The Thirteenth Apostle

By Jo Anne Barnes

A deranged man threatens women he considers living in sin, exploding into a nightmare of horror for Wendy Coleman. Although she rationalizes otherwise, her past makes her feel somehow responsible for the terror raining down on her. As his net draws closer, Wendy and Detective Flannery devise a plan that leads to a showdown with the Apostle's evil forces, a showdown that risks Wendy's life even more. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Anne Barnes
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215885321

Jo Anne Barnes

/Users/joannebarnes/Desktop/JO ANNE BARNES grew up in a small parish in northeastern Louisiana 2.docx

Book preview

Prologue

When the man took the box of pencils from the shelf and looked inside, one of them struck him as unusual. He tilted the carton and let the pencils slide to his palm. They were yellow, number 2 lead, the kind found in any elementary school, except for the one. It lacked an eraser. Evidently it had come straight from the factory that way.

It didn't matter. With or without erasers, Empire pencils snapped reassuringly. He carried the box to the cash register and dipped into his pocket to fish out the exact change.

Quit raining yet? the young woman behind the counter asked.

He shook his head in answer, and raindrops beaded off his sun-streaked hair and rolled inside the collar of his waisted denim jacket.

Still sprinkling, huh, the woman commented off­handedly, a wad of gum stored in her cheek, a ballpoint pen riding over one ear. That's Houston for you. I love it here, but I just can't stand this goddamn humidity.

Somewhere in the back of the store near the pre­scription area, the clang of a cash register punctuated her profanity. The man felt dampness settle around his neck. Aware of the cheap scent of her cologne, he leaned far over the counter, thinking things over.

The woman shrugged a suspicious shoulder and ceased smacking the gum as she reached below for a white paper sack.

Better to let the swear word pass. He didn't have time to challenge her.

The Apostle--he liked to refer to himself this way--opened the box of pencils, stuffed two in his shirt pocket, and walked outside into the cool, wet air. Regardless of the weather, a sudden sense of well-being flowed over him. His plans were firm. He headed for Spring, Texas, where Wendy worked.

Chapter 1

Inside the cocktail lounge, the Apostle lingered by the door, his eyes growing accustomed to the dark before he moved toward the table where he wanted to sit. A party progressed nearby. He didn't care for parties; they gave him headaches. But if he handled things right, Wendy Coleman would think the noisy men and women were his friends.

With the gentlest of care, he removed his carpenter's belt and placed it on the empty chair beside him, kept an eye on it as he slid a napkin from the small round table, and blotted perspiration collecting on his forehead. He glanced up in time to see Wendy leave the bar and walk toward him, an order pad in her hand, the same unsettled look around her eyes he detected before.

With hands clenched tightly in his lap, The Apostle's heart fluttered until it drummed in his chest. He eased his chair a foot to his right, along the fringes of the commotion next to him. He and Wendy were about the same age, he decided, and he was twenty-six. Both were blessed with even white teeth. Hers were probably the result of braces, but his were naturally straight.

Ready to order? Wendy asked over the laughter. Her smile was golden, and in the soft flicker of candle flame, her blue eyes lost that troubled expression and came alive with energy.

He returned her smile and it was open and warm, and just as golden as Wendy's. He had come by that smile as easily as his smooth complexion, which didn't need special attention to keep it in shape. I'll have a glass of Mogen David, with a twist.

Let me see if we have it. Dark hair feathered the contour of her face in glossy waves that looked almost inky against her tawny skin. This is the last round. Would you like a double?

He shook his head. The noise grew louder, making his head throb unbearably. I'll take an aspirin though, if you can round one up.

She nodded and left, her petite frame threading its way back through the tables in rhythm with the soft ballad coming from a piano in one corner of the room, her narrow hips swaying. Like hips of a hooker, The Apostle thought with an unexpected surge of contempt, as marred as the pencil with the missing eraser. But the feeling vanished almost as soon as it seized him, and he glanced anxiously around the room, wondering if anyone had read his thought.

The lounge drew crowds on Fridays, and that bothered him, but he recently figured out that Wendy only worked weekends. She seemed not to recognize him from his last visit, bruising his ego, but back then she didn't wait his table either. He'd wanted to remain inconspicuous and gotten away with it. From now on he would have to be careful though. He could watch her go back and forth to work from his station in the parking lot but couldn't risk coming inside again. The Apostle removed one of the long yellow pencils from his shirt pocket, lovingly stroked the shiny enamel, then abruptly snapped it in two pieces. The woman seated next to him turned in her chair and stared.

---

At closing time Wendy picked up the pencil halves and carried them to the trash along with an overloaded ashtray lifted from a nearby table. Not many people ordered Mogen David, she fleetingly thought. She had been surprised to learn they had the cheaper wine around. But then she'd ceased being too surprised by any drink ordered or offered.

Marsha Johns tossed Wendy a fresh damp towel. They'd worked their way wiping tables from the back of the lounge to the bar and were almost through closing. Only Fred, the bartender, was in the room with them, emptying glasses into the sink. The other waitresses had left for the night. Every now and then Fred would pause to remove a comb from beneath his muslin apron and rake it through the ends of his mustache, which didn't look thick enough to make such a fuss over.

Did I tell you about my calls? Marsha asked unexpectedly.

Wendy stopped watching Fred and turned to face her friend. What calls?

For the past week and a half, Mom says a man has phoned daily, asking for me.

Wendy smiled to herself. Does he sound interesting?

Don't joke. It's weird. Marsha looked worried. Mom offered to take a message the first few times, but while she looked for something to write on, he hung up.

Wendy thought for a moment. Would she recognize Tom's voice? Tom Wilkins was the man Marsha seemed wild about.

I don't know.

Her expression said she believed so. Well, let's hope your caller is handsome, even if he's dull. She was teasing again to reassure her friend. Wendy often received calls from customers, hoping she'd go out with them. Although the calls were annoying, no harm was intended.

Marsha smoothed the short plaid skirt over her hips, then removed the hat that went with her uniform and placed it on a table. Though she was a few years older than Wendy, the straight, dark hair and dusting of freckles across her upturned nose gave the impression of an appealing gamine.

Marsha and Wendy were full-time city employees. In their spare time, they worked at the lounge. It had been Marsha who helped Wendy obtain weekend work at the Brass Rail. The hourly wage was minimum, but tips were usually generous. They had been friends for nearly four years, worked together at the Rail for almost one.

Marsha picked up a wadded napkin and tossed it on the bar. You meeting Mike later on?

Wendy shook her head. Why do you ask?

If you aren't planning to be out late, I thought maybe you'd go bike riding with me early in the morning.

I'd like that. I never see him Friday or Saturday. You should know that by now. When we get out of here, I'm too tired. Wendy sighed. It's lucky I only work two nights a week.

Is he still giving you a bad time about this job?

He doesn't approve of my type of moonlighting, if that's what you mean. Though she said it in a joking manner, she winced inwardly. There were other things about Wendy that Mike Broadwell didn't approve of. He didn't like it because her apartment was located in a less than desirable area. He didn't like it because she took in stray cats. He didn't like some of her friends, including Marsha because she was too unconventional for him. But he objected the most to Wendy's job in the cocktail lounge. For one, he thought it dangerous; for another, although he tried to hide the fact, he was embarrassed.

Wendy wondered why she kept trying to make the relationship work, but it took only a second to think of good things about Mike. He was intelligent, nice looking, reliable, comfortable to be with. He could even be fun.

And to be fair, there were many things about Wendy that Mike seemed proud of, including her position as City Horticulturist for Spring. She loved her job and only wished the pay was better. She wanted a new car--hers was a dilapidated Ford--and she wanted her own house with its own yard so her pets would have more space and she could buy more plants.

Wendy turned the dishcloth to the clean side. Mike had fine traits. But was that all there was to their relationship? Wasn't there supposed to be something more? It could be she'd passed the age for butterflies.

She had gotten a good case of them once with Troy Price. While a freshman in high school, she wore his class ring and rode on the back of his motorcycle, a part of her past she was ashamed of. Troy had been almost too handsome, possessed smooth social skills that made her feel a little klutzy.

They married that year, forced by her mother and Troy's father when Wendy's pregnancy became too obvious to hide. In bed, Troy used his charms to full advantage until he grew tired of being tied down to one person. Or maybe it was because he had already succeeded--climbed the mountain, swum the English channel, gotten little Wendy Coleman to give in to his prenuptial demands--that he grew tired of her and developed a roving eye. But what could you expect from a graduating senior who thought he was another James Dean?

Now, in the dim lighting of the lounge, a wave of discomfort trailed her spine. Their marriage lasted less than three months. Although this business with Troy had been short and ugly, after all these years it still occupied too much of Wendy's time. It was something she had recently started thinking back on, and this annoyed her. She scrubbed the surface of the table harder than necessary in an effort to rub the memory out of her head. Maybe she liked Mike because he wasn't smooth. She had learned to distrust smoothness. Did she love Mike? She was still trying to figure that out.

When the tables were shiny once more, Wendy slipped into her yellow slicker, pulled the hood over her hair, and dodged puddles in the parking lot on the way to her car. The rain had almost stopped now, only a slow drizzle. There was barely a chill in the air. Even that was gone by the next evening. It was unseasonably warm for January.

Chapter 2

Wendy cleared her kitchen table while her black cat peered over it, hinting for a handout. She had prepared a gourmet dinner of roast duck with baby carrots and small onions for Mike. Later tonight they were going to take in an art show she wanted to see. They'd laughed and talked during the meal, and everything had gone well. But now Mike seemed quieter than usual. She wished he would remember his promise of two weeks ago. She wished, but she somehow doubted it.

Mike leaned against the counter as she stacked the dishes. He looked sharp in his gray slacks and navy sports jacket. The highlights in his razor-cut sandy hair sparkled.

Wendy shooed the cat from the cane-bottom chair.

Mike brushed at his trousers. Wendy, I've been thinking.

She wrinkled her forehead as she placed the forks in the center of the plate. It was coming. He was going to renege on what they'd agreed.

It's time we discuss--

Not now, Mike. Please. She handed him the plates. Would you do something for me? Would you put these in the sink?

He did as he was told, and she gathered the glasses and napkins. Did I tell you my name has been submitted for a promotion? he asked abruptly.

Mike worked for Pacific Oil Company in downtown Houston. He was employed in the accounting office and often stated that balancing numbers was interesting. Wendy had trouble balancing her checkbook and found juggling numbers anything but interesting, though she did her best to pretend interest in his job.

She lifted her eyes from the table to focus briefly on his face as she brushed by him to carry the rest of the dishes to the sink. He was a tall man, who seemed even more proper than he really was because he stood up so straight. Think you'll get it?

I'm fairly sure. This was what I was going to tell you. If I do, it will mean a transfer to our headquarters in California in a year or two. Maybe we should think about planning a wedding.

The broken promise. His news only made her doubts more pronounced than usual. She would never want to leave her job to move to California. Mike knew how she felt about her career.

This wasn't the first time he'd brought up marriage. At thirty, Mike considered himself the right age for getting married. She didn't think about ages, but wondering about her reluctance to marry him sometimes drove her crazy. And having to argue with him about it was driving her even crazier.

Please don't start this again. I need more time.

He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. His kiss was pleasant but didn't change things. She wiggled out of his arms and filled the sink with sudsy water. You promised, she said quietly.

I know. His voice became defensive. I said I wouldn't mention wedding bells until August. By then, you’ll have your new car and money for a downpayment on a house, and you'll be in a better position to make up your mind. Did I get it all right?

Be fair. I said those things, but I also pointed out we've only known each other a few months. That's hardly enough time to make such an important decision. She had made that mistake once in her life. She waited to see if he would drop the subject. He apparently decided to have his say, because he persisted, a trait she usually admired in him.

I love you, Wendy. I don't need more time. I want to marry you.

You want a wife, any wife, she almost pointed out, but didn't.

An hour later they climbed the stairs to the art gallery, Wendy's hand looped through the crook of Mike's elbow. Across the street, a neon light flashed brightly in the darkness, illuminating a row of cars parked in front of a health food store.

She looked at Mike, unable to tell if he was still pissed because of her reluctance to discuss marriage. He opened the door, and warm air flowed in her face. She reached for his hand before he could go inside.

See those cars over there, she said lightheartedly, pointing across the street. I want the red one.

The Ford Thunderbird? He laughed gently. The blue van's more your speed.

She squeezed his hand. Friends?

Friends.

I'm anxious to see the exhibit, she said.

Mike smiled good-naturedly. Today's show highlighted a young woman whose specialty was sculpture, something Wendy favored, something Mike did not.

But Mike liked art as much as she did, almost as much as her father--which reminded Wendy. When she'd talked to him last week, he said her mother wanted her to drop by the house one day this week. Wendy dreaded it.

They entered the art gallery and registered their names in the book by the door. Mike forged ahead.

Take a look at this, she said, grabbing him by the sleeve of his sports jacket.

She stopped him in front of a composition of discarded iron and nuts and bolts. It stood about five feet high and looked like an old plow, right down to rust spots, carefully sanded to avoid erasing them completely.

Of course, you would like it, he whispered teasingly. It looks like something you'd want to drag home with you.

And you don't think I should?

Not at that price, he said, pointing to the small white card with a string of zeroes typed in one corner.

She smiled, loving his sense of humor as she pulled him through the small rooms, stopping every now and then to inspect something as outrageous to him as the sculpture of iron she'd previously admired.

When they had seen every art object and stepped outside into the pleasant night air, Mike took her elbow and ushered her to his car. They were halfway home, waiting at a red light, when it struck her. The blue van beside them had been parked in front of the health food store. She noticed it trailing them before they stopped for coffee, now here it was back again. Odd.

The Apostle lined his tools against one wall of his bleak apartment. First the rock-hammer, next a utility knife, then his assortment of scrapers and tweezers. With his tools in a straight line, he removed broken ceramic pieces from his burlap sack and stacked them orderly. Scooping a handful of the smaller chips, he let them sift between his fingers, separating the dull from the shiny. One caught his attention. He rubbed