Ketcham nodded. “If you want to come back on Monday, you’re more than welcome. I’m not blowing smoke when I say you’ve been a tremendous asset to our work here. But I want you to take some time for yourself. Starting now. Take the weekend, go to church. Get your head straight. Cry a little bit. That’s an order.”
“Sure.” Parker glanced at the door, fearing the world outside this place where he would have to deal with his grief and uncertainty—and do it all alone.
“Corrinne wanted to talk to you before you leave. Alone. I thought that might be weird considering what just . . . happened with your friend.”
Parker buried his face in his hands and managed to say, “Yeah. I’ll call her tomorrow or something.”
“There’s one more thing,” Ketcham said, leaning in toward Parker and beckoning him to do the same. He spoke quietly. “What you said earlier about the drugs. You realize those were just to get him off the street, right? We don’t need those to convict.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“Nothing. Just that those drugs could have been there or not, right? He’s still our killer either way, and I’ll prove it with solid evidence.”
Parker felt a wave of dizziness. “Are you telling me that you”—he dropped to a whisper—“planted the drugs?”
“I’m not telling you anything. But if they were planted, would it matter? Everybody gets what they have coming, Reverend. That’s what makes my world make sense.” He straightened and turned his attention back to the pad in his hand. “Now get out of here. This is the last place you should be right now, considering. I’ll tell Corrinne I bounced you.”
“Right. See you Monday, Detective.”
Parker’s hand trembled, rattling the doorknob just a bit.
TWENTY
THEY WERE BACK IN THE SAME BOOTH AT THE MING TREE. Evert reclined in his seat, arms folded, occasionally sipping his tea. Parker had left the police station that afternoon with no idea where to go. If he thought it would do any good, he might have argued with Ketcham a little, begged to stay. The last thing he wanted right now was to be alone.
His first thought was to call Paige, an impulse that only served to magnify his sense of loneliness. He considered going back to the church, but the only two offices belonged to himself and Paige. Everything else—from video production to custodial work—was contracted out. That was another of Joshua Holton’s rules: the fewer possibilities for things to get personal, the better. There was always Corrinne, but that was a whole thing with baggage and expectations. Besides, she didn’t really know Parker, did she? And, in light of the conversation he’d just had with Ketcham, Parker wondered if he really knew any of them.
Never in the ten years since his father died had Parker missed him more. He knew his dad would have the solution to all this, or at least the ability to listen, offer counsel, and make Parker feel as though everything could actually turn out all right. Evert Carlson seemed the closest connection to his father, and so Parker had called him.
“You’re really not going to order anything?” Parker asked.
“No, I ate lunch two hours ago.”
“Then why are we here?”
“You said you wanted to break bread.”
“No, I said I wanted to talk.”
“Same thing. Why don’t you try the sesame chicken? It’s spectacular.”
“I’m really not hungry.” Parker closed the menu and set it down on the table.
“Well, if we’re not going to eat, then let’s talk.”
Parker had been hoping he’d find himself naturally opening up to Evert, talking about Paige’s death, his involvement with the murder investigation, his growing unease with his current ministry. But it wasn’t happening.
Evert tapped the table. “I can tell you’ve got something on your mind, son. Just spill it.”
“I just wanted to ask you something about the old church,” he said.
“All right,” Evert replied, nodding his approval of the subject.
“Do you remember my grandpa ever talking about a treasure? Anything about a relic, specifically a crown—something that had been placed in his care.”
Evert’s face paled. “Son, that’s not what you really brought me here to discuss.”
“Or at either of the churches you pastored in town, did you hear anything about a crown or an artifact being protected by a group of churches?”
“Parker, you’ve been chasing the wrong crown for years now. The dragon’s crown.”
The image of Paige’s back filled Parker’s mind, the meticulously painted image of a dragon and a crown.
“What do you mean, Evert?”
“Look at this.” He propped up the menu so they both could see. “The mythical Chinese dragon was meant to be a combination of the feet of a chicken, the head of a horse, the body of a serpent, and the mouth of a lion. But that’s just one culture. The Vikings also had dragon myths, as did the Native Americans, the Slavs, the Hindus, and of course the Hebrews.”
Parker sighed. “What’s the point?”
“You know what the dragon looks like to me? Even this Chinese dragon here? It looks like a lion crossed with a serpent. Remember what we talked about last time we got together? How Satan operates both as a roaring lion, openly attacking and devouring his prey, and as a seductive serpent, slithering his way into your life, into the Church? Well, in the book of Revelation, Saint John calls the devil ‘the dragon.’ I think what he saw was the combination of Satan openly persecuting the saints and cunningly convincing us to eat the forbidden fruit. You see, he’s one and the same adversary.”
“That’s an interesting theory.”
“This isn’t theory, son. This is as practical as it gets. I told you how you remind me of Saint Peter. Remember, it was Peter who called Satan a ‘roaring lion.’ It was Peter who came face-to-face with the mob in the Garden, and he didn’t back down. How did Peter respond?”
“He drew his sword.”
“Exactly. Bring on the lion, and Peter turns into a dragon slayer. But how did Satan take him down? By using his tactic from the other garden. He used a slave girl asking a simple question: ‘Weren’t you with Jesus too?’ A cunning invitation to join the mob, to renounce the Lord. Parker, I’m afraid you’re on guard against the lion, but all too eager to wear the dragon’s crown.”
“Look, Evert. Not today, okay?”
“All we’ve got is today, son.”
“You know what? I’ve had it with you and your lectures. I don’t know if I’ve denied the Lord like Peter did. I never intended to. All I wanted to do was save Jesus from you miserable, funeral-dirge singing, negative-minded Puritans. That’s all.”
“You don’t save Jesus, son. Jesus saves you. I don’t know what’s going on in your life right now, but I can sense that you’re very near to hitting your moment when the rooster crows.”
Parker was feeling a growing need to get away from this man. Had he really thought that talking to Evert Carlson might bring him some comfort?
“I’ve got to get going, Dr. Carlson. I’ll give you a call. We can break bread again sometime soon.”
Evert nodded weakly. “God willing.”
Darkness was falling and Father Michael was waiting. Only a small square of light remained, projected through the attic window onto the south wall, offering a dim glow as it inched its way along the pine. Michael didn’t mind the darkness, though. It could be a very useful tool.
He had been over every square inch of the attic, through each drawer and behind every beam. Damien did not seem to be hiding anything that the police had overlooked. But Damien was hiding something within himself: the truth. And Michael knew how to unlock it. He would wait as long as he had to.
The Jesuit sat utterly still in the shadows, where he had been crouching for nearly two hours. Part of his training had consisted of remaining motionless in a cramped space for a full day without food, drink, or any comforts. He had learned how to slow his breathing and e
ven his heart rate, and how to keep the blood flowing to his extremities.
When one does not move, Michael had learned, all of one’s surroundings and every sensation become amplified. He felt the familiar pressure of the clerical collar against his neck and the welcome heft of the .45 hanging from his shoulder—the two constants in his life.
It was uncommon for the Jesuits Militant to wear clericals when doing this kind of work—not exactly covert. But Father Ignatius had convinced Michael otherwise. Pairing the two—the gun and the collar—tended to throw people off-balance, made them quicker to break.
The dampened sound of voices and footsteps below alerted Michael. He breathed in slowly and let it out. With a crash, the ladder disappeared into the floor below.
Someone was coming up.
“Sleep deprivation” was the first subject Parker looked up after settling into bed with his laptop. A lifelong hypochondriac, he was immediately sure he exhibited each of the dreadful effects as he made his way down the list. Doing the math, he determined that he’d slept about ten of the past ninety hours, which seemed surprisingly high. He was afraid his mind would keep him awake yet another night with thoughts of murdered friends, dragons, crowns, and crowing roosters. To be safe, he popped an Ambien and returned to bed.
As he waited for the effects to kick in, he finally had a chance to run the words “Crown of Marbella” through an Internet search engine. Only four pages of results came back, most of them reviews of hotels or ads for real estate said to be a “hidden jewel in the crown of Marbella.” Near the bottom of the second page, he found a reference to the Crown in a digitized version of a two-hundred-year-old book called Treasures Lost. The short entry on the relic confirmed what Parker had learned about its history, although it told him nothing more.
After a few more travelogues and hotel reviews, a cluster of three results linked to a website called “The Conspiracy Forums,” where the Crown was occasionally included in extensive lists of missing artifacts, but never discussed directly.
Parker gave up and decided to spend some time boning up on the proper architectural terms used in describing churches. He would know his apses from his transepts when next he met Father Ignatius, he vowed. Yes, the content was dull, but Parker had a gift for absorbing the boring. Soon, though, the effects of the Ambien were clouding his ability to focus.
On an impulse he clicked his Favorites tab and brought up Damien’s Internet video channel. The last thing Parker thought as he drifted off to sleep was that the medication must really be messing with his head, because he could have sworn Damien had just said, “I made bail this afternoon.”
TWENTY-ONE
PARKER SLEPT UNTIL TEN FORTY-FIVE SATURDAY MORNING. HE awoke to hear his phone making a brilliantly irritating, juddering noise next to the bed. He could sort of recall hearing it buzz while he slept the morning away, the sound becoming incorporated into his dreams along with the pain in his abdomen, where the corner of his laptop was digging in.
With twelve hours of sleep under his belt, he found himself able to survey his present situation with an acuity he’d been lacking of late. It wasn’t the kind of fresh, bright perspective he might have hoped for, but at least he had clarity, and that was enough to get him out of bed.
Paige had been present—her old smiling, sarcastic self—in most of his dreams, and the renewed realization that she was gone took its toll on Parker’s mood. Still, he was in a frame of mind for looking forward. Unfortunately, he had no idea where to start.
His television program was covered for this week, but what about next? The thought of taking the pulpit anytime soon did not sit well with him, and he was sure that a few weeks off was a pretty standard response to what he’d endured. But whom did he need to call? And when? Paige had handled everything, leaving Parker painfully unprepared to deal with his own life.
His phone buzzed along the nightstand again, complaining about the three voice mails it bore. Parker snatched it up and punched the button to retrieve them.
“Parker, this is Joshua Holton.”
Parker had heard that tone before: guarded, one part hostile, one part pity. It was the voice of someone calling to break up.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve instructed my staff to cancel all of your scheduled appearances on Live Your Dreams Now. I’m not sure why you’ve stopped taking my calls or what is going on with you, but I can’t be bothered with this brand of negativity.”
Parker sat down.
“I don’t know if I should even tell you this, but I had very big plans for us, Parker. You were going to be my Midwest campus, my first franchise. I even flew up to Grand Rapids on Wednesday to check out your operation in person. But you weren’t there. You’re never there anymore. I see now that you’re not committed to the lifestyle we promote.
“I can’t be the only one to give, Parker. Like it or not, this is show business, and if you don’t scratch my back a little bit, I can’t scratch yours. If you want to talk about this, give me a call back Wednesday morning between nine and nine fifteen. Good-bye.”
Parker pushed the nine key to save the message.
“Mr. Saint, I don’t know if you’ll remember me. My name is Tammy Carmichael. I’m Paige Carmichael’s mother.” Her voice was low and quivering, the combination of crying and years of smoking. “I know you’re probably as torn up as I am about what happened, but I was wondering if you would officiate her funeral. The police haven’t released her body yet, so it may be a few days before we can finalize anything, but please give me a call when you get this. Thank you so much.” She left a number for her cell phone.
Parker pushed nine again.
“Reverend Saint, this is Bruce Hansen of Van Kampen Funeral Home. I’m calling in regards to Dr. Evert Carlson, who I believe is a member of your congregation. As I’m sure you are aware, Dr. Carlson died last night, and he left instructions that you were to preach his funeral service. Please give me a call back as soon as you can to let me know about your availability, as well as where the service will be held. I’d also like information you might have on any family that Dr. Carlson may have left, because I can’t find anything. My number is 616-555-8148. Thank you, and I hope to hear from you soon.”
Parker slumped back onto his bed, stunned. The room tipped in every direction. Now he had no choice but to deal with his own life, starting this moment. He reached out and grabbed a pen and some paper from his nightstand. He needed to write down phone numbers, make calls, plan services, relaunch his television ministry, grieve the loss of two friends, catch a serial killer, and find a sacred relic lost for hundreds of years. Best to start by making a list.
The voice-mail lady was saying, “We’re sorry you are having trouble. Good-bye.” Parker was about to push the button to redial when he saw the words RIP Dad on his daily reminders. He tossed the phone to the ground. There were more late additions to the itinerary.
1. Buy flowers
2. Visit cemetery
The day was bleak and cloudy—sad, but not the fitting kind of sad you see in outdoor funerals on television. Parker would have preferred a steady rain beating down on his dull black umbrella, or perhaps a perfectly sunny afternoon, golden beams glinting off the orange and yellow autumn leaves. Instead, he found himself standing at his father’s grave in an emotionless gray, a perfect reflection of the emptiness he felt inside.
He’d eaten a tasteless lunch of poached eggs on an English muffin and stopped by the church to pick up his mail, both the stack organized by Paige before her death and the bulging bundle of unsorted letters from the two days since.
The hour’s drive to Fairplains Cemetery in Greenville had given him plenty of time to try and sort things out, but the “things” were immovable in their refusal to be sorted. He wasn’t sure why, but he had chosen a route to the freeway that brought him past the old Presbyterian church and new nightclub. It hadn’t helped his disposition.
The flowers were ugly, meant to be an afterthought impulse i
tem—bleached, dyed, and wrapped carelessly in what looked like a botanical Elizabethan collar—picked up from an overpriced wine shop near Parker’s house. In years past Paige had purchased the bouquet: a dozen white tulips, his father’s favorite flower, the kind he had bought for Parker’s mother every year on their anniversary.
Paige had always reminded Parker a few days in advance of the anniversary of his father’s death. She always accompanied him to the cemetery, where she would stand respectfully behind him and place her hand on his back when he wept. Joshua Holton had made it clear that men like himself and Parker had to exude an air of success and happiness at all times. Paige was the only one allowed to see Parker at his lowest. He had often wondered if that made her his only friend.
He thought again about the expectations that he would preach Paige’s and Dr. Carlson’s funerals. He couldn’t imagine what he might say to do them justice or bring hope to the people mourning the young woman or the old man. He thought about Meredith Ludema’s rebuke and how it—apart from all the other criticisms he’d received—stuck with him so stubbornly. He thought about his television slot. He could not imagine getting back up in front of crowds of people next week. Or the week after. Or ever.
His phone rang. The number belonged to Detective Ketcham.
“Parker Saint.”
“Parker, where are you?” The detective’s voice was edgy, almost panicked.
“I’m in Greenville. At a cemetery.”
“Is there somewhere to sit down?”
“There are grave markers, but I’d rather not. What’s going on?”
“I’ve got some good news and some very disturbing news.”
“Give me the disturbing news first, I guess.”
“No. The good news is that I just got DNA analyses back from three different crime scenes. Damien Bane is a match for all three.”
Parker leaned against, then sat, on his father’s headstone. “What’s the very disturbing news?”
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