“Let me ask another question first,” Sherlock said. “Was Eleanor McCamy Ward just really well off or was she rich?”
“We could check the probate records, but everyone knows she was worth quite a bit at her death, say, maybe around five million. So, yes, I’d say she was rich.”
“And Sooner McCamy inherited everything?”
Katie nodded, sighed. “I wasn’t living here at the time, but I remember thinking that her death was awfully convenient for Sooner. But of course, no one could prove anything. You guys met him. He certainly looks the role of the stern country preacher, doesn’t he? Dark, brooding, his eyes boring right into your soul.”
“You wonder how much of it is for real,” Miles said, then rose and went off to check the kids. He returned in a moment.
Katie said, “I suppose Sooner could have killed his aunt.”
“Yes,” Savich said, nodding as he sipped Minna’s delicious Darjeeling tea. “But a push down the stairs was taking a chance. It doesn’t guarantee a broken neck. If Sooner did kill her, then he probably saw the opportunity and took it without thinking it through.”
Katie said, “You’re right. It’s not at all a sure thing, she could have come out of it with a sprained ankle.”
“You know,” Sherlock said after her last bite of apple pie, “I think I’m in need of some more local religion. Katie, do the Sinful Children of God meet during the week?”
“Oh yes,” Katie said. “But not on Tuesdays, that’s their day off.”
Savich said thoughtfully, “I think a better idea is for me and Sherlock to take the kids and go visit Reverend and Mrs. McCamy. You’ll know I’ll be looking real close to see his reaction to Sam. And I want to know if Sam’s ever seen him before. Do you guys think that’s a good idea?”
Minna frowned. “If Reverend McCamy is somehow involved in Sam’s kidnapping, is it wise to stick Sam right under his nose?”
Sherlock thought about that for a moment, then said, “Absolutely nothing will happen to Sam with Dillon and me with him, that I can promise you, or else we wouldn’t even consider taking him over there. Just seeing how Reverend McCamy reacts when confronted with Sam, well, that could give us lots of information.”
Miles said, “Minna, these two are the best, don’t worry. I’m not. On the other hand, I just might hide right outside the front door, a big stick in my hand.”
Katie was grinning as she said, “I agree that just maybe something will pop. After all, Beau and Clancy are no longer in the picture. If the McCamys are involved, they’ve not had time to recruit more out-of-work criminals.”
Late Tuesday morning, Savich and Sherlock, with both Keely and Sam in hand, knocked on the McCamys’ front door.
“Who lives here, Uncle Dillon?”
“Two very interesting people I think you kids might like meeting.”
“I’d rather watch cartoons,” Keely said and laced her fingers with Sam’s.
Sherlock said, “We’re going to have lunch with your mom, Keely, and your dad, Sam. So that means you need to hang out with me and Uncle Dillon for a while, okay? I doubt any cartoons will be playing in this house, so you’ll have to be patient.”
“She means she doesn’t want us to whine,” Keely told Sam, who nodded, then asked, “Where’s my dad?”
“He had some calls to make, you know, Conrad Evans at the plant. He said he needed you guys out of his hair for a while.”
“He always says that,” Sam said, “but then he says he can’t wait to see me again.”
Savich smiled. “That, Sam, is what’s known as a parent’s curse.”
Elsbeth McCamy came to the door after another minute had passed. She stared at the two agents, then she stared at the children.
“May we speak to you, Mrs. McCamy?” Sherlock said. “Forgive us for bringing the children, but we were the only two free adults.”
“Yes, of course. Do come in. Reverend McCamy,” she called out, “two FBI agents are here and they’ve brought children.”
It really was very old-fashioned of her to call her husband Reverend McCamy, Savich thought. But Elsbeth McCamy didn’t look the least bit old-fashioned in her tight low-slung jeans and white tube top that left three inches of bare belly showing. She was wearing a belly button ring, a delicate circle of gold. And her Jesus earrings were shining bright in the morning light pouring through the front windows.
Reverend Sooner McCamy was wearing his patented black pants, a white shirt, and a black jacket. When he came out of his study down the hall, he looked harassed. “Elsbeth, I’m ministering to Mr. and Mrs. Coombs.”
“The agents would like to speak to us.”
“Take them to the living room. I’ll see if Mr. and Mrs. Coombs can wait for ten minutes.” He raised an eyebrow as Sherlock said, “Ten minutes sounds just fine.”
Elsbeth McCamy waved them into the living room. She eyed the children again. “Hello, Keely. Can you introduce me to this little boy?”
“I’m not a little boy,” Sam said. “I’m six.”
“I see. And what is your name?”
“Sam. I’m Sam.”
Sherlock was watching her carefully when she looked at Sam. She saw nothing but an adult being polite to a child.
“No, you’re not little at all. I’m Mrs. McCamy, Sam. Welcome to my home. Do you like it here in Jessborough?”
Sam gave this some thought. “Well, those two men who kidnapped me are dead. Maybe things are better now.”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“We’re very sorry about Clancy’s death, Mrs. McCamy. The medical examiner finished this morning and he wanted me to ask you if you wanted to take care of the arrangements.”
“No, I don’t want to. Let Tennessee do it. Clancy had been bad for a very long time.” She paused a moment, and looked down at Sam. “Did you know that Clancy was my brother?”
24
Sam stared up at her, then he shook his head. “Really?” Sam said. “Why did your brother take me?”
“I don’t know, dear. We haven’t been close for many years now.”
“I wouldn’t want to be close to Fatso either.”
“I can see your point.”
Reverend McCamy said from the doorway, “So you’re Sam Kettering, the little boy who was kidnapped.”
“I’m not little,” Sam said.
“He’s six,” Elsbeth said.
“You look pretty little to me,” the reverend said, ignoring his wife as he walked forward to stand over Sam.
“You’re old,” Sam said, staring up at him. “That’s why you’re bigger than me.”
“Do you think Agent Savich is old?” Reverend McCamy asked, not smiling, his dark eyes intent on Sam’s face.
“Well, sure, he’s even taller than you, but he’s really strong. I’ve seen him and my dad throw each other all over the place at the gym. They punch each other, yell insults, and groan, and then they’re laughing.”
“Sam’s father and I work out together occasionally,” Savich said to Reverend McCamy. “Sam, why don’t you and Keely check out that fireplace. It looks pretty old and big to me.”
Sam said, never looking away from Reverend McCamy, “Did you push your aunt down the stairs, sir?”
There was dead silence in the living room. Bad idea to bring the kids, Savich thought, but on the other hand, you never knew what could shake loose. So much for the kids watching TV in the other room. Savich watched the reverend’s face. He was pale, too pale, except for the dark beard stubble, and now, perhaps, he’d paled just a bit more. He looked like an old-time zealot in all that black with those burning eyes of his. He gave Savich the creeps.
Reverend McCamy shook his head. He reached out his hand to touch Sam, then drew it back. “Why no, I didn’t. Why would you think I did, Sam?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Some grown-ups do really bad things. Like Beau and Fatso.”
“Fatso? Oh, you mean Clancy. Yes, what you said, that’s true enough, and you hav
e good reason to know that. But I’m a man of God, Sam. My mission in life is to bring others to Him, to accept how He suffered for all of us, how He atoned for our sins, even Beau’s and Clancy’s. And He allows some of us to experience His own sacrifice.”
“I wish you’d brought Fatso and Beau to God,” Sam said, “before they took me away from my dad.”
“Well, who knows? Maybe they were thinking about God when they took you. We’ll never know, will we? Not all men are capable of achieving anything like goodness. Are you good, Sam?”
Sam didn’t say a word, just stared up at Reverend McCamy.
Keely said, “He’s a boy, but I think he’s a little bit good.”
Reverend McCamy said, “You’re the sheriff’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Keely said, hugging Savich’s pant leg. “You look like a man in one of my mama’s old movies, you know, black and white before there were colors. I don’t like black and white.”
Savich smiled, just couldn’t help it, but he saw that Reverend McCamy didn’t appreciate the child’s wit. There was no change in his expression, but Savich felt something dark and brooding coming over him, something he didn’t understand. But all McCamy said was, “Elsbeth, why don’t you take the children to the kitchen and give them some lemonade.”
Sherlock said, “That sounds splendid. Let me help.”
Elsbeth nodded and walked out of the living room, the kids behind her.
“He’s scary, Aunt Sherlock,” Sam said in a low voice.
“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “Sam, what’s wrong?”
He’d stopped and was staring at the big staircase. Keely was running ahead behind Elsbeth McCamy. Sherlock leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Sam, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t like this house, Aunt Sherlock. Can’t you feel it?”
“Feel what, sweetie?”
Sam frowned a moment, kept staring at that staircase, then shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s kinda scary. His aunt must have fallen down these stairs.”
“Yes, she did.”
Sam touched his fingers to the newel post, a richly carved mahogany pineapple. “Do you think Mrs. McCamy really has some lemonade, or do you think she’ll just have Diet Coke?”
“We’ll see, now won’t we?” Sherlock said.
In the living room, Savich remained standing. It was less painful that way. Reverend McCamy wasn’t a large man, but he had presence, and that made him appear bigger than he actually was. Savich remembered the bottomless well of madness in Tammy Tuttle’s eyes and wondered if there was a hint of the same madness in Reverend Sooner McCamy’s dark eyes as well.
“You actually discussed my aunt’s death in front of children? Discussed my murdering her?”
“We thought they were watching TV,” Savich said. “We should have known better. We’re cops, Reverend McCamy, and we had to wonder about the excellent timing of her demise—six months after your marriage to your wife. No illness, just a sudden fall down the stairs and a broken neck.”
“My aunt was a very fine woman, Agent Savich. I loved her very much. She took me in when I was blind and couldn’t find my way. She listened to me, comforted me, encouraged me to follow my heart. Her death brought me great sadness. But I knew she basked in God’s sacred light. She’s with Him now, out of pain, for all eternity.”
“Perhaps so. But you were still alive, Reverend McCamy, as was your wife. And you were also much richer. I like your house. It’s a lovely property.”
“Yes, that’s a fact.” McCamy waved Savich to a sofa. “It’s interesting how the living always regard death selfishly, isn’t it? A man will grieve, then almost immediately measure what he’ll gain from it. Why don’t you sit down.”
“Perhaps that’s true. I’ll stay standing. My back isn’t very happy at the moment.”
“I’ve never had back problems.”
“I haven’t either until Saturday night. Tell me, sir, what do you think of Sam?”
His dark intense eyes rested on Savich’s face a moment before he said, “Oh, I’d forgotten that you got hurt at Katie’s house. The nurses at the hospital were really excited about having an FBI agent laid out there.”
Savich arched an eyebrow.
Reverend McCamy shrugged. “It’s a small town, and two of the nurses in the emergency room live here in Jessborough. Gossip is rife. Now, that’s an odd question, Agent Savich. What do I think of Sam? Well, he appears to be precocious, a very forthright child.”
“You mean just because he repeats what he heard adults say?”
“No, not just that.” Reverend McCamy paused a moment, stroking his thin fingers over the wool of his black jacket. “It’s that he’s somehow above the normal lies and deceptions of children.”
“I’ve heard Sam tell a few whoppers, Reverend. He’s a little boy, and that’s exactly what one would expect. But the fact that he saved himself, now that’s very impressive. He wasn’t cowed by fear—and that’s amazing for a six-year-old. I suppose you heard the story of how he slithered out of a window in the old Bleaker cabin, and took off, Beau and Clancy after him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard several versions of the tale. All of them strike to the soul.” Reverend McCamy slowly shook his head, his eyes on his fingers, which were still stroking his jacket, against the nap. He said nothing more. How strange.
Savich said, “Don’t you believe it’s quite a coincidence that Clancy was your wife’s brother and he brought Sam here?”
Reverend McCamy raised his dark eyes to rest on Savich’s face. “Coincidences are random acts that are drawn together by foolish men.”
“I gather you are not a foolish man?”
“I am a realistic man, Agent Savich, but yes, like most men, I am occasionally foolish. I believe that our Lord would have us study each random act as it touches us and try to determine how it will enhance our grace. You think my wife and I were involved with the boy’s kidnapping, Agent Savich? Just because Clancy was her brother?”
Savich said slowly, not really wanting to look in those black eyes, eyes that somehow seemed to absorb darkness from light, “What I think, Reverend, is that your wife’s brother brought Sam to Jessborough, Tennessee, for a reason. You’ll have to admit that both Clancy and Beau demonstrated a great deal of motivation. They simply didn’t stop trying to get him until they were dead. That, also, is very strange.”
Reverend McCamy merely nodded. He raised his right hand and stroked his fingers through his black hair. His hair was thick, long enough to tie at his nape, but he let it hang loose. Stroking his hair was a long-standing habit, Savich thought.
Savich wished he had another pain pill. “Why do you suppose they did that, Reverend?”
“I really have no idea, Agent Savich.”
“When Clancy was at the sheriff’s house last night, he said something unusual to Mr. Kettering. He said that he didn’t necessarily believe it. Believe what, Reverend McCamy?”
“I have no idea, Agent Savich.”
“Clancy also admitted to Mr. Kettering that someone had hired him.”
Reverend McCamy shrugged. “Then it seems that someone was paying them a great deal of money to get the child.”
“That much is obvious. But the question remains: Why is Sam so important to the one who paid them? What is it about Sam that makes him so valuable, if you will? No ransom demands, no obvious revenge motive, no pedophilia that we know of, so it must be something else. Do you know what the motive could be, Reverend McCamy?”
Reverend McCamy shrugged. “As I remarked, he is a precocious child, but I can’t personally imagine anyone going to all that trouble for a precocious child.”
“Then it must be something more.”
The reverend’s dark eyes rested on Savich’s face. “I have found that there is always something more, Agent Savich. It is a pity that men are given free will. There is endless abuse, don’t you agree?”
“Why do you say it’s a pity?”
“Free wi
ll allows men to make disastrous mistakes without end; what they should be focusing on is gaining God’s grace.”
Savich said, “I think the reason for many of men’s endless mistakes is a direct cause of their search for God’s grace. Witness the history of Ireland, England, Spain, France—men’s disastrous mistakes litter the landscape, Reverend, especially in their efforts to focus God’s grace on themselves, and to deny all other men’s claims to the contrary.”
“That is blindness, Agent Savich, and a man’s blindness can lead either to his salvation or his damnation. If a man focuses on God’s grace and His suffering for us, His creatures, his blindness will last but a moment of time. Ah, here is Mrs. McCamy with some refreshment for us, Agent Savich.”
“And how does a man do that, Reverend McCamy?”
“He places himself in the hands of the prophets placed on this earth to guide him.”
Elsbeth McCamy closed her eyes a moment at her husband’s words, and slowly nodded.
Savich asked, “Are you one of these prophets, Reverend McCamy?”
He merely bowed his head and turned his attention to the tea.
The tea tasted as dark as Reverend McCamy’s eyes, and it was so hot it nearly burned his mouth. Savich didn’t like it. He leaned over to place his saucer carefully on an end table, and instantly regretted it. Pain sliced through his back.
“I do think it’s time that you left, Agent Savich. Neither my wife nor I have anything more to say to you.”
“Thank you for seeing us,” Savich said, the pain nearly bowing him over. He needed a pain pill, fast. He shook Reverend McCamy’s hand, feeling the firmly controlled strength of the man. He looked for a moment into those intense eyes, eyes that either saw too much or saw things that were not of this world. Savich just didn’t know which. But he did know one thing.
Sherlock nodded to both of their hosts, but didn’t say anything. She had each child by the hand.
When they were out the front door and it had closed behind them, Savich said, “Please tell me you have a pain med with you.”
“You’ll have to swallow it dry.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 77
