“YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR destination,” the onboard navigator declared with authority.
“Liar,” Remy snarled, leaning forward in her seat to look at the locked gate preventing them from traveling the remaining half-mile or so to Big Stump.
“For a religious group they’re not too friendly,” Jonas said.
She pointed at a large Foreclosure Notice posted a few feet away. “Maybe they’re not the ones who put up the gate.”
They sat in brooding silence, the car purring quietly while they studied the thick jumble of skinny pines mixed with dense underbrush that blocked their view beyond a few feet to either side.
“Maybe they locked the gate on their way out,” Remy suggested, fumbling with her seat belt. Understandably, she seemed nervous and on edge.
Jonas understood. The trip to this remote hunk of land had been long periods of tense silence punctuated by a repeated argument that neither seemed willing to give on. She wanted to accompany him to confront Brother Thom. He wanted her to stay on the outside. For her own safety.
“You heard Leonard. Confronting this guy straight on would be suicide.”
“Based on your assumption that he’s a killer. Yes, I got that. And I could see how the man might react hostilely if you showed up dressed in a uniform. But I am his half sister looking for a little closure. It’s the perfect ploy to get inside, Jonas. Tell me why my plan doesn’t make more sense than yours, Rambo?”
“Because if Cheryl sees us together, all hell will break loose. And there’s no freaking way in the world that I’m letting you walk in there alone. None.”
The stalemate. The same impasse they’d reached a hundred miles back. He put the car in gear, intending to drive to the nearest town and drop her off at a coffee shop, but before he could put his foot on the pedal, Remy cried, “Wait. Someone’s coming.”
Jonas pulled the car ahead and lowered his window, prepared to ask for directions from the tall, broad-shouldered man who jumped out of the half-ton pickup and raced toward the gate. Jonas could tell the man looked upset. So did the woman in the passenger seat. She kept blowing her nose and turning to pat the head of the young boy in the seat behind her.
The man undid the padlock and gave the gate a forceful push to send it arcing across the road. He barely glanced their way before he jumped back into his vehicle.
“He must be one of the drivers Leonard mentioned.”
The loud diesel engine roared past them, hauling the fifth-wheel camper behind it like it wasn’t there.
“He sure left in a hurry,” Remy said. “Did he look upset to you?”
“Very. And he left the gate open.”
Jonas made an impulsive decision. In combat, when the situation changed, you adapted your mission to fit the circumstances. He put the car in Reverse. “Okay, we’re doing it your way. If Cheryl outs me, we—”
“We tell them the truth. That you hired me to help you find Birdie.”
The Cheryl he knew wouldn’t believe that for a minute, but he didn’t say so. Something in the GoodFriends’s dynamic had changed. He could smell it. The members who just left had “sinking-ship” written all over their faces.
He drove slowly, his mind racking up worst-case scenarios every inch of the way. “There’s an extra set of keys in the glove box. Take them. If something happens to me, I want you to promise you’ll get in the car and the get the hell out of here.”
Remy looked at him a full minute before doing as he asked. “I appreciate your caution. It’s part of your nature. But everything is going to work out better than you think.”
“Did you see that in your dream?”
“No.”
“Then, until we know otherwise, we are going to approach this guy with extreme caution. Got it?”
She made a huffing sound but, he noticed, she stowed his extra set of keys in her bag, right beside her phone. And, he’d already checked, they had reception here. He could call for reinforcements if he needed them.
A cloud of red dirt billowing behind them reminded him of the desert. At least, here, he didn’t have to worry about hidden explosives.
They’d left the windows open, allowing the scent of pine forest and swamp to fill the car. The lack of a breeze and dense humidity had him sweating before they rounded the first curve.
He glanced over his shoulder at Remy. Her white, eyelet blouse and aquamarine capripants gave her a modern Southern-belle look—right down to her platform sandals. She looked the part of a long-lost relative seeking answers to a family mystery. With luck, they’d get one foot solidly inside the door of the GoodFriends’s compound before all hell broke loose.
“We’re close,” he said softly. “People ahead.”
As they negotiated one final turn in the road, the tableau changed. A clearing that at one time might have held a dozen or more buildings but now held only two—an old store and a partly caved-in brick gas station sat juxtaposed to the covered train dock Remy had described.
Kitty-corner to the ramshackle, one-story wood-clad market sat the motor home Jonas recognized from Leonard’s intel—even without being able to see the wavy, New Age symbol on its side.
A few feet away—beneath a sprawling magnolia tree—was a white, portable canopy. The kind you saw at every flea market and outdoor event in the country. Two women—one carrying a baby in her arms and the other herding two toddlers froze and stared at them as Jonas parked near the gas station.
“Do you see Cheryl?” Remy whispered softly.
“No.”
Not a single red-haired child was in sight, either.
He got out. “Hello. Sorry to bother you. Is Brother Thom around?”
The younger of the two mothers—a petite brunette with a skittish look about her—pointed toward the main building. A second later, the women hustled the children toward the motor home and disappeared inside.
The mammoth vehicle was pointed outward with curtains pulled tight across the front windshield. Were his ex-wife and daughter inside? He knew it would do no good to pound on the door and demand an answer. The women would only feel threatened.
That left them no option but to approach Brother Thom, the man Jonas suspected of being a serial killer.
As if on cue, the man emerged from the doorway of the old store and stepped onto the crumbling concrete sidewalk. He was taller than Jonas had pictured. Six-two, at least. And thin. His scraggly beard, shoulder-length hair—lank, medium brown, worn parted down the middle and tucked behind his ears—gave him a sort of religious-icon look. Or, possibly, a cross between Jesus and Liam Neeson.
“It’s Sunday,” the man said, his voice loud enough to reach the rear pews of his nonexistent church. “Since when do bankers work on Sunday?”
The Foreclosure sign, Jonas thought.
“We’re not bankers,” Remy said, starting toward the building. “My name is Remy Bouchard. This is my friend, Jonas. I’m here on a personal matter, uh, Brother Thom.” She stumbled over the last and her cheeks blossomed with color.
The preacher cocked his head and looked at her. “Well, I hate to sound inhospitable, but now isn’t the best time. Our little fellowship is in the process of dismantling. I don’t see how as I could be of any help to anyone at the moment.”
He started to leave, but Remy rushed forward. Jonas made a grab for her arm but missed.
“Wait. Please. I have to know. Are you Thomas Goodson, Jr.?”
His eyes narrowed and he let out a small, harsh laugh. “There’s a name I haven’t heard for a while. If there’s a long-overdue bill attached to your question, then the answer is no. Otherwise…unfortunately, yes.”
She stopped a few feet from him, her arms clutching her purse like a shield. “In that case, I need to tell you I have reason to believe you’re my half brother.”
The man looked from her to Jonas, as if seeking a second opinion.
“I live Baylorville, Louisiana. It’s near New Or—”
“I know where it is.” Brother
Thom’s suspicious look didn’t lessen. “We lived there when I was a kid. Who did you say you are?”
“My last name is Bouchard. My mother, Marlene Bouchard, owned a beauty parlor in town. She put Unknown as the father on my birth certificate. And my sister’s,” she added. “I have a twin named Jessie.”
His face showed a reaction to that comment, but Jonas couldn’t interpret it. “What makes you think my daddy’s the one?”
“A friend of Mama’s—Jonas’s mother, actually—gave me his name. Mama passed away last year, so I don’t have any way to confirm this unless you’ll talk to me. It might not be true. Jonas’s mother has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I don’t want anything from you. Just the truth. Please. Can’t we talk?”
The man heaved a great sigh and looked upward, shaking his head. “You ridiculous old fool,” he muttered. “Look at the legacy you left me. No wonder God has abandoned me.”
Jonas heard the despair in the man’s voice and stepped closer to Remy. People who had nothing left to lose were often the most dangerous. Did that make him a serial killer? Jonas didn’t know, but his gut said the good brother was more than simply a washed-up preacher.
“Oh, fine,” Goodson said, shaking his head. “Come in. I’ll give you the answers you seek. But, believe me when I tell you God has a way of throwing a monkey wrench or two into the mix. You might wish your friend’s mother had never opened her mouth.”
He pivoted and marched inside. Remy started to follow, but Jonas stopped her. “Do you mind? I think I should go first. Does the name Jeffrey Dahmer ring any bells?”
“I don’t know why you’re so quick to believe the worst about a person, Jonas, but this man is not a killer,” she told him.
Jonas didn’t argue the point. Instead, he opened the rickety screen and cautiously led the way inside, his senses on high alert. He didn’t want to admit that the warning bells he’d expected to hear inside his head weren’t chiming in the least.
The old store, apparently, had been converted into a place of worship. Twenty or so folding chairs lined up before a long narrow table covered with a white linen cloth. The pulpit, Jonas assumed.
Several of the chairs were scattered about and open packing boxes took the place of parishioners. Brother Thom stood beside the table where a black leather-bound Bible rested, his shoulders slumped, hands loose by his sides.
“Where are all of your followers?” Jonas asked.
Goodson turned. He made a grand encompassing gesture. “What you see is what there is, such as it is. I await my promised grace, because you don’t get much more humble than this.”
Remy spoke. “We saw your website. It doesn’t say anything about this place.”
The man gave a half-smile. “This was going to be our permanent home. We were all tired of traveling. We reached a lot of people through our revivals, but the toll on the body can’t be ignored. When the chance to buy a whole town came up, the GoodFriends voted. We planned to launch a new website when we were further along. That didn’t happen. Building costs were exorbitant. We lost some of our funding…”
Because your intended victim ran away?
Jonas didn’t ask because Remy stepped closer to the man, dragging a chair with her. She waited until Brother Thom sat, then joined him. She looked at Jonas questioningly but he preferred to stay on his feet. He walked to stand behind her.
“Could you tell me a little about yourself, your family?
Jonas and I read your father’s obituary online, so I know he’s been dead a long time. Is your mother still alive?”
Thom shook his head. “She was ill when we lived in Baylorville. Passed on not long after we left Louisiana.
Liver cancer,” he said, flatly. “Never took a drop of alcohol in her life.”
“I’m so sorry. You were very young. Was it just you and your father?”
“Yes. I had a twin brother, James, who died in child birth. My mother wasn’t a warm person. Father claimed she never got over that loss.”
Jonas checked his watch, his ears listening for the sound of children. He knew this interview was important to Remy but he couldn’t lose sight of his mission while the two compared genealogies. “The women we saw when we came in…that’s all the followers you have left?”
“Sadly, my flock has scattered. The women you saw are waiting for my driver to return. They’ll go home to their families…reluctantly. It’s never easy to give up on your dreams.”
The word jolted Jonas. He looked at Remy, who seemed to read his impatience. “Thom, in addition to looking for information on Thomas Goodson, we’re here for another reason, too. Jonas believes his ex-wife and daughter are members of your—”
“Cult,” Jonas said bluntly.
“Church,” Remy corrected with a glare.
Brother Thom looked between them. “Cult. Don’t worry, Remy, I’ve heard that misnomer before. The people who joined the GoodFriends did so of their own accord. They have always been free to come and go as they wished. Some, like the three mothers you saw outside, have nowhere else to go. Banding together for a joint purpose does not make us a cult.”
Before Jonas could debate the point, Remy interrupted. “Three? There were only two women outside. Jonas’s ex-wife and daughter were not present.”
“What are their names?”
“Cheryl and Brigitte Galloway.”
Brother Thom’s face changed. At first, Jonas thought he saw fear, but then the man started to laugh, making it impossible to tell whether or not he was faking his reaction. “Crazy Cheryl is your ex? That’s…rich. Maybe God is listening to my prayers.” He seemed to take note of Jonas’s body language because he quickly added, “I’m sorry. Forgive me. That was terribly rude. It’s been a hellacious week, but, still, that’s no excuse, is it?
“The fact is I have been praying about this problem for weeks. Cheryl stopped taking her meds, insisting, instead, that I cure her. With my powers,” he added, wiggling his fingers as if to prove the digits were simply ordinary fingers. “We’ve all tried to reach her, but none of us is clinically trained to handle this sort of mental-health issue. Surely you know what I’m talking about.”
Jonas knew exactly what the man was saying, but he wasn’t going to admit to it until he saw Cheryl and made certain she and Birdie were safe. “Where are they?”
“I have no idea. Things have been a little hectic around here. My most trusted friend and right-hand man told me this morning he was leaving…and taking the woman I believed was my soul mate with him.” His admission sounded hollow with pain.
Jonas and Remy looked at each other. The truck and fifth-wheel they’d watch leave, Jonas assumed.
“Cheryl was here for that, I think.” His brow wrinkled. “But, quite honestly, I don’t remember seeing your daughter. She’s pretty hard to miss with her bright-colored hair.”
“Could your driver have taken her?”
“You mean, Ziggy? No. I sent him after supplies.”
“And he’s not back yet?”
Thom looked resigned. “He’s an ex-tweaker. Drugs are a powerful demon. Zig does the best he can. He’ll be back. He knows he has a home here. But he definitely didn’t take Birdie.” He reached for a small, cheap phone and fiddled with it a moment. “I’ll show you how I know. This is a picture I took last night around the fire. It’s time-stamped.”
Jonas checked out the image and passed it to Remy. His daughter was sitting on Cheryl’s lap, front and center. Everyone smiled for the camera but Birdie. “She doesn’t look happy.”
“No. She hates it here. Always has. She looks at me as though I’m the Antichrist.” His gaze shifted from Remy to Jonas. “Sort of the way you’re looking at me now. Is there something else you think I’ve done?”
“Try murder.”
The man’s eyes opened wide. “Murder? Me? You may well be as delusional as your ex-wife.”
Jonas started to move past Remy’s chair but she stopped him. “Jonas works for an insurance company,
Thom. According to his files, you’ve been the recipient of several life-insurance policies.”
“Six,” Jonas volunteered.
“Oh,” Thom said, sitting back in his chair. He held up one hand to count, his lips murmuring a name for each finger. “You’re right. The GoodFriends have lost six of our brethren. By God’s design, of course. Not mine.”
A flat denial didn’t prove anything to Jonas. He planned to dig deeper into the man’s file once he was safely home with Birdie. He was about to say so when the man looked at Remy, his head cocked thoughtfully.
“You’re a very brave young woman. You came here to meet me regardless of the fact that your friend thinks I’m some kind of serial killer. I’m impressed. But I hope you’ll believe me, Remy, when I tell you that five of the souls who passed on to God’s great beyond were beloved elders of our congregation.
“Catherine was eighty-six. She went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up in the morning. Judd was a veteran of the Second World War. He’d lived with a piece of shrapnel lodged in his spine for nearly sixty years. His release came as a gift. Do you want the other names?”
“You said five,” Jonas answered. “What about the sixth?”
Brother Thom reached for his Bible. “Tommy.” He rubbed the binding of the book against his cheek, his gaze unfocused. “You’re right, Jonas. I killed him. How did you guess? I paid one of my followers to say he was at fault. I convinced myself that was in the best interest of the GoodFriends.” He looked at Jonas, his anguish clearly visible. “I endorsed the check your company issued over to Tommy’s mother immediately. She still ran away, got high, stole a car and told the police that I was running a cult that preyed on women and children. I spent half our building fund defending my so-called reputation. But, after a while, I decided why bother? Nothing—not even prayer—has lessened the guilt I feel from backing over my own son.”
Jonas knew the man was telling the truth. The hollow emptiness in his voice was matched by the look of pure agony in his eyes.
“Is that why you don’t drive?” Remy asked.
A Father's Quest Page 16