Chapter 32

Good Friday, April 2, 1:02 a.m. Passion Ministry

His legs pounded the bicycle pedals. He tried to focus on the book, propped on the handlebars. Couldn’t. Thoughts kept stealing into past memories.

One look at the cop’s face was enough. It hit him like a sucker punch. She lay all twisted, near the bed.

“I’ll kill the bastard!”

“Knew her?” the photographer asked, lining up a shot. The camera flashed; the room went white. “Looks like the husband. Big surprise.” He moved near the red, pulpy mass that was her face. “Hear she got a restraining order ‘gainst him.” He focused. Another blinding light. “Guess it was too late.”

Oscar slammed his fist into the wall.

If only, he thought, letting go of the handlebars. If only I’d believed her. Hadn’t been so caught up with the job.

He wiped his brow. Refocused onto Rachel’s nut bar. Even though a search had not turned Holt up, Oscar wasn’t worried. The compound was small and contained. Jimmy was safe in hospital, John at his side. He would locate the guy. Lord help him when he did.

Suddenly, a explosion rocked his room, flooding it with orange light. He leapt to the window.

The laboratory was gone. In its place hunched a disfigured shell. Flames tore into the sky. Oscar dialed 9-1-1, smashed the fire alarm in the hall, then sprinted outside.

“Andrew!” he shouted, moments later. Thrusting his arms over his face, he plunged into the wall of searing heat. His skin blistered on contact, eyebrows singed. He choked, straining to shout.

“Andrew!”

Holding his breath, he dove inside. Crabbed along the floor, ignoring the shards of glass. Within seconds, his fingers prodded a body.

Boom! A hunk of the ceiling crashed to the floor. The flames leap-frogged into the attic.
Oscar yanked frantically. The last window exploded, just as he dragged a bloodied, unconscious Andrew out onto the grass.

Oscar was quickly shoved aside. Rachel knelt to take Andrew’s pulse. “Help!” she shouted. “Help!”

Andrew’s fingers gripped hers. His eyes fluttered, blistered lips cracked.

“He’s alive!” she cried out, bending down to Andrew’s face.

“T-t-tell... John... s-s-sorry,” Andrew wheezed. “Jim..Jimmmmy...”

“Don’t talk. Help’s on its—”

“T-t-tell him! I... did it. Tell… Peter—” Andrew writhed, then lay still.