An Altar by the River

by Christine Husom

  AN ALTAR BY THE RIVER

  Third in the Winnebago County Mystery Series

  Christine Husom

  Copyright © 2010 by Christine Husom.

  Smashwords Edition

  Also by Christine Husom

  Winnebago County Mystery Series:

  Murder in Winnebago County, 2008

  Buried in Wolf Lake, 2009

  The Noding Field Mystery, 2012

  A Death in Lionel’s Woods, 2013

  Secret in Whitetail Lake, 2015

  Firesetter in Blackwood Township, 2017

  Snow Globe Shop Mystery Series:

  Snow Way Out, 2015

  The Iced Princess, 2015

  Frosty the Dead Man, 2016

  All rights to this book are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in printed or electronic form without permission. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in, or encourage, piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locale is coincidental.

  Written with compassion for those who have suffered through abuse, and with thanks for the people who are dedicated to helping them heal.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, family and friends for your continued support. It means more to me than words can express. Also, thank you to a team of helpers for your expertise, advice, ideas, and proofreading: Dan Husom, Scott Bernstein, April Carlson, Ed Dubois, Judy Lewis, Lisa Kamrath, Tia Larson, Elizabeth Husom, Morynn Marx, and Adrienne Murray. I greatly appreciate everything.

  1

  The laptop computer mounted next to the steering wheel in my squad car beeped, and a message appeared on the screen.

  Phone Gregory Trippen @ 802-555-4243.

  I was near the southwest border of the county, driving past rolling acres of plowed fields readied for planting in the upcoming weeks. I took a right onto the next road, a bumpy gravel leading into a small Finnish Lutheran cemetery at the rise of a hill. I stopped my car, flanked on both sides by headstones adorned with names full of double vowels and consonants.

  It was an unfamiliar area code. I punched in the ten digits. It barely rang when a panicked “Hello?” came from the other end.

  “Gregory Trippen, please.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Sergeant Corinne Aleckson, Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department. I had a message to call—”

  “It’s my brother. He’s on his way to Winnebago County to sacrifice himself on Satan’s altar.” His words tumbled out with urgency.

  I pulled the memo pad from my breast pocket and tried to digest what he said. “Mister Trippen, could you repeat that?”

  “Jeff phoned a few minutes ago to tell me. He even sent me a picture of the dagger he’s going to use to my cell phone. I tried to talk to him, find out where he is, but all he would say is he’s on his way to Winnebago County to sacrifice himself on Satan’s altar. I don’t know what to do.”

  Sacrifice himself on Satan’s altar? In Winnebago County?

  “Mister Trippen, does that make any sense to you? Is your brother suffering from a mental illness?”

  “Yes. To both questions.”

  “Okay, let me get some information and we’ll take it from there. You said you don’t know where your brother is, but he’s on his way here to Winnebago County. Where are you? I don’t recognize the eight oh two area code.”

  “It’s Vermont, but I’m in upstate New York right now. I’m an over-the-road truck driver. Just dropped off a load and was on my way home when Jeff called.”

  “Okay. I’ll need your full name and date of birth to start the report.”

  “Gregory Patrick Trippen, December thirteenth, nineteen eighty.”

  “Address?” It was in Vermont. “And your commercial license was issued there?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I sent a message to Winnebago County Communications requesting an out-of-state search on Trippen.

  “But what about my brother?”

  “What’s his full name, date of birth, address?”

  “Jeffrey Leon Trippen. Ah, born April thirtieth, ah, nineteen eighty-two.” He paused. “I only have his post office box number and latest cell phone number, which he’s probably thrown away by now.”

  While Trippen continued, I typed in the vital statistics and sent a second message to Communications. “He’s moved around a lot, landed in New York last year. He gets P.O. boxes so I can send him money, but I never really know where he’s staying. Poor Jeff went off the deep end years ago. I don’t know what else to do to help him except send him money. I never expected this.” His voice cracked.

  Communications found Gregory Trippen at the address he gave and as the holder of a commercial driver’s license. They found an identification-only license for Jeffrey Trippen, issued in Vermont two years prior.

  “Mister Trippen, what’s your brother’s connection to Winnebago County?”

  “We grew up there, in Wellspring. My mother got us out of there when we were still kids, but it was too late for Jeff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our mother married a man when we were little, after our dad died. It turned out he was a hard core Satanist. When I got older I started to believe that monster killed my dad so he could have my mom and her boys.”

  One thing at a time.

  Was Gregory Trippen a rational man? It was difficult to determine in a few-minute phone conversation packed with wild claims of what his brother was planning, their involvement with a cult, and that his stepfather had likely killed his father to marry his mother and gain control of her sons. “Mister Trippen, we need to meet in person. When can you get to Oak Lea, to the sheriff’s department?”

  Trippen’s voice was trembling and sounded like he was struggling to hold in his tears. “I hadn’t thought that far. I about lost it getting that call and seeing the picture of the dagger on top of it all. I did the only thing I could think of. Call you guys.”

  His end of the phone went silent. “Mister Trippen?”

  “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to come to Winnebago County. I never wanted to go back there, but I gotta do all I can to save my brother. I’ll get this rig back. I’m four hours from home. I don’t like to fly. My brother won’t fly, so if I drive, hopefully I’ll still make it there before he does.”

  “It’s a long drive from Vermont.”

  “About thirteen hundred miles. Twenty hours or so in a car.”

  “You’ll need to sleep before you start off on another long drive.”

  “My friend is out of work. I’ll hire him to go with me, and he can take the first leg.”

  “What about your mother? Where is she?”

  “In Vermont, but I don’t want to tell her about this yet. She feels she’s responsible for Jeff’s illness, and worries all the time. I want to leave her out of it for now.”

  “All right. I’ll give you my cell number so you can call me when you have an idea of when you’ll get here.”

  “I can trust you, right?”

  “Trust me?”

  “A few years ago when I thought they had finally given up on us, I phoned a lieutenant there to ask about my father’s case. He was one of the deputies who was involved with it.”

  “What happened to your father, exactly?”

  “He was deer hunting with three other guys, and they all said they mistook him for a deer. They all shot their shotguns, and two hit him. They didn’t know which two it was. All of them mistook him for a deer? I was hoping they
’d reopen the case, but the lieutenant said the detective had determined that it was an accident.”

  “Do you remember the lieutenant’s name?”

  “Armstrong. Alden Armstrong.”

  Alden Armstrong. A veteran of many years with the department.

  “And your father’s name?”

  “Harlan Manthes.”

  “Not Trippen?”

  “No, my mother legally changed our names after we got to Vermont, for protection from them.”

  “I will never give you a reason not to trust me, Mister Trippen. At least not intentionally.”

  His voice was hesitant. “I need to believe you.” A pause, then, “I wasn’t trying to offend you or anything, but I’ve learned to protect myself from people who you think are one way and then they turn out to be the opposite.”

  “I understand. To let you know, I had Communications send me a physical description of your brother. According to this he’s five ten, one hundred and sixty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. I’ll pull up his photo when I get back to the station. He has an identification card, not a driver’s license. Is that correct, from what you know?”

  “Yeah. He had a license, but he lost it—a drunk driving offense—and never tried to get it back. He might weigh less than one sixty.”

  “What’s his style in clothing? How does he wear his hair?”

  “I haven’t seen him in two years. He was looking pretty unkempt at that time. Long scraggly hair pulled back in a ponytail, long beard. He wears jeans and whatever shirt or jacket he picks up at places like the Salvation Army.”

  With a photo to match Trippen’s description of his brother, he’d be fairly easy to spot. There weren’t many transients in the county. They tended to pass through Winnebago in search of counties better equipped to handle their needs.

  “Where is your brother headed to? Where is the altar located?”

  “I don’t know for sure. We were always blindfolded on the way there and back, plus it was dark out. You know, nighttime. It’s in a wooded area, and by either a river or a creek. I know that much. I’d say within fifteen minutes of Wellspring.”

  “Wellspring is near the western border of the county. If you were blindfolded, how can you be sure it was in Winnebago County?”

  “I guess I can’t swear to it, but I know we never drove over a bridge, which we’d have to, right, to leave the county?”

  Good observation for a blindfolded kid. “From Wellspring?” I mentally visualized a map of western Winnebago County. “Yes, you’re right. So you think the altar might be somewhere on the southern bank of the Mississippi River, or the eastern bank of the North Fork of the Raven River? Or was it more like a creek?”

  There were many creeks throughout the county. When rainfall was scarce, the Raven was more like a creek than a river in some areas.

  “I’d say it seemed more like the Raven, or even a creek, than like the Mississippi. It was a little ways from the altar area, and I never actually saw it. But I could hear moving water not too far away.”

  “If you were blindfolded, how do you suppose your brother expects to find it? Do you have reason to believe he has been in contact with your stepfather?”

  “No, not unless the creep found Jeff somehow. But Jeff would have told me that, I think, but I guess I don’t know for sure. Maybe Jeff wasn’t always blindfolded. That monster took Jeff to the altar a lot more times than he took me, poor guy.”

  “Are you clear to write down my number?”

  “Is it the one you’re calling on?”

  “It is.”

  “I got it on Caller ID. As soon as I get to a rest station I’ll pull off and send you the dagger photo.”

  “Good. Thanks. I’ll put out an attempt to locate on your brother.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I’m really scared for Jeff, and I believe I can trust you. I have to tell you, I didn’t feel that way about Lieutenant Armstrong. It was like he was hiding something.”

  Armstrong was arrogant, but I had never had reason not to trust him. Did Trippen know something I didn’t?

  2: The Coven

  Cyril Bishop stepped into the semi-sanctuary of his office and closed the door behind him. He longed for a break from needy people. It was his job and he did it well, but their demands were often pointless.

  “He always carried a hundred dollar bill in his pocket. Here, put this in his right front pocket.”

  “She asked to be buried with her favorite shoes. She went square dancing every week, and these were her favorites.”

  “Here’s her confirmation Bible to take with her.”

  “He was never without his rosary beads. We want him to keep them with him for all eternity.”

  Pointless. The unpleasant part of his job was to keep the families of the deceased happy, and they paid him well. His Lord and Master had provided him with an established business, the one Cyril’s uncle had started and he had expanded. People came from miles around, entrusting the bodies of their loved ones to him. His makeup artistry was unmatched by any other mortician in Winnebago County, and word had spread.

  Cyril was restless. There were important dates around the corner, and he needed assurance things were in place. He paused to pray. “Hail Satan, king of hell and ruler of this world, give me continued strength and wisdom to defeat your enemies.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the first number. No answer. The message he left was simple. “The meeting is on for tonight.” He left the same message on two more phones. The men would need no other information. Tuesday was the night they kept their calendars clear in case a meeting was called. They would all be there at the appointed hour and location. Their high priest had ordered it.

  3

  I looked around the cemetery as I thought about my conversation with Gregory Trippen, then opened my phone and dialed Detective Elton “Smoke” Dawes’ cell phone number. When I’d started with Winnebago County, Smoke was my training officer and had become my mentor and best friend in the department. I believed our relationship would have become more intimate if there were fewer obstacles.

  “What’s up, Corky?”

  I heard a dog barking nearby.

  “Are you in the middle of something?”

  “No, I’m home.”

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you go off-duty.”

  “Just pulled up to my garage. Hang on. Three forty, Winnebago County.”

  “Go ahead, Three forty.”

  “I’m ten-seven.”

  “You’re ten-seven at eighteen oh two. Goodnight.”

  “Okay, Corky.” I heard his door “ding ding ding” when he opened it. He slammed it shut.

  “I got a strange one for you. One I doubt you’ve heard before.”

  “Hey, Rex, buddy, you miss me?” It sounded like his dog was panting into the phone, and I envisioned Smoke bent over, petting him. “With all my years in, you think so, huh?”

  “A man is on his way to Winnebago County to sacrifice himself on Satan’s altar.”

  “Come again?” I repeated the implausible sentence. “Okay, I’ll give you that. Never heard that one before. Give me the particulars.”

  I summed up Trippen’s phone conversation. “I put in an ATL on Jeffrey Trippen. Communications should have it up any minute. And there was something else he talked about. Do you remember the hunting accident where a man named Harlan Manthes was mistaken for a deer and shot and killed?”

  “No, don’t recall hearing about that one. Must have been when I was serving with Lake, or Cook County, before I came back to Winnebago.”

  “I’ll look up the report later.”

  “Winnebago County, Six oh eight?” Communications officer Robin’s voice came over the radio.

  I told Smoke goodbye, shut my phone, and depressed my radio button to reply. “Go ahead, Winnebago County.”

  “A domestic in progress at Twenty-seven Forty-five Pleasant Avenue Southwest, Kadoka. Female party called nine-one-one, line got disconnected,
no answer on call back.”

  “Ten-four. Who’s in the area for backup?”

  “Seven ten,” Deputy Brian Carlson answered.

  “Seven fourteen will head that way. I’m about seven miles out,” Deputy Vince Weber added.

  “Copy.”

  The call information appeared on my screen. “Collin and Nichole Jasper residence. Unidentified female called, cried ‘Help’ into the phone. Male voice in the background yelled ‘You,’ then the line went dead. Return calls not picked up.”

  My heart rate kept pace with my car’s speed as I pushed the accelerator down. I activated the lights, but kept the sirens silent. I was within a few miles of the residence and didn’t want to alert the male offender. Domestics were often volatile and carried a high potential for danger. Countless officers had been injured or killed responding to those calls. I typed Carlson and Weber a reminder, “no sirens.”

  I passed through the city of Kadoka, drove another mile to Pleasant Avenue Southwest, and took a right. The Jaspers’ home was the first on the left. A grove of thick pines hid the house from the road. I parked, sent Communications the message I had arrived, and got out.

  I was walking across the road toward the house when Carlson’s squad car pulled in behind me. Weber came from the other direction a few seconds later. We gathered together, pushed through a space between the trees, and raced to the side of the house. Weber won. We crouched below the level of the windows and quickly crept to the front door.

  Yelling and banging noises were coming from inside the residence. In exigent—emergency—circumstances when officers believe a person is in danger, the law allows them to enter a building or dwelling without either the owners’ permission or an official search warrant.