Page 34 of Her Last Farewell

Rachel drove her knee up, aiming for his midsection, but he was surprisingly agile. He shifted just enough that the blow only caught his hip. The movement brought them dangerously close to the edge again, their feet scraping against the crumbling pavement.

Below them, the darkness waited patiently.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Feeling the deadly pull of gravity less than half a foot behind her, Rachel quickly redirected her weight to the right. Her heart was thundering in her chest as the void of darkness beckoned behind her. The rough texture of the old bridge's surface scraped against her shoes as she shifted, fighting for stable footing. In one fluid motion born of years of training, she grabbed his left arm and bent it up behind his back, the bones and tendons creaking under the pressure.

He was stronger than his slight frame suggested, thrashing wildly against her grip like a cornered animal. The needle in his right hand glinted in what little moonlight filtered through the clouds, its tip searching for flesh as he tried desperately to reach her. Rachel could feel his pulse racing through his twisted arm, could hear his ragged breathing as he struggled. The night air carried the musty scent of his sweat mixed with something else—a sickly-sweet medicinal smell that must have been whatever was loaded in that syringe. He let out a yelp of pain as she wrenched his arm tighter.

Time seemed to slow as Rachel calculated her next move. One wrong step, and she could still topple backward into the abyss. The old bridge groaned beneath them, decades of rust and decay making every movement treacherous. She timed her next action perfectly, watching the arc of his right arm as he made another attempt with the needle. The moment his momentum carried him slightly forward, she struck.

Her free hand shot out like a viper, catching his right wrist in an iron grip. The impact sent a jarring shock up her arm, but she maintained control. With practiced precision, she applied pressure to the cluster of tendons just below his thumb. His fingers spasmed involuntarily and the needle clattered to thebridge's surface, rolling dangerously close to the edge before coming to rest against a rusted support beam.

The man let out a guttural sound of frustration, somewhere between a growl and a whimper. Rachel didn't give him time to recover. Using his own momentum against him, she brought both of his arms behind his back, forcing his shoulders to twist at an uncomfortable angle. His resistance began to weaken as the position restricted his breathing.

In one decisive movement, Rachel kicked his left ankle out from under him. The strike landed perfectly against his Achilles tendon, and his leg buckled. She guided his descent, ensuring he fell forward onto the bridge rather than pulling them both backward into empty space. His chest hit the pavement of the bridge with a dull thud that forced the remaining air from his lungs.

The sound of running footsteps echoed across the bridge as Novak emerged from the darkness, his gun drawn and steady. The beam from his tactical flashlight cut through the night, illuminating their struggling figures in harsh relief. Rachel could see that his face was tight with concern and adrenaline as he approached, weapon trained on the subdued man.

"I've got him," Rachel called out, her voice steady despite her racing pulse. She pulled her handcuffs free and secured them around the man's wrists, the metal clicking with satisfying finality. The cool steel seemed to break something in their suspect—his body went slack beneath her, though his mouth did not.

"You don't understand!" he wailed into the night air, his voice bouncing off the metal struts of the bridge. "I was helping them! Saving them! They needed me!"

Rachel began reciting his Miranda rights, her voice clear and professional, rising above his continued protests. To her right, she could hear Novak calling Deputy Leery, reportingtheir location and requesting backup. The suspect's ranting grew more desperate, more unhinged with each passing second.

"They were going to throw it all away!" he screamed, his voice cracking with emotion. "I gave them purpose! I saved their souls!" His body began to shake beneath Rachel's grip, whether from cold, fear, or zealous fervor, she couldn't tell. "I was only trying to help all of them!"

The worst part of all, Rachel thought, was that he spoke in a sincere tone that indicated he meant every single word.

***

The scene transformed rapidly once backup arrived less than fifteen minutes later. Where moments ago there had been only darkness and desperate struggle, now red and blue lights painted the decrepit bridge in alternating colors, throwing strange shadows across the rusted metal framework. Two patrol cars had joined Rachel and Novak's vehicle at the entrance to Patterson Bridge, their headlights illuminating the area like an impromptu stage. An assortment of beams catching occasionally on the bridge's deteriorating iron struts created eerie patterns in the mist that had begun to gather in the valley below.

Four officers milled about the scene, their flashlight beams dancing across the weathered surface of the bridge as they documented the area where the struggle had taken place. Deputy Leery stood apart from the others, his expression grim as he peered through the window of Rachel and Novak's car where they'd secured their suspect. The man sat huddled in the backseat, his shoulders hunched forward, muttering continuously to himself in what sounded like a mix of prayer and desperate justification.

"Damn," Leery said softly, shaking his head. The word carried more weight than its single syllable suggested, heavywith the recognition of someone he'd known. He looked almost sad…shocked, perhaps.

"You know him?" Novak asked, stepping closer to the window. His breath fogged the glass slightly in the cooling night air.

Leery nodded slowly, his face illuminated by the strobing emergency lights. "That's Benson Layne," he said, his voice heavy with recognition. "Used to be a youth pastor over at First Baptist. Real pillar of the community type, or so everyone thought." He paused, watching as Layne rocked slightly in the backseat, his lips moving in constant motion. "There was quite the scandal when he left the church about ten years back. Started saying wild things about how the congregation had lost its way, how nobody understood the true sanctity of life anymore. Started showing up at funeral homes, trying to convince grieving families that their loved ones had died because they didn't value life enough. Some truly weird, cultish shit."

As if on cue, Layne's voice rose from within the car, muffled but still clearly audible through the glass. "I'm not guilty! You have to understand—I was saving them! Saving them from themselves!" His words took on an almost rhythmic quality, like a twisted sermon.

Rachel exchanged a glance with Novak, then turned back to Leery. "Do you know where he lives?"

Leery's eyes drifted toward that faint glow through the trees that Rachel had spotted earlier. It seemed more ominous now, knowing what they might find there. He nodded again, then turned to his officers. "Take him to the station," he commanded, gesturing to Layne in the back seat. "I'll go with the agents to check out his house."

In an eerie sort of unison, Rachel, Novak, and Leery piled into one of the patrol cars, leaving the others to handle Layne's transport. Rachel found herself in the backseat, her mind racingwith possibilities of what they might discover. The drive was brief but tense.

“Have you ever had any trouble with Layne before?” Rachel asked on the way.

“None. Nothing. Not a peep. God…if we find those women at his house…”

He trailed off, as if the night itself has stolen the words from him.

Less than five minutes later, through the darkness and down another dirt road, they pulled up in front of a house that rivaled Thomas Eaves' property in terms of isolation. The patrol car's headlights swept across the property as they turned into the long, gravel driveway, the beams catching on thick undergrowth that had been allowed to creep closer and closer to the house over the years.

The house itself was unremarkable, a simple two-story box with white aluminum siding that appeared gray in the darkness, its edges softened by years of collected grime and neglect. A single security light cast harsh shadows across an unkempt lawn where patches of crabgrass fought with bare dirt. The windows were dark except for one on the ground floor that emitted that same faint glow they'd seen from the bridge. Tattered curtains hung in most windows, their edges yellowed with age, while others were covered with what looked like sheets tacked directly to the window frames.

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