On the Lookout

by Christy Barritt

  “Put her through,” she said, but her voice lacked enthusiasm.

  A moment later, Cassidy spoke with someone named Trisha Hartman from West Virginia.

  “I … I saw the news about an unidentified body that had washed up, and I may know who it is,” the woman started, her voice shaky.

  “I’m listening.” Cassidy grabbed a pen and piece of paper, ready to jot down notes, just in case.

  “I think … I think he might be my estranged husband. His name was—is—I don’t know how to say it. Anyway, Al Hartman … I think. The picture … it was hard to make out all the details, but there was a resemblance, you know?”

  Al Hartman, Cassidy wrote. “You’re doing just fine, Ms. Hartman. When was the last time you saw Al?”

  “It’s probably been seven months. It was around September, when school was starting, actually. I really thought he’d pop into our lives over the holidays, but he didn’t. We have two children. Sylvie is ten, and Lucas is twelve.”

  Cassidy scribbled some more notes. “Did anything in particular happen the last time you spoke?”

  “No, not really. Al sounded upbeat. He told me he’d found a new lease on life and that he was going away to start again.”

  A new lease on life? What had signaled that reaction? Revelations like that usually didn’t come out of the blue.

  And then there was the practical … “What about child support?”

  “He sold everything in his name. It wasn’t much, but it netted him around forty thousand dollars. He had some antique cars he’d restored. Anyway, he gave the money all to me. Said he didn’t need it anymore.”

  “Was that unusual?” Cassidy needed to know if he was the spontaneous type of guy or if this was totally out of character. Because most people didn’t easily hand over that amount of money during a contentious split.

  “Totally unusual. He liked his stuff—too much. He liked his stuff more than he liked me, for that matter.” Trisha let out a bitter laugh. “That was one of the many reasons we separated.”

  Cassidy closed the door to her office as some tourists clattered into the building to ask for directions. That wasn’t all that unusual here in Lantern Beach. People came in to ask for restaurant recommendations, and once had asked for sunburn advice. The station was like the town visitor center at times.

  She sat back down in her chair. “What caused the change of heart? Any idea?”

  “Al started going to this group for people with depression. He met some people there, and they started taking him to these meetings … they were like church.”

  Cassidy’s spine straightened as curiosity tingled inside her. “What do you mean ‘like church’?”

  “I mean, they believed Jesus was just a prophet, but the true son of God was still coming. Or he’d just come. Or some other nonsense. I didn’t ask many questions. After all, Al seemed a lot happier, so I figured it wasn’t hurting anything.”

  “He seemed happy enough to sell all his possessions, apparently.” The extreme life changes sounded warning bells in Cassidy’s head. Dramatic shifts in lifestyle called for a deeper examination, in Cassidy’s experience.

  “Yes, his changes were dramatic enough that he decided to move away from his kids. To pretend like they didn’t exist anymore.” More bitterness edged into Trisha’s voice.

  “Was that surprising? Did he have a good relationship with them?” Cassidy would circle back around to this religious group in a moment.

  “It was very surprising. He loved—loves—his kids. They were almost like another one of his possessions, you know? His trophies. When I left him … he went downhill. Fast. He begged me to stay with him. Said he would change. I said I had to see him change first.”

  An ultimatum. Selling his possessions. New friends. Cassidy continued to take notes. “Were there any other changes in his life that you’re aware of?”

  “Yeah, he lost his job. That only made his depression worse.”

  “Where did he work?”

  “He was an engineer for a textile plant up here. I guess he started making stupid mistakes, and his boss thought he was unreliable. That only added to his mental state. It was like a circle that kept spiraling, you know?”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.” Cassidy paused. “Ms. Hartman, we’re going to need someone to come in and ID the body.”

  “That’s … that’s what I thought. My mom said she could keep the kids for me. I can leave tomorrow.”

  “That would be great. In the meantime, is there anything distinguishing about Al that might help us ID him before you arrive?”

  Trisha paused for a minute. “He has a birthmark behind his ear. It’s a red oval. About half-an-inch long. And he should have a scar from where he had his appendix removed.”

  Cassidy would need to check that—which meant she’d need to go to Lisa’s sometime today. “How about his back? Were there any scars there?”

  “His back?” Her voice rang with surprise. “What kind of scars? No, I don’t think so.”

  Cassidy didn’t want to share the details, not since it was an open investigation and not until she knew for sure this was the right guy. “Just asking. Ms. Hartman, could you email me a picture of Al?”

  “Of course. I’m not at home right now, but I’ll send it when I am. Give me a couple hours.”

  “One more question,” Cassidy said. “Did this religious group have a name? Or was there anything noteworthy about them?”

  “Not that I know of. I didn’t really pay much attention. Now I wish that I had.”

  Cassidy rattled off an email address before saying, “Thank you for calling. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow, and I can put you through to Melva if you need some help planning how to get here.”

  It sounded like Al could be their guy.

  But the bad feeling in Cassidy’s gut coiled like a viper poising to strike.

  Al had a spiritual awakening? He sold everything and left everyone behind?

  That sounded either like he’d had a come-to-Jesus moment and radically transformed his life … or he’d joined a cult.

  And when Cassidy thought about a cult, she thought about the group that had moved in at the gated property here on the island. Were they a cult? She didn’t know. But it was time to find out. And she would start by visiting and seeing if anyone there could identify their John Doe.

  It was worth a shot.

  But first she needed to see John Doe’s body again.

  Two other phone calls revealed that Lisa had left the island, looking for a wedding dress up in Nags Head and that Doc Clemson was in the middle of surgery and couldn’t speak. When Lisa returned this evening, Cassidy would stop by to look at the body again.

  Until then, Cassidy would continue her investigation. She pulled her police SUV up to the gate of the old campground.

  From what she’d gathered, this used to be called Henderson’s RV Resort. Apparently, management had gone downhill and prices had gone up. Eventually, the property went into foreclosure and had become an eyesore on the island. People had been relieved when it finally sold, hoping the new owner would fix the place up.

  A small, metal box at the guard station seemed to be Cassidy’s only hope of getting inside this place. Otherwise, she’d have to breach an iron fence. She pressed the button there and waited.

  When no one answered after five seconds, Cassidy pressed the button again. Finally, static came across the line, and a distant voice said, “Can I help you?”

  “Police Chief Cassidy Chambers here,” she started. “I’d like to talk to someone inside about a possible crime.”

  “One moment.”

  Cassidy tapped her fingers against her steering wheel as she waited for someone to return to the line. They had no obligation to let her in—not without a search warrant. But she really hoped they would.

  Just when she thought she would have to turn around and leave, a man meandered toward the gate.

  He wore dirty khakis and a white tunic. She’d guess him to
be in his forties. He had thinning red hair and an angular face.

  After climbing into the guard station, he slid the window open and leaned toward her. “I’m Barnabas. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Barnabas.” She flashed her badge and watched as the man blanched. She got that reaction a lot.

  “We don’t usually take visitors here.” His voice quivered ever so slightly.

  “I’m not really a visitor,” Cassidy said. “I’m the police chief here on the island.”

  “Yes, we understand that. But this is a place of peace and tranquility. We’ve worked hard to establish that and don’t want anything to mess it up.”

  “I promise to be as peaceful as possible. I’m just asking questions about a body that washed up here on the island.”

  “We don’t want trouble.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Finally, he nodded. “Okay, then. You can come in. But you’ll need to leave your vehicle here and go the rest of the way by foot. Like I said, this is a place of peace.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Cassidy followed his directions and parked her vehicle right inside the gate. As she trailed Barnabas down what used to be a gravel road that led to the campground, her arm brushed the holstered gun at her waist. She found a strange comfort in knowing it was there in case she needed it.

  Her eyes scanned everything around her—the RVs, the gravel road, the way it appeared like a ghost town, even though it wasn’t. Where was everyone? Were they directed to stay inside if there was an outsider on campus?

  Why did she feel the cold stare of unseen eyes? Barnabas’s back was toward her, and she saw no one else. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling.

  This place was strange—it left her unsettled.

  Kind of like when she’d walked into DH-7 headquarters.

  You should have let Ty or Mac know you were coming here. Always have backup.

  But now Cassidy was in, and she needed to see what this place was about once and for all.

  Chapter Eight

  Barnabas led Cassidy into what looked like an old community center at the campground. Now it was just “The Meeting Place,” as the crude, handmade wooden sign over the door read.

  Her spine stiffened as she stepped inside and reality washed over her.

  The man who ran this place was smart. He hadn’t built any new buildings or done anything that would require a permit or inspection. Everything seemed to only have been fixed up cosmetically. The campers and trailers here were only temporary, so there were no county regulations for them.

  Whoever ran this place appeared to know what he—or she—was doing.

  The anxiety in Cassidy’s stomach grew as she disappeared further from civilization—from her vehicle, from the gate where she could escape this place, from anyone who knew her.

  You shouldn’t have come here alone. The warning echoed in her mind again.

  Wise is the person who realizes that strength can be found in numbers. Even wiser is the one who is choosy about who is a part of those numbers.

  The Day-at-a-Glance quote echoed in her mind.

  Cassidy took a moment to absorb the place. It reminded her of a summer camp she’d visited once, not as a camper but as part of a service project. No, the camps her parents had sent her to had been more like resorts.

  Here, everything was rustic and any accessories appeared donated—the chairs with mauve cushions. A handmade podium on a handmade-looking stage. The walls were dark veneer paneling. A rectangular opening had been cut in the center of one wall and framed in to serve as a food passthrough. No doubt, that’s where food was served. Cassidy could hear the rustle of someone cleaning dishes just out of sight.

  The place smelled like grilled cheese and cafeteria food. It felt quiet and solemn. The dim light didn’t add ambiance as much as it made the room feel dated and neglected. However, everything looked clean and maintained.

  In the distance, Cassidy spotted a woman pushing out a mop and yellow bucket on wheels from the bathroom. She quickly glanced up at Cassidy before jerking her gaze back down and continuing to clean the floor.

  Cassidy paused for long enough to soak her in. The woman was petite with light-brown hair. Curly. Down to her waist. She looked youngish—probably in her early twenties. She wore a beige tunic and khaki bottoms, just like the other people Cassidy had seen around here.

  Why had the woman averted her gaze? Was she simply insecure? Or was there more to this? She almost seemed … submissive.

  “Up this way,” Barnabas’s voice pulled her thoughts from the woman.

  Cassidy looked over and saw him standing at the base of a dark stairway, motioning to her and appearing annoyed.

  Cassidy followed him up a set of stairs behind the stage area. The steps groaned under her weight, and a dank smell filled her nostrils.

  She gripped the railing as more memories of going undercover with DH-7 filled her mind. DH-7 was one of the deadliest gangs in the US. Cassidy had accidentally killed their leader, and there had been a manhunt out for her.

  Finally, that nightmare was over. The gang had disbanded. The leaders were behind bars. Most of them, at least.

  But the memories of her time undercover wouldn’t stop coming. The fear. The intensity. The risk.

  Cassidy hadn’t been sure she would get out of the situation alive. She’d been buried so deeply in the underbelly of danger, she could have easily died.

  This place looked different. The people looked different. But the risk felt the same.

  At the top of the stairs, a short, narrow hallway came into view. Just like the stairway, it was dark and felt haunted by times past.

  The bad feeling in Cassidy’s gut continued to grow.

  Finally, Barnabas stopped by a door—one of three in the hallway—and knocked. He muttered a few words to someone inside before ushering her into the room.

  A man stood up from an oversized desk there.

  Cassidy quickly took him in. He was probably in his mid-thirties with short, dark hair. A bright, confident smile lit his face. He wore slacks with an electric-blue button-up shirt—a very different look from the rest of the crowd here.

  “I’m Anthony Gilead.” He extended his hand.

  Hesitantly, she shook it. “Police Chief Cassidy Chambers.”

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Cassidy—can I call you that? Or do you prefer Chief Chambers?” His voice was as smooth as Lisa’s honey-and-cinnamon-butter spread.

  “Chief Chambers is great.” She made certain to keep her voice professional. This wasn’t a social call, and she didn’t want the man to be too comfortable.

  He nodded for her to sit down in the chair across from him. “Very well, then.”

  Lowering herself onto the fake-leather seat, she stared at Gilead as he smiled at her. Something about him made her feel like she was being sold an overpriced car by a very skilled salesman. She needed to give the man the benefit of the doubt, though.

  “I didn’t realize you’d heard anything about me,” she stated. “I haven’t seen you out and about in town.”

  The plastic smile still stretched across his face. “I prefer to keep things simple and limit my circle. There’s a lot to be said for simplicity, you know.”

  How did they get supplies? Food? Equipment?

  “I agree.” She quickly scanned his office. Motivational sayings lined the walls—each quote attributed to himself. There were no personal pictures or awards. However, Cassidy did spot a cell phone peeking out from underneath a book.

  Interesting. How did electronics tie in with the peaceful life they had here? Did Gilead allow others on the premises to carry the devices? Or did he have different standards for himself—as his clothes seemed to indicate.

  “I’ve heard you brought a lot of peace and order to the town.” He laced his fingers together in front of him as he addressed Cassidy. “Before you, the police chief was a bit of a joke.”

  Cassidy quickly inhaled, a touch of appre
hension pounding in her veins. He knew about Chief Bozeman … who’d left near the end of last summer.

  “It definitely sounds like you’ve been talking to people.” Which was strange since she’d never seen the man in town.

  He flashed another pearly white smile, the action looking as easy as the sunrise. “No, I just do my homework.”

  “And why would you do homework about Lantern Beach?”

  “I had to know if it was a safe place to come and bring people who are important to me.”

  “I see.” It was the perfect response—executed with the ease of a well-practiced prison doctor with expert skills in lethal injection.

  She glanced beyond Gilead and through the window there. The man had a view of the entire campground from his perch up here. Had he planned it that way? So he could keep an eye on everything—and everyone?

  Cassidy cleared her throat. “Can you tell me about this place?”

  “Not much to tell.” He glanced around and flicked his hand, as if his kingdom was no big deal when, in fact, he definitely perceived himself as royalty. “It’s a retreat center—much like the one your husband started.”

  She drew in another quick breath. “You know about that also?”

  “Yes. As I said, I do my homework. Your husband helps those with broken spirits and bodies. We’re not all that different now, are we? We both are just trying to make the world a better place.”

  A chill washed over her. This man had looked into her background entirely more than she was comfortable with.

  Cassidy didn’t respond to his question. “So this is a retreat center? Who comes here?”

  “People who are down on their luck. Who are wrestling with life. Who need a fresh start. We offer that. We help them to get back on their feet.”

  “And they can leave any time they want?” She watched his expression carefully.

  That grin appeared again, but it didn’t quite reach Gilead’s eyes.

  “Of course they can. We’re not monsters. We’re not a military institute. We’re a place of healing.” He paused and studied her without apology. “You’d be a great asset to our community, you know.”