The little old woman jumped and gasped. “Oh my.” Her hand flew to her bosom, over her large beaded cross necklace and Easter sweater set. Her entire desk was decorated in bunnies and Easter eggs. I decided not to tell her that she was a few days late.
“So sorry.” I smiled at her, hoping to undo my first impression. “I’m here for Angela Martinez. Is she available?”
“Your name?”
“Emily Bernal. I called.”
“Just one moment.” She hit intercom. “Angela, Emily Bernal is here to talk to you about one of your listings.” She cocked her head at me. “Say, aren’t you the woman from the newspaper who saw the face of Jesus in her quesadilla?”
I raised my hand. “Guilty.”
A fortyish Caucasian woman had come into the foyer. She was overdressed for Fritch in the normal manner of real estate agents, with high-heeled tan sandals and an Elie Saab-like lavender outfit. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was teased into a stiff-looking, wind-resistant bouffant. Martinez had to be a married name, and I checked her left hand. A modest diamond adorned her ring finger.
“I’m Angela.” She stuck out a hand and walked toward me. “And you are?”
I grasped and shook. “Emily. I saw your sign on a property and hoped to talk to you about it.”
She smiled, showing teeth Crest Strips white. “It would be my pleasure. Follow me, Emily.”
As I passed the receptionist I said, “Happy Easter,” and she beamed.
Angela ushered me into a small conference room that had likely once been a bedroom, based on its location in the back of the house. I took a seat in a chair upholstered in jewel tones that coordinated with sparkly wallpaper with broad vertical stripes. Lake Meredith Realty was a decade behind in updating their decorating scheme.
“What property has your interest?”
I gave her the address.
“How’d you learn about it?”
“My client is part owner.”
She smiled. “Melinda is your client?”
“Nope. Phil Escalante. He and Dennis Welch are Canadian River Ventures.”
Her smile turned upside down. “Oh my, I haven’t met a Phil. I didn’t know anyone else was involved in it, to be honest with you, other than Melinda and her fiancé—former fiancé, rather. Melinda got his signature on behalf of Canadian River Ventures and that was all I needed to list it, legally.”
Fiancé? I widened my eyes. “Oh, absolutely. I’m not here to dispute that. I’m here because Dennis was murdered, and Phil’s in a coma.” I crossed my fingers in my lap. It wasn’t really a lie, since he had been up until a few minutes ago, as far as I knew. “I’m trying to help his family get his affairs straightened out, in case . . . you know.”
“Oh my gosh! How can I help?”
“Well, Melinda was less than cooperative.” I gave her my sad face.
She glared at no one in particular, then leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “Doesn’t surprise me. She’s, um, a—”
“Grade A bitch?” My mouth puckered a little over the word, but if anyone deserved it, I figured it was Melinda.
“Yes!” Angela hissed. “I’ve never had anyone talk down to me like that woman. Granted, she was pissed because she’d found out her fiancé wasn’t who she thought he was. She said he was going to ruin her if she didn’t”—her brow furrowed tight—“distance herself from him. That’s after I sold the property to them less than a year ago, and they were gaga about each other then.” She put a finger in her open mouth in a gagging motion. “Apparently they met at a lake party and it was love at first sight. Anyway, I’m not so sure Dennis was the problem. You know?”
“Oh yes, I do.” I tried not to show I was nearly orgasmic. My brain coughed up a memory of gel-slicked brown hair and Axe cologne, a felon sprung from jail suspiciously quickly who said he helped a friend lose something.
“What real estate agency did you say you were with?”
I cleared my throat. “Oh, I’m not a realtor. I’m with Williams and Associates. We’re Phil’s legal counsel.”
Her jaw bounced up and down and she licked her lips.
I went on. “I just wanted to check in with you firsthand and see how the listing is going. We’re hoping for a fast sale so we never have to deal with Melinda again.”
She still looked nervous, but she exhaled. “Oh, sure. I think you’re about to get an offer. A local couple who already owns property across the road. They called the day the sign went up.”
I kept mum, leaving her empty space to fill with words.
“His name is Furman.” She fumbled through some papers and found the one she was looking for. “Lawrence, he said. He’d called a few months ago, even before I had the listing. Seems to have had his eye on it for quite some time.”
Mighty is His Word the potential buyer for the property? The plot was thickening faster than the gravy I’d made with an extra cup of flour my first year out of college.
The intercom buzzed. We heard the receptionist’s voice as if she were sitting outside the room. Which she was. “Angela, I’ve got a call for you on line one. It’s the school about Michael. They said it’s urgent.”
Angela bit her bottom lip.
“I understand. Take it.”
“Just one moment.” Angela hustled out of the room. From a nearby room, I heard, “This is Angela.”
I grabbed the paper on her desk and snapped an iPhone picture. My brain raced. How did the news about Furman change things, if at all? It certainly didn’t take Melinda out of the picture, but if Furman had been trying to get the property, that gave us another reasonable suspect to show the jury, in addition to Melinda, for a “some other guy did it” defense for Phil. It was a good lead, and I knew where to go to chase it down. The same place I needed to be if I was going to get Wallace and CPS to do anything about all the children being forced into an army for God while the church lined its pockets.
I used my phone’s camera as a mirror. My outfit today—boots, jeans, and a T-shirt—was modest enough, if a little informal. But that compound was basically a ranch, after all.
Angela bustled in. “So sorry. Kids.”
I was already on my feet. “Don’t I know it.” I held my phone up. “Just got a call that my little Timmy is in the nurse’s office. Gotta run. Thank you.” By the time I finished my sentence I was halfway through the front door to the building, with Angela standing openmouthed beside the grandmotherly receptionist.
Chapter Thirty
Jacked-up on adrenaline, my nerves and good sense didn’t kick in until after I’d crossed the cattle guard into the Mighty is His Word compound. A small sign beside their dirt road said PRIVATE PROPERTY, followed by another that said VISITORS CHECK IN AT GUARD SHACK, ½ MILE. Guard shack? What kind of church retreat needed a guard shack? And me with my baby Glock in my purse. Assuming the sign wasn’t a bluff, my gun wasn’t going to go over too well. I steered with my knees and stashed it in my glove box.
The land rolled under the rental Mustang’s wheels. The compound didn’t appear to have direct river bottom access, but the topography was rugged nonetheless. I crested a rise and descended. There beside the dirt track stood a small manufactured building with GUARD SHACK written on its side.
I pulled up, and a short, muscular man with a buzz cut, an iPad, and, of course, camo clothing, met me at my window. I rolled it down.
His voice was surprisingly high. “Name and nature of visit.”
“Em—um, Cecilia Hodges, and I’m here for the new member retreat.”
He flicked through some screens and grunted. “You didn’t confirm.”
I batted my eyes. “I’m sorry, I prayed and prayed about this, and the Lord just held out on me until this morning.”
He chuckled. “Driver’s license.”
My heart froze in my chest. The cold worked its way out to my ears, my cheeks, and the top of my head. “I’m so sorry. I lost my wallet yesterday. It was here or DPS this morning, and when God spoke, I jus
t pointed my car this way and here I am. Brother Tom can vouch for me though, if he’s here.”
“Oh, he’s here, all right.” He tapped on his screen, and I heard a phone ringing.
“What is it, Brother Harvey?” It was Tom’s voice, but gruffer than when I’d last spoken with him.
“Brother Tom, can you vouch for the identity of this guest?” He turned the iPad toward me. Tom’s sweaty face filled the screen.
I waggled my fingers. “Hi, Brother Tom.”
He leaned in, like he was trying to get closer to me. “Sister Cecilia. I was so afraid you weren’t coming.”
“I almost didn’t. But the things you said, well, I couldn’t forget them, and here I am.”
“I’ll be waiting for you at the entrance.”
“See you soon.”
Brother Harvey turned the screen back toward himself and tapped it. “Do you have a cell phone with you today, Sister Cecilia?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Cell phones are strictly prohibited.” He held out his hand. “You can pick it up on your way out.”
All the saliva in my mouth dried in an instant. No one in the world knew where I was. I was here under false pretenses. Wallace had told me I was messing with the church’s membership and financial livelihood. It wasn’t too late to leave in a cloud of dust. But if I did, I might never find out the connection between Furman and the property Melinda owned with Dennis, and I’d blow my best chance to gather the information I needed to bust out all the Mighty is His Word foster kids from their indentured soldiertude. I’d just have to be very, very discreet and careful. And, hey, careful was my middle name, but it didn’t preclude pinging the mother ship with my location.
I held up my phone and let my eyelashes flutter. “Just need to cancel my lunch plans real quick. Couldn’t do it while I was driving.”
He grunted.
“Thank you, Brother Harvey.” I quickly shotgunned a group text to Jack, Wallace, Michele, John Burrows, Nadine, Judith, my parents. “Fumble fingers,” I simpered to Harvey. I typed rapidly: At new member retreat at the Mighty is His Word compound past Sanford and having to surrender phone. Learned today they’re trying to buy the pot farm/sex camp across the road owned by Dennis and—surprise—MELINDA STAFFORD. Potential motive everywhere. If you don’t hear from me by noon, send the cavalry. Michele knows exactly where it is. Wish me luck. After I pressed send, I bit my lip. Harvey would have my phone and could reach my texts and emails and anything else he wanted. I flipped screens to Settings and continued on to set a passcode. This one’s for Phil. I typed the passcode Nadine had told me was their anniversary: 1020. Then I turned off my phone and handed it to Harvey.
He took it and saluted me. “Drive another half mile and park where you see the other cars.”
I flashed him a smile weaker than it had been five minutes before and eased the Mustang forward. The second guesses started immediately. I shouldn’t have given him my phone. I should have turned around. Even if Jack was following me again today, he probably wouldn’t follow me in here. And I couldn’t call him, or anyone.
Stop it. Just stop, I told myself. You arranged for worst-case scenario backup. Get in there and get some answers and get out. If I had to, I could fake an illness for a reason to leave early. The good Lord knew I felt sicker than a dog with fear already.
Chapter Thirty-one
Half a descending mile later I came upon a cluster of multicolored manufactured houses with cars parked in two neat rows in front of them. I pulled to a stop in a grassy spot at the end of a row. Rugged prairie, blue skies, and a surreal village.
“Sister.” Tom’s voice, from my right as I got out of the car.
I turned toward it. He stood at the end of the row, his desert camo overalls and T-shirt blending into the background, but my eyes moved past him to a small animal peering through waving grass. I squinted. The sun was really bright, so I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a little red fox. Tom waved me over, drawing my attention back to him.
I tried to smile. “It’s like a little town on the prairie.”
“Just wait,” he said, reaching for my arm, pulling me too close to him, and rubbing the sensitive flesh inside my elbow.
I shuddered, which made his eyes grow brighter.
Tom led me to a house with robin’s egg blue siding. He opened the door and ushered me in before him. My footsteps squeaked on laminate floors in a nearly empty living room, save for a black faux-leather couch and coffee table that looked like it was made of particleboard. The only smell was bleach and lavender, and the walls were bare.
“Where is everyone?” I didn’t want to be alone with Tom.
He smirked and walked through the living room and down a hall.
I stood rooted to the floor.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“Um . . .”
He motioned me toward him and disappeared into a side room. My mouth was dry as desert sand, but I followed him, stopping at the opening of the room he’d entered. It was empty, except for him, and a trap door into the floor. He punched a code into a keypad on the wall. I couldn’t see the numbers, but I heard a beep, and something in the door latch clicked. He pulled it open.
“Shall we?” he said.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, my mind screamed. “Um, yeah, sure,” I said.
I peeked inside the hatch. A bright light shone from below descending stairs. Good. At least it wasn’t a ladder. I’d broken my arm when I was in elementary school when a ladder fell over onto the driveway with me on it. Ladders were not my friends.
I sucked in a breath for courage and started down them, Tom right behind me. I heard him suck in a breath as well, and regretted my body-hugging jeans. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I was in an open room, a foyer of sorts it appeared, with white walls, no furniture or markings, and doors on three sides.
“This way,” Tom said. This time his hand landed on the small of my back, then slid down a few inches lower than was appropriate.
“Brother Tom,” I said, “we barely know each other.” I twisted away from his hand.
“I’d like to change that.”
I reddened with anger and disgust, but he seemed to take it as a blush of modesty.
He nodded. “I respect you, Sister Cecilia, and while I feel God has brought you to me for a special purpose, I will take it slower.”
“Thank you.”
He reached for the door on our right. “Come with me.”
The door must have been soundproof because as soon as he opened it, noise exploded toward us. Laughter. Whoops. Amens.
“What’s going on?” I said.
He grinned. “Something you’re going to love.”
He walked in front of me this time, stopping at the first door on our left. “Sister Furman, I have a happy surprise.” He grasped my upper arm and pulled me in front of him. “Sister Cecilia decided to join us.”
The tall female pastor rose from behind a bare desk. She swung her gray braid over her shoulder. “Well, that is a happy surprise. Welcome, Sister Cecilia. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She smiled, but she seemed to be in another place mentally. Her eyes were glazed, and a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. “Brother Tom, we’ll begin in a few minutes. I’ll see the two of you soon.”
Brother Tom backed away, pulling me with him. “Yes, Sister Furman.” He released me and began walking again. “We have time for a quick tour before we start. We have plenty of space up top, but down here is where the action is. One wing is the dormitory, for people to stay during training. It has a cafeteria and infirmary. Another wing is offices. That’s where we are now. And the third wing is where the good stuff happens. There are connecting hallways between each wing, or you can access them at the entry point.” He stopped. “Here’s one of the connectors now.”
The door he indicated was all glass, unlike the others. I peered down it, but it was curved, so I couldn’t see more than a few feet. He pushed it ajar.
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I smoothed some loose hair off my face. “Where’s Sister Elise?”
“She’s not here this weekend.”
I prayed I wasn’t the only woman in the building besides Sister Furman, and we walked in silence, crossing over another corridor and pushing through three more doors in quick succession before we reached the far wing. As he walked me down the silent hallway he pointed. “Women’s side. The women have two bathrooms.” His voice sounded almost boastful. He pointed to the other side of the hall. “Men’s. We share one facility back that way.” He gestured toward what I thought was the way back to the elevator. “And here’s the cafeteria. It’s equipped with supplies to last us six weeks, if necessary.” He beamed, and I followed him in to a bunker-like room.
The walls were plastered with Bible quotes and Mighty is His Word propaganda. A giant poster of a soldier in face paint with a sniper rifle arrested my attention. Above his head it said WE ARE and below his feet, THE WRATH OF GOD.
“Amazing,” I croaked. It was almost time to pull my sick routine, because that soldier poster was surely enough to get Wallace to act. I hadn’t found out anything about the property across the road, but that was starting to feel like really small potatoes.
“We plan to survive no matter what happens up top.”
“That’s . . . great.”
“You’ll be back here for lunch in a bit.”
From across the room I heard the clanking of utensils against metal, water running, and voices in conversation.
“I can’t wait.”
“We’d better hurry. Follow me.”
We headed back the way we had come but this time stopped in the middle wing. Brother Tom grinned at me. “We have just enough time for you to see my favorite rooms.” We turned left, away from the stairs that led to the surface, to normalcy, to the real world. Tom punched in a door code, and again I heard the click of a lock releasing. He pushed the heavy metal door open. “Our armory,” Tom said, his face aglow.
When I rounded the corner into the armory, I stopped short and would’ve buckled if I hadn’t caught myself on the doorframe. Row upon row upon row upon row of weaponry lined the room, packed in tight. Guns. Missiles. Fancy bows, which, after being shot at a few days before, gave me the willies. Bombs. Grenades. And the ammunition, arrows, and paraphernalia to go with them all. My throat filled with vomit. Their army was real. This wasn’t any metaphorical Christian crusade, and it wasn’t some faceless group hidden away in the mountains of the Middle East. This was David Koresh meets Timothy-freaking-McVeigh times one thousand. I put my fist to my mouth.
Hell to Pay (What Doesn’t Kill You, #7): An Emily Romantic Mystery Page 26
