Amy smiled. “No, I’ve never tried.”
“You tell me if you change your mind,” Hunter said, addressing Martin and Patty.
He and Amy took their leave at last. Hunter headed toward the driver’s seat and Amy didn’t protest.
Sliding into the passenger’s seat, she said, “Please tell me you think they’re the real deal?”
He smiled. “I do. But remember, we could be wrong.”
“He admitted to being out there last night.”
“I don’t see Martin Sanders for it,” he said. “But all avenues remain open.”
“Do they? What about Victor Mulberry? Why would anyone be afraid of local law enforcement?”
He was quiet, giving her words thought.
“Again, all avenues are open. Sometimes, people are complicit without knowing it, but Mulberry is an old, seasoned cop, with no suggestion of any form of corruption in his record—no hint there were ever even whispers.”
“You know this?”
He nodded, glancing her way. “We have ways of finding things out,” he told her.
At her look, he laughed. “Legal ones, I swear. There’s no good in catching a bad guy if you wind up losing him in court. Hey, grab my phone and give Ryan a call. Catch him up on everything—make sure he checks on Martin and Patty Sanders when he gets back.”
“He’ll have to check with them if he wants to get in a room,” she reminded him.
“Yes, true, but emphasize we want to make sure they’re doing all right, that nothing else has happened in the area or with them.”
“Got it.”
When she ended her call, Amy glanced at the dashboard clock and groaned. “Look at the time! Do you still think we’re going to find Pastor Colby at the church?”
“Yes.”
“And why are you so sure?”
“Because news of bodies seems to spread like wildfire. The press was out there right on the heels of law enforcement. Pastor Colby will be at church, reassuring the frightened and nervous among his flock. Also, he knows we’re coming. Young Pastor Karyl will have told him.”
“So, he’ll be waiting.”
He glanced her way again. “Oh, yes. Waiting, and most probably worrying over everything he’s going to have to say.”
* * *
“You’re saying a man must be evil if he’s rich?” Pastor Jared Colby asked.
Hunter smiled easily. “Pastor Colby, I said nothing of the kind. Those are your words.”
Amy looked over at Hunter. “I know tons of wealthy people who are wonderful. I know you do, too,” she said.
“Yes, but you’ve come to me over Ethan Morrison, having heard from someone that I have a friendship with him.”
“Well, you do, right?” Amy asked.
Colby sighed. “What does this have to do with anything?” he asked.
“The young women who have died—” Hunter began.
“And you just came from a second murder site?” Colby asked weakly.
“Third, for me, but I believe it’s the second to be part of a particular murder scenario,” Hunter said. “We haven’t been able to identify the young women. Which suggests they could be from elsewhere. Morrison owns several private detention camps for immigrants, and we know paperwork has been sketchy at those institutions, to say the least.”
Colby stared at him blankly. “I still don’t see what the thoroughness—or lack thereof—of Morrison’s office personnel might have to do with this.”
Hunter watched as Amy leaned forward, looking at the man earnestly. “Pastor Colby, we’ve seen your church, we visited a youth group, and I can tell that you are a caring and godly man. Surely, to you, sir, the life of every living soul is of value.”
“But—”
Amy continued passionately. “Sir, we believe the women who are dead might be immigrants, young women full of hopes and dreams who crossed the border, wound up in a camp and were then seized and made sacrifices in some ungodly agenda.”
“What?” Colby looked stunned. He also looked nervous. He sat back in his chair, staring at them both, wide-eyed, as he continued. “No. Ethan would never kill anyone. He might be a capitalist—we are a capitalist country. He likes money. But that doesn’t mean he would kill!”
“Do you know him well?” Hunter asked.
“I... Yes and no. I grew up near here—I still live in my old family home. And the Morrison family has property in the area. Ethan was here now and again when we were kids. He sees me sometimes, and I try to use that friendship to good end. I point out people who need help. He does contribute to charities, you know. He’s a philanthropist! Yes, he makes money, but... I believe his detention centers are kept to high standards. I don’t believe—I can’t believe that Ethan Morrison could have anything to do with this!”
“What is his religion?” Amy asked, looking at him curiously. “Does he have one? I really need to read up on the man,” she said, looking at Colby. “Of course we’re asking you about him. Because he does own property out here. Almost bordering the first murder site,” she said.
“He—he, well, he isn’t a member of this church,” Colby said. “But he is very generous. I think he’s given donations to many churches. His family doesn’t go way back or anything like that. I believe his father bought the land, and it was worked for a while—sugarcane. I’ve tried to renew Ethan’s interests in this area. We do need conservation efforts done right—a way to see that the Everglades and water supplies are untainted or polluted. He could help a lot down here. There are tons of rich folks in Miami-Dade, Broward and Palm Beach counties along the coasts, but move inland and...plain folk!” he said, his sound cheerful and then the cheer fading as he shook his head. “Another young woman is dead?” he said weakly.
“Another young woman. Horribly murdered,” Amy said, and her words were heartfelt.
The murder scene they had just left had been absolutely, stunningly, horrific. They’d have been robots not to have been affected by it, even needing time to emotionally recover. He couldn’t think of an agent so jaded they wouldn’t have been moved.
But time was something they didn’t have.
“How did she die?” Colby asked weakly.
“Horribly,” Amy said.
“Yes, but—”
“There hasn’t been an autopsy yet and law enforcement is keeping details from the press,” Hunter said. “We’re already getting tons of tips—sadly, many from zealots who simply want to predict the end of the world.”
“Maybe the end is coming,” Colby said on a breath. He looked distracted.
“When is the last time you saw Ethan Morrison?” Hunter asked Colby.
Colby lifted his hands. “Uh, maybe a month ago.”
“What does he do when he comes here? Does he stay the night on his property?” Amy asked.
“I doubt it,” Colby said.
They both waited.
He shrugged. “There’s still a house out there on the property, as I said. And he pays maintenance people to keep it up. But...well, it’s a house. It’s nothing fancy. No room service or maid service. I just don’t see... I’m not suggesting he’s spoiled—he’s just accustomed to creature comforts. Although...”
“Although?” Amy asked as Colby’s voice trailed.
Colby seemed to be looking off into the distance. “When we were teenagers, the Morrisons were already rich. They weren’t just into the land, agriculture or ranching or any such thing. They were making big money on the stock market. I believe Ethan is still big into pharmaceuticals, and I guess there’s really big money there. But once, with a scout troop, we went on a camping trip. Some of the older kids teased him, and he said he could survive anywhere. He could do anything they could, and he wasn’t afraid of creatures great or small. He would survive just fine in a tent and do great with a canteen of water and s
ome jerky sticks. Of course, that was a long time ago now.”
“Did his family attend any of the churches out here?” Amy asked.
“I think his mother attended this church. I didn’t see him in any of my youth groups, but maybe he came by now and then. I don’t think his dad was much of a churchgoer.” He hesitated. “His father ruled the roost, not his mom.” He was quiet again. “Okay, so I guess his dad’s god was money. And sometimes, I admit, a lot of Ethan’s charity work is done to create tax breaks, but it’s still charity. Being rich does not make a man a murderer, regardless of his religious practice.”
“Of course not,” Amy said. “Committing a murder—or conspiring to commit a murder, ordering one to be committed—that makes a murderer.”
“Anyway,” Hunter said quickly, “due to the proximity of his property, we wanted to speak with you. As before, if you think of anything that can help us, we’d be grateful.”
“Me, too,” Colby murmured. “These killings... My congregation is going to grow more frightened. I can tell them to have faith, but...the first girl. She was killed on a cross. That news is out there. That’s frightening. What does it mean?”
“I think it means someone is abusing religion,” Hunter said, and he stood, aware Amy joined him almost simultaneously, as if they did have a silent language between them. “Cults,” Hunter said. “Most often, they’re led by someone using the framework of religion. A charismatic speaker, like Jim Jones, or someone who can appeal to the young and disenfranchised, like Manson. There are still major cults operating around the country, you know. And cult leaders have openly asked congregants to bring assault weapons into their churches. They can convince parents that thirteen-year-old girls—and younger—are being touched by God when they have sex with the leader. The right speaker first lures people with faith and goodness and love and hope—and then any disobedience is seen as an affront to God. Alternatively, there are those who don’t really bother too much with religion, but they convince people they have a rite or a program that can make them happy within, strong and ready to move mountains. It’s a different kind of faith, but if it abuses the believer’s rights, it’s no less dangerous.”
“Special Agent Forrest, we are nothing like that here!” Colby said, horrified.
“No, sir. Of course not,” Hunter said, smiling. “But it’s scary just how much of it does exist—out there. Thank you again for your time. And for any help you can give us. We never asked—how is your family? You have three children, right?”
“What?” Colby looked surprised and then wary. “My kids are fine. My wife...my wife died young, I regret to say. She was beautiful and sweet, and a good person. And my kids are great. Why?”
“Hunter is just being polite,” Amy said, giving the man one of her disarming smiles. “We bug you, but never ask how you’re doing, how the family is doing... Just hoping you’re doing well in the midst of all this. And we do so appreciate all your help and your time.”
“Right. I see. Sure. Yes, well, I’m doing fine—or at least okay,” Colby said.
“Hey, are any of your children going to follow in your footsteps?” Hunter asked. “Become pastors?”
“Casey is in media. Jayden is in medicine. Chase just started college—he’s up north in the state, figuring out what he wants to do with his life.”
“Sounds like they’re all doing really well,” Amy said. “Anyhow, thank you again.”
She turned and started for the door. Hunter thanked him again and followed her. In the car, he paused for a minute, determining his next move.
He looked over at Amy. “I want to go to the morgue. It’s a drive. An hour at least, in and then out.”
“Were you thinking to leave me here?” she asked.
“I’m thinking it’s your choice.”
“I doubt Dr. Carver will be ready for autopsy.”
“But the body, or what’s left of it, will be ready for autopsy.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” she asked.
He was silent a minute and then said quietly, “A brand.”
She turned in her seat so she could look right at him. “A brand?” She seemed confused at how specific that was. “As in...the killer’s initials?”
“I don’t know if it would be the killer’s initials. But it would be something that identified the woman as having been...his. A sign of some kind, something.”
“Is that common in cults?” Amy asked.
He nodded. “It can be. Years ago, there was a cult. It wasn’t even so much a religious cult—it was an organization for self-empowerment, to know yourself, become a better person. But it was a bizarre pyramid scheme—one man at the top, getting very rich off the ‘courses’ they offered. It was huge, hundreds of thousands of people took the classes and became members, many of them recruiters. But they had an offshoot, as well—and to be part of it, women were branded. Not against their will. They were convinced receiving the brand—something burned into their flesh—was a triumph of will and self-power. Same as sleeping with the founder—the act of sex with him lifted you to a higher plane. There was a side organization to his main group, run by a woman. In learning to be true to promises, they were taught a method in which they punished themselves if they didn’t do something. The punishment was supposed to be self-empowering. Say, if they didn’t get to work on time, they’d make themselves sleep on the floor the next night and then they’d learn to be on time. His second in command—or whatever one might have called her—told her followers they were getting tattoos, but when they showed up, it turned out they were being branded. To make sure they’d go through with it, they’d been ordered to write up notes to family, work or friends that they wouldn’t want given out. Then, of course, they were also told they had no will, no self-strength, if they couldn’t handle pain to be a member of such a strong group. The founder and his second in command are in prison now. He finally fell to child abuse charges because he decided he was so powerful he could go for underage girls. I don’t remember what else they got him on, but at least his power seems to have ended. That’s one. It’s still very frightening to see how many men like him are in prison, with followers who didn’t seem to mind giving their children over to obeying at any cost. And these followers are still out there, worshipping them.”
Amy shook her head. “I wonder how... I mean, how do people fall beneath the spell of others like that? Willing to do anything.”
He shrugged, clenching his teeth, and then spoke. “Charismatic leaders start by appealing to goodness and godliness. They prey upon the young and the lost. People disappointed with the mainstream can fall under that spell.” He hesitated and looked her way. “Both Charles Manson and David Koresh were big on spouting Revelation. If you can convince someone they will rise above everyone else when those who didn’t seek the right path are wiped off the face of the earth as the end descends, you’ve twisted young minds nicely. Some people grow up in cults. They learn that doctrine from the time they’re born.” He turned the key in the ignition. “Sometimes they escape.”
There was a heavy pause as Amy considered his words.
She looked over at him. His grip on the steering wheel was tense. When she must have realized Hunter didn’t want to add anything, Amy changed the subject. “I didn’t sketch this morning. I can’t believe it.” She looked out the window. “I want to see Dr. Carver—and the corpse. I think I can be most useful going with you. Detective Mulberry is canvassing the locals, and Agent Anders will be back here soon to hold down the fort.”
He nodded. “Right.”
There were several phone calls to be made as they drove. His first was to Carver; his second was to his home office, reporting to his field director, and then finding out if anyone had gathered any more information on Ethan Morrison and his Florida properties—or on the children of Jared Colby.
He put the phone on speaker, introducing Amy
to Sheila, the agent doing the research.
Then Sheila gave them what she had.
“Ethan Morrison spent many years down in your area there,” Sheila told them. “His father made the family fortune, dabbling in sugarcane, but hitting the stock market, mainly pharmaceutical companies. He was a heavy investor in a company called Ever-Questing. They’re always fighting to keep the cost of their drugs high,” Sheila reported. “He likes to drive. A lot of his property is over the border in Georgia, but he’s back and forth all the time—per his credit card expenses. Could he have been at the murder sites? Yes, for the woman who was found in Maclamara, Hunter. No, for South Florida—he’s been at a convention in Atlanta for the past week. His own convention, by the way. ‘Invest and Thrive: Empowerment for the Soul.’”
“All right, thanks, Sheila. Keep me posted on anything.”
“He’s in Florida right now, visiting his kid at college—North Central Florida.”
“Okay. What about Pastor Colby’s kids?” Hunter asked.
“Casey, good kid—has a nice business doing websites and web promotions. Jayden will be starting med school—he and Chase are at a Florida school, also north/central part of the state—oh, yeah, this is interesting. Same college where Ethan Morrison’s kids are going.”
Hunter glanced at Amy.
“How far is the college from Maclamara, where the murder victim was found?”
“Ah...twenty miles,” Sheila said. “Just twenty miles.”
“Thanks. Again—”
“You know it. I’ll keep on it, and keep you posted,” Sheila told them.
Hunter ended the call, staring straight ahead.
“So,” Amy murmured. “Colby’s daughter has been going to church down in Miami, and his sons are upstate in college, where Morrison’s sons are also in college.”
“What do you want to bet they know each other?” Hunter asked dryly.
“We’ll be looking into that?”
“You bet.”
They both fell silent for a minute.
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