The Bones Will Speak

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  The symbol seemed to leap from the paper. A capital letter P with a line through it.

  The headlines above screamed “Terrorist Suspects Identified.” I read the article as I slowly walked to the office.

  The FBI revealed today the identity of two men who died last week in a traffic accident in Kellogg, Idaho, while fleeing from the scene of a shootout with police.

  Kenneth Allen Weeks and Peter Lowell Evans opened fire on patrol officer Mike Higgins, then attempted to flee. They were struck by a logging truck driven by Harold Patton of St. Maries at the I-90 Division Street on-ramp. Patton was treated and released. Weeks and Evans were pronounced dead at the scene.

  After the two men rented a house on Mission Street, one neighbor noticed a “striking resemblance” between the men and sketches released in the search for suspects in the fatal bombing of a Planned Parenthood site.

  The composites, drawn by well-known Montana forensic artist Gwen Marcey, have been circulated by area police asking for the public’s help in identifying the suspects. The neighbor called police, and when Officer Higgins showed up, the men opened fire.

  Wincing at the mention of my name, I skipped down and resumed reading.

  Weeks and Evans were part of Spokane’s Phineas Priesthood cell, part of the Christian Identity movement.

  I knew that symbol. The piece of paper under the dead cat, still in the plastic bag resting on the window ledge, contained the smeared Phineas Priesthood mark.

  But I was missing something. I’d seen that symbol, or a part of it, one other time.

  Picking up a pencil, I twirled it in my fingers as I walked around the room, pausing by the downloaded images from the body in the cow pasture. Of course. The scrap of map in the girl’s hand. In the far corner was a hand-drawn shape. A portion of the Priesthood symbol.

  Taking the article, newspaper, and photo of the map with me, I trotted down the hall to the office. After taping everything to the foam core, I stepped back.

  Why would an old Phineas Priesthood bombing case in Washington be connected to a serial killer in Montana? I drew the composites on the Priesthood case, but I’d basically been thrown off the local serial killings. And Dave’s question still remained. Why me? I shook my head, then pulled my sweater closer. Robert’s—no, my new office felt cold and smelled musty. Tomorrow I’d air out the room.

  Sitting at the desk, I stared at the display, but nothing connected. Absently I tried the desk drawers one by one. A lined notepad, an empty tissue box, a broken stapler, a crumpled piece of paper, and a writer’s magazine featuring Robert on the cover. I stacked everything on top of the desk, then propped Robert’s face against the box. Smoothing out the paper, I recognized a list I’d thrown in Robert’s face during our last, epic fight. I’d written down every terrible thing he’d ever said or done to me.

  The bottom drawer yielded a pistol. I pulled it out and placed it in front of me. I remembered Robert buying it on a whim.

  Memories flooded my brain, whirling around, making me clench my teeth. When will I stop thinking about him? When will he no longer have the power to hurt me?

  “I really want to hurt you,” I said to Robert’s image on the magazine cover.

  I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. A massive yoke seemed to settle on my shoulders. I crossed my arms on the desk, rested my forehead on them, and closed my eyes.

  A soft hand touched me.

  I jerked upright.

  Aynslee stood in the doorway, face pale. Beth was standing beside me. Early-morning sun streamed through the window.

  “Musta fallen asleep.” My brain was as muddied as a gouache painting. I ran my tongue over my teeth, wondering if someone had left a dirty sock in my mouth.

  “Did you hear me?” Beth asked quietly. “Gwen. It can’t be that bad.”

  “What?”

  “Please, just give me the gun.” She slowly reached for the pistol I still had in my hand.

  “You mean this?” I aimed the pistol at Robert’s image and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BETH SCREAMED.

  A stream of water splashed across his printed face.

  “Aahhh!” Beth danced away. “You’re crazy, you know that? You scared me to death!”

  Aynslee giggled. “You should have seen the look on your face, Beth.”

  “You imp.” Beth pointed at my daughter. “You knew it was a squirt gun.”

  Aynslee stopped giggling and slowly turned around. “Hey. You moved Dad’s desk. And you put a lot of stuff in here.”

  I stood and gently placed the water pistol on the desk. “It’s now my office. I . . . uh, I’m going to move my computer in here.” I checked Aynslee’s expression, then Beth’s. “And I’m going to paint it pink.”

  Aynslee chewed her lower lip as she completed her inspection of the room. A glance at me, then she wordlessly left.

  I raised my eyebrows at Beth.

  “Well, I like the idea. And it’s about time. Plus, I have a friend I’ve wanted you to meet—”

  “Oh no. I’m not ready for the dating scene. It’s taken me almost two years to get this far.”

  “Okay, okay, just saying.”

  “Give me a minute to take a shower and get dressed, then I need to show you something.”

  “And I need to show you something,” Beth said.

  “Mattie, I’m Dr. Haller.”

  Mattie focused on his face, but the morphine shot made her eyes bounce every time she blinked.

  “You’re going to be fine,” the doctor said. “We x-rayed your hands and have immobilized your fractures with a splint for now. We want you to see a specialist, though, because of your arthritis. We’ll be transferring you to Missoula soon. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Mattie nodded. The doctor smiled, then quietly closed the door, leaving Mattie in semidarkness. She bit her lip and tried to concentrate. She’d have to leave, escape from the hospital. But how? A policeman was right outside the door. He was supposed to be guarding her, but he’d found a way in. She’d just have to wait for her chance.

  Once showered and dressed in jeans, a white cotton tee, and a denim shirt, I followed my nose to the kitchen. Beth, wearing a merino wool turtleneck and matching royal blue trousers, bent over the stove stirring something deliciously fragrant.

  Aynslee hovered over the toaster. “She’s making eggs Benedict.”

  “I could get used to this.” I poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee and moved to the window to check the weather. Sunshine poked between gray-edged clouds, and a breeze sent the pine boughs waving.

  “It’s hard to sleuth on an empty stomach.” Beth deftly assembled the toasted English muffins, Canadian bacon, and poached eggs, then drizzled the hollandaise sauce over the top. With Aynslee’s help, she placed the three plates on the table next to my Bible, blank paper, and Scripture magnet.

  I sat down and avoided Beth’s gaze. I could feel my face growing warm.

  “Dear Father,” Beth began. I gratefully bowed my head. “Bless this meal, and send a special blessing to Gwen, that she may discern the path You would want her to take. Amen.”

  “Amen.” I kept my head down until I felt the hue of my face return to normal.

  “This is so good,” Aynslee said around a mouthful of egg. “Will you adopt me?”

  “Only if you bring your dog and clean your room.” Beth grinned at my daughter. My shoulders relaxed, and I smiled slightly at Beth. We finished and left a reluctant Aynslee to clean up.

  I led Beth into the office and pointed to the foam-core display.

  She touched the Phineas Priesthood symbol and nodded at me, then examined the drawings of the girls. “All this should be enough to convince everyone that you need to talk to Mattie and draw that composite, right?”

  “It’s circumstantial at this point. And I need to figure out a few more things.”

  “Now my turn.” Beth left and returned with a canvas bag holding six books. �
��These were all that the library offered, but I got more off the Internet.” She stacked the books next to the previous day’s selections, then added a computer printout. On the top she placed the pamphlet she’d taken the day before. The Brüder Schweigen Declaration of War.

  I picked up the pamphlet. “You’ve had a chance to look at this more?”

  “Yes. The Declaration of War part was written by Robert Jay Mathews, killed in a shootout with the FBI in 1984. He was the leader of The Order, a white separatist movement. The back of the pamphlet is about the church and the upcoming torchlight parade.”

  “I see. And these . . .” I lifted each book in turn. “The Turner Diaries, The Phineas Priesthood, Christian Identity, Aryan Nations. Charming reading material.”

  Beth took the pamphlet, selected a book, opened it to a bookmarked page, then sank into the desk chair. “Listen to this. ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ ”

  “What?”

  “That’s a quote from David Lane, a buddy of Robert Jay Mathews.” She waved the pamphlet again. “In the white separatist’s movement, it’s called ‘the Fourteen Words.’ ”

  “He’s—”

  “Dead. Died in prison. But his words, all words, have power. Proverbs 12:6 says in part, ‘The words of the wicked are like a murderous ambush.’ What is written in these”—she touched the books she’d brought—“may be driving our killer. But before I tell you more, first tell me I’m brilliant, clever, and a permanent partner.”

  “You’re brilliant. The rest I’ll hold until you tell me what you found.”

  “I’m going to demonstrate how clever I am. First of all, the symbol of the Phineas Priesthood—”

  “I already made that connection.”

  “I saw that, but there’s more. You told me Mattie repeated the numbers twenty-five and six. But what she really meant was Numbers 25:6. Ta-da!”

  “You’ve lost it.”

  She lifted a sheet of paper. “I downloaded this. In this chapter in Numbers, the people of Israel were having sexual relations with the Midianites, a pagan-worshipping group. God sent a plague as punishment. Though the Phineas priests say Numbers 25:6 as a kind of tagline, the important part to them is verses seven and eight. ‘And when Phinehas, the son of Eleazar, the son of Aaron the priest, saw it, he rose up from among the congregation, and took a javelin in his hand; And he went after the man of Israel into the tent, and thrust both of them through, the man of Israel, and the woman through her belly. So the plague was stayed from the children of Israel.’ ”

  “And—”

  “I’m not done. The Phineas priests also point to Psalms 106 where Phinehas’s action was ‘counted to him as righteousness from generation to generation forever.’ The group considers this evidence that God approves of vigilante actions to prevent the mixing of the races. This is not a good crowd to mess with. And you”—she pointed to a computer printout—“made front-page news by stopping them.”

  I carefully placed my pencil in the desk. “I didn’t personally stop them, but go on.”

  Beth turned toward me and held up the pamphlet. “The killer’s declared war on you.” She nodded at the piece of paper found under the cat. “He believes he’s on a mission from God for revenge.”

  “Gwen Marcey will be coming by,” Dave said to the sole dispatch operator. “Buzz her in when she gets here.” The officer nodded. Dave continued through the nearly deserted sheriff’s department to his office. He’d barely sat behind his desk when Gwen burst through carrying a large sheet of foam core. Beth and Aynslee were right behind.

  “So what’s so all-fired-up important that I had to give up a perfectly good Saturday?” Dave asked.

  Gwen perched the foam core against a chair. “This is.”

  He stood and moved closer to study the display. “Okay. What does it mean?”

  Beth cleared her throat. “Let me start at the beginning. This mark, the letter P combined with a cross, is the symbol of the Phineas Priesthood.”

  Dave sat back down and crossed his arms. “I see.”

  “You recognize this from the piece of paper found on the dead girl in the cow pasture,” Gwen said. “And on a piece of paper found under a dead cat.”

  “The one found on your doorstep,” Dave said.

  “Yes.” Gwen held up a plastic bag. “The cat was mauled to death.”

  “Okay, and speaking of dead, did you finish that drawing?”

  “It’s here.” Gwen pointed. “And we’ll get to that. A member of the Phineas Priesthood is stalking me, and I think he’s choosing victims that look like Aynslee—”

  “Whoa, slow down. You’re saying a priest is after you?”

  “Don’t picture a Jesuit in Roman collar or black cassock. These guys are part of the Christian Identity movement.”

  “Ah,” Dave said. “More Presbyterian than Catholic.”

  “Very funny, Dave,” Gwen said.

  “I’m not following all this.”

  Beth shook her head. “Christian Identity covers a range of beliefs and is more along the lines of the Ku Klux Klan, Posse Comitatus, the Aryan Nations, and The Order.”

  Dave furrowed his brows. “Dad told me about the troubles in the nineties with the Militia of Montana. I knew we had a resurgence, with all the brochures showing up around town. And the torchlight parade’s tomorrow.”

  “Technically, most militia groups are not part of the Christian Identity movement,” Beth said. “They deal with gun control and the federal government, but the founders of the Militia of Montana also carried anti-Semitic views. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a connection.”

  “Of all the Christian Identity groups, the Phineas priests are unique in that they believe they were chosen to be God’s executioners,” Gwen said.

  Dave raised his eyebrows. “Where did you get—”

  Beth placed a small stack of papers on his desk. “Here’s some of my research. I found the background fascinating.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Dave said.

  Beth tapped the papers. “This movement roughly originated in the British-Israel doctrines from the nineteenth century. The core foundation is that the ten lost tribes of Israel are the Anglo-Saxons.”

  “Not the Jews,” Aynslee added.

  Dave nodded.

  “The concept moved from Britain to America where racial and anti-Semitic beliefs were added,” Beth said.

  “You won’t believe this part.” Aynslee leaned forward.

  “At their most extreme end,” Beth said, “they teach that Adam and Eve begat the white race, Eve and Satan begat the Jews, and people of color were subhuman ‘mud people,’ created before Adam and Eve and are without redemption. Basically, the idea is that race, not grace, defines salvation.”

  “I get the background and history. I’m hoping that somewhere in here you’re going to tell me how all this relates to Gwen, a dead cat, and a girl killed by a wolf.”

  “We’re getting there.” Gwen waved her hand impatiently.

  “What makes this group different,” Beth said, “is that they have no structure, no meetings, no leadership. You don’t join. You become a Phineas priest by your actions, which include bank robbery, bombings, murder, and arson—”

  “And mauled cats and wolf attacks?” Dave grinned.

  “You’re interrupting.” Gwen cleared her throat. “All that is directed at the government, people of color, Jews, homosexuals, and abortion clinics.”

  “You said they were after you. But you don’t work for the government, you’re white, Protestant, heterosexual, and not pregnant.”

  Gwen narrowed her eyes at him.

  “If I may continue.” Beth stood straighter. “The movement lost ground for a time, but two events happened in the 1990s that fueled their resurgence.”

  Gwen leaned on his desk. “The siege at Ruby Ridge in Idaho, and the standoff with the Branch Davidians at Waco, Texas—both involving the US government.”

&nb
sp; “Off the desk,” Dave said.

  Gwen straightened. “Louise needs to make you some anti-grumpy tea.”

  “I’m waiting for you to get to the point.” Dave tapped a finger on his desk.

  “Now we get to the good part,” Beth said. “After the two events, the Christian Identity and militias increased in members. You just mentioned one example of this, the Militia of Montana.”

  Dave nodded.

  “This little book”—she held up a tattered volume—“was one of the triggers for additional incidents.”

  “It’s The Turner Diaries,” Aynslee said.

  “I see that,” Dave said.

  “But did you read it?” Beth asked. “It’s a work of fiction about a future war between a small group of white people and the Jewish-controlled government. The book describes how a man filled a delivery truck with about five thousand pounds of ammonium-nitrate fertilizer and fuel oil, drove to a government building, and blew it up.”

  “Timothy McVeigh used that book as a template for the Oklahoma City bombing,” Gwen whispered. “And the book was presented as evidence at McVeigh’s trial.”

  “Yes, and the date of the bombing was April 19, the same date as the final assault at Waco.”

  Dave stood and looked closer at the display. “April 19. Tomorrow. The day before Hitler’s birthday. And the day of the torchlight parade.” He swallowed hard.

  “Something big’s going down, Dave,” Gwen said.

  “What really scares me,” Beth said, “is a somewhat obscure fact. April 19 has another connotation to the Christian Identity. It’s considered the martyrs’ day. A sacred day connected to acts of resistance and sacrificial death.” Her face flushed with emotion.

  “Law enforcement has associated the actions of such people as McVeigh, the Unabomber, and Eric Rudolph—the Atlanta Olympic Park bomber—with the Phineas priests,” Gwen said.

  The room seemed smaller, and Dave tugged his collar open to get more air. He sat, took out a yellow legal pad, and looked at Gwen. “So how are you connected to all this?”

  “I did some composites that resulted in the arrest of one of them and the death of two more,” Gwen said. “Some of the material I read indicated there was a fourth member of the Spokane Phineas Priesthood cell. He’s . . . targeting me.”