Assistant Pastor Thomas Lowe smiled at Deputy Williams and finished binding his naked body to the old truck dolly with duct tape. Williams struggled, but the restraint was unforgiving.

"What the fuck, man?" Williams yelled. "What in God's name do you expect to loot from a Sheriff's Station?" Williams growled.

Lowe was first to let out a laugh, and a moment later, the other three followed suit.

"You think we went through all this trouble to steal something?" Lowe scoffed and stepped directly in front of the restrained officer. "What could you have that we could possibly want?"

"Drugs," Brother Ezekiel blurted out.

"Do what now?" Lowe asked and turned toward Ezekiel.

Brother Ezekiel ran to where Lowe stood, reminiscent of a child running to a Christmas tree to open presents.

"The evidence locker," Brother Ezekiel announced excitedly. "Devil only knows how much weed they have back there."

Lowe turned his head in Williams's direction, with an evil expression carved into his face.

"Is this true?" Lowe asked in a low and unsettling tone.

"Go fuck yourself," Williams exclaimed with anger dressed in his words. "You stupid-looking goat fucker, I am not gonna tell you jack shit! You might as well take your three stooges and piss off!"

"That was actually funny," Lowe said and smiled at Deputy Williams. "You are a funny guy. I bet that is how you win over the women… What's that old saying? You made them laugh their panties right off of them?"

"Ask your mama, boy," Williams barked. "She could tell you all about it."

"Again, funny," Lowe said and turned to look at the others before he turned his attention back to Williams. "But alas, she was killed as my personal sacrifice to the Ripper Saint."

There was a short beat, then Lowe continued his thought while he walked around Williams.

"You see, Deputy, in order to be ordained as an Assistant Pastor, you have to sacrifice one thing you hold dear. I knew the instant who it had to be as our Pastor offered the leadership role to me. As I drove home, I thought about how I was going to go about it… I mean, do I say good-bye to her, or maybe take her to dinner and suffocate her in her sleep?

"What I ended up doing was, once I got home, I walked in and found her cooking at the stove. I shot her in the back of the head before she noticed I was there."

"You are a sick fuck," Williams announced, and then tried to pull loose his bonds, but to no avail.

"I think that was a beautiful story," Sister Julie said, wide-eyed and soft-spoken.

"Thank you, Sister Julie… Now where was I? Oh, yes, Brother Ezekiel, take the key ring from the Deputy's pants over there on the floor and find the goods," Lowe said in a calm and unnervingly casual voice. "Brother Winston, go get Marty. He is most likely still sedated. You will need to wake him."

"Got it, Brother Thomas," Brother Winston said in a deep voice that almost equaled a growl. He immediately turned and headed for the exit.

"Oh, and grab my hunting knife from under the seat, will ya?" Lowe asked politely and finished with a smile.

"Absolutely," Winston responded and walked off.

"Sister Julie," Lowe said and turned in her direction. "How many Jerry Cans do we have in the back of the truck?"

"Only the one, but you have two smaller ones," Sister Julie replied in her typical bubbly manner.
"Leave the two smaller ones, and bring me the big one," Lowe ordered softly. "And, if you need help, have Brother Winston help you bring it in before he wakes up the hostage."

"Okie dokey," Sister Julie said and then saluted him as if he was her ranking officer.

#

Five Years Earlier…

Grayson Copeland stood in the parking lot of a large bookstore with a copy of Surviving the Spirit of Jack the Ripper: The Elizabeth Stride Story in hand. For a few moments, he watched as a single-file line of people shuffled forward, each holding their own copy, excited to meet the author and get her autograph.

His eyes settled on Betty, who sat at a table with stacks of her nonfiction work on either side of her. He grinned to himself as he continued to watch his former lover awkwardly meet her adoring fans. Grayson knew life had been good to her. The press surrounding the publication alone was impressive. Her name was on the radio and morning talk shows, promoting the release.

Grayson had spent the last twenty-one weeks as a trainee at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Once the program ended, he boarded a plane back to Washington for Betty's very first book signing. He was not sure what his motivation was. Was it because he missed her? Did he need to apologize for the past? Or was it simply to be there for emotional support?

What am I waiting on? Grayson thought, taking a step toward the building. What the hell am I doing here?

Grayson stepped inside the massive bookstore. The smell of paper reminded him of when he was a child, saving his weekly lunch money so he could buy his favorite comic books. The smell of that small shop was something he looked forward to every Friday after school.

The end of the line was only a few steps from the entrance. Grayson slipped in behind a young woman, no older than twenty-one. She had her nose buried in the book, completely enthralled by the printed text she read through glasses that had slipped to the tip of her nose. In unison, everyone took a step forward. Grayson leaned to the side and peeked past the long line of people, watching as someone new stepped up to Betty's table.

The woman in front of him looked up from the pages and used her index finger to push her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. "Oh gosh, this is going to take forever," she muttered to herself. She stretched and glanced back at Grayson, who stood a few steps behind her. "Oh my gosh, have you read chapter seventeen?" she asked, excitement lighting up her eyes.

Grayson nodded. "I read it on the plane ride here."

"Wow! You flew just to be here?" she asked excitedly.

Grayson nodded again.

"It's so hard to believe all of it really happened," the woman said, her enthusiasm undimmed. "I wonder how much was embellished."

Grayson grinned and shrugged.

The woman tilted her head and gasped. "Oh my gosh! I know who you are! You're Grayson Copeland, the cop who saved her!" She flipped through a few pages and held up a photograph of Grayson's police ID, printed in the book.

Within seconds, a swarm of people surrounded him. Grayson had never cared for popularity. Images flooded his mind of a time when he could not go anywhere without paparazzi invading his personal space. He closed his eyes and breathed. His mind filled with memories of flashing cameras, voice recorders shoved into his face for a comment, thoughts of his late wife Lisa in a winter wonderland, panic over their missing son, and reporters standing by with cameras ready.

The flashes went wild, but no one saw Curt's abduction.

Grayson's mind raced as he remembered standing in the police station, staring into a large open box containing his son's severed head. Without warning, the memory shifted to their funeral and how drunk and lost he had been. Then came the moment he stood face to face with their killer, the man he had once considered a father, a mentor, Dean Tidwell.

Grayson shook the thoughts from his head. When he opened his eyes, Betty stood before him with a half-entertained expression painted across her face.

"Well, well, look who we have here," she said with a half grin. "I never pegged you as the reading type, Detective."

Grayson's mind reeled as memories pressed in, but he managed a soft response. "Agent. I left homicide last year."

"You're a fed," Betty said, raising an eyebrow. "The guy who hated FEDS showing up to fuck up his investigations is now one of them? Oh, how the world turns. So what do you want, hotshot?"

Grayson stood silent for a moment or two, studying her. She was slightly heavier, her eyes looked rested. He knew life as an author had been kind to her.

"Don't tell me you came back just to get your book signed," Betty said as she took the book from his hand. She opened the cover and scribbled something inside with her pen. "You want it addressed to Grayson, or the guy who used to fuck the shit out of me?"

"I'm on track to become a special agent," Grayson said quietly. "I'm afraid some sicko might come after you. I can offer you protection from the Bureau."

"Why did I think this might be something personal?" Betty snapped, flashing irritation. "Always looking out for your best interests, huh, Gray?"

"Betty, please," Grayson said. "How about you come with me? I know you're a famous author now, but I can keep you safe. I can get you a great apartment, keep your location private. No one would know. You'd be sa—"

"I'd be what?" Betty growled. "Your little secret? Someone you drop in on for a piece of ass and keep hush-hush? Don't worry about me. I survived Jack. I hope you enjoy your new life, Agent Copeland."

Betty walked away, leaving Grayson stunned by how badly the encounter had gone. He watched her disappear behind a wall of security before turning and heading back outside. He paused for a moment in the parking lot, considering his options.

"Well, that sucked," Grayson muttered as he reached the rental car. He tossed the book onto the seat and climbed in. "I just wanted to help you."

Grayson's eyes drifted to the book beside him. The cover had fallen open from the impact, revealing the inscription for the first time:

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