Grounds to Believe

by Shelley Bates

  Julia had a sudden vision of Alma Woods ladling soup at the homeless shelter—and withholding bowls from people who couldn’t tell her why they weren’t working. Or of Madeleine, cool and lovely, trying to talk an anorexic teenager out of slitting her wrists. Impossible. The Elect decried the fact that there were homeless and troubled people in a world overrun by the minions of Satan. People in need could come to the Elect, but the Elect could never go to them. It would look like you were grabbing for attention, doing something so unusual. “Come out from among them and be ye separate,” the Bible said.

  She wondered what would happen if she organized the young people for a Friday night of sorting cans at the food bank, instead of going to someone’s house, playing parlor games that had been in vogue at the turn of the century and filling up on a potluck supper.

  Impossible. The Shepherd would be coming for a Visit before you could say “in this world, but not of it.”

  Ross glanced up at her. “No, huh?”

  She shook her head.

  “So you live a life of self-denial, and everybody watches each other to make sure no one’s denying less than the others. You know what that’s a setup for, right?”

  “Judgment.” The shame of it washed through her, scalding her conscience, scouring away the thoughtlessness and small denials that she called her example.

  “I’d say so.” He paused so long that a pair of eyes winked open in the grass. A rabbit bounced and swerved when Ross spoke again. “That includes me, doesn’t it? People would judge you harshly for seeing me.”

  “I…they…” Her innate honesty fought with discretion. How could she tell him the only reason she was here was to save his soul? Especially when it wasn’t true. Not any-more. “Not as long as we spend our time talking about God.”

  “Is that all?” Ross’s voice was too soft, too compelling. And too close. “I can think of other things we could talk about.” He slipped an arm around her and her body went rigid. “Julia, you’re shaking. Still afraid of me?”

  He was too close and too warm and he smelled of clean cotton and that cologne. He touched her jaw with one finger and turned her face toward his.

  “No,” she whispered. His eyes were shadowed and dark and soft. “Of me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cold common sense rushed in and stopped him before he leaned any closer. Her newly liberated curls brushed his cheek as he sat back and took a deep breath of damp air, banishing her warm, clean fragrance and clearing his head.

  What had he almost done?

  He was working. Cultivating an informant, not a woman. This was no ordinary girl with a pair of soft lips and peachy skin that begged to be touched. This was a follower of Melchizedek the all-controlling, a cultist. And he had almost kissed her.

  He sat back, resting on both hands, forcing himself to stay put. He had to save the moment before she realized what was going on.

  “How can you be afraid of yourself?” he asked, giving her his full concentration to make up for his physical withdrawal.

  “I—I—” She struggled for a moment. “You tempt me,” she whispered.

  Despite himself, a shot of adrenaline scissored through him. “I do?” he managed.

  “Your motorcycle—riding with you—I don’t think I should see you anymore.”

  Uh-oh, this was bad. He’d moved too fast. But somehow he couldn’t prevent himself from asking, “Don’t you like riding with me?”

  She dropped her head on the arms crossed on her upraised knees. “Yes, I like it,” she moaned. “That’s the problem.”

  “It’s only a problem if there’s someone else in the picture. Which there is.”

  Her head moved up and down. “Yes.”

  “Derrick Wilkinson.” He latched on to the subject fervently, hoping it would distract her. “I wouldn’t go out with anybody named Derrick Wilkinson. Don’t tell me. He wears wool pants and a boring tie and has about twenty pens in his shirt pocket, right?”

  She giggled and lifted her head at last. He’d insult the absent Mr. Wilkinson all night if that was what it took to get a laugh out of her.

  “Only two.”

  “What?”

  “Pens.”

  “And Derrick Wilkinson is going to mind if I take you riding and talk about God?”

  “I mind. I’m practically engaged to him. It isn’t fair to be sneaking off with you at night behind his back.” A single breath hitched in her throat.

  She’d drawn the line, and he’d have to learn to work inside it. “Come on,” he said abruptly. “Time to go.”

  By the time she’d reached the top of the path, he’d pulled his jacket on, started the motor, and had himself under control. He tried not to look at her woebegone face as she put on the helmet, tried not to enjoy it as her hands slipped around his waist.

  His mind was firmly on the investigation as he walked her to the bottom of the steps attached to the side of her Victorian house.

  “Rebecca’s home,” she whispered, glancing anxiously at the curtained windows on the bottom floor. The pattern of the fabric was backlit from within.

  “I guess that means I don’t get a cup of tea.” He followed her up to her landing and watched as she fitted her key in the lock.

  Humor seemed to help. She smiled for real, and dimples appeared at both corners of her mouth. Enchanting. “Don’t stop,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” Gently, he pressed a thumb into the delicate depression in her cheek.

  Her smile and the dimple faded as her gaze locked on his mouth. He found himself holding her chin, his fingers fanning out to touch the angle of her jaw, the soft whiteness of her throat in the faint moonlight.

  “Ross—” she said, trying to twist out of his grip, and his brain short-circuited. He dipped his head and kissed his name into silence.

  She made a small sound in her throat and stiffened, pushing at his upper arms. He deepened the kiss and parted her lips, tasting, exploring. Her struggle stopped and he felt her body soften, yield and finally lean into him. She met him at last, accepting him, then wooing him.

  The sweet rush in his blood was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was more than desire, it was like falling into a golden glow of warmth and generosity, soothing his wounded heart and making him forget his worries just for the moment. He pulled her harder against his chest and sank into her kiss, drowning in that sweet giving that told him without a doubt there had to be something severely lacking in her relationship with what’s-his-name.

  He pulled his mouth away and came up for air. “I want to see you again,” he said. “To talk about more than religion.”

  With an intake of breath, she searched his face. “You can’t.”

  “Why?” He dipped his head and nuzzled her cheek. “Mr. Pens in His Pocket?”

  “Partly.”

  “And?”

  “Ross, you have to go. Rebecca heard the bike. She’ll give us ten minutes and then look through the curtains.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

  “That’s none of your business,” she said primly, and stepped out of his arms.

  “One more kiss.”

  “No.” She stepped inside, and he distinctly heard her turn the lock.

  The ride back to the motel cooled him down and brought him back to reality. He needed to think about what was important, not about kissing his informant. He paged Ray, and within minutes, the motel room’s phone rang.

  “Did you find her?” he demanded without preamble.

  “No,” Ray replied glumly. “She and the girl were already gone. From what the director said, she probably left right after she talked to me.”

  Ross was used to frustration and the stop-start nature of investigations, but this hit too close to his heart. He sat on the bed and curled over the pain, his elbows on his knees and the receiver pressed to his ear.

  “Could you pick up anything?” he asked, once his voice was under control.

  “Not much. The w
oman is in her early fifties, wearing a printed cotton dress and a gray sweater. Brown eyes, gray hair pulled up in a bun. Calls herself Miriam, no last name.”

  “Biblical alias,” Ross murmured.

  “Could be. I ran the first name through NCIC anyway, and took some pictures back down there, but no match.”

  “Not if she’s been underground for a long time. What about the girl?”

  Ray paused. “Looked to be about five, dark hair, gray eyes. Seemed in good health, according to the director.”

  “Five?”

  “Yeah. How old did you say your kid was?”

  “She was seven on October 16th. And she has blue eyes.”

  The long-distance connection hissed in the silence.

  “You think maybe this Miriam is pulling something on you?” Ray asked at last.

  “I don’t know what to think.” A moment ago, Ross had thought he couldn’t stand the pain of having missed the woman and the child at the shelter. Now he’d welcome that pain over the yawning emptiness inside him as hope drained away.

  “One last thing,” Ray said. “When they left, the woman mentioned they’d be heading east. Something about a fruit festival and a pitchfork.”

  Ross rubbed his eyes. “There are hundreds of fruit festivals going on in the summer all over the state. She may as well have said she was going to South America for all the good it’ll do me.” He had no idea what the pitchfork was all about. If she was a Sealer, it could mean anything from an item on a shopping list to a reference to Satan.

  “Thought I’d pass it on.”

  “Thanks, Ray. You did good. I guess I can only hope she calls again.”

  “If she does, what do you want me to do?”

  “Give her my pager number, and get a lock on the phone she calls from. If she’s heading this way maybe it’ll be close enough for me to get to without jeopardizing this case too much.”

  “You think it’s a hoax,” Ray said flatly.

  He sighed. “I’ve had leads over the years, but none of them have ever led me to Kailey. And this description doesn’t look like a good match. For all I know, it could be someone from an old case, out of jail and playing head games.”

  “Speaking of cases, how’s it going?”

  A good question. One that had about six different answers.

  “Good. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Next time I come up for transfer, remind me to put in for something simple, like drug enforcement.”

  The telephone on her bedside table shrilled like an alarm clock, and Julia groaned and fumbled for the receiver.

  “Good morning!” Claire’s cheery tones felt like little rocks of reality hammering on her skull.

  “What’s up?” She sat up, cross-legged, and peered at the clock. Nine-thirty. Good grief.

  “Oh, nothing yet. But it’s so beautiful out I thought we could get a bunch of the kids together for scrub, if the diamond down at the lake is free.”

  “Softball?” Resistance pooled below Julia’s solar plexus. She didn’t want to play a dumb softball game, she wanted to see Ross. And how come they always referred to themselves as “the kids,” anyway? Most of them were in their twenties, and Derrick was thirty-one. The Shepherd told them they should be childlike, but this was taking it too far.

  “Sure. What do you think? If we each made half a dozen calls we could get enough together for two teams, if the Kowalczyks haven’t decided to round everybody up for a hike or something. They were talking about that at prayer meeting. I could call John and find out.”

  “I don’t think I will today, Claire. Thanks, though.”

  “Julia, you love softball. Are you feeling okay? You sound a little strange.”

  “I’m fine.” A reckless idea suddenly seized her. “Hey, I know. Why don’t we all meet down at the food bank and volunteer to sort food for them? They were posting notices for a drive downtown and I bet they could use the help.”

  Silence.

  “Claire?”

  “Sort food?” Claire repeated, as though Julia had suggested robbing the food bank, not volunteering.

  “You know, for the homeless. I don’t know what’s involved but I’m sure they’d be willing to show us. What do you think?”

  “I think we should ask Melchizedek about it,” Claire said slowly. “Those people are affiliated with a worldly church.”

  “So? It’s still more useful than playing softball.”

  “Julia, are you sure you’re okay? Elaine Bell says Madeleine told her sister-in-law that you invited that biker for dinner last night. I couldn’t believe it. I told her she shouldn’t go around spreading gossip.”

  “It isn’t gossip,” Julia said sharply, throwing off the covers and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. What did Ross have to do with sorting food? “And Madeleine invited him, not me. It was at their house.”

  “Madeleine? Then it’s true? He actually came to the Elder’s for dinner? On that motorcycle?”

  “And he didn’t even knife anyone to death. Come on, Claire, the man is interested in coming to God. Owen and Madeleine are always inviting people to dinner. What’s the big deal?”

  “But he’s a biker!”

  “He is not. He cut his hair. He’s coming to Mission tomorrow, so you can see for yourself.”

  “Mission!” Claire was practically hyperventilating. “Wait till the kids hear this! If you change your mind, we’ll be down by the lake. ’Bye.”

  Julia severed the connection. If she called Claire back, the line would be busy as the scoop went out along with the invitation to play softball. For the first time in her life, she had deliberately distanced herself from her best friend. Or was it just that she had changed over the course of the week and Claire had not?

  One thing was sure, though. She’d been right about the food bank idea. Claire’s first reaction had been to seek Melchizedek’s approval. The right thing to do wasn’t really right until he approved it. Otherwise, it was suspect. Like Ross. Suspect until she’d mentioned Melchizedek’s name, and then suddenly front-page news as he took on the glow of prospective conversion.

  Dissatisfied in both body and mind, she started a pot of coffee and padded into the bathroom for a shower. She was just drying off when the phone rang.

  Ross!

  “Hello?” Her voice was its most welcoming, a little husky, eager.

  “Hi, dear, it’s Mom.”

  Disappointment weighted her shoulders down. “Hi.”

  “I was just talking to Madeleine and thought I’d give you a call. I hear your little mission went very well last night.”

  Her little mission. Her mother was the only woman in the world who could demolish an accomplishment in five words or less. Julia straightened her spine.

  “It isn’t my little mission. It’s Melchizedek’s.”

  “Of course it is. We’re just instruments of help, like Joshua and Caleb holding up Moses’ hands. Dad and I were having a little study on that very subject this morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were praying about this, and keeping things in perspective.”

  “What things?” Julia unwrapped the towel around her hair and began to pat it dry with one hand.

  “We’re all anxious for a soul to be saved, but not at the expense of one of our lambs.”

  “Whose expense?” She felt like a lawyer, trying to get a reply from a slippery witness.

  “Yours, dear.”

  Now she’d lost track of the beginning of the conversation. “Are you advising me to be careful I don’t get involved with Ross?”

  Her mother hesitated. Blunt words could cause offense, without the cloak of biblical references and the language the Elect used in Gathering. “I know that you care for Derrick, dear. The thought never occurred to me. Besides, who could ever consider getting involved with—with someone like that? Who rides a motorcycle and all. Is it true he wore a leather outfit to dinner?”

/>   Julia rolled her eyes. “It’s only a jacket. He took it off, Mom, when he went into the house. He didn’t come to the table in it.”

  “I can’t imagine Owen allowing that. Well, I hope their example will lead him to what’s right.”

  “I’m sure it will.” Get off the phone, Mom, so he can call.

  “Madeleine says Melchizedek invited him to Mission. Is he going to come?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Is he coming with you?”

  “Not that I know of.” Please let him come with me. Let him sit with me.

  “That’s good. We want him coming for himself, don’t we? Not for you.”

  “Of course.” Had her mother always spoken to her this way?

  “Your father’s waving at me, dear. We’re going out to breakfast with Alma Woods and Rebecca. ’Bye.”

  Julia hung up so quickly that it took a moment for her mother’s last words to sink in. She and Dad were going to breakfast with Rebecca.

  By lunchtime, everyone would know that Derrick Wilkinson’s intended had gone riding with that biker in the middle of the night.

  Chapter Twelve

  She was listed in the phone book as J. McNeill, with no address, a thin disguise for a woman living alone. Ross dialed Julia’s number and she answered on the first ring.

  “Hey. It’s Ross.”

  “Hi!” No doubt about his welcome there.

  “How was your night?”

  “Fine.”

  “What did you dream about?” he teased.

  “None of your business. Besides, I prayed for forgiveness.”

  Somehow he knew she wasn’t teasing anymore. “Because I kissed you?”

  “No. Because I kissed you back.”

  He was losing her. If she was praying for forgiveness already, he had to do something fast. He couldn’t wait until Sunday night. “Let me make up for it. Let’s go for a ride.”