She had a key, but hardly ever used it. She dug deep into her purse to retrieve it. The door unlocked with a loud click, and Emma stepped inside.
“Mom? It’s Emma. Did you forget we’re going to lunch? Mom!” Her words reverberated inside the house. Emma walked toward the back of the house to Ruth’s bedroom. She caught a glimpse of her mother’s makeup on the bathroom counter. She surmised her mother was in the process of getting ready and simply didn’t hear her.
“Mom! It’s Emma. Where are you?”
Emma moved into the bedroom, her level of anxiety increasing. The bed was made, Ruth’s clothes laid out. Then she viewed feet sticking out along the other side of the bed and rushed to her mother’s side.
Crumbled on the floor and still in her bathrobe, Ruth stared blankly at her daughter.
“My God, what happened to you?” Emma knelt beside her mom, but only incoherent words came from Ruth’s mouth.
“Jesus!” Emma grabbed the phone off the nightstand, calling 911. “It’s my elderly mother. She’s fallen or something. I don’t know what’s happened! She needs help. Please hurry!”
The dispatcher calmly verified Ruth’s address and stayed on the line with Emma.
“They’re on the way, ma’am. I need you to listen to me.”
Emma sputtered. “Uh—of course! She’s my mother! Should I move her?”
“No, no. I need you to take her pulse. Do you have a watch with a second hand?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
“Put your middle and index fingers on the inside of her wrist, below her thumb. You should feel her pulse.”
Emma cradled the receiver under her chin. “Yes, I feel it.”
“Count your mother’s pulse for sixty seconds,” the dispatcher instructed. “A normal pulse should be from sixty to a hundred beats per minute.”
The beats seemed very fast. Emma had difficulty keeping up. At the end of a minute, she told the dispatcher, “Very fast—two forty.”
“I’ll alert the paramedics. Is the door locked or can the EMTs walk right in?” the dispatcher inquired.
Emma felt as though her next breath was out of reach. “The door’s unlocked. They can come on in.”
“What are her symptoms?”
Emma looked closely at her mother and exhaled loudly into the phone. “She was talking gibberish, and there’s liquid coming out of her mouth. The left side of her face is drooping.”
“When the EMTs get there, you need to get all of her medications and bring them to the hospital. Can you do that?”
She kept tripping over her words. “S-Sure, I can do that.” Emma scribbled that note on a piece of paper on her mother’s nightstand. She held Ruth’s hand. “I’m here, Mom. It’s me, Emma.”
The sound of wailing sirens in the driveway announced the arrival of the EMTs. Emma stepped aside as her mother was moved to a stretcher. When they asked Emma what had happened, she explained her mother’s speech was garbled and her face drooping. Oxygen and an IV were started.
Jim was the senior EMT, a middle-aged man with a mustache. He questioned Emma about her mother’s medications and medical history.
Emma was relieved that she knew the answers but had plenty of questions for them. “Mom turned eighty in March; and other than the usual signs of getting older, she’s healthy as a horse. Walks every day, plays bridge at the senior center twice a week, and loves to work in her garden. What’s happened to her?”
“Our preliminary observation is that your mother suffered a stroke. We’re taking her to St. Joe’s.”
The day had started like any other ordinary Monday, but this sultry summer afternoon had turned into anything but unremarkable. “Can I come along in the ambulance?”
“No,” Jim said, politely, but firmly. “Your mother’s vitals have to be monitored, and a lot could change in route. Meet us at the hospital. Bring all of her medications.”
The three paramedics brought the stretcher up as a pale and confused Ruth stared at the emergency equipment and people she didn’t recognize. Emma watched them load her mother into the ambulance, departing with emergency lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Emma stood motionless in the driveway, oblivious to the neighbors gawking and whispering among themselves as the ambulance pulled away.
51
SATURDAY, JULY 19, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI LINDA’S CONDOMINIUM
Linda turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. Malachi had left a message earlier that he would meet at her condo. He’d let himself in and was waiting in the living room.
She dropped her purse on the floor. “Hi. This must be important for you to want to meet in person.”
He removed wrap-around sunglasses, and she noticed his eyes were dull, not lively as they normally were. He also carried a large courier’s pouch. “I’ve got news, both good and bad.” He set the glasses and baseball cap on the coffee table and opened the pouch.
Linda shrugged out of her coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her mind immediately focused on the word “bad.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Malachi placed sheets of numbers and photos into neat stacks on the table. “I’m good. I’ll dive right into the serious stuff.” The muscles tensed into a frown on his face.
Linda crossed the room and seated herself next to Malachi on the cream sofa. “What’s happened?”
Malachi rubbed his bearded chin, brown eyes intense. “Susannah’s DNA was apparently contaminated in the lab. It matched another individual whose DNA was being tested at the same time.” He exhaled in irritation. “The crime lab has a huge backlog, and not to make excuses, but that may have contributed to sloppy procedures. We’re going to need to get her DNA again.”
Linda slumped against the cushions, not believing what Malachi was telling her. “Get her DNA again? That makes me very uncomfortable.”
He sat forward. “I am truly sorry about this. Use the excuse that you’ve decided you want to choose your window after all. Meet in a public place, preferably a restaurant. We’ll cause a distraction to obtain her DNA.”
Concoct another lie. Linda raised her hands. “I’ll call her tonight and ask to meet again for lunch. Telling her I’ve changed my mind may raise her suspicions.”
“You’re gonna have to trust me on this.” He tapped the sunglasses against the table. “Here’s what I’ve discovered.”
Linda looked at the documents Malachi had spread over the coffee table. He selected a typed page, his mouth curling into a knowing smirk. “I contacted American Stained Glass and spoke with the president, Steve Jacobson. The windows featured here are custom, and they cost from fifty to a hundred grand a piece. However, they’ve never heard of The Road to Calvary.”
Linda’s forehead wrinkled. “I can’t fathom Susannah pulling these figures from thin air. Not everyone in this church can be blind fools; somebody is going to want additional information.”
“I hope not,” Malachi admitted. He flicked pages, finding a piece of yellow legal paper with detailed notes. “Steve recalled he received a call three months ago, from a woman named Lorraine McArthur. She was interested in a prototype, and Jacobson had the sales team build one, paid for with a cashier’s check. They haven’t heard from her since.”
“Who is Lorraine McArthur?”
“I knew I recognized the name but couldn’t remember from where. I went back over my notes. Jeff told me Lorraine was the name of Ray’s deceased wife. Recalling that, I did some research and discovered McArthur was her maiden name.”
Linda’s head dropped into her hands. “That explains why there’s a prototype. With a sample to touch and see, it closes the deal. If I were gullible and desperate to believe, it would have sold me. Susannah showed it the night they were here.”
“Another thought,” Malachi said, his fingers tapping the table. “We have no idea how many of these she’s selling. Your idea that Susannah could take orders for more than twelve and disappear before this chu
rch is ever built has merit.”
Linda hated when her mind darted around from one dark possibility to an even bleaker thought. “I believe this scam has turned into the biggest score of her life, a possibility she perhaps hadn’t foreseen. Like many criminals who haven’t been caught, she’s grown overly confident. That would explain why appearing on TV, even with her changing appearance, isn’t an issue for her.” She reined in her thoughts, focusing on the windows. “Hypothetically, let’s say she takes money for twelve windows. That’s six hundred thousand in donations she’s overseeing. We have no idea how much money she has; but when she does, Susannah fades into the wind.”
Malachi reached for his notes. “Ray has had financial success, too. Jeff told me that after he lost his wife, Ray left the ministry and went to work for a large corporation.” Malachi shuffled papers, removing a national financial publication. “In the mid-1990s, Ray was a handsomely paid ethics consultant for a Fortune 500 corporation. This magazine wrote an extensive profile about him. I contacted some of his former coworkers. All said he was a great guy, hard worker, et cetera. I called in some favors to access his financials; in a five-year period, Ray Williams made over two and a half million.”
Her thoughts were overlapping, one half-finished on top of another one forming. Mentally, Linda forced herself to slow down. “How much is Ray worth?”
Malachi sat forward on the couch and found a page. “Currently, he has over a half-million in the bank, and no mortgage or loans. There’s a stock portfolio worth close to a million.”
She could almost feel the color drain from her face. “And now that he and Susannah are husband and wife, she likely has access.”
Malachi stretched muscular arms over his head. “I fear that Ray may be her next victim. They probably have joint accounts; and if he’s dead, it’s simpler for her to take possession. Then add on all the money she’s keeping from the window sales—which could be all of it—and she’s gone. It’ll be somewhere we can’t find her or have jurisdiction.” His knuckles cracked.
“Some foreign country,” Linda said forlornly. “I’ll call her tonight.”
Malachi stood his tall frame, replacing the baseball cap and sunglasses. “As soon as you’ve set up a date, call me. I’ll explain the plan in detail. I’ll leave this information here for your review. I agree with you; Susannah is planning to leave soon.”
Linda walked him into the foyer. He opened the door slowly, surveying the hallway. Without a word, he slipped into the stairwell.
She closed the door behind him, feeling the rapid beat of her heart and quickened breathing. How could this have happened?
52
TUESDAY, JULY 22, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI DOWNTOWN RESTAURANT
Numerous what-ifs ran through Linda’s mind as she asked Susannah to review the prototype. The stress of having to covertly gain her DNA once again and the tightening schedule was keeping her awake at night. Luck had sided with them once, but twice?
“Everything set?” Linda asked casually, entering a restaurant close to the studio.
Malachi’s voice entered her head. “Yep. Phil is already there, sitting at a table toward the back, reading the St. Louis Dispatch. He’s carrying a leather shoulder bag. Just follow the plan.”
This was really happening, no going back. They were either successful, or they weren’t, and then what? Her palms were sweating, and she casually wiped them along the pleats in her skirt.
Linda pleaded with herself. Please, please, do not fail at this. She twisted the watchband on her wrist, observing Susannah on her way up the street, prototype tucked under her arm. “She’s here.” She waited until Susannah reached the entrance and held the door open. “Hello. I so appreciate your flexibility at my indecision.”
Susannah smiled. “Not a problem. Most individuals couldn’t give this much. We understand you want to spend it wisely.”
Eyes darting around the room, Linda found Phil seated in a booth.
Susannah requested a table nowhere near him. “A table in the middle,” she told the hostess.
Oh, for the love of God. “Susannah, would you mind if we took a booth instead? That one by the window will give us plenty of light and room to spread out.” Linda kept her tone amiable.
Susannah spied the booth, being cleared of dishes. “Sure, if it’s clean.”
“It will be a couple of minutes,” the hostess said.
They chatted while they waited, but to Linda, it was just noise. When the hostess brought the women to their seats, Linda made certain that Susannah’s back was toward Phil. He would pass by the women when he left the restaurant as discussed. Linda felt a surge of energy.
Susannah pointed to the prototype. “Do you want to eat first or get right down to business?”
Despite experience as a cop in varied positions, Linda could feel the tremors of her rapid heartbeat. Impatient to move into the action phase, she wanted this charade over with. “Let’s get business taken care of and then enjoy a leisurely lunch.”
Susannah approved. She spread the accompanying brochure. “These are all exceptional windows, and, as I mentioned, three couples have chosen specific scenes. You have nine options.”
She removed the prototype window from the pouch, holding the glass with both hands. Linda realized it depicted Christ’s baptism. Feigning passionate interest, Linda listened to Susannah’s well-rehearsed spiel on celebrating the glory of God.
“After you called, I got to thinking about which of these scenes might have meaning for you personally, and it occurred to me that our Lord’s baptism might be the most meaningful. I didn’t think of that when I initially showed you this.”
Abhorrence was Linda’s gut response. There was sad mockery in the notion that this woman of endless schemes of deception and betrayal, all leading to nefarious secrets, was speaking to her about the ultimate act of forgiveness. Linda suppressed her fury and queried Susannah. “Why do you feel this represents me?”
Susannah reached across the table, grasping Linda’s forearm, her small fingers too tight around her arm. “First, we’re all sinners. When I thought of Christ’s baptism, I think it also signifies new beginnings. That’s what I believe you are doing by moving to St. Louis after your divorce, finding us as a faith community, making a new life—just as baptism symbolizes.”
Tremors ran the length of her body. Linda forced a smile that showed she understood. Her lie sounded natural and heartfelt. “That makes sense, and you put it so elegantly. Your suggestions are very important to me.”
Susannah spoke in honeyed tones, pulling Linda into her confidence. “It’s the right choice. Since meeting you, I’ve watched you blossom into your own person. I’ve seen how destructive divorce can be, and I’m happy you’re making a life for yourself.”
“I appreciate that,” Linda continued to lie, wishing this was behind her. “Ready to order some lunch?”
Susannah returned the glass prototype to the pouch, propping it next to her.
The waitress brought menus and water. Linda felt the tightness of her insides tied in knots. Casually, she glanced in Phil’s direction and noted he nonchalantly continued to read his paper. Waiting for him to move was nerve-racking, and Linda took the table’s edge to steady her hands.
Their food arrived, and she endeavored to stop thinking of the coming event. Susannah chattered on about her garden. She talked of distinctive flora and shrubberies making the parcel her sanctuary. Her mention of castor oil plants caught Linda’s notice. “Aren’t those poisonous if ingested?” Linda asked.
Susannah wiped her lips. “Only if they’re ground into powder. But who does that? In most gardens, they’re lovely ornamental plants. Because they grow so tall, they give a garden a nice balance.”
Over her shoulder, Linda saw Phil rise from his seat.
“I should have you over to see the garden in full bloom,” Susannah continued.
Phil strode past, bumping their table hard, and glasses fell, spilling water all over Sus
annah.
“Ma’am, I am so sorry,” he apologized, grabbing a napkin from a vacant table.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Linda said sharply.
When Phil attempted to dry off Susannah’s soaking dress with a napkin, she swatted him away like an annoying insect. “Don’t touch me! My friend is right—watch where you’re going!”
“I apologize. Let me at least buy you ladies lunch,” he offered.
Susannah stood up, seething. “I’m going to the restroom to dry off. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Once she was out of sight, Linda stood, facing him, blocking people’s view of the open satchel. She gripped Susannah’s empty glass and silverware. In one smooth motion, they dropped into the open plastic evidence bags.
He nodded his head curtly and hurried toward the cashier where he asked the manager for the women’s bill.
A waitress approached Linda with towels. “Can I take these dishes? I’ll be back to clean up.”
“Thank you,” Linda replied, accepting towels to mop up the remaining water. She should have begun to relax—their plan to retrieve Susannah’s fingerprints and DNA had gone off without a glitch, but instead, her hands were shaking. Phil was paying the bill as Susannah came out of the bathroom.
“What an ass, pardon my French.” Susannah turned toward Linda, her eyes narrowing. “I recognize that guy from somewhere.”
Shit! Linda felt nauseous. Think. “He’s got one of those familiar faces. He actually reminds me of my old neighbor.”
“No, I recognize that face.” Her voice callous, she jabbed an index finger toward Linda. “I know where I’ve seen him—hanging around the parking lot on Sunday mornings before the broadcast. As if he’s waiting for something to happen.”
Don’t lose your composure. “Come to think of it, I’ve seen him, too. In fact, I spoke with him once. He asked if Reverend Ray performed miracles every Sunday. I told him he should come and find out. He seemed weighed down by guilt, embarrassment, I don’t know. He thanked me and walked away. I haven’t seen him since.”
Salvation Station Page 22