Smoke was walking across the courthouse veranda when I pulled into the employee parking lot across the street. I spotted his unmarked gray Crown Victoria and jogged over. We got to it at the same time and climbed in.
“New scent?” he asked.
“What?”
“Perfume? Very clean-smelling.”
“My hair is damp. You’re smelling my conditioner.”
“Nice.” Smoke started the engine, and the voices on the sheriff’s radio mounted on the dashboard amplified those on the radio attached to his belt. He adjusted the volume. “I finally got a hold of Elaine Van House a little while ago.” He shifted into drive and we were on our way.
Alvie Eisner’s mother. “Yeah?”
“She cried, didn’t have much to say. She did want me to tell whoever was taking care of Rebecca that she hoped they would let her meet her great-granddaughter sometime. I told her I’d relay the message.”
“Jean Brenner and I talked about that and agreed that should happen. Sometime.”
“You said you were going to have a little service for Eisner. For Rebecca’s sake?”
“We are. In a few days, maybe a week. Alvie’s mother should probably be there, after all. What do you think?”
“Good question. Van House made a big mistake leaving her children like that, but does that mean she should be punished for the rest of her life, like Eisner wanted? I don’t know. Might help give some comfort, to both her and Rebecca.”
“It might.”
“Back to our current case. I’ve been checking records on Doctor Royce Sparrow this morning.”
“Anything turn up?”
He pulled the memo pad out of his breast pocket, laid it on the console between us, and glanced between it and the road until he found the page he was looking for.
“Nothing negative. Originally from Wyoming, graduated from the University of Minnesota Medical School. Alpha Omega Alpha. Did his residency at the university hospital. Moved to Wellspring twenty-five years ago when he was hired as a general surgeon at Little Mountain Health Clinic and Hospital. Married the widow Jody Manthes twenty-one years ago. They built a home and sold the ones they were living in. No record of a divorce, in Minnesota at least.
“Sparrow left Little Mountain for Saint Cloud General Hospital sixteen years ago. Bought a house there as a single person. No other name on the mortgage. No record of sale for the one in Wellspring. Maybe rents it out, I haven’t gotten that far. Moved from general surgery to cosmetic surgery when he went to Saint Cloud. By all reports, he’s a gifted surgeon.
“Haven’t talked to anyone who knows him yet. That might be delicate. The only record of him being involved in anything suspicious, legally speaking, is the hunting death of Harlan Manthes. No illegal record in Wyoming or Minnesota, aside from two speeding tickets and expired license tabs once. I haven’t taken a look at the other two hunters yet.”
I followed along as he read his scribbled notes. “Progress, anyway. I did a little research myself this morning. On satanic stuff.”
“What’d you find out?”
“Well, when Gregory Trippen called, he said Jeffrey told him he had a little time before Walpurgisnacht—”
“Say what?”
“Walpurgisnacht. I looked it up. It’s named after a woman named Walburga. I don’t know how it became Walpurg instead of Walburg. Long story, but she was a nun who was canonized—named a saint—on May first back in the eight hundreds AD. So the celebration started out as a Catholic celebration on the eve of May first, but now it’s a night for pranks among the pagans and worse among the Satanists. For them it’s a night of blood and sacrifice.”
“Blood and sacrifice. In Winnebago County?”
I shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I read.”
Smoke pulled into a parking spot on the east side of the motel opposite the lobby. We went in and spotted Gregory Trippen pacing by the windows on the south side. He saw us and hurried over. He was clean shaven, and even with his worried expression looked more rested than the last time we’d met.
“Do you know of a good place to meet?” he asked.
“How about here? In your room or by the pool?” Smoke said.
Gregory looked over his shoulder, then back at us. “I’d feel better if no one can hear us.”
Smoke nodded, and we trekked out to the parking lot. “You don’t mind riding in the back seat of my squad car?”
Gregory glanced in the car window. “Not much room, is there?”
“You’re a big guy, but you’ll fit.”
Smoke unlocked the doors. Gregory wedged himself in and Smoke closed his door, then he and I got in the front.
“Where to?” Smoke turned the ignition key.
“How about Abbey Lake Park? It’s deserted this time of year,” I suggested and turned to look at Gregory.
“Sounds good to me,” Smoke said as he backed out of the space.
“You probably think I’m paranoid,” Gregory said.
Smoke looked into the rearview mirror. “What is that expression? ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’”
“Smoke,” I said beneath my breath.
Gregory surprised me by laughing. “Thanks.”
We drove two miles in silence. I thought about the times in my life I had experienced feelings of paranoia, with good reason. When they are out to get you, being paranoid is not a bad thing from a safety and security standpoint.
Smoke turned off County Road 34 and followed the rutted gravel road to the lake. He parked near an open-sided shelter with a few empty picnic tables under its protective roof. Smoke opened the back door, and Gregory slid out. He looked around, apparently assessing the area.
“Private enough, I guess.”
“Let’s grab a table while there’s still one available,” Smoke quipped.
“I doubt if we’ll still be here in a month when people actually start coming here for summer picnics,” I shot back.
As we settled on the wooden benches, Gregory said, “I don’t know where to start. Ever since Jeff called, my head has been swimming with images. Things I’ve tried to forget.”
Smoke pulled out a memo pad and pen and laid them on the table, then slid his glasses on his nose. “Greg, it appears we’ve got three separate, but related, cases going here. Well, four really.
“First, we’re looking for your brother. Second is regarding your concern that your father’s death was not an accident. The third involves the abuse from your stepfather, which is tied in with the fourth aspect of illicit cult activities, when they actually branded the bottoms of your feet and committed other felony crimes.”
Gregory cast his eyes downward. He folded his hands and tapped his index finger against the base of his thumb, rapidly and repeatedly, revealing his discomfort.
I laid my hand on the table next to his. Close, but not touching. “Gregory, all of these cases are related. Why don’t you start from what you deem is the beginning. I’d like to know about your mother, your father, your stepfather, your childhood.”
He looked up, studied my face then nodded. “My early childhood was great. I didn’t know how great until I lost it. My dad was the chief financial officer for Little Mountain Hospital. Smart with numbers. My mom was a nurse there. That’s where they met. They got married and bought a house in the country outside of Wellspring. When I was born, my mom quit to stay home to raise me. Jeff came along two years later.
“She was a stay-at-home mom until Dad died. She’s very caring and kind of a homebody. She has always liked to knit and crochet. Do crafty things.”
“What does she look like?” I asked.
Gregory pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He withdrew an old photo from its plastic holder and handed it to me. The edges had a few little tears in them.
“The four of us.”
“Your mother’s very beautiful. You look like your dad, and that’s a compliment. Jeff has finer features like your mom.�
�
Gregory’s mother had dark wavy hair, large blue eyes, high cheekbones, a small nose, and pouty lips. Gregory was about the same age his father had been in the photo. They could pass for the same person. Jeffrey looked happy, a far cry from the photo we had hanging on the squad room bulletin board.
I handed it to Smoke. “Great photo,” he said.
Gregory’s lips turned up slightly. “My dad was more social than Mom. He had a poker night once a week. And some good buddies he’d go hunting and fishing with. Not the same ones he hunted with when he was killed.”
He shook his head and stared at the photo a moment. “He was a good dad. He and Mom never fought, that I can remember. I take after my dad, and not just in looks. I’m not as outgoing as I was as a little kid, though. I have trouble trusting people now. Jeff is more like Mom. He’s always been caring, sensitive. He’d find injured birds and other critters and would try to nurse them back to health. Adults always commented about how sweet he was.”
Gregory inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Doctor Sparrow came into our lives when I was seven or so. He was new in town, no family around, and Dad invited him over for dinner. Even as a little kid, I knew there was something about him I didn’t trust, or like. He was overly friendly to Jeff and kept staring at my mom. It didn’t seem right. He was over a bunch of times after that. And a year later, my dad was dead.
“Of course, Sparrow pretended to be distraught about my dad. Then he started hanging around a lot, comforting my mom and us boys. Taking us places. My mom married him about a year later. He was a good-looking man who could be very charming, and my mom fell for him. Oh, and by then she was working again. Overnights.”
“How did Sparrow hide what he was doing to you boys from her?” I asked.
Gregory shrugged. “My mother always looks for the good in everyone. To a fault. She couldn’t imagine the man she had married, and trusted to take care of her boys while she was working, was involved in something so evil. Who would? We had some behavior changes. Jeff especially. But she thought they were because our dad had died and we had a new dad to deal with. She told us she expected there would be some problems.”
Gregory brushed some oak seeds off the table. “I gave Mom a very watered down version of what really went on. Even though a part of me blamed her for what happened, I couldn’t tell her everything I knew. Jeff never said anything about it.
“Then one day when Jeff was about thirteen, maybe fourteen, he started talking in this weird voice. I said, ‘Knock it off, you sound like a girl.’ He got this funny expression on his face. For a second he looked like a blond version of my mom and said, ‘Silly boy, I am a girl. I’m Samantha.’” Gregory’s eyes widened, and he blew out a breath of air.
“That would be disconcerting for a teenage boy to hear from his brother. Was that the only incident where he thought he was someone else?” Smoke asked.
“There were a few other times. And after it happened he acted like he didn’t remember anything about it. I told Mom, and she finally took him to a shrink, but it didn’t help.”
I tapped the table. “We met with a psychologist who helps people like your brother. I think you should talk to her while you’re here.”
Gregory raised his eyebrows and nodded.
Smoke opened to a fresh page in his memo pad. “You said your stepfather would wake you up in the middle of the night and take you to a place by a river. Tell us about that.”
Gregory pushed his hands into his thighs, and his huge biceps flexed. “The first night after it happened, I woke up the next morning and thought I had had a terrible nightmare. Then it happened again and again.”
“Describe what that was.”
“Men in long black robes. Hooded black robes. An altar. A bonfire. Black candles burning. A large piece of wood with a pentagram painted on it. A gong—”
“A gong?” I asked.
He nodded and continued, “A box in the ground where they put people, mostly kids, for a while. It was called ceremonial burying.”
My flesh turned to goose bumps. “What do you mean by ceremonial burying?”
“I think it was supposed to be like a coffin. They made people go down there, and they’d close the top. I think some were left there for days, maybe until they really did die. I’m not sure about that. I was in there a couple of times, probably for a few hours.”
“Why did they do that?”
“One of the ways to control behavior. And scare the hell out of you. It worked too. You did what they said so they didn’t bury you.”
I came close to hyperventilating when I thought about being buried alive. Smoke shifted on his seat, notably uncomfortable.
“And there was a large basin they used to drown babies.”
Smoke stopped writing. “They drowned babies? You witnessed that?”
Gregory fixed his eyes on Smoke. “Once. Then they passed a chalice filled with the water from the basin. We all had to drink it. I can’t tell you what they did to the little bodies. Or about the other people they killed. Or all the sexual orgies. They never made me kill another person, but I had to kill a few animals for sacrifices. Even my own dog. I was nine.” Tears filled Gregory’s eyes. He brushed at one when it ran down his cheek.
“That must have been unbelievably difficult.”
Gregory nodded. “I did what they made me do, hating every minute, but they would have killed Jeff, or Mom, or me if I didn’t. They said that over and over.
“Jeff, being such a sensitive guy, really struggled. I think they were harder on him because of it. He would cry and beg them to stop. He spent a lot of time buried. I know there were nights Sparrow took him and not me. Jeff and I agreed never to talk about it.”
Gregory looked from Smoke to me. “We were obviously scared shitless. I wanted to tell Mom, but from everything I had witnessed, I knew we would die. And in a very painful way. I think they got off on slow, agonizing deaths. Drowning, burning, or cutting someone so they bled to death. And they’d all be in this circle around the victim, chanting, thinking they were capturing some kind of energy that was being released when the person was dying. I hated being in the circle.”
“How long did the abuse go on?” Smoke asked.
“A little over a year. It ended right after my tenth birthday when my mom saw my feet.” He resumed studying his hands.
Smoke leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand. “Gregory. Any idea where those things took place?”
“No. We were given drugs. Blindfolded. I don’t know if I’d recognize it. It was a ways from Wellspring, but like I told Sergeant Aleckson, it could have been by the Raven River, or a bigger creek. I don’t think it was the Mississippi because the Mississippi is big and rushing. Much louder.”
The mighty Mississippi.
“How many people were in the cult, taking part in the rituals?” Smoke asked.
“There were quite a few. Between fifteen and twenty. Sometimes more. It varied on different nights.”
Smoke’s eyebrows rose. “That many? The last time we talked you said there was a doctor, a mortician, a drugstore owner, a deputy, and others from Wellspring. Any you could identify if you saw them again?”
“I’m not sure. The ones I remember are because of the personal connections. One was my doctor, and two were with Sparrow when my father got shot. That’s how I figured out it wasn’t an accident.”
“Their names?”
“Doctor Jenkins. The undertaker was Bishop, the druggist was Munden. He had a foreign accent. All upstanding citizens of the Wellspring community. What a joke. I knew some of the kids, but I think I’ve blocked out a lot of names.”
Bishop, Munden, and Jenkins. The first two were the names Lieutenant Armstrong had given to Smoke.
“I know all this sounds too crazy to believe, but I have proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Sparrow kept journals. One night, my mother sent me to his office—the one he had in our home—to tell him it was time for
dinner. He always made us knock before we opened the door. He didn’t hear me, and when I opened the door he was standing by the back wall holding a book. He frowned and said in a low voice, probably so my mom couldn’t hear him, ‘Why didn’t you knock?’ I said, ‘I did, sir. Mom says dinner is ready.’ He was holding a small key in his right hand and a book in his left.
“After that, when he was gone, like when we got home from school and he was still at work, I started looking for that key and the book. I can’t explain why I was so driven to find it. I finally succeeded when I found a wall safe behind a painting on the back wall. It took me the longest time to find the key. I figured he kept it with him, but I kept looking anyway. It was taped to the bottom of a desk drawer.”
Smoke grinned. “Pretty clever for a young boy. And you found the book?”
Gregory nodded. “I found a lot of books. Journals, like diaries. They were full of detailed information of the coven’s activities. Drawings, chants, rituals, awful stuff. I paged through a couple, but couldn’t read ’em because it made me sick.”
“What’d you do next?”
“I put everything back where I found it, including the key.”
“We’d need more than that for a case.”
“There is more. When my mom found the crosses on my feet, I wouldn’t tell her what happened at first. She asked Jeff and he started crying, saying they were going to kill us. That opened up the whole thing. She really struggled. It was beyond her comprehension. Eventually she admitted there were a few times she wondered if Sparrow had ever hurt us. Jeff and I had changed. I was more quiet, and Jeff was more emotional.
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