by Bush, Nancy
“I’ll see you soon. I’m glad you’ve talked to Dad.”
“Yeah . . .”
She hung up, stepped from the RAV, then bent her head against a sudden wind that slapped her across the face with a wallop of rain. Hurrying, she ran along a pathway that led to the front steps, glad for the shelter of the building. Late May and the weather was turning wet and wild.
Clattering up the front steps, she caught her breath beneath the sharply pitched roof of the porch, staring out across those rolling fields as sweeps of wind-driven rain ran as if being chased.
Shaking her arms to get the water off her black jacket, she let herself inside the church and looked down the rows of empty pews to the grand stage at the far end. A man stood in the center, hands clasped and head bowed in prayer. Then he looked up and stared toward the ceiling, where skylights on either side of a huge wooden cross were streaked with rain. If not for the illumination from the globe lights that hung from overhead crossbeams, the church would have been in darkness.
As if sensing her presence, the man lowered his gaze and looked her way, his gray hair glinting under the lights.
Jordanna guessed that she’d found Reverend Miles.
She headed down the center aisle and he waited for her silently. There was something about being in the church that made her wish she’d brought something to Rock Springs besides jeans. Luckily, the reverend wore casual tan pants and a dark blue sweater over a collared shirt, so her damp black jacket, denim pants, and boots weren’t that far off the mark.
“Good morning,” he said to her with a friendly smile. “The prayer group doesn’t meet till eleven.”
“I’m not here for the prayer group. You’re Reverend Miles?” she asked, to which he nodded, a bit of puzzlement showing in his dark brown, nearly black, eyes. “I’m Jordanna Winters, Dayton’s middle daughter.”
His brows lifted a bit. “The reporter?”
“Yee . . . ess.” It took her aback a bit to know that he knew that much about her. “I wanted to ask about one of your parishioners, Bernadette Fread. Chief Greer Markum said she was missing and we discussed the possibility that she ran away because of abuse.”
Jordanna purposely made it sound like she and the chief were working together. The reverend blinked rapidly several times. “Are you a friend of Bernadette’s?”
“I’m on the investigation end,” she said. She didn’t think it would be to her benefit to say she was a reporter, so she left that part out.
“If you’re truly working with Chief Markum, you know that she did not run away from abuse.”
Jordanna felt heat rise in her face at being caught in a lie.
But the reverend went on anyway. “Abel’s very worried about the choices she’s making, but he loves his daughter and she loves him, and that is not the reason she’s gone. We’re all very concerned she’s missing. I’m very glad you’re looking for her. It’s been over a week, and there’s too much apathy. Everyone blaming the family when they should be looking elsewhere. The Freads are good people . . . God’s people.”
“The chief knows that,” she said, hastily. “He’s committed to learning the truth and that means following up every rumor.”
“And there have been a number,” the reverend allowed. “I understand Chase Sazlow is missing as well.”
“Bernadette’s boyfriend?” Jordanna was surprised. “I didn’t know that,” she admitted.
“Abel believes they’ve run off together, and maybe they have. He’s worried about Chase’s influence on Bernadette. Chase has almost determinedly taken the wrong path all his life. He’s deaf to the Lord. One of those rumors is he’s cast a spell over Bernadette, which is untrue. No one on earth has that power.”
Well, there were casting spells and casting spells. Love, and lust, and revenge were strong emotions that made people sometimes act irrationally, like maybe they were under a spell.
Jordanna nodded gravely. She supposed she should feel bad about lying to the reverend, or at least skipping around the truth, but she wasn’t sure yet what she thought of Green Pastures and Reverend Miles. There was something smug there she couldn’t put her finger on. Or, maybe that was just her own warped perception when it came to the do-gooders of Rock Springs.
The reverend turned on his benevolent charm. “How are you, my dear? I know of your family troubles with your father.”
“I’m okay.”
“Dayton’s a good man. He took care of your mother, and your sister.”
Jordanna almost said, “No, he didn’t,” but instead she simply nodded and let it go. She thought about asking him about the unidentified body that had been branded, but was afraid she would give away the fact that she was running in the dark. Also, there’d been no mention of Green Pastures connected to that victim.
She left a few minutes later, after assuring the reverend she would say hello to her father for him. Like that was going to happen. Checking the time on her cell phone, she drove back into Rock Springs proper through a light rain, the wind having died down while she was in the church. There wasn’t enough time to go to Malone, so she returned to the clinic, waiting outside a while, expecting Dance to call any second. When the phone remained stubbornly silent, she let herself back into the clinic, feeling impatient. The reception room was nearly empty except for a man about her own age slouched in a chair, his booted legs crossed in front of him, a cowboy hat resting low on his head. He had deep-set eyes that seemed to follow her every movement, but then he brought the brim down lower, obscuring his face and leaning back in the chair as if to take a nap. She wished like hell she could feel that relaxed in a doctor’s office.
Jordanna walked up to the receptionist, who was young and perky and wore a blue blouse with a bolo. The girl lifted her brows and smiled at Jordanna.
“I dropped someone off here earlier,” she said softly, trying not to be overheard. “Mr. Danziger?”
“He’s still in the back with Dr. Winters, but I’m sure they’ll be finished soon.”
“Could you check on that?”
“Sure.”
She got to her feet and disappeared through a doorway that led to a corridor beyond. Jordanna thought she heard Dance’s deep voice, and then her father’s clipped tones. The idea of them together made her feel tense and uncomfortable. Then she heard a familiar female voice chime in and she groaned. Jennie.
Jordanna had just taken a seat when Jennie burst through the door and glanced around the room, her gaze freezing on Jordanna. “Hiking, huh,” she said in a tsk-tsk voice. “Come on back. Your father’s just finishing up with your friend. . . .” She added just enough emphasis on the last word to make it sound like she was in some kind of dirty relationship with Dance.
As Jordanna got to her feet, Jennie went on, “Please come by the house, Jordanna. Bring Mr. Danziger. I didn’t realize he was that reporter for the newspaper. He should be on TV. He’s so handsome!”
“Yes, well . . .” Dance’s whereabouts would hit the Rock Springs grapevine with the speed of light, now that Jennie knew. “I don’t think he wants his whereabouts advertised.”
“Of course not.” Jennie smiled at Jordanna as if they were coconspirators as she turned and led Jordanna into the inner sanctum and down the hallway. “Don’t worry. Your father doesn’t expect you to be married. He knows we’re a little old-fashioned in Rock Springs.”
“It’s not like that between us. There are reasons Dance doesn’t want to advertise his whereabouts, but it’s not because of me.”
“Well, I just wanted to say your father understands.”
Oh, sure.
Jennie showed her to a room where Dance was seated on a chair, a new, snowy bandage surrounding his left thigh. Her father was in the room, wearing his white coat, his arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world as if he were proud of the new bandage when Jordanna knew it had been applied by one of the nurses, maybe even Jennie. She hovered outside the doorway. She just wanted to get the hell out.
/> “How’re we doing?” she asked.
Her father answered before Dance could speak. “Good. The leg’s healing nicely.” He flicked her a look, his eyes seeming to search her own. “Jay says you plan to stay a few more days.”
Jay seemed awfully friendly, and yet, what was her father supposed to call him? Mr. Danziger? At least he hadn’t said “Dance.”
Dance got to his feet and tested his left leg, carefully putting his weight on it. He managed to stand without aid, though his jaw was tight. Jennie hurried to hand him the crutches, which he tucked under his arms. He held out a hand to her father and said, “Thank you,” as they shook hands.
“The invitation’s still open to come stay with us,” her father said. “The homestead’s pretty rustic. We have a couple of spare rooms.”
Jordanna’s stomach clenched. “No. Thank you.”
“You have to come for dinner,” Jennie urged. “You know that Kara’s coming? She called your father this morning.”
“We wish we could,” Dance rescued Jordanna, who was beginning to feel trapped. “But like I said, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. I do really appreciate you letting us stay on.”
Her father actually clapped him on the shoulder, and Jordanna had to turn away, walking ahead of them back down the hall. When she entered the reception room, she nearly ran into a woman pushing a stroller, her right arm in a sling.
“Sorry,” Jordanna murmured. The cowboy was gone, apparently ushered into an examination room. The woman gave her a tight smile.
When she and Dance were finally outside, climbing into either side of the RAV, she said, “So, you’re mending okay?”
“Wish it were faster.” He slid the crutches into the backseat and moved carefully into the front. “Pain’s diminishing. Your father . . . did a good job.”
“Did Jennie wrap you up? That’s not my father’s job.”
“Yeah. Jennie’s your stepmother?”
“Yessirree.”
“Your sister visit them regularly?”
“Irregularly. I don’t really know what their relationship is.” Her voice was clipped because she was feeling betrayed. She could tell Dance thought her father was an upstanding citizen, like everyone else. It was in the careful tone of his voice, as if he was afraid of admitting his feelings. Who knew what crazy Jordanna Winters would do next?
“I put my phone back together,” he admitted.
“You think that’s wise?” Immediately she forgot her family issues, her heart jolting as she thought about the Saldanos.
“Yeah, well, it’s out of battery and I don’t have a charger with me. I wonder if it would be easier to get a burner in this town,” he said, meaning a disposable phone.
“You want to go back now?” she asked reluctantly.
“Still thinking it through. Besides, you’ve got a few things you’re working on here, and I want to help, if I can.”
“Sure.” Jordanna was relieved. After their closeness the night before, she’d told him about her conversations with Chief Markum, Rusty Long, Pru and Nate Calverson, and Todd Douglas, rattling like a magpie whether he wanted to hear it or not, seeking to smooth over the awkwardness she’d been sure would follow.
“Did you talk to the reverend at Green Pastures?”
“Reverend Miles. Yes, I did.” She quickly recapped what had been said, and he listened attentively. She finished with, “I’m planning to go to Malone and talk to the ME about the unidentified body, and I’d like to find out where Chase Sazlow’s family lives, maybe talk to them, too.”
“You want to go now?” he asked.
“Well, it’s Saturday. There’s a good chance he won’t be there. Depends on what kind of hours he keeps. His name’s Dean Ferguson,” she added.
“Let’s try calling him.”
“My phone’s in my purse,” she told him, and he reached around the back of the seat, grabbed the purse, and brought it to his lap. Plucking out her phone, he looked at her questioningly.
“Have at it,” she told him.
Chapter Fifteen
The last part of the highway from Rock Springs to Malone rambled through clusters of farms and ranches, the green fields dotted by rambling farmhouses, silos standing like sentinels, and barns in all states of repair, some bright with brick-red paint and white trim, others graying and listing. The city of Malone itself was a hodgepodge of architecture, some buildings sporting the western style prevalent in Rock Springs, others composed of brick in a variety of shades from tan to carmine, still others built of cinder block and faced with stone. Whereas Rock Springs had one main street, Malone sat on a crossroads whose central businesses were thick with SPACE FOR RENT signs, the main commerce moving from the center of town out each spoke of the road to clusters of strip malls and newer buildings. As Jordanna and Dance approached the town, they passed a car wash, a Jiffy Lube, a Taco Time, and a feed store.
Jordanna’s cell rang, and Dance picked it up as she asked, “Would you grab that?” He read the number to her, the same one she hadn’t answered earlier. “I don’t know who that is,” she said.
“You want me to answer?”
“No.”
Dance had called the county medical examiner’s office and had learned that Dr. Dean Ferguson was indeed the ME on duty that day, which made Jordanna think their trip to Malone was meant to be. Her enthusiasm was dampened a little when Dance had been told Dr. Ferguson would be given his message, but never received a call back.
The county offices were located a half mile out of town, on the road that led north and would eventually lead to Portland. It was a rabbit warren of tan brick, a cluster of buildings that housed the medical examiner’s offices, the county jail, and various and sundry government offices. Jordanna waited for Dance to get his crutches in place before she began walking to the front door. She opened it wide and he entered first, though chivalry had him stopping for a moment. “Get over it,” she told him on a short laugh, at which he snorted in annoyance.
They were told Dr. Ferguson’s offices were in the basement, and the woman manning the phones called but got no answer. A bit reluctantly, she indicated the elevator and Jordanna punched the button for the basement. The doors opened into a linoleum hallway with green walls, and they had to work their way to the office tucked behind a large lab with stainless steel counters, sinks, several large scales, and officious, medieval-looking tools.
When Jordanna knocked on the door, the doctor suddenly opened it as if he’d been standing directly behind it.
“Dr. Ferguson?” she asked. “I’m Jordanna Winters and this is Jay Danziger.”
The doctor wore wire-rimmed glasses and he swung his sharp gaze from Jordanna to Dance. “Danziger . . .” he repeated slowly, clearly trying to place why the name sounded familiar.
“I’m a journalist,” Dance said.
“Ahhhhh . . .” Ferguson’s expression darkened, and for a moment Jordanna wondered if he was going to throw them out. In the end, he signaled them inside with a curt wave. There was an awkward moment when the doctor didn’t know whether to help Dance to a chair, but Dance took care of it with, “I got this,” and managed to pull out a chair and seat himself. Jordanna sat next to him while Ferguson walked around the desk and dropped himself into his desk chair with a huge sigh.
“What can I help you with?” he asked, spreading his hands. His long, lined face had a hangdog look that seemed to go well with his job.
The doctor seemed to direct his question at Dance, but Jordanna explained that she’d lived in the area and wanted to know about the branded victim who was found near the Treadwell/Winters property. Ferguson nodded almost immediately. “I remember that one well. Never was identified. Maybe your story will help with that,” he said to Dance in a tone that suggested he had little hope for that. “What do you want to know?”
“Everyone I spoke to referred to him as ‘homeless,’ like it was an understood thing,” Jordanna said. “Can you explain that?”
“No.
But people around the area always expect to know everybody. Rock Springs is a small community. So’s Malone. Someone almost always knows somebody. I’d venture since the body went unclaimed, he was described as homeless. He may well have a home, but it’s apparently not around here,” he added with a quick grimace that Jordanna thought might have been his version of a smile. To Dance, he said, “You usually write about political and corporate scandals and such.” He gazed at Dance’s injury and the light clicked on. “There was a bombing at that warehouse. . . .”
“And I was there,” Dance said, finishing the thought.
“Is that why you’re asking about our John Doe?” he asked.
“Totally unrelated,” Dance said.
“Huh,” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe him.
Jordanna said, “The body was found on government land by a nine-year-old boy, Zach Benchley.”
“He was on an ATV and practically ran over the body. A nine-year-old on a motorized vehicle. People should be more careful.” He shook his head. “Victim died of hypothermia. It was January and it was cold. He was found on the east side of Summit Ridge Road, next to the Benchley property. The kid’s father was there when we were loading up the body. He stared pretty hard at the victim, but said he didn’t recognize him.”
“What about the branding mark?” Jordanna asked, making mental notes.
“On his right buttock. Looked like an upside-down cross.”
Dance’s attention sharpened. “A religious symbol?”
The doctor grimaced again, only this time it looked like a real grimace. “Coulda been, I suppose.”
“You have a picture?” Dance pressed.
He inhaled and exhaled heavily. “That would be in the police report. You’re going to need to talk to Chief Markum about anything further,” he said, almost apologetically. “I’m all for helping close out this case, but it’s still active. Talk to the chief.”
“Still active, my ass,” Jordanna muttered a few minutes later after Ferguson had said his good-byes and closed his door behind them.