Girls In White Dresses: A Detective London McKenna Novel

by Alex Gates

  A single man led the girls. Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a heavy work coat, coveralls, and boots. His knit hat and scarf bundled over his face. He didn’t need to speak. The women just followed. He pointed. They walked. He tensed. They quieted.

  What the hell was this?

  The man gathered them behind the van and gestured, marching them off of the road and into the graveyard. The women obediently followed, except for the smallest in the group.

  She turned and looked at me.

  For some reason…my heart sank.

  The little girl was a doll. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pink cheeks. She couldn’t have been older than ten. She followed, surrounded by the pregnant women. They held her shoulders. Offered everyone tissues.

  And, above all else, stayed silent as they walked through the cemetery—

  Directly towards Nina Martin’s grave.

  Maybe they had the answers I needed.

  Or maybe they’d answer some new ones.

  I tugged a pair of leather gloves over my hand, grimacing as it squeezed the cut. The zipper on my jacket pinched into my neck, but at least it kept the wind at bay as I burst into the cold after the girls.

  The skirts marched in obedient strides after the man, pausing only to help the pregnant ones over an icy patch between the path and grass. They diverted towards the fresh grave, held hands as they approached, and stood in silence, waiting as the groundskeepers backed away to give them a moment of peace.

  I wasn’t as courteous.

  They huddled closer together, watching my every step while pretending to bow their heads in honor of the grave. Good thing God didn’t mind people peeking during their prayers. At least, I assumed he didn’t. Wouldn’t have set well with these girls. They seemed…religious.

  Their clothes gave them away. All handmade, every last piece. Skirts. Jackets. Hats. The clothing was either wool and stitched or knitted and woven. Even their shoes appeared to be hand-crafted—leather heeled boots. Practical for the winter and almost fashionable in a chic-retro way.

  If any of them knew what retro was. These girls were so damn young, especially the pregnant ones. The oldest looked to be about sixteen. The youngest? Ten? Maybe?

  I had no idea what was happening here, but I didn’t like the way their driver loomed over them. He raised a hand to the girls. None of them flinched, but that didn’t mean they weren’t terrified.

  “Say your prayers.” The man told them. He stepped between me and the group, letting the full foot of height he had on me speak louder than his words. “Now.”

  I tucked my hands in my pockets to reach for my badge. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need its persuasion. “Hello, there. The funeral is over. You’re late.”

  “Never too late to pay respects.” He said the words, but I didn’t know if he meant them. Not with a face like his—weather-worn and stark. Like he worked outside and stared for far too long into the sun, deadening his gaze.

  He was too old to be with these girls, but I didn’t feel like he was a father to them. Grey hairs sprinkled through his eyebrows and beard. Had he removed his knit hat, I doubted much of that hair would have been immune to the aging silver. The deep lines in his face matched a solid build. He seemed to be a man who worked with his hands, outdoors. Probably harder than he should have worked as he seemed to favor his right knee.

  He wasn’t handsome. Wasn’t ugly. But something twisted in my gut. That hardness in his jaw. The bushy furrow of his brow. He studied me as intensely as I studied him.

  Except he angled himself between me and the girls.

  Like he was protecting them.

  Or hiding them.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  His voice sounded sun-burnt. Raspy, as if perpetually clogged with dust. “If you don’t mind, we’re here to mourn.”

  He didn’t realize how helpful that was. “Oh. Did you know Nina?”

  He offered me nothing else.

  I sidestepped him, addressing the girls. “Did any of you know Nina?”

  Their prayers stopped, and the youngest grabbed the hand of a pregnant brunette. The tension thickened, and these girls—all around the same age as Nina—went eerily still for a group of teenagers.

  I didn’t like being ignored.

  “Leave us,” the man said. “Have you no decency?”

  “Ask the one who put her in the ground.” I flashed my badge. “I’m the detective in charge of her missing person’s case.” Now a homicide, but I wouldn’t tell them I’d surrendered my files to Falconi and Riley. “I’d like to ask you a couple questions.”

  My challenge must have irritated him. His eye twitched, and I got the distinct impression he was used to talking to the little ones cowering behind him.

  “We need to pray now,” he said.

  “This won’t take long. Did you know Nina well?”

  “Ma’am.” The respect seemed foreign to him. “I want a moment with the grave. Leave us.”

  Absolutely not. “Did you have any contact with Nina in the past three weeks?”

  “I won’t ask again.”

  “Funny. I will.” I smiled, slicing through his dismissal. “Best to answer my questions now. Easier for everyone…unless you’d like to speak at the station?”

  The man didn’t have to turn to gain the girls’ attention. “Go back to the van. God will hear our prayers just as loudly at our chapel as he will here.”

  Oh, hell no.

  I stepped between them and the path, blocking the girl who appeared to be the oldest in the group. She waddled, her belly ready to pop any minute. Poor kid. I hated seeing girls in trouble like this.

  “When was the last time you saw Nina?” I asked her. “Any information can help us in the investigation.”

  She stilled, absolutely rigid, so panicked I feared her water had broken. Her eyes widened—tired, but sharp enough to look past me to the man commanding the others.

  I hated that. Always had. Working patrol for five years and dealing with the family crisis and sexual assault cases had hardened me to domestic violence issues. It was never their fault, but even broken, bleeding, and terrified, most women couldn’t meet my gaze. They looked only to the person who had hurt them, as if asking permission to speak the truth.

  The brunette clutched at her belly. Protecting the baby?

  I called to her, my voice gentle. “You might have known her as Rachel.”

  Her breath caught in a choked acknowledgement, but she slammed her mouth shut before speaking. Her eyes diverted to the ground.

  Damn it.

  “I need information on Rachel Goodman.” I turned, waiting to see if the name struck anyone else as profoundly. Every girl flinched. “You know she’s dead. You know she was murdered. I need to know about the man who was with her.” My eyes narrowed on their self-appointed chaperone. “You’d know him as Jonah Goodman. He’s dead too.”

  The youngest girl began to sob. The others rushed to her aid—brushing at her hair, rubbing her shoulders, comforting her in every way save for actually speaking.

  Nothing about the display reassured me. Something was wrong here.

  I knelt before the young one, looking up into a face bright with youth, hope, and innocence. Eyes so blue a jeweler would have tried to set them in a white gold band. She was a beautiful girl.

  The man guarded her most of all.

  “Did you know Rachel, sweetheart?” I gave her a smile. “Were you friends?”

  The man barged between us, his scowl darker than mourning. “We’re here to pay our respects. Don’t interrogate us at the edge of a grave. Especially since they’re in delicate conditions.”

  Delicate. Yeah. I lowered my voice, letting the accusation hang. “They’re a little young to be pregnant.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “And a condom works ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  That thought seemed to disgust him more than standing over the grave of a child. “You would insult God’s wi
ll?”

  “With all apologies to God, he’s not giving me answers about the deceased. These girls can.”

  “They’re not answering your questions.”

  “You don’t speak for them.”

  His hiss warned, the moment before a strike. The air puffed from his mouth like he’d spit fire.

  “Forget you ever saw them, Detective.” He waved a hand. “Girls. Van. Now.”

  The group hurried away, even the pregnant ones shuffling too quickly for their condition. The man prevented me from following too closely.

  That was fine. I’d yell.

  “Where’s the baby?”

  The words hung in lifeless silence. The eavesdropping dead, buried in the graves, listened hard enough to crackle the frost.

  “Rachel was preparing her apartment for a baby. An older one. Maybe six months to a year old. The baby wasn’t with her when she died. In fact, she had never been in the apartment. So, I’m asking all of you—where is the baby?”

  The oldest girl broke the quiet, but she didn’t offer me any answers.

  She prayed for them.

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

  Goddamn it. “I need to find the baby. I can’t save Rachel now, but I can help Rebecca.”

  “—Your will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

  A second girl chanted with her. She encouraged the youngest to join. Cold and terrified, her lips moved, but no sound emerged.

  I showed them the badge again. “I’m a detective. I’m only trying to help.”

  “Lead us not into temptation…”

  The man knew better than to lay a hand on me, but he pressed his luck right up to my face. Only a night in a lonely cell might have wiped that sneer away, and I begged him to give me a reason.

  “We’re not answering any questions, Detective. And if you continue to harass us, I’ll take your badge number and lodge a complaint with your commanding officer.”

  He wouldn’t be the first.

  And it wouldn’t stop me.

  Everything about this man set me on edge. His gaze was a creeping prickle, his voice a self-righteous commandment that’d sooner create cement shoes than chisel stone tablets for those who doubted his authority. The girls’ prayers, their clothes, their crying…

  The pregnancies.

  I’d unwittingly stumbled into something far bigger than Nina Martin and Jonah Goodman, and the implications soured my stomach. I felt their fear. A consuming, familiar memory.

  They weren’t afraid of disappointing the man.

  They dreaded what might happen if they disobeyed him.

  “Fine.” I held my hands up, edging away from the man and towards the littlest girl

  Her coat had fallen open, and the scarf fluttered in the wind. I gave her a smile before tightening her buttons and rewrapping the material over her shoulders.

  And, with an imperceptible flick of my wrist, I tucked my business card inside her pocket.

  The girl had to keep it safe. She did well, not looking into the jacket where it sat.

  Good. I didn’t trust the man to act rationally if he found my phone number.

  I stood again as the girls clustered around her and led her away. My attention refocused on the man. I straightened. It didn’t impress him. Something told me he only respected a woman when she laid flat on her back, and even then, it was a passing amusement, not genuine admiration.

  “What’s your name?” I asked. “I’d like to contact you once your…family is out of mourning.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Let me see your ID.”

  “You have no cause or suspicion to see it, Detective.”

  He knew his rights. I couldn’t fault that, even if it made my job harder. But it did nothing to sate my curiosity. His refusal baited me to pounce. If he was lucky, I’d sheath my claws.

  “A girl is dead. Her child is missing. I’m going to find out why.”

  “May God have mercy on her…” His words lowered. “And may he protect you, Detective.”

  I tilted my head. “Do I have cause to worry?”

  He smiled.

  Then turned and followed his brood of little women.

  Frustration tasted like copper, or maybe that was from me biting my cheek to silence myself. I couldn’t stop them from leaving, but nothing precluded me from following as they returned to their vehicle.

  A white Dodge Caravan.

  …With a license plate beginning with GP.

  Maybe Nina couldn’t help me now, but that van would.

  I scribbled the rest of the plate down and rushed to my car.

  Was this the same van Louisa saw?

  I didn’t want to roll on the the chances of that…

  But those girls knew Rachel Goodman. They knew why she’d died. They knew where the baby was.

  I threw myself into my car, diving for the laptop on the passenger seat. The scribble of paper crunched in my hand as I ripped off my gloves with my teeth and logged into the database. My fingers hadn’t warmed yet, so I slammed each key into place as I typed in the plate.

  The results appeared instantly.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  The van belonged to Jacob Goodman.

  10

  What will you tell them about me, London?

  You know they’ll never believe you.

  -Him

  Anna Prescott’s kidnapping was a fifteen-year-old cold case.

  How the hell did she wind up in the middle of a double murder-suicide investigation?

  I had no idea what Anna Prescott, Nina Martin, and the Goodmans had in common, but I’d demand answers from God himself if it helped solve this mystery.

  Fortunately, I had the opportunity.

  The Goodmans had their own personal connection to the Lord. And their charity pledged to do His good works across the state.

  Harvest Dominion Farm tucked itself within the National Forest of the Alleghenies, shadowed by mountains, hidden behind pristine streams, and practically inaccessible by any vehicle not equipped with four-wheel drive.

  Legally, they owned two hundred acres. Some of the land had been cleared and tilled for modest fields, livestock pens, and greenhouses, it retained many of the original trees. The forest protected it from the few roads passing through the county.

  The handful of reports I could pull on the charity mentioned that it catered to troubled, Christian youths. Lots of children. No CPS calls. No police reports.

  Trouble always seemed to find me, but what sort of insanity lived on this farm?

  Harvest Dominion wasn’t just a shelter. The Goodmans had built a miniature compound on their property. My Crown Vic bounced along a packed dirt road towards the impromptu town square. A gazebo marked the center of the residential area, with a multi-colored playground hidden behind a little parkette. Enough for a handful of kids to play between bushes and fruit trees.

  A dozen or more cottages, almost Mennonite in structure, nestled within the acres of cleared pastures. The small, wood framed homes were painted bright and pastel, neatly finished with vibrantly white trim. They might have been only two or three bedrooms, but the footprint stayed tiny, as if it were expected that most of the residents’ time would be spent outdoors on the farm.

  The sheltered community seemed picturesque. Covered porches welcomed visitors from off the “road,” though I doubted anyone not-related to the family or charity had ever visited. Puffs of pleasant smoke coiled from chimneys, and the sharp peaked roofs dazzled with hanging icicles. Each home had a different colored door—charmingly quaint and yet…

  It was a shell of normalcy. A shadow of something sweet and wholesome, hidden from the world miles off the main road and surrounded by a row of trees that penned everything—and everyone—inside.

  I parked next to a fire-engine red pick-up truck, caked in mud.

  Looked just like the one I’d observed outside of the cottage where we’d discovered Cora and Jonah�
��s bodies. Hardly felt like a coincidence now.

  Despite the fresh snow, someone had cleared the sidewalks leading to and from the homes. A bare path stretched from the houses, around the larger buildings, and towards the fields, pastures, chicken coops, and oversized barn.

  Solar panels attached to every home and structure and lined the entire roof of their barn. In the distance, a row of wind turbines patrolled the far field. I didn’t have to guess—in this area, the farm must have used well-water and septic for their needs.

  Either the Goodmans were some of the most environmentally conscious farmers in the region…

  Or they found a perfect opportunity to stay off the grid.

  While twelve smaller homes were built around the path—a thirteenth and fourteenth’s foundations already poured—the largest and grandest structure occupied the center of the town. The steeple pointed high into the air, visible from every inch of the farm courtesy of an ivory-tinted cross. The gardens sparkled under a layer of snow, and the patterned, stone steps welcomed all into the only mason-brick building on the farm.

  Some questions might have been answered inside, but not the ones I needed. I’d bestow that honor on the grand house seated in a position of power next to the church. Larger than the others. Ornate even in its simplicity. The porch wrapped around plantation style, but I doubted I’d be welcomed inside.

  Nothing in this place felt right.

  Curtains moved in the cottage windows. Children peeked from behind glass that immediately fogged with their breath.

  So. Many. Kids.

  Little girls and boys darted window to window until abruptly pulled away by what I assumed were a mother’s cautious hands. Older children, upwards of eight or nine, tended to their chores across the fields with cautious glances towards me and my car. The boys shoveled snow. The girls abandoned the chickens and ran home.

  Five older girls—possibly old enough to be women—carried crafting supplies from a cottage to the chapel. Rolls of toile, candles, table cloths, material. A handful of younger kids followed, hauling white chairs decorated with tissue paper.

  Not the black I expected for a mourning ceremony.

  More like…a party?

  A wedding?