“No rush, mi amigo. I don’t plan to make a move until Monday, or Tuesday at the latest. Have yourself some fun. But just not with the woman on Hardy Island. You will have her soon enough.”
“Si, Patrón.”
I hang up. Looking down I see my excitement has not abated. It’s time to let the whores do their job.
38
Cal
Sunday
If you looked up the word scam in an encyclopedia, there would be a picture of the Church of the Pure Divine Light. I know how Phil and Florrie Franks fell for it. The church is in a building in New Westminster which used to be a theatre. The doors to the auditorium are not yet open and there’s a throng of people in the large lobby area which is adorned with pictures of angelic and saintlike figures. On either side of the entry doors there are faux-gold bowls with the words ‘Contribute what you can!’ on them. Looking around, I can see there are quite a few people who look like they can afford quite big donations. There are even some statues which give the place an amazing aura. But I have spotted the real giveaways.
I find myself with a group of people who clearly all know each other and who have welcomed me into their midst.
“You’ll love Pastor Kilman,” Milly, a white-haired woman in a purple hat tells me. “He has brought such peace of mind to me.”
“He has dear,” her friend Edna agrees. “And for us too. He put us in contact with Dan’s late brother,” she gestures toward her husband, a ramrod-straight middle-aged man in a blazer with the Masonic crest on it. He nods in agreement.
“Why are you here, Cal?” another woman asks me.
I opted to use my real first name and a fictitious surname and, fortunately, I have a cover story. “My wife Elizabeth passed on. It was very sudden, a car accident, and apart from our insurance policies, we had never discussed death or things like funeral arrangements. I want to know if she wants to be buried or cremated and if she wants her final resting place to be in Vancouver or at our house in Whistler or on Salt Spring. She loved the mountains but our place on Salt Spring has some very special memories.” That’s established some bona fides.
“If you come here often enough,” says Edna, “I’m sure Pastor Kilman will be able to make a connection for you.”
I plant another little seed. “I hope so. I would give anything to hear her voice again.”
Another woman in the group whose name I didn’t catch and the oldest by far, takes my hand in hers. “I’m going to pray Pastor Kilman helps you soon,” she says, her voice trembling with age and emotion.
They all seem so nice and I have to work hard to hide my anger at the con-man who’s bilking them of their hard-earned money.
I look around and hear other conversations of the same ilk. All good grist for the Pastor’s mill.
The auditorium doors into the theatre open by themselves with no physical person in evidence; it’s a cheap trick to support the ethos of divine intervention. As we move inside, people drop banknotes or envelopes into the faux-gold bowls. I take two fifty-dollar bills from my wallet and drop them in, knowing the bright red colour will be noticeable.
As I walk through the doors I see Pastor Kilman standing silently in the middle of the stage in a two-thousand-dollar-plus suit, his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. On the curtains behind him is embroidered the crest of the Church. How much did that cost? More than his suit I’m guessing.
Milly and Edna usher me into the fifth row and sit me down between them. Before I do anything, I maneuver the ‘man-purse’ onto my lap and, without revealing the contents which I purchased after my meeting with Phil and Florrie, I slide my hand inside and do what I have been instructed by the helpful salesman. I look down to ensure that the microphone, disguised as a Rotary Club lapel-badge, is still in place.
While we wait for all the congregants to enter, I scan the space and do an estimate of the capacity. There are thirty-two rows of seats in three banks of twelve seats each. I turn to Milly. “How many services are there?” I ask.
“Tuesday to Friday, there’s a service every evening,” she says, “and there are two on Saturday and three today. You’re lucky it’s Pastor Kilman. He’s been away for a week and one of the associate Ministers has been doing the services; he’s very good but Pastor Kilman is special.”
I look around again and see the seats will likely all be full. “Are they always as full as this?”
“During the week there are sometimes some seats available but not on the weekends. I always come early on Sunday to make sure I get a seat. On Wednesdays we can usually get a seat without a problem, can’t we Edna?”
“Yes. Wednesdays are always good,” Edna adds.
I do the math. Pastor Kilman’s getting about nine thousand people through his doors every week. From my observation, the average donation dropped in the bowls at the door was at least ten dollars. From those donations alone he’s making four to five million a year, let alone what additional monies he cons from people like Phil and Florrie. I’m hoping my two fifty-buck notes will do the trick.
I settle in to enjoy the show.
As the last of the congregants are searching for seats, Pastor Kilman looks up. His brown hair’s perfectly sculpted and shows not a sign of grey despite his obvious age. A closer look reveals a certain shininess to the skin often exhibited by the clients of plastic surgeons. He has small, deep set, beady eyes and a smile which cost more than his suit. His hands unclasp and slowly circle away from his body until they’re stretched out so that his body makes the shape of a letter Y.
The congregants all stand, some of the older ones being helped to their feet by their younger neighbours
“Brothers and sisters!” His voice is deep and rich and fills the auditorium without the need of a microphone. “Please bow your heads and silently ask the souls of the departed to join us in our fellowship.”
Again the flock obey in unison.
After a full minute he speaks again. “Please be seated.” He pauses, nodding his head as if hearing something interesting. “Your spirits are strong. There are many souls here today.”
He pauses again and cocks his head to one side. He’s holding his audience in the palm of his hand. I have to admire his showmanship.
“Alexander,” he says. “Jessie’s here.”
“Oh yes! Yes!” The speaker is a man about my age, three rows back and to my right. He’s leaping to his feet.
“She says she’s free now. She can cross over in peace.”
“Oh thank you, thank you,” Alexander says.
“She gives her thanks to you for setting her free.”
The mark has tears streaming down his face. He tries to speak but is unable to. He collapses back into his seat and my stomach turns.
After two more similar displays, the huckster gives a startled look and surveys the audience. He walks in our direction to the front of the stage and looks me in the eye.
“Are you Cal?” he asks.
Careful not to overact, I nod.
“Elizabeth is here.”
I gasp, stand up and lean toward him. It seems to be what’s expected.
“She says you have a dilemma.”
“Yes. Yes,” I say.
“The island she says.” He shakes his head and smiles. “She says you’ll know what she means. Ahh, yes. She’s asking that you spread her ashes on Salt Spring. You’ll know where.”
I nod enthusiastically.
His smile disappears and a look of pain comes onto his face.
“She needs your help. Oh no.” Tears come to his face. Can he be that good an actor? “She’s gone.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Where did she go?”
He just shakes his head, his body like that of a man exhausted. He looks me in the eye and manages a wan smile. “Later,” he says.
He turns and drags himself toward the centre of the stage and then stops.
“Poor man. It takes so much out of him,” Milly whispers in my ear.
On the other side of her, the lady whose name I don’t know says, “I prayed for Elizabeth to come.” She reaches over and pats me on the arm.
On the stage Kilman seems miraculously to regain his energy. He straightens up and makes a beeline for the other side of the stage.
“Donald,” he says. “Bethany’s here.”
An elderly man struggles to his feet and I start to feel physically sick.
The show is over and the Pastor has exited the stage through the curtains at the back only to be replaced by a well-dressed woman in her thirties with a pearl necklace and shoes worth a devil’s ransom.
Nobody stirs.
She waits a beat and then speaks. She has one of the most vibrant voices I have ever heard. “While Pastor Kilman recovers from his work, is there anyone who wants to share?”
Share? Now it sounds like an AA meeting.
A woman holds up her hand. “I just want to say how grateful I am for Pastor Kilman’s help. Thanks to him my husband’s now at peace in the world beyond.” My cynical side asks how much that cost her. It’s hard to keep the rage out of my face. I just try to smile placidly. I keep the plastic smile in place through four more people sharing their gratitude to Kilman, peppered with supporting comments from Milly and Edna. I want to scream ‘Fraud!’ at the top of my lungs but somehow manage to restrain myself.
Finally the sharing comes to an end and the woman leaves the stage through the curtain behind her. “She’s Pastor Kilman’s wife. Isn’t she wonderful?” Milly says squeezing my arm. I just nod.
We wait while the people in the rows behind us make their exits. When our turn comes I see into the lobby. Kilman’s there and so is his wife. He’s deep in conversation with a man in an ugly red sweater and she’s smiling and shaking hands with people and ushering them through the doors which lead outside onto Columbia Street. I look at her and can see the crowd-control job is not what she’s there for. She’s scanning the congregation looking for specific people and I’m betting I’m one of them. Her eyes lock with mine and she smiles.
Milly and Edna steer me in her direction. She smiles and shakes hands with each of them but it’s as sincere as a junkie’s promise. When my turn comes she shakes my hand but does not let go. “My husband would like to meet with you. He’s quite exhausted but needs to give you a private message from Elizabeth.” I nod eagerly and she gestures with her head. “Just go over and talk to him.” She releases my hand and turns her attention to the next person in line.
I say my goodbyes to Milly and Edna and promise to see them again next week before heading over to the small crowd gathered around Kilman. He catches my eye and says, “I’ll be with you in a minute Cal.”
I smile and nod then take the time to act like an overawed tourist and take photos of the lobby. I snap the pictures: the statues, the crowd and most importantly—not to mention covertly—the ceiling. He finishes talking to the man in the sweater and, ignoring the adoring fans around him, he locks his deep-set eyes with mine. “Cal,” he says. “I’m so glad you have joined our little congregation; it could not have been more timely.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “I’m so, so glad.” Words from Henry IV spring into my mind. Suppos’d sincere and holy in his thoughts.
“I need to speak with you at your earliest convenience,” he says. “It’s about Elizabeth.”
“I’m available any time,” I say eagerly.
“I would speak to you right now but the service takes so much out of me. Could you come by tomorrow at around two?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“When you arrive, just ring the doorbell to the right of the main door.”
“Absolutely,” I say again. “Tomorrow at two.”
He just nods and pats my shoulder, the very epitome of the righteous man exhausted by his labours
He has set his hook. He thinks into a mackerel, but he’s snagged a great white.
The flavor of the lemon chicken and the Whistler Chestnut Ale go a long way toward washing away the taste of the Church of the Pure Divine Light. “So how was your visit to church this morning?” I ask.
“Good,” says Stammo wiping away a piece of noodle from the side of his mouth. “It’s a long time since I’ve been to church. To tell you the truth, I enjoyed it; singing hymns, listening to the sermon and all that. It was nice.” He pops some lemon chicken into his mouth.
“Anyway, they’re a pretty fundamentalist bunch, especially by Canadian standards. There were a lot of readings from the old testament and the minister, the Reverend Joseph Mueller, was a regular fire and brimstone type but there was nothing specifically about gays. Luke Summers read a couple of the passages, he was pretty impressive. I talked to him after the service too and I gotta say, I find it hard to think he killed his own brother to cover up the fact he was gay. A bit too Cain and Abel.” He chuckles and drinks some of his beer.
I chuckle too, remembering that Em used exactly the same words.
“Did he know who you were?” I ask.
“Nah. I just said I was visiting some friends in Langley and thought I’d drop into the church.”
I reach across his desk and take the last piece of beef in black bean sauce. “If Luke’s off our list, we don’t really have a viable suspect for Dale’s murder do we?”
“We don’t,” he sighs. “Although God knows I’d like to pin it on Big Bob Pridmore.”
“Was Marly on board with the plan to deal with him?”
“One hundred and ten percent,” he gives a big grin. “We’ve got it set up for tomorrow morning at his office. Do you want to come?”
I don’t but I doubt Big Bob’s going to go gentle into that good night. He’s going to rage, rage against the dying of his hold over Marly. “Sure,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Has she got the stuff?”
“Yes. I couriered it over to her.” He chuckles.
We finish our late lunch in a companionable silence. But it’s a silence which gives me time to think. And not good thoughts. I’ve had time to digest last night’s phone call from Sam.
It’s over Cal. The words keep running through my head. Is it really over? And what about Ellie? Sam divorced me when I was still a junkie. Because of that fact, she was able to get sole custody and guardianship of Ellie. I have no legal way of making sure I get to see my daughter again. For the hundredth time, I toy with the idea of going up to Hardy Island again. Maybe I can persuade my English friend to ferry me over there, except that there’s little likelihood of him being on the dock at Saltery Bay two evenings in a row. And what reception would I get if I turned up on the island?
Is it really over with Sam?
She’s probably right. I count the times I have put her and/or Ellie in danger in the last few years. They just don’t deserve it. Maybe they are better off without me.
“OK, Rogan. Back to work.” Stammo’s words pull me out of the pit of self-pity I’ve been digging for myself. I remember the rule: when you’re in a hole, stop digging.
He loads the empty food containers, paper plates and beer bottles on to his lap and wheels into the office’s little kitchen. He’s been in that wheelchair for a couple of years now and he’s become pretty damned efficient in operating it.
He comes back out and wheels up to his desk. “You can clean up the kitchen before you go tonight, meanwhile don’t you have to plug in that gizmo you bought to see if it worked?”
He’s right. I pull the device out of the ‘man-purse’ and plug it into my computer. It takes me about five minutes to verify that it worked and worked perfectly at that. I got everything I need to get Phil and Florrie’s money back from Pastor Kilman.
“It worked, I was right,” I whoop.
He turns round and faces me. Through his shocked look he says, “But I was righter. Come and see what I got.”
Somehow I know his news is bigger than mine. I walk over and stand beside him. “You remember how I told you I set up Google alerts?” he says. “Well I got a hit on the 20:13 search. Take a
look at this.”
My mouth falls open. I was right. His news is bigger than mine. There it is, on his screen: twenty-thirteen.com. A website with a scrolling banner across the top that reads: Leviticus 20:13 says, ‘If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.’ Underneath the banner is a picture. One that I have seen before but taken from a slightly different angle. It’s Dale Summers’ tortured, naked, mutilated and murdered body, the dagger sticking out of his chest like a crucifix.
“You realize what this means?” I say.
“Well yeah! It means we’ve got a new lead on this case,” he replies.
“Apart from that.”
“What?”
“It says ‘they are to be put to death.’ It means Sean O’Day is probably the next victim.”
I have mixed feelings about making this next call. Sean O’Day isn’t answering his cell. We tried calling his room at the Hotel Van, but there was no reply there either. Marly has no idea where he is. The obvious next choice is to call his boss, Em. Except I have to be careful. He specifically said he didn’t want to be outed to his employer so I can’t tell Em that we need to get hold of him because his life’s in danger; she’s way too smart, she might well figure out why. On the other hand I’m happy to have an excuse to call her.
“Hello Cal Rogan.” She’s accentuating her Southern drawl; it draws a big smile onto my face.
“Hi Em, I need to ask Sean O’Day something, do you know how I could get hold of him?”
“And here was I, hoping you were calling to ask a girl out for dinner again.”
“Well I was.” I say it before thinking about it. “But at the same time I’d like to get hold of Sean. He worked closely with Dale and I have a couple of follow up questions for him. I can’t get him on his cell or at the hotel.”
“Working on a Sunday. You are very diligent.” There’s laughter in her voice. “Did you try my office number? Sean has the office next door to mine. He might be there. He’s very diligent too.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 15
