by J K Ellem
It took Shaw incredible restraint not to say any number of uncomplimentary responses. For the sake of Clare, he held his tongue.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” Morgan said to Clare.
Clare shook her head. She wanted to see Jessup. “That’s not going to work. I’m here to see the Minister. And just for your information I’m the sheriff of this town, I don’t need to announce my intentions.”
Morgan looked at Clare like she had just slapped him across the face.
Shaw smiled. It was good to see her exert authority.
Morgan had a despised look on his face, like Clare was trespassing even though she carried the weight of the law with her.
“If you like I can return with a warrant and a bunch of police officers and we can go through this whole charade again?” Clare gave a sarcastic smile.
Morgan tilted his head upwards towards the ceiling.
It was only then that Clare noticed an ear-piece. She followed his gaze and saw a security camera high in the corner, a red light blinking.
Clare kept her eyes on the camera like she was speaking to it and said in loud voice, “I could be back within the hour with that warrant.” Her voice echoed.
The standoff continued for almost a full minute until finally Morgan touched his ear-piece and gave a curt nod. He gave a lifeless smile to them both and extended his arm. “This way, Sheriff Decker. And you too, Mr Shaw. If I could just ask you to step through the security arch and I will need to take any weapons you may have.”
Good luck with that, Shaw thought as he gave Morgan a smirk.
“I am armed and will remain armed,” Clare said firmly.
To diffuse the situation Shaw raised his arms and walked towards the metal detector. “Hey, no problem, I’m not armed, but I’ll walk through.”
Morgan gave a slight bow, “Thank you, Mr Shaw.”
Clare went around the security checkpoint and waited for Shaw. This place was like no church she had ever been in and she wanted to know why.
22
The office of Carl Jessup was not what they expected. Clare had a mental image of some ornate room, floor to ceiling books, heavy drapes, a massive carved timber desk, a sanctuary that paid homage to religious ego and spiritual arrogance.
What they found was a plain, bland room, light timber flooring, functional ergonomic chairs, and a simple uncluttered desk with a large flat screen monitor on a floating arm. The room was tranquil and uncomplicated, with an industrial coldness to it.
Carl Jessup was standing at the door and welcomed them when they entered, and ushered them to two chairs opposite his desk. The same soft forest sounds they had heard in the atrium were piped through hidden speakers in the ceiling.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Clare said.
Like Morgan, Carl Jessup was a large imposing man. He was in his sixties, over six feet tall with long ghost-white hair fashioned in a ponytail, a heavy-set frame under a flowing white robe, also the same style and cut as what Morgan wore.
His dark intelligent eyes regarded Clare and Shaw. “Sheriff Decker, I’m so glad to see you again. I recall meeting you a few years back when you first arrived here.” There was genuine warmth behind his expression and Clare sensed that Carl Jessup was a man who put people immediately at ease, but then subtly influenced them. “I wished you had called upon us sooner. My door is always open to those who seek guidance and spiritual redemption.” His voice was soft and soothing, hypnotic.
Clare smiled. It may work on others, those who were weak-minded, but it wasn’t going to work on her. “I’m seeking nothing, Minister Jessup, just some questions I would like to ask in relation to a missing persons case we are following up on.”
Jessup’s face seemed to be stuck in a state of perpetual smiling and this made Clare raise her guard. He opened his arms like he was preaching a sermon. “Anything I can do to help. We have no secrets here at the church.” He turned to Shaw. “We welcome all types, all denominations, no matter what their inclination.”
Clare nodded and pulled out her notebook. “Perhaps we can start by you telling me what you actually do here, what types of people come here and why?”
Jessup nodded slowly. “We all need guidance in our lives, Sheriff. Even you. That is what we do here. We offer an environment and teachings where people from all walks of life can come and recalibrate their lives.”
“Recalibrate?” Clare asked.
“Yes. Life throws all sorts of problems at us, and over time we become out of sync—as you would say—with our spirituality. We become lost, we stray from what is righteous and we become tainted by society’s temptations. People need to be guided and that’s what we give them, moral servitude.”
Clare nodded solemnly. On her note pad she wrote: full of shit.
“So I guess control is the key?” Shaw cut in. “Servitude. You control people.” Shaw couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
Clare flashed a look at him.
Jessup smiled. “Yes, in a way you are correct. When we lose control we need someone to step in and reassert that control for us.” Jessup turned to Clare. “Surely Sheriff, you have seen the ugly, immoral consequences of when people lose control? Murder, rape, theft, domestic violence, road rage. At times you must wake up each morning and ask yourself what immoral acts you will witness today?”
“Lacy is a quiet town. Since arriving here everything has been fairly peaceful,” Clare replied. “But elsewhere, yes, I have seen the consequences, the deaths, the senseless violence of when people lose control.”
Jessup beamed at Clare’s response. “Life taints all of us one way or another. We all stray off the path, but admitting that you need help is the critical part. Most people are in denial.”
“How many people do you have here?” Clare asked.
“It varies, but at the moment we have around eighty chosen undergoing recalibration at the moment.”
Recalibration. Shaw had a mental image of someone tied to a chair sitting in a puddle of their own urine with a metal spaghetti strainer on their head hooked up to electrodes.
“Chosen?”
“Yes, we don’t take in everyone, we have a vigorous selection process. I personally chose each candidate to be admitted into our program.”
“And where do these people typically come from and how long do they usually stay?”
“They come from everywhere. Some from overseas. They typically stay anywhere from a few weeks to up to six months. It depends. Some people progress very quickly. Others progress slowly. They all start as black then need to progress through to white as part of the cleansing.”
“Colors?” Clare asked.
“Forgive me. I should have explained. When you first arrive, you shed your earthly clothes and are given a black robe to wear. You embrace the color of darkness, for that is where you have been. As you progress through the recalibration and attain each of the levels of servitude, your robes lighten as we wash away your staining. We have seven colors, each representing the seven levels of moral servitude.”
Clare pointed her pen at Jessup’s robe. “With white being the seventh level. White because you have been fully cleansed?”
“That is correct. Your taint had been removed.”
Clare nodded, taking notes. It sounded all very dystopian. She looked up at Jessup. “It seemed very quiet when we arrived. Where is everyone?”
“They are in class. It’s just a few minutes before noon, they will be out soon.”
“Do you keep any records of people who come here? Like personal contact details? Addresses? Photos?”
Jessup shook his head. “We are not like that. We do keep records, but we respect people’s privacy.”
Clare would need a warrant if she was going to get the chance to look at the records.
“You said you were looking for a missing person?” Jessup asked. “Perhaps if you have a photo of them I could check with our files?”
All Clare had was a hand with no DNA match and a dead b
ody. She couldn’t show Jessup the photos of either. “We’re just making preliminary enquiries at the moment,” Clare smiled. “Has anyone just disappeared from here? Like just vanished? Not turned up to class. Gone with no warning or reason?”
“As you can appreciate, Sheriff, people come and go from here. They can be very transient. People are free to leave at any time and hundreds pass through our church each year. If someone decides to leave without advising us, we don’t track when they leave or where they go. But that is rare.”
“And money?” Clare asked. “How do you finance the church?”
Jessup’s smile faltered a second. It was a very direct question. “Like any other church. We have many donors scattered across the country. We also have some key spiritual benefactors who support the church. As you can appreciate, our donors and benefactors want to remain confidential.”
A bell chimed somewhere.
Jessup stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Now if you will excuse me. There are some church matters I need to attend to.”
As if on cue the door opened and Morgan entered the room.
Shaw and Clare rose from their chairs. “Just one question before we go. Do you have anything to do with the logging camp?”
Jessup came around from behind his desk. “The logging camp?”
“Yes, the logging camp owned by Ballard Forestry. It’s on the way up the mountain road.”
Jessup shrugged. “I see no reason that we would, unless one of their workers wanted to attend here. But we offer an immersion experience. All our chosen live here on church grounds for the duration of their stay.”
Clare nodded and slipped away her note book.
Jessup shook their hands and they were ushered out.
Morgan escorted them back through the atrium, walking a few steps ahead of them. The place was now full of people, some mingling, talking, laughing, others walking briskly, all clad in different colored robes. Not a white robe amongst them. Men, women, young and old, a throng of faces and colors.
“I wonder what the color red nominates,” Shaw whispered to Clare, nodding at the back of Morgan. He was the only person wearing red.
“Maybe something more sinister,” she replied.
Morgan bid them farewell and they left through the glass doors.
As they walked back to the car, Clare said, “I don’t care much for their little perfect society.”
“It does seem strange, like a cult. Stratifying everyone into groups based on how tainted you are.”
“I know, weird if you ask me. Like cattle or slaves.”
They reached the car and Clare opened her door, then paused looking back at the main building in the distance. She saw Morgan, at the top of the steps, standing perfectly still, looking directly back at her.
23
They parked far enough away in the darkness so that their car would not be seen, but they still had a clear view of the house.
Molly Malone was home, the lights burned brightly through the haze of snow and sleet. The landscape was heavy with a thick blanket of white.
She had shut the store early, so had many of the other stores in town in preparation for the storm front. The only places open were eating establishments, trying to capitalise on the late afternoon trade, and other than a few die-hard locals or inexperienced tourists who braved the buffeting winds and horizontal snow, the streets were deserted. Snow was piling up against the curbs and suspended traffic lights swung wildly. A few cars churned along the streets, their headlights only reaching a few feet ahead.
Molly's house was a mile out of town, in a small enclave nestled amongst similar homes, but separated from the neighbors. So they would have all the privacy they needed.
Mack sat behind the wheel of the pickup truck they had taken from the logging camp. The pickup was white, blending in against the snowy background. They never intended to return the truck, or go back themselves. Micky sat in the passenger seat next to Mack and Freddy was in the back, his hand resting on a black case on the seat beside him.
The pickup had big snow tires, a massive light bar, power winch at the front and enough fuel to get them well into the next state. They had options. Micky wanted to build up a bit of cash before they headed overseas. There was drilling work to be found in Wyoming, or farther north in Montana. They could easily pick up rigging work in Utah and in Arizona. Freddy didn’t want to go south into New Mexico. That state was a haven for people running from the law to Mexico via El Paso. It would be too risky with law enforcement, DEA and Border Security crawling all over the place. And three men in a large pickup truck would draw attention, especially with what they were carrying in the back. In the rear tray under an all-weather cover sat two large utility boxes filled with snow chains, food stores and an assortment of tools they needed for what they had planned over the coming months.
First they would deal with Molly Malone before they started their little road trip. It didn’t seem right to Micky that they leave town without saying a proper good-bye to that bitch. Micky has chosen a few unique tools from the tool shop. Speciality pliers with large teeth, clamps and heavy duty crimping tools that were used to pull out blades and stubborn nails buried deep in timber. He wished he’d had these with him in Memphis.
He was going to take his time with Molly. She would eventually tell him where the man who had attacked them was staying. Molly knew everything about everyone in town. She would know.
They had plenty of time before they planned to leave later tonight. The pickup truck wouldn’t be logged as missing until the morning. The police would be looking for a stolen vehicle with Colorado plates. So the first chance Micky got, he would swap out the licence plates on the pickup, maybe at a gas station or truck-stop along the way. He had done that many times before and he was still amazed how dumb people were not to notice until days later. The company decals on the doors would be easy enough to remove too.
Micky had it all planned in his head. It would be a cakewalk just as long as the other two morons didn’t mess things up. They would be three hundred miles away before anyone knew what had happened.
“Pass me the binoculars,” Micky said over his shoulder. Freddy leaned between the two front seats and passed them to Micky.
The big engine idled, warm air coming through the front vents.
“When do we go in, Micky?” Freddy was anxious to get the party started with Molly. He had spent the afternoon packing what little belongings he had into a canvas duffle bag before lovingly polishing his knives. He had taken each one out from their velvet pouch and carefully sharpened them with a whetstone, then placed them back in the special case.
All the time he was thinking about Molly Malone’s supple skin and tender flesh, wondering what new designs he would carve in to her.
“Soon, Freddy soon,” Micky said, as he scanned the street and surrounding houses through the binoculars. A few lights were on in the other houses in the street, but they wouldn't present a problem. Nearly everyone around town was home now, holed up for the evening, waiting the storm out. No one in their right mind would be outside in the streets.
Perfect for them.
“You can do whatever you wish with her after Mack and I are done.”
Freddy sat back smiling. But he felt jittery. He always did just before he carved a woman. His fingers drummed impatiently on the case beside him, savouring the anticipation of what he was going to do to Molly.
“Where is she?” Mack asked. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. He didn’t want to hang around in this town any longer. It was too risky. He just wanted to move on.
Micky adjusted the focus on the binoculars and viewed Molly's house one more time. “I think she’s in the bedroom.” It was a property on a small block, a driveway with neighbors on three sides. Her car was parked in the garage. Micky had to be careful, but he doubted they would be seen. The snow was falling hard, which was a good thing, it would mask their approach.
“Mack, I want you to go down
the side of the house, find a backdoor or something. No breaking glass. You got that?” Micky instructed.
“No problem.” Mack opened the middle console and grabbed some tools. He opened the door and a blast of snow blew in. He slammed the door behind him.
Micky turned to Freddy. “Freddy, you stay here, jump in the driver’s seat and be ready to roll with your bag of tricks.”
Freddy nodded excitedly. “And you, Micky?”
Micky turned back and looked through the windshield at the house. The lights glowed from the windows through billowing swirls, warming and inviting. “I’m going to walk up and knock on the front door.” He smiled. Christmas was coming early for him and he was going to enjoy opening his presents.
“Let’s get moving."
24
The autopsy report of the dead girl sat in front of Clare on her desk. Three pages of pale white paper that she had printed off from an email received an hour ago. The DNA results would hopefully be back by the evening. She had sent Alice home early. It was only her in the office.
She had just got off the phone to Dan Reynolds, both he and his team had finished up for the day and were back in Denver. He had gone through the report with her while on the phone. It had now blown into a full scale murder investigation.
As a distraction from the gruesome details in the report, Clare called up on her computer the latest weather bulletin. Conditions were deteriorating quickly. Swirls of red and black pixels surged towards the Echo Mountain, gathering speed and intensity every hour.
If things got worse, both roads in and out of Lacy would be closed and no one was going anywhere for at least the next twenty-four hours until the storm had passed or blown itself out. There was a smaller service road that wound its way to the south, but Clare had no idea what condition that road was in.
She looked at the report.
She sighed, picked it up and read it for the third time, digesting the horrific details.