It was a text message thread from Taz to Caroline. Above it was a number. Joe scribbled it down. “Would you mind telling me the passcode so our forensic team can go through those messages?” Joe asked.
“It’s her birthday. 0817.”
“Thanks.”
Jack handed the phone back to him and looked at Troy. “Seems like you were right about this Taz character.”
Troy nodded. “Seems that way.”
Joe pushed a button on his desk phone. “Cindy, can you get me the tracer?”
“Coming right up,” a voice replied.
“Let’s give this guy a call,” Joe said. “He probably has a prepaid, burner type phone, so there won’t be any way to get the tower pings quick enough. Luckily, I have friend pretty high up in the C.I.A. who set me up with a new GPS tracker toy. I’ll have him on speaker, but I need to keep him on for at least a minute to get a trace.” He looked at Jack and then at Troy. “No matter what he says,” Joe said, “please don’t speak. It’s imperative that we locate him.”
“Of course,” Jack said, his eyes glazing over.
Troy could sense the man was terrified. He’d been convinced that his daughters were safe… off on rich girl adventures, soon to return home. But now that scenario had been replaced with a far darker one. One that didn’t seem to have a happy ending.
A woman, presumably Cindy, walked in, carrying a machine that looked like an old reel-to-reel tape recorder, and handed it to Joe. The tracer.
“Thanks, Cindy,” Joe said as he began connecting it to his desk phone.
“Mr. Colpiller,” Troy said softly while Joe was busy hooking up the tracer, “this might be the time to bring up the investigator you hired. Any info is good info.”
Jack nodded. “Detective,” he said, and cleared his throat, “there is the matter of a private investigator that I hired to find my girls.”
Joe tapped a finger on the top sheet of paper in the file. “Yes, a Mr. Remington Reginald?”
Jack cocked an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”
“It seems he was in contact with another detective here,” Joe said, “running the plates and trying to find your daughter’s car. But when we found the blood in the vehicle, the level of the case had to be raised to—” He stopped short.
“Raised to what?” Jack demanded.
“Well,” Joe said, scratching the back of his neck, “raised to homicide.”
“Dangit,” Troy muttered.
15
Turnabout
Taz sipped his drink from the Pollo Tropical and was finally feeling normal again after his vomitous run-in with the foul smell in Mr. Smith’s apartment. Bizarrely enough, he’d been in the drive-through at the fast-food place when Mr. Smith drove right up, got out of the car, and walked inside. He parked across the lot from the man’s car, slumped down inside his truck, drank his soda, and waited.
He was inside for at least an hour, but finally exited in a rush. He jumped in his car and Taz followed. His heart sank a little when he realized the man was headed back to his apartment. He parked and watched him go inside, then gave him fifteen minutes to get to his apartment and get settled in.
When he was sure enough time had passed, he opened the glove box and found a red bandana crumpled up inside. It smelled of sweat, but he didn’t care—it would be better than the skunk smell by a long shot. He tied it ninja style around his face, covering his nose and mouth. Exiting his car, the smell hit him like a slap to the face again, but it wasn’t nearly as bad with the bandana on. He walked to the elevator, took a deep breath, gagged a little, and punched the button for the third floor.
Knocking on the door, he tried hard not to inhale the smell still lingering there, but the bandana helped a bit. The vomit stains were still on the door. He listened for sounds of Mr. Smith moving around inside, but heard nothing. He knocked again. Still nothing.
He positioned his ear against the door and listened closely to the tinny sounds of music that now drifted out of the apartment. Mr. Smith was obviously listening to it, and apparently couldn’t hear the knocking.
Taz reached down and turned the knob. Locked. He pulled his pocket knife out, shoved it into the door jamb where the lock was, and pushed hard with his shoulder. Surprisingly, the door swung open easily. Cheap ass apartment, Taz thought. The inside was just as he remembered it. The kitchen table had a few papers spread out over it, likely those that had spilled out of the briefcase when he’d run down the hall. A fan sat in the open sliding doorway out to the balcony, expelling the awful smell. It was definitely skunk. Taz thought he must be getting desensitized to the smell, or maybe it was actually getting better. Either way, he was able to proceed in without blowing chunks.
He walked over to the kitchen table and scanned the papers stacked in neat little piles. Some were about his case and some were about the other case—the senator who maybe killed an intern, or something like that. He picked up the sheets about him and stuffed them into his pockets. Evidence was easy to get rid of, but this was about a payday now. He was looking to take a cool two-hundred and fifty-thousand from Mr. Smith. After that, maybe Mexico or somewhere. He’d never have to hit another damn tennis ball again.
The music drifted from the door to his right and he thought he might’ve heard Mr. Smith humming along with it. It was the same door the man had been behind when he broke in before. Ugh, I hate classical music.
He inhaled as deeply as he could to steady himself, regretted it immediately, then walked to the door. It appeared to be closed but not latched completely. Mr. Smith had clearly been in a rush. He put his fingers against it and pushed softly. The door swung open soundlessly, revealing one of the most bizarre scenes he’d ever witnessed.
Brant Reginald, of the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary Church of Fairhope, Alabama had his palm pressed against the forehead of a young man seated in a wheelchair. Sweat beaded under his eyes from the exertion he felt as he prayed… or maybe it was from the hot studio lights blasting down on them.
He spoke earnestly and with vehemence, emphasizing every other word in an almost hypnotic trance. His lilting Alabaman accent had the effect of rising and falling waves pushing power out from his mouth.
“Turnabout, demon,” he belted out before the crowd of two-hundred in the studio audience, “turnabout and be gone. This man is a child of God, and has confessed to all his sins and repented in the presence of the Holy Spirit. He is under your purview no more. Turnabout and be gone!”
Turnabout was his signature phrase. He wasn’t sure when it had become so associated with him, but he used it every week now, and it certainly seemed to give the demons pause and blast them right out of his sinning and broken audience.
The young man in the wheelchair was rocking back and forth, swaying with the power of God. His acting is brilliant, Brand thought to himself. In a few months, they’d have to find a way to get this kid back on the show.
The production of this segment of the show was also excellent. In the booth, Ricky Seamus had his hand on the dial controlling the house lights. He pulsed them ever so slightly, matching the waves in Brant’s voice. The kid in the chair had worked with Ricky on exactly when the healing moment would occur, and the lights would match the “sacred” moment perfectly.
Brant was holding the crowd in his palms, as well as the kid’s forehead, and knew exactly how to work the scene for maximum effect. The kid would know to jump up and be healed when Brant gave him a squeeze on his temples. The studio audience was breathless. They hung on the edge of their seats, and the thundering echo of Brant’s words—augmented by a few digital effects in his mic—were the only sound in the hall.
His voice rose. “It is time, in the name of the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary, for you to get out, demon! Turnabout, and BE GONE!!!”
As he boomed the last words, he squeezed the kid’s forehead. The young man burst up out of the wheelchair, and stood with his back arched as the house lights went bright white. The effect was aw
esome. Even Brant felt a tremor inside his heart. The Lord was truly in this place… even if a little Hollywood magic was required to help Him show up. He whipped up a few dramatic yet subtle tears as ushers came forward to help the boy down the stairs and clear the wheelchair from the stage.
Brant Reginald turned toward the camera. He was nearing sixty, slightly overweight—an ex-football player kind of overweight. His eyes were brilliantly blue, and his hair was salt-and-pepper gray, giving him the gravitas of an old biblical shepherd. Tan makeup enhanced his own natural tan, and helped to even out his sunglasses raccoon eyes—from the golf course.
He used to wear a robe on stage, but the new-age of the church didn’t require such formality. Nowadays he wore short-sleeved Columbia PFG fishing shirts and occasionally his favorite Tommy Bahama silk shirts. Both were infinitely more comfortable under the glaring stage lighting.
In his pocket he kept a handkerchief, tucked away to wipe his brow in particularly sweaty moments, but he never let the crowd see him do it. He timed it perfectly with prayers, soloist performances, and naturally, commercial breaks.
“Friends,” he spoke in earnest, “we have witnessed another miracle. In the most concrete of ways, our Lord has made Himself known. The work of the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary Church of Fairhope, Alabama, must go on.”
He thought back to the business meeting on Monday, with his accountant showing him a lot of red numbers. Too much money spent on television production, and not enough coming in.
“And friends,” he continued, staring deeply into the camera, “we need your help to keep our church open. This sanctuary is God’s house, and God has shown us that where we are gathered, there He will be.”
The music began to play softly beneath his words, hymn-like and emotional. The choir stood behind him. As the music grew stronger, so did his words.
“Do you need a miracle, friends?” he said and took a step toward the camera. “It is written that God will bless those who give freely. Don’t keep that of which God has given you stewardship away from Him. It is His to do with what He will. Blessings will flow to you if you only allow Him to use your gift.”
The choir began to sing, and he raised his voice over them.
“As we close out this morning’s glorious service,” he said, motioning with his hands, “the alter will be open. There are ushers on both sides to receive the gift you choose to bring. Come now.”
He folded his hands together, looked toward the ceiling, and mouthed a few private words for himself, and then walked off the stage.
The crowd surged forward, and he was certain the accountant would be happy with today’s offering. He shut the door of his office behind him, wiped the sheen of sweat off his face, and knelt.
“Father, forgive me for what I have done,” he prayed, “but a sin of deception for the greater good seems alright with me. If you deem my work to be false and unworthy, please give me a sign and take it from me.”
He rose slowly. He knew he had about fifteen minutes to catch his breath before the next service. The staff would have everything reset on stage. He glanced at his notes about the upcoming miracle; a young blonde mother with breast cancer. There was a picture of the actress. Nice, Brant thought, wholesome but hot, the girl next door, but maybe a little sex-kitten sprinkled in. And a perfect situation. Nothing that the audience could actually see… his acting would carry it all.
His phone rang.
“Yeah,” he said into the receiver.
“Great haul this morning, Brant,” said the head usher, beaming, “we topped the last record by double.”
“Thanks, Stephen,” he answered, “God bless.”
“God bless, indeed,” Stephen said, and hung up.
Another good show today and that red ink would be a thing of the past. And that’s when his whole world turned upside down.
The hefty knock on his door sounded urgent and official. It was unusual for anyone to disturb him during the brief break he had between services. He squashed his annoyance and tucked away the folder of notes for the next miracle he would perform.
“Yes,” he said to the door with a smile in his voice, “come on in.”
The door swung open quickly and he was immediately struck by the gruff nature of the man in the black suit. He didn’t smile, he didn’t introduce himself… he didn’t even bat an eyelash. What he did do was walk across the carpet and slap a piece of paper on the desk. He held his fingertips on it and waited until Brant looked up at him.
“What’s this all about?” the pastor asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Cease and desist,” the man said flatly as he let go of the paper.
“Excuse me?” Brant pulled his reading glasses from the middle drawer of his desk and examined the paper.
“Your church, its employees,” —the man pointed a finger at him— “and you, are ordered by the court of Alabama to cease and desist all activities claiming to be religious miracles.”
Brant’s mouth opened slightly as he read the court order. “But the work of God—” he started.
“Has been faked in this building for the last fifteen years,” the man finished.
“It has been no such thing!” Brant pulled his glasses off. “This is a clear and simple violation of my first amendment rights! Freedom of religion, sir. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“In 1982 a young woman came to you for a miracle,” the man said, and pulled a picture out of his pocket and laid it on the desk, “and you kindly obliged. You waved your hands around, said some words, and proclaimed her healed.”
Brant looked at the picture. He recognized the woman immediately.
“She left this place and stopped all of her medical treatments, believing that the power of God had healed her,” the man continued, “but it hadn’t… had it?”
“God’s plans are not always understood by His people,” Brant said weakly.
“It would’ve been one thing had you just been wrong about her physical well-being, but it was quite another to coerce this woman to send you all of her remaining life savings as a donation for the so-called miracle you performed.”
“Now, you see here,” Brant said, standing, “there was no coercion at all. That woman was free to send us whatever she wanted, and it just so happened that she did. I had nothing to do—”
The man interrupted him. “Before she died, she went on record saying that she had been convinced by members of your church, including you, that if she didn’t send the money, the miracle could be reversed.”
“That is absolutely not true,” Brant said, defending himself. “And besides that, all of that is mere hearsay.”
“Perhaps,” the man said, shrugging, “but when you combine it with the affidavits of three actors whom you hired in the past to act out miracle healings, it doesn’t look good. Does it, Mr. Reginald.”
Brant swallowed. It was bound to happen. The church paid the actors well and had them sign contracts saying they would keep their mouths shut. He knew they were taking monumental risks. But it was for the greater good.
“What are the terms of the order?” Brant slumped back into his chair.
“You and all the board of directors of the church will resign. The United Methodist Church has already signed your defrocking papers. The television station just confirmed that the broadcast of the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary Church of Fairhope, Alabama, is officially canceled. You are finished.”
The man walked across the plush carpet and stood in the doorway.
“The church will be allowed to remain open, but under entirely new leadership,” he said as he pulled the door, “and who knows, maybe this time they’ll get an honest preacher.”
He slammed the door, leaving Brant alone. Dreadfully alone. The shock rolled over him in waves, and tears rolled down his cheeks as he fell to his knees.
“Father,” he said, clutching his hands together, “why hast thou forsaken me?”
But he knew the answer to his question. He wa
s being tested. Much like the early Christians being thrown into cells, locked in chains, and fed to the lions, Brant Reginald had finally gotten the attention of God. He convinced himself it wasn’t the end, but merely a new beginning. He pulled himself up and sat back in his chair. Oddly, he felt the chains of oppression being lifted from his shoulders. Light streamed through the windows of his office and he knew God was with him. What to do next? What now, Lord?
Penance. He picked up the photograph the man had left on his desk. Aliah Ranchero. He’d start by finding this woman’s family and begging for their forgiveness. Next, his attention turned to a photo on his desk, his estranged wife and son. His wife was long dead, taken by a drunk driver, but his son… he had driven his son away—furious that he wouldn’t repent for what he’d done.
He wondered what Remington was up to now and if he’d ever gotten right with God. Lord, the boy had always been a strange one, and the incident with Gram had certainly shoved him over the edge into a sinful nature. No matter. Brant’s journey was one for his own sins, not the sins of his boy.
He picked up the phone and dialed the last number he had for his son.
16
Do You Hear What I Hear?
Troy Bodean couldn’t stop the twitching in his legs while he watched Joe Bond set up the fancy tracking machine—which he revealed had been a gift from Chris Collins at the C.I.A. He didn’t understand anything at all about the mumbo-jumbo Joe tried to explain to them about the machine, but he knew it could find Taz—if Taz answered his phone—and if he stayed on the line for longer than a minute. Jack Colpiller was pacing back and forth, alternately wringing his hands and chewing his lips. They were both anxious to figure out what their next move was going to be… and it all hinged on finding Taz.
Joe Bond punched in the number from the text messages they’d recovered from Caroline’s phone. As they listened, the line connected and began to ring. Joe put his hand over the receiver to effectively mute the call, and nodded his head toward the tracing machine.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 59