by Paul Spencer
I slept fitfully, brief bouts of strange dreams interrupted by sudden alertness. I had just settled in to a calm sleep when my alarm clock screamed in my ear. Time to go to work. For the next half hour I went through the motions of shaving, showering, and getting dressed. Two cups of coffee finally got my motor running, and by the time I grabbed a brown-spotted banana and headed out the door, I was looking forward to getting to the factory.
As I’d promised Tony, I drove to work, instead of my usual commute on the bus and light rail. For safety reasons, mostly – I figured I’d be less exposed – but also I was in a hurry to get there. My plan worked. Despite some rough traffic on 99 near Sellwood, I made it to work by seven. It was still dark outside.
I went inside and grabbed my hard hat and high-visibility jacket from the locker room, then headed out onto the factory floor. Most of my work happened at the far end of the assembly line, where we assembled suspension mechanisms and bolted them onto the streetcar chassis. As usual my supervisor was already there, and he called me over when he saw me.
“Mick, how are you feeling?”
“Much better thanks, Dave. Some Nyquil and a decent night’s sleep did the trick.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. He took off his hard hat and wiped his brow. “Listen, I hate to have to say this, but skipping a couple of days wasn’t smart. I know the overtime has been hard on everyone, but if you bail out when the pressure’s on, people notice.” He flicked his eyes towards the upstairs management offices that overlooked the factory floor.
“Come on, Dave,” I said. “You know I wouldn’t miss work without a good reason. Besides, I’ve been busting my ass. That was the first weekend I had off since Christmas.”
“Yeah, I know. But everyone else is putting in the same hours, and it’s not like we’re short of applicants. If you don’t want to work, there are plenty of others who do. The guys in suits are on my case. We’re still behind schedule, and they’re looking for someone to blame. Not rolling in to work until Wednesday makes you a target. Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want to lose you, Mick.”
“Yeah, okay, I get the message.”
I walked over to my station. Dave’s warning pissed me off, but he had a point. The way things were going around here, heads were bound to roll at some point. I knew the guys upstairs had a plan to make sure it wasn’t them.
Three front suspension subframes had stacked up at my station since Friday. Normally I could get through two a day, but I figured there would be more coming soon, so I probably needed to clear all three before I left today. I grabbed my gloves and got to work.
Once I found my rhythm, the day passed quickly. The suspension itself was a simple coil spring construction, but the brake assemblies had to be fitted in around the spring plank and center plate, which was complicated work in cramped spaces. I knew it well, though, and I could crank things out quickly. I let myself get lost myself in the flow of the work, a welcome relief from the chaos of the past few days. The day passed to a steady soundtrack of metallic clangs and assembly line machinery, like some Pink Floyd outtake. I had nearly finished the third assembly when Dave came over to my station.
“Hey Mick,” he said, “it’s after seven. Get out of here.”
I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost seven thirty. I had to be at the Servants of Christ church to meet Elder Robbins at eight. It was twenty minutes’ drive from the factory even without traffic. There was no way I could get to Tony’s place and back in time.
“Okay,” I said hurriedly. “I am kind of beat.” I straightened up, arched my back, and put my tools away.
“Listen, about before,” Dave said. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I know. We’re cool.” I took my gloves off.
“You’re not doing either of us any favors if you burn out. Just go home. This thing will still be here in the morning.”
“Okay, you win,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
I hurried out to my car and drove off. I called Tony as I went.
“Jesus, Mick, where are you? You know what time it is?”
“Yeah, I know. I got caught up at the factory. I’m just leaving now. Can you meet me there?”
“Yeah, but if you get there first, wait in your car until I arrive.”
“Okay, see you soon. Oh, and bring a recorder.”
The rain was still coming down hard. I drove as quickly as I could on the wet, crowded streets. Heavy traffic around Interstate 205 had me worried that I wouldn’t make my date with Robbins, but it cleared once I made it past the freeway and into Oregon City. I pulled into the church parking lot with a couple of minutes to spare. Tony had parked near the door, so I pulled over next to him. There were no other cars in the lot.
Tony stepped out of his car as soon as I stopped. I wound down my window and he leaned in.
“I took a look around the building before you got here. I think it’s clear.”
“Okay. Let’s go talk to our friendly neighborhood priest.” I got out of the car, and we walked over to the door. There were no lights on, inside or out. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked harder. Still nothing. The only thing I could hear was the distant murmur of traffic.
“That’s weird,” I said.
“Makes me nervous, man,” Tony replied, glancing over his shoulder. “Maybe this is a setup.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not going to hang around.”
I knocked on the door again, but still no response came. I leaned forward, hooded my eyes, and tried to look inside. It was too dark to see anything, so I cupped my ear against the glass. No sounds either.
“Shit.”
I walked around the side of the building. Tony hurried after me.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Trying to find Robbins.”
I pictured our previous visit, and where Elder Robbins’ office had been. When I thought I had the right window, I pushed a shrub aside and tried to see in. Again, there were no lights, so I couldn’t make anything out. I didn’t think Robbins was the type to enjoy hanging around in dark rooms, so I guessed our meeting was off. I took out my phone, scrolled down my recent calls, and dialed his number. It rang three times and went to a generic phone company voicemail message.
“No luck,” I said. “Prick isn’t answering.”
“Damn. You got any ideas?”
“No. I’ll call him in the morning. I’m tired. Let’s go eat.”
“Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“There’s a Gustav’s up by Mount Scott. You want to get some beer and sausages?”
“Jesus, Mick, that isn’t food. How about we go to the Woodsman instead? It’s on the way home for both of us.”
“What’s wrong with sausages?”
“Nothing, if they’re made right. But I’m not eating that mass-produced fake German crap. Come on, you know the Woodsman is good.”
“Okay, you win.”
We walked back to our cars and drove off. I had to admit, Tony had a point about the food. But I was tired, and I just wanted a simple meal and a beer. Still, there was no point arguing with him, so I followed him over there. When it came to dinner, Tony wasn’t the type to compromise, and I didn’t have the energy to fight.
The Woodsman was set up in a U shape around a central bar that looked like a fancy version of the saloon in just about every Western movie ever made. The bartenders dressed accordingly; Portland hipsters in mock-1890’s finery. The place was a bit too pretentious for my taste, but the food was excellent. When we got there it was packed, as usual. There weren’t any tables available, but we managed to get a seat at the bar.
“Hey, I’ve got some news I meant to tell you,” Tony said. “It turns out Aaron might not have been a sex offender after all. Looks like he was set up.”
“What?”
“I did some digging while you were at work today. Did you ever meet Taylor Cox? He’s a solo defense attorney.
Used to be a prosecutor before he left the Dark Side.”
“Yeah, I know Taylor. He’s a good guy. Why?”
“He represented Aaron on the sex crime charges. I talked to him this morning, and he says Aaron was framed. Those images were planted on his computer.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “That’s really fucked up.”
“Yeah, Cox says he had good forensic evidence to back it up, too. He wanted to fight the case, but Aaron wouldn’t do it. He insisted on taking the plea. Apparently he was more afraid of what the church would do to him if he beat the rap than he was of going to jail.”
“Did he say who set him up, or why?”
“He wasn’t sure, but everything pointed to someone at the church. Aaron knew, but he wouldn’t talk.”
“Jesus, this case just keeps getting weirder.” Someone at the church probably meant Larsen. But why would he set Aaron up like that? Especially given what Larsen said about the ultimate punishment. Why not just banish him and be done with it? And that was years ago. What happened recently that made Larsen graduate from framing Aaron to killing him? There were far too many questions and far too few answers. I couldn’t keep any of it straight any more.
“Yeah, it’s some crazy shit, man,” Tony said. He picked up a menu. “Let’s eat.”
We ordered our food. Tony worked his way through a dozen oysters, a ham sampler plate, and grilled rabbit, washed down with a bottle of Spanish rosé. I had a burger and a couple of beers. Between mouthfuls, Tony updated me on the rest of his searches. It had taken most of the day, but he’d come up with contact information for some direct relatives of the accused church members in the faith healing cases. Tomorrow, he was going to try to get in touch with them. I told him about my conversation with Linda Barton, and our plan to meet.
“Do you want me to come?” he said.
“No,” I replied, then frowned. I was surprised how quickly I blurted that out. “Let me talk to her first,” I said, more slowly this time.
“Okay, no problem. Do you want to get some dessert?”
I leaned back in my chair. I wanted something to fill the hole inside me, but dessert wasn’t it.
“No, I’m going home. I’ll call you tomorrow, after I talk to Linda.”
Okay, man,” Tony said, and poured the last of the wine into his glass. “Your loss.”
I didn’t go home, though. I got in my car, pulled out my phone, and scrolled through the contacts. I found the one I wanted, then hovered my finger over it. It was after ten. I fought that dilemma people always do when it’s late at night and they’re lonely. I should just go home, get some sleep. I knew I shouldn’t make the call. I knew I’d regret it in the morning.
I tapped the screen, called Robin Carmichael.
Robin was an ex-client of mine. Several years ago, I had defended her on charges of attempted murder and felony assault. Her husband had been beating her for years, and one night she hit him back. With a frying pan. He lived, but he lost a lot of weight during the four months his jaw was wired shut. I wanted to take the case to trial. I figured she had an excellent case for self-defense. But if we lost, the mandatory minimum sentence would be seven and a half years, with the risk that she could get a lot more.
Robin couldn’t face that. She begged me to try to get her a deal. I always hated wife-beaters, so I pushed the DA hard on the plea bargain. I made him think we were eager to go to trial, and kept reminding him that case for self-defense was strong. Meanwhile, I leaked her husband’s history of abuse to a friend at the Oregonian, and they ran a couple of sympathetic stories on the case. Eventually I got the DA to agree to misdemeanor assault and six months. Robin had been in custody since her arrest, so with credit for time served, she’d be out in three weeks. She looked like a kid on Christmas morning when I told her.
About a year later, right after my wife left me, I ran into her in a bar called Club 21 in Northeast Portland. It was called that because it was on the corner of 21st and Glisan, not because of the patrons’ age. I liked it well enough, though. It had a castle-like exterior, a retro lodge interior, and a welcoming energy. When I sat at the bar, Robin came over and started talking to me right away. I didn’t recognize her at first. But she kept saying how grateful she was, so I figured it out pretty quickly.
We had a couple of drinks, then a couple more, and one thing led to another. I felt bad for a while afterwards. For an attorney, sleeping with a client was grounds for disbarment. Robin was an ex-client, but even that was frowned upon. Even worse, I felt like I’d taken advantage of her gratitude.
I avoided Club 21 for a while, to avoid running into Robin again. Then a few months later she called and asked me if I wanted to meet her there for a drink. I agreed, and when I got there she obviously wanted one thing. We had a couple of drinks, went back to her place, and in the morning she ushered me out with a smile. Since then, about once or twice a year one of us would call the other, and a night of drinks and casual sex would ensue. I’d say we were friends with benefits, but I’m not sure we had ever really been friends.
None of that mattered tonight, though.
I didn’t want to be alone.
Chapter 21 – When It Rains, It Pours
Normally, I slept well at Robin’s place. Not this time. Between bouts of wakefulness I kept having the same dream, where Elder Robbins was taunting me from a hilltop. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his body language was unmistakable. I’d struggle to get closer, but just when I seemed to be there, I’d find that he had moved further away.
Eventually I stopped trying to sleep. Sometime before dawn I got out of bed as quietly as I could, took my stuff into the bathroom so I could dress without waking Robin, then slipped out quietly and drove home. The dream was still fresh in my mind. I had the feeling that something important happened, but I couldn’t remember what it was.
I showered and dressed, then drove down to work. I drifted through the day in a half-awake daze. I kept dropping my tools and forgetting procedures that had been burned into my brain for months. Somehow I made it through eleven hours without hurting myself. I made it out of there in time to get home and have a quick shower before my meeting with Linda.
I didn’t see any single women when I arrived at the Teardrop, so I grabbed a seat at the bar where I could see the door. The bartender put a cocktail menu down in front of me, but I ignored it and ordered a vodka cranberry. The Teardrop was too fancy for my taste, all pinpoint lighting, artisanal bitters, and waiters with waxed mustaches. My drink arrived, bright pink with a cocktail cherry in it. Nothing like how Jeremy made them. I sighed, tossed the cherry out, and took a drink.
A woman came in alone a few minutes later and stood at the door, looking around. I waved, and she headed in my direction. She was tall, at least five ten, and moved like a dancer. Her wavy black hair tumbled over the faux fur collar of her bomber jacket, and I could smell the lavender note of her perfume. I guessed she was in her late twenties.
“Mister Wray?” She said, and held out her hand. I stood and shook it.
“Yes, that’s me. You must be Linda Barton.” I gestured at the bar stool next to mine. “Have a seat.”
She sat down and looked me in the eye. I realized she was older than I thought. It didn’t show in the rest of her face, but those eyes put her well into her thirties.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“You can buy me more than one,” she said with a smile. The bartender came over and she ordered a gin and tonic. Not one of the fancy cocktails from the list. I liked that.
“That was quite a story you told me over the phone,” she said, her head tilted to one side. “Give me details.”
It took a while, but I told her about Aaron, the police suspecting me, and the confrontation with Larsen. While I talked, she sipped at her drink and watched me, a slight frown on her face.
“What about that Elder you were meeting?” she said, when I was done. “What did he say?”
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“He didn’t show.”
“I’m not surprised. They’re a secretive bunch.”
“I was surprised. He’s the one who wanted the meeting.”
“Have you called him?”
“I tried a couple of times, but it just went to voicemail,” I said. “Anyway, tell me some more about what you know.”
“That could take all night.”
“Well, tell me how you got interested in the church to start with.”
“All right.” She turned her bar stool to face me and leaned on the bar. “It was around the time of the faith healing case, the one where the parents were convicted of manslaughter. I pitched a freelance article to Utne Reader about it, and they accepted. At first I thought it would be easy, but I’ve never had a story where it was so hard to get information. No one would talk to me, so I had to try another approach. Thank God for the internet. I spent a long time digging, and eventually I got lucky with that blog you saw. I found it the day after it was posted. I managed to track down the author. She’s in Denver now, so I flew out and met with her. Her story blew me away.
“They have their own school. She’d been sexually abused by church Elders in the school since she was twelve years old. At first she was afraid to tell anyone, but eventually she mustered up the courage to tell her parents. When she did, they accused her of lying. Her father whipped her with his belt and locked her in a closet under the stairs for two days. He wouldn’t let her out until she recanted her allegations. She was too scared to do anything else. The abuse started up again as soon as she went back to school. She couldn’t tell anyone. It got so bad she just stopped eating. The Elders held prayer vigils for her at the church, but when the service was over they’d take her out back and force food down her throat. At least the sexual abuse stopped. They kept a guard on her at all times. They even had someone go to the bathroom with her in case she tried to make herself throw up.
“Eventually her guard fell asleep, and she climbed out a window and ran away. She was scared to go to the police, in case they took her back to the church. So she hitchhiked to Seattle and tried to put it behind her. She reached out to her parents, to try to let them know what had happened, but they refused to talk to her.