An Altar by the River

by Christine Husom

  We had talked about someone looking at the computer files, about suspecting Edberg as the culprit. We’d mentioned Gregory and Jeffrey Trippen. And Dr. Fischer. The next day, Smoke and I had dusted the armoire for fingerprints and talked some more.

  When I had finished checking my entire house, I ran back upstairs to my bedroom, grabbed my duty flashlight—a maxi-beam magnum—and headed for the garage. The GTO was parked in the middle of the two-car space. Smoke and I had checked under the hood to get the code for the paint color, but I popped it open anyway and had a look. Nothing evident. I got down on all fours, ducked my head, and craned my neck, searching under the car. I started at the front and moved around to the passenger side, down the length of the car, wishing I had a mechanic’s dolly so I could lie on my back and roll around instead.

  It was in front of the right rear tire well. A global-positioning-system device keeping someone apprised of each journey I took. If it was attached the night of the party, it had been on eleven days, according to my quick calculations. I left it in place and ran back into the house to the kitchen. Why would a person key my car and plant a tracking device, knowing I’d be taking it to a body shop for repairs, where it might be found? Or was it not the same person? Had the device been installed before my car was vandalized?

  I grabbed a notepad and pen from a drawer and sat at the counter, contemplating. Where had I driven? Saturday I had gone to my grandparents’ houses. Sunday morning Deputy Schorn had dropped the squad car we shared off at my house. I had driven it for the six-day work stretch and hadn’t taken my personal vehicle anywhere significant that I could recall. My first day off, Saturday again, was the team-building exercise. I had driven to the courthouse, then home. Sunday was Alvie Eisner’s service. Monday I had gone to see Pastor Trondholm.

  If a cult member was tracking me—and I believed he was—he would most likely know of Pastor Daniel Trondholm. I should inform Trondholm.

  My thoughts were processing at an adrenaline-enhanced speed. What should I do first? I went to my gun safe and withdrew the loaded Smith and Wesson. I ran up and got the pancake holster, clipped it on my jeans, and flew down the stairs for a last look at the safe. Should I take the package of documents or leave them? They were secure where they were. I locked the door behind me and gently jogged to the end of my driveway, keeping a lookout for unfamiliar vehicles. When I hit Brandt Avenue, I flat out ran to Gramps’ house and up his front steps, landing on the porch huffing and puffing.

  I sighed in relief that his door was locked. I knocked on the door then rang the bell. He didn’t hear well, and depending on where he was or what he was doing, sometimes he heard the bell, sometimes the knocking. Why hadn’t I brought my keys?

  “Gramps,” I yelled, then darted to the front window, stuck my face against the glass, and put a hand on each temple, blocking the sun from my eyes.

  Gramps was making his way toward the door. “Coming. Slow, but sure.” He opened the door and his bushy white eyebrows rose, deepening the creases on his forehead. “Your face is all red. You all right, girl?”

  I stepped in the house. “Yeah, just ran faster than normal.” I moved close to Gramps and put my hands on his elbows. “Gramps, I have a question. In the last couple of weeks, has anyone, like a repairman, or any kind of salesman, or anyone you didn’t know, stopped by your house, come in for any reason?”

  Gramps frowned in thought. “Not that I recall.” He shook his head. “No. The only ones who have been here are your mother, your grandparents, and you. No one else.”

  I hugged him. “Good. Now I have a couple of favors to ask. Can I use your phone, then borrow your car for a while?”

  “You know you can. My, I wonder if the car’ll run? I haven’t driven it in a long time.” He didn’t ask why I needed it.

  “Mom used it last month when hers was in the shop for repairs,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, you make your call, and I’ll go find those keys.”

  Gramps headed to the kitchen, and I sat down in the chair next to his recliner in the living room and dialed the sheriff’s number.

  “Sheriff, it’s Corky.”

  “Something happen?”

  “A lot. I found a bug in my computer cabinet and a tracking device on the GTO.”

  “For godsakes! What’s next? Did you disable them?”

  “No, I left them as is. I didn’t want to alert whoever is listening that I’d found them until we figured out what to do.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “I went through my house and only found the one, but it’d be a good idea to double check with our detection equipment.”

  “Right. I’ll check with Kenner. Either he or Edberg will take care of it.”

  “There’s also something I want to talk to you and Smoke about, but not over the phone.”

  “Dawes called in sick. Chief Deputy said he sounded awful.”

  “Shoot. He thought he was coming down with a cold. I don’t want to bother him, but I really need to talk to him.”

  “He told Kenner he’d be making some calls, checking on a few things from home.”

  “Okay. I’m at Gramps’ house. I’m a little freaked about using my cell phone until I know, positively, that it’s clean.”

  “I’ll call you when I have a time arranged with Kenner. What’s the number there?”

  After I gave it to him, we hung up, and I called Smoke’s home phone.

  His voice was raspy, with a nasally twang. “Oh, it’s you, Corky. I saw it was your grandpa’s number and was wondering why he’d be calling.”

  “You don’t sound so good. I heard you actually called in sick.”

  “Sicker than an old dog.”

  “The brandy toddy didn’t help?”

  “Oh, it helped. Until I woke up this morning. Got something?”

  I told him about the devices in my home and car.

  “Damn, that really irritates the hell out of me. We have got to find and stop them. How did we miss that bug in the armoire when we dusted it?”

  “Trust me, you’d had to be looking for it. The sheriff is sending someone over to check for others I might have missed.”

  “That really irritates the hell out of me,” he repeated.

  “The other thing you need to know. I received that delivery today.”

  He was silent a second. “Ah. It came to your house?”

  “Surprise. So I was hoping to bring it over as soon as possible.”

  “I don’t want you exposed to this crap.”

  “I am way too angry to get sick. I’ll see you after we take care of the bugs.”

  Chief Deputy Mike Kenner pulled into my driveway in a car he must have borrowed from the impound lot and parked next to Gramps’ older model, white Oldsmobile. I unlocked my front door when I saw who it was and went out to meet him. His trunk popped open then he climbed out of the car, walked to the back, and lifted the small instrument from the trunk floor. He waved me over.

  “Nice car,” I said.

  He squinted against the sun. “Isn’t it, though? The sheriff and I decided I should be as low profile as possible. We also discussed some tactical options and made a decision we hope you can live with.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We don’t want the people who installed the bugs to know you found them. Gives us the ability to feed them information, mislead them about what we know as we uncover more and more. ’Course it does infringe on your privacy.”

  “Let’s see if we find any other devices. Then I’ll let you know.”

  “We don’t want to alert them that I’m here so we won’t talk out loud until we’re done and back outside. The plan is, we’ll do a check of the outside perimeter first, then head inside. We’ll start with the upstairs and move down to the main level, then to the basement, and finish with the garage and your vehicle.”

  “And Gramps’ car? It was locked in his garage, but who knows?”

  “Sure. Okay. Ready?”

/>   I nodded.

  Kenner pointed at my house. “Let’s do it.”

  I followed the chief deputy around the outside of my house, then through each nook and cranny inside the house and garage as he operated the machine, moving as quietly as possible. When we were in the den office, I hummed a tune and made noises like I was straightening papers. He checked my landline phones and my cell phones, and he took special care examining electrical connections. He checked both vehicles. There were no more hidden privacy-invading devices to be found, a relief for both of us.

  “Jump into my car a minute,” Kenner said as he climbed into the old beater. I joined him on the passenger side. “No sense us standing out there for anyone to see.” He turned toward me. “Either they didn’t get the chance to plant any other bugs, or they think your office is the best spot to collect the information they’re interested in.”

  “I keep everything locked—my doors and windows—when I’m gone, and there’s been no sign that anyone broke in, so they had to have planted it the night of the party. It would have been hard, but not impossible to place a bug somewhere in the living room or kitchen or even my bedroom. Thank God they didn’t. I feel violated enough.”

  “I suppose you’ve gone over everything in your mind, everything that might have been said in your office.”

  “Over and over.” I told him how Smoke had fallen asleep on the couch that night and awoken from a bad dream, which he had shared with me. I summarized the conversation Smoke and I had had relating to Edberg, the Trippen brothers, and Dr. Fischer the next morning. He already knew the other details: that I had been looking up information on satanic cults and ritual abuse, that someone had been on the computer, and that we had checked the cabinet for latent prints.

  He didn’t probe why Smoke had spent the night. “If they heard you talk about Edberg, they’ll think he’s your prime suspect. That plays nicely for our investigation. So what’s your decision? Pull the bugs or leave them?”

  “Let’s leave them. Now for the big thing that happened before I discovered the bug this morning. Gregory Trippen sent me copies of his stepfather’s journal and the reports of his father’s death investigation, via UPS.”

  A loud, quick “ha” escaped his lips. “Does Twardy know that?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. I told Smoke, though. I’m going over to his house and was hoping Twardy, or maybe you, could join us. Then we can examine the documents together.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Locked in my gun safe.”

  He nodded. “The sheriff has a number of meetings today, but I can work it in. I’ll call him.”

  Kenner talked to Sheriff Twardy. He told him about the search and the delivery from Gregory Trippen. When he hung up he said, “Sheriff says we should take a look at the papers right away, see what we got.”

  I nodded and opened the car door. “Will you call Smoke? I’ll get the package.”

  We drove in separate vehicles to Smoke’s house. He opened the door with a dust mask over his mouth and nose. I suppressed a giggle and smart-aleck remark when his bloodshot, watery eyes met mine and I sensed how miserable he felt.

  “Looking a little rough. Sure you’re up to this?” Kenner asked.

  “I look worse than I feel, believe it or not. No fever, at least. I wiped down the doorknobs and kitchen table and chairs with alcohol. Are you sure you want to enter the germ factory?”

  “I’m not worried. I prefer any of your bugs over the one in my house,” I said.

  The crow’s feet by Smoke’s eyes, visible above his mask, deepened. He wasn’t too sick to appreciate a little humor.

  Kenner smiled too. “My kids expose me to stuff all the time.”

  I held up the package. “Kitchen table, you said?”

  Smoke led the way. Kenner and I stood on one side of the table, and Smoke stood on the other.

  “Got a letter opener or knife?” I asked.

  Smoke pointed at a drawer behind me. I pulled it open, selected a small paring knife, returned to the table, picked up the box, and sliced through the taped top edge.

  “Like Christmas,” Kenner said as I lifted out two large brown mailing envelopes and laid them on the table.

  “Keep slicing,” Smoke said, so I did. First the thinner envelope, which I handed to Kenner, then the thicker one, which I offered it to Smoke, but he shook his head. Kenner and I pulled pages out simultaneously.

  Kenner flipped through the stack. “Yup, reports written by Edberg, Armstrong, and Detective Walden.” He sat down on a chair and started reading.

  My pile was very different. The original journal pages were smaller than the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch copies, perhaps six by nine inches. “The first page has a prayer, or chant maybe, written in a foreign language.”

  Kenner leaned toward me and looked at the writing. I turned it around for Smoke to see. “Looks like Latin,” he said.

  I tucked it on the bottom of the pile and looked at the next sheet. “The second page is dated February seventh, twenty-four years ago. That’s before Harlan Manthes was killed, before Sparrow married Gregory and Jeffrey Trippen’s mother. Listen to this:

  ‘To Satan, giver of youth and happiness.

  Come mighty and eternal devil.

  We are with you, armed and ready

  to offer this transient’s life to you.

  We are here as your

  Masters among this failing species.

  ‘M.W. delivered offering, Keith James Nutting, age thirty-seven, a transient he found on patrol to C.B. Held for three days. Sacrificial ritual performed at indoor temple on February tenth. C.B. took remains.’”

  “Oh. My. God!” we all said, nearly in unison.

  Kenner stepped in close to my side and read over my shoulder. He reached for the page, and his hand trembled when he touched it. “A handwritten confession of murder. M.W. on patrol—”

  “Miles Walden?” Smoke sneezed into his mask, and his reading glasses fogged up. He pulled off his glasses, lifted the mask, turned away from us and blew his nose, then went to his kitchen sink, washed his hands, and pulled the mask back in place.

  When he got back to the table, he held out his hand and Kenner gave him the page. He put on his glasses and stared at the writing, moving his head back and forth. “Sparrow is going down if it is the last thing on earth I do.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. Sparrow was going down, all right. And I hoped it was not the last thing on earth Smoke did.

  Kenner rapped the table. “If Walden was still alive, if he was M.W., nothing would give me greater pleasure than taking him down right along with Sparrow.”

  Smoke nodded.

  The pages weren’t numbered, so we took care to keep them in order. I got the first look then passed a page to Kenner, who read it and passed it to Smoke. When he finished reading a page, he turned it upside down and added it to the growing pile. Each of us made a sound here and there, indicating our disgust and disbelief at the depraved and despicable acts committed by the monsters of the coven.

  “This is worse than any horror film I’ve ever seen. All the horror films I’ve seen put together,” Kenner said when he finished the last page.

  Smoke sniffled, left for a minute, and returned with a notepad and pen. He sat down and pushed the pile closer to me. “We’ll go through and make a list of the actual crimes. Most of the rituals are not against the law. Religious freedom and all that. Let’s start with the first one on February seventh.”

  “Abduction and false imprisonment of Keith James Nutting, age thirty-seven. February tenth, torture and murder of Keith James Nutting.” I set the page aside. Kenner picked it up and reread it. I paged through prayers and rituals that asked Satan for a variety of things, from special powers to riches.

  “Next?” Smoke asked.

  “February eighteenth. Initiation of neophyte Crystal Planer, age sixteen, to coven. High Priest Sparrow represented Satan in the coupling ritual.”

  “Neophy
te?” I said.

  “It means novice, I believe,” Kenner said.

  “First degree criminal sexual conduct against C.P., a minor, age sixteen, committed by Doctor Royce Sparrow, aka asshole to the nth degree,” Smoke said as he wrote.

  Kenner hit the table with his fist. “Bastard. My daughter’s sixteen.”

  “I wonder where she is now? Crystal Planer?” I said.

  “We’ll investigate,” Kenner said.

  I searched through the pages. “How do they do this stuff? Drink a mixture of urine, blood, sperm and/or vaginal fluid from a chalice? Recite these chants? Sacrifice animals? And people? I don’t get it.”

  Smoke and Kenner shook their heads.

  I continued searching. “There’s a black mass which ended with a sex orgy, but no names listed. The last date is February twenty-seventh. A month’s worth of entries. If he’s got one for every month, maybe he wouldn’t notice one is missing. How many is that, over twenty-five years?”

  “About three hundred,” Kenner said.

  Smoke multiplied the numbers on his paper. “Yeah, three hundred.” He picked up the copies of the shooting reports. “Let’s confer for a minute here.”

  “Yes, we need a game plan,” Kenner said.

  “This journal has documentation of criminal activities. We need to locate Keith Nutting’s family and Crystal Planer.”

  Kenner nodded. “I’ll work on getting a search warrant for Sparrow’s house. Now that he lives in Stearns County, it complicates things. He must still have ties with the cult, if it’s still active here. I’ll talk to the chief deputy in Stearns. I know him pretty well. I’ll write up a search warrant and get the judge there to sign it,” Kenner said.

  “I’d sit on Sparrow, watch his every move until we can execute the warrant,” Smoke said.

  “Done. We’ll do eight-hour shifts. Sergeant, I’m going to pull you off the road for special detail, but the only people who will know that fact are the ones working on this case. Officially, you’re home sick for a couple of days.”

  I nodded, but thought, Oh great, Smoke’s sick, I’m sick. Maybe there is something between us. Those who were eavesdropping in my home den office would think so.