Careless Rapture

by Dara Girard

  He shook his head. “Not for me.” He looked at her, his eyes pleading for her to change her mind. “I know I want you to be my wife.”

  “I’m not ready to be a wife.”

  He turned and walked away. She walked silently beside him. After a moment she said, “But when I am ready, the only wife I’ll want to be is yours.”

  “We love each other, right?”

  Pamela nodded.

  He stopped walking. “Then say yes. We don’t have to get married now. Just wear the ring so I know you’re mine.”

  “I don’t need a ring to belong to you.”

  “The other guys need to know.”

  She folded her arms and tilted her head to the side. “The other guys know because I tell them. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Yes,” he said, unable to rid himself of the disappointment inside.

  Cedric had a hard time concentrating after Pamela left. So he wasn’t surprised when he was called into the manager’s office. However, he was surprised to see Drake there instead of the manager, Lance. That wasn’t good. “What’s wrong?” Drake asked him.

  “Pamela left yesterday.”

  “She’s left before.”

  He shifted awkwardly. “I asked her to marry me and she said no. She’s not ready yet. It sorta put me off my rhythm.”

  “You’re still young.”

  “I’m a man.”

  Drake nodded. Yes, he was a man and it wasn’t fair to brush away his pain because he was so many years removed from this moment. He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a little action figure. For reasons he couldn’t understand, Marcus had a habit of slipping things in his pocket “to keep Daddy company.” He set the figure on the table, then leaned back in the chair. “I wish I had something to say to you to make you feel better, but I don’t. But remember, today’s disappointments may be tomorrow’s joys. What you want now may need time to simmer like a good stew before it’s ready. Okay?”

  “Okay. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

  “Fine, then get back to work.” Drake watched him go, then picked up the action figure and placed it back in his pocket. For the first time in his life he hoped he’d made a bet he wouldn’t win.

  ***

  “Did you see Brent’s eye?” Mack asked Clay the next day. “Someone did us a favor and punched him.”

  “He was trying to be smooth with the wrong woman.”

  Mack laughed. “And she punched him?”

  “No, her boyfriend did. He makes some bad decisions, but has he told you his theory on the Amanda disappearance?”

  “That’s she’s a groupie—”

  Clay waved his hand. “Forget about that and think about her leaving.”

  “The police are on the case and they’re not doughnut eating imbeciles,” he said.

  “No one is saying they are.”

  “Then let them do their job and we do ours.”

  Mack was right, he couldn’t get distracted. He had other things to figure out. Like Patty’s cards.

  ***

  Jackie sat on her couch, working on a possible new budget, when the phone rang. She picked up the phone, happy for the break. “Hello?”

  “Still looking for me?” a familiar voice asked.

  She gripped the phone, anxiety creeping up her spine. “Who is this?”

  “You know who I am. You just don’t know my name.”

  Jackie tried to sound glib in an effort to hide her fear. “Oh, it’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

  He laughed. A low, chilling sound. “A sense of humor. Very nice. Unfortunately, that’s not my name. Melanie knows it, though. She could help you.”

  “I will find out who you are and I will stop you.”

  He clicked his tongue with mock sympathy. “Such anger. Pity, in someone so young. No wonder Melanie gave me your number. She wants you to experience the same peace she has.”

  “My peace will come when I find you.”

  “Yes, that’s right. However, you will not find me on your own. Since you’ve made no progress so far, let me help you. Melanie will tell you who I am if you get to her before she leaves.”

  Jackie’s heart began to race. “Before she leaves?”

  He replied with the dial tone.

  Jackie called Clay. “He called me again.”

  “What did he say?”

  She wrapped the cord around her hand. “He said I should see Melanie before she leaves.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  ***

  Melanie lived in a section of southeast D.C. where tourists and most taxis didn’t venture. Jackie and Clay walked up to the brick complex, where a cracked cement walkway led a path to Melanie’s first-level front door. Her lawn sprouted more weeds than grass. Through an open window above, they heard a baby crying while two adults shouted obscenities at each other. Jackie knocked on the door. No one replied.

  She turned to Clay. “Break it down.”

  He glanced around the complex, his sharp eyes taking in a used needle on the ground and the stripped car, left like a disregarded skeleton on the street. “She may be out.”

  Her tone hardened. “Break down the door or I will.” Clay looked at Jackie’s stubborn face and smiled. “I’d like to see you try. It may prove amusing.”

  She walked away and then ran toward the door. He casually held out his hand and stopped her. “Breaking down the door is only one way,” he said patiently. “But there’s an easier way.” He pulled out a thin wire and picked the lock. He opened the door. They found Melanie lying face up next to an empty bottle of pills.

  Jackie rushed to her and checked her vital signs while Clay called an ambulance. She was still alive, though barely. “You have to hold on,” she urged, awkwardly cradling her.

  Jackie had faint memories of her mother, kept alive by photos and the stories her brothers told. One thing she remembered were her mother’s arms as she lay in bed; they were skinny, like twigs at her side, and they used to lift her up and hug her. She remembered creeping into the room one day and laying her mother’s head in her lap and humming as her mother used to, hoping that if she could hum enough her mother could get well like magic tears or a kiss had done in a fairy tale. Jackie felt that desperation now, wanting some magic act to prevent the death that was destined. She turned to Clay. “We could try to make her sick.”

  “The drugs are already taking effect.”

  “We have to stop them somehow.”

  Melanie’s eyes drifted to hers. Eyes once so clear were now dazed and unfocused. “What for?” she whispered through cracked lips. “It will come soon—the peace, the rapture. He’ll come for you, too. He’ll save you.”

  “What is his name?”

  She smiled weakly. “I told him about you. You’re like the rest of us.”

  Jackie resisted the urge to shake her. “What is his name?”

  “Name?”

  “Your adviser. You can tell me now. He told me so.”

  “He did.” she said, uncertain.

  “Yes.” She stroked Melanie’s forehead. “It’s all right now.”

  Her face relaxed. She took a deep breath, then said, “His name is Emmerick …” Her voice died away. A few seconds later, so did she.

  Jackie stared at the wide, sightless eyes. She turned to Clay, who stood with his hands on his hips and no readable expression on his face. Her sense of helplessness ignited into rage. She wanted to scream and shout at him for not stopping this, for being so busy with other cases that he hadn’t prevented what had happened. She wanted to pound his chest, cause him some pain, to get some emotion on his face. At that moment she hated him for being so calm, for being so distant.

  She stood and faced him. “Don’t you care?”

  “Of course I care.”

  “Then show it.”

  His eyes searched hers. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Feel something.”

  He merely looked at her.

  Jackie gripped her hands.
“Sometimes you--”

  “Hate me? Do I disgust you with my heartlessness? Don’t worry, I inspire that in a lot of people, but I don’t have the luxury of coddling you and trying to make everything okay. It’s not okay. This world isn’t okay. You’ve seen death before so you know it exists. People die sometimes by their own hands. I’m not a hero sometimes I’m too late.”

  His words shamed her with their truth. She could hear the pain in the distant syllables of his words ringing with the bell of remorse. It was unfair to blame him.

  Jackie briefly shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! We were supposed to save her. She wasn’t supposed to die in this place.” She looked around at the dirt on the wall; there was the smell of damp carpet from last week’s rain. Tears filled her eyes. It was a dreadful place to die, but many people died in places far worse. “I failed.”

  He touched her shoulder. “You didn’t fail.”

  She shrugged his hand away. “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you—”

  “You don’t call this failure?” She pointed to Melanie’s lifeless body. “What would you call it? A miscalculation?”

  “She killed herself. You couldn’t have stopped that.”

  “Yes, I could have.”

  “Sometimes people have a despair that cannot be reached. You couldn’t have—”

  Jackie pounded her fists against her thighs. “I needed time. He stole that from me. He killed her and I still don’t know anything about him. Neither do you.” She studied his face a moment. “Do you?”

  He nodded.

  “How long have you known?”

  Long enough. He’d met Melanie and realized she was in pretty deep. It would take a major intervention to combat the brainwashing. What she said was familiar and in his gut he knew then who her messenger was.

  “His name is Lamont Emmerick. At least, that’s one of his names. He grew up in Michigan, the second son to a factory worker and teacher. His parents were happily married. He graduated from a local Detroit college and made his way west. Lived in California, then Washington. Never stayed in a place longer than three years. He had worked as an insurance agent before following his ‘calling.’”

  Jackie’s anger dipped into a dull anger that radiated in the back of her mind, slowly heating itself as she felt her limbs tremble. She wanted to shatter something, presently his face. She could barely get the words through her teeth. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “Because he’s a dangerous man.”

  “Did I hire you to be a damn bodyguard? You bastard. You knew all this time and you didn’t tell me. You let her die. You’re right—you’re no hero, you’re a traitor.”

  “She was in too deep, like a trapped fly in milk Emmerick isn’t the type of man you can reason with. I didn’t want you ... I wanted to protect you.”

  “I don’t care. You should have told me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He walked to the window and ran his finger against the ledge. “Because I hadn’t stopped him,” he said simply, wiping the dust from his fingertips.

  “What do you mean? How could you have stopped him?”

  He captured her eyes. “By killing him the first time I had a chance.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jackie needed only to look at the shadows in Clay’s eyes to know what he meant; they almost reached out to her, chilling her heart with their remote sadness. She slowly fell to her knees, feeling ill. “But she doesn’t have any marks on her. How could it be the same man who killed your sister?”

  “He only beat his wives. His style hasn’t changed much. Suicide is the preferred method of peace. I’ll have to verify a few things.” He disappeared into the next room.

  She wished he wasn’t so calm. Didn’t he know how cold it seemed? She wanted—no, needed—some burst of emotion: pain, rage, hurt, anything. She, thought of Adriana comparing Clay to a phantom. What was going on in his mind? “I can get someone else to help me,” she said when he returned to the room.

  He raised a brow. “Are you firing me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Clay—”

  “Then let me do my job.”

  “You’ve done your. job. Now that I know who he is—”

  Clay spun around so quickly, she jumped. “You’re going to stay away from him until I say so.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “You’re a smart woman, don’t spite me just because you don’t like instructions.”

  She bristled at his tone. “I—”

  “I know what he’s capable of.” He pointed to Melanie. “This is nothing.”

  “He can’t—”

  “I want your promise.” He grabbed her arm. “Promise.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Promise.”

  He released his grip. She rubbed her arm; he noticed the motion and felt guilty. He reached for her—she stepped back. “Trust me,” he said.

  “Only if you tell me everything from now on. I don’t need protection from the truth.”

  “Okay.” He walked around the bare room. Along the wall, the carpet threads were unraveled. He picked up a scrap piece of paper and pocketed it.

  She bit her lip. “Shouldn’t you leave it for the police?”

  “She was poor and this is a suicide. There won’t be an investigation.”

  “But he—”

  “Won’t be connected to this. There are no pamphlets connected to him. She died by her own hands.” He lifted up the carpet. “He’s not going to be easy to catch.”

  Jackie shifted from one foot to the other. “When do you think the ambulance will get here?”

  “Tuesday, if we’re lucky.”

  She shot him a look. “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s a bad neighborhood. People here steal the tires off police cruisers.” He saw her staring at the body, all her emotions ready to become tears. “I’ll get him for you,” he promised in a soft voice.

  She met his eyes. “We’ll get him together.”

  ***

  Clay stared at his computer screen and swore. It was too easy. All the information about the Careless Rapture Ministry was on their Web site. It didn’t make sense.

  He twirled his pen. “Why does he have a Web site?”

  Mack looked up from his desk. “Who?”

  “Emmerick.” Clay tapped his pen against the computer screen. “Why does he have a Web site?”

  Mack took off his reading glasses. “Exposure? Connection to his followers?”

  Clay considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “But he targets low-income individuals. Most wouldn’t have access to the Internet. Why not stick with fliers and the one-on-one approach? This is unnecessary, so why does it exist? Why expose himself? Why not keep it underground?”

  “Ego?”

  “Yes, he has one. But I don’t think that’s it.”

  Mack saw a certain look in Clay’s eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t get too deep. Our job is to find out more about him. Find out where he is. We’re not hired to draw up a psychological profile.”

  Clay ignored him. “There wasn’t anything in her apartment. Not a booklet, pamphlet, card. Nothing to connect Melanie to him.”

  “Perhaps he was afraid.”

  “She killed herself. Why would he be afraid of that?” He ran a tired hand down his face. “He’s not acting in character and I don’t like that.”

  “Perhaps she cleaned everything up herself before she killed herself. It’s not unusual for victims to set things in order before they die.”

  “Yes, but why leave nothing? No note. No reason. If this is part of their ritual, wouldn’t she be proud of what she had done?” Clay leaned back, baffled. “I want you to get ahold of Nicolas for me.”

  “The police won’t touch this.”

  “They may be able to help.”

 
“I used to be a cop, remember? He can’t help you.”

  “I still want to talk to him.” Clay twirled his pen. “I want to try.”

  ***

  Nicolas listened to Clay’s story as they sat in the back booth of a cafe with three coffees between them. Nicolas shook his head after Clay finished. “Have you heard about a girl named Amanda?” Nicolas asked. “She’s been missing for nearly three weeks. We would have forgotten about her except that she didn’t have the decency to be some ordinary girl. She’s Senator Heldon’s niece. Do you know what that means? It means we’ve got the flaming government on our ass and the media thinking they are damn detectives and putting the public in a frenzy.”

  Nicolas took a sip of his coffee, his blue eyes sharp. “I don’t need to tell you how this works, but I’ll try. No one cares about some ex-hooker who got herself involved with a nutcase and decided to kill herself. If she came from a good family? Maybe. Had some looks? Possibly. What you’ve just told me is a sad story. This city has a lot of those.” His eyes darted between them. “I don’t want to leave you high and dry, though.” He took out a card and shoved it across the table to Clay. “I think reporters are scum, but he’s one of the few that doesn’t twist our words in print. Perhaps he could write a story and get some interest.” He lifted his mug. “Good luck.”

  ***

  Unfortunately, they had no interest. Steve Reinfeld of the Post listened, his long face and intense features kind, but once Clay finished, he rubbed his thin chin and shrugged. “Nice story, but it’s not news. People won’t care. If it was a slow news day, perhaps. But with this disappearance of Amanda Heldon still a hot topic, your story wouldn’t get the space the size of a personal ad.” He pulled on his goatee. “News is important information with an entertainment factor. You have to package it right. Give me a juicy angle related to what’s happening now, maybe I could help you out then. Otherwise, let it die.”

  Later that day, Mack and Clay sat in their office in low spirits, appropriate with the drizzling rain. Clay twirled his pen. “You know how you said we weren’t in the business of storytelling?”