by Jess Lourey
Once I had her buckled in, I shambled around to my side and crossed my fingers that I hadn’t done any permanent damage to my car. The first three starts were grinding failures, and as my headlights flickered, I thought I saw a shape move in the woods to our right. I leaned over and slammed the lock on Naomi’s door and then locked mine.
“Please please please,” I begged. My Toyota listened. She fired up on the fourth attempt, and I executed the sharpest 180 turn on record. When I shifted from reverse to first, my bandaged ankle protested, and I knew I would pay for this tomorrow. However, I had more important matters to deal with now. “I’m bringing you to the hospital in Alexandria, Mrs. Meale. If I drive fast, I can get us there in a half hour.”
She had drooped like a doll when I set her in the car, but my words brought back the fight in her. “You can’t! Robert will kill me if you bring me to a hospital!”
“It looks like he just about did already.”
“You don’t understand, do you?” She shook her head and studied her raw hands, reluctant to reveal private details. When I turned right toward Alexandria, she made up her mind. “He’s a murderer,” she said softly.
“What?”
“First in Georgia, I suspected it, when Eliza Hansen and Paula Duevel went missing. Their parents both went to our church. When their bodies were found, I suspected Robert was involved, but he wouldn’t talk to me. We moved here right after. Then, it starts happening again when we get to Battle Lake. First Lucy, and now Lydia. I tell you, it’s Robert.”
“Why? I mean, why would he do that?”
She made a choking sound deep in her chest, like a child crying in a well. “Our baby.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We lost our baby.”
It occurred to me that Mrs. Meale might have a head injury. I tried to shift into fourth, and my ankle failed me. I pushed the car to forty-five in third gear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Meale.”
“When Robert graduated from the seminary, we had a baby. Only we weren’t married.” Her shoulders were shaking, but it didn’t sound like she was crying. “Do you know how terrible that is, for a man of God to father a child out of wedlock? Do you?”
“And you lost the baby?”
She was quiet for five long seconds. Her voice, when it came, sounded like a saw cutting through wood. “She was nine months old. She died in her crib.”
“I’m very sorry.” My mind raced back to the birth certificate I had seen on the Meales’ dresser, the one with Alicia’s name, but not Alicia’s date of birth. “Your first daughter was named Alicia. You named your second daughter Alicia, too?”
“Yes.” The word was clipped, and the shoulders were no longer shaking. “We did. Second Alicia was adopted. After we married. Robert says she looks just like I did when I was her age.”
Second Alicia. Did they actually call her that? That would mess a girl up good. “And so now he’s killing girls who look like Alicia, and, apparently, like you did at that age?”
“The loss of a child will unbalance a man. You have no idea. His sorrow has turned him into a murderer.”
“Do you have any evidence?”
“I do. I do.” She sounded very tired. “But not tonight. I need to get clean, and get my head on straight, and then I’ll go to the police tomorrow. I swear to God.”
My head spun. If Robert was the murderer, then who was his accomplice? Julie had said two people tried to abduct her and Lydia. It was too much information to process. “Where is Lydia right now?”
She looked at me, one eye almost swollen shut. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
I squeezed the steering wheel. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but she was scared enough to jump out of the moving car if I tried to take her to the hospital. “Where do you want to go? Do you have friends?”
“My sister will take care of me. She lives on Hancock Lake, and she knows how to protect her house.” Naomi laughed, but it was humorless. “He’s having an affair too, you know. I suppose you can’t blame him, what with me being like this,” she said, indicating her immobile legs. “If only he had been more discreet.”
I took a right at the next stop sign. Apparently, I was going to drop her off at her sister’s, though it didn’t seem right. I suppose if she was really going to turn her husband in tomorrow, a night with family wasn’t such an unusual request. I couldn’t fathom the level of abuse a woman as traditional and God-fearing as Naomi would have had to suffer to reach this point. I guess I didn’t have to. I was sitting next to it. She looked like she had fallen into a meat grinder.
I was going to go to the police as soon as I dropped her off, however. If there was any chance at all that Lydia was alive, the police needed to search the Bible camp immediately. We couldn’t wait for Naomi’s evidence.
She trembled next to me as I drove. “You want me to pull over and grab you a blanket? I have one in the trunk.”
“Please don’t. You’ve done enough already. Just get me to my sister.”
I followed her orders quietly. When I turned onto Golden Pond Road, all the houses were dark, including Mrs. Meales’ sister’s. “What’s your sister’s name?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mrs. Meale? What’s your sister’s name?”
“I’ve always called her Sissy.”
I’m not sure why that would seem creepy, on top of everything else that had transpired tonight, but the way she said it made my skin crawl. I pulled around the circle of the driveway and turned off my car. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
“She’s always home. At night.”
“OK, then. I’m going to knock on the door and ask her to help me get you into the house. Are you okay with that?”
Naomi’s head fell against the seat. “Fine.”
I wasn’t so sure but didn’t see any viable choices. My car ticked as it cooled down, and I could hear bullfrogs singing, but otherwise, the night was silent, though still heavy with that electric scent of charged moisture. I closed my door quietly and limped toward the door. I was nearly to the wheelchair ramp when a heavy hand came down on my shoulder. I squealed and turned, tipping sideways as my sprained ankle gave out. I would have fallen to the ground if Weston Lippmann hadn’t caught me in his arms.
“What are you doing here?” The moonlight reflected off his John Lennon glasses and I couldn’t read his eyes. He held me while I steadied myself.
“Because I’m so far away from Statesboro, Georgia?” He made his faint Southern accent stronger. “Is that what you mean?”
I felt like someone had dipped me in a tub of icy lard. Of course he was from Georgia. He had come right out and told me that when we first met, but I had fallen for his “aw shucks,” nerdy professor act. I didn’t know how he was connected to Robert Meale, but I knew he had seventy pounds on me and two good feet. “I have to get something out of my car.”
He chuckled softly. “You’re pretty transparent, Mira. You’re as scared as a sheep on shearing day.”
I pulled clumsily out of his arms and glanced toward the house, which was still as dark as a tomb. Mrs. Meale appeared to have passed out in the car. I forced myself to look into his eyes while I reached for my stun gun with one hand and my knife with the other.
“You won’t need either of those. We’re on the same team.”
How had he known that I had two weapons and was reaching for them? “I’m not really a team player,” I said, stalling for time as I fumbled at the tangled spider knife hook in my waistband.
Quick as a rabbit, he pulled a Taser out from under his dark coat, held it up for me to see, and then holstered it as he pulled out a wallet and flashed his identification.
“It’s too dark to read that.”
“I’m a detective, from Statesboro. I was sent up here to follow Robert Meale, who is a person of interest in an active investigation.”
“What? And why are you carrying a Taser instead of a gun?”
He laughed again. “Mrs. Berns already talked to me about that, only she called it a ‘laser beamer.’ I told her it was so I could time travel. The truth is, Pastor Robert Meale has a habit of shielding himself with people. You never see him alone. I have my gun in my car but have been carrying the Taser.”
Something about his story didn’t sit right, but that might be because he was now telling me he had been lying to me all along. Where should I start believing him? Since his zapper trumped mine, there was no harm in at least pretending that I bought his story. “I have Mrs. Meale in the car. She’s been beaten up pretty badly by her husband, and she claims to have evidence that he’s responsible for the killings in Georgia as well as Lucy’s death and Lydia’s disappearance.”
“Why didn’t you take her straight to the police?”
“I was afraid she’d do something crazy, like jump out of the car and kill herself. She was adamant about not going to the police. Said she’d do it tomorrow. I figured I would go as soon as I got her safely to her sister.” I darted a glance at the car. My driver’s side window was open, and I didn’t want Naomi to know what I was up to. Fortunately, she looked like she was out cold.
Weston sighed and ran his hands through his flop of hair. “Let’s get her in the house and look at her injuries. We’ll decide where to go from there.” All business, he went to the passenger door and lifted Naomi out. The movement roused her, and she let out a groan. “Mrs. Meale? My name is Weston Lippmann. I’m going to get you into your sister’s house.”
She didn’t respond. I walked ahead and reached to knock on the door, but it was opened before my hand touched it. In front of me stood the same mousy-haired, pear-shaped, fever-eyed, poorly-permed woman who had been staring at Naomi with rapture at the Creation Science Fair. “Are you Sissy? I mean, are you Mrs. Meales’ sister?”
“I am.”
“She needs your help.” I stood aside, and Weston walked forward. Sissy blanched when her sister was carried past her. “She said her husband did this to her. She insisted that I bring her here instead of the hospital. Can you take care of her?”
“Does she have any broken bones?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“That stubborn mule. I’ll end up bringing her to the hospital anyway, you know. She needs a doctor.”
I nodded, relieved. “I was hoping you’d say that. You need help getting her into your car?”
“No, I’ve got help here.”
I looked around, seeing the inside of the house I had spent a couple good nights spying on. I was in the entryway, with the kitchen to my right, a main hall straight ahead, and a cavernous main room to my left. Weston was gently laying Mrs. Meale on a couch in the great room, talking to her quietly.
I wondered if Les was in the house, if that was the help Sissy was referring to. I didn’t have time for random thoughts, though. “Can I use your phone?”
Sissy smiled apologetically. “Don’t have one. I value my privacy.”
Weston came up and gave me a reassuring look before turning to Sissy. “Your sister doesn’t have any broken bones, just a lot of surface abrasions. I’m sorry to leave you like this, but we have to get going. You’re sure you can handle this?”
Sissy walked over to her sister, who was now sitting up. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
I followed Weston out the door. When it closed behind us, I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, not sure what our next move was. “You drove here?”
“I did.”
“Do you have a cell phone in your car?”
“Yes, but it’s not much good in these woods. No reception. Good thing I have a police radio.”
I relaxed an inch. “So you can call in what I told you about Lydia?”
“Yes, and get an ambulance here. You’re going to drive back to town?”
“I suppose.”
“Go straight to the Battle Lake Police Station. Don’t stop for anyone.”
“Deal.”
He tipped his head curtly and strode back through the woods, on the opposite side of the driveway from Les’ rope trap. As I walked to my car, a bright glint in the passenger’s side seat caught my eye. I opened the door, reeling at the coppery smell of Naomi’s blood. In the seam of the seat was her giant crucifix ring. I held it up toward the sky, and it caught the moonlight in a thousand glinting shards. There were lights on in Sissy’s house now, and I heard a door slam, presumably the one leading to the garage. I would just step back in the front door, leave the ring on the counter, return to my car, and head to town like a bat out of hell.
Back inside the house, I was surprised to see that Naomi had already been moved off the couch. I glanced around. The kitchen and hallway were also empty. Back and to my left were the stairs to the basement, and there was a trail of blood leading down them.
I stopped at the top of the stairs. “Naomi? Sissy?”
Something heavy crashed to the floor downstairs, followed by a pitiful whimper. I dashed down the wooden steps as fast as my sprained ankle would allow. At the bottom was a finished basement with sheetrocked walls and a floor covered in linoleum designed to look like wood planks. This main room was set up like a den with marble-eyed animal heads on the wall, two uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a small television. Three doors led off this den, and another soft cry came from the one kitty whompus from me.
I rushed to the door and yanked it open. My intestines turned light and icy as I realized I had lurched right into the spider’s web.
The large room was decked out like a small, gory church. Along the far wall were hung larger-than-life figures of Jesus on the cross, each one showing him progressively bloodier, his eyes bottomless pools of betrayal and sadness. To my immediate right was a life-sized nativity scene, complete with a baby Jesus. Only candles lit the space, but they provided me enough light to see the true horror: Lydia and Pastor Meale bound and gagged on the floor. Between them was a tipped statue of Jesus with nails driven through his hands and feet, this one a modest five feet in length.
My eyes picked up these details in a millisecond, which was a hair longer than it took for my ass to say, “Run!” I twisted toward the door, fully aware that the only chance I had at saving the three of us was escaping before I was discovered.
When I turned, I was confronted with a horrific sight. In the middle of the basement den stood Mrs. Naomi Meale, herself a gruesome ghost of a woman, a soft smile on her pulped face, her body still covered in blood and rags. She could walk, and she held a gun.
I swayed between the gory church behind me and terrible apparition in front of me and fought the urge to faint with all the desperation of a woman hanging on to a cliff wall by her fingernails. I stomped down on my sprained ankle and pain shot up my leg like an electric shock. With the pain came clarity and attention to the moment.
“You call that hurting yourself? Beginner.” She smiled, and one of the scabs on her face cracked. A thin trickle of blood rolled down her chin. She really had beaten herself up, or had someone else do it, just like she had really let a cigarette burn on her leg, her living, feeling leg.
I moaned and darted a glance at the stairs behind her. I couldn’t get to them, not with my twisted ankle, not when she had a gun on me. There was a door to my right and a door to my left, but I didn’t know where either one led. It was me, Mrs. Meale, and dead stuffed animals, and I didn’t know what to do.
That’s when I heard a creak at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Meale did not turn to look, but I saw feet coming down the carpeted steps. “Weston?” He came into full view and smiled at me ruefully. The room spun, or maybe it was my eyes. Weston was in on this with Naomi. What was the connection? How blind had I been?
As tears filled my eyes, Sissy came behind Weston, a mean-looking snub-nosed pistol in her hand. It was pointed at Weston’s back. My heart soared. The situation was bad, but Weston hadn’t lied about being on my team. My hope of Weston performing some slick police move to get us out of this wa
s quickly squashed, however, when Sissy darted her hand forward, snatched Weston’s Taser out of his holster, and zapped him with it before he had a chance to change expressions. He slumped to the ground.
“Tie him up and put him with the rest.” Naomi didn’t take her eyes off me while she spoke. “Make sure you do a good job this time. We don’t want any getaways like we had at the Pagan Festival.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sissy duck her head in shame. She was clearly the follower in this team, and the intense adoration I had seen her shower on her sister had been real. Sissy leaned her sturdy, farmwife body down, hooked Weston under his armpits, and dragged him toward the horrible church.
I stared back into Naomi’s unhinged eyes. “You lied about Robert. You’re the one who’s murdering girls who look like you used to. Why? Why would you do that?”
“‘As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion.’ Proverbs, chapter 11, verse 22.”
“What? You killed three teenagers and kidnapped a fourth because they were without discretion?”
“Because they were fornicating harlots. I tried to show them the righteous path. I gave them a chance to repent. They didn’t, not until I had them in my own small church.” She indicated the horror show behind me, running her hands through her hair, ragged where I had cut it to release her from my tire. “It is my duty to turn girls off the trail that sullied me. That’s why our Lord let me walk down that sinful path with Robert, so I could prevent other girls from making my same mistake. Because of me, they will not despoil themselves. They will not know the searing pain of losing a beloved baby.”
“Why didn’t you let them go after they repented?”
She laughed, tightly. “Because it was too late. The girls were too far gone. They had cavorted with Satan and could not be turned back. I had to do the Lord’s work.”