by Dan Waddell
The woman's smile never wavered as she gently shook her head. 'I'm afraid not. We have very few facilities for visitors here. But there's a motel nine or ten kilometres on the way out of town, back towards the Interstate.'
Nigel had seen it on the way in. Small and downtrodden.
Not quite Bates Motel material, but not too appealing.
'OK,' Heather said. 'Is there a cafe of some kind? We're starving.'
The woman just stared and smiled. The man said nothing. 'There's a diner,' she said eventually. 'Just follow the road to the left and you can't miss it, just off the square.
I recommend the omelette.'
'Thank you,' Heather said. 'I'll take you up on that recommendation. And when we're done, we'll pop back and buy some of the bread. It smells terrific'
The woman nodded, the painted-on smile even wider.
'Have a nice day.'
They left, blinking in the whiteness. Both Nigel and Heather shared the feeling the town wires would soon be humming with the news that lost, alcoholic English tourists had landed. They followed the directions to a simple diner called 'Orson's'. Inside there were a few beaten leather chairs and banquettes, and -- a rare sight -- ordinary people. They entered and made straight for a table by the window to one side, watched by those eating breakfast, the air heavy with the smell of fried food. A waitress came over and tossed two menus on the table, the dishes typed out crudely and protected from stains by clear plastic. Nigel glanced around. They were still being watched.
'Can I get a mushroom omelette and some orange juice?'
Heather asked immediately.
Nigel was momentarily startled, not just by Heather's adroit adaptation of the American vernacular. He'd not even had a chance to look at the options. 'The same,' he said, handing back his menu.
The waitress turned away without a word. Nigel continued to look. The regulars' attention returned to the contents of their plates, bar a few who continued to stare.
A young, pretty blonde came over with a coffee percolator jug. Her hair was tied back to reveal a proud, handsome face spoilt only by a toothy smile. The jug's contents weren't coffee. For a start, it was green.
'Herbal tea?' she said haltingly.
Yes, please,' Heather replied eagerly, pushing her cup forward.
The young woman was about to pour but stopped. She looked at Heather in a state of shock.
'Yes, we're not from round here,' Heather added by way of explanation. We're English.'
The girl continued to stare. Eventually, she poured, hand visibly shaking. Then without saying anything, or offering Nigel any of the tea, she turned on her heels and returned swiftly to the counter.
'Now I know what it might be like to be a little green man from Mars,' Heather said, taking a sip of the tea and wincing. 'Hmm. Not sure about that.'
Nigel watched the girl disappear into the kitchen. She didn't come back. Instead the older waitress who took their order came over a few minutes later with their food. She set it down. It looked and smelled good but he didn't have much of an appetite. He made a polite effort and realized he was hungrier than he thought and the food was good.
Watching them eat seemed to loosen up the waitress. She came over when they'd finished.
'You people were hungry,' she said softly, smiling at last.
Nigel couldn't help but be cynical. Treat us like weirdos initially, he thought, but now you want your tip.
'Seems very quiet in town,' Heather said.
The woman nodded. 'It usually is. We're a very quiet town. But today in particular. Yesterday was a public holiday here in Liberty'
'Is there anything to see here in town?'
What do you mean?' She looked apprehensive.
'Any sights. We've got a bit lost. But seeing as we're here, we were wondering if there was anything of any historical interest.'
The waitress looked blank. 'No, I don't think there is,' she said and laughed nervously. The temple, I suppose, but...'
A portly man appeared at her shoulder and she stopped.
He was wearing an apron. Nigel assumed he was the cook.
'Can I be of assistance?' he said, looking directly at Nigel, putting hands with fingers like sausages on his hips.
He was breathing heavily through his mouth.
The waitress did not resume her sentence. She gave them a tight smile and cleared the table before scurrying back to her post.
Your waitress was just being of great assistance,'
Heather replied.
Nigel could sense the irritation in her voice. The man ignored her and continued to look coldly at Nigel.
He knew it was best to speak before Heather flipped.
We're a bit lost and looking for some recommendations what to do here in Liberty,' he said simply.
'The best thing you can do is get in your car and head out of town,' came the response. The cook rubbed his chin. 'There ain't nothing here for you people.'
'Oh,' Nigel said. 'Fair enough.'
'And quit diverting my staff,' he added. 'Now, that meal was on the house. Just be on your way' He wiped his hands on his apron, fixed Nigel with another stare and headed back to his kitchen.
They got up and left without speaking. Nigel tried to smile at their waitress but she avoided eye contact. No one spoke. Outside in the gleaming white light, they shared a look.
What did we expect?' Nigel said.
'There must be someone in this place who doesn't bear a pathological distrust of outsiders. The waitress mentioned the temple, before Guy the Gorilla intervened.
Let's go there. Maybe there's a vicar or priest of some sort we can speak to. A man of the cloth might be less insular.'
Nigel had reservations. For a start, he wasn't sure the Mormon faith, fundamentalist or not, had people like vicars.
Heather was having nothing of it; he recognized the defiant cut of her jaw as she strode across the square to the temple that loomed over it.
The portico was supported by three white pillars. At either side of the building was a pair of smooth cylindrical towers with turrets at the top, studded with arched windows. A semicircle of white stone steps swept up to double doors, one of which appeared to be slightly ajar.
Without stopping to knock or call out, Heather walked through into a cool, dark vestibule.
It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust from the bright light outside. The temple was silent. In front of them was a wall, with open arches either side. To the right and left were doors, both locked.
Heather looked at Nigel and shrugged. 'Maybe there's some kind of office where we can find someone,' she suggested.
They
went through one of the arches that opened into the main part of the temple. In front of them were rows and rows of pews and a carpeted floor. There were precious few religious adornments, save an inscription on the back wall that read 'the lord has seen our sacrifice'
and a single cross. They looked around but saw no one. In the corner to their left was a door that Heather tried, and which was also locked.
Wait here,' Heather said, and started wandering towards the front, where there were more doors.
Nigel felt a cold chill down his spine. The fact the temple was open but as deserted as the rest of the town made him uneasy. He glanced round and saw behind him, at the back wall to his right, a small table, draped in white cloth, complete with a couple of books. Above it, on the wall, was a large notice or message board, listing forthcoming events and other community arcana. Nigel perused them -- they ranged from the profound, a service celebrating the anniversary of the town's founding, to the trivial, someone advertising a crochet group for ladies. There was little to distinguish it from the day-to-day activities of any small church in any religion.
He looked at the books on the table. The first, the smaller book, was the Book of Mormon. The second was a larger book, thick and bound like a ledger. He opened it up. It appeared to be a handwritten register of the Church's ceremonies. Bapt
isms, weddings, searings, endowments, going back at least three or four years. He flicked through the heavy pages until he reached the last used page, only a few before the end. He looked down absentmindedly, wondering how they archived the information for future generations. He stopped at the last entry.
He read it again to be sure. His stomach leaped three feet in the air, it seemed. 'Heather,' he called out. 'Heather!'
Somewhere a door slammed abruptly shut. She was at his shoulder in a few seconds, recognizing the urgency in his voice. What?'
He pointed to the entry, the date written in American style. 'Temple Ordinance. Baptism by Proxy. Catherine Mary Pratt b. 1969 d. 2008. Baptized 11.4.2008. Endowed 11.4.2008.'
'Katie Drake,' she said. 'This was yesterday' Nigel pointed to the names below. Martin Stamey. His son below that.
'Can I help?' The voice was soft and patient.
They turned with a start. The speaker was a small man with neat black hair, head tilted to one side. Both were rendered speechless.
'Can I see your temple recommend?'
They looked at each other.
'This temple is for Church members only. People without a recommend are forbidden from entering. There are severe punishments . . .'
We're just leaving,' Heather said.
The man watched them go. Nigel followed Heather as she busded through the door, into the blinding brightness and towards the car. Nigel looked behind. The man was standing at the top of the stairs watching them go. Two vehicles, one a beaten pick-up truck, entered the square at speed, the roar of the engine and the slamming of its brakes ripping the silence apart. Heather fumbled with the keys but got the door open. The small man hurried down the steps to the two vehicles, gesturing and pointing towards him and Heather.
Heather turned the engine over -- to their relief it fired to life instantly -- and headed straight out of the square.
A few minutes later they were hurtling out of Liberty, no one in their wake.
13
The safe house -- Foster could not bring himself to do anything other than spit those words out in light of their palpable absurdity - throbbed with activity, yet all of those present steered clear of the large brooding presence on the sofa nursing a cup of tea. Outside, for the first time in days, a pale sun peered sheepishly through the steel-grey sky, though it did nothing to alleviate Foster's sense of helplessness. He'd sworn to the kid that he'd be safe and that had turned out to be a lie. Now, for all he knew, Gary was dead and the killer had achieved his mission of wiping out or kidnapping an entire bloodline.
Foster shook his head and rubbed his weary eyes.
Had the Lord's work been done?
However, all was not lost. Foster could not understand why Gary had not been killed and dragged out into the garden where his spilled blood would atone for the misdemeanours of the past. He clung to the idea that Gary might have got away.
An outline of what had happened the night before was beginning to emerge. Gary had arrived at the safe house on Monday evening with the two officers charged with protecting him for the next forty-eight hours. The officers were Adrian Sullivan and Sylvia Tweedy -- he made it his business to find out their names, and personally call their next of kin to offer his sympathies, because he felt responsible. Sullivan was to take the nights, Tweedy the day, each sleeping while the other watched, entertained and kept an eye on Gary. After a couple of days they would be rotated and other officers drafted in.
The pathologist's estimate was that Sullivan was shot dead shortly after ten the night before, Tweedy around the same time. He had been lured into opening the front door and been shot as soon as he did so. She had not gone to bed and after seeing her fallen colleague had tried to reach the panic button but had been cut down with two shots, one to the back and the other to her head.
It was the last fact that offered a lacuna of hope. The killer had decided to take out both of Gary's minders, which gave the boy time to be alerted to the trouble and an opportunity to scarper, a skill at which he'd become extremely adept. But how had he got out? The window in his room was open. Foster prayed he had escaped that way rather than been dragged out by the killer.
He went over the possibilities once more. There were two options: either Gary got away or the killer got him.
He hoped to God it was the former. The idea that the kid was dead, when he knew how close they were to catching the killer and saving him, would be one he couldn't bear.
As he sat on the sofa while the dawn sun came up, it crossed his mind that there wasn't much more he could take of this. Yet another sorrow, just one in a long line, would be the one that pushed him out of the force for good. His future, and any hope for it, was tangled up in the fate of that brown-eyed boy.
He took a deep breath and let it out. There was no sign of forced entry. The abductor entered through the front door like a guest. There had been a chain on the door and a spyhole. Cops in places like this didn't open the door to everyone who stopped by. Foster had pieced together what happened. The killer had set the car alarm off. It was a windy night. Sullivan, hearing it go and thinking it had been set off by a sudden gust, would have gone out to see to it and been gunned down as soon as he showed himself.
But how had he found Gary?
Foster had spent the night hours pondering that question.
Gary was taken down to an underground car park and then driven here. He never laid a foot outside police headquarters. Yet there was still only one convincing answer. The killer must have followed Gary there. God only knew how.
He needed a diversion. It was late in Utah, but not too late for him to call Heather and get an update. She sounded breathless, irritated almost. He apologized for calling late.
She appeared to calm herself.
'Just wondered what the latest was?' he asked.
She explained their foray into Liberty City and what they had found in the temple ledger. The names of the dead, baptized and converted to the TCF by proxy. Foster was so numb it took some time for her words to sink in.
'Is everything OK, sir?' she inquired, after a long silence.
'Not really. Gary Stamey has gone missing from the safe house.'
'Oh, God.'
'Yeah, two cops shot dead. Either the killer got Gary or he managed to get away. It's not clear. I'm holding on to the hope that at least we didn't find the body in the garden but, who knows?' He sighed. It wasn't something he wanted to spend too long thinking about. 'So someone in Liberty knows that Drake, Stamey and his boy are dead. We have to assume they know who's doing it then. I'll get on to Harris but God knows what the Yanks are going to think about going in all guns blazing. The locals can close ranks and deny anything. Not much we can do if that's what happens.'
'There's one thing,' Heather said. 'The name of the person who was baptized on behalf of the dead was Leonie Walker.'
'You don't think . . . ?'
'Could be coincidence.'
'Could be. Where are you now?'
At a motel, about six miles out of Liberty. Wondering what to do next. We don't think we were followed. I don't fancy going back without a posse. This is smalltown America. We have to presume they're armed.'
'Don't move a muscle,' Foster urged. 'Harris didn't want you going there in the first place -- when he finds out, he'll go apeshit, but at least you got something out of it. You confirmed a link. Let us think of the next step. Sit tight.
Have a hot dog and some root beer or something.'
Heather laughed. We have a room and a TV. No amusement for miles around.'
'Sounds cosy. Amuse yourselves.'
She laughed again. When she stopped, the silence was long and profound. 'He'll be OK, sir. One thing we know about that kid is he knows how to escape and evade capture.'
'I hope you're right,' he said, and meant it.
Outside, from the fields behind the house, Foster could hear barking. Sniffer dogs. Maybe they'd find the kid in a hole, or up a tree. With a lurching stomach, he also
knew they might have found his murdered corpse. He didn't speak, trying to glean from the animals' excitement whether Gary had been found.
'Got to go,' he said, lifting his weary frame, breathing deeply to retain his brave face.
He went into the garden, breath misting in the frosty air, through a back gate towards a lone oak tree, branches bare, standing sentry on a hill. A group of uniforms were already gathering and he could hear the lone yelp of a frustrated police dog. As he neared, he saw one of the cops bend down but he couldn't see what he was tending because it was beyond the brow of the small hill. He felt sick, he felt empty, and he felt forlorn. Another cop went down on his haunches.
A policewoman stationed outside the back gate called across to him. 'Look,' she said, pointing.
Foster followed her finger. On the straw-coloured grass were a few spots of blood. He said nothing. Just carried on walking towards the group on the hill. He plunged his hands deep in his voluminous pockets, so no one could see they were shaking.
He reached the crest of the hill. Foster closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened them.
Nothing. Just a dirt track.
The two policemen were still on their haunches. One saw Foster.
'The scent stopped around here,' one explained. 'There are some fresh tyre tracks. A car, we reckon.'
Foster followed the snaking route of the dirt track. It seemed to run eastward away from the house back towards the main road.
'There are some spots of blood back there. Get forensics out here. I want the whole field roped off and a fingertip search started straight away.'
'Do you reckon it's the killer's car?' a cop in uniform asked.
'I do. He's got him. If he's not killed him here, then he needs him for something. Don't ask me what. But once he's got what he needs I know he'll kill him. He has to achieve atonement.' He glanced around the field, at the pale-blue sky and the denuded tree. We need to find him and find him today.'
14
The motel room was part of a single-storey, U-shaped complex looking out over a deserted car park. It smelled of cheap cigarettes and cheap sex. The threadbare carpet had seen the soles of a thousand shoes, and the bed linen - well, Nigel didn't want to think about what that had seen.