Crossed

by Meredith Doench

  “This is Stonehenge,” Marci whispered.

  “How often do you come here?”

  “Whenever I need to be alone. I’ve never shown anyone before.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. I wanted to be special to Marci. Her hands reached for mine and pushed me gently back against the stone wall. Before I knew it, her mouth was on mine and I was sandwiched between the warmth of her body and the cold of the stone at my back. I hesitated. “No one can find out.”

  “We’re hidden inside the earth,” she whispered. “No one will know.” Marci made a sound then, barely audible, like a small groan. She made the sound that my body cried out. That groan broke the thin membrane between us until we were all lips and tongues, all hands, all skin on skin. All those hours of sitting beside one another in meetings being told we couldn’t have one another came rushing out in an explosion that screamed Yes we can! Marci dropped the flashlight, its beam of light rolling away from us along the floor, and I wanted to tell Marci that she was so right, that Stonehenge really was sheer perfection.

  *

  A few seconds of silence pass between Rowan and me. “They shouldn’t have asked you to collect evidence from Marci’s clothes,” Rowan whispers.

  We sit together with the music, and the cheap comforter scratching against our legs. She lines up the empty cans of beer inside the pizza box lid and waits for me to say something more. When I don’t, she says, “I have an idea that might help me understand.” Rowan’s cautious with her words. “Look at Marci’s file with me. Explain what happened.” Rowan squeezes my hands tight inside hers. “Take me through that afternoon.”

  *

  Inside the quarry it was always summertime. That day the rays of sunlight seeped through the leaves and landed on my skin in slanted spreads of buttery warmth. Pine needles scattered beneath my sun-browned sandaled feet as I followed the call of birds that guided me on the climb and through the thickets of greenery. It was on the crest of a ridge—the one spot, where I could see most of the rocky ravine below, that caught my breath and held it hostage every time. God’s View. It truly felt that way, like a sudden gasp, really, of pure hope at what lies below—Marci. My Marci. Everything’s so green and aching with life that I had to squint a moment; it was all so bright and alive, it hurt somewhere deep inside my chest.

  I was on hold: suspended between here and there, afloat on that crested ridge for a few heartbeats, my hands and feet aquiver, my lips trembling with the urgency of what would come, a dizzying shower of anticipation. Then, just as suddenly as I crested that ridge, the threshold broke and it all crashed down with my footfalls, the sound of my breath ragged with excitement, the swish and snap of branches, the unsteadiness of my feet on the forest floor, the needles’ slick backs threatening to toss me down to my hands and knees with each footfall.

  Marci was there, waiting for me like always, hidden away inside the mouth of Stonehenge. I dropped to my bony knees beside her and paused a second to catch my breath from the run down the rocky embankment. She was leaning up against a large rock, her knees bent in an upside-down V as if she’d fallen asleep shading herself. Marci had the fine blond hair of corn silk, streaked with dark hints of gold. Even her eyelashes flittered gold in the direct sunlight, only to show off the spatter of freckles across her nose, under the navy sea of her eyes.

  “Marci.” I leaned in to her.

  She didn’t move.

  “Come on,” I said. “Stop playing.”

  Somewhere outside of the cave a tree branch snapped. A quick scuffle of underbrush.

  I nudged Marci with my elbow to see if she heard the sound, too. That’s when her head rolled back and I noticed that her hair wasn’t right, tangled and strewn across her brow, clumped with thick maroon, the back of her head sticky and cold in my hand. Marci’s shirt was ripped at the collar, her jean shorts unzipped and yawning wide in the heat of the summer sun.

  “No,” I said. “No!” But when I touched her cool skin, called her name, and began to shake her, my own heart galloped at breakneck speed. Something was terribly wrong and all I could think was that Marci needed help fast. I thought of my dad and how he always said not to move a person with a head injury and call 911. I bolted through the forest the same way I came in, branches scratching and snapping off as I raced past. My chest heaved with oxygen, blood thrumming in my ears, when the toe of my sandal caught the corner of a large stone and it rocketed me into—

  Outside our hotel door, two children holler and chase one another down the hotel hallway for the ice machine. An adult follows behind, shushing them, but it doesn’t work. I’m dizzy with exhaustion and drop onto the bed, thumbs to eyelids, rolling my burning eyes. The children squeal over the whir and clatter of the ancient ice machine.

  “Who lets their kids stay up this late?” Rowan goes to the door and glares while she puts out the Do not disturb sign on the handle. She stands over me. “Luce, please,” Rowan pleads. “Tell me.”

  “No.” My voice is mumbled and groggy against the pillow. Rowan’s scared; I can hear that waver of doubt in her words. She’s afraid I’ll end up exactly as I did with the case in Columbus: unable to sleep or eat and slumped on the couch in some sort of catatonic stupor for weeks.

  I can’t go on with the past tonight. Not with the water rising, gurgling over my ears and nose. The water holds me and I’m weightless under its surface. Thousands of miles below the water’s skin, this is where I’m safe.

  Rowan eventually gives up on me and collects Marci’s file from the floor. She moves to the desk. Pages shuffle as she clears Marci’s case away so we don’t have to look at its reminder another second. I’m too tired to ask Rowan to stop. Instead I listen to the swish of reports and photographs sliding into the file and water burbling around me. In the hall, the children continue to chase one another and use the long hallway as a track, the poor adult lagging behind in an attempt to tame them with a shrill voice in the quiet hotel, as though her words could make any difference.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, January 12

  The main conference room of the police station has been turned into a case study with five large whiteboards chock-full of information. It’s an overgrown version of the murder board from my hotel room. This layout, though, has an entire section reserved for information on Sambino. Next to his photo from the DMV someone drew a set of pointy fangs with bloody teardrops raining from them. Next to the fangs the artist scrawled: Forget Team Edward or Jacob, I’m Team Sambino!

  Davis listens again to the recording of my interview with Dr. Eli Weaver. I’ve already edited out the portion of our discussion about my personal involvement with ex-gay ministries because I don’t want that information entered into any kind of case log. Instead, I verbally came clean with Davis and Ainsley—the crib-notes version and as brief an explanation as I could possibly get away with. An uncomfortable silence settled once I finished, and I am grateful to have Weaver’s voice filling the room now. Davis rewinds the recording once again, listens, and then rewinds it some more.

  This morning I received word that my assignment to the Willow’s Ridge case has been extended for three more days. As I got ready for work, Rowan packed up and left for home. She said she couldn’t stay three more days after all. The dogs needed her, she explained, and she wanted to get back to painting for her upcoming show. Neither of us mentioned the night before and my stubborn refusal to tell her more, but as I put on my shoulder holster and badge, I wondered if Rowan’s departure was a sign she’d had it, that my Berlin Wall had finally proved too much for her. I can’t blame Rowan. My wall is as fierce and protective as Rowan’s love and I can’t imagine it ever coming down. Now, though, my chest tightens, sharp and painful, at the thought of Rowan leaving me for good.

  Davis shuts off the recording. “This group is local to Willow’s Ridge?”

  “A branch of it. One True Path is a global ex-gay organization.”

  “Ex-gay?” Davis rubs at his furrowed brow. “What
the hell does that mean?”

  Ainsley chuckles beside me. Conservatism wafts off him like the smell of shit in a nursing home.

  “Ex-gay. Meaning a person was once a practicing homosexual and is no longer,” I say. “The One True Path organization preaches that homosexuality is not something people are born with but a learned behavior that happens because of a childhood trauma. They promise with their training and God, a person can heal from homosexuality.”

  “Hansen.” Davis looks out at me through his steepled fingertips. Beside me, Ainsley scoffs. “Don’t tell me we’re going to piss off the church in this investigation. Please.”

  I pull out my notes from the interview with Weaver and the paper he gave me. I can’t help but chuckle. “Weaver claims everyone and their brothers have denounced the ex-gay ministries.”

  Davis shakes his head at me. “Come again?”

  “This is not really a church thing,” I explain. “Look, all the major religions, the American Psychological Association, and lots of other medical affiliations have said that these groups are harmful and have no merit. Many different denominations of the church have as well.”

  “And you’re also telling me we have our own branch of this ex-gay thing here in Willow’s Ridge. Some of the churchgoing folks in this community must support it or it wouldn’t be here.” Davis leans back in his seat and crosses his hands behind his head. “Why don’t more people know about this One True Path thing here in Willow’s Ridge?”

  “They meet in the pastor’s basement. It’s not like the group is out waving signs to raise money with a carwash or candy-bar drive,” I say. “It’s hidden.”

  “Like a cult?” Davis groans. “Hell, this case keeps getting bigger and bigger, a snowball rolling downhill. And we got nothing.”

  “We got Sambino,” Ainsley says.

  Davis turns to Ainsley. “What’s the connection between Sambino and this religious group?”

  “I bet he’s gay.” Ainsley looks directly at me, his eyes trained to take in my reaction. “I know the Tucker girl was supposed to be at one of those religious meetings at the time of her murder.”

  “Let’s not piss off the church in our efforts to get Picasso, okay?” Davis drops his head into his hands, rubbing above his ears. “The entire state is watching us. It’s a hell of a lot bigger than that now—we got the BCI sitting here and media from across the nation.” Davis’s cheeks are pink, but the rest of his face has lost color. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in a week. “We can’t afford any screwups. Do you know what the press called the city of Boulder during the Ramsey case? A task farce.” Davis drums his fingertips on the table as he speaks. “We cannot be task farce number two.”

  I bite back a snicker.

  “I say we lean even harder on Sambino,” Ainsley says. “Lean until he breaks.”

  “It’s not Sambino.”

  “Come on, Hansen!” Ainsley stands up and steps toward me. “Are you really going to sit there and tell me it’s not Sambino after your interview with Weaver? Even you acknowledge the obvious tie between the crosses left with the bodies and Sambino’s whole fascination with the…whatever the hell it is.” Ainsley’s hands wave in front of my face, sketching the shape of the ankh. “Why the fuck else would everything point to him?”

  I shake my head and ignore his drama. “He’s not our killer. Yes, the tie with the crosses is significant, and I’m guessing that Sambino does know something that could help us. We’re up against some sort of hate crime. Tell me this, Ainsley. What’s Sambino’s motive to kill young lesbians?”

  “Hell, he hates lesbians.” Ainsley nears a yell. “Maybe his mom was one. Or his first lover turned out to be a dyke. Come on, Hansen. You know how it goes with these guys!”

  “It’s not him, Ainsley.” I whisper these words. Still, Ainsley storms off, slamming the door behind him so hard the glass partition rattles. Davis and I sit in silence for a few moments while Ainsley’s emotional eruption still vibrates within the room.

  “He’s volatile,” Davis finally says, as if this alone explains Ainsley’s disrespect. “But he’s one of the best cops I know. We need him.” Davis waits a few beats as though he’s searching for the right words to say. “Hansen, you’ve been through a lot on this trip down memory lane. I’ll interview the Jamesons about these ex-gay meetings.”

  “They don’t know you.” I lean forward, my fist against the conference table to prove my point. “He’ll feed you a bunch of lies and half-truths about the organization. I’ve been in this world, remember? I’ll call his bullshit.”

  Davis stands up and looks out the office window. The snow has started to fall again, light and airy flakes floating in the blistering cold. “It’s too risky,” he says. “You have an emotional connection.”

  “I can control it, Davis! I know I can.”

  He turns to me. His look is long and hard. “We both know I could dismiss you from the case right now for cause and call in for a replacement. You’re a good agent, Hansen. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

  I’m not willing to give up so easily. “Jameson will not talk to outsiders.”

  “You are an outsider. A failure of the program! What makes you think he’ll speak to you?”

  I put my hands up and flutter my fingers in the quote sign. “God’s masterpieces are always in progress.” I go to Davis’s side at the large window. “He believes that there will always be a chance to save me and that I can decide to quit the homosexual addiction and find the heterosexual way with God. As long as I’m in Jameson’s presence, he’ll believe that God will change my heart. I’ve heard him say it a million times. I’ve watched many members leave and come back.”

  Davis takes a deep breath that says I’m wearing him down. “What’s your plan?”

  “That I’ve come back to Willow’s Ridge to get straight and I cannot do it without his help. My gut’s screaming that these meetings are key, Davis. I have to become one of them again.”

  “What about your job? And the murders?” Davis says. “Won’t he question whether you’re only there to get information?”

  “Not if I play the part. Not if I say the right things.”

  “Dammit, Hansen”—Davis shakes his head—“there’s no way we’re going to solve this case without pissing off the church.” A smirk crosses his lips, though, and the edges of his eyes soften.

  He’s in.

  *

  I’d learned a lot about Charles Jameson’s ministry in Willow’s Ridge over the years, and I’d heard some of the stories from the pastor himself at meetings. His church wasn’t always affiliated with the One True Path Global Ministries. At first it had only been a small meeting among friends to worship God. Charles always had the gift to lead and it eventually brought him to the art of preaching. He’d spent his entire life in the pews of the Evangelical church, he liked to point out, and who says you need a degree to speak the word of the Lord? He liked to remind anyone who would listen that Jesus did not have any sort of higher degree other than the hard knocks of life. Charles, too, believed that he was well acquainted with life’s hard knocks.

  The group met three nights a week, and Charles would preach for hours on the damnation that surrounded us all, peppered with Bible study that would make the most conservative of Christians seem liberal. His wife, Mildred, sat faithfully nearby to shout her amens, and his only child, Chaz, learned to sit still and not cry during the services that could last upward of three long hours. Both Mildred and Charles took to spreading the Lord’s word and news of their church door-to-door. Sometimes Chaz went on these recruitment ventures, and the success of the fledgling church became a family endeavor.

  In the early 1980s, Charles Jameson began his branch of the One True Path ministry for many of the same reasons other ex-gay ministries cropped up across the United States. Parents all over the nation faced a dilemma they never expected: little Johnny or precious Mary came out of the closet. Under the guise of a sleepover with a church friend, Ch
az Jameson was caught kissing another young man. Under intense interrogation, Chaz admitted to his parents that he might be gay. Pastor Jameson couldn’t stand to hear another word. Homosexual? His Chaz? An abomination of the Lord? It simply couldn’t be. He and his wife had raised Chaz to fear the almighty Lord. Now Chaz sprinted into the wide-open arms of the devil.

  Afflicted with distress over his son’s condition, the pastor withdrew into a locked bedroom for three solid nights and days of fervent prayer. Lord, what to do? Why my son? Mildred and Chaz waited and prayed on the other side of that closed bedroom door for God’s message to come to Charles. They didn’t eat or sleep. Their fervent prayers became louder and louder and louder.

  Finally it happened. Angels delivered. The idea of a Willow’s Ridge One True Path ministry came to Charles, he claimed, in a vivid and life-changing vision. God’s command was to build the small group of men and women of all ages who had strayed into homosexuality. Jameson would help those the Lord led to him find the one true path to God. Hadn’t this sort of thing been what the pastor had been preaching about for years? The devil in their midst? The one in sheep’s clothing who had been slinking around his house for so long? The pastor declared war with that devil. He would save his son from the fiery pit of hell.

  In those early years, Jameson built his ministry around fundamentalist Baptist teachings. He also adopted the model of heterosexuality boot camps or prayer retreats, which had sprouted up across the country. Every member of his group was required to attend three retreat weekends and one boot camp a year at Camp Jesus in the Hills. Jameson preached that a homosexual could be rewired into God’s vision—heterosexuality. With enough prayer and devotion, Pastor Jameson promised that God could turn anyone straight. Pray the gay away might have been coined for the Jamesons, but it wasn’t only prayer that the Jamesons used. There were conversion therapy sessions where the participants were trained to feel revulsion toward same-sex images and to desire the appropriate genitalia. The Jamesons would not permit their son to be gay. Many other parents across the country felt the same way, including my own father.