“I told you that Stephanie isn’t here. Now what else do you want to know?”
“Could we talk inside?”
He hesitated a moment, then walked toward the house. He wiped his boots on a straw mat and led me through the door.
We were in the kitchen, an enormous room with wide wooden counters scrubbed bone-clean. There were a pair of old gas stoves side by side, a large refrigerator, and a freezer the size of a coffin. Iron pots and pans dangled from hooks on the wall. One end of the kitchen was taken up by a table that could seat twenty. There were two doorways leading into other parts of the house. I got the feeling some of Lacey’s followers were just out of sight. The only person in the room with us was the girl I’d seen leaving the chicken coop. She was heating water on one of the stoves.
Lacey motioned me toward the table. He sat at the head, his usual spot.
“When did Stephanie leave here?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I was going into town, and she asked if she could ride with me. She wanted to use the telephone.” He waved his hand as if to show me the entire house. “We don’t have one. In any case, I gave her some coins, left her at the drugstore to make her call, then went across the street to the hardware store.”
“Who did she call?”
“I don’t know. A man.”
“How do you know it was a man?”
“When I went back to get Stephanie, she said she’d called someone in Denver. She said he was coming to town to pick her up. He. She said she preferred to wait at the drugstore rather than come back home with me. So I left her there.”
“You just left her?”
“I tried to change her mind, of course. But she was firm. I certainly couldn’t force her to come with me.”
“You could’ve waited with her.”
“I could have done any number of things, Mr. Lomax, but I didn’t. I had work to do, and I came home. It’s not as coldhearted as it sounds. Young people come here, stay for a while, then leave. Some stay longer than others. Some not long at all. In fact, just this morning I drove a young man into town so he could get a ride back to Denver. His name is Dexter. I’m afraid he’s a drug addict.”
I was trying to think who Stephanie could have phoned. Father Carbone? Her uncle Tony? No. Either way, Angela would’ve known and told me. Of course, maybe the good reverend was lying through his teeth.
“How do I know Stephanie’s not still here?”
“Because I just told you.”
“I heard your words, Reverend. But how do I know?”
He managed to look at once amused and mildly offended.
“Why would I lie about that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Perhaps you’d like to search the premises,” he said with some sarcasm.
“Good idea.”
He rose from his chair and glared down at me. “Or perhaps I should just throw you out on your ear.”
He was just about big enough to do it. And if he couldn’t, he had plenty of help in the next room.
I stood.
“Let me put it this way, Reverend. Stephanie is listed with the Denver police as a missing person. Denver cops are friendly with your cops. If I leave here now, I’ll be back with the sheriff and a search warrant and a truckload of deputies who’ll track mud all over your house.”
Lacey could barely stand one stranger nosing around, much less an army of cops. He gave me what passed for a smile.
“Would you like the guided tour?” he asked amiably, “or would you rather just wander to your heart’s content?”
“I’d like you and Chrissie Smith to show me around.”
“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “Sarah, would you please get Chrissie?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sarah left her boiling pot and hurried from the kitchen. I asked Lacey how many people lived here.
“People tend to come and go. Right now there are eight, not counting myself—five men and three women.” He gave me a look of mock servility. “Shall I line them up for your inspection?”
“Why not?”
His face reddened, and cords stood out on his neck.
“Careful,” I said. “Anger’s one of the seven deadly sins.”
Just then Sarah entered the kitchen with Chrissie Smith. Chrissie looked a bit like her mother. Her hair hung down her back in a long brown braid.
“I will oblige you, Mr. Lomax,” Lacey said, back in control of himself, “so that you may soon quit this place, never to return.” He turned to face the young women. “Please bring everyone to the kitchen. Mr. Lomax wants to check under their fingernails.”
The girls gave each other quizzical looks. Then Chrissie went back through the doorway. Sarah went outside. Lacey and I stood alone in silence for a few moments. One by one his followers came into the kitchen. They were all in their teens and twenties and dressed in plain, practical, patched clothing. Two of the five men looked fit enough to work on a ranch. The rest looked like city kids masquerading as settlers. None of the women wore makeup.
“What’s going on, Reverend John?” one of the men asked. He had a scraggly beard and a runny nose.
“Mr. Lomax has threatened to bring the police unless we let him search our home for Stephanie Bellano.”
There was a chorus of loud protest, which stopped at once when Lacey raised his hand.
“Chrissie, you and I will show him around. Then we’ll show him the way back to town. The rest of you please stay here.”
At this point I felt fairly certain that they were neither hiding Stephanie nor holding her against her will. Still, I was obliged to snoop. Professional ethics.
Lacey and Chrissie led me from the kitchen to the “social room.” There were a number of uncomfortable-looking chairs and benches. A wood-burning stove was wedged into the big stone fireplace.
My two guides showed me the separate sleeping quarters for the men and women. The bed frames looked handmade—crude but sturdy, sort of like summer camp. I looked in the closets. Few clothes, all neatly hung.
Lacey had his own room and his own bath. I looked under the bed. No dust bunnies.
They led me back to the kitchen. I realized I hadn’t seen a stereo, television set, radio, or telephone. I mentioned this to Lacey.
“We have plenty to do, Mr. Lomax, without being reminded of the sins of the world.”
When we got to the kitchen, we found most of Lacey’s flock sitting at the table drinking coffee from heavy mugs.
“Let’s get back to work,” Lacey told them. He started to lead me outside.
“Wait.” I nodded toward a closed door. “What’s that?”
“The canning cellar,” Lacey said.
He opened the door, flicked on a light, then led me down the creaky wooden stairs. The cellar was a single room, much smaller than the house above. Much cooler, too. The overhead bulb threw harsh light on the concrete floor and walls. Most of the wall space was taken up by shelves. These were loaded with mason jars of fruits and vegetables swimming in their own juices.
I followed Lacey back up the stairs and outside. Chrissie joined us.
“I’ll move my truck,” Lacey said, “and you—”
“First we check the other buildings.”
He hesitated, then gave me a slight bow. “As you wish.”
The three of us headed toward the chicken coop. I turned to Chrissie.
“Did you tell Stephanie about this place when you met her in Big Pine?”
She looked at me, then at Lacey. He nodded his permission.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you talk to her at all between then and the day she showed up here?”
“No.”
We checked the chicken coop. It was full of chickens. It stunk. Lacey closed the door and led me toward the greenhouse.
“When exactly did Stephanie arrive here?” I asked him.
<
br /> “Friday before last. It was fairly late at night. She’d walked up from the road, and she was cold and wet. We took her in, of course. A few of the women helped her out of her clothes and into a hot tub and then to bed.”
“Did you ask why she’d come?”
“I knew why she’d come. She was afraid, and she was seeking sanctuary. I gave it to her. She was safe here.”
“Who was she afraid of?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.
I looked at Chrissie. Her eyes were as wide and innocent as a doe’s.
“I don’t know, either,” she said.
The next morning I explained the rules to Stephanie,” Lacey told me. “No drugs, no alcohol, no sex. We work and we pray and we help each other, the way God intended. I told her she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. She stayed until last Tuesday.”
Lacey led me into the greenhouse. It was filled with plants and warm, humid air.
“Did you ever try to contact her parents?”
“No,” Lacey said. “Stephanie is a woman, not a child. That was her decision to make. And I certainly didn’t prevent her from contacting her parents. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
Lacey watched me search the barn. It was warm with a heavy animal smell. There was clean straw spread on the floor. The half-dozen stalls were neat and empty. I climbed the ladder to the loft. Nothing but bales of hay.
Lacey showed me to the other structures: garage, woodworking shop, storage sheds. As expected, there was no sign of Stephanie.
The only building left was the chapel.
There were two rows of high-backed wooden benches facing a raised pulpit. The ceiling was high, and so was Lacey’s optimism—there were enough seats for fifty people. The only window was behind the pulpit. It would allow Lacey to attack from out of the sun, like a Japanese fighter pilot.
I followed them outside. Chrissie went into the house. Lacey led me to my car.
“Did you know Chrissie had an abortion this summer in Big Pine?”
He paused. “Yes.” He pulled open the door to his pickup.
“Did you send her there?”
“No. I … I was against it.”
There was something in Lacey’s face that surprised me—pain. When he spoke, it was sadly.
“Chrissie told me she’d been treated by a doctor there a few years ago while on vacation. She trusted him. And she didn’t want her parents to know.”
“Why didn’t she want the baby?”
Lacey stared at the distant horizon, a sharp line of white and blue.
“She wanted to stay here, Mr. Lomax,” he said slowly. “And we do not yet have the resources to maintain nonworkers.
“You mean babies and pregnant women.”
“It was … Chrissie’s decision,” he said.
He climbed in his truck, started the engine, and backed out of my way. I turned the Olds around and drove to the gate. Lacey followed. He locked the gate behind me. I drove away, watching him in the rearview mirror. He stood motionless by the entrance to his church—a tall, strong, troubled man.
Then the road curved, and he vanished.
CHAPTER 18
I DROVE BACK TO Denver, which gave me five hours to think about Reverend Lacey’s story. There wasn’t that much to think about.
Thirteen days ago Stephanie had shown up at the Church of the Penitent, seeking safety. Two days ago she’d left. With a man, according to Lacey. Someone she’d phoned in Denver.
The possibilities were limited; there were few men in Stephanie’s life.
There’d been her father, of course, but he could no longer be reached by telephone. There were Father Carbone and Uncle Tony. But they certainly wouldn’t hide her from Angela. There was Ken Hausom. Had Stephanie decided she’d had enough of the hard life on the church-farm and was now ready to reunite with the father of her aborted child? Somehow I doubted that. And there were the four customers.
Something about them tugged at my mind.
I’d been assuming all along that Stephanie had fled the barbershop for fear of her life. What if there’d been another reason? Maybe she’d been involved in something that I had yet to discover, something concerning her father. What if she’d known there would be an attempt on his life? Or as MacArthur had hinted, what if she’d helped set him up?
That was hard to swallow. But it would explain a few things. She’d disappeared to establish an alibi. Sure, she’d been scared when she’d reached the church; she’d been afraid of arrest and prosecution. She’d waited there as long as she could stand it—no TV, no telephone, no way of knowing what was happening back in Denver. Finally, she’d risked a call to her man. He’d told her that the deed was done, that everything was okay, and that he was coming for her.
Possible. Not likely, though.
But I was running out of “likely”s.
It was late afternoon when I got home. The sky was dark and cloudy, and I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I bought a bucket of Kentucky Fried Colonel and walked it upstairs to my apartment. Then I opened a beer, munched a chicken part, and phoned Father Carbone.
He’d not heard from Stephanie.
I phoned Angela Bellano.
“I traced Stephanie to a religious commune near Wray,” I told her. I described my talk with Reverend Lacey and Chrissie Smith and my search of the farm.
“Could she be in Denver now?”
“It’s possible. Let’s keep a good thought.” Easy for you to say, Lomax.
“By the way,” she said, “two police detectives were here today. They searched Joe’s room again for his records. They asked if anyone had been there.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid I told them about you and your associate. I hope that wasn’t wrong. I didn’t know if I should lie or not.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Great. Police harassment was definitely in my near future. “I’ve got a few leads to check out. I’ll be in touch.”
I ate some more chicken and drank some more beer. The “few leads” I’d mentioned to Angela were mostly just one: Ken Hausom. I planned on catching up with him tonight at the Lion’s Lair. The problem was he wouldn’t be happy to see me. He might not want to talk. In fact, he might want to beat me severely about the head and face.
Maybe I could distract him with a beautiful woman.
I phoned Rachel Wynn. I told her I hadn’t yet found Stephanie but I was getting closer.
“I could use your help tonight,” I said.
“How?”
“I want to talk to Ken Hausom, but he’s very angry with me.
“So you want a bodyguard.”
“Exactly. What time should I pick you up?”
“Well … we’re eating dinner right now. Give me an hour.”
“We?”
“What? Oh. Pat and I.”
Oh, fine. “I suppose Pat will want to tag along.”
“Possibly.”
Rachel Wynn lived in Lafayette Circle in South Denver. The house was an old frame with new paint. It sat amid giant leafless elms. Their black fingers scratched at the overcast night sky.
Rachel answered the door with her coat on.
“Shall we go?” she said, not asking me in.
“Sure. Where’s Pat?”
“Pat was tired. She went home.”
She. Things were looking up.
On the way to the Lion’s Lair I told her about the Church of the Penitent and Reverend John Lacey. I explained how Stephanie had phoned a man in Denver, then waited for him to pick her up. I told her Ken Hausom was my choice for the “man.”
“You only have Lacey’s word that she called anyone.”
“I know.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t have much choice. I searched his place from top to bottom. There was no sign of Stephanie. The fact that he let me search at all just about told me she wasn’t there.”
“Maybe she was someplace where t
hey knew you wouldn’t find her.”
“Like where?” I said. “The hidden room behind the secret panel? We’re talking about a farmhouse here, not a medieval castle.”
“So get sarcastic.”
“I’ll work on it.”
It had been a week since I’d been to the Lion’s Lair. It had been crowded then, and it was crowded now. We found a pair of stools at the bar. The nearest dozen or so guys gave Rachel the eye. Some more blatantly than others. She didn’t seem to notice.
“What would you like?” I asked her above the crowd noise.
“Nothing with ice in it. I see a bar rag hanging out of the ice machine.”
I ordered two Miller Lites from Carl the bartender. I don’t think he recognized me until I asked him if Ken had come in yet.
“No.” He managed to look angry and worried at the same time.
We sipped our beers and watched the people. It was too loud for meaningful conversation.
“Dammit,” Rachel said.
“What?”
“See those two girls over there? The ones sitting with that big fat guy? They’re both students of mine, and they’re both under twenty-one.”
“Do you want to go talk to them?”
She grimaced. “I don’t want to make a scene. I’ll talk to them tomorrow. But it bothers me that they’re with an older man.”
I watched the two pretty young girls leaning over their drinks with smiles on their faces, listening to a seasoned hustler feed them a line. It was probably similar to the line he fed his customers at the appliance store.
“I can take care of that,” I said. “Save my seat.”
I squeezed between tables until I stood behind the man. The girls looked up at me.
“Your wife’s looking for you, Stan,” I said.
Fowler turned around so fast he almost fell out of his seat. His face was flushed with booze and embarrassment. Then anger.
“Lomax. What’re you doing here?”
“Your dear, sweet wife would probably want to know the same thing about you, Stan. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new girlfriends?”
The young ladies weren’t smiling anymore. “Excuse us,” they said in unison, rising. They took their drinks into the crowd.
Stan got up and grabbed his coat from the chair. He was leaving, his cover blown.
The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Page 13