Salvation Station

by Kathryn Schleich

  He called for Susannah again. Getting no response, he rose slowly from the chair and dragged his heavy feet into the kitchen. Ray steadied himself on the kitchen counter. What the hell was happening?

  A memory flickered. In Friday’s mail, a letter had arrived confirming a large withdrawal from their stock portfolio. He vaguely recalled a confrontation. They had argued. He thought he remembered her insisting she’d withdrawn the money for them but wouldn’t explain further. Susannah refused to talk with him until he calmed down. She had poured him a whiskey and soda—he recalled the drink being stiff on the whiskey—and announced she was going for a walk until he could be reasoned with. Where was she?

  The last thing Ray remembered was accepting the drink.

  Slowly, he walked out the back door. The garage was open, and both their cars were there. She must be here somewhere.

  Ray hollered at the top of his lungs for his wife. “Susannah! Susannah, are you here?”

  It was a glorious August day, and sounds of active neighbors filled the air. Kids rode their bikes, while parents mowed lawns and tended to vegetable and flower gardens.

  “Good afternoon, sleepyhead!” Susannah’s cheerful voice came from outside the shed where they stored yard equipment.

  Ray shielded his eyes from the bright sun, watching her close the door of the shed. She ambled across the yard, wearing her gardening clothes and carrying a basket of dead flowers. As she approached, dry grass crunched under her feet.

  “How long have you been out here?” Ray still felt confused about where he was or the day of the week.

  She held out the basket. “Just cutting back some plants.”

  He met her at the halfway point of the yard.

  “How are you feeling? I was worried about you last night.” She came alongside him, planting a soft kiss on Ray’s cheek and slipped her arm through his.

  He had no idea what she was referring to. “I’m still a little groggy. How long did I sleep?”

  She stopped and turned to look at him, her brow crinkled. “Sweetheart, can’t you remember? We had a spat yesterday, over our financial portfolio. You accused me of withdrawing money without telling you. I was disturbed. I’ve never seen you that angry. After dinner, you made yourself a drink, which you almost never do, and you wouldn’t speak to me. Around ten o’clock, you said you didn’t feel well and were going to bed. But you fell asleep in the recliner instead.”

  He listened keenly. What Susannah was telling him was fuzzy at best. “I remember our argument. I thought you made me a drink, then went for a walk in the heat of things—”

  “No, Ray, I never made you a drink or left the house. You were very upset—I mean, honey, you hardly ever drink. Anyway, I went up to get ready for bed, and when I came back downstairs, you were out cold.” She reached up to massage his aching shoulders. “I shouldn’t have let you spend the night in the recliner. I tried to wake you, but you were sound asleep.”

  He could not remember any of this, and it bothered him. Ray opened the back door, and they entered the kitchen. “I do want to discuss this portfolio matter further—”

  Susannah held a finger up to his lips. “We’re going to have that conversation right now. I’ll come clean and tell you my surprise.”

  Ray joined her at the kitchen table, where she had laid out glossy travel brochures, presenting the majestic white sails of a windjammer cruiser amid a stunning tropical locale displaying blue sky, white sandy beaches, pristine aqua waters, and swaying palm trees. “What is all this?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “It’s a Windstar cruise to French Polynesia. The cruise itself is eleven days, and I propose that we stay at least two weeks. I withdrew the money for a substantial down payment to reserve us a spot for next March. How long has it been since you’ve had a real vacation? Think of all the things we can do—snorkeling, windsailing, kayaking, walking along the beach. Yes, I realize a trip of this nature is expensive and requires detailed planning, which I am happy to undertake. We didn’t take a honeymoon, and after all the work we’ve put in to make The Road to Calvary a success, we deserve a moment for ourselves. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime journey.”

  Ray reviewed the breathtaking brochures. He had been untrusting, just as Susannah had said. He felt like a complete ass and reached for her hand. “Forgive me for doubting you. This would be an amazing adventure, and you’re right, we need a proper honeymoon.”

  Susannah came around the table and settled into Ray’s lap. He was a pushover for her soft touch and kisses. “I need a shower after working in the yard,” she said. “You could use one, too.” Arms around his neck, she pulled Ray close for a deep kiss.

  “That I could.” He kissed her passionately.

  She smiled seductively and tugged at his shirt.

  His grogginess was eroding as her small hands slid into his trousers. Ray began unbuttoning her top, and they climbed the stairs, roaming hands all over one another’s bodies.

  Susannah had certainly opened Ray’s sexual horizons to new possibilities, and lovemaking in a warm shower was one of them. Dressed, he called out to her before heading downstairs, “Want to try Charlie Gitto’s?”

  “That would be great,” she said, and the blow dryer ramped into high gear.

  He had forgotten a belt and returned to the walk-in closet. While he was threading the belt through the loops, he noticed that Susannah’s side of the closet seemed to have far fewer clothes than he remembered. Maybe his night sleeping in a recliner was still affecting him. Surveying the clothes rack, he was positive her favorite outfits were missing.

  “Honey, why are almost half your clothes gone?” he asked casually.

  Finished drying her hair, Susannah came into the bedroom. “Oh, darn! I wanted my purge to be another surprise. I have far too many clothes, so I’m donating anything I haven’t worn in the last year. I thought, why not give them to women who need business attire for a job or an interview?” She kissed him again. “Why don’t you make reservations for dinner, and I’ll be right down.”

  He pulled her close for another kiss. Lost in a tight embrace and deep, moist kisses, Ray knew he was the luckiest man in the world.

  57

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 10, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI THE ROAD TO CALVARY SET

  Making her way up the aisle, Linda searched for the Carlsons. Everything must seem normal. From the corner of her eye, Linda spied Malachi accompanied by a female officer sitting toward the middle. Other officers she knew by sight took seats, spreading out through the audience.

  The Carlsons sat in their usual seats close to the stage, their obese bodies spilling out of their chairs.

  “Good morning,” Linda said in greeting. She took off her light coat, draping it over the back of her chair as pleasantries were exchanged. She silently took in the scene of the buzzing crowd, counting seven officers in the room.

  Settling into her spot, Linda was eager for this ruse to be over. She wanted to be Captain Linda Turner again. They were almost to the finish, after so many months of dead ends and false hope. The stress of the fast-approaching deadline hasn’t helped. After today . . .

  The lights went down, and Jeff yelled for quiet on the set. As the choir sang the opening hymn, Linda noticed a harried woman come up the darkened aisle and take a seat in the second row, one of the last available.

  Billie leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I hate people who come late to church. Especially when we’re on live TV!”

  Ray’s sermon could have communicated the world would be coming to an end today for all Linda knew. Minutes seemingly went every direction but forward. Linda glanced at her watch every thirty seconds, which made the minutes tick by even more slowly.

  The service was finally coming to a close. She felt the adrenaline course through her veins, as the reverend invited the congregation to recite the prayer of deliverance. Let’s get this wrapped up.

  The large crowd stood.

  Ray signaled for Susannah to join him,
and they clasped hands.

  As the congregation reached the line, “You died for my sins and rose again to save me from a world mired in sin—” an incensed woman’s voice rang out.

  “You’re the sinners!” She was steps from the stage, pointing at Ray and Susannah. Linda moved into the aisle to see her. “Taking advantage of people, conning them out of their hard-earned money for the promise of salvation? The way I was taught, salvation didn’t require you to write a check! Reverend Ray and his wife are frauds, and they’re scamming all of you!”

  Linda observed the woman, every muscle in her body on full alert. Saliva flew from the woman’s mouth as she talked.

  The crowd was eerily silent. Linda saw Jeff making a frantic slashing motion across his throat.

  An attractive brunette in her late thirties, the woman continued her tirade. “Reverend Ray stole over three hundred thousand dollars from my mother, Ruth Perkins, leaving her practically destitute.”

  Linda had seen this kind of wrath before—a fury so blind that even the most level-headed person could cross into madness. She inched closer to Ruth’s daughter.

  The woman assessed the stunned crowd, waving her hands wildly. “I’m sure my mother wasn’t the only person suckered into buying a custom-made stained-glass window for your new church,” she sneered. “Sure, they’re one-of-a-kind and cost fifty thousand dollars, but you’ll never see them! How do I know this? I called the manufacturer. They’ve never heard of this church.” Emma made quotation marks with her fingers when she said church. “A prototype was ordered to make you believe windows were being made. Reverend Ray and this evil woman destroyed my mother’s life. Someone needs to be held accountable!”

  Behind the slight woman, Linda saw the gleam of silver in her hand. She shouted into the crowd, “Gun!”

  Two loud pops like firecrackers going off filled the air with haze and the smell of gunpowder. Linda dove toward the petite woman. As she brought her to the floor, the woman still held the gun, pointing it toward the ceiling. Two additional shots shattered lights above, chunks of glass spraying the crowd. Pieces sliced Linda’s arm open as she wrestled the weapon away.

  58

  SECONDS LATER

  Ray saw flashes when the gun fired and heard the pops. Falling shards of glass cut some of the parishioners directly under the shattered lights. A few bled profusely. Oh my God! He could hear the beat of his heart in his ears. People were screaming. He thought he glimpsed uniformed police swarming into the space. What the—

  Holding Susannah’s hand, he was terrified, but tried desperately to stay composed. Get off the stage, he thought and moved to the left. Then, he felt his wife tug awkwardly on his arm as she toppled to the floor. Crimson blood rapidly soaked her dress. Gurgling noises came from her throat, her eyes rolling back.

  “Susannah!” he yelled in anguish, kneeling next to her. From the stage, he looked out at the chaos of bodies running, armed police surrounding them. “My wife has been shot! Call an ambulance!”

  Ray held Susannah tightly, her blood staining his suit. He felt a strong tug on his shoulder, and a deep voice said, “Sir, you need to step back.”

  Angry and fearful, Ray shouted at the strangers. “No. She’s my wife!”

  “Sir!” the large, muscular male commanded. “Step back.”

  Authoritative voices rose, yelling for the congregation to stay calm and show their hands. Ray heard the screech of sirens growing closer. The cops surrounding Susannah knew what they were doing, trying to stem the bleeding. Others attended to the injured parishioners. The same officer spoke into a microphone. “EMTs are on their way.”

  Ray felt his knees buckle as he stumbled into a seat. The cut to Linda Sinclair’s arm was deep, blood soaking the makeshift tourniquet the officer kneeling next to her ripped from her jacket.

  Behind him, Ray heard the shooter’s erupting words directed at him. “You bastard! My mother trusted you and your wife! You’re not a man of God; you’re a con artist. I hope you burn in hell!”

  Ray turned to see the woman being brought to her feet, arms handcuffed behind her back. Plainclothes officers marched her toward the stage.

  The throng of police parted for the EMTs jogging up the aisle. Ray’s attention returned to his wounded wife. With military precision, Susannah was placed on a stretcher, an oxygen mask placed over her face, an IV started in her arm. In seconds, the paramedics had sealed off the wound with what looked to be plastic.

  He watched in astonishment. A paramedic shouted, “Let’s go, folks! We have ten minutes max!”

  Bodies and equipment surrounding Susannah made it impossible for Ray to see her.

  He was desperate to be with his wife. “I want to go to St. Alexius with her!” he shouted. He was startled by a woman’s voice.

  “No, Ray. You have to come with us.” He stared dumbfounded at Linda Sinclair’s pallid face. The muscular police officer, his closely cropped black hair damp, gently brought her upright.

  Dazed, Ray tried to connect missing pieces. “Are you a cop?”

  “Yes, she is.” The officer’s voice was tense. “Captain Turner also requires medical attention. I’m Detective Malachi Johnson. We’re bringing you downtown.”

  “I want to be with my wife!”

  Ray’s head was bursting with conflicting and alarming information; he couldn’t comprehend it at all.

  59

  FOUR HOURS LATER

  Detective Johnson handed Ray a ceramic mug of hot coffee, which he gratefully accepted.

  Linda Sinclair, or rather Captain Turner, from somewhere in Nebraska, held her left arm in a sling. She was seated already as Ray was escorted into the interview room.

  He stirred in sugar. Detective Johnson stood.

  “I sure hope you can tell me just what the hell bringing me here is all about,” Ray told them. “Let me get to the hospital.”

  “We have other items requiring our immediate attention,” Detective Johnson replied.

  It bothered Ray greatly that the police seemed more concerned with asking him questions than the prognosis of his wife. Incensed, he shouted, “My wife was shot by a disturbed woman, and the police want to talk to me. Why? What do you think I’ve done?”

  Malachi opened a file, removing several pictures of women he didn’t recognize. “Captain Turner is investigating a triple murder in Nebraska, and I’m probing three similar homicides here. I am also charged with finding Cole Leon’s attacker.”

  Ray was stupefied. Doug Snyder had told him Cole had died of a heroin overdose. “Attacker? Cole’s alive?”

  “We’ll get to that. What you need to know is after months of working undercover, we’ve matched Susannah Williams’s DNA and fingerprints to our murder suspects in both cases—”

  “That’s ridiculous! You obviously have made a terrible mistake. Susannah is the most loving, wonderful person—”

  Linda Turner interrupted him. “Almost as wonderful as your late wife, Lorraine, who died from ovarian cancer. Susannah Baker knew all the details of her death. She also identified all the previous churches you’d served in Illinois, Kentucky, and Iowa.”

  Ray was indignant. “Susannah was completely honest that she’d done some research on my past. That’s not a crime.”

  “But it is when Susannah Baker isn’t her real name, and she’s responsible for the murders of at least six people.” Linda held the photos of a young woman’s mug shot, a smiling young family, and a promotional shot from The Road to Calvary. “Susannah Baker’s real name is Pamela Jane Watts. She’s had numerous aliases and marriages. The common denominator that led us to you is her penchant for preying on widowed pastors.”

  Yes, there was a resemblance, he conceded. But his darling Susannah could not possibly be the person they were looking for. He was confident he could explain all of this. Ray picked up the picture with the two young children. “This must be her children who were killed in a car accident. That’s her first husband, and they divorced after the accident. She
was devastated—”

  Linda’s enraged voice shocked him into reality. “These children, Jacob and Elizabeth Hansen, and their father, Gregory, were murdered, Ray. She slaughtered her own family, and then she buried them in the parsonage garden. Susannah’s DNA verifies that she is the biological mother of the Hansen children. Your wife is a vicious killer.”

  “No, no. That can’t be true,” he protested.

  Detective Johnson shoved three new photos at him. “This is Delores Reid, whom you may remember as your first ‘miracle.’ She was found dead in a flophouse. There was a large amount of the sleep aid Ambien in her system. We can’t prove Susannah’s involvement beyond a reasonable doubt, but we are going to. The other women, Michelle Thomas and Jeanette Morelli, had a connection to your wife as well. Ms. Thomas wrote an angry letter to The Road to Calvary that she was planning to sue you for fraud. Susannah discovered that your former employees, Cole and Seth, read the letter, which caused them to question the honesty of the organization they worked for. Before we could get them into protective custody, someone tampered with Cole’s food, lacing it with antifreeze. He is now blind, and I intend to charge Mrs. Williams with attempted murder as well. We have reason to believe, Reverend, that you would have been her next victim.”

  Ray’s stomach clenched as his mind rushed over events in the past six months. Listening to the detectives, he sensed nauseating suspicion and dread. It did seem more than coincidence when Susannah abruptly appeared with her ideas to “save” The Road to Calvary. He hadn’t questioned it then, but her detailed knowledge of Lorraine’s illness and his past now seemed unusual. But most alarming was yesterday’s strange incident, Ray having no memory, and her vanished clothing.

  The police were telling him that the woman he trusted and loved with his entire being was a suspect in multiple murders, and he, too, had been in danger. Ray sensed he had stepped outside of his body, detached from the proceedings. Susannah’s voice played in his head. After dinner, you made yourself a drink . . . The clarity of his memory became distinct—his wife handing him the drink.