The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)

by John W. Mefford

  He rubbed his arm. “You’re pretty intense about all this.”

  “I did some initial research on my plane ride down from Boston. It reminded me of what one charming, persuasive man can do.”

  “Throwing around God’s name probably helped his cause.”

  “That’s my fear, Romano.”

  He grabbed the door handle and paused. “What exactly?”

  “That my mom was brainwashed just like those poor, lost souls in Jonestown, Guyana.”

  He drew his lips into a straight line, then opened the door for me. Inside, the décor was subdued but high quality, starting with the marble flooring and wainscoting on the walls. There was an information center with a touch-screen kiosk in front of us, although no one was behind the expansive granite countertop.

  Looking to my left, I spotted the same woman from earlier speaking to a man wearing a white collar. He looked to be about my age, with thinning brown hair and a small tire for a waist.

  “Hi there,” the woman said. “Are you looking to learn more about our church?” Her wide smile instantly formed a pair of parenthesis on either side of her mouth. She looked older up close.

  “No, it’s not that.”

  My sidekick pulled his badge off his belt loop and held it up. “Detective Romano.”

  “Oh,” she said with a sour look on her face.

  “I guess this is a professional visit.” The minister shook each of our hands. “They call me Pastor Jim. Donna and I want to help you as much as we can. But I can’t imagine why you’re even here.”

  I said, “Would you like to take this conversation to your office, or at least out of this public area?”

  The minister looked at Romano and then back at me. “We’re all alone, but do you also work with the police department?”

  I got the impression he wasn’t going to be very open if I didn’t flash a badge, which made me think he had something to hide.

  I held up a finger, then fished through my purse until I found my credentials. I held them up.

  “FBI?” Pastor Jim let out a nervous chuckle, then put his hands in his pockets.

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you want to talk to us? We’re just a church doing God’s work.” He rocked back on his heels and kept smiling like we’d just caught him stealing candy.

  “No worries,” I said. “We’re actually working a cold case, and we’re hoping you can help us with some historical data.”

  “About this church?” the pastor asked.

  “More about your members,” Romano interjected.

  “Well, glory be to God,” Pastor Jim said, pointing to the ceiling or heaven. “Donna has been with the church for years and years. I, myself, have been the lead pastor for seven years now.”

  I took in a deep breath before I continued. “This topic might be difficult, so I appreciate your consideration in advance.”

  “Sure, any way I can help,” Donna said pleasantly.

  “Do you have a record of all the people who served as deacons of the church?”

  “Yes, we do,” she said.

  “In fact,” Pastor Jim said while waving us to follow him, “we have a wall down this side hallway with a group photo from each year’s set of deacons. These men have been a tremendous help in leading this church into the twenty-first century.”

  He took a right and pointed up ahead where recessed lighting illuminated several framed photos. “I’d go as far as to say that I probably wouldn’t be here if these men had not given their lives to helping this church grow.”

  I nodded politely and started looking for some type of chronological order to the dozens of photographs.

  “Can I help you look for anyone in particular?” Donna stepped forward.

  “Well, we don’t have a name, nor do we even have a picture. But we might have a year. We need to go back thirty-two years, to be specific.”

  She started mouthing a few words while touching a finger to her opposite hand. “Okay, that would be in the upper right-hand corner here,” she said, rotating her arm near the wall. She stopped and turned to face me. “But it would certainly help if you could provide some context.”

  I could feel Romano’s eyes on me.

  “Agent Troutt, Detective Romano, I’m not a naïve little church girl. I realize people do bad things, even those who served as deacon of a growing nondenominational church in Virginia Beach.”

  I could feel my shoulder relax a tad. “We’re looking for a man who might have left the church, maybe even hastily that year, right around November.”

  She tilted her head. “Is that all you have to share?”

  “He might have had some more, uh… extreme views than the rest of the congregation.”

  “Extreme in what way?” the pastor asked, moving closer to Donna.

  I pondered how to frame my description. “Honestly, we don’t have a lot of details. But I would say it’s probably someone who had strong opinions, might have wanted the church to be less inclusive, maybe to the point of separating from society.”

  Donna blinked a couple of times, and her posture remained stiff while she fidgeted with her sunglasses.

  “Is there something that you can tell us?”

  She shifted her eyes to Pastor Jim, who pressed his lips together.

  “Please. We…I really need to know everything you think could be relevant.”

  “I was a little girl back then, but my older sister was involved in the church. Later, when I took on this role as lead administrator, she told me about a period of time in the church when…” She hesitated, glancing at the floor. “Oh, I don’t want this to get out to the public and reflect poorly on the church now. We’ve come so far.”

  Pastor Jim touched her elbow with his hand. “I think we can trust them, Donna.” He nodded at her, and she continued.

  “From what Laura told me, a couple of men were at the center of a movement that preached hatred for others. They were all about pointing out the differences in people and wanting us to segregate the church from the community. It went on for months, and after a while, it really began to tear the congregation apart.”

  She glanced down at her sunglasses.

  “You said there were two men in the middle of this rebellion.”

  She nodded.

  “How did it all come to pass?”

  “The pastor at the time resigned. I think there was a power struggle of some kind as to who would take over the church, but then, from what I recall, all of a sudden the men left, and calm returned.”

  “Just like that?” I asked.

  “It was quick, like yanking a bandage off a cut. That’s how my sister put it, anyway.”

  “Your sister seems to know an awful lot. Does she live anywhere nearby so we could speak with her more?”

  “She’s at home…sitting on my mantle.”

  Pastor Jim clasped his hands in front of his black coat. “Laura passed away just over a year ago. We know she’s looking down on us at this very moment, right Donna?”

  “Indeed. She’s my guardian angel.” She sniffled.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Yes, my condolences,” Romano added.

  After some small talk about the growth of the church under Pastor Jim’s leadership, Donna went to her office and brought back a sheet of paper with the names of the deacons from thirty-two years earlier, then put on her readers while she scanned the pictures on the wall.

  With Romano looking over my shoulder, I began to scan the list. The names meant nothing to me. I handed the list to Romano, and said, “No one stands out, but we can run them through the database.”

  As soon as I had a moment, I would take a picture of the names and send them on to Brad and Nick so they could cover more territory outside of the immediate coastal area.

  “Something just hit me,” Donna said, stepping to within a couple of inches of one picture. Then she turned around while removing her readers. “A few of the parishioners left with th
e two men.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  She straightened her neck. “How else would they leave? Are you wondering if they were kidnapped?”

  “We don’t know, but we’re looking for one person in particular.” I showed her the small photo of my mother.

  She put on her readers and eyed the photo for a second, then flipped it over as she handed it back to me. “Charlotte Walsh. Doesn’t look familiar.”

  “Well, when she went here, her name was Charlotte Troutt.”

  “Your last name. Oh my, was she your—” Donna brought a hand to her mouth.

  “My mother, yes.”

  “You’re wondering if your mother is still alive,” Pastor Jim said.

  I nodded. “Not getting my hopes up, but it’s important on many levels.”

  Donna removed the frame from the wall. “This is it right here.” She unlatched the metal edges holding the cheap plastic frame together, then peeled a second copy of the photo out from behind the one facing the glass front. “I was right. Most of these photos had copies behind them.” She handed it to me.

  “Thank you. This will be a lot of help. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  Donna stepped forward and hugged me, catching me off guard. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  And with that positive encouragement, we left.

  9

  Ensuring her head remained aimed at the man standing before the congregation, Beulah shifted her eyes to the side of the sanctuary where Ezra stood next to a closed door.

  Ezra rarely if ever stood at the front of the sanctuary. Not unless he was about to read scripture. He held no Bible. She could see his thumbs moving nervously inside the palms of his clasped hands as he stared directly at the man who spoke.

  He had no choice.

  Ezra was a man and, as such, was granted special privileges to which women would never have access. But that didn’t mean Ezra could ignore one of the core principles of Camp Israel: Malachi is a mouthpiece for the Lord in Heaven and therefore should be listened to with reverence and devotion.

  While the deacons of Camp Israel only strategically used the term, Malachi was considered a prophet, one who had a unique and special relationship with his Maker unlike anyone in the group. On more than one occasion, he’d been compared to Moses…leading his flock to the promised land, if not a “pure” way of life.

  A heavy book smacked against the wood floor, and her heart exploded in her chest.

  Had my head trembled?

  Holding her breath for a moment, she waited to see if one of the elders would appear at her side with a spiked ruler. She’d been subjected to the public flogging just once: two puncture wounds on the top her hand would always be a reminder to never take her eyes off Malachi when he was speaking from the pulpit—or at least never let them see you.

  Tiny fingers dug into her arm. Shiloh, nestled up against her like a preschooler, was frightened. As the echo of the book dissipated into the arched ceiling above, all Beulah could hear was the panting breaths of Shiloh, the teenage girl who had been raped the night before and now still wore the ripped jacket, her prize for enduring such unrelenting pain.

  “Do I have everyone’s undivided attention?” Malachi spoke quietly while enunciating each word with precision, as if he were carefully carving out the souls of each person in the riveted congregation.

  A creak from one of the pews behind Beulah. Someone had moved. Malachi’s stare shot spears of disgust. After seconds that seemed like minutes, he gave a subtle nod. Boots immediately shuffled on the floor. Every instinct in Beulah’s body told her to turn around and gawk at the unseemly sight of one of the sheep willingly exposing themselves to corporal punishment. But she knew she couldn’t do it. No one could.

  A moment later, she heard a thwack and then a pinched wail, followed by shushing calls from those sitting near the “sinner,” as Malachi and the other elders would often say.

  To her, it was another victim, the list too long to name each person at this point.

  Beulah’s lungs released a pocket of air, allowing her shoulders to relax a tad. She subtly tapped Shiloh on the knee to let her know she wasn’t alone. Beulah had grown to be a trusted source of strength for many of the women in the camp, especially the kids. It was the least she could do, considering what she had left behind…what she had given up.

  Gazing across the crowd, Malachi evoked a combination of fear and respect from most of the people sitting in the wooden pews. He arched his back to provide a larger than life presence. She knew he worked out repeatedly. But she always wondered the purpose behind it: to try to outlive any other human on earth, or to make himself more alluring to the females in the group? The ones who had become so immersed in the so-called mission of the group that they saw Malachi as more of a god than a flawed individual.

  But she knew firsthand that his imperfections were not only disturbing; they were abhorrent and even criminal.

  But not in Camp Israel. Not by Malachi’s rules.

  “You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of the demons.” Holding the Bible above his head, Malachi again spoke with passion and power. “You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons.”

  “Amen,” someone yelled from the back.

  The creases of Malachi’s lips slowly turned up at the corners. The sheep continued to drink from his cup of overflowing bullshit.

  He flipped the pages of his book and lowered his head for a moment. Then he turned and nodded at Ezra, who quickly opened the side door. Beulah could see Jamin, Malachi’s second-in-command, standing at the doorway just behind a girl.

  The girl was Jaala, the one who had created the disturbance in the back of the truck. Her face was ashen as she gazed upon the crowd staring back at her. Then, as if a boulder of ridicule and shame had been hurled upon her, she dropped her chin to her chest. Her head rocked a couple of times.

  Was she crying? Oh God…don’t cry. Don’t crumble from the pressure. Beulah had seen in the past that this type of response drew even more scorn from those in power.

  Ezra extended an arm toward the stairs leading to the pulpit. She hesitated, then took one step at a time, as if she were walking down the aisle about to be married. The happiest day of her life.

  But Beulah knew there was a chance this could be the worst day of her young life.

  As Jaala slowly progressed across the floor, Beulah’s gaze shifted back to the doorway. It was dark, but she could see the slumped outline of Jamin. He opened his mouth and smiled, his teeth seeming to glow. She recalled his prominent incisors—the fangs of a vampire.

  The voice of Malachi roared once again as Jaala kneeled on the bottom step, Ezra hovering a few feet away.

  “Whoever will not observe the law of God, the law of the King, let judgment be executed upon him strictly.” Malachi waltzed from the pulpit, his oratorical skills on full throttle. “I cannot make this up. This is what the Good Book says. I am only the messenger.”

  He paused again, as if he enjoyed toying with the emotions of the crowd, and especially that of the girl, Jaala.

  “And it goes on to say, ‘Whether for death or for banishment or for confiscation of goods or for imprisonment’.” He practically spit out the last syllable while casting a demonic gaze upon Jaala.

  Beulah couldn’t imagine that Jaala’s outburst would incite such a public display of punishment. She must have taken it to another level once Ezra had carried her into the main building. Or was this another excuse just to make an example out of her? To scare anyone thinking about trying to leave back into a submissive, mindless sheep.

  “It says here that a rebellious man seeks only evil, hears only evil, lives only evil. Can we accept evil in the house of the Lord?” he roared.

  Beulah could feel the thump of her pulse against her neck, but it wasn’t his threatening tone that elicited such a physical reaction deep inside her. It was the thought that she had been the lone example of someone who had committed the ultimate
rebellious act—escaping from the compound—yet her life had been spared. To this day, she wasn’t exactly sure why. She’d only been thankful to breathe each day, to accept the humble gifts of life, despite the obvious restrictions.

  “Who am I to lay judgment on this girl for her sins? Who am I?” he asked the crowd.

  No one dared respond.

  He closed the book and brought it to his chest. “We, as a group of her peers, will decide her fate. By a show of hands, who agrees that this young girl has committed an act against the sanctity of this church and of mankind? Please, don’t be shy.”

  Hands lifted into the air like a wave surging toward the shoreline. Men, women, children of all ages. Even though Shiloh had been the recipient of Jaala’s outburst, Beulah knew that retribution was not part of her makeup. She was the last person to raise her hand.

  “Yes…” Malachi said. “I see everyone in our family agrees.” He kneeled, but still spoke down to Jaala. “Do you not see how you have let down your brethren?”

  He peered back up at the crowd. Beulah and probably most everyone else wondered where this would lead, besides the public humiliation and the disintegration of another young soul.

  Malachi lifted back up, walked to the pulpit, and set the Bible down. He then pulled off his coat and rested it across the lectern, and then rolled up the sleeves on his shirt. He grabbed something from inside the lectern and walked over to the top of the stairs. Looking straight down on Jaala, he removed a leather whip from its sheath.

  “Oh…no,” Beulah whispered, and then she could feel the tug on her sleeve from Shiloh. She quickly calmed herself and then took hold of Shiloh’s knee.

  “Be not deceived….” Malachi snapped his wrist, and the whip cracked against the floor a few feet from Jaala. She flinched, but refused to look at him.

  “God is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

  A few seconds of silence.

  Finally, almost mercifully, Malachi spoke. “Ezra, please proceed with the punishment phase.”

  Ezra produced a hunting knife and leaned down to Jaala. He grabbed a handful of her dress off her back and ripped a hole with his knife. She struggled a bit, but he put one of his big paws on her shoulder, and she quickly ceased any movement. Her face went blank. She had lost her will to fight back.