpit. His robes, not ornate or extravagant, flow gently behind him, giving him an otherworldly appearance and creating the impression that he is being carried into the room by a divine breeze.

He’s built strong, with dark features and skin that looks sun-kissed.

His chestnut-colored hair is thick with waves styled to appear almost purposefully unkempt.

His eyes are captivating, seeming to survey everyone and draw them in all at once.

There’s a strange ease to his movements, not practiced or fake.

He’s comfortable up there, relishing the spotlight.

He smiles, and it would appear genuine to a casual observer.

He easily conveys comfort and a sense of community, but there’s something else in that grin that Hart can’t quite place.

There is a sinister aura that swims around this man, and Hart wonders if anyone else can sense it too.

He looks around the pews for a second, daring to break his gaze from the man who now controls this room.

Everyone is transfixed. No one’s eyes have moved from the front; they remain locked to the pastor.

Everyone eagerly awaits what he has to tell them, like their very souls hang in the balance.

“Good evening, beloveds,” he begins, spreading his arms like he’s gathering the congregation into his personal embrace.

“It truly warms my heart to see this many attendees at a Wednesday-night service.” His voice is deep and smooth.

It somehow feels commanding, but soothing.

Hart can feel the charge in the air as the man speaks.

“We are a family, and family shows up for each other. Family lifts each other up, casting aside those who wish to break them apart, to sever the most valuable of bonds. Family sacrifices for each other.” He lets the words hang in the air like static before a lightning strike, a thinly veiled threat disguised as love.

The congregants murmur to one another, most nodding their approval. Hart’s eyes flick between the shepherd and his flock, both equally compelling depictions of obsessive dependence.

He preps them right away. He’s not even a second into his sermon, and he’s already dropping heavy expectations on them.

“Loyalty,” he says with a subtle menace, pausing to allow his eyes to sweep across the congregation and meet the collective gaze of the crowd. “Loyalty feels like it used to be something of value, doesn’t it? But now it’s a lost relic, almost as elusive as the last vestiges of Eden.”

Several people nod along with him, gifting him their tacit agreement. Hart’s eyes can’t stop roaming the scene, captivated by the way Trudeau puppeteers so effortlessly.

“My dearest friends, walking the path of Christ isn’t always easy, is it?

We have all faced moments of crisis, moments of paralyzing fear, and, yes, even moments when we may have questioned our faith.

Staying committed and staying loyal to the path of righteousness is difficult at times, a task not unlike that which Daniel undertook.

” He pauses again and scans the crowd to strengthen their connection.

“If you live in the shadow of Jesus’s sacrifice, then you will see.

You will see that not only does God reward you, but God will intervene on your behalf.

He will change your life. He did it for Daniel, didn’t he? ”

His followers murmur together, some answering his rhetorical question.

He continues, spurred on by the participation.

“God kept the lions’ mouths shut all night because Daniel believed in him.

Daniel stood in the faces of those who would exile him for praying, and he prayed anyway.

He didn’t bend to the conventions of a society that had done everything to turn him from his God.

Instead, he fell deeper into the loving arms of our Lord. ”

Hushed responses creep through the pews.

“Friends, you will be tested. At some point in your lives, you will have your faith pushed to the very brink, and you will have to decide whether to stay on the path of holiness or to turn your back on God and all his grace. Sometimes that choice won’t be simple, and that’s okay …

as long as we come to realize that this is the one true road.

It’s the only path to the kingdom of Christ, to the loving embrace of Jesus, where we will all find our true reward. ”

Hart can feel the authority emanating from the pulpit. The pastor casts it out like a net, trapping everyone with reckless disregard. Everyone nods and affirms his every word, increasing his power.

“In John 14:6, it says, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ I want you to remember that. I want you to take that with you after you leave here tonight. Sear it into your hearts.”

The pastor’s eyes travel over his flock again, but this time they stop on Hart.

A flash of recognition. The pastor takes a moment to linger on the detective, like a predator sizing up his prey, before sweeping his gaze back across the crowd.

Something in that stare makes Hart’s blood turn to ice.

The feeling is a clear indication that a sinister unknown is lurking within these walls.

The sermon drones on, but Hart can’t hear the words anymore.

Instead, he studies the pastor’s face, seeing how easily it can slip in and out of character.

When Pastor Philip looked at Hart, the mask slipped.

Hart can see the malevolence that lies right under the surface, waiting for one of the sheep to step out of line.

When the service has concluded, Hart makes a beeline for Pastor Philip, who seems to be basking in the afterglow of mass manipulation. He notices Hart approaching, and his carefully crafted persona appears to struggle under the weight of his true feelings.

“Detective Hart,” he says, holding his hand out limply in front of him. “We finally got you, huh?”

Hart can’t help but chuckle, reaching out to firmly shake Trudeau’s outstretched hand. “Yeah, I just had to see what all the fuss is about.”

“Well, I hope you leave here tonight a little more enlightened.” A sly smile crosses the pastor’s face.

Hart nods. “Time will tell.”

“I suppose it will,” Trudeau responds, his gaze flicking toward the growing line of people waiting to speak with him. “Luckily our congregation has a way of opening people’s eyes.” As he says this, he gently moves a hand toward his own eyes.

Hart’s insides churn. Trudeau slides right back into the mask quickly, though, shooting Hart a gentle smile—one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. You have adoring fans to attend to,” Hart says with a wink, making sure the words hit like they’re meant to.

The pastor’s smile trembles, as if he wants very badly to bite back. Instead, he shakes his head slowly. “Ah, this is my family, Detective. This is a community. There aren’t fans here, only a fellowship.”

Hart can’t help but chuckle, giving one last nod before walking toward the back of the church. He stops again for a moment and watches the unfolding interactions. It’s a communal trance: Everyone grins madly. It’s as if they’ve seen their god standing right in front of them.