Free The Executioner by Chris Carter Page A

what happened, but she felt comfortable with him. She also needed to convince Ryan that there was nothing wrong with the house.
    ‘I was young when it happened,’ she said, brushing her fringe from her face. ‘My friend and I were playing. Pretending we were cooking. I don’t really know how it happened, but my clothes caught fire.’
    Ryan’s interest grew.
    ‘In a way, I was lucky,’ she continued. ‘Only the back of my dress lit up. Have you ever been burned?’ she asked.
    Ryan shook his head. ‘Not in that way.’
    ‘The pain is hard to describe.’ She paused, searching for words to illustrate it. ‘It’s not like scalding or touching a hot iron. It’s not a stinging kind of pain. It’s something so intense your brain ceases to work and you pray for death. I felt my skin melting. I could smell my hair burning.’ Amanda softly touched her hair with her right hand. Her gaze distant. ‘We were alone in the house that day. By the time my friend managed to find some water and throw it over me, most of my back and neck had burned.’
    They looked at each other in silence for a while.
    ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said.
    ‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault. I should learn to control it, really, but I just can’t. Any type of fire simply freaks me out.’
    Ryan walked back to the center of the living room. Amanda followed him.
    ‘I did see a psychologist about my fear of spiders,’ he announced. ‘You know, they have these special therapies that are supposed to help you get rid of any phobias.’
    ‘What happened?’ she asked curiously.
    ‘The psychologist talked a lot and after a few sessions he decided I was ready to face my fear. He brought in this huge hairy spider and placed it in my hand to try and prove they were harmless.’
    ‘Did it work?’
    ‘Did it hell. I peed myself before running out of the room screaming like a lunatic.’
    Amanda laughed.
    ‘Maybe some fears are not meant to be conquered.’ He stepped closer to the leather sofa. Amanda was standing about two feet in front of him, staring at the fireplace.
    His hand wrapped around something inside his pocket.
    ‘You know when you told me about the incident when you were young and how scared you are of fires?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes,’ she replied without turning around.
    His voice suddenly changed: ‘I already knew.’
    Before she was able to turn and face him, he grabbed her from behind, covering her nose and mouth with a wet cloth.

Twenty-Seven
     
    Father Malcolm had agreed to a meeting at 7:30 p.m. At twenty past seven Hunter parked his Buick Lesabre in front of the Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church in South Paramount Boulevard. The street lights, together with the Christmas decorations, created a warm carnival of colors.
    The church was a large white building flanked by two small green yards. Above its hand-carved rosewood double doors sat a life-size, light gray statue of Our Lady of the Rosary.
    A cheery-looking priest in his late sixties was standing by the entrance door talking to a short and stout woman. His hairline had totally receded on top, and all that was left were two small islands of gray hair. One over each ear.
    He said goodbye to the woman as Hunter made his way up the four short steps in front of the church.
    ‘Father Malcolm?’ Hunter asked.
    ‘You must be the detective I talked to earlier on the phone,’ the priest said with a warm smile.
    ‘I’m Detective Hunter.’ He had his credentials in hand. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
    The priest quickly checked Hunter’s ID before ushering him inside. The interior of the church was large, and the altar shone with hundreds of candles. The main hall was able to hold around five hundred worshipers, and a handful of people were scattered among the many red oak pews. Some were praying, some were reading the Bible and some looked to be asleep.
    ‘Shall we talk in my office?’ the priest asked with a hand gesture. ‘It’s just out