by Larry Enmon
“Yup, he’ll just resurrect himself. He’s immortal.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yeah. The day he claimed the gift of prophecy, God instructed him to go forth and take seven flaxen-haired spiritual brides. They will bear him seven children, who will be the ruling elders of earth, after he departs unto heaven,” Woodard said.
Rob’s skin almost crawled off his bones. Seven flaxen-haired brides. Trina had blonde hair. Did this mean she wasn’t the only one missing?
* * *
Rob and Frank relaxed on the sofa as Edna clicked the ballpoint pen with one hand and held her stress ball with the other. She reclined in her chair and stared at Terry, who was sitting across from her, his usual easygoing demeanor absent. Rob wanted to ask her if she had another stress ball in her desk, but he was pretty sure that would piss her off.
“So, what do you think?” she asked.
Edna always requested Terry’s sage advice before making a major command decision. It might be hers to make, but it was also her head on the block.
Terry crossed his legs and glanced at Rob and Frank. Rob leaned forward, holding a hand in a fist, his arms resting on his knees. Frank slumped to one side, yawning.
“We have to look at what we have and not what we wish we had,” Terry said. “If the guy at Skyview is to be believed, then the mayor’s daughter is probably still alive and being held somewhere. We don’t have any better lead than the Wormwood thing. The Rangers, FBI, and our Missing Persons Unit aren’t getting anywhere. It’s not perfect, but it’s probably the best we’ve got.”
Edna stopped clicking the pen and tossed it on her desk. “We know the guy’s raving mad. The warden even told you he was manipulative. How do we know he’s not just leading us around by the nose? Have you ever met a nutcase whose information you trusted?”
“It had a ring of truth, Lieutenant,” Rob said, remembering Marshall’s expression as the guards led him out. He had seemed at peace, as if he was waiting for something wonderful to happen. “I believe him. You had to be there.”
Edna picked up the pen again and twirled it through her fingers. She shifted her gaze to Frank. “You’ve been pretty quiet. Have any thoughts?”
Frank scratched his neck before answering. “I agree with Rob. Staying on the Wormwood angle is the only sensible course.”
She exhaled. “Okay, but where do we go from here? We don’t have any forensics or witnesses to link this Brother John character to anything. We don’t even know where he is.”
She was right, Rob thought. They didn’t have much to go on.
Frank sat upright and pursed his lips. “We could be missing the forest because of the trees. The mayor’s daughter may be the first of seven, the last of seven, or anywhere in between. We have no way of knowing. I say we canvass regional police agencies to determine if they have any ‘flaxen-haired’ young women missing from their jurisdictions in the last few years,” Frank said. “And if they do, was there a Bible found at the scene? Especially one with the word Wormwood highlighted. If so, we might be able to triangulate the approximate location of Brother John.”
Rob’s insides unwound as it became clear from Edna’s expression that Frank’s argument was winning her over.
She exhaled. “Okay, make it happen.”
Frank spent the rest of the afternoon assembling information for the agency notifications. Rob tried talking to him but only got a distracted mumble for a reply. Just before five, Frank pulled off a sheet of paper from the printer. “Let’s talk to Terry.”
Terry had already logged off his computer and turned off the coffee maker when they traipsed in. “What do you have?” he asked.
Frank passed the sheet to him, and Terry spent a minute reviewing it. He looked up. “So, why did you choose these towns?”
“I figured whoever grabbed her had to go by road. Probably not more than three hundred miles,” Frank answered.
Terry nodded, his brow pinched.
Rob pointed to the page. “And snatching girls from a small town wouldn’t be smart. Too much publicity. Everyone would make a big deal over it. So we’re searching only cities.”
“Twelve cities from San Angelo to Alexandria and Beaumont to Hot Springs,” Terry said. “Jeez, that’s three states.”
Frank shrugged. “Cast a wide net.”
Terry switched off his office light and said, “Okay, I’ll run it past Edna.”
Rob strolled to his desk and grabbed his jacket, but Frank plopped into his chair and stared straight ahead.
“What’s wrong?” Rob asked.
Frank looked up. “I dread what I have to do next.”
Rob slipped on his jacket. “What’s that?”
“Wait,” Frank said.
Rob made his way out of CIU, thinking about Marshall in his grimy cell, waiting for Judgment Day. That’s what all of them were doing now—him, Frank, Marshall, and Katrina. Waiting. And he wasn’t sure how much time Katrina had left.
* * *
Katrina listened at the door leading to the basement. The wails of the girl below pulled pity from her, but there was nothing she could do. Had the Freak visited her yet? She’d been down there a day and a half, and no one had said a word about her. Does that mean something? Only Sister Judy and Sister Ruth had keys to the deadbolt lock on the basement door; each of them carried one on a ribbon tied around her neck. How could Katrina get one?
Voices sounded from the screened-in porch, and Katrina rushed to the sink, immersing her hands in soapy dishwater. When Sisters Ruth and Karen strolled inside, Sister Ruth wore a smirk. They continued through the dining room, and the voices faded. Katrina rinsed the plates and silverware and stacked them neatly in the drain tray.
She had never washed dishes before coming to this freak show. Growing up, maids had collected the dishes at the end of meals, and the next time she saw them, they were set on a fine linen tablecloth with knives, forks, and spoons. This crappy place didn’t even have a built-in dishwasher. No. She was the dishwasher.
“Katrina,” Sister Ruth yelled, “we’re starting.”
If being their slave wasn’t bad enough, she had to endure the nightly sermons from the Freak. The guy hardly ever spoke, except in whispers to one of the brothers or Sister Ruth or Sister Judy. But give him an altar and the silly bastard went on for hours about a bunch of gobble-goop that made no sense, unless you already had mental problems. Katrina untied the apron and hung it on the hook by the wall clock. Yup, seven o’clock on the dot. He always started then, and they’d be lucky to get out by ten.
She wandered into the living room and sat in the usual chair facing the altar. Altar? What a crock. A bunch of sticks, leaves, and rocks. Signifying what? Mother Earth or some shit. She looked around, and all were present except Sister Karen and the Freak. It must have been her night to watch the children. More than once Katrina had decided not to attend the nightly sermons but chickened out at the last minute. Better to lull them into believing she went along with them until she could figure something out for escape. If they threw her back into the basement, she’d never get that chance.
When the Freak walked in, he carried his well-worn Bible and stood behind the altar. He raked the long hair behind his ears and examined the group. “God just spoke to me about tonight’s teachings. We’ll read from the Book of Isaiah. Turn with me to the thirty-forth chapter and the sixteenth verse.”
Bibles opened and pages flipped.
He cleared his throat. “Seek ye out of the book of the Lord, and read: no one of these shall fail, none shall want her mate: for my mouth it hath commanded, and his spirit it hath gathered them.”
He lifted his eyes after reading the verse, and they rested on Katrina. Her skin became cold and clammy, and goose bumps sprang up like weeds. What did he mean, none shall want her mate?
26
From the time they’d visited Marshall Woodard in prison, Frank’s obsession with the case had grown each day. He spent most of his time checking either t
he fax machine or his email. The notifications sent to the police agencies to canvass their records for missing blonde girls, especially where a Bible was involved, had his email and fax number at the bottom as primary contact. It was no surprise to anyone, except Frank, when by Friday afternoon not one agency had called. Police departments honored requests from each other, but few broke their necks to get them done in a hurry. They got pushed around for a few days, finally landing on the junior guy’s desk. If he happened to be sick, busy, or on vacation, the request tended to drift beneath the pile.
By Friday afternoon, Frank’s mood had grown so black that Rob figured they needed to drink it out at Sarge’s after work. Rob ran an errand, and when he returned to CIU, he found Frank slouched in his cubicle watching some YouTube video. The sound was so low only Rob and Frank could hear. Rob leaned on the cube’s low wall, and Frank shot him a look before turning back to the screen. The video was of an older preacher dressed in a white suit, with silver hair and rings on all fingers. His hazel eyes sparkled as he held the mike and admonished the audience.
“Do you love God?” the preacher asked.
A timid “Yes” rose from the congregation.
The man whirled in a different direction and pointed. “If I can’t hear you, what makes you think God can? I said, do you love God?”
A louder “Yes” echoed from the people.
The preacher held up his free hand and started to speak but instead collapsed on the floor. He put his head against the carpet and moaned. “Yes, Lord … I hear you … yes, Lord.” After a minute, he rose and wiped sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief. He slipped it into his coat pocket and drew in a deep breath.
“God just told me something, folks.” He laughed and looked up. “Praise God … yes, Lord, I’m going to tell ’em right now.” He scanned the gathering and spoke in tongues. He closed his eyes and lifted both hands to heaven and continued declaring the mysterious foreign words. The congregation joined in. After a moment, he again wiped his brow and mouth with the handkerchief.
“God told me that tonight he wants his children to give him a special love offering, above and beyond your tithe. He said for those who will bless his church with this special offering, he’ll bless you a hundredfold.”
The color had drained from Frank’s face, and he wasn’t breathing. His hand gripped the chair’s armrest—knuckles white.
“Frank, you okay?” Rob whispered.
Frank twisted his neck and met eyes with Rob. His mouth had a look like he’d just eaten a lemon. He paused the video. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Who is that guy?” Rob asked.
Frank sat up. “That’s the quite reverent Truly Fischer. A full-faith minister from Florida.”
“Never heard of him,” Rob said.
Frank chuckled. “You’re Catholic. He doesn’t run in those circles.”
“What’s he famous for?”
Frank sat up straighter, suddenly more animated than he’d been in days. He raised his hands and moved them in some kind of mystical wave. “Oh, he heals the sick, raises the dead—you name it, he’ll do it. But he’s mostly famous for having the most scandal-ridden ministry in the country. Several attorney general probes, two IRS investigations, and more sexual escapades than Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart put together. But you know what?” Frank grinned. “The true evangelical believers still flock to his BS sermons.” Frank shook his head and mumbled, “They still come.”
From the corner, the fax machine hummed as a page rolled into the tray. Frank pushed out of his chair and sprinted in that direction. After a moment, he sauntered back empty-handed.
“Not for you?” Rob asked.
Frank shook his head and collapsed into his chair. The fact that some old heads in other departments still used a fax machine probably frustrated Frank. But old guys had old ways.
Rob checked his watch. “It’s close enough to getting-off time. Let’s go to Sarge’s.”
Frank shut down his computer and stood, his shoulders hunched. He’d fallen into a serious funk. “Yeah, let’s go.”
* * *
By the time they arrived at Sarge’s, the Friday after-work crowd was in full party mode. Rob and Frank squeezed past a wad of people congregated near the door and wormed through the mob to the last two empty stools on the far end. Country and western music filled the room while Sarge mixed drinks and Jan pushed them to the customers and took new orders.
“Be right with you guys,” she yelled above the noise of the voices.
Frank shuffled behind Rob. Frank’s face had a vacant look. He got that way when things didn’t happen as fast as he liked, and it put people off who didn’t understand. Rob referred to it as his melancholy stare.
Just then a booth opened up and Rob touched Frank’s arm. They transferred their headquarters to the booth, and Jan cleared the table.
“What’ll it be, boys?”
“Mic for me and house red for Frank,” Rob said.
She scurried toward the bar, and Rob looked at Frank. “Why were you watching that video about the preacher?”
Frank squirmed in the booth as if trying to decide if he wanted to sit or slouch. He finally decided and sat upright with his hands gripping the edge of the table.
“My grandparents took me to hear him when I was a kid in Florida.” Frank gazed in the distance, remembering. “This was before they hit it rich on the land deal. Reverend Fischer preached out of a big tent then. My grandma said when we finished listening to him, we’d get a hamburger and fries.”
Jan slid a cold beer and glass of red wine to them. “Cheers,” she said before retreating.
Rob tasted the beer and studied Frank. His partner didn’t touch his glass but glared at the table with a sour face.
“So you got a hamburger and fries…”
Frank seemed to wake up and glanced his way. “No, I didn’t. After Reverend Fischer passed the plate for the regular offering and my granddad almost emptied his wallet, Fischer passed a canvas bag for a ‘special love offering.’ I’ll never forget the look on my grandma’s face as she and my grandpa stared at the last few dollars in his wallet. He dropped them into that bag, and we went back to the ranch and ate leftovers.”
Rob chuckled. “So Reverend Fischer screwed you out of your burger and fries?”
“No, the old bastard screwed my grandparents out of their last few bucks,” Frank said.
“So, was that an old video, or is the guy still preaching?” Rob asked.
“Yeah, still cheating people—on cable and the Internet now.”
“You down on religion in general, or just that guy?” Rob asked.
Frank didn’t answer, but he was thinking.
“I’m not so sure I believe in the whole Jesus thing,” Frank mumbled.
“Holy shit.” Rob crossed himself. “A heathen. You serious?”
“The more I think about it, the less I’m convinced.” Frank got into his lounge position: back against the wall and legs stretched across the seat. He looked at Rob and lifted an eyebrow.
“How much do you believe?”
Rob stammered, “What my parents, wife, and priest believe … I guess.”
“Okay, quote John 3:16,” Frank said.
“Well, I don’t exactly have the Bible memorized.”
“Have you ever read it?” Frank asked.
“Sure, you know … parts.”
Frank quoted. “‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ That’s the King James version.” Frank said. “There are numerous versions and translations of the Bible—over a hundred. Plus, when you consider who actually wrote the scriptures, that opens another bag of worms.”
“Like how?” Rob took another swig of beer.
“Well, take the Synoptic Gospels, for instance.”
“The what?” Rob asked.
“The gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. They’re filled with co
ntradictions. One guy says one thing and another guy says something else. You know why?” Frank had that look that dared Rob to ask.
“Huh-uh?”
“Because they weren’t written by the evangelist who is attributed as their author. The books come from other written and oral sources. All the gospels were written by who knows who. The writers weren’t apostles or even eyewitnesses, and the text was written a long time after their deaths. Whether someone wrote the books with divine inspiration or just made it up as they went, we have no way of knowing,” Frank said.
Rob spun the empty glass around with a finger. He looked up. “How many times you read the Bible?”
Frank’s grin was lopsided, as if he was embarrassed by what he was about to say. “Five, but I’m more confused with each reading. It’s like trying to figure out the US tax code. There are a hundred and ninety-four inconsistencies in the New Testament alone.”
“When you say ‘inconsistencies,’ give me an example. Are you talking about dates, or some spelling differences?” Rob asked.
Frank finished his wine and lifted his glass at Sarge while also pointing to Rob’s. “Nope, bigger. Like the fact that of all the writers of the New Testament, only Matthew and Luke seemed to be aware of the virgin birth.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Frank said.
Rob squirmed. “Wow! You saying you don’t believe Jesus was the son of God in the Bible Belt? Shit, I could go to hell just sitting next to your ass.”
Jan brought another beer and wine and scooped up the empties.
Frank slid the wine in front of him and shrugged. “That’s just one of the many inaccuracies.”
“Okay, Frank, stop. You’re scaring me,” Rob said.
Frank gestured with his hands, getting deeper into his lecture. “During the times of the early church, many of the writers wanted to show Jesus was the son of God by having him fulfill prophecies from the Old Testament. Today we call guys like that spin doctors.”
Rob drank half his beer in one swallow but thought he needed more.
“Peter is said to be the first pope, right? ‘Upon this rock I will build my church’?”