Page 35 of Girl, Accused

As Caldwell barreled through a doorway, organ music crashed over her from somewhere. Ella took stock of her surroundings. A horde of people behind her, most of them probably glued to the sudden altercation. Stage up ahead. No idea where Ripley was.

The back of Ella's neck prickled. He was heading for the stage. Somewhere, an unhelpful part of her brain commented that Jeremy Caldwell didn't want to miss his cue. She shut it down, poured all her energy into not losing him if he camouflaged himself amongst the audience.

Canvas walls blurred past. Shouts of 'Hallelujah' dissolved into screams as Caldwell plowed through the crowd, Ella close behind.

Then the world exploded into light and noise. They'd reached the main stage. A man in a white suit hit a glory note on his guitar with his head thrown back in ecstasy. Caldwell didn't pause, just charged straight at the dais. Ella had a split second to marvel at the balls on this guy before instinct took over again.

The congregation gasped as one. Caldwell looked over his shoulder at Ella, then turned back just in time to crash directly into White Suit. The poor, oblivious musician toppled to the floor, still with his guitar hanging off his shoulder. Feedback screeched for a moment before someone cut the sound, and in the chaos, Ella caught up with Caldwell and grabbed him around the waist. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, grappling for purchase on the sweat-slick stage floor. Ella was dimly aware of the few hundred spectators witnessing this fight between FBI agent and potential serial killer.

A distant part of her brain screamed at her to recite the Miranda speech. She told it to shut up as Caldwell writhed in her grasp like an eel. He had a wiry strength that belied his bookish build. A knee collided with her stomach, maybe on accident. Air left her lungs in a whoosh. She felt her fingers slip. Ella lunged for his ankle, caught it, but he yanked free with the wild energy of a cornered animal.

Then he was free and running, leaping off the stage as White Suit scrambled to safety. Out in the audience, bodies scattered. Someone screamed. An elderly woman clutched her chest like she was having a heart attack. Caldwell was headed for the aisle that split the audience in two.

She could have pulled her gun and hoped the threat of a bullet was enough to halt him, but she couldn’t discharge a bullet here. Too many bodies.

Ella sucked in breath, ready to give chase again. Caldwell was disappearing down the aisle while audience members flinched at his passing. Within seconds, he'd be out of the tent, out of the front gates, and out into the open world where he could vanish before nightfall.

Caldwell had almost made it to the end of the aisle when a blur of movement intercepted him from the side.

Ella's brain registered the scene in disjointed snapshots. Caldwell's momentum halted. His body jerked backward. A splash of red. Time stuttered and slowed.

It was Ripley, manifested from nowhere, her body coiled like a spring finally released after months of compression. Her fist connected with Caldwell's jaw in a perfect arc of kinetic energy. The sound reached Ella a split second later. The unmistakable crack of bone meeting bone at precisely the wrong angle.

Caldwell staggered backward toward the stage, his feet suddenly unsure of how gravity worked. Ripley advanced with blow after blow, like she’d been waiting months to unleash this energy. Maybe she had. Another punch rocketed into Caldwell's solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping like a landed fish, then his body pitched forward and landed directly into the path of Ripley's rising knee.

The audience had become a sea of frozen expressions. Mothers shielded children's eyes. Men who'd come expecting religious ecstasy got violence instead and didn't know how to process the switch.

Caldwell stumbled. His legs folded beneath him one vertebra at a time until he collapsed in a heap at the foot of the stage.

A heavy silence followed. Some punters were probably wondering whether this was part of the show, Ella thought.

The man with the guitar – who'd retreated to the far corner of the stage during the commotion – crept back to the microphone. He adjusted it with trembling fingers, then strummed a G chord that went nowhere because someone had killed the PA system. His voice, suddenly small without amplification, quavered out across the first few rows.

‘Brothers, let us turn to Psalm 91 for comfort in this time-‘

‘Hey, music man,’ Ripley shouted. ‘You take requests?’

The guitarist blinked rapidly. ‘I... yes. What would you like?’

‘I’d like you to shut up. Dark, come cuff this asshole before he wakes up.’

She climbed down from the stage and took in the sight of Caldwell’s final form. He was lying face down, and blood trickled from his lips and formed tiny red planets on the grass.

Ella almost smiled. There was something perversely satisfying about watching Ripley shut down the religious show. The same satisfaction eight-year-old Ella might have felt if someone had interrupted that long-ago revival and told the preacher to stuff his hellfire where the sun didn't shine.

‘Let’s get him to the precinct.’ Ella said. ‘He’s got a lot of explaining to do.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘You liked that, didn’t you?’ Ella asked.

‘A little bit.’

The Granville precinct didn’t have a dedicated interrogation room, so they’d commandeered an office that had a lock on the outside. Jeremy Caldwell could break the windows and climb out if he was desperate enough, but Ella doubted he’d get far given the sea of armed cops on the other side.

‘How’s your hand?’

Ripley said, ‘Still attached. How’s yours?’

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