More Twisted

left it. The killer’d figure we’d try to find a minister to help us figure it out—but not just any minister, the one at the church that’s closest to the police station.”
    Silverman’s thoughts raced to a logical conclusion. Doyle’s hit man kills the minister and his wife at their summer place on the lake and masquerades as the reverend. The detective recalled that the church office had nothing in it that might identify the minister. In fact, he seemed to remember that the man had trouble even finding a Bible and didn’t seem to know his desk lamp bulb was burned out. In fact, the whole church was deserted and dusty.
    He continued the logical progression of events: Doyle’s boys shoot up the safe house and we bring Pease here for safekeeping at the same time the reverend shows upwith some story about greed and a real estate developer and a sniper—just to get close to Silverman . . . and to Pease!
    He understood suddenly: There was no secret message. He’s on his way. Look out—Luke 12:15. It was meaningless. The killer could’ve written any biblical passage on the note. The whole point was to have the police contact the phony reverend and give the man access to the lockup at the same time that Pease was there.
    And I led him right to his victim!
    Dropping the phone and pulling his gun from its holster, Silverman raced up the hall and tackled the reverend. The man cried out in pain and gasped as the fall knocked the wind from his lungs. The detective pushed his gun into the hit man’s neck. “Don’t move a muscle.”
    “What’re you doing?”
    “What’s wrong?” Pease’s guard asked.
    “He’s the killer! He’s one of Doyle’s men!”
    “No, I’m not. This is crazy!”
    Silverman cuffed the fake minister roughly and holstered his gun. He frisked him and didn’t find any weapons but figured he’d probably intended to grab one of the cops’ own guns to kill Pease—and the rest of them.
    The detective yanked the minister to his feet and handed him off to the intake guard. He ordered, “Take him to an interrogation room. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Make sure he’s shackled.”
    “Yessir.”
    “You can’t do this!” the reverend shouted as he was led away roughly. “You’re making a big mistake.”
    “Get him out of here,” Silverman snapped.
    Pease eyed the detective contemptuously. “He coulda killed me, you asshole.”
    Another guard ran up the corridor from intake. “Problem, Detective?”
    “We’ve got everything under control. But see if the lockup’s empty yet. I want that man inside ASAP!” Nodding toward Pease.
    “Yessir,” the guard said and hurried to the intercom beside the security door leading to the cells.
    Silverman looked back down the corridor, watching the minister and his escort disappear through a doorway. The detective’s hands were shaking. Man, that was a close one. But at least the witness is safe.
    And so is my job.
    Still have to answer a hell of a lot of questions, sure, but—
    “No!” a voice cried behind him.
    A sharp sound, like an axe in a tree trunk, resounded in the corridor, then a second, accompanied by the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder.
    The detective spun around, gasping. He found himself staring in shock at the intake guard who’d just joined them. The young man held an automatic pistol mounted with a silencer and he was standing over the bodies of the men he’d just killed: Ray Pease and the cop who’d been beside him.
    Silverman reached for his own gun.
    But Doyle’s hit man, wearing a perfect replica of a Detention Center guard’s uniform, turned his pistol on the detective and shook his head. In despair Silverman realized that he’d been partly right. Doyle’s people hadshot up the safe house to flush out Pease—but not to send him to the hospital; they knew the cops would bring him to the jail for safekeeping.
    The hit man looked up the corridor. None of the other guards had heard or otherwise noticed the killings. The man pulled a radio from his pocket with his left hand, pushed a button and said, “It’s done. Ready for the pickup.”
    “Good,” came the tinny reply. “Right on schedule. We’ll meet you in front of the station.”
    “Got it.” He put the radio away.
    Silverman opened his mouth to plead with the killer to spare his life.
    But he fell silent, then gave a faint, despairing laugh as he glanced at the killer’s name badge and he realized the truth—that the dead snitch’s message