A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Not now. Not ever. Did she say anything else?”

  Louise chewed her lip in thought. “Well—”

  “Louise!”

  “She gave me a phone number.”

  “Bring it to me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Bring it to me and go make me some tea.” Dave tried to smile.

  Louise visibly brightened and left the room for a moment, returning with a sheet of paper. “Here you are.”

  “Now bring me a phone.”

  “Oh no, I can’t do that. Doctor’s orders. German chamomile sound good?”

  “Lovely.” Dave grabbed the paper and waited for the woman to leave. As soon as he heard the clatter of the teapot in the kitchen, he shifted his leg to the floor. The nearest phone was in the hall. He hopped three steps and grabbed the back of a recliner, dragging what felt like four hundred pounds of plaster. The bouncing relit his headache. He waited, caught his breath, then hobbled two more steps and clutched the door frame. Sweat dampened his forehead. The phone was on a small table to his right.

  The teapot whistled in the kitchen.

  Dave pushed off the door frame and used the wall to brace him. One, two, three slow hops and he reached the phone. He checked the crumpled paper in his hand, then dialed.

  “No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”

  “This is—”

  Louise grabbed the handset. “I told you. The doctor gave me strict orders. No work. No business, even on the phone.”

  Dave wanted to argue, but his unbroken leg felt like spaghetti and his head had a marimba band banging away in it. Leaning heavily on the older woman, he staggered to the sofa. Gwen’s problem would have to wait.

  The police would arrive any moment, and if I left immediately, my car would be promptly spotted. The stolen Prius probably had an APB on it by now. That left Robert’s Porsche. I raced to the hall closet and found one of Robert’s jackets and a baseball cap.

  My credit cards could be traced. I needed more cash. I tore into the bathroom, pulled off the tank lid, and grabbed the plastic bag holding the money. Cold water from the tank dripped on my foot and I stopped unzipping the plastic.

  I was stealing.

  Ha! What’s stealing when I’m already being framed for murder? I grabbed half the cash. Not bothering to pull on the jacket, I scooped up my purse and bag and charged toward the door.

  The papers on the kitchen table stopped me. I shuffled through Beth’s printouts from the Mormon Church’s website, searching for the article I needed. I could feel the clock ticking away the seconds before the police would arrive. I made it to the bottom of the stack. The page I sought wasn’t there. I turned to run when I spotted the corner of paper with the article on Temple Square. I tugged it out and scrawled Dave’s name in the margin. It was a long shot but all I could do for now.

  I sprinted to the garage. Robert always kept a spare key in a metal box inside the wheel well. I felt around three wheels before locating it.

  In seconds I had jumped in the car, jammed the baseball cap on my head, and started the engine. I backed out, spun across the grass to get around my car, and tore down the drive.

  Just as I reached the Safeway on the edge of Copper Creek, a long line of law enforcement vehicles passed me, lights blazing, sirens blasting. No one even glanced at Robert’s platinum-silver metallic, 911 Turbo.

  Louise would’ve told them I was home. They’d probably cut the sirens when they got close to the house, not knowing the situation. If I was lucky, they’d waste valuable time surrounding the place and trying to talk me out.

  I had to reach the Peace Conference before Mike could put his plan into action.

  Naturally, Robert had a radar detector. For once I was glad he spared no expense on himself. He even had a custom license plate: Porsche. I sped up Highway 93, slowing down when I reached Missoula. I caught I-90 West without incident. It would take a bit more than seven hours to drive to Kirkland, not counting stops for gas, but I should be able to pick up time by speeding. I’d reach the conference sometime around six in the morning, well before the opening at eight.

  Traffic was light on I-90. I tapped the steering wheel and thought about Mike. I’d been the perfect patsy every step of the way. Robert’s book, cancer, the divorce, and Aynslee’s rebellion left me ripe for manipulation, which was perfect for a sociopath, who can often pass lie detector tests. He must have laughed at my pathetic need for attention.

  I punched the dash, then swiped at my damp eyes. Fool. No wonder Robert left you.

  Once Mike had my trust, I hadn’t bothered to ask for identification on the two “agents” Larry Frowick and Janice Faga. They must have been members of the remnant clan. The three of them had all day to search my house for the Smith journal, then wipe away fingerprints and vacuum any stray hairs and fibers that would place them there. The planted can of Krylon would, of course, match the graffiti at the interpretive center, and the rust stains on the shoes would match George’s blood. I’d bet somewhere around the place would be a Pulaski. I had no alibi for the time of his murder. I’d been alone in my room sleeping.

  Mike would probably try to pin Mary Allen’s killing on me as well. I’d found her body and pointed out the motel room the killer had used to clean up. Only George knew what time I’d really left the center.

  Mike’d paint a very convincing portrait of me as a terrorist, starting with the near-riot at the center’s opening, which he undoubtedly caused by hiring the protesters. He’d probably planted evidence that I was part of the Avenging Angels, which he conveniently pointed out were killers, then sicced the local good-ole-boy law enforcement on the old men in that cabin.

  But how did he find the cabin? The old men could have been followed. Or me—the cell phone! The cell he gave me didn’t work as a phone, but I bet it worked just dandy as a GPS. He’d want to see the results of his handiwork. When I escaped from the burning cabin, Mike found out. Maybe he was even the one to hit me with his car.

  Why didn’t Mike kill me in the mountains?

  I tapped the steering wheel with my fingernail. Come at it from the other direction. I ended up in Utah at the remnant compound. Mike must be close to Adam. Or Adam was also at the shootout. Adam talked Mike into letting me become a replacement wife, probably saying that if I were sequestered in a remote location, I’d be forever silenced.

  When I reached Coeur d’Alene, I spotted an all-night gas station and minimart. After gassing the car, I squeezed it between a Dumpster and a tow truck. The coffee at the minimart was brown-gray with age, so I doctored it with extra cream and sugar, then grabbed a plastic-wrapped pastry. The sugar would keep me going for a bit longer. The woman behind the counter barely looked at me as she counted out the change.

  Back in the car, I slid down in the seat and waited until a Coeur d’Alene patrol car drifted past. When the coast was clear, I pulled back onto I-90. I stuffed the stale pastry in my mouth and washed it down with the bad coffee.

  I had to stop Mike and Adam. No one would believe me. All the paperwork, the research on the kitchen table, would point to an obsessed conspiracy nut. I bet my computer had all kinds of new, hidden files that Mike placed there. The C-4 on my sculpture stand would match the reconstruction perfectly. If that bomb went off, I’d be blamed for the slaughter at the Peace Conference. And the possible death of my daughter and best friend.

  My stomach heaved and I pulled over. I barely had time to open the door before I threw up.

  I stood and walked around until my stomach settled. The interstate was mercifully free of traffic.

  When I got back in the car, my hands were still shaking. Hopefully, Dave would make the connection between the phone number I’d given Louise and the printout I’d left on the kitchen table with his name on it, but I couldn’t count on it.

  I had no idea where Mike’s triggering device would be, but I did know exactly where the detonator was. I’d have to get to the Peace Conference
and yank that detonator from the Joseph Smith reconstruction.

  I’d have to prevent that bomb from going off by myself.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE DOORBELL RANG, FOLLOWED BY THE LOW murmur of voices growing louder as Louise and the visitor came down the hall.

  “The doctor told me—” Louise said.

  “I don’t care.” Craig briskly entered the living room. “Dave, I just came from Gwen’s place. The FBI is serving a search warrant—”

  “I heard.” Dave shoved himself into a more upright position on the sofa.

  Craig ran his hand through his hair. “Looks like she just left.”

  “Oh dear.” Louise entered the room behind Craig. “I told her to stay put.”

  Craig turned to the woman, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “You called her and warned her we were coming?”

  “She called here.” Louise looked back and forth between the two men. “I . . . I—”

  “Do you know where she’s gone?” Craig asked her.

  “No,” Louise said.

  Craig stared at her a moment longer, then turned to Dave. “It doesn’t look good for Gwen. Her kitchen table was covered with all kinds of Mormon materials. And this.” He held out a piece of paper tucked inside a clear evidence bag. “Your name is in the margin in her handwriting. We’re hoping you can come up with something.”

  Dave took the paper and struggled to pronounce the name. “Ra . . . me . . . youp . . . tom?”

  “Rameumptom. It’s the name of an LDS online magazine,” Craig said.

  Dave skimmed the article, then shook his head. “Sorry. I have no idea why my name is on this.” He handed the evidence bag back to Craig.

  Craig’s cell phone rang. “Deputy Harnisch.” He listened for a moment, then his gaze drifted to Dave.

  Dave’s stomach lurched. Whatever Craig was hearing, it wasn’t good for Gwen.

  I turned off I-90 and headed up the 405 through Bellevue. Traffic was light at six in the morning. The Kirkland Convention Center, a sprawling mass of marble and glass, was easy to spot. I slowly cruised for a parking spot before pulling into a hotel’s subterranean lot across the street from the center. The parking garage was full, but I snagged a spot by waiting for another car to leave.

  By the time the conference opened, it could be too late. Adam, or Mike, would set off the device as soon as the dignitaries and crowds were in attendance. I left my itchy wig on the seat, tugged on a pink sweatshirt and baseball hat, slipped from the car, and dashed up the ramp, avoiding the elevator, which would dump me in the lobby.

  Hiding behind a concrete pillar, I checked the road. The only movement was a piece of paper twisting in the lake-scented breeze. Surveillance cameras hovered on the street lights. I trotted out of the garage and aimed for the alley between the center and an unfinished office complex. Just an early-morning yuppie jogger. From a distance, no one could see my shoes weren’t running sneakers.

  I didn’t pause, but continued down the alley, seeking a way into the center. The glossy facade and cheerful banners in the front gave way to industrial cinder block and concrete on the lower section, with tinted glass above. I tried each door, but all were locked. Part of the convention center extended over Lake Washington. No access on this side of the building. I stopped at the water’s edge. Navy-green waves slapped at my feet. If I could get the detonation device from behind the jaw of the sculpture, I could chuck it into the lake.

  The sun glinted through the Cascade Mountains behind me, tinting the lake’s ripples with rose. I checked my watch. The conference doors would open in a little over an hour. Short of scaling the walls, I had no way into the building, and with a warrant out for my arrest, I could hardly sweet-talk my way through the front doors.

  I’d have to put on my brown wig and join the first of the participants.

  Aynslee woke early. Shopping bags covered the chair beside her. The trendy store she and Beth had shopped at yesterday had a huge selection of shirts and jeans, and with Beth’s help, she’d tried on a half dozen outfits. The fitting rooms had no outside exits, and Beth hovered like a hummingbird near a feeder, so Aynslee had decided she’d just have to wait until the Peace Conference.

  Sometime during the night, Winston snuck back on the bed and now sprawled across most of the surface. His head rested on three pillows.

  Beth stirred. “Good morning, my Peace Conference crony. Today’s the big day. Doors open at seven and the conference begins at eight.”

  “I’ll need to take Winston out for a walk first.”

  Beth sat up. “I took the liberty of ordering room service for our morning repast. It should arrive—”

  Knock. Knock. “Room service.”

  Beth jumped from the bed, tugged on a maroon floral silk robe, checked the peephole, then opened the door. Aynslee grabbed Winston’s collar to keep him from checking out the waiter’s crotch. The man placed a large tray on the table in the corner, handed Beth the bill, then nodded and left after she signed it.

  The scent of bacon and fresh bread drove Aynslee from under the covers as soon as the door shut. Winston joined her, rested his head next to the tray, and stared intently at the plates.

  “Is that dog salivating on our breakfast?” Beth asked.

  “Mom says he’s doing more of a Vulcan mind meld, you know, feed the dog, feed the dog.” Aynslee picked up a piece of toast, then noticed Beth was praying. She closed her eyes until she figured Beth was finished, then opened them. The toast was gone and Winston was licking his chops.

  “Speaking of your mom, I wonder why she hasn’t called.” Beth opened the phone Mike had given her. “Well, that explains it. The battery’s dead. I’m sure she’s on her way here.”

  Just admit she doesn’t care. Breakfast no longer looked appetizing. “I’m taking Winston for a walk.”

  Beth pursed her lips. “I’m not sure that’s safe—”

  “If you were a bad guy, would you want to challenge him?” Aynslee pointed at the dog. “I have my ticket. If I’m not back by seven thirty, I’ll meet you by Mom’s sculpture.”

  “I’ll want you back here as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll try, but Winston doesn’t like anyone watching when he does his business. Don’t worry, I’ll be as fast as possible. The band Neutral Stench plays at ten.”

  Beth wrinkled her nose.

  “They’re great.” Aynslee pulled on a pair of jeans and red T-shirt, then grabbed her jacket, backpack, and Winston’s leash. “Chill, Beth, we’ll have a great day.”

  “You’re right.” Beth smiled.

  Craig dropped the cell phone into his pocket. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I know Gwen’s like family to you—”

  “What is it?” Dave asked through stiff lips.

  “Doesn’t Gwen have a 9mm SIG Sauer?” Craig shifted his weight.

  “Yes.”

  “The FBI just found a boatload of cash in Gwen’s bathroom. And two bodies in the woods near her house.”

  I waited at the entrance to the alley, watching the street come alive. Cawing seagulls floated like kites through the sapphire-blue sky, and the aroma of popcorn, hot coffee, and baking rolls wafted from the food vendors up the road. No Parking barriers blocked the front doors, men in gray coveralls spread red carpeting from the entrance to the street, and the news vans from Seattle’s stations parked in the surrounding unloading areas. A few well-dressed spectators settled into a ragged line on the sidewalk. Farther up the road, police were placing roadblocks.

  Distant flashing lights grew closer, a patrol car and a pair of motorcycle cops, followed by a limo. More police cars with flashing strobes followed. The black stretch car pulled up to the red carpet, energizing the news teams. Two men in navy suits stepped from the car and immediately started scanning the area, followed by a woman wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses, her hair a neat cap of curls, and her dress made of ivory silk. The woman waved at the cheerful crowd, then moved toward the press.
/>   The first of the high-profile attendees had arrived: the vice president of the United States.

  While Aynslee waited with the dog, she watched the action on the street from the window next to the elevator. A shiny black limo dumped some guys and a woman in front of the center while two more limos turned toward the loading dock in the back where Beth had delivered the reconstruction. Big muckety-mucks, apparently.

  No sign of the creep who’d followed her yesterday.

  The conference looked fun. Maybe she could go for a few hours, then run away later in the day. She could enjoy the bands and maybe get the autograph of the lead guitarist, Travis Judge. Then she could throw away the package, maybe hitch a ride to Seattle with someone, and be gone even before her mom arrived.

  The elevator was taking forever. Aynslee gave up and headed for the stairs.

  Enough people milled around for my presence to pass unnoticed. I jogged calmly across the street. Once I retrieved my wig, I’d join the waiting line. I wish I’d thought to bring a camera. No one looked twice at someone taking photos.

  I reached the bottom of the ramp when a hand snaked out and grabbed me.

  I bit my lip and tasted blood. Before I could scream, a gun barrel rammed into my side.

  “Don’t say a word,” Mike whispered in my ear. “Or you’re dead.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SIX

  DAVE GAVE UP ON SLEEPING BY FOUR A.M. HIS fumbling out of bed woke his wife. She helped him to the kitchen and made coffee before returning to her much-deserved rest.

  He stared out the window, watching the sky turn gray, his thoughts racing. No way had Gwen murdered two people. That was an absolute certainty. Then who had? Dave tried to remember their last conversation, just before he drove away and was shot. Nothing. His memory remained a blank. Had she told him someone might be framing her? That she was in danger?

  The phone rang.

  Dave’s hand jerked, spilling coffee down his arm. Who would be calling so early? The news wouldn’t be good. He picked up the receiver. “Sheriff Dave Moore, who’s calling?”