Val Campion, a man with a cruel streak. Did his nephew take after him? For whatever reason, Stacey had been drawn to Jack, and now she was dead. Could it be as simple as that?
CHAPTER 20
At five minutes after four, Antelope parked under an old cottonwood tree in front of 35 Wardell Court, the house where Stacey Hart had resided with Toni Atwell. The compact white cottage, with its bright blue front door and shiny brass knocker, stood out among the other homes in the modest neighborhood. A half-mile from the Cedar Street house, this was an older, more ragged section of town where smaller, shabbier houses stood close together. But this house had fresh paint, and trimmed rose bushes bordered the manicured lawn. Someone cared about the place.
Toni came to the door before he knocked. He thought she must have changed out of the clothes she wore to her job at the women’s shelter; she wore a bright red silk kimono and gold slippers.
“Your timing is perfect,” she said. “Come in, make yourself comfortable. I’ve got coffee brewing.” She pointed to a pair of royal blue wing chairs in front of a white brick fireplace.
Antelope took in his surroundings. Toni’s home was a bright space with white walls, flowering plants in ceramic pots, and primary colors in the artwork, pillows, and rag rugs.
In his work, he got to see the inside of many homes. He believed the way people decorated and kept their living spaces said a lot about what they valued. Only rarely did he find himself comfortable in other people’s surroundings, but here he did. The furnishings and the care evident in this house created an unexpected feeling of serenity—even during a murder investigation.
Toni returned from the kitchen and handed him a thick mug of steaming dark coffee.
“Carlton tells me you’re a double espresso guy. So am I. For my birthday he gave me the new Starbucks Venti machine. He claims he bought it to save himself some money. I’ve never dated anyone who knew how to choose a gift, but he’s got a real knack for it. How about you, Detective, do you enjoy buying presents for the women in your life?”
“That opportunity hasn’t presented itself.”
“Clever answer.” She chuckled. “You managed to give me no information whatsoever.”
“You have a nice place here. Is the artist local?” He pointed to the watercolor above the tiled mantel.
She smiled. “I painted that one. Most of the things you see are from artists in Wyoming and Colorado. I make several trips a year to area art shows. Since I left the religious order, I am free to indulge my love of color. My greatest joy. Don’t tell Carlton. He thinks it’s sharing a bed with a hot sheriff.”
“Are you ready to tell me about your decision to leave the convent?”
“Message received. Fun time’s over.”
He waited while she drank her coffee. She set the empty cup on the floor and folded her hands in her lap. He could see remnants of the demure and serious nun.
“Let’s get down to the business you came for. It’s a sad saga, hard for me to talk about. I loved the Church and I still do, though it will never be the same for me again.”
“Tell me your story.”
“You know how when you’re going through something and it sucks you ask yourself, How much will this matter years from now? because you think it’ll help put the current thing in perspective? That little trick is bullshit. It’s been sixteen years and I’m here to say, it still matters.”
“Did you leave the convent then?”
“I left ten years ago, but the story starts long before. I tried to hold on to my vocation, I did. You may not remember, but it was sixteen years ago, January 2002, when the Boston Globe broke the story about priests being tried for the rape of children. As the months went on, the stories kept coming. It hurt the Church hard; both religious and lay people reeled in disbelief. Across the country, parents got scared and started asking their kids questions. And the numbers got bigger. Other people responded with denial and believed it couldn’t happen in their parish.” She sighed. “It saddens me to admit I shared those thoughts. Out here in Wyoming in our small-town church, I truly believed we were safe from the evils of the world. I never imagined the evil could thrive within the walls of my own church. I entered the religious order because I wanted to be part of this massive force for good in the world.” She cocked her head. “Stop me if I’m getting too wordy for you. I have a tendency to embellish.”
“I’m interested, keep going.”
“I need a refill, how about you?”
“No thanks, I’m still working on this.”
She picked up her mug and disappeared into the kitchen, obviously in need of a break. Antelope thought it must have been difficult for her to voluntarily sever her connection with work that gave meaning and purpose to her life.
She sat back down and continued. “My first job after I took my vows in the order was at Our Lady of Sorrows parish school. Todd Bellamy had started there a year before as pastor. A breath of fresh air, everyone said; young, vibrant, straight out of the seminary. Truly, the way he engaged the young people in the parish was great; he was an outdoor enthusiast who got the youth group involved in nature activities and hiking and camping trips. My faith in the Catholic Church, the priesthood, and human nature returned. I committed myself to doing the Lord’s work through my vocation.” She took in a shaky breath. “After I’d been here about a year, a parishioner shared some dark history with me. It was no idle gossip or secondhand rumor; the story involved her family directly, and I didn’t doubt the disturbing information she shared. I went to Father Bellamy and he confirmed what the woman had told me. Before I could ask about the secrecy he told me I couldn’t speak to anyone about it.
Antelope’s curiosity was eating at him, but he held his questions for the time being.
“Needless to say, I didn’t react well.” Toni stared down into her coffee. “I felt disgusted and disappointed. It was the beginning of the end for me and the Roman Catholic Church. But I followed his order because I didn’t have a choice, and I’ve never spoken to anyone about it since. What I’m about to tell you is part of the sordid history of Our Lady of Sorrows, known to only myself and the parties involved.” She lifted her eyes to meet Antelope’s. “Fern Hart disclosed to me that Father Gerard Kroll sexually abused her son, Max, and his friends Timothy Ryan and Connor Collins, during the time they served as altar boys. The abuse went on for several years, until one of the boys confided in a parent.”
“Do you know the extent of the abuse?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know all the details. The Harts and the Ryans reported the situation to the Bishop in Cheyenne. Connor’s parents were killed in an auto accident when he was very young and he was being raised by his maternal grandmother. Being of a different generation, she couldn’t bring herself to challenge anything done by a priest. The Bishop responded by removing Kroll, sending him to a different church, and offering a financial settlement to the three families.”
“Sounds like the usual approach,” Antelope said.
Toni nodded. “And now I’m telling you this, I remember another time Stacey got angry at Connor. She found the financial records detailing the payout from the Church. Connor gave no indication during the whole time they dated that he’d received a settlement of any kind, never mind of the sum involved. You’d think given the serious nature of their relationship, he would have trusted her with that information. Stacey did too. She felt very shut out and considered it a breach of their intimacy.”
“Wouldn’t Stacey have known something about this since her family got a settlement too?”
“Her parents had never told her about Max being abused, or about the money. When Connor told her everything, she found the whole thing extremely disturbing and became very upset. I didn’t feel it was my place to add anything to the situation, so I held my tongue.”
“So when, exactly, did you decide to leave the Church?”
Toni sighed. “I didn’t leave immediately. But things were never the same
for me again. You know how it is when you fall out of love. It’s impossible to get the stars back in your eyes after you’ve seen the blackness in someone’s heart. As time went on, it became clear that Father Bellamy and I disagreed about the church’s handling of priests who engaged in the sexual abuse of children. He wanted to keep things positive and not address the issue. I thought we should actively teach about it; I believe knowledge is power. I couldn’t remain passive. Finally, I decided to do something, take my own small stand against the abuse and lies.”
Antelope raised an eyebrow. “And what was that?”
“Catholic school enrollment was down all over the country, and it was no different here. I argued that actively addressing parents’ concerns and raising awareness of abuse through sex education would retain students. But I needed the pastor’s support to make it happen. Todd refused; he shut my movement down before it could get off the ground. That broke me. A year later, the diocese closed the school and I found the courage to leave.” She snorted with disgust. “Finally.”
“You did it. Don’t beat yourself up for how long it took.”
“Knowing how the Church enabled the sex crimes to protect the institution . . . there was nothing left for me to believe in. And it’s not just at the lower levels. It goes all the way up to the Vatican.”
“I get why you left the convent.”
“I don’t talk about it often. It makes me too sad, and when I get sad I drink too much.”
“And what’s your take on him?”
“Who?”
“Father Bellamy.”
“I think we wandered a bit off track. My thoughts about Todd Bellamy aren’t relevant to the case you’re investigating.”
“You’re an insightful woman,” Antelope pressed. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the priest.”
“Do you recall the definitions I gave you of the narcissist and sociopath and the thin line between the two?”
“Yes.”
“Father Todd Bellamy rides that thin line.”
CHAPTER 21
Jack woke up in a motel in Utah, his heart pounding in a pitch-black room. He reached for the edge of the bedspread and pulled the heavy fabric over his head. The loud window air conditioner worked like a freezer. On the bedside table, the digital clock radio read 12:10 a.m.
One day gone.
Only one person knew where he was. When he made the quick pit stop to ditch the van and pick up his truck, he’d told Val what happened on Cedar Street and how he planned to leave town for a while. It was Val’s idea for him to hole up in the apartment at the Spring Grove Motel where he ran his Utah business.
He’d switched the license plate on his Dodge Ram, packed a bag, and gotten on the interstate heading west before anyone even knew to come looking for him.
The Spring Grove Motel was a dump near the train and bus stations, a place for transients and hookers. The three-story, red brick, L-shaped structure with wrought iron railings in need of a fresh coat of paint was located on the western edge of the city. Behind the front office, a chain link fence enclosed an empty, faded swimming pool, surrounded by a parking lot. Val liked the low overhead. He claimed his customers would feel exposed in a fancier place, a decent hotel, possibly run into people they knew.
A deep weariness had come over Jack when he closed the motel door, his legs cramped after hours behind the wheel without a break. He’d bolted and chain-locked the door, closed the thick, dusty drapes, and fallen into bed fully clothed. He’d felt safe in the battered, musty room, his familiar home away from home.
But now, awake in the middle of the night, his mind was racing. In the morning, there would be time to deal with her phone. First thing on the agenda: delete any texts or voicemails from him to Stacey. Then he’d tackle the tracking app. He couldn’t wait to see what it had picked up. With any luck, he would find something to raise suspicion about Connor. His goal was to get himself off the sheriff’s radar.
On the ride down from Rock Springs, he’d thought long and hard about how to get the phone into the hands of law enforcement. No way would he stick his neck out and deliver it personally. Connor Collins wanted him tried and convicted.
He took the two Big Macs and a bag of fries he’d bought on the way into town out of their greasy paper bag and warmed them in the microwave. At the window, he opened the drapes an inch, enough for a surveillance view. He propped his stocking feet on the dusty window ledge and settled in for his watch while he ate his fast-food dinner. From this vantage point, he could keep an eye on the locked garage where he’d parked his truck and spot any signs of police who might come nosing around.
He thought about how he’d woken up in the previous morning without any idea how things would turn out—how his life had just been turned upside down because of one decision.
He thought about Stacey and got an erection. Would it make him a creep if he pictured her when he masturbated? What he wouldn’t give for one more time with her.
The rain came down hard again, the sound like bullets on the window air conditioner. The idea hit him like a bolt of lightning and he wondered why he didn’t of it before: if he could find out who Collins was with, find solid evidence to show him in a bad light, it might help get him off the sheriff’s short list of suspects.
Val could access the motel’s records. His uncle had taught him everything he knew about women: how to get them, how to handle them, how to let them go when they got to be too much trouble. He’d want to help him now.
His body was stiff from the long drive and the tension his muscles had held for so many hours. A hot shower would help, but he didn’t want to move. He closed his eyes and saw her again: blood in her hair, fear in her eyes.
He thought about the day Stacey Hart came into his life.
He was driving down Broadway toward home after finishing early at the job. She ran in front of the truck and he slammed on the brakes. A bright blue scarf flew like a kite in the wind; she went after it, moving like a colt, long legs in black tights and boots. She jumped, snatched the scarf out of the air, and wrapped it around her neck.
Traffic stopped at the light and he watched her make her way against the wind, her golden hair a mass of curls rippling behind her like a mane. She tried to hold it down, but it escaped, a wild thing, betraying what he thought must be her true nature.
In those first moments after seeing her on the windy street on a March afternoon, he began making up stories about her. One look at her and he wanted her, had to have her. She entered a café with a green and white awning, a fancy place he’d never been to, never wanted to go to, where he’d be out of place in his work boots and denim jacket.
A minute later, he squeezed his truck into a tight spot, smoothed his hair in the mirror, and followed her quickly toward the café, taking note of everything, knowing he’d want to recall it later.
The wind tore down the narrow street with a force that took his breath away. It was bitter cold, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. He regretted leaving his black watch cap in the truck; he’d ditched it so he’d look less like a common worker.
He entered the café and found her seated at a table by the window. A wood stove warmed the small room and candles flickered in glass lamps on the tables.
When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that they were the only two customers in the place. She looked at him and he went to her, sat at the table as if he belonged there, as if she’d invited him.
She watched him without surprise, as if men did this all the time—walked into her life without introduction or permission. Blue eyes, the color of her scarf.
“Hello.”
He waited for more, some protest or question, but nothing came. “I followed you,” he said.
He sounded like a psycho stalker. Great pickup line, dude—way to give the girl a reason to scream for the cops. But she didn’t. She gave him a long look and smiled, and he smiled back.
When she tossed her hair over her shoulder,
long silver earrings caught the sun and reflected rainbow prisms on the ceiling. Around her neck a silver cross, set with turquoise, floated on a delicate chain. Up close he could see how thin she was, how prominent the bones of her shoulders and chest were.
“I’m Stacey.”
“Jack,” he said and held out his hand.
Her fingers were cool and lingered on his. “Did you really follow me, Jack?”
“You ran in front of my truck. I liked what I saw.”
She looked thoughtful. “What did you like?”
“Your hair. It looks like that painting by Dante, Helen of Troy.”
With both hands she patted the curls that fell over her shoulder. “You couldn’t resist me.”
With Stacey it was love at first sight, the first time it had ever happened for him. It was easy between them, no effort at all.
Val had tried to brainwash him, warn him off women and love. None of it had stuck.
No one would believe it, but he didn’t care. He’d never planned to share what he felt with anyone. Somehow, Val had found out about Stacey anyway.
Was that the moment when everything started to go wrong?
He fell asleep to the sound of trains coming and going—long, sad whistles, a melancholy song in the night.
CHAPTER 22
“Someone will end up dead if I don’t fix my head,” Max Hart told me when we’d met for his first therapy session a year earlier.
A few days before, he’d heard about the arrest of a Catholic priest in Greybull, Wyoming, on charges of sexual abuse of minors. The news had triggered flashbacks and nightmares of his own abuse as an altar boy. Those memories, along with everything else he’d experienced before age eighteen, had been lost when he suffered a head injury, and now they were coming flooding back.
The look in his eyes told me he meant what he said. I told him he’d made the right decision in seeking treatment, and we began therapy twice a week to “fix his head.”
On a Quiet Street Page 8