by Larry Enmon
“Where you going with this, Frank?” Rob asked.
“Most think the Lord’s Supper was created by Peter, but he appropriated it from Mithraism.”
“What?” Rob asked.
Frank tested the new wine. “It was an established religion well before Christianity and up until the time of Constantine, a close competitor. Mithras was the central deity who died for mankind’s sins and was resurrected after death. It was said if you believed in Mithras you would have eternal life. Sound familiar?”
Rob ran a hand over his short hair before whispering, “Shit, I wish I went to mass last Sunday.”
“Hey, the gospel writers aren’t any worse than people today. We rewrite history all the time to suit our purposes. Add to that, the texts were extensively edited to reflect evolving church dogma, and you get a wad of contradictions. Everyone—yesterday, today, and tomorrow—has agendas they’re pushing. What we have to ask ourselves is how much do we believe, or do we believe any of it?” Frank said.
Rob looked into his glass. Definitely stopping by church on the way home.
“The Catholics canonized the books of the Bible. But what about the ones that weren’t canonized? Could the lost books shed any light on things, or were they left out because they didn’t tell the story the right way for the times?”
Rob eyed Frank. “So now you’re blaming the Catholic Church?”
Frank’s jaw dropped and his brow rose. “Who? Me? Blame the folks who gave us the Holy Inquisition and the Crusades?”
“You argue like a criminal defense attorney. You know that?” Rob said.
Frank’s lips pursed. “Please, Rob, there’s no need for name-calling.” Frank paused and looked into the wine glass, as if he was expecting to find some answers there. Finally he spoke. “My point is, people like Marshall Woodard never ask themselves any of these questions. Wormwood. Reverend Fischer. They’re all the same. It’s just a matter of degree.”
“I’ll have one more round with you if you’ll stop talking religion,” Rob said. He didn’t know how many Hail Marys he already owed after listening to Frank’s ramble, but he wasn’t going to incur any more.
“Deal, but just two more questions. Okay?”
Rob shrugged. “Only two?”
“You believe in a literal translation of the Bible?”
Rob dropped his head in his hands and moaned as he considered the question a moment. “Yeah … yeah, I do.”
“You believe dinosaurs once roamed the earth?” Frank asked.
Rob’s eyebrows furrowed. “Of course,” he said.
“Why were they never mentioned in the Bible, or on Noah’s Ark?”
That was three questions, but at this point, what difference did it make?
27
For two days Katrina had been getting her nerve up and waiting for just the right moment. She stood in her bedroom and watched all the brothers and sisters, except Ruth, being lectured by the Freak under the big oak in the front yard. They did this every so often for an hour or so. This Saturday morning was the time Katrina had waited for. The time she’d try to make contact with the girl in the basement. The locked basement door remained the problem. There was probably a spare key somewhere. She had to find it.
Katrina had been fighting a bout of homesickness all morning. Were her parents looking for her? Did her boyfriend still care about her? She needed something to take her mind off what she didn’t have. Talking to the other girl might be just the thing.
Annabelle’s words about the emerald ring came to her. They stole this from me the day I arrived. But I found where they hid it in the women’s bedroom and stole it back. They’ve never missed it. The bedroom where the sisters slept was upstairs. Right beside the nursery. Could Katrina get in and out without being caught? Sister Ruth would be alerted to any sounds coming from the empty room, but Katrina had to try.
Something had happened to her. She’d never expected to feel empathy for a stranger. But the thought of the girl in the basement stuck in her mind. Or was it just her own loneliness? All her life Katrina had been the center of the universe and everyone had doted on her every desire. That wasn’t happening here. She was merely an incubator for the Freak’s seed, when he got around to her. After that, she had no more use.
Whatever the reason, she needed to talk to that girl. Tell her not to be afraid. Tell her she had a comrade in the same predicament. That’s what Annabelle had done for her. Katrina owed a debt.
Katrina slipped out the door and tiptoed down the hall. As she passed the nursery, she leaned her ear to the door. The sound of Sister Ruth’s voice filled the room as she read a Bible story to the children. Katrina opened the door of the sisters’ room and eased inside, closing it without a sound.
The room was furnished much like hers, except a thick green rug covered the hardwood floor. There were two double beds. Where did the third sister sleep? And then she remembered. Annabelle had said the Freak claimed one for himself every night, usually Sister Karen. Figures, she’s the youngest and prettiest. Katrina turned, looking for a place that might hide the key. The chest of drawers looked like a good starting point.
After five minutes of searching under and behind each pile of clothes, she gave up. The dressing table was a possibility. She searched each drawer and found nothing. The nightstand in the corner was the last place she’d have time to look.
Bingo. The top drawer had a cardboard tray filled with watches, rings, and necklaces. Even Katrina’s rings were there. The temptation to take them caused her to hesitate, but she stayed focused. A key was what she needed. A key to a double-cylinder deadbolt lock. It wasn’t there. Shit. There were keys, but none fit a double-cylinder deadbolt. She knew what they looked like. That’s all her parents had at home. She closed the drawer as a thought raced through her mind. She slid it back open and lifted the cardboard tray.
Yes! Found it. She slipped the key into her pocket as footsteps in the hall alerted her. When the doorknob turned, she pushed the drawer shut and dove for the floor. She gazed under the bed at the legs and shoes of the person entering—women’s shoes. If they took a few more steps past the bed, she’d be spotted. Katrina held her breath. The sound of her heart pounding on the floor was a base drum. The shoes halted at the dressing table, and the grind of a drawer sliding open floated in the air. The drawer slammed shut, and the feet twisted toward the door. A moment later it closed, and Katrina breathed again. It doesn’t get any closer than that.
Katrina rose to her knees and listened for a full minute. Finally, she crept to the door and laid her head against it. No movement outside. Was the meeting still going on? Had she been missed?
“Katrina,” a voice called, scaring her senseless.
She jerked her head from the door and panicked. It was Sister Ruth yelling from the hall. What did she want? Katrina cracked the door and peeked outside at Ruth traipsing down the corridor toward the stairs, still bellowing her name. As Ruth’s head disappeared from sight, going down the stairs, Katrina broke for the hall bathroom, closing and locking the door.
“Katrina,” the voice cried as Sister Ruth marched back up the stairs. After checking herself in the mirror and straightening her hair, Katrina flushed the toilet and opened the door. She was greeted by Sister Ruth’s suspicious glare.
“Where have you been?”
Katrina had had just about enough of this woman—caution be damned. She rolled her eyes. “Bermuda. Had a nice lunch—returning for dinner later.”
Ruth pointed an accusatory finger at her and scowled. “Don’t you sass me, girl.”
“Did you want something, or were you just checking on my kidney and bowel movements?”
“Time to start cleaning that chicken for supper. I’ll be down as soon as I’m relieved up here,” Sister Ruth said.
Katrina spun toward the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder just before going down. Ruth stood with her hand on the sisters’ bedroom doorknob. Trying to act normal, Katrina sauntered through the living r
oom on the way to the kitchen and looked out the front window. The outside meeting was breaking up. She hurried to the locked basement door, fitting the key into the grooves and turn it. A snap sounded from the lock. She tried the door and it opened a crack. Katrina closed and relocked it.
She had the right key. Now all she needed was a chance to use it. A sense of profound satisfaction washed over her—such a small victory. But any success in a place like this made her feel on top of the world. Katrina held her shoulders a little straighter as she made her way to the kitchen counter to begin her evening’s work. If she could score a small victory, perhaps she might also escape.
* * *
Frank sat on his balcony and had an after-dinner glass of red. He’d shocked Rob with his revelation about doubting Jesus. What he didn’t share was that he even had doubts about God’s existence. How could a loving God allow horrible things to happen to his children? Frank had lost the last vestiges of faith a long time ago in New York and saw no way or reason to recover them. He put all thoughts of God out of his mind and had another sip.
Frank liked these early spring evenings, the way the horizon glowed just before dark. The city took on a different look when the shadows closed in. Rush-hour traffic had died away, and only the diners and partiers ventured out. Others were home with their families watching TV and picking up kids from after-school activities. He could have had a life like that. He’d still be living in New York and cooking if he and Carly were still together. Would he be happier? Their romance had been full of the fire of youth, but they had been just kids, people who didn’t know or care where their lives would lead. Yeah, he thought as he had another sip. You would have been happier—much happier.
Frank wasn’t much of a navel-gazer. The past was fixed. Long-ago mistakes and sins needed putting away in a dark place of the mind, a place you didn’t visit too often. With all the distractions of the case, he hadn’t been there in weeks. But when old ghosts scratch on the walls, sometimes you just have to look around the corner.
* * *
Brother John rocked in the chair and enjoyed the whippoorwills in the field, the owl behind the barn, and the tree frogs. No one ever disturbed him on the front porch this late. He’d left orders.
He rose and scanned the area before stepping into the yard. One of the dogs rustled behind a bush as it slipped around the house, but he paid it no mind. A northerly breeze sent a strong whiff of pine through the trees while he meandered in the shadows toward the Farm to Market Road. Lighting bugs flickered in the dark woods, signaling their mates. Every so often Brother John stopped and checked. No one followed.
He dug in his pocket and slipped out a joint. Lighting it, he pulled in a long drag and held the smoke until he needed air. So relaxing. He kept the joint cupped in his palm and strolled as if he didn’t have a care in the world. But he had more cares than anyone knew. The weight became more pronounced each year. Only his spiritual adviser kept him from slipping off the edge. Without him, Brother John was lost.
As he neared the road, a silhouette emerged out of the darkness, becoming sharper as he approached. It leaned against a tree and waited. Brother John hadn’t expected him this close to the house. They usually met at the entrance of the county road. He’d have seen the joint by now. No use trying to hide it. John had another long pull before halting. The quiet voice welcomed him.
“John, you don’t need that anymore, you know. You’ve got the spirit.”
28
By Saturday morning, Frank had received no phone calls or emails about kidnapped girls. He took his time going through his yoga routine, drank coffee on the balcony, ate breakfast, and resisted the urge to check the office fax. Few agencies used fax anymore for basic communication anyway, so he piddled around the house for a couple of hours until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
CIU wasn’t open on weekends, except for a duty officer to take emergency calls from home. When Frank sauntered into the work area, it was dark. The only light shone from Edna’s office. As he walked past, they made eye contact and asked the same question at the same time: “What are you doing here?”
She laughed and leaned on her forearms. In jeans and a casual blouse, with her hair down, she looked years younger.
“Just catching up on a few things I didn’t have time for on Friday. You?” she asked.
“Checking the fax,” Frank said.
She nodded and went back to typing. He ambled through the quiet space, usually filled with laughter and conversations, and found no fax for him. He sorted and stapled a few for other detectives and dropped them in their boxes on the way out. After wandering in the hall for a bit, Frank checked his phone and email for messages. Ready to give up, he smacked the down button next to the elevator. Just as the doors slid open, Edna’s voice stopped him.
“You have a fax—just rolled in.” She stood wedged in the door to CIU, a small smile on her face.
Frank sprinted past her. “Thanks.”
The cover sheet was from the Shreveport Police Department. Frank scanned it and held his breath. Emilie Moore—W/F, DOB 7/16/1991, reported missing by family last Tuesday. White Bible discovered with Wormwood highlighted in her vehicle. Full offense report enclosed. Detective Harold Bibbs SPD—Missing Persons.
“Gotcha!” Frank said.
Edna reviewed the cover while Frank dug into the report. Same MO as Trina. He finished reading it and called Detective Bibbs. Ten minutes later, Frank slammed the phone down triumphantly and turned, only to find Edna hovering nearby.
“Now we know we’ve been on the right track,” he said. “Wormwood is the key.”
She leaned against his desk. “But what does that get us? What does it mean?”
“Nowhere, unless Shreveport gets something else, or we have another agency report come in. If we could just have at least three kidnap locations, then we could triangulate the anchor point of the suspect. We need at least one more.”
Edna’s shoulders relaxed and she flashed one of her rare smiles. “I’m happy things are panning out. You can’t believe how much pressure I’ve been getting from the sixth floor.” She looked especially pretty today. With the tight bun released and long black hair cascading around her shoulders, Frank again wished she wasn’t his lieutenant.
He slid into his lounge position and folded his hands across his stomach. “How bad does the sixth floor want this?”
Edna squinted and her lips pressed flat. “Why?”
“If we rescue her but have to crack a few eggs, how much support could we expect?”
Edna scrutinized the empty room a moment before answering, but still lowered her voice. “I know you, Frank. And I’ve pulled heat for you in the past. But if you bring her home in one piece and don’t commit any first-degree felonies, I’ve got your back.”
Frank considered the deal. “Probably won’t come to that, but good to know I have an ace in the hole.”
Edna showed that smile he liked. “Give me time to close out my computer, and I’ll buy you lunch. We deserve to celebrate a little,” she said.
“I’d like that, Edna. I mean Lieutenant—”
She shot that look again. “Edna’s fine. We’re off duty.”
An hour later Frank checked the office one more time before going home. The fax machine sat cold and lifeless. He spun around and headed to the parking garage. On the way, his phone rang.
“This is Pierce.”
A hesitant voice said, “Yes, I’m Detective Grover, Houston PD. We had a Donna Willis go missing a couple of years ago. Fit the general description you outlined in your alert.”
Frank froze and braced himself against a wall. “Was there a Bible?” He figured he sounded excited but didn’t care. Could he be lucky enough to get two confirmations in one day?
“Yeah, but it got returned to the next of kin with the rest of her stuff.”
Frank calmed down. “I see.”
“But we just finished reinterviewing the relatives, and I’m holding the Bible in
my lap as we speak.”
Frank sucked in a sharp breath. “Is the word Wormwood highlighted?”
A chuckle drifted over the line. “Oh, yeah. Right where you said it’d be.”
That was number three. The triangle was complete.
* * *
Sunday morning, Katrina helped with breakfast and cleaned up the dishes. Sister Judy carried a tray of food to the basement and came up a minute later. Katrina fingered the key in her pocket and eyed the lock. Sunday morning services were about to start, so everyone made their way to the living room. Sister Ruth ran her finger around the inner edge of a frying pan in the drying rack and frowned.
“This still has grease on it. Wash it again and be quick about it. We’re starting.”
Katrina dropped the pan in the hot, soapy water and wiped it once before rinsing it. The sound of the group milling around and sliding chairs into position in the living room floated into the kitchen. Katrina was alone at last. The temptation to open the basement door and slip down the stairs became overpowering. That crazy thought drew her to the door, and her hand went for her pocket. She was about to ease the key into the lock when Sister Ruth stuck her head around the corner.
“You coming?” she asked.
Katrina jumped. She hung the dishtowel on the rack while slipping the key back into her pocket. “Yeah, be right there.”
* * *
Frank checked the fax machine that Sunday morning, but nothing new had arrived. He picked up a copy of The Dallas Morning News on his way home. He’d always enjoyed reading the news instead of listening to some moron recite it on TV like a trained parrot.
Last night, Frank had played around with the triangle theory of the kidnappings. While it wasn’t an exact science, it at least offered him an approximate area to cue on. It was basically an inverted triangle. According to Google, the distance from Dallas to Shreveport was 188 miles. From Dallas to Houston, 239, and Houston to Shreveport, 240. A big area of rural East Texas—real big.
State and federal missing-persons records could help only so much. If you had a specific geographical area and looked for young blonde women, you’d receive a lot of hits from a database inquiry. Too many for investigators to run out quickly. But when you specified only those cases in which a Bible had been left at the scene with the word Wormwood highlighted, you narrowed them down fast. Problem was, that was too specific for most indices. Calling the different cities and talking to the missing-persons detectives who worked the cases was how you handled it.