Cindy nodded and stood. “Geanie, I'll be back in a few.”
“Okay,” the other woman said, without looking up from what she was reading on her desk.
They headed for the front door, but before they got there, it swung open and Harold stepped inside. The older gentleman nodded to Mark before turning to Cindy.
“Cindy, I've got a problem.”
“What is it, Harold?”
“I'm here to set up for tomorrow's prayer service, and I realized my key to the sanctuary is missing.”
“Missing?” Mark and Cindy asked at the same time.
“Yes.” Harold held up his key ring. “I always keep it here next to my house key, and it's gone. I don't know what could have happened to it.”
“When did you use it last?” Mark asked.
“The Sunday before last. I opened the sanctuary in the morning.”
“But not two days ago?” Mark pressed.
“No, pastor beat me here. The alarm didn't go off, and I overslept.”
“I'll open the sanctuary for you,” Cindy said, returning to her desk for her keys.
The three of them walked through the narthex, and Cindy unlocked the sanctuary. She hesitated for a moment before stepping inside to turn on the lights.
“Thanks,” Harold said.
“Mr. Grey, are you going to be here a while? I'd like to talk with you about your missing key,” Mark said.
“Sure, I'll be here for at least an hour or so.”
“Great.”
He turned back to Cindy. “Where can we talk?”
She led him to another part of the building, unlocked another door, and ushered him into a Sunday school room. She grimaced in apology as he eyed the tiny plastic chairs. She perched on one, and he followed suit.
“Is there any possible religious symbolism for the guy you found in the church?” he asked.
“You mean like the Palm Sunday murder and the money changer thing?”
“Yeah, exactly like that.”
“I haven't been able to come up with anything, and I've really tried.”
He stared hard at her.
She crossed her arms. “Look, it's impossible to think of anything else when I know there's a killer running around loose.”
He sighed. “I can understand that.”
“I did find something, though, that might connect it all.”
“What?” He leaned forward and tried not to feel ridiculous sitting in a kindergartner's chair.
“Ryan Bellig was from Raleigh, North Carolina.”
“Yeah, and?”
“His wife and daughter were killed a couple of years ago.”
“I know that.”
“Did you hear they were killed by the Passion Week Killer, a serial killer who was never caught and who was killing his victims in imitation of events of Easter week?”
“Are you kidding me?”
She sat back, looking satisfied. “No.”
“And just how did you come by your information?”
“I Googled his name and the old news articles came up.”
Mark swore, and she colored slightly. He lurched out of his seat.
“Where are you going?”
“To call my partner and tell him to get in touch with Raleigh police. Then I'll talk to Harold about his missing key.”
“Ask him if he saw it after Saturday afternoon.”
“And why is that?”
“Last Saturday there was a Shepherds meeting here at the church. If a Shepherd really did kill Ryan on Sunday, then he probably stole the key from Harold on Saturday.”
After the detective left, Cindy barely got any work done. After a dozen crises over rooms, Easter preparations, and misplacing the master-calendar binder twice, Geanie took over. Depressed, Cindy trudged out to the parking lot and climbed into her car.
She glanced with longing at Jeremiah's Mustang in the neighboring parking lot but knew he was busy with cleaning the Synagogue in preparation for Passover. She thought about offering to help, but from the number of cars in the parking lot it looked like he had all the help he could use. Besides, the last thing anyone needed was a Gentile girl asking questions, messing things up, and generally making everyone feel uncomfortable.
Cindy had no idea what to do. She didn't feel safe at church. She didn't feel safe going home. She didn't even feel safe returning to the hotel. Again, she glanced at Jeremiah's car. The only times she had felt safe since the nightmare started were when she was with him. Wow! I'm pathetic.
After a deep breath, she started the car. On a whim she drove downtown, trying to think up an excuse to buy something. She found a parking spot next to her favorite dress shop and wandered inside. Twenty minutes later she left, frustrated, empty-handed, and just as lost and frightened as she had been before.
Just face it, you're afraid to be alone.
She glanced into the window of the beauty salon next to the dress shop. She pushed open the door and went in. For fifteen dollars she could get a manicure while she decided what she wanted to do next.
The woman behind the counter glanced up with an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, we're just closing.”
“Oh,” Cindy said.
“Would you like to come back tomorrow? I could squeeze you in during the lunch hour.”
Cindy felt like an idiot. She didn't need a manicure. She didn't even really want one. Still, she found herself nodding because it was easier than figuring out what she wanted to tell the woman about why she never intended to come back.
“Your name?”
“Cindy Preston.”
“Okay, Cindy. I have you down for twelve-fifteen tomorrow then.”
Cindy nodded, backed out the door, and headed for her Focus. I'll call and cancel in the morning.
Before she could start the engine she saw Oliver walking out of one of the shops. She popped back out of her seat. “Oliver!”
He jumped and then turned and saw her. He nodded and waved. She locked her door and walked over to him. “Hey, how did the article turn out?”
“Good, thanks.”
“How is everything else?”
“Okay. It's a crazy week, you know?” He shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Tell me about it!”
“Are you okay?”
“No, not really.”
“I'm very, very sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. Hey, do you want to grab some dinner with me? I really need the company,” she admitted.
“Um … sure. Why not?” he said with a faint smile.
“Great,” she said, relief washing over her.
“Got anywhere in mind?”
“Anywhere, everywhere.”
“You ever been to Rigatoni's?”
“The Italian place at the end of the block?”
“Yeah, we can walk there. Shall we?”
“Sure.” She fell into step beside him.
“So, what's wrong?” he asked.
“I'm afraid to go back home.”
“Why?”
“The murderer broke into my house.”
Oliver tripped, but caught himself with a hand on a light pole. “That's terrible! Are you okay?”
“I'm fine. I wasn't home. Of course, now I'm too scared to go home.”
He stopped and turned to look at her. “Cindy, you can't live your life afraid. Trust me, it's a terrible burden and one you shouldn't have to carry. I think you need to face your fear, go home, reclaim your territory, and do whatever you have to so that you feel safe there again.”
He was right, and she knew it, but how could she explain to him just how terrifying that was? “After dinner?”
“After dinner,” he agreed, relaxing and turning to continue toward the restaurant.
Jeremiah was gratified that almost thirty people showed up to help clean and purify the kitchen and the hall where they'd eat for the first night of Passover. Marie had brought her entire family to help.
When they were all gath
ered Jeremiah said a blessing. He followed it up with brief instructions.
“Marie has the master checklist of everything that needs to be done. Get your assignment from her, and when you've completed it, return to her for inspection, check off, and reassignment. Remember, we're here to get this done and done right. Please be reverent, reflect on the meaning of Passover, and work as quietly as possible so as not to disturb your neighbor's meditations. We must do our best in this effort. Still, I don't think it would off end the Most High if we tried to be done by ten-thirty. So, let's get to work!”
Everyone dutifully lined up in front of Marie, who gave out orders gleefully. He got in line as well, but Samuel Schuller approached him.
“Rabbi, may I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course, Samuel,” Jeremiah said, escorting him to the side. “What is it?”
“Our neighbors, who are Protestant, have often expressed interest in our religion and our holidays and rituals.”
“Excellent,” Jeremiah said. “I can think of no one better suited to provide them with understanding.” He placed his hand on the other man's shoulder.
Samuel smiled at the compliment and then continued. “My wife and I have discussed inviting them into our home to partake of the second night's Seder with us.”
“That is admirable. I know that is a common custom in some parts of this country.”
“I have heard that too. It is a first for us, and I was wondering if you had any words of wisdom, Rabbi?”
In many ways Samuel's question represented the hardest part of Jeremiah's role of rabbi. He could answer questions about the Scriptures, traditions, rituals, and related things. Samuel, though, was asking for his personal opinion on something he had no firsthand knowledge of. He took a deep breath. Samuel was a deeply religious man, whose beliefs and sympathies were much more closely aligned with Orthodox viewpoint.
“Samuel, in this case I believe that pleasing Adonai and being a good host require the same measure of care from you. Share with your neighbors ahead of time what it is they can expect from the dinner. Also ask them, in respect of your traditions, that they carefully examine their clothes and make sure they are clean and that they bring nothing with them that might have touched food at their home. Then, you do not risk tainting your table or embarrassing your guests.”
“Thank you, Rabbi,” Samuel beamed. “That is excellent advice.”
“I'm glad I could help.”
Together they moved back to the line, and soon Jeremiah had been instructed by Marie to purify the floors in the hall and then to purify and set up the tables.
Cindy savored her chicken fettuccine alfredo to the fullest. It was incredible how good food could taste when you were really focused on it, or really trying to avoid something else.
Oliver was pleasant company, and she found herself gradually relaxing as they ate and talked. She started to wonder why he wasn't married. He was too old for her, but it was a habit she had picked up from her mother who constantly speculated on what kept bachelors bachelors.
It was a silly exercise, but she enjoyed focusing on something so mundane, so familiar.
“It's amazing how much better you feel on a full stomach, isn't it?” Oliver asked, as he slurped down the last bite of his spaghetti.
“It's so true,” Cindy agreed.
“Feeling ready to face your house?”
She shook her head. “Not quite that brave yet.”
“What's it going to take? Ice cream?”
“I won't feel safe until whoever did this is locked up,” Cindy admitted.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“Surely, the police are close to making an arrest.”
“I hope so. I don't think my nerves can take this much longer,” she said.
“Do they have any suspects?”
“Is that the journalist speaking?” she teased.
“Nope, the concerned friend and fellow church member. Come on, we've known each other three years.”
“That long?”
“Yeah, three years this month. You were one of the first people I met at First Shepherd. You helped me feel at home. Safe. Let me help you feel safe at your home. I can help you work through this.”
She looked into his eyes and wished she could tell him. She shouldn't, though. Not only was he a journalist, but he was also a Shepherd. Which meant he was a suspect. On the other hand, that meant he was going to know what the police knew soon enough. I guess Mark didn't get to his name on the list yet. “There are a few possibilities.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Yeah, people we all know.” Sadness nearly overwhelmed her.
He stared at her for a long minute. When he spoke again his voice was softer. “Cindy, why did someone break into your apartment?”
“The police think he was looking for something.”
“Did they say what?”
She didn't want to lie to him and tell him no but she couldn't very well come out and tell him what the murderer had been looking for. She bit her lip. “I don't want to talk about it.”
“That's okay,” he said. “You don't have to. I just know that it helps to talk about these things.”
“I don't think that's always true,” Cindy said.
“Why not?”
Because some things never stop hurting no matter how much or how little you talk about them, she thought. She took a shaky breath. I'm not fifteen anymore. No one can make me talk if I don't want to. “Sometimes talking about the bad things doesn't make them better, it just makes them more a part of your life.”
He reached across the table and grasped her hand. She jumped slightly, but then she looked into his eyes and felt his genuine compassion. It was one of the characteristics of a good Shepherd.
“We're not talking about the break-in anymore, are we?”
“I don't want to talk about it,” she whispered.
“I think you do or you wouldn't have gone there.”
He was right. She knew he was. It had just been a really long time since she had tried to talk about it with anyone.
“My, uh, sister—” Her voice cracked, and she started to shake. “When I was a kid, Lisa—” She could feel the tears start to slide down her cheeks.
“It's okay to talk about it. You don't have to be alone right now, Cindy.”
“There was an accident.”
“She was hurt?” he guessed.
Cindy nodded.
“She died?”
“Yes.”
They sat for a moment in silence while she fought to control the pain and fear that the memory invoked. Finally, she squashed her emotions, and she felt like she could breathe again.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Never be sorry for feeling that way. What you suffered was great, and those who have not been in your shoes can never truly understand. But you do need to learn to live in spite of it. I didn't know your sister, but I do know if she loved you, she'd want that for you. Did she love you, Cindy?”
“Yes.”
“Then that is what you need to carry in you, that love, that bond. Not the horror.”
She wiped her eyes with a napkin. It was funny. All the time her parents had made her spend with therapists when she was a kid had never been so meaningful as these few quiet minutes with Oliver.
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” He squeezed her hand tightly and then released it.
“How did you know?”
He turned his face away, and she saw the muscles working in his jaw. When he spoke his voice was rough with emotion. “Years ago, a girl I cared for very much killed herself.” “I'm so sorry.” He turned back to her, and tears glistened in his eyes. “So am I. In a weird way it led me to my first newspaper job in Austin. I was running from the pain, and I know that's not a good way to live. It was such a senseless death, and I was young and selfish. But it taught me to see the pain others feel. Now, I try to help when I can.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I'm going home to face my fears.”
“Right now?” he asked.
She shook her head. “After ice cream.”
“After ice cream,” he agreed with a smile.
8
FILTH AND DISEASE, THEY WERE EVERYWHERE. NO ONE KNEW ANYTHING about cleansing, about purity, about being whole and blameless. They played at it. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I purified the house for Passover by cleaning the light switches with ammonia to glorify Adonai. God doesn't care what I do as long as I believe in him. I kill the infidels in the name of Allah even though I am no different than they. My soul is so pure I will not harm the creatures who are poisoning my child's drinking water. I worship Mother Earth as long as she stays out of my pristine, concrete high rise.
What did they know of God, or his cleansing fire? What did they know of sacrifice, repentance? They tried so hard to scrub the evil from their souls, pretending it was never there. And look at the people they put their trust in, leaders more corrupt, more black-hearted than they knew or guessed. They believe him to be a holy man. Fools!
They were all sinners, every one. He stood in the shadows and waited with no illusions. Like all others he had fallen short of the glory of God. He had fallen so very, very far. Unlike them, though, he didn't feel the need to hide it like some secret shame.
First, the woman arrived, unlocked the front door, but left the closed sign in the window. Then, a few minutes later, the man walked quickly, looking constantly over his shoulder. He ducked inside the door, ashamed to be seen, wanting to hide. Just like a cockroach in the pale light of morning. But I see him, and he cannot hide.
He waited a moment, but the woman did not return to lock the door. Foolish. He finally slipped from the shadows and entered the door himself. There the two were, the man engaged in his secret shame, that which he would not share with his friends in the light of day. Such a simple, intimate thing with a significance neither dreamed of. They were unworthy, but they would have to do.
“Hello,” Mark said, answering his phone. He glanced at his watch. It was just past eight in the morning. That meant he'd only slept about three hours. He had been up late pouring over everything he could get his hands on about the Passion Week Killer from Raleigh.
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