by Diane Kelly
“You could buy one and rebuild it,” Seth suggested.
“That’s a thought.”
We aimed for Fort Worth and pulled into the driveway at the Rutledge house a half hour later.
Lisa cast a nervous glance at me and Seth. “How should we handle this?”
Before either of us could respond, Leonard said, “Me and Harry will go to the door. Let’s see if Ollie recognizes us.”
All of us exited the car. While the two older men headed to the front door, Seth, Lisa, and I hung back by the car.
Both Harry and Leonard put their knuckles to the door and rapped loudly. When nobody answered, they knocked again, louder and more insistently. Shortly thereafter, Ollie yanked the door open, his other hand on his rolling oxygen tank, the tubes hanging from his nose.
“Stop that damn bang—!” He stopped shouting mid-word and his mouth fell open. He looked from Leonard to Harry, speechless. A small panic had just begun to well up in me when Ollie threw up his arms and clasped both men firmly by the shoulders. “You sons of bitches!” he cried with glee, an openmouthed smile lighting up his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”
They gestured in our direction.
“Your grandson invited us for a visit,” Leonard said. “Paid for our plane tickets and everything.”
“That’s right,” Harry added. “He said you could use a good time.” He raised his palms to his sides. “Who better to provide a good time than yours truly?”
“I know that’s right!” Ollie let loose with a heartfelt chuckle.
Before we knew what was happening, the men had disappeared inside, the screen door slamming shut behind them with a loud whap!
Lisa and Seth exchanged looks.
Seth’s brows rose in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile before.”
Lisa shook her head slowly, similarly incredulous. “And I’ve definitely never heard him laugh.”
“Well,” I said, “there’s a first time for everything.”
I only hoped the smile and laugh Ollie offered tonight would be the first of many.
TWENTY-FOUR
DOUBLE DATE
Brigit
While Megan and Seth sat together on the couch, watching a movie on TV, Brigit and Blast tangled on the rug. She grabbed one of his back legs in her mouth and flipped him over onto his back.
She had him now.
Before he could get out of the vulnerable position, she jumped on top of him and took his throat in her teeth. Had this been a real fight, she would’ve ripped his throat out right then and there. But since they were only playing, she mouthed him gently while he wriggled underneath her, trying to get free. Though she knew she could keep Blast pinned to the rug, it was more fun when there was some give and take. She released her hold and allowed him to get up, then let him take her down this time.
On her back now, Brigit looked up at the couch. She saw that Seth and Megan were play-fighting, too. Seth had his mouth on Megan’s neck. But instead of fighting back like she was supposed to, Megan was just letting him bite her. She didn’t know how to play right, how to defend herself. Good thing Megan had Brigit around to keep her safe.
TWENTY-FIVE
MERCIFUL ME
The Father
It was near midnight and full dark when Zeke opened the silo door and Emmanuel shone his flashlight inside. The beam revealed Juliette lying on her cot. She put up a hand to block the glare and sat up, but made no move to rush the door and escape. Good. Maybe the slut had learned a thing or two in here.
Keeping the beam locked on her, Emmanuel stepped to the doorway. “Can you behave as God would have you?”
Lit up like a Broadway actress in a tragedy, she nodded and softly said, “Yes. I can.”
He lowered the flashlight so that it shined on the ground at her feet. “Then you may return to the flock.”
She slowly stood and stiffly shuffled toward him. He stepped back to allow her outside. As she passed him, he thrust a small ceramic urn at her.
She looked down at it, hesitating. “What is that?”
“Your child,” he said. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Staring down at the vessel, she burst into silent, shoulder-shaking sobs. After a few seconds, she took the urn, clutching it to her chest.
“You may spread her ashes in the garden if you like,” he said. Or you can shove ’em where the sun don’t shine for all I care. Fortunately, the ash didn’t smell too much like the cedar and mesquite logs he’d burned in the dining hall’s fireplace to produce them. Tossing some lighter fluid on them had been a good idea, ensured the wood had burned completely.
Juliette nodded and sniffled loudly.
“Everyone has missed you,” Emmanuel said, “especially the sisters. They’d love to have you join them in the sewing circle again after breakfast tomorrow. I’m sure you’re eager to get things back to normal.”
As for himself, he was eager to get his bank balance back up where it should be. He turned to Zeke. “Take her to the infirmary. She can sleep there tonight and go back to the women’s quarters tomorrow evening.”
As the two headed off, he felt a smug satisfaction.
I’m back in control.
He remembered the first time he’d felt that heady rush of power. It was over thirty years ago, when he’d been only a few years older, but so much wiser, than Juliette.
Emmanuel had been the seventh of thirteen children, the fourth boy, born Philip Peter Swafford in central Mississippi to Southern Baptist parents who had heeded God’s command in Genesis 1:28. Be fruitful and multiply. Given that his parents didn’t drink, dance, or play cards—such activities were the devil’s doing—Emmanuel supposed there’d been nothing else for his parents to do come Saturday nights but work on their multiplication.
Having no formal training but being handy with a hammer, Philip Peter’s father took what work he could find as a handyman. His earnings kept the family fed—barely—but left nothing for luxuries or even some of the basic necessities. Young Philip Peter was small for his age, a condition emphasized by the fact that he had to wear his older brothers’ well-worn and ill-fitting hand-me-down clothes, earning him the scorn of his only slightly better dressed classmates, who not-so-affectionately dubbed him “Pee-Pee.”
When he wasn’t in school, Philip Peter had been forced to go along on jobs with his father. Helping his father repair drywall, replace rotten boards, and install toilets had taught the young boy a lot, primarily that he did not enjoy manual labor. He’d go to hell before he’d follow in his father’s footsteps. No, he planned to go to trade school, maybe even college, and land a job that paid enough that he could finally afford all the material things that had been denied to him in his childhood. A color television. A car. Shoes that nobody else had worn before him.
He’d experienced a growth spurt during his junior year of high school, shooting up five inches seemingly overnight, his once-bare face now sprouting dark, manly hair he’d had to shave every other day. The angelic redhead he’d had a crush on since kindergarten finally noticed him, sending a shy smile his way as they sat in English class. With Philip Peter’s new stature came just enough confidence to return the smile. The girl passed him a note, invited him to come to a jubilee at the Church of the Holy Star, an independent, nondenominational church where her father preached. He’d been thrilled that she’d wanted to spend time in his company. He hadn’t realized at the time that that one note, that invitation, would change his life forever.
At that jubilee, he’d heard the girl’s father preach. To his surprise, it wasn’t all hellfire and brimstone, the fare of fear offered at the Southern Baptist church his parents dragged him and his siblings to. On the contrary, Pastor Ray acknowledged that, while God was an all-powerful being with high expectations of his people, God could also be loving and accepting and provide a refuge from a cruel world where children were forced to work as soon as they were old enough to hold a hammer, to go to bed with a
half-empty belly in a cramped and cold room with seven siblings, and be called “Pee-Pee” by their peers.
Finally, Philip Peter had found a warm, welcoming home.
He’d found a second, and much more attentive, father, too. Pastor Ray took a shine to the eager young man, and taught him everything he knew about God, theology, and the Bible, assigning him tasks around the church, preparing him to serve as an assistant pastor. Little did Pastor Ray know that the young man he was mentoring was watching his every move, learning how to be even more charismatic, how to seduce people with words and promises of better things to come.
Philip Peter had not only learned some new things about religion under Pastor Ray’s tutelage, but he’d also learned some things about himself during that time. He’d learned that, while he could make a decent living as the plumber he’d become after completing the community college program, the material things he’d once longed for and now owned failed to provide the satisfaction he’d expected. He’d learned that the respect and adulation of the fellow congregants felt far more gratifying.
The others were impressed by his ability to quote the perfect scripture for every occasion, from happy to solemn to tragic. They sought his guidance on everything from child-raising to marital matters, as if he were some sort of guru. For the first time in his life, he was in control, not only of his own life, but of other people’s as well.
And he reveled in it.
When Pastor Ray took his family and a portion of the church on a mission trip to Mexico for a month in the summer of 1987, Philip Peter stayed behind and seized the occasion to separate the most devoted and needy from among the flock. He combined the disparate but equally effective styles of the Southern Baptist preacher and Pastor Ray, offering his own unique blend of spirituality. He preached increasingly factious sermons over the four weeks, insisting that those who truly loved the Lord had been called, along with him, to live in a newer, better, purer way.
By the time Pastor Ray returned, his congregation had been torn apart, plundered by the young man he’d trusted to tend to his flock while he was away.
Philip Peter, under his newly assumed name Father Emmanuel, led his followers to a new life in Texas, one funded by the donations of their cash and sale of their property. He left behind what remained of the Church of the Holy Star, as well as the preacher’s daughter he’d deflowered after making empty promises of marriage and children he had no intention of fathering. His younger siblings had been nothing but pains in the ass to him, more competitors for what little food was on the table, more brats his parents expected him to look after on occasion. Why would he want to tie himself to one woman and bring children into his life when he could live free on his own terms?
Twenty-eight people had come with him from Mississippi to Texas at the end of that summer, and dubbed themselves the People of Peace. Over the years, they’d fixed up the old camp they’d purchased and taken in more folks on a trial basis. Father Emmanuel carefully chose whom he allowed permanently into the fold, turning out those who didn’t pass his tests of devotion and deference. They numbered just over a hundred and fifty souls now, a strong yet manageable number.
And he reigned over them all.
TWENTY-SIX
IN A JAM
Megan
I wasn’t on the work schedule for the police department on Saturday, but I wasn’t going to let a little thing like not being on official duty and earning no pay keep me from doing my job. The abandoned baby had become an obsession for me. It had been over a week since the cute little thing had been left at the fire station. In the meantime, what might have happened to the person who’d stitched the cry for help into the baby’s quilt? I was almost afraid to think about it. Then again, thinking about it motivated me to keep going until I had some definitive answers. If there was any chance a woman was in jeopardy, I was going to save her. To hell with those fairy tales in which the damsels in distress waited for a prince to save them. We women would work together to save ourselves.
I planned to leave Brigit at home today. She’d earned a day off. Besides, I wanted to spy incognito today. As many times as Brigit and I had cruised by the compound in my squad car, we could be raising suspicions within the People of Peace. Better for them not to know I was keeping a close watch.
Frankie was already awake, sitting in her pajamas at the table and drinking coffee, when I wandered into the kitchen at just a few minutes after seven. I wasn’t surprised she was up. Working rotating shifts as we both did screws with your biorhythms.
She ran her eyes over me, taking in the fact that I was already dressed in jeans and a light sweater. “Going somewhere?”
“I’m going to spy on the cult compound,” I told her as I pulled the canister of oats from the cabinet to make a quick bowl of oatmeal. “Thought I’d try to be less conspicuous today.” I pulled out a pot and filled it with water. “What’s on your agenda for the day? Got some time you can spare?”
“I’ve got derby practice at four,” she said. “I’m free until then.”
“Want to come with me?” I asked. It couldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes check out the place. Maybe she’d notice something I didn’t. Besides, it would be nice to have human company. Brigit was a great partner and a good companion, but our conversations tended to be very one-sided.
Frankie shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
We ate breakfast and soon we were heading to the compound in Frankie’s Nissan Juke. Though her car was red, it was still less conspicuous than my two-seater Smart Car. She’d generously allowed me to drive.
As we were going up the hill that overlooked the church property, a white Chevy pickup hauling a flatbed trailer crested it, coming from the opposite direction. There’d been a white Chevy pickup in the compound, hadn’t there? At this distance, all I could tell was that there were two people in the cab. But as it drove past, I caught a glimpse of the man at the wheel. He had a long face, a snub nose, and sunken cheeks, just like the man in the police sketch.
Oh my God. Is it him? The man who abandoned the baby?
I hooked a U-turn as soon as we were over the hill where he wouldn’t be able to see us in his rearview mirror.
“Whoa!” With her right hand Frankie held on to the dash for dear life, her left hand bracing against the ceiling. “Give a girl some warning next time!”
“Sorry!” I cried as I careened across the gravel shoulder and back onto the asphalt. “The guy who dropped the baby just drove by in that truck. At least I think it’s him.”
“So we’re going to follow him?”
“Yes. I want to see where he goes.” I reached into my purse, retrieved my binoculars, and handed them to Frankie. “Keep an eye on him with these. I can’t get too close or he’ll be on to us.”
“Gotcha.” She took the binoculars from me, removed them from the case, and put them to her eyes.
I slowed for a few seconds to put some space between our car and the truck before driving up the backside of the hill. The truck had about a quarter-mile lead on us by that point, far enough that they might not spot us behind them, yet close enough that we could follow their movements.
“What’s on the trailer?” I asked.
“A couple of wooden benches and rocking chairs,” she said. “There’s some wooden crates, too, but I can’t tell what’s in them.”
We tracked them for several turns before they headed onto Highway 377 toward Granbury. Fortunately, this road was more heavily traveled, and we could blend in more easily.
Frankie lowered the binoculars. “How far are we going to follow them?”
Theoretically, they could drive as far as the southern tip of Argentina from here, but I doubted that was their plan. “They sell their furniture to the public,” I told Frankie. “They’re probably taking it to a store in Granbury.”
Granbury was a quaint town, with an old-timey square and a half-dozen bed-and-breakfasts that brought weekend tourists in from around the metroplex. It would be the per
fect place to sell handmade furniture.
We trailed them until they took an exit down Fall Creek Highway. Just before entering town, they pulled off onto a smaller paved road where dozens of people were setting up tables and canopies to sell their wares. A sign near the road announced FARMERS MARKET TODAY 8 TO NOON.
“Let’s give them time to set up,” I said, “then we’ll go check things out.”
I drove past and continued on into town, where we parked and waited for half an hour, chatting and catching up. Despite the fact that we lived together, the two of us were often like ships that passed in the night, rarely home together and, even if we were, rarely both awake at the same time. I told her about Ollie’s old army buddies coming to visit, and she told me about a new recruit on the Fort Worth Whoop-Ass derby team.
“She puts me to shame,” Frankie said.
“I doubt that.” I’d seen Frankie play multiple times. She was incredibly fast and agile, the star of her team.
“It’s true,” Frankie insisted. “She skates at the speed of sound. At our last bout, she made a sonic boom.”
“Well,” I said, “there’s nothing wrong with being second-best.”
“Says the woman who’s bound and determined to make detective in the shortest time possible.” She rolled her eyes and cut me a knowing look.
“Okay,” I acquiesced. “There’s nothing wrong with you being second-best.”
We shared a chuckle.
Once we thought we’d given it long enough, we drove back to the farmer’s market. Cars streamed into the parking lot, shoppers eager to get there early for the best selection of fruits, vegetables, and other merchandise. We parked and headed toward the booths. I had never been face-to-face with the man who’d left the baby, but I realized that Jebediah or Father Emmanuel might have described the cop who’d come to the gate to him. Still, I was probably unrecognizable. My long hair was down today, rather than up in the tight bun I wore while on duty. I also had much more makeup on, and had purposely avoided wearing anything in dark blue. My jeans were faded and my sweater was a soft lavender color that coordinated with my tennis shoes. Perhaps Personal Style Consultant Felicia Bloomquist would approve of this outfit?
