Free Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted by Arlene Hunt

watch the crowds. Without missing a beat, Pastor Williams grabbed Mike’s hand and pumped it up and down.
    ‘May God’s grace keep you all this day. Irene, James, I want you to know my heart grieves with you. Alan was a fine man, an upright man. His death is our loss and the Lord’s great gain.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Irene said, her voice tight with pain. Jessie took her hand and squeezed it.
    ‘So much grief,’ Pastor Williams said. ‘Jessie, how are you? It is good to see you up and about. So many people called the show offering prayers for you and your family, it was truly something to behold.’
    With enormous effort of will, Jessie managed to force out a ‘thank you’. She was heartily glad when someone called the Pastor and she and Mike made their escape.
    Soon the funeral began. Pastor Williams spoke at great length about the mysteries of life and the suffering of man. He decried the loss of faith, of compassion, of youth and innocence. He pontificated on ‘God’s great plan’ and spoke with a passion so fiery Jessie wondered if he thought himself on stage. In any event, Jessie paid scant attention to his sermon. She found no solace in his words, no comfort in his dramatic delivery. She thought of Hector Diaz, how he had smiled through his bloodstained teeth. She thought of the look of confusion and disbelief on Alan Edwards’ face as the first of the bullets struck him. She thought of his fingers scrabbling for purchase while the life leaked from his body. She thought of all these things and she wondered about ‘God’s great plan’. She wondered what His plan had been the day a red stain spread across a bright yellow sundress.

12
    C aleb read the article on Jessie Conway twice and then a third time. It had been written in a style he associated with tabloids but was no less engaging for all that. The woman intrigued him. She had single-handedly taken on not one but two shooters and won – unarmed. Such a thing was something so rare, something so Hollywood, he genuinely struggled to believe it. But no one had come forward to contradict the story and now here she was, head to toe in black, standing by the grave of one of the fallen; alive, her red hair fiery in the sunlight. ‘Hero,’ Caleb said, tracing his finger over her image.
    He folded the paper and leaned back in his chair, still thinking about her. His shift on the Voice of Hope helpline was drawing to a dull close when he glanced out the window and spotted Pastor T Creedy driving his customised silver Mercedes into his parking space.
    Caleb watched him walk up to the main doors, noting his wingtip cowboy boots, which probably cost more than the average worker’s take-home pay. Creedy did not bother Caleb unduly; the man was a complete huckster, of that he was certain, but then in Caleb’s opinion that might as well be part of Creedy’s job description.
    ‘Blessings to you, Art,’ Creedy called out when he entered the room, flashing the megawatt smile he normally reserved for the blue rinse brigade. He dropped a canvas sports bag on the floor by Caleb’s chair.
    ‘Pastor.’
    ‘How are we this fine day?’
    Creedy flashed him the smile again. Caleb waited, irritated. He knew there was something coming down the line.
    ‘Phones busy?’
    ‘Nope. Not a single call.’
    ‘Well now, that in itself is a reason to be thankful.’
    Creedy perched a butt cheek on the edge of the table. His pants stretched so tight Caleb could see the outline of his balls against the material, and it made him wonder why men like Creedy thought they were so enigmatic. Short of humping his leg, Caleb couldn’t imagine the pastor pulling a more blatant, or more laughable, attempt at dominance.
    ‘You’re a compassionate fellow, Art. I can tell. I  know  people.’
    Caleb waited.
    ‘How would you feel about spreading The Truth to those less fortunate?’
    ‘Say what now?’
    ‘I could do with more men like you, Art; moral, upright, unafraid to be active in