"I am sorry to hear that Ms. Bates is missing. God works in mysterious ways."
"You don't sound particularly surprised," Archer said.
"I have tried not to think of Ms. Bates over the years," he said as he went about his housekeeping. "Duane, could you please bring the gladiolas in from the backroom?"
Somewhere, someone went to do his bidding. Archer heard crisp footsteps, doors opening and doors closing.
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"In the courtroom." Isaiah's eyes met Archer's and Archer was taken aback. The preacher's gaze was piercing, and it wasn't an affectation. If he were to tell Archer that he had second sight and that he could see deep into a heart and soul, Archer would believe him. The other thing Archer would have believed is that Isaiah Wilson would have little sympathy if he found a heart in pain or a soul in torment. This was not a man of great empathy.
"The last time I saw Ms. Bates she was embracing the man who raped and killed my daughter. She was smiling. She was victorious."
The gladiolas arrived in a cut glass vase that Duane carried as reverently as if it held the blood of Christ. The flowers reminded Archer of a funeral but his attention to them was fleeting. He refused to be put off by the trappings of this place.
"There's been no contact? No interest in her?" Archer asked.
"I took note of her when I happened to see her written up in the press with one thing or another. I read an article that said she had adopted a young girl. A teenager." Isaiah Wilson picked up a bible and walked with it toward a Plexiglas lectern. "At the time, I wondered how she would feel if that young girl went missing."
"Probably the same way you did when your daughter disappeared."
Those eyes flicked up. Archer thought he saw a tilt of the man's wide thin lips, too.
"No, I don't think so."
Archer was the first to look away, and he did so without understanding why. A moment later he knew what it was. The look Wilson gave him was accusatory and righteous, and Isaiah was happy to hear bad news about Josie. Or was he pleased because Archer was there, and Josie's disappearance wasn't news at all? Perhaps he had been waiting for this moment, rehearsed for it, planned to have that cool attitude that said he was above this particular fray.
"Have you been in Hermosa Beach lately?" Archer asked.
Elegantly, Isaiah Wilson moved about his space, rearranging papers, opening his bible, and marking his place. Finally, he stood behind the lectern, his hands resting lightly atop it as he gave Archer his undivided attention.
"I live in Orange County."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"I know what your question is. I know what you want. You want me to tell you that I have harbored ill will toward Ms. Bates all these years. You want me to say that I blame her for standing between what was just and what is simply lawful. Is that what you want?"
"I don't want to discuss your feelings," Archer countered. "I don't want to rehash old times. Josie Bates and Erika Gardener are missing. They both had dealings with Xavier Hernandez. It is logical that I ended up on your doorstep, and it is logical that I ask if you know where one or both of them are."
"And if I had anything to do with their disappearance?"
"There's that."
"The answer is no. I have not seen either woman. I do not know where they are. Ms. Gardener was a fine writer. She was an advocate for the families."
"And Josie Bates?"
***
But in the end she is bitter as wormwood. Sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death, Her steps lay hold of hell. Let us ponder her path of life – her ways are unstable. You do not know them.
***
Isaiah quoted the Bible solemnly, and then in what passed for a benign smile he added: "Proverbs."
"You know where she is, don't you?" Archer challenged.
"I do not, sir."
"You know who might have done it, don't you?"
"I do not, sir."
"You know people who would like to see something bad happen to Josie, don't you."
"I do not, sir."
"If you did, would you tell me?"
"I'm a man of God, am I not?"
"You're the man who wrote the book on forgiveness and retribution. Which one would it be for Josie Bates?"
Archer was losing patience. Where did you go with someone like this? Someone who didn't react, whose eyes didn't shift, whose lips didn't twitch?
"I suppose you'll have to read the book," Isaiah answered. Archer held the man's gaze, not unaware that there was something going on behind them. "I suppose I should point out that ten years is a long time. Nothing I do could bring my daughter back, so why would I look for justice ten years after it was denied?"
"You think something happening to Josie would be justice?"
"I think whatever happens to Ms. Bates is of her own making, yes." Isaiah was patient but Archer knew he didn't have much time left.
"Did you know that Xavier Hernandez was released?"
"I received a letter."
"How do you feel about that?"
"I accept the system as it stands," Isaiah said.
"Have you seen him?"
"No, and I doubt I will."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I'm sure," Isaiah said.
"I'd like to look in your car, Reverend."
Wilson stopped what he was doing. For the first time he seemed engaged and anxious. No, not anxious. The reverend was annoyed.
"And what would you be looking for?"
"I'm looking for a message from Xavier Hernandez." The reverend raised an eyebrow.
"Reverend Wilson?" A young man came up beside the tall, older man. Archer looked at him and realized he was more than a tech guy; this one was a true believer. "We need to do sound checks."
"Thank you, Richard," Wilson said quietly. The young man melted away and those eyes were on Archer again. "I'm sorry. I have nothing more to tell you, and I can't ask you to stay. I do not preach to an audience."
"No problem. I have a few things to do. Thanks for your time."
There was nothing to be gained by pressing because this guy was cooler than the proverbial cucumber. Knowing he would have to go around the good reverend, Archer left him to preach to the camera and pray into a microphone. Daniel Young had been right about Wilson. He had exploited an opportunity when it was presented, but at what price? It didn't appear his heart had been hardened; it didn't seem that he harbored any resentment.
With Isaiah Wilson lost in the bible lesson of the day, Archer turned and started for the door only to stop midstride as he caught sight of the icon Isaiah Wilson prayed to. It was above the door, and in the preacher's direct line of sight. It was not a cross but a picture of a long-suffering virgin: his daughter, Janey Wilson. Archer's stomach lurched. A lot of people displayed huge, ornately framed pictures of their dead children, but this one was different; this one chilled Archer. Janey Wilson was not captured in a school photo, and this was not a picture of her near a lake or sitting by a tree in a happy moment. This picture was of Janey pale, pretty, young and dead. The morgue sheet was drawn up to cover her breasts, leaving her shoulders bare. Her eyes were closed and the bruises and swelling of her face evident. He could see the ragged wound where Hernandez had slashed her throat.
Slowly, Archer turned back toward the stage. Isaiah Wilson was lit with an ice-white spot. He stood straight, tall and avenging in his black suit. His silver hair glistened under the well-placed lights. His hands held his bible against his chest.
There wasn't a lot that shook Archer, but that picture did. He had never much cared for Catholic holy cards, but at least those were some artist's rendering of beatific suffering; this was suffering and death at its harshest, cruelest, and most brutal. Isaiah Wilson seemed pleased, as if he found both satisfaction and amusement in Archer's surprise and confusion.
"You're welcome to look at my
car," Isaiah said again. "If you've seen everything you need to see here, that is."
CHAPTER 22
An Outbuilding in the California Mountains
Josie's fingers worked the knot in Erika Gardener's bindings. Her shoulders hurt, her butt hurt, her head hurt, but she didn't stop trying until Erika pulled her hands away and scooted back against the wall. The blond woman shook back her hair, and then did it again.
Josie stood, spread her legs and bent from the waist, stretching, trying to keep her muscles engaged, but they felt like jelly and she was light-headed. She cursed the drugs they had been given, the lack of food and water and the span of time she had lain unconscious in this heat.
It was getting harder to look at Erika because the woman was a mirror. Josie knew her own clothes were dirty and sweat stained. Her hair was matted, too. Erika had worn make-up – Josie could still see flakes of mascara – but now she looked plain and tired the same way Josie did. The difference between them was that Josie was creating a strategy for escape, and Erika was just mad.
"You should have asked me," Erika grumbled.
"What?" Josie put her back up against the bricks. She wanted to slide down to the ground but forced her knees to lock.
"You should have asked me before you dumped my water out."
"I needed you awake."
"I would rather be asleep. At least I wouldn't be dying of thirst." Erika picked at her skirt. It was cotton and tiered and had been expensive. She tired of her picking, rested her bound hands, and seemed to talk to them. "We're going to die, aren't we?"
"No. We're not."
Josie slid down the wall. Her knees were shaking. Awkwardly she swiped at her short hair, looked around the hut and thought there must be something she was missing.
"We're not tied to a stake anymore. Pretty soon we'll have our hands free."
Erika tipped her head and licked her lips. She frowned. "And when we get our hands free, what are we going to do? Dig at the grout? That'll take about forever."
"We won't have to. He'll be back."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. He has a plan, and he won't stop until it's done. Imagine what he had to go through to get us up here. Nobody who's gone to that much trouble is just going to leave us. He wants something."
"What?" Erika was more than annoyed.
Josie picked up the paper beside her. It was a plain white sheet with a photocopied picture from Xavier's trial on it. Josie knew it was captured from a film clip. Still cameras had not been allowed in the courtroom, but the trial had been televised. At the time, Josie thanked her lucky stars for such exposure. It had been a PR coup. She had been so stupid back then. Still, she was grateful. She had something to use now because of those cameras. She shoved the paper in front of Erika again.
"What do you make of this?"
"I don't know," Erika shrugged.
"Come on. Look," Josie commanded and Erika Gardener glared at her. There was anger behind her tired, frightened eyes, and Josie wanted it to stay there. She raised the paper and snapped it. "Oh, for God sake. It was left here for a reason,"
"Everybody who's anybody is in that picture," Erika answered without much interest.
"What else? Come on. Help me. I'm scared, too. I'm not thinking straight, but I'm not going to lay down and die." Josie shook the paper. "Look. Answer me."
"I don't know. It's a picture taken in court." Erika struggled to her feet. Her skirt was torn in the back and the fabric dragged on the ground. She had thrown off her one shoe and crumpled when her bare foot hit a stone. "Damn. Damn. Damn."
She raised her eyes to Josie. They were at two ends of the hut and Erika was breathing hard as she fought with herself. Finally, Erika walked back on her knees. She reached out with her bound hands and ripped the paper out of Josie's.
"Okay. Fine. The judge looks surprised. Not angry, just surprised. You're covering whoever is on the stand so I don't know who is sitting there, but you're leaning forward. You're going in for the kill. I remember that. Isaiah Wilson is half out of his chair. Rothskill is turning away. He looks disgusted."
"So it was a pivotal moment. I had hit a nerve. How do you know I was going in for the kill?"
Erika tossed the paper back to her.
"You weren't subtle. You worked up to stuff, set it up. When you went to put the knife in someone you always leaned forward. You used your height and your voice. You would have done anything to win. Whatever you were saying, whoever you were saying it to has everyone upset."
"You're there. Do you remember the day?"
She shook her head, "It was a long trial. Every day there was something."
Josie's shoulders slumped. What Erika said was true. Seconds ticked by. Had she been asked what she was thinking, Josie would have answered 'nothing'. But even at rest, even on the edge of despair, she was thinking. She thought about the tape on this piece of paper. There was a partial fingerprint on the sticky side. She would protect that. If they died at least there would be a clue as to who did this to them. There was something else, too. The picture was grainy. This was a second, maybe third generation reproduction, but there was an extra layer of something in the lower right hand corner. On her elbows, hands clasped so that she could rest her head on them, Josie bent close and looked hard.
"What?" Erika dragged herself forward another inch.
"I don't know yet." Josie looked up. "Is there anything we can use as a flat surface? It doesn't have to be big, just hard."
"Here." Erika put her arm out and pointed to the ground.
Carefully, Josie picked up the paper and crawled toward Erika. The rock she found was as smooth as slate and set so deeply it couldn't be dug out. Pity, it was probably big enough to use as a weapon, but a weapon wasn't what Josie wanted at the moment.
"Great. Perfect. Okay, then. Here we go."
"What are you going to do?"
Rather than answering, Josie put the paper flat, looked around, scooted back and got Erika's shoe. She used the edge of the hard heel and rubbed with an even pressure, careful not to tear the paper.
When she was finished, Josie sat back on her heels and stared at her handiwork. Like a grave rubbing or a child's game of secret message, the writing from a top sheet had been transferred to the bottom and along with it, a message. Erika scooted forward and saw what Josie saw. Erika began to read:
Transport
Immobilize
Punish
"He'll be back," Josie said with satisfaction. "He's not finished with us."
But Josie realized she was talking to herself. Erika had crawled back to her corner, curled onto her side and closed her eyes. Setting aside the paper, Josie sat down beside her, crossed her legs, hunched her back and started working at the knot on Erika's bindings.
Christian Broadcast Complex, Orange County
Isaiah Wilson was finished preaching. Today he had spoken about Job. He only spoke of Job 3 through 37. He argued, as had Job's fourth friend, that God uses pain to bring repentance. It had amused him to do so given Josie Bates' predicament. He hoped she was in a great deal of pain, but even he knew that hell fire would not cause her to repent what she had done to him and his daughter. Still, his sermon had been wonderful because Archer's visit had inspired him. It did not bother Isaiah that he was selective in his message; it did not bother those who listened to him. He understood that everyone took what they needed from what he said. If they wanted to look up the entire story of Job, they could.
He now walked through the complex, passing the young girl in the shapeless dress. She looked at him and then after him adoringly. When he was in her sphere, only Isaiah existed. When he passed through, her mind went back to God. It was a simple, satisfying existence that served her and Isaiah well. He assumed God was pleased, too.
He went down a little-used hallway to a door at the back of the complex. Gently, he turned the knob and eased his narrow frame through the opening. He left
the door slightly ajar even though he didn't need the hall light to navigate. He had often slept here when he couldn't bring himself to go home and pass by Janey's room.
Today, though, there was someone else resting here. It was a tortured soul who had come a long way for his help. It was a sign, Isaiah believed; a sign that God was happy with his plans to celebrate the anniversary of his beloved daughter's death.
Isaiah went to the narrow bed, looked down on the young man and then leaned over and put his hand on his head.
"It's time to wake up," Isaiah said.
Peter Siddon rolled over and smiled.
CHAPTER 23
The Underground Restaurant, Hermosa Beach
It was late for lunch but Archer had been caught in traffic coming back from Orange County, and Liz had made a detour to the Blue Fin Grill on her way back from seeing Margie. They had been nonstop on the phone until Liz hit the Blue Fin, so Archer already knew about Hernandez's visitors: his mother, the Cartwright woman who ran a literacy program, and good old Isaiah Wilson. Archer wished he'd known about that before he'd talked to Wilson. He'd make another trip if he had to, but he was already on the road.
Archer asked: Did the Cartwright woman have anything Hernandez wrote?
Liz replied: She hadn't been able to get ahold of her yet. A call was in.
Liz filled him in that she'd waited two hours for Cuwin Martin. She decided the grapevine was working and he was laying low. He knew he had screwed up bad. Other interesting news: a missing person had already been activated on Erika Gardener based on one phone call.
Archer asked: Do you have a name for the caller?
Liz replied: No. It came in at midnight. Anonymous. Whoever it was must have made a good case for them to do the paperwork, just not good enough for anyone to go out to her place yet.
Archer was impressed. He couldn't even get Liz to admit anything was wrong a day ago. He would never have expected LAPD to be proactive. Since that line of thinking wasn't productive, he paid attention to Liz who continued to talk fast and make noises when the traffic ticked her off. She had tagged Gus Franklin, Hernandez's cellmate for a year and a half. She gave Archer the number she had for him, and Archer promised to follow up. Which he did while he waited in traffic. He was told Gus Franklin was a son of a bitch who hadn't been around the place for a good three weeks. Archer made a mental note to track him down, and then found himself concentrating on the heat waves that rose from the ground in squiggles that distorted everything.
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