“Harley says different.”
“Harley?”
“Up to the garage. He said you were there asking questions and that you’re a Virginia police.”
“He got that part right. I am, and I was, asking questions, that is. But I’m not here about police business, fishing, crabbing, or any other kind of business. I’m looking for help finding a missing pilot. That’s it—the whole bushel.”
“Just you step away from the car and put your ID on the hood so I can see it.”
Ike did as he was told. The man waved him back and turned his attention to the wallet. The moment his eyes dropped, Ike stepped forward and in one smooth motion took the man’s gun and with a leg sweep, dropped him on the ground.
“Ouch.” The man rolled over and struggled to place his hands under him. Ike kicked them out so that he landed face down. He broke open the gun’s chamber and dumped the shells on the ground, then tossed the piece across the driveway into a clump of grass.
“Your lawn needs mowing. Okay, if I let you get up, do you promise to behave?”
“Cripes, who are you?”
Cripes? What kind of a word was that?
“You going to behave?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“We need to talk about the Fourth of July, and then you need to tell me if I can charter your boat for a spell.”
Bunky Crispins eased forward and lurched to his feet. Ike watched as he dusted himself off and then measured the distance between them.
“Don’t even think about it, Bunky. I’m here to get some information, and you might not be able to tell me what I want to know if you have a fat lip—or worse.”
Ike rarely played tough guy. He didn’t have to. Most folks in Picketsville knew him and what he could do. But he was on someone else’s turf, and establishing his position seemed required. Also, people who pointed guns at him made him nervous.
Evidently, Bunky got the message. He leaned against the car’s hood and picked at the knees of his trousers.
“Cripes. You made me rip my pants.”
There was that word again. Coaches at parochial schools used to curse that way. They didn’t dare let the nuns hear them take the Lord’s name in vain. “Cripes,” they’d say, or they’d yell “Cheese and Rice,” at some poor kid who dropped an easy pass. Ike never attended a Catholic school but had a roommate in college who had and who spent his freshman year learning how to swear properly.
“Okay, I guess I gotta trust you. Anybody that’ll take a loaded twelve-gauge from a guy, I guess don’t leave no room for anything else.” He paused and took Ike’s measure. “But you’d maybe better not try it again.”
“Don’t plan to, unless that shotgun finds its way back into the conversation. Now, I want you to tell me everything I need to know about this past Fourth of July.”
Chapter 18
Blake frittered away most of the next morning waiting for Philip’s call. After an hour, he thought he should call him instead. He hesitated. Then, he thought playing procedural games with the diocesan biggies was not such a good idea. Maybe he should disregard Philip’s advice and call the bishop himself. He didn’t want to risk this job.
He’d evidently annoyed someone, and that someone had the bishop’s ear, and that put him on the spot. He guessed he could go back to Philadelphia. His old bishop had offered him a reprieve, but what about Mary—what about all these people he’d come to love? Contemplating the possibility that his tenure at Stonewall Jackson Memorial Church might be ended just when it seemed to be blossoming and Philip’s calm assurance not withstanding, he reached for the Diocesan directory.
The phone rang. The unexpectedness of it made him jump. Frank Sutherlin wanted to talk.
“Rev, I got to thinking about what you said in the note you left when you dropped the report off. You didn’t have to do that, by the way. It’s a copy I made for you. Anyway, I don’t know much about that old sinkhole, never did, and I’m sure nothing good is going on out there, what with that bench and those fires, but a satanic cult is a little over the top, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t say it was that, Deputy. I said it looked like that. Five piles of ashes exactly 6.6 yards apart…blood on the…not a bench, an altar I think. I don’t know.”
“Well, maybe, but I think it’s a stretch. I asked my two brothers that are still in town and been here all this time, what they might know about it. Now, they’re both a little past the ‘Passion Pit’ stage, but Billy did say the last he heard, the atmosphere out there had changed a lot in the last couple a years.”
“I don’t understand—atmosphere? You mean whatever the kids were doing out there in the past has been replaced with something else? Or is he saying the air out there is so full of weed smoke that it smells differently?”
“Um…the first…I think.”
“In what way?”
“He couldn’t say, so I put Henry on it. He’s going to ask around and see what he can find out. Those kids are more likely to talk to him than me or Billy. They know we’re police, and town or not, we aren’t likely to hear much from them.”
Blake recalled Henry, Dorothy’s youngest son and episodic congregant. Christmas, Easter, occasional weddings, funerals, and spaghetti dinners accounted for the bulk of Henry’s spiritual journey.
“If the kids will open up to anyone, it’ll be Henry,” Frank added.
“I expect you’re right. Any progress in finding my silver? I’ve notified the insurance company and they are waiting to see if it turns up in a pawn shop or something. Any hits?”
“Nope, and that’s a mystery right there. Usually when something worth money goes missing, it’s because the guy who stole it needs cash. You know, for drugs, or beer, or to get some girl out of trouble, and it shows up quick. But nothing has turned up in any probable fence sites from Winchester to Roanoke.”
“What else would anyone do with a communion set like that if they didn’t want money?”
“Maybe they’re starting up their own church.”
“What?”
“Just a joke Rev. But, you’re right, it doesn’t make much sense.”
Blake replaced the receiver in its cradle and stared out the window. It had started to cloud over. It would rain soon. October, and the rainy season would be on them in a few weeks. Then winter and snow perhaps and then…Christmas Eve. He felt a hollow spot form in the pit of his stomach. Had he overstepped? Was he really ready for that? He took some deep breaths and the feeling eased. It was just that he’d been single and sought-after so many years that a permanent commitment seemed very new, and strange, and not a little scary.
“Get over it,” he muttered. The phone rang again.
***
“So, tell me about this airplane you want to find.”
Ike and Bunky Crispins stood shoulder to shoulder staring out into the expanse of Eastern Bay, across the deck of the J. Millard Tawes. Ike thought he could just make out the long pier at Romancoke but couldn’t be sure. His eyes were more accustomed to the forested, mountainous landscape of the Shenandoah Valley. Flat, wide expanses took some getting used to. He wondered how the people in places like Kansas managed with their endless vistas.
“First tell me about the Fourth. Then, if it makes any sense, I’ll talk about the plane.”
“For a fellow who wants me to help him and maybe charter my boat, you sure are short.”
“Sorry. It comes from staring down the barrel of a double-barreled shotgun. Makes me edgy. Besides, shouldn’t you be out oystering or something.”
“Not much left for us in that line. Skipjack fleet is about gone. The few that are left and tonging or drudging can just squeeze out a living. Beds are played out, and the limits on us pretty much has put us all on the beach. Government. It takes away your living. Shuts down the whole dinged Bay and they wonder why we don’t like them.”
“Gotcha. Tell me about the Fourth.”
“Okay, okay. Most times on the Fourth of July we take our boats
out on the water. Awesome view out there when the fireworks go up. You can see, like, forever. Easton, Cambridge, clean to the Western Shore, Annapolis, all over. I had a party on the boat all lined up and stood to make some money ’til the fog rolled in.”
“It wiped out the whole bay?”
“Not all of it but most. By nine or so it sort of retreated up the bay so you could see the displays down toward the south—one especially—like an aerial bomb that misfired or something…heck of a racket…kablam, like that.”
“Where was that?”
Bunky pointed toward the bay’s southwest edge, beyond the spit of land that formed the bay’s southwest border. Beyond that stretch sat an overlarge duck blind and the general area where Ike thought he’d seen the shadow, the suspicious eddy, in the water.
“Over there?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“What did this misfire look like?”
“You know how them aerial things work. They shoot up, there’s a small pop and they separate in, like, a star shell thing, and then, a second or two later, a half dozen go off all over the place—boom, boom, boom—like that. It looked like maybe this one didn’t separate and the whole thing, six or so of them bombs, went off all at once. I saw the trail of sparks headed up but there was no, you know, pop and then explosions. There was just this one big kablam. Cripes, what a noise.”
“You didn’t go to Catholic school by any chance did you, Crispins?”
“What? Catholic? No way. I’m what you’d call Baptist—hard-shell Baptist. My old daddy’d whomp me with a gaff ’fore he’d let me inside twenty feet of one of them places. He’s dead now, rest his soul. I got some friends that are fish-eaters, though, so I don’t share them feelings like he did. Shoot no.”
Catholic parochial school or hard-shell Baptist—so much for the fine art of swearing.
“You saw the rocket’s upward trail and then an explosion. Anything else?”
“No, not that I can recall.”
“No airplane?”
“The flight path over to the BWI, Andrews, and Reagan National airports is all right over this parcel of water one time or another. I reckon I heard a lot of them.”
“A small plane.”
“I might have. If I did, I didn’t take no notice.”
Ike let his gaze shift across Crispins’ back yard. A weathered shed, which undoubtedly contained boat and fishing gear, stood halfway between the house and the waterfront. A pile of miscellaneous junk leaned against one wall. In the midst of it Ike saw, or thought he saw, something painted camo that could have been the missing tail piece. Ike wondered if Crispins was being dense, or really hadn’t made a connection with the bit of wreckage in the pile by the shed, and a missing plane. He decided he’d pursue that later. Right now Crispins’ aerial bomb misfire held his complete attention.
“What time did you see that thing go off?”
“Maybe nine-thirty, give or take.”
Maybe nine-thirty…it fit.
Chapter 19
Blake picked up the phone on the first ring. Philip had news.
“Am I in trouble?”
“Blake, it seems trouble is your middle name.”
“What did the Bishop say?”
“He said several things. Some of them were more or less sensible, some idiotic, and some just inane. First, a member of your congregation, Barbara Starkey to be precise, called him to report that you had excommunicated one of her daughter’s friends last Sunday. Then, she said you were on a witch hunt, or more accurately, a devil hunt, and had upset the local high school officialdom, and finally she questioned your mental stability and suggested the bishop order up a series of sessions with a local shrink for you.”
“She said all that?”
“He said she said all that. It took him twenty minutes or so to do it, but that’s it in a nut shell. I reminded him about the line of accountability that ran from him through me, to you. He wasn’t happy about that. He said if you didn’t stop preaching superstitious nonsense, by which, I take it, he meant the very existence of the devil, literally or metaphorically, he would assume you had abandoned your orders and could, therefore, no longer serve as a priest in the church.”
“What? He can do that?”
“Certainly not. It’s just the new double-speak in church leadership circles. Instead of invoking canon law and making an active move that would entitle you to an appeal, a hearing in an ecclesiastical or civil court, they now dump the onus on the victim. If your career is ended or compromised in some way, it would be your doing, not his, you see—sort of passive-aggressive behavior, or something—very popular with the House of Bishops lately. Anyway, I reminded him of that, too, and after a bit more hot air, he let it go with the insistence that I make you promise to apologize to the complainant and smooth things over. He has enough problems with schismatic churches, property squabbles, and theological nit-picking. He doesn’t need this.”
“Apologize. He wants me to smooth things over. Has he any idea of the seriousness a satanic movement would have on us—especially with kids?”
“I doubt it. It’s the twenty-first century. All religions, including the Church of LaVey, or any of its near approximations, are protected under the latest rendering of the Second Amendment. No matter what he thinks or feels, his hands are tied. And, as I said, he has bigger problems to deal with than a small dispute in a, for him, forgettable mission church in the Valley. So, make nice to the unhappy lady, and move on.”
“Philip, this is not a trifle.”
“How sure are you of this satanic business?”
“Pretty sure…I think.”
“Be very sure before you do anything else. You might have a cache of money tucked away somewhere, but I don’t, and we both would be liable in a law suit.”
“We can be sued?”
“Absolutely, and a civil court will be hard-pressed to find in our—your—favor in the matter of the Devil vs. the State, if you follow me. I don’t want to go there, Blake. No matter what we believe, we’re in an untenable position in a secular court. If I remember Mrs. Starkey correctly, she is descended from one of the original founders of your church. People like her assume a proprietary interest in churches that has little or nothing to do with spirituality. In addition, her husband is a funding source for various diocesan feel-good projects. So, have a chat with the lady.”
“I’ll try.”
“One more thing—keep this in perspective.”
“Meaning?”
“Kids do all sorts of crazy things. They try behaviors, eat, drink, inhale, do drugs, they drive too fast, and take risks. It’s the nature of the age. In the end, most of them come home, so to speak. You were right to ask the boy to remove himself and his pendant from the church. Church, after all, is our turf. Pushing into the schools is dicier. You see what I mean?”
Blake said he thought so, but wasn’t that sure. He hung up and groaned. He wondered if it were too late to enroll in Washington and Lee’s Law School up the road. Would Mary be happy married to a lawyer, to a shark rather than an angel fish? He decided he needed coffee, strong coffee. He didn’t dare go for booze. That road could only end in disaster.
He stood and walked to the outer office. Gloria was gathering her things prior to leaving.
“You off?”
“Remember, I mentioned I had a dentist appointment?” He’d forgotten. “And while you were on the phone, Ashley Starkey asked if she could talk to you after school.”
“Ashley? Is she the—”
“No, not the girl with the boyfriend last Sunday. She’s the younger sister.”
“What did she want?”
“She didn’t say. I told her tomorrow would work better and she said okay. She’ll be here at four-thirty.”
“Tomorrow? Why tomorrow? I have this afternoon free.”
Gloria paused and shook her head. “I think I should be here when she comes. Kids get funny ideas sometimes.”
“I’m not s
ure I…” Blake stopped in midsentence. He’d had a bad experience in Philadelphia that nearly ruined him. Cleared of all counts, but people might know enough details to harbor small lingering doubts. “You don’t think…?”
“Like I said, kids have funny ideas. Why take a chance?”
Why, indeed.
***
Ike arranged with Bunky Crispins to charter his boat the following day and for the week following. He didn’t know what he’d find—wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, but a boat seemed the next logical step. They’d haggled over the price, and even though he knew it was too much, Ike agreed to it. Now, he needed to let Charlie Garland know the price for his little favor had just gone up. He returned to his cottage, scoured it thoroughly for bugs, wiretaps, and cameras. He found none, but he also knew that since he’d left the CIA technology had far outstripped his data bank, and he couldn’t be sure. The equipment they used now would scare the pants off George Orwell. Charlie answered on the first ring. He never did that.
“Charlie, just checking, is all your spookware out of this cottage or must I move?”
“Not mine, Ike, but yes, it’s all gone. The Agency is not interested in you anymore, and they’ve shut my, I should say our, little project down as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had to ’fess up as to what you were doing and they were…let’s say…annoyed. I may be billed for your airplane. You’re not grounded anymore, by the way, but that doesn’t matter, because I can’t pay for any more hours in the air. We’re going to have to let this go. I’m afraid.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s some weird and, I think, important, things going on down here. Now is not the time to pull out.”
“It can’t be helped. I don’t know what I’ll tell my niece.”
“How about I work it on my own for a while, then? I’ll still need some help from the photo-techs.”
“Ike, I appreciate the offer, but all hell is breaking loose around here, and I can’t even help you, much less ask the techs.”
“What’s up?”
“You know the drill—”
5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5 Page 9
