Constance’s brain was on a roll and decided to take another shot at connect-the-dots. As she watched the pastor, she flashed back to the day she arrived in town when she and Carmichael had sat in almost this exact spot, talking about Merrie Callahan’s 1975 abduction case. There had been a lone patron at the far end of the counter that day, contemplating a coffee cup with his hands folded in front of him. Now she knew where she had seen the pastor before.
“Great…” She thought to herself. “Here I am in small town hell on Christmas Eve with Sheriff Sherlock, haunted houses, a cheap motel, no sleep, weird emails, and now an OCD preacher who’s stalking me. What did I do this year that was so bad?”
Out of curiosity she decided to press him on his last comment. “Well, since you seem to have an inside scoop on my thoughts, then why don’t you tell me what it is that I’m imagining.”
“As I said, not here,” he replied. “What we need to discuss is too sensitive.”
“I don’t see how saving my soul is all that sensitive, Pastor. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“I, however, have certain information…”
“Information…” Constance repeated the word, allowing the final syllable to linger and eventually become a question in its own right.
“Yes, information,” was all he said.
“Information about what?”
“Why you are here.”
She regarded him carefully for a moment, then dropped her voice another notch. “Are you telling me that you have information about the murders I’m investigating?”
For the first time since their conversation began, he raised his head. He cast a somewhat furtive look to the side, glanced quickly toward her, then returned his gaze to the coffee mug. “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”
“Well, either you do or you don’t,” she told him. “Which is it?”
He finally turned slowly and stared back at her, then said, “It’s somewhat complicated, Special Agent.”
She had to admit that now her curiosity was piqued even more. At the moment, she would certainly welcome a solid lead on this case that didn’t just create more questions, or have her hearing voices and drawing her weapon on errant snowflakes. However, something didn’t seem quite right about the man. The obvious OCD issues notwithstanding, there was something else definitely off-kilter with him, so she still wasn’t convinced that he didn’t have an ulterior motive in mind, and she couldn’t ignore that fact.
Of course, maybe that was just her paranoia talking again. He was a pastor, after all; but then again, that really didn’t matter. Alden Forth had been a minister too, and he killed at least eleven prostitutes in the Denver area over a period of seven years before he was finally caught. Titles didn’t make you innocent. They just gave you something to hide behind if you weren’t.
“Do you have information about these murders, or don’t you?” Constance asked.
“I told you…it’s complicated.”
“Then let’s go across the street to the sheriff’s office,” she suggested. “We can un-complicate it there.”
He didn’t seem agitated by her suggestion, but his objection was succinct. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I am here to help you, not Sheriff Carmichael.”
“In case you missed it, we’re all on the same team.”
“Perhaps, but there is no longer any hope for his soul.”
“I see,” she said with a patronizing nod. “Well, I’ve already told you my soul is just fine the way it is, so I don’t think there’s any hope for mine, either.”
“Special Agent Mandalay, please listen to me. I really think we should go back to your room at the Greenleaf now.”
“I’m confused,” she replied. “You obviously know where I’m staying. If it’s so important that we talk there, then why did you wait until I was here to contact me?”
“Because I needed to be sure.”
“About what?”
“That you were alone.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m still not following you.”
He answered with, “We should go back to your room now.”
She was no longer second-guessing herself. Considering the weird circular conversation thus far, Constance had lost any miniscule amount of faith she might have had in the possibility of an actual lead coming from him. Like the conversation, she had come back around to her original assessment that he was hitting on her, or maybe that he was just a serial confessor or conspiracy theorist. Whichever it was, she was firmly convinced that she had a nutcase on her hands.
“We really should go back to your room now,” the pastor insisted again when she didn’t reply to him immediately. This time his voice was beginning to show the first hints of agitation, and that wasn’t good. When dealing with crazy, you never knew how quickly something like that might escalate.
Constance sent her gaze on a quick roam around the diner. The closest person appeared to be six or seven stools away, down the left side of the counter. On the right, the closest was probably seven or eight away. At the moment everyone appeared to be engaged in their own conversations and not paying a bit of attention to the two of them here at the far end. That was good. There weren’t any other outside influences to antagonize him, and she had a bit of a buffer zone if things suddenly went south and he became physical. However, her hope was to defuse this before it could ever go that far. Talking down a whack job was the last thing she felt up to doing right now, but there were innocent bystanders in the diner and she was on deck, like it or not. She knew the first thing she needed to do was get him out of here and isolated, in case things fell apart and started to turn ugly.
She centered her gaze back on the man and saw that he was mimicking her scan of the room. When he finished, he sighed, then leaned in toward her, “Yes. I see him, just as you do. Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.”
Constance hated hearing that. It seemed like every time she dealt with someone who started spouting scripture in a literal sense, people died.
“Tell you what,” she offered. “Just let me put on my coat and we can go.”
“Yes,” he said. “That would be good.” He glanced about once again and gave a slight nod, as if to implicate everyone else in the room. Then he whispered, “And that they may come to their senses and escape the snare of the devil, having been taken captive by him to do his will.”
“That’s from the Bible, right?” Constance asked, trying to keep him engaged so that he remained focused on her.
“Yes. Second Timothy, chapter two, verse twenty-six,” he replied.
“I’d like to hear more. Just let me get my coat and we can go.”
She kept her eyes on him while reaching back with her left hand and grasping the heavy outer garment. Without warning he reached over and clamped his own hand tightly around her right wrist and pulled, lifting her hand up toward his face.
Without even thinking Constance rotated her forearm and flexed her elbow hard inward while twisting her upper torso. Her wrist instantly snapped free between the weak point where his thumb met the tips of his fingers, and she pulled away. All of her instinct and training dictated that she should follow through and subdue the threat, but she managed to stop herself just short of bringing her left fist around and taking him to the floor. Her hand, however, was tightly clenched; arm cocked and ready to fly.
He sat motionless, his gaze following her right hand as she drew it back. He seemed transfixed by her pink polished fingernails. The look in his eyes was a queer mixture of sadness and terror.
“Too late,” he muttered, then looked up at her and raised his voice. “I’m too late. Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me!”
This was definitely not going according to plan, but then she knew better than to have expected it to. She couldn’t help but notice that the scuffle had now caught the attention of the rest of the patrons in the diner. Conversatio
ns had stopped instantly, bringing a newfound quiet to the room. Within the scope of her peripheral vision she could see that several people were now aiming glances toward the end of the lunch counter where the two of them were sitting.
“Calm down,” Constance instructed the pastor, staying focused on him and watching for any threatening movement. “Everything is okay. Just calm down.”
He shook his head, then exclaimed, “And no wonder! For Satan himself transforms himself into an angel of light.”
With that, the man turned and slowly panned his stare around the room at the rest of the people. Their faces wore expressions that wavered between embarrassment and sorrow. He cleared his throat then dropped his gaze back down to the coffee cup sculpture he had created earlier.
“That’s good… Let’s just stay calm,” Constance told him again. “Everything is okay. We can go talk just like you wanted, okay?”
In reality, she was worried that what had just happened was a minor squall and that his sudden passive state might be the calm before the storm.
“No, Special Agent Mandalay,” he replied quietly. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that… I’m too late…” When he finished speaking he reached up and slipped his hand inside the folds of his topcoat.
“Whoa,” Constance said, her right hand automatically sliding back and easily pulling the bottom of her sweatshirt up to clear her weapon. Her left came forward toward him. “Why don’t you just pull your hand out slowly, and keep both of them where I can see them, okay?”
“No need to worry, Special Agent,” he replied softly. “I am merely reaching for my wallet.” Pastor Reese withdrew his hand from his coat, slowly as he had been instructed, and just like he’d said, it was filled with a black leather rectangle.
As he started unfolding the checkbook style wallet, Stella arrived, looking somewhat embarrassed. She settled a plate of pancakes onto the counter and then put a smaller dish containing eggs and bacon alongside. She glanced at Constance, then at the man.
“Put your money away, Pastor,” she told him. “You know the coffee is always on the house for you.”
He ignored her and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, which he then placed next to his cup while saying, “This should cover Special Agent Mandalay’s breakfast. Keep the change for yourself, Stella.”
Constance began to object. “I’m afraid that…”
“I insist,” he replied, cutting her off. Then he brought his eyes up to meet hers once again. A look of apology creased his features, and when he spoke his voice was filled with what sounded to be sincere compassion. “When an evil spirit comes out of a man, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it… I’m sorry I was too late to save you, Special Agent Mandalay… So very sorry…”
He fell silent again as he carefully placed the wallet back inside his coat. Then, turning deliberately on the stool, he stood up and walked to the door. Once there, he looked back, and as if nothing had transpired, he smiled, then called out, “Merry Christmas, everyone.”
With that, he left. The bell above the entrance rang out a double chime as the door opened and then closed in his wake. Constance stood and stepped over to the doors, watching him through an unfogged section of the glass. He climbed into a familiar looking four-door sedan, then slowly backed it out and drove away.
When she turned and came back to the counter, Stella was still there. The waitress shook her head and looked at her with what actually seemed like mild compassion for a change.
“I’m sorry about that,” Stella apologized. “I’ve never seen him get so worked up. He usually just recites a few Bible verses and then goes on his way. He doesn’t really bother anyone. We’re all sorta used to it.”
Constance shook her head. “I guess I’m just the lucky one.”
Stella continued, “He’s harmless. I really think he’s just lonely.”
“What about his congregation?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
Constance shot her a puzzle look. “You mean nobody at all comes to his church?”
“Oh, he doesn’t have a church, ma’am. He’s not even a real minister.”
CHAPTER 19
CONSTANCE pulled the double layer of wool scarf down from her face while she waited at the front counter. She’d only had to walk a short distance across the street to get from the diner to the sheriff’s office, but the icy wind already seemed to be more brutal than it had been just an hour ago.
Clovis looked up when she came in, making eye contact and nodding to acknowledge her presence. She was currently occupied with the phone pressed up against her ear.
“Yes, yes I know,” she said into the handset. She listened for a minute, then looked up at Constance again and made a quick motion with her hand to indicate that the person at the other end of the line was a rambling talker. Eventually, she said, “Okay… Well, thanks so much for letting me know… I’ll send someone over to check… Yes… Yes… I will… You too… Bye…”
Once she had managed to hang up the phone she let out a quick sigh and shook her head, then turned her attention to the counter. “Good morning, Special Agent Mandalay. Sorry about that.” Her tone was businesslike, but she came across somewhat less standoffish than she had on the first day they’d met.
“No problem,” Constance replied. “Good morning, Clovis.”
“What can I do for you today?” the woman asked.
Constance looked past her to the darkened office windows on the back wall of the room. “I take it Sheriff Carmichael isn’t in yet today?”
“Been here and gone already,” Clovis answered. “He started early because of the snow. He’s out running a few errands right now.”
“Do you happen to know when he will be back?”
The woman shook her head. “Not for sure, but I can try to get him on the radio if you’d like.”
“Hmm…” Constance hummed thoughtfully for a moment before shaking her head and saying, “No, that’s okay. I just wanted to check in with him about the surveillance tonight.”
She nodded. “He mentioned that before he left.”
“To be honest, I’ve actually got a few things I need to take care of myself, so I’ll be tied up all day,” Constance told her. “When you speak to him, could you do me a favor and just let him know that I’ll meet up with him here this evening?”
“Sure, I can do that. Any particular time, or does he already know?”
The petite federal agent clucked her tongue then grimaced. “I’m not exactly sure on that just yet.”
“That’s okay,” Clovis replied. She glanced over her shoulder. When she looked back, her lips had arched into a tight frown, and it seemed as if the color had drained from her cheeks. The pained expression that resulted easily tacked ten years onto her face. With a heavy sigh she said, “It’s Christmas Eve. He’ll be right here waiting. He always is.”
“Yeah…” Constance muttered, not quite sure what else to say. “I imagine he is.”
Clovis fiddled with her hands for a moment, looking down at them as if lost in thought. Her face eventually began to soften, allowing a blush of life to return. Finally, she looked up and asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Special Agent Mandalay?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Constance replied, giving her gloved fingers a soft drum on the edge of the counter. “Thank you very much though.”
“No problem at all. Stay warm out there.”
“I’m definitely trying.” Constance reached up and began tugging at her scarf in order to pull it back around her face. She was just hooking it over the bridge of her nose when she furrowed her brow and pulled the fabric back down. “You know, there might be one other thing you can help me with…”
“Pastor Reese?” Clovis replied.
Constance froze for a second and cocked a questioning eyebrow, but her brain was already doing the math. “Ahh… That was Stella on the phone when I walked in…”
Clovis nodded.
“That
was quick, but then I suppose I shouldn’t be all that surprised,” Constance said.
“She saw you walking over here and wanted to make sure we knew what had happened in case you were going to file a complaint.”
“Well… An official complaint really wasn’t my plan. If it was I would have arrested him myself.
“I actually told her that.”
Constance canted her head to the side. “Although, it might bear mentioning that he did voluntarily confess to stalking me.”
Clovis gave her another nod. “I’m sure. If it’s any consolation, it’s not the first time. He followed all of the other FBI agents too.”
“Really…” Constance allowed her voice to trail off as her brow dipped and creased of its own volition. Here was yet another thing that hadn’t been mentioned in the official case file. “Were there any altercations?”
“None that I’m aware of,” she replied. “I know that he did speak to each of them, but that was about it as far as I know. From what Stella said he was quite a bit more wound up with you. Sort of pushy.”
“Just a bit…” Constance said with a nod. “Maybe he didn’t perceive me as intimidating since I’m female, so he thought he could get away with it.”
“I suppose that could be,” Clovis replied, pausing for a moment before adding, “Honestly, he’s harmless. He’s just addled in the head. Has been for years. He goes off his medication now and then, but he’s never hurt or threatened anyone.”
“I see…” Constance cocked her head to the side as she digested the new information. “So what’s the problem? Some sort of dementia?”
“Seems like it. Nobody’s really sure. One day he just snapped, more or less. He spent some time in the hospital over in Mais…” she shrugged. “Poor man. He never recovered from it. His wife couldn’t take it. She tried for a while, but she finally divorced him and moved away.”
In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel Page 19