Dieter’s whole life was the coven. Noris had a life he enjoyed outside the coven, one he never talked about to the others. The less they knew about that, the more he was able to continue in it.
Wellspring was in Noris’s duty cover area. He headed that direction and was in Cyril’s office fifteen minutes later. Noris handed Cyril the photos of Jeffrey Trippen and the dagger, which Cyril studied for some minutes.
“That looks like it could be the younger Manthes boy. And Sparrow’s dagger.”
“I wondered if it was Sparrow’s. It looked familiar to me, just like Jeffrey did.”
“You were young when the Manthes family disappeared and Sparrow left for Saint Cloud to start a new coven.”
“How would Jeffrey get Sparrow’s dagger?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Sparrow said he never found the three of them—his wife and her kids. Why would he lie to us if he did?” He stared at an oil painting on his wall. “We’ll need to meet to show the others what you have. Eleven o’clock tomorrow night, Deacon?” Cyril said.
“Yes, High Priest.”
14
The sheriff’s office was a good place to talk. The walls had an extra layer of insulation to keep conversations private, unless people were yelling loudly. Smoke and I sat down opposite Twardy.
The sheriff listened to every word I gave him on Jeffrey Trippen, Gregory Trippen, Harlan Manthes, and the missing files. His face grew more and more somber the longer I spoke. Smoke had talked to Alden Armstrong earlier that morning, alerting him about our meeting with the sheriff. When I finished my account, Smoke called Armstrong in to join us.
Armstrong looked like he either hadn’t slept a wink the night before or was in mourning. His green irises were surrounded by pinkish scleras, and dark circles bagged beneath his eyes.
“For godsakes, Alden, you tie one on last night?”
His mouth turned downward, but he didn’t answer.
“Aleckson brought me up to speed on her case. Dawes said you can shed some light about the missing files.”
Armstrong took a chair next to me. His words tumbled out quietly as he briefed the sheriff, providing details regarding his suspicions about Harlan Manthes’ death, the threats against his family, and Gregory Trippen’s questions several years before.
Sheriff Twardy’s face grew a shade redder each minute Armstrong spoke. “For godsakes, Alden, what in the Sam Hill got into you, keeping something like that concealed? Obstruction of justice, in my book.”
Armstrong appeared stricken. His shoulders rounded in near collapse, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “Sheriff, I couldn’t talk to anybody. I’m sorry, but I didn’t have a choice. These people are serious, dangerous. Come to find out they’re even more dangerous than I thought. And connected. They obtained my unlisted phone number as soon as I got a new one. I thought I’d figure out who the dirty cop was around here, but I never could.”
The sheriff studied Armstrong intently during his confession. “All right, enough said. For now. We’ll take this investigation one step at a time. The number one priority is finding this younger Trippen boy before he hurts himself or someone else in the process. I see no reason to mention any satanic connection. Our residents would go into a panic if word of cults and altars leaks out.”
“I’d like to reopen the Harlan Manthes case,” Smoke said.
The sheriff didn’t hesitate. “Done. We need to take a closer look at that. The shooting, the missing reports. Of course I remember the shooting, but I couldn’t tell you who was involved after all these years. You have the hunters’ names, Alden?”
Armstrong glumly nodded. “Names, dates of birth, addresses. Memorized. With a written copy of them locked in my home safe. In case something suspicious ever happened to me, or my family, I wanted those three men to be at the top of the suspect list. I couldn’t figure out who else was working with them, but I had their names.”
Twardy glued his eyes on Armstrong and lowered his voice. “You think we got a Benedict Arnold among us?”
Armstrong solemnly nodded.
Sheriff Twardy’s frowned expression reflected the gravity of the situation. “We’ll flush him out. We have to.”
Armstrong dropped his face into his hands and kneaded his head.
“Dawes will start poking around. We’ll keep you out of it, Alden. I don’t want to involve Internal Affairs just yet. The fewer people who know about this, the better. Write those names, dates of birth, and addresses down and give them to Dawes.”
Sheriff Twardy flipped a page on the notepad that lay on his desk and handed it to Armstrong. Armstrong ripped out a sheet, jotted the information down, and gave it to Smoke.
Smoke read for a moment. “I’ll get on it.”
“Sheriff, the night I got the call, Carlson and Mason were in the squad room and I told them about the satanic part, but I asked them not to say anything.”
“Next time you see them, tell them to stick to that until further notice.”
“I will.”
The sheriff stood, indicating the meeting was over. “I’m due at an interview in five minutes.” He fixed his eyes on Armstrong once more. “Alden, now would be a good time to take your family on that vacation you’ve been planning. Get in the car and disappear for a week. That’s an order. Don’t tell even your best friend where you’re going.
“Fill out a vacation request and backdate it for sometime in February. If anyone asks me where you went, I’ll tell them the truth. ‘Armstrong keeps his private life private and I didn’t ask.’ What is this world coming to? For godsakes!”
We filed out of the sheriff’s office in silence. I headed toward the outside entrance, and Smoke followed. We stepped outside onto the veranda. I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the sun to soak in a few rays, hoping it would brighten my spirits.
“The last job I wanted around here is Internal Affairs,” Smoke said.
“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want it either, but at least no one will know that’s what you’re doing.”
“I hope Denny doesn’t stroke out before Jeffrey Trippen turns up, and we flush out the malevolent scumbag.”
“No kidding. He has us all worried when he gets upset. I envision his blood pressure numbers skyrocketing. I mean really, how can my hyper mother and our hyper sheriff have a calm relationship? I don’t get it, but they actually seem relaxed when they’re together.”
“That is interesting. I wouldn’t exactly call either one of them hyper. Denny’s excitable when it comes to cases and his staff. Otherwise, he’s pretty calm. Your mother? She’s hyper-vigilant when it comes to family. You and your brother mostly. And she has lots of projects going, but . . . yeah well, I guess she is pretty hyper.” He waved his arm gently. “She has a calming aura about her, though.”
I snickered. “Seriously? So what do you know about calming auras?”
“Maybe it’s motherly instincts radiating from her. She gives the impression she’s keeping close watch and has everything under control.”
“You’ve known her longer than I have. She is very capable, running her business, taking care of Gramps and his house, her own house—”
“Trying to keep track of you and John Carl,” Smoke added.
“Yes, and that.”
“Being left a widow with two babies at age, what, twenty-one—”
“Twenty.”
“That’s a lot to cope with.”
“I can’t even imagine. As weird as it is, her dating the sheriff, I’m glad she has someone in her life after all these years.”
“Thirty years, from age twenty to age fifty, is a long time between romantic relationships. You think they’ll get married?”
“I don’t know. Mother says they’re taking one day at a time. Between Gramps’ failing health and John Carl’s failing marriage, there’s a lot up in the air right now.”
“John Carl still thinking about moving back to Oak Lea?”
“He doesn’t come right
out and say it, but I think he has his hopes set on Emily changing her mind and taking him back. He’s in denial his marriage tanked. I feel so bad for him, but he’ll have to make a decision one of these days.”
“Been there, done that, and it’s not an easy one to make. ’Course, I wasn’t married. So it was a little less complicated to walk away.”
“But you wanted to be married.”
“I did. She didn’t. Broke my heart, but I moved on.”
“Except for one day a year?”
Smoke squeezed his face into an uncomfortable looking expression. “Probably not a good topic right now, or ever.”
I had stopped at Smoke’s house one evening the past summer. He’d been drinking, and told me it was the anniversary of his leaving the woman who would not commit to an exclusive relationship with him. Between his near-inebriated state and our unspoken mutual attraction, we had found ourselves in one another’s arms for an intense few moments. Smoke had managed to break away before we got to the point of no return.
There were times I longed to be back in those moments, to find out what it would be like if Smoke hadn’t stopped us. We maintained our close working relationship and remained good friends, but the threat—or promise—of an even closer connection loomed nearby.
I pulled my car keys from my jeans pocket. “I’ve got an appointment with my shrink, so I best get moving.”
“Making good progress?”
“We are. Maybe one or two more sessions. Doctor Kearns is pleased. And so am I, of course.”
“I’m glad you finally went. A couple of traumatic incidents like you went through, you need someone to help you deal with ’em.”
“You were right. You and everybody else who tried to convince me. I honestly—I guess naively—thought it would work itself out in time.”
I pulled my red, 1967 classic GTO into a parking space at the Oak Lea Memorial Hospital where Dr. Lester Kearns rented an office space for his private practice. I made my way to his office, greeting people I knew along the way. In my years with the sheriff’s department, I had gotten to know many of the doctors and nurses. Even the hospital administrator. Very well. But that was another story.
Dr. Kearns’ young, sweet-faced assistant, Grace, smiled when I stepped into the reception area. When she was born, could her parents have known her name would become the self-fulfilling prophesy of her persona and character? I imagined a halo hovering over her head.
Grace stood, then closed the space between us. “Corinne. You’re looking so well, and that shade of blue is perfect on you. The doctor is ready for you, so I’ll tell him you’re here.” She floated out of the room and soundlessly returned seconds later. “Go right in.” Grace was one of the reasons Dr. Kearns had a successful practice and positive feedback from both his patients and the public at large.
Dr. Kearns was standing by his desk when I entered his azure blue office. I had chosen, subconsciously or not, a polo shirt the same shade when I dressed that morning. The color of serenity. The state of being I longed for and strived toward.
Dr. Kearns and I shared our customary handshake. Since the first time we met, I had tried to duplicate his grasp when I shook others’ hands. His hands were warm and dry, but not too dry. He had a way of gently sliding his fingers slowly in until his thumb was in place. That’s when he squeezed firmly and quickly, passing on the assurance that he was there, confident and competent to help.
“And how are you today, Corinne?” Although most people called me Corky, I seldom corrected those who didn’t. As a child, I had thought my given name was embarrassing, but the older I got, the better I liked it.
“I’m feeling well, more like my old self all the time.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Thanks to you.”
Dr. Kearns smiled, a fairly rare occurrence. He wasn’t exactly stingy with his smiles. He kept all facial expressions to a minimum.
“You know this is a team effort. Sit down and bring me up to speed.”
I settled into a cordovan-colored leather chair. Dr. Kearns lifted a notebook from his desk then sat down across from me.
My eyes closed for a moment as I sorted my thoughts. “I was lying in bed last night thinking about a case I’m working on, a case involving children who suffered horrific abuse. And for some reason, it put what I had been through in a whole different perspective.”
“Oh?”
“Alvie Eisner tried to kill me because I was hampering her criminal intentions. Langley Parker abducted me, apparently because I fit the profile of the women he liked to torture, kill, and dismember.”
“Yes.”
“Of course those experiences traumatized me, but everything you’ve been telling me these last few months has finally sunk in. I am strong. I love my job and can’t let two crazy . . . sorry . . . people dictate my life. Or my thoughts. Or my feelings.
“After both of those incidents I remembered feeling so grateful to be alive, so grateful I had survived. I kept thinking I was fine. Okay, I wasn’t so fine, but I was grateful. That’s it. I feel I’m on earth for a reason, and Eisner and Parker are not going to interfere with that.”
Dr. Kearns nodded then changed the subject. “How about your personal relationships? Nick? Smoke?”
An equally difficult topic. “I’ve had to accept that I don’t have much control there. I was falling in love with Nick, and he made me choose between him and my career after only a few months of dating. A part of me will always love him, and his daughter, Faith.” Dr. Kearns took notes, his head bobbing slightly here and there.
I took a quick breath. “Smoke? He’s put too many obstacles in the way, and he’s probably right. He’s a lot older, and we work together. He was my father’s best friend. All good reasons not to get involved personally.”
“You mentioned at an earlier session that you wondered if you were looking for a father figure in Smoke.”
I mulled that over for a second. “You know, growing up, the important men in my life were my grandfathers. Mother didn’t date. I don’t necessarily feel like I’m looking for a father figure because I had my grandpas. It could be, since they were forty and fifty years older than me, a man twenty years older than me doesn’t seem that old. I don’t know. Obviously I’m still confused about men. I sometimes wonder if I’d even know how to have a lasting relationship.”
“Your grandparents’ marriages provided you with good examples.”
“True, but we didn’t live with them. Could that be at the heart of John Carl’s marriage problems? He didn’t have our father as a role model of how to be a husband. According to Emily, and I think it’s true, all he does is work.”
“Of course I don’t have answers about John Carl’s marriage. But you’ve talked about how your mother works so much. He may be modeling his work ethic after hers.”
Very possible. Likely.
Dr. Kearns asked more questions about my sleeping, eating, and exercising habits, then addressed some general issues. My mind wandered to Gregory and Jeffrey Trippens’ abuse and Jeffrey’s mental illness.
“Dr. Kearns, how familiar are you with victims of Satanic ritual abuse?”
He blinked and jerked his head back a fraction. “Where did that come from?”
“The case I referred to earlier. The man I’m working with said his brother is planning to sacrifice himself for Satan. He said they were brought into a cult as children. I’m trying to understand what’s going on in that man’s mind. I mean, self-sacrifice? I thought maybe you had some insights.”
Dr. Kearns shook his head as he processed the implication of my words. “I have had patients come to me with a variety of symptoms, the probable results of being ritually abused, with or without the claim of SRA. Sometimes it takes a number of sessions before they remember, or admit, what’s at the core of their mental health problems. When I suspect that’s what it is, I refer them to Dr. Marcella Fischer. She’s very experienced. I’d say she’s an expert in that area.”
/> “Where’s her office?”
“Here in Oak Lea. Out in the country. She has a home office. People are less intimidated, it seems, going to appointments there.” Dr. Kearns stood, went behind his desk, and opened a drawer. He pulled out a card and offered it to me. “Would you like to talk to her, perhaps meet with her?
“Yes, I would. Thank you. I’m way out of my league with this one.”
“It’s not something you can wrap your mind around very easily. Shall I give her a call, see what she has for openings?”
“That’d be great.”
Dr. Kearns spoke into the phone seconds after punching in ten numbers. “Marcella, Les here . . . Good, good. Say, I have a Winnebago County sergeant here who’s working on a case involving a probable victim of SRA . . . That’s right. She’d like to meet with you. Do you have some time to talk to her? . . . Right, thanks.” Dr. Kearns handed me the phone.
“Doctor Fischer? It’s Sergeant Aleckson. Thanks for talking to me.”
“Certainly, Sergeant. How can I help you?” Her voice was low and smooth.
“I’m working on a case involving a couple of brothers who were allegedly involved in a cult as children, and one is planning to kill himself as a sacrifice to Satan.”
“Oh, dear.”
“If you can fit me in sometime soon, I’d greatly appreciate it. I’ve had training on cults, but nothing like this. I’m concerned about his behavior, how he might react when we find him.”
“Certainly.” I heard her shuffling papers or turning pages. “I have two openings today, in fact. A one o’clock or a four o’clock.”
“I’ll take the one o’clock.”
“Certainly. You know my location?”
I glanced at the address on her card. “I do. See you at one.”
I thanked Dr. Kearns, then Grace, and headed down a hospital corridor. I spotted Nicholas Bradshaw, the hospital administrator and my former love interest, coming toward me. There was no delicate way to avoid him short of disappearing into thin air, and as many times in my life as I had willed that to happen, it never had.
An Altar by the River Page 6
