Cathy walked back into the living room and sat down. Hewitt followed. “I don’t mean to upset you,” he said.
“Well, you did.” She looked up at him. “I have so many emotions going through me, even after all these years.”
“You mentioned you spoke to him last week. What was your relationship like?”
“Why are you in my house asking me that question?”
“Because I think you might be able to help me find that missing Stewart girl.”
She gave him a look of disbelief. “How would I do that?”
“Please answer the question.”
“We spoke once a week. More when the kids were younger.”
“Why not more now?”
“My boys … they’re grown up … they’re their own individuals.” She sighed. “They’d had enough. They didn’t want any part of their father after a while.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“Why would I be? I’m angry at Den, but I want his sons to be part of his life. It’s like he’s ashamed of us. He’s so concerned with that church. It would have been nice for him to spend more time with his sons as they got older.”
“Did they want to?”
She shook her head. “No. But I always hoped it would change. Maybe he was ashamed of himself. I’ve often thought this could be it.”
Hewitt sat down. “What I’m about to ask may seem inappropriate. But I need the truth to help me understand what might have happened to the missing girl.”
“Elizabeth Stewart?”
“Yes.”
“The life insurance policy?”
“Yes.”
“It was part of the divorce settlement,” Cathy said.
“I know.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about us. Isn’t that our personal business?”
“Not if it can help me solve this case.”
Cathy gave him a frustrated look. “Yes, it’s in Elizabeth Stewart’s name.”
“Why? Why would a great dad bypass his sons? Did he know the Stewarts for a long time?”
“I don’t know.”
Hewitt paused. Before he could ask his next question, Cathy spoke. “Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at here. I was hurt when I found out my boys weren’t the beneficiaries.” She gave a weak laugh and sighed. “Who knows why he did it? Maybe he felt sorry for her.”
Cathy stared at him for a few seconds. “It was such an awful story. I remember it like it was yesterday. The entire town was mourning. How terrible it must be to lose your pregnant wife on Christmas night. But I had my own problems, too, that night with Den. Not knowing where he was. I was worried he had been in an accident and they’d find him in his truck in some ditch. I thought I had lost him.”
She sighed. “I guess I did. It was a dark day here. It would have been better if they had found him in a ditch.”
The words struck Hewitt as harsh. He had already noticed there were no signs of Christmas in the house. No tree. No lights. Not even a wreath.
“You don’t feel like celebrating the holidays?” he asked.
“Do you have any more questions to ask?”
“Did Dennis ever talk about Michael Stewart to you?”
“Never.”
“Not one mention?”
“No. Why?”
“I would think that if you spoke to him every so often Michael Stewart’s name would come up.”
“Why?”
“Michael is his best friend.”
“Best friends? I thought it was Robert Cantone.”
“What?” Hewitt stood.
“Yes. He spoke often about Robert. How he needed him to help himself.”
“How would Robert help your ex-husband? Was it financial?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
Chapter 35
A picture of Pastor Dennis sitting on his motorcycle stood on top of a dark brown casket. The line to pay respects stretched out of the church’s front door and down Main Street. The police had asked the media to move their trucks farther down the street so the vehicles wouldn’t be a distraction to the somber proceedings.
An organ played soft music as a violinist strummed her instrument. The interim pastor consoled the mourners. Connie and Susan entered the church, bowed their heads and moved forward.
“I can’t look at him,” Connie whispered, tugging on Susan’s arm.
Susan stood on her toes and peered over the line ahead of them. “You won’t have to. The casket is closed.”
“Really?”
Susan turned and nodded.
“Good.”
It was several more minutes before they reached the casket. “Hello. I’m Pastor Timothy. Thank you for showing your love for my brother in Christ.”
Susan shook his hand and nodded. Connie did the same and stopped to touch the picture. “My brother loves you. Thank you for loving my brother.” She wiped a tear away and joined Susan in a pew.
They watched Hewitt enter the church. “Look who’s here now,” said Connie. “Surprise. Surprise.”
“Wonder what he’s around here for?” Susan asked.
“Don’t be so tough on him. He’s doing his job.”
“I can see he’s doing his job. But the way he does it is like a bully.”
“He has to be tough in his job,” Connie said with some edge.
“My, aren’t we a bit defensive.”
Connie ignored her. “I see he’s still wearing his sunglasses.”
They watched him make his way up to the pastor. They exchanged a few words and shook hands. He looked left and right for a place to sit and spotted Susan and Connie. He made a beeline right to them. They scrunched over to make room for him, but he sat between them instead.
“So sad, isn’t it?” Connie said, taking out a tissue.
“This is awfully soon to have a service,” Hewitt said.
Susan shrugged her shoulders.
“I guess,” Connie said. “What’s the normal time? Two days? Three days?”
“Yes. But certainly not within twenty-four hours, especially when an autopsy is needed. The church refused to give us permission.”
“Why would an autopsy be needed?” Connie asked. “The papers said he never recovered from the wound. Are you going to charge Allison with murder?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“What do you mean?” Susan asked.
“I mean the bureau will make that decision down the road. There’s no rush.” Hewitt paused. “I don’t trust this new pastor. He’s hiding something.”
“You don’t trust anyone,” Susan said.
Connie glared at her.
Everyone was seated, and the church became quiet. The pastor invited the flock to come up and share a prayer or a thought near the casket. Connie stood up as her pew advanced toward Pastor Dennis. After whispering some words, she brushed against the casket.
“Oops,” she muttered.
It slid off the stanchion. Pastor Timothy caught the end before it hit the ground and pushed it back. “Got it,” he said.
“I’m so embarrassed,” said Connie, as she returned to the pew.
Hewitt reached over and touched her hand when she returned. “Where’s his ex-wife? His family?” Hewitt asked to no one in particular.
“Shh! Are you talking to us?” Connie asked.
He shook his head and whispered. “Where’s he being buried?”
“Out east,” Connie said quietly.
The pastor said a few prayers and thanked the flock for supporting the church and him during this period of grieving.
Hewitt got up. “That was awfully quick,” he said. “I thought a service like this would last a couple of hours.”
“Are you leaving?” Susan asked.
; “Now I am. I need to check a few theories out. Can I follow you to the gravesite?”
“Sure,” Susan said. “I’m the little blue Toyota by Main and Church.”
“I’ll drive up behind you. Look for me.”
“See you then,” Susan said and turned to Connie. “You up for this?” she asked, opening the car doors.
“No. But my brother would want me to be here.”
“He would,” Susan agreed as she sat and closed the door.
Connie looked behind. “There he is, down the block. You can’t miss that Cadillac.”
“Yeah, what is up with that gas guzzler?” Susan wondered.
“It’s all show.”
“I guess we’ve got a little show in all of us.”
Connie turned back to face Susan and glared. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.”
A horn beeped behind them. Susan adjusted her rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb. They followed a long stretch of cars onto the Long Island Expressway.
“Do you know which exit?” asked Susan.
“Just follow the cars. You won’t get lost.”
It wasn’t more than twenty minutes on the expressway when the cars began to exit onto the service road. “I guess we’re here,” she said. “That wasn’t such a long ride.”
Connie opened up her purse and covered her eyes with sunglasses.
“Are you all right?” Susan asked.
“No. I’m worried about Hewitt,” said Connie.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just am.”
“Let’s talk about this later.”
“I don’t have many friends since Craig and I got divorced. All of our friends blamed me for the split, so I need a friend. Now.”
Susan parked the car as the mourners abandoned their vehicles and walked up a hill.
“Can I count on you?” Connie asked, breaking the silence.
Susan picked up her purse from underneath the seat. She turned to Connie and removed the sunglasses. “Yes, I can be your friend. And you don’t need to cover up how you feel or what you look like when you do have that meltdown.”
“I hope we won’t be doing this for Elizabeth and Michael too.”
Susan grabbed some tissues from the glove compartment. “I’m not ready to say we’ve lost them. I hope you know I’ve always loved Michael and Elizabeth. They’re family to me. They always will be. We can’t give up.”
Chapter 36
Hewitt stayed motionless in his car for several minutes, surveying the area. He lifted his sunglasses to get a better view of the activity. Pastor Timothy opened his Bible one more time and appeared to say a few words. After he closed his Bible, the area began to empty. The pastor chatted briefly with four cemetery workers and then left.
The workers began the process of lowering the casket into the ground. Hewitt stared and relaxed his legs as Pastor Timothy drove past him. The workers continued their task and began to backfill the open grave. Hewitt watched every shovelful of dirt pouring into the hole.
He rubbed his eyes a few times as he grew tired. After opening up his windows to catch some cold air, he took a sip of some flat Diet Coke sitting in a cup. This stuff is vile. He shook his head and removed his sunglasses.
One by one, shovels patted and swatted the topsoil in an organized fashion. The pound and press routine lasted several minutes until one gravedigger tossed his shovel to the ground. The others did the same.
When the last bit of sunlight scraped the horizon, he closed his windows and got out. He stretched his arms, adjusted his suit jacket and wiped away a lone fuzzy clinging to the lower part of his pants.
He walked to the burial site and kicked at the dirt a few times. He glanced behind him and to his left and right. Grabbing a shovel, he slammed it into the dirt and began digging. He tossed the dirt to the left, he tossed it to his right and when he had a full shovel, he hoisted it over his shoulder.
Hewitt dug and dug, each stab at the dirt deeper than the one before. He rested every few minutes, allowing the strain that swallowed up the energy in his arms to receive some relief. He took a handkerchief from his top shirt pocket and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. Removing his jacket, he looked around for a safe place to leave it. He tossed it aside instead when he noticed a man walking up the hill toward him.
“Hey, mister,” a man yelled from a distance, waving his arms. “What are you doing?”
Hewitt continued to thrust the shovel into the ground. He dug to the left. He dug to the right. He dug and dug for several minutes until finally hitting the top of the casket. The metal of the shovel scraped it again on the next pitch down. Hewitt jumped into the hole and fell on top of it. He managed to nudge the casket sideways.
“What are you doing, mister?” asked the man looking down at him. “Did you drop your wallet in there?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you better have a good reason for what you did. You just ruined our work.”
Hewitt looked up. “I’ll put your precious dirt back when I’m done.”
“Done with what?” The man snapped a shot of Hewitt with his cell phone.
“FBI.” Hewitt flashed his badge. “Step back and don’t interfere with an ongoing investigation.”
The man walked away, grumbling.
Hewitt gripped the top of the casket and tried to wedge it apart. “Open, you son of a gun,” he said, groaning.
He reached up and grabbed the shovel. He battered the top several times, finally prying it open. He tossed the shovel away and wiped his hands.
He strained to lift the top. “Up you go,” he shouted, thrusting it open. He stared for a few seconds and reached in, picking up the picture of Pastor Dennis sitting on his motorcycle. He stared at it for a few more seconds before placing it back inside and closing the casket.
“Where are you, Pastor Dennis?” he said as he climbed out of the grave and kicked the shovel away.
Chapter 37
Hewitt banged on the front door of the church. “Hello, anyone in there?” he shouted. He whacked the hard, wooden door a few more times with the back of his gun. “Open up. Now.”
He walked around to the side of the church and stood on his toes to look through a stained glass window. The church was empty. The candles near the podium flickered, and the manger scene was illuminated by a light from the high-arching ceiling. Hewitt ran to the backyard and knocked on the lone door.
The door opened. “Yes, how can I help you?” a woman asked.
“I’m Hewitt Paul.” He pulled out his FBI badge and showed it to her. “I need to get inside. I may have lost something in the pastor’s office.”
The woman frowned. “You do know what happened to the pastor?”
“I do. I was in his office a couple of days ago. I thought I might have left an important note behind.”
“What kind of note? Was it on a sheet of paper or in a book?”
“It’s related to the case I’m working on. I can’t share that information.”
She opened the door and took another look at the badge he was holding. “I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”
“Your name?”
“Katie Adams.”
“And what are you doing in the church?”
“I’m a secretary.”
“Thanks, Katie. I shouldn’t be long.”
“The door is open. Please close it when you’re done.”
Hewitt looked to his left and right, moving his hands on both sides of the wall as he walked down the hallway, feeling for any hidden passageways or doors he might have missed on his last inspection. He opened the first door leading down the hallway to Pastor Dennis’ office. Inside were several boxes piled one on top of another. He removed the top one and opened it, finding old sandals, dirtied robes an
d a couple of wooden crosses. He looked inside the next box and found old coins. He dug one out and put the box back. Holding it up, he squinted.
Looks like the image of a soldier, but not from our time.
He heard footsteps coming, and he pushed the boxes back. He jogged a few steps to Pastor Dennis’ office and went inside. An old Styrofoam cup stood on his desk, filled with water. Papers were scattered all over the floor. He went behind the desk and picked up the wastepaper basket. Red stained tissues filled the top. Hewitt took a deep breath, took a pair of plastic gloves out of his pocket and put them on his hands. He turned the basket over and dumped it out onto the desk.
He rummaged through several pieces of paper, some starter notes for the pastor’s next sermon. He sat down and examined the wrinkled pages. Acts 27-28:10. Hewitt turned around and looked at the bookcase. There’s got to be a Bible here. He pulled out several black books and tossed them on the ground. “Here it is,” he said, holding it up. He paged through it and found the passage. He kept his finger inside the Bible as a bookmark, got up and locked the office door. He sat in the chair opposite the desk and began to read.
When it was decided that we would sail for Italy, they proceeded to deliver Paul and some other prisoners to a centurion of the Augustan cohort named Julius. And embarking in an Adramyttian ship, which was about to sail to the regions along the coast of Asia, we put out to sea accompanied by Aristarchus, a Macedonian of Thessalonica. The next day we put in at Sidon; and Julius treated Paul with consideration and allowed him to go to his friends and receive care. From there we put out to sea and sailed under the shelter of Cyprus because the winds were contrary. When we had sailed through the sea along the coast of Cilicia and Pamphylia, we landed at Myra in Lycia. There the centurion found an Alexandrian ship sailing for Italy, and he put us aboard it. When we had sailed slowly for a good many days, and with difficulty had arrived off Cnidus, since the wind did not permit us to go farther, we sailed under the shelter of Crete, off Salmone; and with difficulty sailing past it we came to a place called Fair Havens, near which was the city of Lasea.
The Greatest Gift Page 14