Valley of Shadows

by Steven Cooper

  “OK,” Gus says. “OK. Maybe we should change the subject.”

  Kelly releases him with a tap on the shoulder. “That’s my boy. Go on tell us about this reporter who has you so ensnared . . .”

  “Oh come on. Please don’t,” Alex begs.

  “I don’t know why you’re always so hostile toward the media,” Gus tells him. “Your job is not much more popular than theirs. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “I know. But a lot of them like to pretend they’re detectives. It just gets under my skin.”

  “But she’s not looking for information from you,” Gus says. “I think she’s looking to give you information.”

  “What kind of information?” Alex asks.

  “I guess she has sources who are telling her stuff about your victim. They might know something about who murdered her or why she was murdered.”

  “She said that? Your reporter friend?”

  “In so many words she said that. And she’s not my friend. She’s a client.”

  “Right,” Alex says. “A client. I’ll accept any and all leads,” he says with a smile.

  “So I can give her your number?”

  Alex is attacking his plate now, gobbling up the food like it’s the last carcass on earth. In midchew he says, “Yuh, sure,” without looking up, without slowing down.

  While Alex plunders the table, Gus turns to Kelly and says, “You look cold.”

  “In this weather? With my hormones? I’m sweating.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I sensed a chill in you. Or a chilly draft inside you.” Gus’s signals are getting crossed. He can tell. Vibes everywhere. The room expands. He hears a siren. Then an ambulance comes wailing down the street, its whirling lights reflecting in the restaurant window. Rings of blue and red spin around the room. “No, I’m good,” Kelly says. “How are things with Billie?”

  “Fine,” he says, swallowing another bite of dinner. “Just saw her on the way back to Phoenix. She’s working on a new album. Or what she thinks will become an album. The music industry has changed so much.”

  “I bet.”

  “But she’s a prolific writer, you know. I don’t think retirement is even a possibility for her.”

  “And the long-distance thing?” Kelly asks. “That’s working okay?” He shrugs. “I guess. It’s not ideal. But it works for us right now.” And then he shakes his head because the truth is he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know when he’s going to know. And as long as he can stay distracted, then, maybe this thing will figure itself out. To that end, he’s thinking about taking up knitting, or BASE jumping. He scoops up another forkful of the enchilada verde and right then, right as he takes a bite, he feels the G-force of a jumbo jet going down. The bottom is falling out. The plane tilts, it’s almost vertical, descending now at hysterical speed. He’s spinning. Nobody can see him. And he can see no one as he fully disappears into the darkness of a heavy sea.

  14

  The weekend flew by, as weekends do when you most need them to idle. They did finally make good on Kelly’s promise to have constant, crazy sex, a delayed gratification because Kelly had not been up to the activity after trial proceedings all week, as it turns out. And as it turns out the sex was not exactly crazy; it was a bit frantic, but not crazy. It was good, but Kelly was apologetic. “I’m sorry if I’m not that into it,” she said. And his dick immediately took it personally. It had to be him, he was certain of it. His dick has a fragile ego. They were athletic in their lovemaking but not Olympians. She tired out quickly. She seemed pleased, but not devastated by her orgasm. They kissed for quite a while afterward. Which made up for everything. Because when Mills kisses his wife, really kisses her, he’s thankful for his entire life. It’s like a drug. It’s the best high in the world.

  They made pancakes.

  And then the weekend was over.

  Detective Ken Preston comes in Monday morning sporting a face wide with satisfaction. Kind of like the face of somebody who’d spent the weekend, euphemistically, as an Olympian. But no, Preston spent the weekend researching the Church of Angels Rising.

  “They try to quash all press,” Preston says, taking a seat in Mills’s office. “But the few stories that get out are not flattering.”

  “So, are the rumors true? Is it a cult?”

  Preston takes a sip of coffee, tilts his head back and forth, and says, “Seems to be. The experts on cults think so. Time magazine did an article on the church about five years ago. You should read it. Makes the church look like a corporate cult.”

  “A corporate cult?”

  “They have a bizarre fee structure for membership. They intimidate people into giving more and more money after they join. It’s major intimidation, sometimes physical, if the accounts in the article are to be believed. And they have crazy policies regarding people who leave the church.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, we’ve already heard they force families to erase any loved ones who leave the church. They can have no contact whatsoever. In essence, the person who leaves is no longer related. They’re not just banished, it’s like they never existed.”

  “Jesus . . . that’s fucked up,” Mills says, bringing a coffee cup to his mouth.

  “Speaking of Jesus, the church has been sued twice by the federal government over its tax-exempt status. The government says the Church of Angels is not a true religion.”

  “Hmm. That’s kind of dicey. Who’s to say what a true religion is?”

  “When it comes to taxes, the government.”

  Mills supposes he’s right.

  “I’ll send you the articles,” Preston tells him. “I’m not sure how relevant they are to the case, but since Viveca left all that money to the church, I thought it was appropriate to take a look.”

  Mills gives an emphatic nod and says, “Absolutely. Thanks for this, Ken.”

  “Did somebody say money?”

  It’s a jaunty Morton Myers standing in the doorway. He’s all nervous energy and smiles, as if he’s ingested more caffeine than Preston and Mills combined.

  “Yes, Morty,” Mills replies. “We were just talking about Viveca Canning’s church.”

  “Well, would you like to know a little more about Viveca Canning’s money?”

  Mills gives him a smile, waves him in. “Pull up a chair, Detective. And spill it!”

  In spilling it, Myers describes how Viveca Canning had withdrawn a huge sum of money from some of her accounts and transferred it to a real estate holding company in French Polynesia. “I did a Google search for the company,” he says. “It’s in the middle of nowhere. But it looks like paradise.”

  “French Polynesia,” Preston says. “I wonder why. Could the church have property there?”

  “How much money?” Mills asks.

  “Almost three million dollars.”

  “That’s a drop in the bucket,” Mills says, “if you consider the value of her entire estate.”

  “True,” Preston says. “But who has three million dollars in a bank account?”

  Myers pulls his chair closer. “She withdrew money from a few different accounts to come up with that amount. And it looks like she took most of it from some kind of trust.”

  “OK,” Mills says, “let’s not get too much into the weeds with this. Morty, I want you to dig a little deeper into the real estate company, but I also need you to stay on top of every, and I mean every, other detail forensics pulls from her computers. You need to go through every file, and if you need help, I’ll get you help. I’m very curious about that church. Anything on those computers about the church or church business needs to be flagged.”

  “Got it,” Myers says with a bounce from his chair. “We’ll talk later.”

  As he exits, Preston turns back to Mills and says, “Our little boy is growing up.”

  “He’s pushing forty. ’Bout time.”

  Mills’s computer dings three times, a perfect two-second
interval between each ding.

  “It’s me,” Preston says. “Just sent you the articles from my phone. Enjoy! I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Mills gives him a wave, but doesn’t look up. He opens the first file.

  I DIDN’T LEAVE THE CHURCH, I ESCAPED

  A College Student Tells All about the

  Church of Angels Rising

  Celia Drake

  Metro Correspondent

  Twenty-year-old Jeremy Withers, dressed in baggy jeans and a Lakers sweatshirt, looks like any other college student making his way across the UCLA campus. To hear Jeremy tell it, however, his story is far from typical for a college senior.

  “I can’t believe I made it this far,” he said on a sunny morning outside the Student Union. “I went from third grade into a cult. I never saw a real schoolteacher again. And then at sixteen, I realized what was happening. I risked my life and escaped.”

  Jeremy is one of very few people who’ve left the controversial Church of Angels Rising to come forward and share his story publicly. It’s a story filled with terrifying allegations of abuse and intimidation, of power run amok, of a church leadership that worships money, and, perhaps most disturbing, of people who disappear.

  “This is a business for the Norwood family,” Withers alleged. “It’s not a church. Gleason Norwood thinks of himself as a ruthless CEO. And he acts like one. Instead of layoffs, there are places people are sent to for remediation.”

  While the LA Monitor has not been able to corroborate Withers’s allegations, the college student spoke about a work camp in Sedona, Arizona for children who are raised in the church where corporal punishment is a daily activity. He said the so-called camp was also a place where the church would send undesirables.

  “Anybody who threatened the church in any way, in speech, in writing, or behavior would be sent to Sedona,” Withers said. “And you might think Sedona is a beautiful place to be imprisoned, but the undesirables hardly ever see the light of day. Some of them just simply disappear. Nobody knows where they end up.”

  The camp, according to Withers, served as a home for up to 100 children at a time and a detention center for up to 50 adults.

  A spokesperson for the Arizona Department of Family and Children would not comment for this story, declining to say whether it has ever investigated accusations of abuse against the so-called camp in Sedona . . .

  His phone rings, startling him for a second.

  It’s Gus Parker. “Hey man, I’m ready.”

  “Oh, right, yes . . .”

  “Is this a bad time?” the psychic asks.

  His eyes still fixed on the screen, he hesitates a moment, then says, “No. No, I’m good. You ready?”

  “Just said I was. I’m on my way. See you there.”

  Mills hangs up. He says, “See you there” to the empty room in front of him. He’s in somewhat of a trance, thinking but not thinking, seeing but not seeing, a detective’s miasma of suspicion and doubt. Then he downloads the article and logs off the computer.

  The weather guy on KPHO said the thermometer would hit 117 degrees today. He would not be made a liar. Gus can feel the city simmer all around him; coils of heat rise from the pavement, and waves of it broil in the distance like apparitions. Somewhere someone is frying an egg on the sidewalk just because. There has to be someplace cooler to escape to. Like the Sahara. But last he heard flights are delayed at Sky Harbor because the temperature has reached the point where it’s too hot for planes to safely take off. It’s days like today, dusty and brown, when Gus remembers how barren the desert is. The mountains lose their reddish hue to a jaundiced version of themselves. Gone are the hikers. Hiking would be suicide.

  He arrives before Alex. The guards at Copper Palace won’t let him in. “You’ll have to wait for the detective,” one of them says, pointing to a small parking area. “Just pull in there.”

  Gus complies and glides into a space that sits just below a mesquite tree, which affords slices of shade. He studies the entrance to the enclave of mansions and wonders how people can live like this. It’s all too much with the constant indulgences and the constant pressure to keep up. There’s no Zen whatsoever for the people here (he gets a potent vibe about this right now), save for the spa visits and the yoga studios and the meditation classes that don’t count if you don’t strip your soul. You have to strip your soul. These people don’t strip their souls for anything but their profit margins and their Maseratis. He’s intimately aware of wealth because of Billie. How could he not be? She immerses him in luxury. Her rock ’n’ roll stardom has been paved in gold. But there’s a difference. She’s an artist. She’s a songwriter. She’s in the music industry (and he’s come to know this about the core of her being) because of the music, not because of the money. She’s tried to explain it to him so many different ways, but he’s told her no explanation is needed. He gets it. She’s stripping her soul for her muse and nothing else. She doesn’t live like these people. She doesn’t care what the neighbors think. She doesn’t care about the external stuff. She lives in a mansion, but her mansion is not her home; it’s her house. Her music is her home.

  A rap at the window, and a strong one at that.

  “Hey, Gus! Follow me in.”

  It’s Alex. Gus gives him a nod and waits for the gate to open.

  On the way to the front door, Alex grabs Gus by the elbow and says, “Any vibe whatsoever, speak up. No vibe is too small.”

  “So, in other words, you have no leads at all.”

  Alex play punches him in the arm. “That’s not what I said.”

  “Sorry. That was my gut, not my vibe,” Gus says.

  “Whatever it was, forget it. We have some leads, but they’re preliminary.”

  They enter and Alex leads him to a room.

  “Don’t say a word. Don’t influence me.”

  “I know how it works, buddy,” Alex says. “So, just stand here for a minute. See what you can gather. Don’t touch anything.”

  Alex drifts into a hallway. Gus admires the room. It’s a library, one of those stately ones with the leather-bound books and floor-to-ceiling shelving. There’s even a ladder that hangs from the top shelves and glides the length of the room. Gus wonders if the woman of the house ever used this library, ever sat in here ensconced in the hearty leather furniture, the fireplace raging, and read a book. Or whether this was just another trapping of wealth on the Copper Palace Parade of Homes. His eyes are drawn to a small writing desk in the corner. He inspects it more closely, gazing over the top. Under a sheet of glass, one of those gilded old-world maps covers the entire desk. He navigates there and finds only the pretense of a wealthy family, nothing of merit in their conceit of globetrotting. Likely, the gold is nothing more than ink. And yet, he’s pulled back, beckoned, summoned to the Pacific Ocean on the map. He stares at the wide expanse of sea, depicted here with artistic ripples, with lines suggesting longitude and latitude, and with renditions of medieval ships exploring. His eyes bore in and slip beyond the creamy parchment, underneath where the sea is swelling, and it’s night, a purple night, and the moon is but a sliver and the stars have turned their backs, and the only light, the only steady light is the one that looks, at first, like a shooting star, the way it seems to soar across the sky and then plummet to the horizon. It’s a bright light coming at him, at a seventy-five degree angle, rushing at him, really, growing larger and larger and more determined in its path, like the moon’s been pushed from its axis, a plunging moon; then Gus can see the wings, and the tail, falling so fast, so instantly fast, it’s over in seconds. The jet enters the water and disappears without making a sound.

  “Jesus,” Gus mutters.

  “What is it?” Alex is back. “See anything?”

  “I’ve been having a reoccurring vision. But it started before I knew anything about this case, so, no, I don’t think I have anything relevant yet.”

  “Come with me.”

  Alex leads him down the hallway and around
the corner to a living room area, or some kind of sitting room. Alex tells him to stand at the perimeter. “I can’t let you in the room, so just hang back and see what you get. The victim’s body was found here.”

  “By whom?” Gus asks.

  “By the maid.”

  “It’s always the maid,” Gus says with a laugh.

  Nothing from Alex.

  “No crime scene humor today?” Gus asks him.

  The man just winces and says, “Sorry. I’m just really distracted. The usual pressure and everything.”

  “Don’t worry, Alex. You guys will be fine.”

  Alex looks at him curiously. “What is that supposed to mean?” “I’m not sure myself. I just said it because it came to me.”

  “Out of nowhere?”

  “Out of nowhere.”

  The vibe in here is prickly, if not downright hostile. Gus doesn’t understand so he tries to psychically disassociate. He watches Alex turn away to another side of the house. Then Gus turns back to the room. Despite the furniture and despite the paintings on the walls, the room is emptier than empty. It’s emptier than death. There is nothing here but an echo of life, and even the echo is fading into the woodwork. And yet he feels her. He feels the stirring of Viveca Canning. Gus closes his eyes and he can see the victim’s face, her charitable smile, and her coral-colored lipstick. She wears eyeliner, too, or mascara— he’s never sure which is which—but there’s also color around her eyes, a kind of frosty green. Eye shadow. His eyes remain closed, but his feet begin to move. His steps are tentative as he follows the presence of Viveca Canning. He doesn’t see ghosts, doesn’t talk to dead people, but he never intuits more deeply than when his footsteps intersect with the path of a spirit. It just happens. She may only be present in a vision, but because she occupied this room in life and in death, she’s here. And so he follows her, his arm outstretched like a blind person, just in case. She’s wearing chiffon. They must be at a party. A big festive gathering. A blur of celebrants fills the room. The music swings and the crowd begins to dance, their laughter soaring to the ceilings. But she stops now, not quite at the precipice of the party. She stares at a wall. Ignoring the clamor around her, she stands there dutifully and stares. She clenches her fists, her white-gloved fists, in front of her. Her whole body trembles, supplicating as it is to something holy before her eyes. She turns to Gus, points to the wall, and waits for Gus to acknowledge the masterpiece. Before he can, she’s gone. He sees her rush to her husband’s side, knocking a drink from the man’s hand, the glass shattering on the floor. The shards go flying, like bullets, and there’s blood everywhere. People gasp, the music stops, everything is quiet except the trickle of death.