Free The Priest's Graveyard by Ted Dekker Page B

husband, Hal, who had gone completely senile two years before his death.
    “You should have seen it, Danny.” She set down a plate bearing two club sandwiches made of American cheese, ham, and turkey.
     “He was out there in the backyard at midnight dressed in nothing but his pajama top and socks.”
    “No underwear?” Danny bit into his sandwich and took a sip of tea to wash it down.
    “No! Butt as white as a split volleyball. A flat one at that.”
    “And you just left him out there?”
    “Well, for a little bit, sure. It was too precious a moment to ruin—Hal out there wandering around muttering and me in here
     watching him. I couldn’t stop laughing. Hal had a sagging white butt, I’m telling you.”
    The image, however humorous, momentarily suppressed his appetite.
    “I assume you eventually rescued him?”
    “Of course. I called to him from the deck, and he turned to me and asked if I noticed that the sprinklers weren’t working.
     He’d been going on for a few days about the grass getting brown, but our sprinklers came on at night, and he’d gotten it into
     his mind that they needed to be checked.”
    “Every good man wants to give his lovely wife a green lawn.”
    “Well, he obviously thought so.”
    “Why was he naked?”
    “I’m getting to that. When I asked him why he was in his socks, he said it was so he could tell if the grass was wet. When
     he saw me staring at his waist he looked down, stared at himself for a bit, then looked up at me with an impish grin that
     only Hal could do. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I’m naked. You horny?’”
    Ellen slapped her knee and laughed until Danny thought she might split her side. He joined her.
    Moments like these—moments when pure goodness put to shame the selfish ambition of abusers—compelled him to do what he did.
    Danny lived and killed so the Ellens of the world could grow old with their husbands and laugh when those old men wandered
     into the backyard wearing only socks and pajama tops.
    He and Ellen ate their club sandwiches while she dug up a few more stories that made Danny laugh, one in particular about
     the time a porcupine got stuck in their chimney. Hal was the self-sufficient type who would work a challenge to its bitter
     end before calling for help. On that particular day, his temperament earned him a blackened face full of quills.
    Whenever Danny spent time with Ellen, his convictions grew stronger and his compulsion to cleanse the world grew more urgent.
     Truth be told, if this sweet woman was ever victimized, Danny would likely forget his vow never to draw out his subject’s
     pain in anger or for revenge.
    He kissed Ellen on the cheek and left her house half an hour later, eager to resume his task. Slowly he piloted the car south
     toward Long Beach, then west toward the hills of San Pedro, reassured of his calling.
      
    It took him an hour to arrive and position his car behind an oil storage container on the bluff above Kellerman’s house. Another ten
     minutes to work his way down the hill.
    Danny had spent a full week figuring out how to disable the security system. He’d subsequently been in the house on three
     separate occasions to observe the layout and search for incriminating evidence. As a result, he knew precisely how he would
     gain entrance on this day: through the closet window. He had cut the glass along the frame two nights earlier.
    A firm bump with a gloved hand now popped out the glass. He crawled in, then replaced it.
    If he’d learned one thing as a young assassin, it was that the only skill more important than combat was mission preparedness.
     Surveillance. Intelligence. Positioning. These were nine-tenths of any victory. The rest came down to flawless execution and
     ruthless violence, both of which he’d mastered despite his youth.
    Danny let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then set his bag down and withdrew his syringe. He readied the needle and squatted
     in the corner behind the closet