Lisa placed a mug of steaming coffee at his elbow, and pulled up a chair to sit beside him at the desk. Crossing her legs Indian-style, she took a sip of her own coffee.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“The first thing I want to do is check out the message Mike sent me about Kelley Marrow,” he said. “Based on whatever that tells us, we can go from there.”
He logged onto his Jarhead account and found a private e-mail waiting for him from Mike, screen name, IronMike707, which had been sent at 2:13 in the morning. The subject line read, “Kelley Marrow.”
Yo AT,
Been Googling Kelley Marrow. I found an obituary from this past March that I think might be hers. The link’s below. Check it out.
Peace,
Mikey
Anthony clicked on the link at the bottom of the message. Another web browser opened, transporting him to a page on an obituary-archival Web site called “GeorgiaLegacy.com.”
He and Lisa leaned forward in their chairs, reading. There was no photo of the deceased, only a single paragraph of text.
Kelley Ann Marrow, age 13, of Kennesaw was called home to the Lord on March 19. An honor-roll student, Kelly loved singing in the church choir, spending time with family and friends, horseback riding, and playing with her family’s two dogs. She is survived by her loving mother, Susan Marrow, an older brother, Tommy, and a host of extended family. Funeral services will be held 11am, Saturday, at Covenant Funeral Home, Kennesaw.
Lisa was shaking her head. “Thirteen years old. So young. Her family must’ve
been devastated.”
“I wonder what happened to her,” he said.
“Could’ve been an illness. Or an accident.”
“And her name happens to be in the Bible that Bob gave me? I’m not thinking she died by accident or illness, Lisa. That’s a tad bit too random to me.”
“Maybe.” Her gaze narrowed; he could see the gears in her mind working toward the same conclusion he had drawn. “But we don’t know for sure that we’re talking about the same person.”
“Then let’s be sure.”
He turned to the laptop again. He entered the Web address for a site called Omega Search.
Unlike Google, which was a search engine for finding virtually everything known to man, Omega Search was a free search engine exclusively for finding people. It pulled data from public records and government sources: court documents, county and state property records, and so forth. In the Information Age, nothing was private anymore.
He’d become aware of Omega Search and similar sites when conducting research for his suspense novels. Ghost was a savage fighter, skilled with firearms and old-fashioned fisticuffs, but what made him so deadly effective was that he was equally adept at using technology to locate clues. To write credibly about such a character, Anthony had needed to educate himself on the capabilities of the information-gathering world.
In the name entry field at the top of the Web page, he typed “Susan Marrow” and specified the city and state as “Kennesaw, Georgia.”
Within seconds, the site returned an address and phone number for Marrow—including a date of birth that revealed she was thirty-seven years old.
“Bam,” he said.
“Wow,” Lisa said. “That was so easy it’s scary.”
“Easy to find her, but the next step might not be so easy.”
“Which is?” Then she blinked, gave him a knowing look. “Wait. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“You know I am. We’ve got to convince her to talk to us.”
55
As the morning sun burned off the last traces of the night’s storm clouds, Cutty piloted the Suburban along the smoothly paved roads of the New Kingdom Church Campus. He had a nine o’clock meeting with the Director, and he didn’t dare arrive late.
Hours earlier, he had dropped off Valdez at the women-only servant dormitories. Their parting had been awkward. After a night of frenzied searching for Thorne and his wife, Cutty regarded the summons back to the campus, his mission incomplete, as profoundly humiliating.
Valdez’s eyes had been full of pity for him, not the admiration to which he had grown accustomed. He wondered if she would request a re-assignment with a more capable partner.
With time to spare, he’d sought refuge in his studio apartment in the men-only barracks reserved for church security agents. Confining himself to the tiny closet with a flashlight, pen, paper, and Bible, he copied a verse repeatedly that best expressed his ignominy, Psalm 69:7. Because for thy sake I have borne reproach; shame hath covered my face.
He might have continued his transcription ritual until nightfall if his wristwatch alarm had not beeped, signaling that it was time for him to depart for the meeting.
As he drove, Valdez’s sweet fragrance lingered in the SUV, mocking him with the fantasy of sensual pleasures he would never know. The Prophet would not grant blessings to one who had failed him. Although the Director had not communicated the purpose of their imminent discussion, and though he’d assumed the Director had given him until 0800 that morning to eliminate Thorne, apparently the Director—never known for his patience—had grown frustrated with waiting for results, and would be taking disciplinary action.
To soothe his spirits, Cutty took enjoyment in observing the ordered grace and wholesomeness of the Kingdom Campus.
Red crepe myrtle trees in full bloom lined the road, blossoms rustling in a soft breeze. People jogged or walked on the sidewalks, alone, accompanied by canine companions, or in small groups. All wore proper Kingdom attire. There were no women in low-cut shorts or revealing shirts, no bare-chested men, nothing that would offend one with a sense of decency. Everyone was smiling and bright-eyed and energetic, too, happy to be among God’s chosen people.
A shuttle bus passed by in the opposite direction, transporting servants to the Kingdom Market, a store so massive and comprehensive it would have made Wal-Mart look like a convenience store. Loud speakers posted on a series of poles broadcast godly music from Kingdom Radio.
On a great hill in the distance, overlooking the land, loomed the Prophet’s mansion, like a castle floating in the clouds.
The Kingdom Campus had been conceived by the Prophet as a self-sustaining city, the seat of the empire that would soon envelope the entire earth. Cutty knew servants who had not ventured off the grounds in years. There was no reason to leave, as everything one could possibly need and desire was provided there.
If it had not been for his servant’s calling, he doubted he would have ever wandered beyond the Kingdom walls, either. When he’d lived on the commune with his family, he’d never left, and not only because Father had forbid it. Simply put, living among God’s people was more fulfilling than interacting with the immoral, filthy secular world.
The Armory, the headquarters of the Armor of God, stood on the western boundaries of the campus. A low slung, battle-ship gray, windowless, concrete building that covered several acres, the Armory resembled a top-secret military command post. True to the spirit of the structures it recalled, the majority of the work done there took place underground, in a vast warren of corridors and rooms so heavily reinforced they could have withstood a nuclear assault.
After going through a sentry-manned gate, he plunged into an underground parking garage that ran seven levels deep. Their fleet of custom-equipped vehicles—sedans, SUVs, vans, sports cars, motorcycles, even a few RVs—occupied many of the parking spaces.
When speedier travel was required, they had the use of an airstrip, hangar, two Gulfstream jets, and several Bell helicopters, all located on their private airport.
He parked at the garage’s bottom level and strode toward the glass double doors at the far end. An intricately detailed seal, the same emblem stitched on their uniform jackets, was emblazoned on the doors in shimmering gold, black, and white paint; the motto beneath was, “Defending God’s Kingdom.”
He laid his thumb on the fingerprint scanner station, an
d the doors swung open, admitting him into a brightly lit lobby. A long, wide, stone-tiled corridor stretched ahead, ranked with doors without windows. Each level of the complex was named after a book of the Old Testament, and small signs beside each room bore labels based on that naming convention.
A couple of agents ahead crossed the hallway and entered a chamber. Neither of them paid attention to him. He approached a bank of elevators near the entrance; they carried one deeper into the bowels of the division, or to the higher levels above.
He took the elevator down another three levels, and entered a more dimly lit, shorter corridor than the one above. There were three doors—one on the right, two on the left.
He approached the door on the right, where the sign read “Exodus A.”
Before going inside, he checked his watch. It was exactly nine o’clock. The Director could not berate him for tardiness.
He bowed his head, uttered a short prayer asking for divine mercy, and opened the door.
But he did not find the Director waiting for him at the oak conference table.
He found the Prophet, Bishop Emmanuel Prince.
56
Susan Marrow lived in Kennesaw, a suburb on the northern rim of metro Atlanta. All Anthony knew about the town was that a Civil War battle had once been waged near Kennesaw Mountain—and that a local ordinance required all heads of household to possess a registered firearm.
Marrow’s home was in an established neighborhood of bungalows and ranches with verdant, well-tended lawns. Anthony cruised along the tree-lined street in the Volkswagen, while Lisa, riding in the passenger seat, searched for the address they’d found on Omega Search.
The morning sunshine was bright, the sky a clear turquoise canvas. It gave him a more optimistic mood than he had any logical reason to have considering their circumstances. On a balmy June day such as that one it was easy to believe that everything would work out in their favor.
Lisa pointed to a home coming up on the right. “There it is.”
The Marrow residence was a quaint bungalow with white clapboard siding, blue shutters, a veranda, and a detached garage. The small yard was a lush green, neatly maintained, and a bed of hydrangeas basked in the sun.
A white Honda Pilot was parked in the driveway.
“Looks like someone’s home,” he said. He slowed to a stop and parked alongside the curb in front of the house.
Lisa turned to him. “How do you want to do this?”
Although the record on Omega Search had included a telephone number, they hadn’t called ahead. They doubted that Marrow, if she were inclined to speak at all about her daughter, would have done so over the phone with a stranger.
“Let’s play it straight,” he said.
“And tell her we’re on the run from a group of church assassins? She might think we’re nuts. I would.”
“Or she might believe us.”
Carrying the Bible that Bob had given him, he climbed out of the car. They took a flagstone walkway to the front door.
Two ornately carved stone angels stood opposite each other on the veranda steps, faces tilted to heaven. A virtual greenhouse of potted plants and flowers thrived on the pine-floored porch, suffusing the air with a medley of scents, and a wicker bistro set sat amidst the greenery, a circle of tea candles on the table.
The weathered door was burnished oak, featuring a stained glass window at the top that depicted a winged angel in flight. A peephole was set at eye level.
Before he pressed the doorbell, a chorus of high-pitched barking erupted. After he pushed the bell, the dogs’ barking got even louder.
“Two dogs,” Lisa said, recalling the obituary.
As they waited, he suddenly had the distinct sense that someone was on the other side of the door, examining them through the lens.
He wasn’t confident they would pass a visual inspection. Although they had changed into fresh clothes—he wore a polo shirt and jeans, Lisa wore jeans and a blouse—with their reddened eyes and fatigue-lined faces, they had the look of a couple of drifters living on the edge.
“Miss Susan Marrow?” he called out, lips close to the door. “My name is Anthony Thorne, and this is my wife, Lisa. We’d like to speak to you about your daughter, Kelley.”
He held up the Bible to the peephole.
“Someone named Bob gave this Bible to me, and your daughter’s name is written in it.”
A few seconds later, the dogs quieted. The door opened.
A petite blonde with delicate features stood on the threshold. She wore a white blouse half-covered by a denim gardening apron smudged with soil, jeans, and sneakers. A silver cross hung around her neck.
She had striking green eyes. With them, she closely appraised both him and Lisa.
Behind her, an identical pair of Pomeranians sat obediently on their haunches, watching them with interest.
“I’m Susie Marrow,” she finally said. She had a melodic voice and a syrupy Georgia accent. “What can I do for you folks?”
“Bob gave me this.” Anthony handed her the Bible. “Check out the front page.”
“It’s a very long story,” Lisa said. “Rather incredible, too.”
Susie opened the book and read the inscription on the front page. She frowned, gave the book back to Anthony.
“Come on in, please,” she said. “Don’t mind the dogs. They’re friendly.”
The dogs sniffing at their heels, they followed her down a hallway with a hardwood floor. Photos crowded the walls. He noticed several pictures of a pretty girl who had inherited her mother’s blonde hair and green eyes: one shot showed her astride a dark mare, in full equestrian gear; another was a recent-looking graduation portrait; others were taken when she was a much younger child. She was smiling in almost every picture, a fun-loving child whose life had been cut far too short.
Anthony’s curiosity about the cause of her death sharpened.
Susie led them into a small but fastidiously neat living room furnished with cloth armchairs and matching sofa, a glass coffee table, more photos, and lots of live plants. The walls were the color of eggnog, edged with ornate crown molding. A large window framed by sage-green curtains overlooked a vibrant flower garden in the back yard.
Strains of music drifted to them from another room in the house. It sounded like big band, swing era stuff, music for dancing and good times.
Because her daughter had died three months ago, Anthony had expected a bereaved woman, someone still in the throes of grief and reluctant to accept visitors, with a home and yard in disarray. But Susie Marrow seemed to be in high spirits, and her home was in excellent condition. He wondered what helped her get by.
Susie untied her apron from around her waist. “I was working in my garden, but please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get y’all some iced tea? I brewed a fresh pitcher this morning.”
“Sweet tea?” Anthony asked.
“Of course. This is Georgia, honey.”
“We’d love some, thanks,” Lisa said.
When Susie left the room, both dogs trailing her, they sat together on the sofa. Anthony looked around, hoping that something would jar loose a revelation, a clue.
“Nice house,” Lisa said after a few minutes had passed. She clasped her hands in her lap, crossed her legs. “Very cozy.”
“I wonder where she keeps the gun she’s required to have by law,” he said. “Hopefully not in the kitchen.”
“Stop it.” She gently punched his arm. “She seems really sweet. I wonder what we said that made her invite us in?”
“I think Bob’s name was the magic word.” He indicated a photo on a side table that had caught his eye. It was a shot of Bob—sans horn-rimmed glasses—Kelley, a dark-haired teenage boy a few years older than the girl, and their mother, at an outdoor celebration of some kind. “The old guy in the picture is Bob.”
“That’s him?” She stared at the photo.
“You seem surprised. Like you thought he was a figment of my imagination.
”
“It’s not that. I had a different image of him in my mind, I guess. I was thinking he’d look like some kind of super spy. He looks like a grandfather.”
“That’s ‘cause he is.” Susie returned with a silver tray that held a glass pitcher of iced tea and three tall glasses. She placed the tray on the cocktail table and poured tea. “He’s my daddy. Kelley’s grandpa.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Anthony and Lisa said, almost simultaneously.
Anthony caught a flash of grief in the woman’s gaze that was so searing that he had to look away.
“My baby’s in a better place now,” she said softly.
Anthony wanted to ask how Kelley had died, but a direct question would have seemed rude. Instead, he took a sip of the sweet tea, which was delicious, and told Susie so.
“I second that,” Lisa said, raising her glass. Then, in a somber tone: “Thirteen years old. So young. She’s with the Lord indeed.”
“I believe that with all my soul,” Susie said. She sat on an armchair across from them, sipped her tea. The Pomeranians flanked her legs protectively. “There are some folks who’d say God sent her to a much different place if they found out what happened . . . but that’s the beauty of our country. We’re free to believe whatever we like.”
Not if Bishop Prince gets his way, Anthony thought.
“Kelley loved to sing in the church choir, I read,” Lisa said. “Which church do you attend?”
“I used to attend New Kingdom, in Austell. We all did.”
“You, your children, and Bob,” Anthony said.
“Bob.” She smiled wistfully. “Only people in the family call Daddy that name. He must really trust you.”
He let the remark pass. If Bob trusted him so much, why hadn’t he given him all his damning evidence against New Kingdom from the beginning and spared him all this trouble?
“How long did you attend New Kingdom?” Lisa asked.
Covenant Page 22
