He lit up a cigarette. Puffing away, tapping his foot, and occasionally glancing at his watch, Monahan waited for a good ten minutes before taking a cell phone out of his coat and dialing a number. He waited, not speaking, taking another drag, but then a blue Ford Expedition as big as a small bus rolled into the lot and Monahan, straightening noticeably, shoved the phone back in his pocket. The Expedition had tinted windows, hiding whoever was inside. When the Expedition parked, Monahan stubbed out his cigarette and marched over to it.
From his angle, Gage could not see the driver, but he had a clear view of Monahan, who was clearly not pleased. Leaning against the roof on the driver's side, he spoke at length, pointing forcefully at the driver. Monahan listened, shook his head, listened some more, then shook his head even more vigorously. The man inside handed him a white envelope, which Monahan snatched away and shoved into his coat. With a final remark, Monahan marched back to the senior center, shaking his head the whole way.
This looked promising. After Monahan disappeared, the Expedition rolled out of the parking lot and Gage followed. There was a chance it just one of Monahan's yard service customers, someone behind on their payments, but Gage didn't think they'd be meeting late at night outside the senior center if that was the case.
The Expedition drove east through town. Traffic had thinned considerably, so Gage had to stay quite a ways back so as not arouse suspicion. He left the radio off, the roaring dashboard fans keeping him company. They left the city limits. Lewiston, located as it was in the valley of the Snake River, had been surprisingly sparse of trees, but they were back in full force now; pines and firs grew densely right to the highway's edge. No stars.
Soon it was just Gage and the Expedition, so he hung back far enough that the Expedition's tail lights were as small as cigarette flares in his frosted front window. They hadn't gone far, about ten miles, when the Expedition took an exit marked with a sign that read "Cone Valley, 3 Miles." Slowing a little, giving his target time to get ahead of him, Gage took the same turn. The exit curved over a creek until it reached a junction. Cone Valley was to the right, but he just caught sight of the Expedition winding around the corner to the left, disappearing into the trees.
Gage knew he'd have to risk getting closer. He hurried around the next few corners, not seeing the tail lights, and finally caught up with the Expedition just as it was turning onto a gravel road. There were houses around them now, some close to the road, some tucked into the trees, all with plenty of forested land. At the gravel road was a large wooden sign—Sunny Forest Summer Camp, painted in a rainbow of colors, and beneath them in smaller text, Church of His Savior's Grace.
It couldn't have been a very big camp, because Gage could see only a handful of outbuildings not far from the main road, where the Expedition was already parking. A barn. A fenced-in pasture. A tiny duck pond. The whole deal was rimmed by pine trees. There were half a dozen other cars in the gravel parking lot outside the biggest of the buildings, an A-frame lodge attached to a larger rectangular building. The A-frame was the only one that was lighted.
Gage didn't want to risk driving into the camp itself, so he puttered past until he reached an unmarked logging road. He turned onto it, driving just far enough that he wouldn't be visible from the main road, then pulled into the trees. After buttoning his leather jacket and slipping on his fedora, he headed out on foot.
They were up higher and the air was thinner, but it was also surprisingly warmer than in the valley. The richness of the air—the pungent scent of pine, the rich odor of wet, fecund earth—was invigorating after spending all day in the Corolla. His right knee ached after only a few steps, however, so he doubled back and retrieved his cane. One of these days he'd stop worrying about his pride.
There was no wind. No cars. Rather than come in through the front drive, where he would likely be spotted, he struggled over a waist-high wooden fence and approached the main lodge from the other side of the pasture and the duck pond. The hard ground was uneven, the hazards hard to see because of how far he was from the lodge and any light. Even with his cane, he stumbled several times.
A dozen cars were parked out front, including the Expedition. As he closed in on the building, conscious of the crunch of his shoes on the frozen ground, he walked with more care. He was nearly there when a pair of headlights appeared at the gate, and he hustled until he was past the corner and out of sight.
He waited, back pressed against the cold wood siding, until the car parked and footsteps crunched on gravel. He heard voices, two men, and then they were in the building.
On this side of the building, there were three windows, all lighted, his view obscured in all three cases by blinds. He edged close to the first window, but try as he might, he couldn't see anything other than a tiny bit of thin blue carpet. Cupping his ear to the glass, he couldn't hear anything either. The second window was the same. With the third window, he got lucky. It was still blocked by blinds, but someone had cracked it open. He heard voices. He leaned close to the screen, the thin metal wires pressing against his ear, and he could just make out what they were saying.
". . . wanted Job to carry out his instructions," a man with a hoarse voice was saying. "If he's all-knowing, then God knew all along what Job would do. But Job didn't. So it was for Job's benefit, not God's."
There were murmurs of ascent—far more than a dozen. Obviously people carpooled. They must have been environmentally conscious. Maybe it was a secret Sierra Club meeting and the Bible stuff was just to throw off all the shadowy oil companies.
"So let's turn to the next passage," the man said, "Deuteronomy 13:12. Last week, we touched ever so briefly on the dangers of worshipping false gods, and I'd like us to expand on that more tonight. Charles, would you like to read this passage aloud?"
Charles did. Gage listened another ten minutes, but he didn't hear anything that made him think it was anything other than what it appeared to be—a men's Bible study group. Maybe it was one of those male bonding things where they danced around a campfire, held hands, and howled at the moon.
Yet Gage instincts told him there was something more going on here. Had he found the headquarters of the God's Wrath cult, or at least one of the splinter groups, housed at this little Idaho summer camp in the middle of nowhere? It seemed unlikely, but what would be a likely place? A massive compound would draw the FBI, Homeland Security, and other law enforcement types like bees to honey.
Gage crept along the wall until he reached the adjoining rectangular building, trying all the dark windows to see if any had been left unlocked. None had. A pair of heavy double oak doors into what was most likely the mess hall were locked with a thick dead bolt. The far side of the building, the farthest from the meeting on the other end, did contain moss-coated steps down to a basement door. This door was locked too, but it also looked thinner and more fragile than the others.
Banging against it like a mad buffalo was out of the question. The doorknob was so flimsy, however, that Gage suspected that a little pressure applied with his cane just might get it to slip open. The space between the concrete wall and the door was narrower than his cane, allowing him to brace it, at an angle, against the knob and the wall. Now, if he put his weight on the cane, the door might just pop open without a lot of fuss. This was where having a cane made of solid oak rather than a flimsy composite really came in handy. He wondered if Mrs. Monahan might benefit from this tip.
It took four tries, each attempt louder than he would have liked, but eventually the door popped open. He found himself in a musty, barren basement, dark except for the light slanting through high, mud-caked windows. Beyond stacks of old gray lumber, empty cardboard boxes, a refrigerator crate, a rusty lawn mower, several cans of gasoline, and a humming freezer, there were wooden stairs. There was also a light bulb attached to a chain, but Gage didn't dare turn on the light. He eased the door closed behind him and used his cane like a blind man's walking stick, feeling his way.
The stairs creaked like
they were crying out in pain, forcing him to take them slow. The door at the top was unlocked. He crept into a long hallway lined with orange doors, a faint nightlight in an open bathroom at the end of the hall allowing him to see. He heard baseboard heaters humming in the rooms, but the hall itself was cool and smelled of whatever mint-scented disinfectant they used in the bathroom. On the doors were silver nametags engraved with titles: Camp Director, Activities Coordinator, Camp Nurse, others. All the doors were unlocked, but he didn't find anything but camp literature and first aid material.
Maybe he'd come a long way for nothing.
The last door, at the end of the hall, was a small library—wall-to-wall mahogany shelving loaded with books. A single reading table was situated in the middle, surrounded by four orange plastic chairs. Since there were no outside windows, he decided to risk turning on the lights. The collection was what he would have expected at a boy's and girl's camp, mostly religious nonfiction but also Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Little House on the Prairie, and the Chronicles of Narnia. There were books on Creationism, the Middle East, and on the Christian heritage of the founding fathers.
There was one shelf, high up, whose contents did surprise him. He saw Loren Sparrow's books. Christopher Hitchens. There was Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses. Huckleberry Finn. The Catcher in the Rye. Carl Sagan's Cosmos. There were dozens of other books he would have considered unlikely to find in a Christian fundamentalist camp, all sandwiched together up high as if the church didn't really want anyone to read them. And it was because Gage was leaning close to these books, scanning their titles, that he noticed a peculiar draft.
Cool, musty air vented from the space above the books. There was no mistaking it. Gage leaned close, inhaling deeply. The air definitely smelled different. Dank. Slightly moldy.
His pulse quickening, Gage felt around the edges of the bookshelf, but it was wedged in between two others fairly tightly. Was he crazy? This was the sort of thing he expected to see in conspiracy movies and cold war spy novels that bore little resemblance to the real world. He knew he was letting his excitement get the better of his judgment, because the odds of there really, truly being a hidden room behind the bookshelves were practically zero.
Still, he tried moving the books. He tried tapping on the shelves. Nothing worked.
Until he tried the bookshelf next to the one where the musty air was emanating.
The button, discoverable only by touch, was behind a weighty Latin dictionary. When Gage pushed, there was a loud click and he felt the other bookshelf, the one with the musty air, tremble. He pushed and it slid inward. Shaking his head in disbelief, he pushed it all the way in, the shelf sliding silently on tracks until there was a gap wide enough for him to squeeze past.
There was a lamp on a white table whose legs had been carved to resemble a lion's feet. He flicked a switch and a soft yellow glow illuminated wooden steps leading down into another basement. He took the steps slow, the whole thing feeling surreal, a little voice inside his head screaming to turn back—get to the nearest phone, call the police, the FBI, the press, anyone who would come.
But what would he tell them? He'd found a secret room in a summer church camp? What did that prove?
The walls were bare concrete. A concrete floor at the bottom. A narrow hall led to another door, a big thick metal one he was afraid would be locked. It wasn't. He entered a dark room, found a light switch, and then marveled at what the light revealed.
It was a war room.
That was the first thing that came to mind when he saw all the maps of different regions of the United States on the walls, all the thick black binders in the metal shelving units, the rack of shotguns, handguns, and crossbows, the color-coded chart with people's names listed on them. The place smelled faintly of cigars. There were wooden chairs gathered around metal tables, and the tables themselves were littered with computer print-outs and handwritten notes. There were heavy metal cabinets. There were pictures on the walls—and he felt a chill when saw that they were various politicians, authors, and entertainers.
Loren Sparrow was among them.
Gage stepped close to Sparrow's photo, squinting at the tiny text printed at the bottom. He hadn't read a word when he heard a scratching sound behind him, like the soles of shoes skidding on the floor.
Chapter 18
"Easy now," a man said. "Turn around real slow, hands where I can see them."
Even before he turned, Gage was fairly certain he knew who it was, despite never having heard the man's voice before. It had that high, nasal quality he'd expected based on the man's sleight stature and narrow face. Any thought Gage had of reaching for his Beretta vanished when he heard the man cock his gun.
"Do it," the man said.
Sure enough, when Gage turned—slowly, with hands raised—it was Ryan Monahan standing there in the doorway, dressed in the same black trench coat he'd been wearing when he dropped ma off for a night of bingo. Monahan was pointing a .58 Smith and Wesson special at the middle of Gage's chest. Even more disappointingly, Monahan looked like he knew how to use it.
Now seeing Gage from the front, Monahan's ferret eyes widened in surprise.
"You," he said.
"Me," Gage said.
"Saw your face on TV," Monahan said. "You're the private investigator that bitch was seeing."
"And you're the guy who cut her throat," Gage said.
"Nope," Monahan said. "I perform God's will in other ways. I leave some of the . . . gritty stuff to my partner." He turned his head slightly, keeping Gage in his line of sight. "Wall! Get your ass down here!"
There were footsteps on the stairs—big footsteps. Waiting, gun never wavering from Gage's chest, Monahan sneered. Gage, even as his heart did double-time, tried to keep calm as he considered his options. There weren't many. Monahan, an expert marksman, had him at point blank range. More to the point, he'd just flat out admitted he'd killed Angela. He wouldn't have done that if he was planning on inviting Gage to this year's New Year's Eve party.
The not-so-jolly, no-so-green giant hulked his way into the room. He wore a faded blue parka, one that was too small even though Gage couldn't imagine a bigger one, and gray sweatpants with holes in the knee. Even the knee was hairy. His eyes had the glassy quality of someone who'd just been woken from a nap.
"Wall?" Gage said. "Really?"
The big man frowned. At least Gage thought he did. It was hard to see his face in that carpet of black hair.
"That's your name?" Gage said.
"Shut up," Monahan said.
"It's just—it's so obviously fitting," Gage said. "Too obviously, really. Did you choose it or were you born with it? You could have gone the ironic route. You know, like 'John Little' in Robin Hood. But Wall? Wow, that's really something."
"I told you to shut your mouth!" Monahan said.
Gage stopped, not because he was heeding Monahan but because he couldn't think of anything else witty to say. He had the sense that anything he could do to delay the inevitable was worth doing, because the inevitable probably involved the same nasty stuff that Wall had inflicted upon Angela
"You got the tape?" Monahan asked Wall.
Wall turned over his palm and revealed a roll of gray duct tape. Gage hadn't been aware he'd been holding anything, since Wall's huge hand had completely engulfed the tape.
"Good," Monahan said. Boy. That was the word Gage heard Monahan add in his head, which was exactly how he'd said it—like a compliment to a dog.
"This isn't very Christian of you," Gage said, "pointing a gun at me like this."
"Shut the fuck up," Monahan said.
"Profanity isn't very Christian either."
"Don't lecture me about Christianity. Nobody tells me what's in the Bible. I know what's in there. I know what matters."
"Thou shalt not kill," Gage said. "How about that one?"
"You fool," Monahan said. "We are in a new Crusades. Don't you know that? We are warriors of the truth. God forgives my many
lapses because I am in a holy battle."
"Do you get seventy-two virgins when you get to heaven?"
"What?"
"Because that's what Muslim martyrs get. If you're not at least getting that, God gave you a raw deal."
Monahan, after staring at Gage intently for a few seconds, shook his head with a violent twitch. He motioned at Gage with his gun. "Wall, put him in that folding chair. Tape him up."
"Sorry," Gage said, "I'm really not into the kinky stuff."
Wall, like a coming tsunami, advanced toward Gage. His flat expression didn't change. He was so unresponsive he could have been a mannequin—if they made seven-foot-tall, hairy mannequins. He grabbed one of the folding chairs and slid it into Gage's legs from behind, forcing Gage to collapse into it. Gage started to go for his Beretta, but Monahan clipped him on the forehead before he had a chance, and, while Gage was reeling, groped inside Gage's jacket and retrieved the gun.
"The only reason I don't shoot you now is the Brothers wouldn't like it," Monahan said.
The room was tilting, the colors washing out, Gage's head pulsing as if his heart had climbed into his skull. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, staring up defiantly at Monahan. Gage hadn't been hit like that in quite a while. He couldn't say he liked it any more than the last time.
Wall wrenched Gage's hands behind the back of the chair. While Monahan trained his pistol on Gage, Wall bound Gage to the chair with tape, circling his chest a half dozen times before tying his wrists together. Even dizzy, Gage still had the presence of mind to flex his muscles—making his body as big as possible, allowing room for some give. An old Houdini trick.
"How'd you know I was here?" Gage asked.
"Saw you at the senior center," Monahan said.
A Desperate Place for Dying Page 20