The Boys in the Church

by Chris Culver

  “It’s crowded here,” I said. “The neighbors would have heard if he kept teenagers prisoner here.”

  “Agreed,” said Lawson. “We’ve been watching him for four days, but we’re not sure where his kill room is yet. One of my agents has compiled a list of abandoned churches in Missouri and the surrounding states. We’ll find it.”

  I stared out my window, wishing I shared his confidence. Churches didn’t pop up in the middle of nowhere. Their congregations built them to serve the local community. If he had dumped bodies at another church, somebody would have found it by now.

  As we turned a corner, the car slowed.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Lawson. I followed the special agent’s gaze toward a news van on the side of the road. Angela Pritchard, a cameraman, and a third man in jeans and a button-down shirt stood outside, preparing to film. “How did she get here before we did? Delgado didn’t even know what was going on until about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “She must have been staying in town,” I said. Lawson swore again and stopped the SUV as his cell phone rang. Lawson answered his phone and glared at the reporter. She looked at us, but she didn’t come near us. Lawson swore again as the antenna on the news van lifted for a live broadcast. After about thirty seconds on the phone, Lawson hung up and reached down to the armrest on his door to unlock the vehicle.

  “Marshall just left Waterford. He’s driving a gray Acura SUV. You know Pritchard, so talk to her and persuade her to move. If Marshall sees her, we’ve got a problem.”

  Though I had told Angela Pritchard I had nothing to say to her several times in the past few weeks, I wouldn’t have said I knew her. We didn’t have time to squabble over semantics, though, so I nodded and stepped out. Lawson backed up the SUV and disappeared down a side road. I waved toward the news van as Ms. Pritchard walked toward me.

  “Detective,” she said, smiling that fake news-anchor’s grin. “We’re about to go live, so it’s good you’re here. You can fill my audience in on what’s happening in the Apostate investigation.”

  “We need you to turn the camera off, get in your car, and drive out of the neighborhood,” I said. “This is a dangerous situation, and we can’t guarantee your safety.”

  Pritchard tilted her head to the side and sighed. “You’ve got a suspect in the Apostate case, and you’re about to make an arrest. If you think I’m leaving now, you’re nuts. We have every right to broadcast from a public street.”

  I looked around. From my current vantage, I had clear sightlines to the road outside the neighborhood, the neighborhood’s entrance, and to two different intersections. As soon as Marshall turned onto the street, he’d see the news van. And that was a problem.

  Families lived in this neighborhood. There was a kid’s bicycle in the driveway of the home nearest Pritchard’s van and a tricycle beside the front door of the home next door. Our quick strike and arrest would turn ugly unless we made Pritchard disappear right now. We didn’t have time to argue.

  “Fine,” I said. “What do you want? You want an exclusive with the FBI agent in charge of the investigation? I can get you that. I can’t guarantee he’ll answer your questions, but I can get you in the room with him. Just leave now.”

  She thought for a few moments. “Agent Lawson has a certain presence about him, and his FBI badge is sexy, but you’re a ratings gold mine, Joe. People love you. That background piece I produced about you six weeks ago got so many views it almost took our web server down. We got calls for weeks about that piece. People like you. They want to understand you better.”

  “Fine,” I said, nodding. “I’ll give you an interview. Take your antenna down and get out.”

  She shook her head. “While I’d appreciate an interview, that’s not what I had in mind. I want a feature story. Life behind the scenes in a real, working police station with a real, working police officer. I want to know about your struggles, your triumphs, your regrets, your successes…I want everything, and I want it on camera. We’ll show the world your life—the good and the bad. How does that sound?”

  I wanted to tell her it sounded like the worst idea I had ever heard of, but I held my breath when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye from the entrance. It was a gray SUV.

  “Get out of here right now.”

  That drew the cameraman’s attention. Pritchard turned her attention to her producer.

  “Did you get that, Jack?”

  He nodded, took a step back, and pointed toward the news van again. Muscles all over my body twitched.

  “Get in your van and leave. Please. If you don’t do as I ask, people will get hurt.”

  “Why would they get hurt?” asked Pritchard.

  The gray SUV turned down the street. The world seemed to slow. I tried not to look at Marshall’s SUV as he passed, but even from a distance, I recognized him in the driver’s seat. His eyes passed over me and Angela Pritchard. Then he sped up.

  “Get out of here right now,” I said, waving the news crew toward their van. “This area isn’t safe.”

  The SUV’s tires shrieked as the heavy vehicle came to a stop in the driveway of a brick home half a block away. Marshall vaulted out and sprinted toward his house. As he did that, a red sports sedan careened through the neighborhood’s entrance while a black SUV hurtled toward the house from the other direction. The news crew practically fell on each other jumping out of the road as the little red car sped toward Marshall’s house. Agents in tactical vests jumped out of both cars and sprinted toward the home and then through its open front door.

  I brought my hands to my head, my heart pounding. The men inside the home were screaming. The sound was more animal than human.

  “Gun! Gun!”

  I almost dove to the grass as multiple gunshots rang out. Men inside the home screamed, but I couldn’t understand what they said. Then, there was silence. I didn’t know what was going on, but we needed medical assistance. I pulled out my phone and called Trisha to request an ambulance. As I did that, Pritchard started speaking.

  “We’re broadcasting live at the home address of Gallen Marshall,” she said, leaning close to the camera and whispering. “My sources within the FBI and the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department have told me that law enforcement has identified him as the Apostate killer. There’s been a shooting inside the home. We don’t know who’s alive and who’s not, but we’ll be staying on scene as long as we’re safe.”

  I wanted to punch her, but that wouldn’t have looked good on live TV, so I stayed off camera while Pritchard and her crew filmed the house. Trisha routed paramedics to our location. When Agent Lawson’s black SUV pulled up to the home, Pritchard pointed him out by name and rank. He ran into the house where he stayed for five minutes before leaving once more and walking toward us. Sirens blared in the distance as the paramedics drove over.

  Pritchard stood straighter and walked. Then she motioned her camera crew to follow.

  “Agent Lawson, I’m Angela Pritchard with KSTL news. Can you tell us what just happened?”

  Agent Lawson’s eyes were cold and angry. He looked at the camera.

  “Yeah. I can tell you what happened. My team and I executed a high-risk arrest warrant on a dangerous suspect. When we arrived at the scene, we found a camera crew had beaten us here. Our suspect saw that camera crew and ran inside for a weapon. The moment my officers announced themselves, the suspect opened fire, hitting two of my men.”

  Lawson looked to Pritchard.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Pritchard. You turned a routine but high-risk arrest into a dangerous situation in which two men—two fathers and husbands—were shot.”

  Even as Lawson spoke, Pritchard turned to her cameraman and ran her hand across her neck, telling him to kill the feed. As Lawson walked away, she sighed.

  “How much of that made the air?”

  “Up to ‘congratulations,’” said the producer.

  She looked thoughtful for a moment, but then she smiled. “We’ll edit th
at scene out when we rebroadcast.”

  I walked away, but Pritchard hurried to catch up with me.

  “My offer still stands, Detective,” she said. “I’m a fan. I’d make you look good.”

  I stopped walking and looked in her eyes. She smiled that big, fake newscaster grin.

  “Piss off.”

  20

  Glenn’s eyes fluttered open. His entire body felt stiff and weak, and his neck burned. At first, he didn’t recognize his surroundings, but then his eyes adjusted to the dark. He shivered as he sat up. Water slid down his back and to the puddle in which he sat. He slipped off his mask and tossed it to the ground.

  “Helen?”

  His voice shook as his eyes passed over the dark room.

  “Oh, Glenn,” said Helen, running down the stairs. “What happened?”

  He looked around again. The cell was empty. Paige and Jude had disappeared.

  “I don’t know,” he said, reaching to his neck and grimacing. They had burned him somehow, but in his addled state, he couldn’t figure out what they had used. Then he saw the broken light bulb hanging from a chain on the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes. “How long have I been out?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder to help him up. He waved her away.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “They knocked me down,” she said. “I hit my head on a rock.”

  Glenn stood, but a wave of dizziness threatened to overtake him. He fell back into the wall. Then he closed his eyes and took deep breaths until the world stopped spinning. He had his wallet in his back pocket and his cell phone in his left pocket. They had taken his keys, though.

  He looked at Helen.

  “Did they take the car?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I passed out. I didn’t see.”

  He nodded and walked up the steps. His car was gone. He covered his face with his hands. The police weren’t here yet, which meant he still had time to escape. Glenn took his cell phone from his pocket and checked Uber. The nearest car was in the town of St. Augustine, which meant it would take twenty minutes to get there.

  He requested a ride and gave his destination, a used-car lot of sorts. As he waited in the sun, his clothes dried, and his temper simmered.

  “My phone says I’ve been out for almost twenty-four hours. Paige and Jude should have gone to the police by now. Where are they?”

  “Maybe they’re dead,” said Helen. “Maybe they got into a car accident.”

  “This proves it. I need a partner,” he said, walking toward the road.

  “I’m your partner,” said Helen, hurrying to walk beside him. “We do everything together. Who else could you want?”

  He glanced at her and sighed. “I know you’ve done your best, but I need someone to carry the load. We need to move up the timeline. I need to pick up Mary Joe. The sooner we pick her up, the sooner we can break her and the sooner she can help me.”

  Helen stopped walking and crossed her arms. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it will be to abduct a police officer?”

  Glenn stopped and looked at her. “They could have killed me.”

  “But they didn’t,” she said.

  “I got lucky,” he said, continuing to walk toward the stretch of highway where his Uber driver would pick him up. “I need someone who understands what I’m doing and who can help me. Frankly, I need someone who can stop the sinners from running away before I’m done with them. That’s not you.”

  Helen still didn’t move, but even from ten feet away, he could almost hear her teeth grinding.

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “I will, though,” he said. “We don’t have time to argue. Paige and Jude have escaped. Mary Joe will work their case. That means her house will be empty. We’ll search it and find out what we can about her.”

  Helen shook her head and sighed. “This is stupid.”

  Their Uber driver arrived about ten minutes later. She seemed hesitant about dropping him off in the middle of nowhere, but he explained he had a cabin in the woods and that he’d be just fine. Then he gave her a big tip. She thanked him and drove off without saying another word.

  Every couple Glenn and Helen had cleansed brought with them a vehicle. The police had already found Paige Maxwell’s car, and he had just lost Simon Fisher’s Ford Focus, so he picked up a green Buick that had, at one time, been owned by a young man from Decatur, Illinois. Then he drove.

  Mary Joe Court lived in a lovely historic home on a nice piece of property outside town. Glenn had driven by it four times in the past couple of days and seen no one. They’d be just fine today.

  “This is a bad idea,” said Helen, refusing to even glance at him as he parked their car on the side of the road about a quarter mile from Mary Joe’s house.

  “I wouldn’t need her if you’d get off your ass and help out more often,” said Glenn. “Did you even fight back when Jude and Paige escaped?”

  Helen said nothing as he opened his door. They walked toward the home in silence. Once they reached the yard, Helen opened her mouth to speak.

  “What do you hope to learn here?”

  Glenn glanced at her and then took a pair of medical-grade nitrile gloves from his pocket. He snapped them onto his hands.

  “First, we need to learn whether she has a boyfriend. If she does, it might take her longer to break. I will need to prepare for that. Second, I want to find out what kind of things she likes to eat. I want her to feel comfortable. Third, I need to see what size clothes she wears. I want her to look nice while she’s in my company.”

  Helen smirked. “Aren’t we Mr. Romance? Making her comfortable, buying her clothes.”

  “I’m tired of hearing you speak, Helen,” he said. “Unless you have something constructive to say, shut up.”

  She brought her fingers to her lips and drew them across as if she were zipping her mouth shut. Glenn wanted to smack her, but he didn’t think it was appropriate to hit women except to teach them a lesson. Together, the two of them climbed onto the porch, where they found two rocking chairs and a terra-cotta pot full of tennis balls.

  Helen rolled her eyes as he tried the front door and found it locked.

  “She’s a cop, Glenn,” she said. “Did you expect her to leave her front door unlocked?”

  “Did I say you could talk?”

  She smirked and said nothing. In the backyard, he found a well-used trail that meandered through the woods. A gravestone marked the edge of the property. An empty—but very large—doghouse occupied a prime spot beneath an old tree near the home. A low cedar fence surrounded it.

  “Tell me if you hear barking,” he said, checking to see whether she had locked the back door. She had.

  “Her dog is dead,” said Helen. “That’s its grave at the edge of the woods.”

  Glenn glanced in the direction his sister pointed before reaching into his wallet for a lock-pick set.

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Glenn, kneeling on her back steps so her deadbolt was at eye height. His father had taught him how to pick locks when he was a boy. Edward Saunders, Glenn’s father, had owned a custom furniture and millwork shop. Sometimes they restored old cabinets and trunks and doors. Knowing how to pop the locks themselves kept them from having to call a locksmith every time a customer brought in something they couldn’t open.

  Mary Joe had a nice deadbolt, but he had plenty of time and all the privacy he could want. Getting her door open took about ten minutes, but it wasn’t a problem. He and Helen walked into her kitchen. The room’s white walls and tile floor reminded him of an old diner. Helen stood beside a small round table and made a show of looking around.

  “This is illuminating,” she said, nodding. “I’ve learned a lot about Mary Joe from this.”

  “Shut up,” he said, opening cabinets. She had a lot of dishes and glasses, but little food.

  “Hey,” said Helen upon seeing the third cabinet. “She likes Frosted Flakes. Learnin
g that was more than worth risking our lives over.”

  Glenn glared at her but said nothing as he finished searching the remaining cabinets. He found more cereal, a few cans of vegetables—green beans mostly—and half a loaf of multigrain bread. Unlike every other cabinet in her kitchen, her liquor cabinet overflowed with an abundance of choices. She had three kinds of bourbon, two kinds of rum, a bottle of tequila, and four different liqueurs he had never heard of.

  Helen smiled but remained silent as he opened her refrigerator door. Inside, she had three apples, half a gallon of orange juice, two containers of Chinese takeout, and two cases of beer from a microbrewery in St. Louis. Her freezer held frozen meals, two bottles of vodka, and a bottle of gin. When he closed it, Helen couldn’t take it anymore. She giggled.

  “Seems your little girlfriend drinks most of her calories,” she said. “You want to take her home or to a rehab facility?”

  Glenn told her to shut up, but she wasn’t wrong to worry. Mary Joe had an awful lot of alcohol for one person. They’d have to work on that.

  Once he finished searching the kitchen, Glenn walked into her living room. It was a mess. Whiteboards on mobile easels blocked most of the sunlight from reaching the interior, while stacks of documents covered the coffee table and floor. Glenn’s eyes drew everything in.

  “You’re not the only one doing opposition research,” said Helen, walking to one of the whiteboards. Someone had written the word Profile on it and then written various characteristics beneath it—most of which fit Glenn well. Helen looked toward him and smiled as she pointed toward the board. “She thinks you’re intelligent. That’s funny.”

  “Shut up, Helen,” he said, taking his cell phone from his pocket to snap pictures of everything she had written. He didn’t want to stay in the house longer than he had to, but it wouldn’t hurt to know what the police thought of him. Once he had photographed every board, Helen cleared her throat.