He began his sermon as dryly as possible, with hardly an acknowledgment of a congregation seated out there. He read from his notes without much excitement. He really just wanted to be done with it.
But then he noticed something, as he’d glanced up at the congregation by pure accident and habit. New people. New people. Usually new people came only when there was a birth. Once he’d been lucky enough to have a member give birth to triplets. Then, of course, there was Thanksgiving, when the town looked as if it’d had a spark of renewal. But it faded as quickly as the smell of turkey the next day.
He picked out four, sitting there quite attentively. And then, to his surprise, another one walked in, a skinny guy who sat in the back. An unexpected fervor made him stand a little taller. And suddenly the lifeless words on the pages before him became something more than words. They translated themselves into a message.
Perhaps it was a corny idea for a sermon: loving people different from you. But back in his twenties, when so much hate transcended America because of differences, it made perfect sense. He remembered he’d preached to only a half-dozen people that day, but he thought if he reached them, maybe they’d reach a half a dozen more, and so on. Oh, those were the days, when nothing seemed impossible for God.
That same kind of restless hope now filled his words, and he realized that the congregation had begun to sit a little straighter, pay a little more attention, widen their eyes enough to take in the entire scene before them.
Pretty soon, charisma rang in his voice, and his eyes filled with the light of a dreamer. He looked at each individual, sure his words were meant just for them. He was on quite a roll, making his third point about nothing God created being an accident, when something very unexpected happened.
A woman he did not recognize on the fourth row raised her hand.
At first, Reverend Peck kept going. For not in all of his many years of preaching had anybody raised a hand. And he did not know what to do.
But she kept it high, flickering her fingers as if he had not seen her the first time. She was a mousy woman, with big glasses, stringy, oily hair, and a dress out of the seventies. And though he tried to continue, the distraction was more than his exuberance could ignore. His words trailed off as he stared at her.
Finally, clearing his throat of the rest of the words that were soon to follow, he said, “Um … yes?”
She stood up, an expectant, wide-eyed expression behind the glasses that nearly covered her whole face.
“Does that include cats?”
“What?” the reverend asked, amidst the many whispers that were now circulating the small sanctuary.
“Cats? Did God create cats, or did the devil?”
He could hardly believe his ears. For a moment he tried to concentrate, thinking maybe he was in a nursing home and having senile delusions. Is that what was happening? Was he really in a wheelchair, murmuring incoherently?
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t quite …”
“Cats. Did God make them, or did the devil?”
He focused his attention on this woman, and interestingly, the whole congregation seemed to be waiting on his answer. “Well, ma’am, God did.”
“Huh.” She folded her arms in front of her chest, deep in thought. But she was still standing, and he wondered if he should continue. But before he had any more of a chance to think, she said, “So does that mean we should accept the little critters, even though they’re wicked rodents who deserve to be burned at the stake?”
The reverend made eye contact with Wolfe, trying to send him a signal that if anything bizarre happened—anything more bizarre than what was currently happening—Wolfe should stand up and help him out. Wolfe’s eyes told him he was watching carefully. The reverend looked back at the woman.
“I know, I know,” she said, holding up her hands to ward off the mumbling, “some people don’t share my view. And I guess that’s what I’m getting here from your speech, is that I should like people who like cats, and I should try to like cats, the disgusting, pitchforked beasts that they are.”
At this point, Reverend Peck, more than he had his entire life, wished God would just take him to heaven. A heart attack would be fine. A slight discomfort, but soon over. Here he was, trying to change the world, or at the very least forty people, and this woman wants to talk about cats? What on God’s good green earth was he doing here? Wasting oxygen!
But then the woman said, “It’s just that I’ve never heard anything like this before, and I’ve heard a lot of people talk and say a lot of things, sir. But your words … they’re touching me right here.” She pounded her fist against her chest so hard that he thought she might knock herself over. “Maybe that’s been my whole problem all my life. Maybe I just didn’t love them enough.”
Them was not clearly identified, but nevertheless, Reverend Peck couldn’t help but smile. And as he glanced across the congregation, he noticed they were smiling too. Whoever this woman was, whatever it was she didn’t love but now thought she could love, she was transformed. Maybe it was a small transformation, but it was there. He looked at the woman, as directly as he could through the magnification her glasses provided, and said, “Ma’am, what is your name?”
She smiled. “Elsie Czychzyl.”
Though he didn’t understand the last name, and was pretty certain she’d not used a vowel when she’d said it (in fact, it sounded remarkably like a slot machine handle being pulled), he nodded and said, “Well, Elsie, I’ve got the rest of my sermon. How about I finish up here, and then you and I will visit afterward?”
Elsie’s face shone like her hair, and she nodded, grinned, and then promptly sat down. Elsie What’s-Her-Name had renewed his identity.
Dr. Hass sat in his living room, dusty from weeks of neglect, staring at his cat, Blot. Though he did love cats, he’d never owned one before, mostly because of how often he moved. So he was slightly concerned at how quickly Blot seemed to be gaining weight. He’d been feeding her fancy cat food. After all, he could afford it at the rate he was making money these days. Perhaps the food was too rich? Whatever the case, her belly was ballooning like his bank account in the ’80s, and he was pretty sure she was getting lazy. All she wanted to do was sit around and nap or meow. Oh! The meowing had become incessant.
He had not gone to church this morning. Too much on his mind. A little guilt, yes. But his thoughts were consumed with his new strategy, which was bold but perhaps not wise. Especially with the group of people he was dealing with.
So far, Oliver had not brought him a “catch,” and he was beginning to worry he’d put too much strain on his subjects. Whatever the case, he was going to have to monitor very carefully. He was certainly taking a risk, one that he’d never expected. But he also believed he’d found the key.
So as patiently as he could, he sat and waited, watching his cat gain weight by the minute.
Though the church service was as bizarre as they came, not even that could distract Wolfe from the disappointment he felt in his relationship with Ainsley. Things were tense, and they were just getting worse.
Afterward, they walked together, but in silence. Ainsley seemed as though she wanted to talk, but her mouth was closed tightly in a straight line across her face. Wolfe didn’t want to be the first one to speak.
Suddenly Martin rushed up next to them. “Wolfe!”
“Hi Martin,” Wolfe said, then frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“She woke up.” Martin caught his breath. “Missy Peeple woke up.”
CHAPTER 32
DOUGLAS BREWER HAD decided he’d left this Oliver fellow out in the cold long enough, so with intimidation (he had to fake it since his temper had now faded), he’d moved him to his car and driven him twelve miles to the small hotel at which he was staying.
Once inside, he left his hands and ankles tied, but sat him on the comfy chair in the corner of the room. Undoing the bandanna, he watched as Oliver gasped for breath, staring up at him angrily.
“I
have allergies!” the man shouted. “I could hardly breathe because my nose is stopped up, and you have that stupid thing tied around my mouth!”
Douglas observed him from a distance, folding the bandanna neatly in the palm of his hand. “Sorry.”
Sniffling, Oliver looked away, noticing for a moment his surroundings before giving his attention back to Douglas. “You let me go, and you let me go now.”
Douglas said, “Why would I let you go? You tried to kidnap me.”
“I was taking you back to your owner, you idiot!” Oliver spat.
“My owner?”
“Yes! Whether you know it or not.” Oliver said this with hesitancy in his eyes, unsure, Douglas assumed, of how he might react to that statement. Douglas didn’t even know what it meant. “You need help,” Oliver said softly.
“I need help?” Douglas laughed. “For what?”
“You may not even know it. That’s the sad part. But I was simply trying to help you. And, I’ll admit, it was for selfish reasons. I wanted you folks out of town.”
Douglas crossed his arms. “That’s how small towns are. Never wanting to include people.”
“Hey, that’s a stereotype! We include all sorts of people. Just … just not people like you.”
He could hardly believe his ears! People like him? Computer geeks? Is that what he was implying? Pushing his glasses up his nose, he managed to get his glare across. Oliver looked away.
“You know,” Douglas said, “one day you’ll be sorry. Because one day we’re going to take over the world.” It was a mantra he and his computer buddies always said for fun, but apparently Oliver didn’t think it was funny, because he turned a shade whiter. “Settle down, dude,” Douglas said. “First we have to get a date.” Again, he laughed. He and his buddies could hack into the national defense system but couldn’t get dates. They always thought that was funny. But Oliver flinched, blinking rapidly.
Douglas shook his head and sighed. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked.
“Let me go?” Oliver offered meekly.
“With no consequence for your actions?” Douglas stated. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to call the police!” Oliver said.
Douglas thought this was strange for two reasons. One, Oliver was tied up. Two, that was exactly what Douglas was thinking about doing. But Dr. Hass had told him to keep a low profile, to stay out of trouble. He’d said he didn’t want any “extra factors” involved. So maybe calling the police was a bad idea. And why would Oliver want to call the police? He’d just tried to kidnap somebody. How was he going to explain that?
The two men stared at each other, processing their own thoughts. Then Douglas said, “Well, I’m hungry. I’m ordering a pizza.”
Wolfe had told Ainsley he would explain everything when he got back, then rushed to Martins car. Driving eighty miles an hour, they got there in about thirty minutes. At her room, the same male nurse that had been there before noticed them walking down the hall and stopped.
“You two got here fast.”
“Is she still awake?” Wolfe asked.
“Sort of. She’s basically mumbling incoherently, though once she asked what day it was. I told her Sunday, and she cried.”
“She cried?” Martin asked.
“Said she’d never missed a day of church.”
Martin cocked an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t know it from some of the things this lady has done.”
The nurse looked as if he would love the juicy details behind that remark, but Wolfe said, “Come on. Let’s get in there.”
The men entered her room, and Missy Peeple didn’t even acknowledge someone had opened the door. Her head was laid to the side, and she was staring out a small, lightless window. Martin glanced at Wolfe for reassurance, then went to her bedside. “Miss Peeple, it’s Martin. Marty … Blarty.”
She whispered something without turning her head. Martin looked at Wolfe as if to ask, Did you catch that? Wolfe shrugged.
“I’m sorry, Miss Peeple. Did you say something?”
Another whisper. Martin sighed and shook his head. He walked to the other side of the bed, but she seemed to stare right through him. She whispered again, and again Martin couldn’t understand her.
“Lean closer,” Wolfe urged, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to muster up the courage to get that close to the woman. Martin’s expression reflected the same sentiments, but after a few moments, he leaned in, putting his ear up to her lips. He stayed like that for several seconds, his brow lowering with each word she muttered. Finally, he raised up and looked at Wolfe.
“Well? What’d she say?”
Martin moved alongside the bed and joined Wolfe by the door. “I’m … I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure? You didn’t hear her?”
“No. I heard her. I just don’t understand it. She said, ‘May the Lord safely keep and restore you.’”
Wolfe frowned. “May the Lord safely keep and restore you?”
“That’s what she said. Twice. The second time she said, ‘Safely keep and restore you.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” Martin sighed. “It’s a nice thing to say, but it doesn’t make any sense. And as you and I both know, rarely does Miss Peeple say anything without some sort of agenda behind it.”
Wolfe shivered at that thought, then looked at the old woman, tiny against the bed. What a different look she had without her hair slicked tight against her head. The deep line of age on her face had softened, and her hard eyes twinkled with sadness.
“Safely keep and restore you,” Wolfe said aloud, trying to understand what that meant. Then, to his surprise, the old woman turned her head and, with a shaky arm, beckoned him over to her bed.
“Go ahead,” Martin said, shoving him forward a little when Wolfe didn’t budge. Swallowing deeply, one heavy foot after another, he made his way over. She stared right through him. “Um, yes?” he managed.
Then suddenly her eyes moved, startling Wolfe. She looked at him, then down at the middle of his chest. He wasn’t sure what she was staring at until he looked down himself. The key! He’d put it around a chain to keep it safe. His buttoned up shirt revealed a tiny part of it before it disappeared behind the fabric.
“The key?” Wolfe asked, taking the chain out and holding it up for her to see.
She looked at it, then at him. “The key …,” she whispered.
“I found it. In the book you gave me.”
Her eyes grew wide. With labored breath, she said, “Then … then … you found the …” A hefty cough delayed her next words.
“The X? Yes, we found it.” He cleared his throat. “How did you know to put it in a book?”
She spoke with great effort. “I knew a writer could never throw away his own book.”
He looked at Martin, who’d casually moved up beside him. But Missy’s sole focus was on Wolfe. Something passed through her eyes, a mysterious acknowledgment of some sort. Then she closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep.
Wolfe rubbed his forehead furiously and turned to Martin, guiding him away from the bed. “That was bizarre,” Wolfe said. “But now we know. This key goes to whatever was in that hole. I wish I’d had the chance to ask what was in that hole, though.”
Martin shook his head. “Who else would know something is there? And why would they take it?”
“Whatever is in there is important,” Wolfe said. He looked over at her, now in a restful slumber. “And she wanted me to find it.”
“Then she had to have known you’d seen the map,” Martin said.
“I don’t know how. But she also wanted you to know about the map. You found it.”
“That woman knows a lot of things. She always has. And nobody ever asked why. I guess everyone assumed it was her business to know.”
Wolfe fingered the key. “Maybe it is.”
Then Martin said, “I’ve got an idea
.”
The woman could wail. And she did. Ainsley tried her best to comfort Melb, but to no avail. The deputies that had accompanied her father to Oliver’s house were getting a little irritated by this, and had finally thrown up their hands and told Sheriff Parker all they’d gotten out of her is that Oliver was missing.
Sheriff Parker walked across the room and addressed Melb. “Ms. Cornforth.” She looked up at his voice, blotting her tears. “You’re going to have to get yourself together, ma’am, if you want to help Oliver.”
She nodded, an emotional gurgle causing her to choke. The sheriff glanced at Ainsley. “I knew something was wrong,” Melb said, drying her cheeks with a tissue. “When he didn’t come to church. I knew it. I should’ve gone to check on him earlier.”
“Let’s focus on where he might be,” the sheriff said. “Did he make any unusual comments, or tell you he was going somewhere? Maybe you’ve forgotten?”
“No. I saw him last night. He said he’d see me at church.”
He jotted down notes. Deputy Kinard came over and said, “Sheriff, we’ve located his car on Main Street near the road to the junkyard. Nothing unusual about it. Locked up. Doesn’t look like any foul play.”
“Okay,” the sheriff said. He then looked at Melb. “He probably got distracted somewhere. The fact that his car is still in town is a good sign. I’ll have a couple of my guys roam around, see if we can’t locate him, okay? I’m sure he’s fine.”
This brought a small smile to Melb’s worn features.
“By the way, do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Oliver?”
The smile dropped into a line of dread across her face. “Hurt him?
“For any reason?”
She burst into tears and Ainsley rubbed her back, looking at her dad and shooing him away with her hand. He sighed and left the house.
“There, there,” Ainsley said, and prayed her father would find Oliver soon.
Dr. Hass found himself whisked out of his house and down the front steps by these two rambling men: Martin Blarty, the town treasurer who’d brought the mayor in for a psychological examination, and Wolfe Boone, famous novelist who couldn’t accept his fiancée’s new plans. Both were babbling on about an old woman in a hospital who held the key to the town’s crisis.
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