Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller

by Lynn Hightower

  He sits with the book in his lap, and I see that he has taken care with this book, I see the edges of newspaper and magazine clippings.

  Father Panatel turns the pages carefully, his attention caught from time to time. He looks up. ‘Please, I am sorry, I have not opened this book for some time. I started it years ago when I first began to feel my calling to the church.’ He stands up to show me a page. A newspaper article from The Times, titled ‘Thomas Merton and the Abbey of Gethsemani’. ‘This is the article that first brought me here. I was studying in Oxford, you know. From Oxford to Kentucky, USA.’

  I return his smile. An outrageous journey – India, Oxford, Kentucky.

  ‘Here, dear lady, this is you. This you must have to remember.’

  He passes the book across to my lap. I turn it around and smile, just a small one. I shake my head. I have not looked at this in years.

  The tag-line on the front cover reads ‘Divine Joy’, and that’s my picture, there, on the cover of Time magazine.

  The cover shot was a surprise. The initial notion of a mention in a national magazine was flattering and terrifying, but when we set it up there was no mention that I was going to be cover material. I think it was the picture, spontaneous and unexpected. A tiny stab of meanness from my husband that backfired and landed me right in the spotlight.

  I had been running late, as I always was in those days, and when the reporter and photographer arrived, my husband, Carl, had kept them in the foyer with that pompous little speech, the one he always made to the media – that they were not to put him in their article for any reason. He longed, always, for the protest. The family angle was important, he thought. He was important – the man behind the woman. But this time, they did not bite. They were not interested in him, and they agreed immediately.

  It made Carl angry, the dismissal. So he’d taken them through unannounced, opened the door to my office without knocking, and said in a mix of pomp and sarcasm ‘The great Joy Miller’ before he disappeared down the hall. Which is why they caught the great Joy Miller scrambling to clean up her office.

  I remember how my cheeks had gone hot when I saw them in the doorway, their faces registering the hostility from my husband. I shrugged, shook my head and grinned at them, standing with my back to the wall, my arms open wide. Carl or no Carl, I was excited about the interview, flattered, speculating about the good it might do. I used to think like that, when I was very young.

  The photographer, alert like the best ones are, crouched right then and there and took a candid photo.

  The picture astounds me. I hardly know this woman.

  Joy Miller, back to the wall, wearing a black tweedy skirt and pink sweater, arms wide, that trademark smile that was so full of love and joy; the office mess around her, which included a baseball jersey and cleats that had clearly just been dropped by her son, a basket with an ancient, deaf basset hound named Bella curled up inside, dog toys and chewies littering the immediate area, open books on the desk, and a half eaten chocolate bar on the file cabinet.

  I scan the article, wincing as I read.

  Head high, eyes crinkled in a smile, right arm raised in a fisted thumbs-up that is her signature, Joy Miller starts every sermon with the same words. ‘According to the dictates of the church where I grew up, it was decided that a woman should not preach.’

  At this point there is a cheer, drowning out the next words which tell how Joy Miller has been called by God and no man will stop her. It seems that no man will. The Joy Miller Ministries brings in over three million dollars a year, and that figure is expected to double in the next two. She takes a modest salary, and the rest of the money is deposited into a foundation account that is earmarked for the Joy Miller Ministries causes – a women’s shelter, a ‘home’ for troubled teens, community food pantries, scholarships for deserving students, no-kill animal shelters and funding for training search and rescue dogs for law enforcement. Her staff is minimal, consisting mainly of her cousin Marsha who handles the bookkeeping, temporary workers who are hired as needed, and numerous church volunteers. The lion’s share of the load rests on the shoulders of Joy Miller herself, and there is no question that this woman puts in a long day. In addition to her television ministry, she is inundated with speaking engagements and meetings with charities who would like to have a piece of the Ministries’ pie, as well as the detail and grind of working with the foundation board. She reserves fifteen hours a week to counsel the members of her ‘tele-congregation,’ and yes, she’s a member of the PTA.

  If the women love her dearly, the men love her more. She is pretty, sweet and fresh as a Georgia peach. She is confident without being cocky, and she is no man-hater. The man who follows Joy Miller has the double pleasure of being thought open-minded, compassionate and appealing to women.

  Joy Miller seems to appeal to everyone, except the hard liners. A married woman with one child – a stay-at-home mom until she heard the call. She understands marriage, parenting, stay-at-home-mothering, and working moms. She stands for the sanctity of marriage, of staying together no matter what, of taking that tough road and where it can lead.

  Joy Miller thinks monogamy is exciting.

  Time received a record number of letters about that picture, and with the exception of one man who clearly thought that Joy Miller was a disgustingly deficient housekeeper, most of the letters were cheers and jeers from the same old weary divide – how shocking, a woman who wants to preach. The article got it wrong, a lot of it. I never said monogamy was exciting. At least I don’t remember saying that. And I had ‘the calling’ and went to seminary before I got married, before Joey was born. But the man who was upset by my untidy home – he had a valid point. I was way too busy to be a good housekeeper, in those days. As is often the case with women, the three million I pulled in annual donations paled beside the question of whether or not my toilets were properly scrubbed.

  I look at Father Panatel, and see the look I know very well. I am a celebrity in his shiny eyes. He will answer my questions and keep my confidence, and he would do so, church or no church.

  ‘Thank you, so much, for showing this to me. I’m incredibly flattered, to be in your book.’

  He leans toward me. ‘I just want you to know you are with a friend. For you to please, just be free to talk here, dear lady.’

  There is a calmness about him that makes me ache, and I want to lean on this man. I will have to watch myself, not to tell him too much. My photographs – good reminders there – are in the hands of the FBI, but the memories are easy to conjure. They slide in and out of my mind.

  I clear my throat, compose my thoughts. What to tell – what to hold back?

  ‘First, let me thank you for meeting on such short notice.’ I fall back on the southern courtesy do-si-do. ‘As I said on the phone, I wanted to ask you about someone who I think was a visitor here, on a retreat, roughly fourteen years ago. Which I know is a long time. But the Dark Man is the kind of visitor you would remember.’

  I give the date once again, a date that stays in the back of my mind. ‘He would have come alone, without making previous arrangements. He would not fit in. He would not be overly concerned with your rules. He might smoke cigarettes in places he is not allowed to smoke. He has a way about him. A feeling. He is the kind of man you would hesitate to cross.’

  Father Panatel shows me a furrowed brow. ‘It is a strange thing to be asking, I think, if I can remember a man from fourteen years ago.’

  I feel the hot flash that means my cheeks are going red. ‘This man makes you afraid, Father. Being around him can make you afraid.’

  Father Panatel leans back in his chair and frowns at me. ‘When I got your call, dear lady, and you made so clear the urgency of this matter, I did go back over my notebooks. All through the years I keep a spiritual journal. So I am able to go back and see what I am writing then, in that particular period of time. As it happens, it was a significant period for me as well. And this feeling of discomfort and fear yo
u speak of, this most definitely brings someone to mind. It makes me think I know the one. You are so correct when you say he makes the impression. If it is the same man, I remember him very well.’

  Father Panatel rubs his chin, and the ripple of disturbance that invades the calm gives me hope. The Dark Man has been here. He would leave this wake of discomfort.

  ‘I remember him, I’m thinking, and I remember the other, as well.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Father. What other man?’

  ‘One of our postulates. A man named Jathan Sandbone, who has befriended this man you talk about, this Dark Soul Man. They left together, at the end of the retreat, on their way from here to Salt Lake City.’

  ‘Why Salt Lake City?’

  Father Panatel nods. ‘Sandbone was taking him to our sister abbey. But after we have talked on the phone, I am trying to find Sandbone, and there is no luck. It would seem that neither of them arrived in Salt Lake City. And Sandbone was never seen again, from what I can tell due to checking. Of course, he could have dropped away. Some do. But I would not have thought it of him.’

  I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. ‘Do you have a name, Father, something in your records?’

  ‘I can find nothing but what I have already in my memory. That Sandbone referred to him as Paul.’

  ‘Paul? That’s it?’

  ‘I do not think this was his real name,’ Father Panatel says. ‘I believe it was to be a new name, and a new start.’

  ‘Of course. Saul, the criminal. Paul from Damascus.’

  ‘Yes.’ Father Panatel laced his fingers together. ‘Sandbone was a good man. How would you say it? That he was true? He had much of the life experience, and he was compassionate. This other man, Paul, as we called him, made many of the brothers uncomfortable. Every one was relieved when Sandbone tucked him under his wings.’ Father Panatel looks at my face. ‘This is the expression, yes, dear friend? Under his wings?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  The priest gives me a steady look, but there is a light in his eyes. I am thinking that he knows his slang is off kilter, and enjoys making fun of himself. ‘And do you have dealings with him now, this Dark Soul Paul? It occurs to me, dear lady, that if Paul had no luck finding what he was looking for with us, he might go elsewhere in his search. And it worries me that Sandbone left with him, and did not return.’

  This is my chance, I see it, I could tell this man everything. I am too close to this business, too weighed down in worry. He would be objective. He would be wise.

  ‘Do you think that it is this Paul who may be responsible for Sandbone’s disappearance?’ he asks.

  ‘Just that it would not surprise me, Father.’

  ‘I remember how Sandbone was good to him.’

  ‘Yes, Father. But with a man like this, who is searching for spiritual redemption, there is a risk in becoming his spiritual advisor. He might tell you things, and then regret the telling. He might have certain expectations. He might be disappointed when they were not met.’

  Father Panatel nods, and in his eyes I can see understanding, and worry. Somewhere I hear the faint tread of footsteps. The sun streams in through the windows and lights the motes of dust in the air.

  ‘There is something else you wished to say.’ Panatel sounds sympathetic, but he watches me.

  My throat feels sore. ‘Everything that I tell you puts you at risk.’

  ‘Nothing you say will go further than this room.’

  ‘I would ask you to tell me your memories of this man, and, for your own sake, not ask me any questions.’ I find I have tucked my hands beneath me.

  Father Panatel has been in the business long enough to know there is quite a lot I wish to say, and he waits me out, a technique I have used myself.

  ‘This man. This Paul. Before he came here, to your abbey, he came to me.’

  ‘Ah. I wondered if that might not be so. There is more?’

  ‘Much more,’ I say. ‘But nothing I can discuss without putting other people, not to mention you, in danger. I know how that sounds, how dramatic, but it’s true and I would ask you to keep my confidence on this.’

  He looks at me for such a long time. I am tired and worried and I wonder if I should say more, but I feel, strongly, that I may already have said too much.

  He leans toward me. ‘I would like there to be more for me to do than the telling of old stories, dear lady, for I think you are in need of some help.’

  I scoot to the back of my chair, keeping my knees together and my ankles crossed. I hope I do not look as uncomfortable as I feel. My ears are tuned now, to the rhythm of his speech. I am ready for once upon a time.

  ‘Fourteen years ago I was still just a student, you must understand. I was here on retreat as well. I was very interested in Thomas Merton, as I am a follower of this man. You are familiar with this Thomas Merton?’

  ‘I am. I studied him in seminary.’

  He nods. ‘I was present for two weeks of retreat, and my time ended on the same Friday afternoon that it did for Mr Sandbone and Mr Paul. He has made quite the impression, Mr Paul, what you call the sore thumb. He did not seem to know the ways of religion, and he broke many rules, many rules.’

  ‘For example?’ I ask. Looking for anything.

  ‘Please understand this, dear lady. A retreat is a place apart to entertain silence in the heart and listen for the voice of God. To pray for your own discovery. This man, Mr Paul, will speak without any thinking. He does not say much, but his time for speaking is very misjudged. He is lodged next to Mr Sandbone in the retreat house and each guest has a private room with a bathroom. The others here did not know what to make of Mr Paul, and it is clear that he had no notion of expectations. He was conscious of the self and felt the odd man out. Mr Sandbone took him in hand – is that the expression? Took him in hand?’

  ‘Depends on what you mean by that,’ I said.

  ‘What I mean is that the good Mr Sandbone is the constant companion of Mr Paul, and if they are talking more than is expected late at night in their rooms, no one is complaining, because Mr Paul has them all feeling unsettled. But they are noticing, yes, Mr Paul and Mr Sandbone are very much noticed.’

  ‘Did you overhear any of their conversations? Or did anyone else overhear them and make any kind of comment you recall?’

  ‘My dear friend, I was listening for the voice of God, not the back and forth between two men who did not have the courtesy and respect to follow the rules. But there was one night when I was awakened by the voices and the smell of the cigarettes. The walls, you see, are very thin. I admit to you I was quite annoyed by it and thought to complain. I was disturbed by their noise and their disrespect.’

  ‘What did you hear?’ I say.

  The priest lowered his head. ‘It would seem that Mr Paul has led a life of great violence.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That is what I have heard. Sandbone himself is a veteran of war, and this creates between them a sort of empathy. But mostly it is Paul who is talking. He says that he has committed acts of actual murder. It was a thing most chilling for me to listen to, because he speaks with such a way that is matter of fact. Mr Paul said that most of the killings were for monetary gain. He spoke again and again of internal transformation, saying he wishes not to kill ever again, but is unclear how to make that stop. There seems to be a fear that if he changes into a man of good, he will die. He spoke over and over of the dangers of morality, as if it is some kind of curse. He is asking for God to show him the way. How to become another, but still be safe.’

  Father Panatel looks out the window. ‘You would think that I would feel pity for such a man. But I was young then, and quick to condemn. I felt Mr Paul was looking for something, but not looking, if that makes sense at all. I could not find it in my heart to feel sad for him, not at that time in my life.’

  I nodded. I understood. Only too well.

  ‘You should know that I did have conversation with Mr Sandbone on the aftern
oon of departing. Mr Paul had gone back to his room to look for a keychain he had bought from the gift shop, and their car is packed for leaving.’

  ‘So there’s no question, then, that they left together? You saw this?’

  ‘I saw the preparations being made. I told Mr Sandbone farewell, and I am with my own bags packed, waiting. He asked me if I needed transportation anywhere, he knows I am a student. And I told him that such has been taken care of by the abbey. He asks me where I am to go, and I tell him that I am on my way to take a plane for India. I ask him what are his own plans, and he says he is on his way to the Shepherds Of The Land, which is a monastery begun in Utah by monks from this very abbey here. He has spent his six months there as a postulate, and is ready to begin his two years as a novice, after which he will take a temporary vow to bind him to the monastic life for three years. He says that Mr Paul is interested in becoming a postulate, and I can tell you, dear lady, that I must have looked surprised. Mr Sandbone, he puts a hand on my shoulder, and he calls me son. That is a thing in America, yes, for a man of some years to call a young man son. And he says to me something that I was always to remember. He says “Mr Paul has a past, my son, but also he has a future.”’

  Sandbone’s words seem to generate a sort of presence, and we both sit quiet for a while.

  ‘Sandbone was a brave man,’ I say finally. ‘But foolish. Men like this Dark Man. I’m not sure they can be saved.’

  I can see it in Father Panatel’s face, that in spite of the optimism of certain passages of scripture, he has struggled with the very same thing ‘Do you really believe that, dear lady?’

  It’s a good question. The question, as a matter of fact.

  ‘Let’s say it is my fear, Father Panatel, that they cannot.’

  SEVEN

  My cell phone rings on my way home from the seminary. I pull to the side of the road. I am distracted and it takes all of my concentration to drive.

  ‘My name is Mrs Hunter, Melissa Hunter, and I’m with the Sebastian County Humane Society. I was told to call this number for a Joy Miller.’