by Larry Enmon
Going up, Annabelle looked around and placed her finger against her lips. “The children are sleeping.”
When they reached the top, she opened the second door on the right. Katrina followed her inside, and Annabelle softly closed the door. Bright sunlight filled the room and accented the antique furniture. A double bed, dresser, chest of drawers, small writing desk, and chair bordered the room. The dark wooden floors creaked underfoot.
Annabelle strolled to a window, and Katrina peeked over her shoulder. The whole group, all seven, stood in the side yard as the Freak addressed them.
Annabelle turned to her. “It’s safe to talk now. If we keep our voices down, we can talk in here anytime, but nowhere else.”
Katrina had so many questions she didn’t know where to start. “Where are we?”
A quick grin flitted across Annabelle’s lips. “That was my first question when I came. I’m not sure, exactly. But I also listened from behind closed doors. From their conversations, I believe we’re somewhere in East Texas, near Louisiana. I’ve heard them say Sabine County and Hemphill, but I’m not real sure where either is.”
Annabelle strolled to the bed and Katrina sat beside her. Annabelle said, “They talk about running over to Louisiana, so we must be close. There’s a big lake in that direction.” Annabelle pointed to the opposite wall of the room. “They go there and come back with fish and talk about the lake level.”
Katrina held her hand. “How long have you been here?”
Annabelle lowered her weary eyes, her gaze falling to her lap. “This is my second spring. A little over a year, I guess.”
Katrina studied the front of Annabelle’s dress. Two wet spots soiled it where her breasts touched the material.
Annabelle must have noticed her stare. She flashed an embarrassed frown and tugged at the front of her dress. “Sorry, I’m lactating. They won’t let me wear a bra or pad.”
“You have a baby?” Katrina asked.
Annabelle nodded, but there was no joy in her acknowledgment. “Almost three months old.”
Katrina didn’t really want to ask but couldn’t help herself. “Who’s the father?”
Annabelle bowed her head and began to weep. “Brother John,” she said.
Annabelle leaned her head on Katrina’s shoulder and Katrina wrapped her arms around Annabelle’s neck. The weeping continued and Annabelle’s shoulders heaved with each sob. A hundred thoughts raced through Katrina’s head that she didn’t want to consider. A new fear gripped her. Will this be me next year?
* * *
Monday morning Frank got in early and caught up on the case reports. Frank wasn’t used to racing another agency to solve a case. In CIU, things were pretty laid-back most of the time. Except when the president had visited Dallas and Frank had to work with the Secret Service—a very serious bunch. If he couldn’t get something going soon on the kidnapping, he’d be watching from the sidelines as Rangers took the lead.
Edna and Terry arrived at the same time, discussing a new department policy. Edna turned right into her office and Terry stopped at Frank’s desk.
“Good news and bad news. Rob returns tomorrow,” Terry said.
“What?” Frank sat up from his slouched position.
Terry grinned. “The chief pissed off a bunch of Homicide detectives Friday night after the shooting. He informed them they had to conclude their investigation and have the final report on his desk by closing time today. At least a half dozen worked all weekend.”
“Sounds like the chief doesn’t want to split us up,” Frank said.
Terry tapped the side of his head with his finger. “He’s sharper than most give him credit for.”
“What’s the bad news?” Frank asked.
Terry spoke under his breath. “Well, it’s just that the daughter’s boyfriend, Ruiz, has just started a social media campaign to find Katrina. Could help locate her, but more likely to just increase the pressure on all of us. News agencies have been calling the sixth floor since it broke. That’s just what this investigation needs—more pressure.” Terry’s ringing desk phone sent him scurrying for his office.
At last, a break. With Rob’s return, Frank hoped to recover some of his lost karma. Rob always brought him good luck. Frank thanked God he didn’t have to meet with all the other agencies involved in this investigation or attend one of those goofy news conferences. Having to stand beside a tearful Ms. Mayor, begging for her daughter’s safe return, in front of a dozen cameras would push Frank over the edge. He was too close already. This case gnawed on his gut like a hungry ferret. Liaisoning with the other law enforcement types and doing news conferences was Terry and Edna’s job. They had to explain everything and cover the heat with the higher-ups, allowing Rob and Frank to do their jobs.
Okay, down to business.
Frank dialed the tax assessor’s number and asked for Brandy. He told her the address of the burned house and requested information on the owner. She asked about Rob and giggled when Frank told her Rob had said hello. She complained that the computers were running slow and she’d have to call him back in a minute.
Terry eased up to Frank’s desk and lowered his voice. “Thought you should know. The mayor has just requested the chief to contact the FBI. They’ll be joining the investigation. All your reports are being furnished to them for review.”
Frank shrugged. “Guess I better check my spelling and punctuation.”
Terry leaned on Frank’s cube. “This thing grows by the day. First us, then the Rangers, and now the Bureau.” Terry lowered his voice. “Remember what I said about the Rangers throwing manpower at this?”
Frank nodded.
“Well, you haven’t seen anything yet until the feds jump in,” Terry said. “Just be glad they don’t care to work with the locals. The last thing you want is them tagging along on your leads.”
“The kidnapping doesn’t seem to have hurt the mayor’s standing in the polls. He’s up four points since it became public,” Frank said.
Terry glanced around and dropped his voice. “Yeah, he’s cashing in on the sympathy vote. His daughter getting snatched might just push him over the top.”
Frank nodded. That was an ice-cold way of looking at it, but it was true. Wonder if the mayor would trade those four points for his daughter’s safe return?
Terry whispered, “Higgins called Edna up to his office after the big joint news conference. Don’t know what they talked about, but when she returned she’d been crying and was fighting mad. I hope she reminded the old son of a bitch that Missing Persons, the Rangers, and the FBI haven’t done shit so far. Only CIU is making any progress.”
That pissed Frank off. It wasn’t fair it should all fall on Edna’s shoulders. When he’d been a new cadet in the police academy, every morning they’d stand inspection. The place Frank was required to stand, with eyes pointed straight ahead, was directly across from a poster on the academy wall. He must have read that thing a couple of hundred times. The quote on the poster was from Mother Teresa of Calcutta: “We the willing, led by the unknowing, are doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have done so much, with so little, for so long, we are now qualified to do anything with nothing.” That’s the way police work sometimes felt to Frank. Edna was holding up, but Frank saw the strain it put on her more every day.
Frank’s phone rang and Terry drifted toward his office.
“Detective Pierce,” Frank said.
“This is Brandy. I have that information.”
Frank copied what she told him, but it didn’t help much. The person who had owned the house before the fire had sold the lot after it burned, and the new owner lived out of state. She provided the last known address of the previous owner in Dallas. Frank hung up and stared at the paper a moment before slipping on his jacket and heading for the parking garage.
Frank knew the general area: it was in the Kessler neighborhood of Oak Cliff, south of the Trinity River. He parked under the shade of a giant oak that hung over the
street. The home was a Craftsman and sat on a small rise, a nice lawn stretching up from the street and flowering shrubs bordering the walkway and the wraparound porch. He caught a whiff of gardenia as he rang the doorbell. A moment later, an elderly woman with gray hair in a tight bun opened the door. She studied him through the screen.
Frank held up his credentials. “Good morning. Dallas Police. Does Gerald Fellman live here?”
The small woman leaned forward and scrutinized the identification. “Mr. Fellman is deceased.”
Frank pocketed the ID. “I’m sorry. You his wife?”
“Yes, I’m Grace Fellman.”
Frank asked, “May I have a moment of your time? I’m conducting an investigation and believe you might be able to help me.”
Asking for someone’s assistance using this technique always worked for Frank. Almost everyone but criminals secretly wanted to assist the police, whether they’d admit it or not. The thought that they might crack a big case excited the average person. Mrs. Fellman apparently didn’t share this excitement.
“How do I know you’re a real policeman?” she asked. Her sweet smile and suspicious eyes sent Frank back to the drawing board. “I showed you my identification.”
“Could have been made on any good computer,” the petite woman answered.
This wasn’t the first time Frank had found himself in this dilemma. He had a fail-safe protocol ready.
“Okay,” Frank said, “call the Dallas Police Department and ask to speak to Detective Pierce in CIU. When it goes to voice mail, dial the cell number on my recording.”
Mrs. Fellman’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t move.” She shut the door and clicked the bolt into place.
A couple of minutes later, Frank’s cell rang as the door opened.
“Hello?” Frank said.
Mrs. Fellman stood at the threshold staring at him through the screen door. She spoke into her phone. “Come in, Detective Pierce.”
She led Frank into the living room. The furniture was Old English and showed gentle wear. Lots of dark wood and heavy fabrics. A slightly frayed Persian rug adorned the floor.
She pointed at the sofa. “Have a seat.”
He laid his notebook on the coffee table and dropped onto a soft cushion.
“Now, how can I help the police today?” she asked.
Frank was impressed by her cool, relaxed manner—not at all normal. Probably the result of a clear conscience. Everyone’s pulse rose and heart rate increased when a policeman showed up unannounced. But not this calm little lady’s. He could just as easily have been her minister, dropping by for a chat on this beautiful spring day.
“I’m looking for the previous owner of a house in South Dallas a few years ago. It burned,” Frank said.
She perked up. “Was it at Camp Wisdom and Houston School Road?”
Frank leaned closer. “As a matter of fact, it was.”
She grinned. “Mr. Fellman and I owned it.”
“Were you renting it to someone at the time?” he asked.
She folded her hands and her face changed as if she’d just had a terrible thought. “Yes, several people lived there.” She lowered her head. “Several strange people.”
He leaned still closer. “Strange, like how?”
She wrung her hands and looked away briefly. “Like religious fanatics. Maybe a cult.” Her voice became a whisper. “Long hair, long beards, strange.”
“Oh, really? Tell me about them,” Frank said.
“That’s the only business deal Mr. Fellman ever made I didn’t agree with.” She shook her head. “I told him that bunch wasn’t any good.”
“Tell me why you thought that,” Frank said.
Her gentle smile returned and she interlaced her fingers in her lap. “We owned the house for several years and leased it to large families. It was a grand old thing. Built in the twenties. Never made a lot from the rent, but it always covered the loan. When the previous renters moved out and that last bunch inquired about leasing it, I had a bad feeling. But they paid the deposit, signed the contract, and kept up on the rent.”
“So did you ever meet them?” he asked.
Her smile faded. “Yes. That’s how I knew. We escorted them on the initial walk-through and came once a year to inspect the house.”
Frank’s spine tingled with that feeling he always got just before a big clue broke. She seemed uncomfortable discussing it. Frank was a master of silence, his patience endless. At last she turned his way.
“I believe they were worshiping false deities. They had erected some sort of shrine in the living room. Mr. Fellman asked the man about it. He said they worshiped and prayed nightly.”
“Prayed?” Frank asked.
She wrung her hands again. “There wasn’t a cross, any Bibles, or anything else which indicated Christian beliefs, just a large red globe hanging from the ceiling and an altar with flowers, rocks, and sticks on top.” Her forehead creased.
“The fella you rented the house to. Do you remember his name?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yes … John was his first name.” She looked up at the ceiling, tapping her chin with her index finger. “But I can’t recall his last.”
Frank gave her a few seconds before providing a prompt. “I bet Mr. Fellman kept pretty good records, didn’t he?”
Her eyes brightened. “He sure did.” She rushed out of the room.
A minute later, she returned carrying a large black binder. After taking her seat, she opened it, licked her finger and thumb, and skimmed several pages. “John Warren,” she read.
Frank held out his hand. “May I?”
She handed the binder over. On the front, a label read “Baker House.” He raised an eyebrow and pointed at the name.
“That’s the man we bought it from,” she said.
Frank flipped the pages. Everything relating to the house was there, all indexed. The contract to buy, copies of the loan information, inspector’s reports, appraiser’s reports, and tax and insurance information. Under a tab that read “RENTERS,” Frank found rental contracts dating back twelve years. He flipped to the last contract, signed by John Warren. Frank ran his finger down the lines. At the bottom he found the Holy Grail of identification: John Warren’s Texas driver’s license number. Frank removed the paper and laid it on the table. He snapped a photograph with his phone and slid it back inside the binder.
“Know what became of them after the fire?” Frank asked.
“No idea,” she said. “Just glad to be rid of them.”
Frank was sure of one thing. Brother John and his crew had scared the old lady, and she didn’t look as if she scared easily.
* * *
Since he was already in Oak Cliff, Frank decided on an early lunch at Hattie’s. He loved their smoked turkey–and–Swiss. A couple of years ago he’d given the executive chef his secret recipe for sweet potato fries. Now they had the best in Dallas. The guy had won a cooking award with that recipe. When Frank strolled in, he always got the royal treatment and no check to spoil his meal.
An hour later, he slid into his office cube. The place had cleared out for lunch. Frank rushed to power up his computer. Did he have a real lead or not? He crossed his fingers. The first solid piece of information so far. But as many times as not, leads ended up going nowhere after closer examination.
By the time the squad area was again teeming with full-bellied detectives, Frank still didn’t have an answer. Warren went by the first name John, but that was really his middle name. His first name was Vernon. Frank pulled up a copy of Warren’s expired driver’s license. He’d never bothered to renew it. The Texas Workforce Commission reported no employment in the last six years. The utilities indicated he had no current phone, gas, or electric service in the Dallas metroplex, and criminal checks showed no arrests. The last known residence was the burned house in Dallas, and the post office showed no forwarding address.
Had the guy moved? Left the state? Died?
Terry sauntered up. “How’s
it going?”
Frank shuffled through some papers and handed Terry the Department of Public Safety photo taken of Warren when they’d issued him a driver’s license. “Meet Brother John.”
Terry eyes widened when he examined the picture. “Think he’s one of the guys in the Walmart video?”
Frank lounged in his chair as Edna approached. Terry handed her the photo.
“Brother John,” Terry said.
Edna glanced at the photo, caught a sharp breath, and handed it back to Frank. “What do you think?”
Frank eyed the picture and then Terry. “Remember what you said when we saw the video from the Walmart parking lot, the guys in the old Dodge truck?”
“You mean about them looking like rednecks with their long hair and beards?” Terry asked.
“Yeah,” Frank said. He studied the photo of Warren—the long-haired man with the bearded and dour face. Frank held up the photo at Edna and Terry’s eye level. “This guy looks like he’s auditioning for Duck Dynasty.”
22
On Monday morning, Katrina helped Annabelle prepare and serve breakfast to the group. Annabelle’s revelation the day before had haunted Katrina’s thoughts and dreams. The three-hour sermon from the Freak she’d been subjected to the previous night hadn’t helped much either. Everyone was there, but his haunting eyes had remained fixed on Katrina, as if the sermon was personalized. He had preached from Ephesians 5:22 and Colossians 3:18—“Wives, submit to your husbands.” He could kiss her ass if he expected her to submit to him. This group didn’t appear dangerous on the surface, but the deeper you dug, the more terrifying they became. Whatever their beliefs were, they weren’t in Katrina’s best interest. She had to get out—fast.