Mack frowned. He’d already denied Marcus Silver’s offer of getting his dad’s classmates together to speak at the service. “What did you have in mind?”
“I want a few minutes of time at the pulpit after the preacher is through and before the congregation is dismissed.”
“To say what?” Mack asked.
“To say that the police are aware that the person who killed your dad and Dick Phillips was a classmate, or at the least a schoolmate, and that I believe someone in Mystic knows why this is happening. I want to announce that a hotline has been set up that will keep callers anonymous, and that ten thousand dollars has been donated by a national agency to be given to any person with information that leads to the arrest and conviction of the killer.”
Mack took a deep breath. On the surface, his father’s memorial service didn’t seem like the proper place for this to happen, but the longer he thought about it, the more certain he became that it was actually the perfect place. Nearly everyone in Mystic would be there. What better place to spread the word than when they were sitting among people they’d known all their lives, suddenly having to face the fact that one of them was most likely a killer.
Trey waited and got nothing but silence. He sighed. It had been a wild shot, and it hadn’t worked. No loss, no foul.
“It’s okay, Mack. I completely understand your reluctance to—”
“Do it,” Mack said. “Do it.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Mack.”
“No, the thanks will go to you when you find the bastard who’s doing this,” Mack said, and then he disconnected.
He walked back to his bedroom in silence, thinking about what a bombshell that would be, and then found Lissa asleep on the bed, still fully dressed.
Poor baby. Today really kicked her ass.
He slipped the shoes off her feet and covered her with a blanket, then kicked off his own shoes and lay down beside her. Two more nights in this house, the final goodbye to his father tomorrow, and then they could go home.
Nineteen
The urns of green ferns on either side of the pulpit and the large arrangement of fall-colored flowers in front of it were reminders that this was essentially a funeral, even though there was no casket. Paul Jackson’s body was still in cold storage in a drawer at the county morgue and in no shape to be viewed, not now and not ever.
To Mack, who was already seated in the front row with Melissa at his side, the absence of a coffin was an ugly reminder of what had happened to his dad, and how truly alone he and Melissa were in this world, with no extended family members to gather on the pew in mutual grief.
The church was not just full but overflowing, and the staff had even added metal folding chairs along the walls and out into the foyer for extra seating. The citizens of Mystic were there both to offer up their condolences and partly out of curiosity at how this funeral would match up to the one held for Dick Phillips. Everyone noticed Mack Jackson and Melissa Sherman sitting alone on the front pew, which made the service that much more poignant. Reuniting and resuming an old love affair in the midst of such sadness had captured every woman’s heart in Mystic, except maybe Jessica York, who had taken it upon herself to be out of town.
Lissa knew her facial bruises were a source of discussion, but not in a mean way, and Mack’s careful movements were a reminder that he’d nearly died in an effort to catch her stalker. She felt battered and sore, and today she also felt grief. She remembered the day she’d buried her mother and how alone in the world it had left her feeling.
She glanced up at Mack, and he seemed to sense her scrutiny because he looked down, saw tears glistening in her eyes and frowned.
“What, honey? Are you okay? Do you need to get out of here?” he asked.
“No, nothing like that,” she whispered, as she gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I’m just so sad for you today.”
His belly knotted a little bit tighter. Sympathy was going to be hard to deal with today.
“Thank you, baby,” he said softly.
She leaned her head against his shoulder and kept hold of his hand, and that was the way they were sitting when the service began.
Mack noticed more about Pastor Farley’s clothing than he did what the man was saying. The moment the pastor had approached the pulpit, Mack’s mind had gone blank. He kept staring at the stained-glass window above the choir loft, noticing how the sunlight coming through the colored panes painted the walls and floor and the top of the preacher’s bald head. This was a travesty, an awful nightmare that wouldn’t come to an end.
When Lissa began to weep, his focus shifted to the sadness on her face, and he knew she was remembering all over again that it had been her car. Even if a killer had pushed the button, her car had been his weapon.
The knot in his throat grew tighter as he pulled her close. Even when the preacher stopped talking and someone started singing, Mack felt emotionally raw. He barely remembered his mother’s funeral, but he would never forget today. This one shouldn’t have happened. Not now. Not like this.
Pastor Farley stood after the end of the song. He’d already been forewarned that the police chief wanted to speak, but not told why. He had one last thing on his agenda, and then he would turn the podium over to Trey Jakes.
“I have two announcements to make before we adjourn. One is that the ladies of our church have dessert and coffee waiting in the dining area. Mack and Melissa will join you for a short time, but as you can see, they are both still healing from their own ordeal. And now the last thing of note. Chief Jakes of the Mystic Police Department has something to announce. Chief, the podium is yours.”
Lissa quickly realized Mack was not surprised, although from the murmurs of the congregation behind her, they certainly were. This was definitely out of the norm.
Trey walked down the middle aisle of the church with long, steady strides. His uniform was spotless, and the Stetson he habitually wore was in his hand. When he stepped up to the podium, he looked first at Mack and then out across the congregation.
“Mack has given me permission to make this announcement at his father’s service because he and my fiancée, Dallas Phillips, are still waiting for justice for their fathers’ deaths. So this is what we now believe—a killer sits among you.”
The uproar that followed was instantaneous and full of righteous indignation, but Trey kept speaking and they wanted to hear the rest, so silence quickly fell as he continued.
“Someone in this town, maybe more than one of you, knows something they’re afraid to tell. Or maybe you don’t even realize that what you know could possibly matter. What some of you don’t know, and others may have forgotten, is that the night of the 1980 high school graduation, four of the graduates were in a deadly wreck. One girl died at the scene. To this day, the three survivors have no memory of why the car they were in was going over a hundred miles an hour when it hit a tree. They have no memory of anything that night after they stepped off that stage at graduation.
“And then there are two men, good men and our friends, who have been murdered within weeks of each other here in Mystic. Is it any coincidence that Dick Phillips and Paul Jackson were two of the three survivors of that wreck? Does their killer think we are stupid and naive enough to overlook that fact? To assume it’s not connected?
“Someone in here knows something more about that night and they’re not telling. Mack and Dallas have lost their fathers because of your silence. So if you don’t have the guts to come forward in person, you might be compelled to come forward now that a national victims and survivors group has donated ten thousand dollars to be given to the person with information that leads to the arrest and conviction of the killer. There’s a hotline you can call. It won’t record your identity or location. You can remain anonymous if you choose.
“So before you go eat your cake and drink your coffee, think back, and think hard. What did you see that night? What do you know? What gossip did you hear? The phone number is on a sign posted on the church bulletin board, and it will be in the newspaper, as well. Please call before it’s too late.”
Trey was about to walk away when someone from the congregation called out, “Who was the other survivor? Who was the girl who didn’t die?”
A muscle ticked at the side of Trey’s mouth, but he didn’t hesitate to answer. “My mother, Betsy Jakes.”
Silence enveloped the room as he stepped down from the pulpit and exited the church. Everyone got the implication. If she was the only one left alive, then she was the killer’s next target. The hush was palpable.
Pastor Farley walked back up to the microphone.
“Dessert is being served in the dining hall. Please join me in giving Mack and Melissa our condolences.”
Then the pastor whisked Mack and Melissa through a door just off to the side of the pulpit and into the dining hall before the congregation could get there, and got them seated.
“Mack, I think that was a brave and gutsy thing to do. I hope it pays off,” he said.
“So do I,” Mack said.
“You knew ahead of time, didn’t you?” Lissa asked.
“I didn’t see the message from Trey until we got home, and by the time I read it you’d fallen asleep. And then this morning, there was just so much going on that—”