Desperate Measures: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 5)

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Explain yourself.”

  “You aware of any sirens going off?”

  “I am.”

  “The church house structure is under siege by fire. The edifice is about to be consumed almost completely as we speak,” Walters said.

  “Kid me not,” I said.

  “You might want to go over that way and see first hand or tune into a television set somewhere and watch. The end of the church is no longer near or real in some metaphysical sense. It is imminent.”

  I clicked off the cell phone, stood, motioned for Raney to follow me as I entered the cafe proper. There was a television above the bar showing an aerial view of the devastation occurring some blocks from where Raney and I were watching. Several fire departments were on hand fighting the blaze as the building began to sink into its own ashes.

  Not with water, but with fire. It was a line from a sermon I remember hearing as a child. I don’t recall which minister it was who said it, but it was a reference to the end. He was likely preaching from the book of Revelation where there is a lot of fire happening. Not sure why the line came back to me now, of all times, but I am confident the image of the burning embers of the church house triggered that distant memory.

  “Wow …,” Raney said as he stared at the monitor.

  “Yeah, that, too. I’ve got to go, Raney. Thanks for your time and information.”

  “No problem. Hey, you think this fire is connected to your snooping around into this?”

  “Do you mean, do I think my presence here triggered the fire?”

  “Yeah, like that,” he said.

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  I moved away towards the parking lot where my car was located. Then I had a thought. I remembered something Raney had said. I turned back towards him.

  “Hey, Raney.”

  He looked in my direction and walked towards me.

  “You said something about the seven virgins being preparation for the big one. What did you mean?”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, the preacher was getting married, like some big ceremonial ritual, you know. Like, the grand event before the end came. A religious bachelor party of sorts.”

  “Who was he to marry?”

  “Can’t say. It was all hush-hush, like. Nobody knew, I guess. Just the preacher and the wife-to-be.”

  “No idea, no guesses, huh?” I said.

  “Yeah, I have a hunch.”

  “Tell me your hunch.”

  “Melody Legrand.”

  35

  I drove in the direction of the fire, but the police and fire department had several streets blocked off so I couldn’t get as close as the television cameras were. I would have had to walk a few blocks just to stand behind a line of a few thousand curious folk who were watching the inferno. Television was my best bet.

  The motel lobby had a television set blasting away the major news event of the day. The footage was unending. The building seemed to burn forever. Their coverage was live. Four reporters were on the scene, each with a vivid description of the inferno. They also interviewed folks on the scene.

  I watched the circus for several minutes.

  I checked into my room and flipped on the set. After another hour and a half, more live coverage, this time some ashes behind the on-the-spot reporter told me the final story of the fire in brief detail. Some walls were left standing in the background, but for the most part, the structure was completely demolished. The Church of the Real End was no longer; at least the structure that housed the people who belonged to such was no longer. A real end.

  The fire crews were still standing around to make sure that everything was contained. One reporter on the scene talked about the impending investigation. The sirens had finally subsided and the chaos was now simply smoldering. It would have been tragic, in my opinion, if the church had really been a church. It would also have been a tragedy if someone had died in the fire.

  There was no report of any death from the burning ruins. No one had been inside of the building. I was grateful

  I called Rogers.

  “I need you to do some snooping around an incident here in Massachusetts. A church burned down and I want to know what the investigators are discovering as they discover it.”

  “You mean the Church of the Real End?” Rogers said.

  “I do. How did you know ….?”

  “It’s all over the national news. Major coverage.”

  “And you just happened to be watching.”

  “Live news feed. I try to stay abreast of current stuff. The daily grind is quite eventful, but you already knew that. And, since you were working in the Massachusetts area, I wanted to keep up with what was happening near you.”

  “Just didn’t know you cared that much. Didn’t know you kept pace.”

  “Have I ever been out of touch with the world or with you?”

  “Can’t say you have, but then, I am often out of touch with the world, so it is hard for me to know quite how to answer you on that one. So, I need you to do your behind-the-scenes kind of ease-dropping to keep me at least in step with the City Fire Marshall’s findings.”

  “No need to worry. I will have every jot, tittle, and sound bite that comes from their investigation. You looking for something in particular?”

  “I suspect arson. I just need to know what clues they find and the direction they are headed with persons of interest.”

  “I’ll call with updates as my fact finding dictates,” Rogers said.

  “I am indebted,” I said.

  “That you are, my dear. That you are,” Rogers said.

  I spent the night dreaming of horrible rituals and unending fires. The church fire of my dreams morphed into the burning corpse of someone in a video recording. My bed linens were wet from the sweat of my night horrors the next morning. I tried to wash away the images of the night with a cold shower. It didn’t work, but it was refreshing.

  After I had finished one small pot of coffee and was busily preparing the second, Rogers checked in.

  “Morning sunshine,” she said.

  “Yeah, I suspect it is. You have something?” I said.

  “Arson it is, or so the first report in house has said. Found some evidence of accelerants near the furnace. At least that is where the fire originated, the experts say.”

  “Any clues as to who was involved?”

  “I read an email from the City Fire Marshall to the mayor which reported that they are gathering some videos from the surrounding buildings to see if they can discover possible people traffic in and out of the building. Nothing yet.”

  “Keep me posted,” I said.

  “You okay, chief?” Rogers said.

  “Yeah, just tired and frustrated. Not too wild about the direction of my investigation. And some people give religion a bad name.”

  “Vice versa,” Rogers said. “I have studied lots of religions and many of them are quite acceptable, ethical, moral, and all that. But some of them, well, makes me glad that I am not really human, if you know what I mean.”

  “Wish I could say the same. Call me when you have something.”

  “Later.”

  I watched the news on one of the local channels while I finished the second pot of coffee. Nothing revelatory was reported on the fire, so I wandered down to the motel office area where they were serving what they called a continental breakfast. Stale muffins and coffee. The orange juice container was empty and so were the rest of the bins that housed some type of breakfast breads. I passed on the stale muffin and drank more coffee.

  Rogers called again as I was standing in line to pay for my fast-food sausage biscuit and orange juice two blocks down from the motel.

  “Inside word is that the fire people are going after Reverend Fletcher. They’re still watching some videos to be certain, but the first word from the City Fire Marshall to the mayor was the man of the cloth, said pastor of the church, the high priest himself was seen leaving the building just before the fire broke. Suspiciou
s, huh?”

  “Maybe. I can’t see him being the one to do this, but then, I’ve been wrong before. Maybe it’s an insurance angle.”

  “Ah, yes. The root of all evil,” Rogers said.

  “That would be the one.”

  36

  I had Rogers find me the home address of Reverend Fletcher and was headed to his house just before lunch. I was still hungry since the sausage biscuit had not quite filled the emptiness I was feeling. I did allow for the possibility that the emptiness had nothing to do with hunger. Maybe I was simply pushing out the other feelings, emotions, and suspicions in an effort to maintain a balanced perspective on this whole sordid affair. Maybe.

  While I have never cared that much for institutional religion during my adult years, I did have some affinity for my home church back in Clancyville. At least now I could see some positive things pertaining to the ethics and morality those folks were trying to instill in me. Some of it likely took. Some of it.

  The grey stone house was nearly the size of the Duchess’ estate. The driveway wound around a few acres of trees before it reached the house. It seemed to be as long as the street on which my Norfolk apartment was located. A man I presumed to be the butler answered the door.

  “May I assist you?” he said formally.

  “The good reverend in?”

  “Reverend Fletcher is not receiving visitors at present. You may come back, but I suggest you call the church and make an appointment.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “You have to make an appointment. Reverend Fletcher does not accept walk-ins,” he insisted.

  “He’s not going to be accepting any appointments in the next few months either,” I said.

  “I think you need to leave.”

  “Not until I see the good preacher,” I said and moved past him into the long hallway.

  “Young woman, you must not enter his home without his permission.”

  “It’s imperative that I see Fletcher. The police and the City Fire Marshall are on their way here at this moment to talk with him and maybe even arrest him. I want to speak with him before they arrive. You can either help me or get out of my way,” I said.

  “Higgins, I will speak with the lady. You are dismissed,” the voice from behind said in a polite tone.

  Higgins walked away from us down the long hallway towards the back of the house. He disappeared.

  “How do you know that the police and City Fire Marshall are headed this way?” Fletcher said.

  “That’s not important. I want to know if you set the fire to your church,” I said.

  “Don’t be absurd. Why would I do such a horrible thing as that?”

  “Let’s try the root of all evil.”

  “You’re going to quote Scripture to me?” he said as he walked through the open doorway of the room behind him.

  I followed. It turned out to be some kind of library and smoking room. There was a faint odor of pleasant smelling pipe tobacco. Some distant memory tried to invade, but I refused to go with it.

  “You asked for a reason, I simply give you one that I thought you might understand. You seem to love money and that is motive enough if the insurance is right.”

  “What is your name again?”

  “Clancy.”

  “Well, Clancy, you need to know that our church takes in about $10,000 each week in offerings and gifts. Some in the collection plate and some through mailed-in donations. Do the math. That’s over five hundred thousand dollars a year. The insurance claim is a one time deal of about two million dollars, maybe three. I can make that up in six years with ease, maybe fewer years with special offerings. This is a veritable gold mine here. And you think I would burn down the golden goose?”

  He packed a small pipe and lit it. The pipe was of the bent-stem variety. From across the room, it seemed to be made of ivory and had a face carved in it. I waited for the aroma to emanate to my part of the room. I did not like this man, but I did like his pipe tobacco. I try to find the good in everybody.

  “Maybe you needed to run, you know, get out of Dodge. Two point something million would get you a nice distance from whatever it is you are running from,” I said.

  “And what is it do you think I would run from?”

  “Murder?”

  “Who did I kill?”

  “How about Melody Legrand?”

  “That was suicide. The police ruled it a suicide. I saw the recording. That was no murder.”

  “If you watched her do it. If you affected her mental abilities, if you somehow forced her to do what the recording shows, then you are complicit in her death.”

  “And what do you base this wild claim upon?”

  “The recording shows a person on the scene watching and seemingly guiding her steps to death.”

  He looked surprised. After placing the ivory-face pipe in the large, wooden ashtray on the lamp table, he rubbed his eyes and face as if trying to make sense of what I had just said.

  I moved closer to where he was sitting.

  “And you think that person was me?”

  “You’re as good as any suspect for now. The fire simply pushes you to the top of my list.”

  “I did not kill Melody. She was to be my wife, my high priestess. I would never kill her. She was God’s gift to me.”

  “I don’t believe she wanted to marry you.”

  “I would have won her over,” he said as if to convince himself. I was not buying it.

  “So why did she leave the church?”

  “I could not marry her after I found out that she was impure,” he said as he retrieved his pipe and puffed away.

  “She was not a virgin, you mean,” I said.

  “More than that. She was pregnant, about six months along.”

  “So you threw her out on the street?”

  “No. I offered to help her, to take care of the expenses of the baby, to put her up in an apartment. I just could not marry her.”

  “But she refused your help,” I said.

  “Adamantly,” he said.

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. I tried to find her, but failed in that. I sent out some people in search, but her friends either refused to help or lied to protect her. At least that’s what they thought they were doing. Apparently, it was not in her best interest. She should have stayed with me. I would have taken care of her.”

  “A concubine kind of relationship, huh reverend?”

  “A priest is not without many relationships,” he said as he puffed. I could feel his arrogance across the room.

  His pipe tobacco did not smell so good to me at the moment.

  “Monogamy not one of your virtues, huh?”

  “A priest in my religion has only one wife. She becomes the high priestess. She bears the children, the prophets who speak for the church. The concubines, as you refer to them, are attendants. Their task is to satisfy the priest.”

  “How convenient for you,” I said.

  “It is all very biblical,” he said as if to justify his theological beliefs. I was thinking it was also a good way to justify one’s sexual deviancy.

  The doorbell rang in the distance. The house was large enough for that affect.

  “Well, your time is up, reverend. Seems that the authorities are here to talk with you. Good luck with answering their questions.”

  “Why do they suspect me in this?” he said, almost in earnest.

  “They found a surveillance video from some place in the neighborhood that had you leaving the church building just before the fire erupted,” I said.

  “I see,” he said and sat back in his chair and puffed away on his hand-carved ivory pipe.

  “It seems that the Egyptians are here for you, Moses,” I said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  He obviously did not get my biblical allusion.

  “Is that Moses carved on the bowl of your pipe?” I said.

  He took it from his mouth, stared at it for a moment
, and then smiled at me.

  “No,” he said. “Close, but wrong Semitic religion.”

  He handed me his still lit pipe for a closer examination. A small, steady stream of smoke wafted its way upward from the bowl I held in my hand. It was the head of a carved bull with smallish horns. Since the horns did not extend higher than the head, it gave the appearance from across the room of a face of a person. The mouth of the bull was agape, as if surprised by the current situation or frozen in a vacant, uncaring position, undisturbed by whatever was happening around it. Intricately carved.

  I handed it back to him and turned to walk out of the room.

  “Cronus” he said to my back. “He is the Carthaginian god of fire.”

  I stopped and turned to look at him. He was puffing on his bull-pipe with gusto. He smiled at me as if to suggest that all was right with the world despite all evidence to the contrary.

  “The god you worship?” I said.

  “The god I represent. I am his servant here on earth now. Something like what Christians refer to as the incarnation. People actually worship me, the human form of Cronus, or Molech.”

  “A pig in a poke.”

  “You insult me,” he said.

  “I try.”

  37

  I was back at Walters’ place, freshly showered after my encounter with Fletcher, and conversing with Rogers regarding the names Cronus and Molech. Molech actually sounded distantly familiar; some long-ago memory wandering into my brain from something overheard back in childhood, or perhaps something I passed over while studying some ancient history long ago in college. It could have been some foggy recollection from that dull and otherwise uninteresting world history class I took in seventh grade. Then again, given the proclivities of my Uncle Walters and his vast knowledge and love for trivial details, it could have well been some remark he made on one of our many field trips. Whatever cloudy remembrance was trying to surface, it was not happening. The dots were not connecting, so I brought in my brain-child Rogers to sort through my muddled maze.

  “What have you gotten yourself into, dearie?” she said in her motherly tone.

  “You tell me.”