Lucinda. The name my father always called me. For a quick moment, tears burn the corners of my eyes at the thought of Dad. I wonder what he would have thought of me sitting before Pastor Jameson again. Hopeful of me changing? Horrified? Both? Blinking the wetness away, I don’t answer for a few moments, sipping my tea to give me a reason to stall. My gut screams out that I’ll lose Jameson if I only confront him as law enforcement. Put your feelings aside. Do your job.
“I am one hundred percent committed to making the change at this point in my life,” I say. “I was only sixteen back then. I just needed some time to find my way back.”
“It certainly wasn’t all your fault,” Mildred says. “Your father didn’t help matters any by pulling you out of the group as soon as Marci died.”
My stomach clenches at the mention of my father. “He lost hope after that,” I say. “Maybe I did, too.”
“I heard about your father’s passing,” Jameson says. “I’m so sorry. Take comfort in the knowledge that he’d celebrate the fact that you’ve come back to us.”
My father, the burly man who came to the rescue and kept people safe. Would he now see this so-called pastor in front of me as a sort of fellow rescuer? I don’t think so, but as I sit here in this room with the Jamesons and relive history, my focus has altered and blurred. It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope and attempting to recognize the shifting shapes.
“We still meet on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights, so we’ll see you tomorrow.” Mildred stands. “Let me get you directions to the new place.”
It’s time. I have to tell them. Most likely they’ve already seen my name in the newspaper or on newscasts associated with the biggest case Willow’s Ridge has ever seen. If I don’t disclose my affiliation, it could jeopardize any future criminal cases against the organization. “Actually, my visit is for two reasons.”
I pull my ID from the satchel at my feet, hoping my honesty will gain their confidence. Jameson reaches across the space between us to take the badge from my hand.
“I am one of the investigators working on the recent murders here in Willow’s Ridge.” I spread my knees wide and lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees, ready for anything. “Pastor, I’m trusting Him now.” I point to the ceiling. “God has a plan for me. I will be at the meeting tomorrow night and I’m excited to change. These murders, though,” I say, “affect us all. Any information you could provide would be invaluable.” I end my words with my own fake, sweet smile.
The pastor runs his fingertips over the ridges and valleys of my badge as though he’s reading braille. His shallow breath tells me that he’s known my position all along. “I’m happy to see you’ve grown so much professionally, Lucinda, but no one can nourish their soul without also fearing the heavenly father.” He hands back the badge. His cold, chapped fingers brush against mine like dead fallen leaves that collect under barren trees in October.
I’ve disappointed him. For a moment I’m back in my sixteen-year-old body, back to cowering before the pastor spewing his threats of hell and the devil. The waterline rises first to my chin, then my nose. The distinct odor of chlorine fills the room. The pastor’s eyes are still locked on mine. Underneath his glare, I’m torn. While there is a part of me that wants to curse him, hit him, and scream out the anger and pain he’s caused me, there’s also the part that nags, What if he’s right? What if there is a vengeful God who will roast me over a pit of fire for eternity? Maybe my father would be happy I’m back. As quickly as these thoughts fill my head, a feeling of horror washes over me. I thought I was past all these questions. I thought I’d moved on. Haven’t I?
In order to break the staring contest with the pastor, I twist in the chair and my left hand catches the edge of the side table. Its sharp, quick gouge yanks me back to the plan and to the words Davis left me with as I was getting wired: Follow the evidence, not your emotions.
“God’s masterpieces are always in progress. Isn’t that what you both always told us?” I watch Jameson’s expression, the eyes not softening, but the mouth curving slightly at the corners in a suppressed smile.
“Lucinda”—Mildred sets her teacup down and crosses one ankle over the other—“what would ever make you think One True Path has anything to do with these horrible crimes?”
“We have information that some of our suspects and victims might have been members at one time or another.”
When neither the pastor nor his wife reacts, I name names, taking liberties with my hunches. “Vivian Hannerting.” There’s no response from either Jameson.
“Nick Sambino.” There’s a quick flicker of recognition in the pastor’s eyes. Mildred looks to her husband to see how to respond.
“Chandler Jones.” His eyes are hooded while he looks to the floor. Her knee begins to ever so slightly bounce up and down.
“Emma Parks.” The pastor shifts in his seat.
Jameson finally speaks. “As you know, Lucinda, everything said here is confidential.” He’s almost whispering. “I am clergy and I take everyone’s confessions to the grave. Even yours.”
“The clergy-penitent privilege, even if it does apply, doesn’t extend to the mere fact of attendance at your meetings, Pastor.”
Mildred suddenly moans, her silvery hair shining with a purplish hue in the overhead lights. “These murders are just awful. We’ve been praying night and day for those victims’ families.” She softly nudges her husband with her elbow. “Tell her, Charles.” She turns back to me. “We all want these murders stopped.”
I’ve never had much of an opinion about Mildred. Nice would be a word I would use for her, completely nondescript. She’s one of those people so plain you forget what she looks like unless she’s facing you. I always saw her as the flit of a wife who took care of drinks and snacks while asserting a loud amen to the pastor’s prayers. I realize now that she’s been subservient to her husband in the roles of the cook, the maid, and the voice of agreement no matter what. Her suggestion to confirm or deny membership in the group catches me by surprise. She’s found her voice. It’s weak, but it’s now evident.
Surprise registers in Pastor Jameson’s eyes as well. He’s caught off guard and in that fluster, he complies. “Parks attended a retreat we had last summer at Camp Jesus in the Hills. She was not a regular participant after that.”
“How long was she a member?”
“Two months? Three?”
So Parks had been the rebel. She’d been the one who didn’t believe the rhetoric. I try to catch Jameson’s gaze with my own. He refuses, only staring at the arm of the chair. “Jones was a current member. She had been linked to the ministry through her Baptist church.”
Mildred says, “We thought that fellow from the funeral home might be wrapped up in witchcraft from the way he looked.” She shakes her head. “But we take everyone in. If only he’d held on a bit longer in our program. My willingness to let him go so easily might be one of my biggest regrets.”
Mildred’s sentiment regarding Sambino is exactly what most of the community believes: he looks like a devil worshipper; therefore he’s committed all the murders at Willow’s Ridge. If I’m to thank God for anything in this colossal mess of a case, it’s that the community isn’t trying Nick Sambino, or he’d be sentenced and hanged without any evidence.
“We’ve investigated Mr. Sambino, yes. We’re also looking into other leads. Because these could be hate crimes against homosexual women, we believe that the killer may be conflicted over his own sexuality. He may seek out groups like yours for support. Do you have any newcomers or people that leave and then return to the group over and over again?”
Jameson’s eyebrows knit together. His round face reddens. “It’s the nature of sin. Sometimes it takes people years to realize our group is the only way to salvation.” His beady eyes drill into my own, his comment clearly meant for me.
I ignore his accusatory gaze. “We’re looking for someone who’s really struggling. He would have left and returned to th
e group a few different times since you first met him. Sometimes he would be fanatical in his beliefs and other times doubting the group’s message.”
“We’ve had a few new ones in the last six months or so. But those people either joined and found God with us or left and didn’t return.” The pastor smooths down his paper-thin comb-over with the palm of his hand. “Some of our members travel quite a distance to get to the weekly meetings. We’ve had a few who were driving in from Indianapolis. Most of the calls we get from out-of-state people, though, never follow through and join us.”
“Maybe someone who’s been completely compliant with the program without offering any resistance?”
“Lucinda.” Jameson puts on his stern preacher’s voice. “Any sexual activity, even thoughts of it, outside the bonds of marriage is a sin. But homosexual sex…” He shakes his head at me. “I shouldn’t have to remind you how evil that is. Anyone who’s compliant with the program is smart. Resistance only adds to relapse, as you well know.”
The dam breaks. Anger rises up my chest and throat, burns my cheeks with rage. I feel the skin of my neck burst with the red rash that always accompanies it. God, I want nothing more than to shove this man’s rhetoric up his tight homophobic white ass. But he has me over a barrel. If I want the information, I need to hold my temper.
Charles Jameson shakes his fist as he speaks. “Any amount of sin, even only doing it a few times, is enough to turn God away. So, yes, to answer your question, we have many members who are very conflicted over their feelings. That’s why we pray and hold confessions. I’m in the business of saving souls, not killing them.”
I seethe in silence, struggling to keep my anger in check. I imagine Davis listening in with a rant of curses at my emotional reactions. What a pathetic joke life has thrown at me. I’m reminded of a line I heard a few weeks ago: Want to hear God laugh? Tell him all your dreams.
Perhaps I’ve been wrong to think I could harness my anger toward these people for the sake of the case. The weight of my past may simply be too much. I hate to admit when I’m wrong, but maybe it’s time for me to throw in the towel. Director Sanders could turn the case over to another agent, one more qualified than me, and I’d have to take whatever retribution comes my way—desk duty for a month or so, or worse, filing all the cold cases. Then there is that strong, persistent voice I hear inside me, though, the hard silver of Rowan’s ring: Give it one more shot. For Marci.
I take a deep breath and return to the line of questioning. “What about a volunteer? Some sort of supporter?” I ask. “Do you have anyone who’s not a member of the ministry but volunteers time or money?”
“Cole.” Mildred speaks up before her husband can stop her. “Cole Ainsley. He volunteers many hours to us. God bless him.”
I almost choke on my now-cold tea with a fit of coughs. Ainsley? “The detective from the Willow’s Ridge force?” Mildred agrees, but Jameson is silent, his face a blank. “How long has he worked with One True Path?”
Mildred shrugs. “The last seven or eight years, I guess. Really, Lucinda, Cole has been a huge blessing to us, such a help.” She turns to her husband. “Sometimes I don’t know how we would survive without him.”
Interesting that Cole Ainsley has not told me about his involvement with the organization, particularly since the group had been the topic of our conversation with Davis. Is this the reason Ainsley is off on another lead instead of with Davis listening in? “How so?”
“He screens all of the phone messages and e-mails we receive. Sometimes people are not honest in them, and we get the occasional hate message. Yes,” the pastor grudgingly says, “we too are sometimes the victims! We need to reach those who are aching, and the Internet is the method of communication for this generation.”
Mildred adds, obviously excited, “We even have a Facebook page.”
“Yes.” Charles barks out a laugh, hard and long and much too loud. He catches himself, then brings us back to the topic. “Cole sifts through all these messages and contacts people who are legitimately seeking membership in our community,” Charles says. “Many times, he meets with them to explain how we work and does an initial interview.”
“He gets those names and numbers before you do?” I’m so far on the edge of my seat I almost fall out of my chair. “Ainsley actually meets the potential member before you? Alone?”
Mildred nods. “You’d never imagine how much work it takes to prepare the meetings and keep our own business going. Cole’s great on the telephone and meeting these people who are so conflicted and seeking change. He’s a real people person.”
My own initial reaction to Detective Ainsley was similar until I caught the moody side of him. There were times when I thought of him as a surrogate father figure. Loving and kind. Even protective. Any newcomer to One True Path, with all the nervous energy that goes along with it, would be drawn to that same type of personality.
“Do you keep a record of the people Ainsley has worked with?” At first it confused me that neither the pastor nor Mildred reacted to Vivian Hannerting’s name. It’s entirely possible, though, that he and his wife never met her. Perhaps Vivian called the organization seeking help, then Ainsley met with her without their knowledge and eventually killed her. Is this why Ainsley has been thwarting my efforts, making every attempt to throw me off my game? Could he be involved in the crimes?
Chapter Fourteen
Even though I remind myself to brace for the cold air, the initial blast of icy wind shocks me, like one hundred bee stings to exposed skin. My bomber hat isn’t much of a match for the frigid weather. Eventually, as I make my way deeper into the frozen Willow’s Ridge foliage, the pain of the wind chill subsides into numbness, anesthetizing my gut full of hot, raging anger.
I left the Jamesons’ home after planning to attend their group meeting tomorrow evening, only to find Davis radioing me in the unmarked car to head immediately back to the station. I assumed it was about the connection Ainsley had to One True Path.
A technician pulls the wires free from my chest and tape rips away from my body. I rub the raw skin and wait for the technician to close the door behind him. “How are we going to handle this information about Ainsley?” I ask.
“Ainsley?”
“He had access to these women before they came to the group.”
Davis shook his head. “Didn’t you hear what they said? Sambino attended for a time. If I recall, Mildred Jameson said—What? It was a mistake that they let him go so easily? It’s not Ainsley.”
“Why keep it a secret when we started to look at them? Why not tell us and offer to talk to the Jamesons himself?”
“He told me in private he’s been working with the group.” Davis dismisses the theory with a flippant wave of the hand. He sits with a hip down on his desk, one leg swinging, the other anchoring him. “The profile’s right, don’t you see? We got Sambino.”
“Except Sambino isn’t an artist. He embalms dead people. How do you explain the artistic element to these scenes?”
Davis shrugs. “Eldridge called Sambino an artist with his makeup, remember? He also hung around a photo shop. Maybe he dabbles in the arts. His interest in attending college to study religion explains the crosses found with the bodies. He might have killed these women because they were gay.”
My mind reels. I run my fingers through my hair and rub the back of my neck. I try to take a deep breath. Why is Davis unwilling to at least look into Ainsley? “We should hold off on Sambino until we have something more.”
Davis stands up. “You’re too close to this case, Hansen. You only see the trees, not the forest.” I recognize the warning in his voice. Davis stares at me long and hard. “Back off Ainsley. Whatever kind of pissing contest the two of you have going, end it. Now.” He points at me as though I’m being scolded. “Or I’ll call Director Sanders and request your replacement.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We move on Sambino.”
*
At first, I�
�m not sure I’ve taken the right path to Stonehenge, the forest and snow occluding what I’d known by heart so many years ago. It’s been so long, and the trees and snow meld together into a fuzziness that doesn’t help. I push on, just a little farther, my boot steps stomping down snow and frozen leaves with the occasional snaps of branches. Just as I’m about to give up, I see the boulder, a hunk of rock shaped like an arrow, the place known as the Staircase. Sheets of limestone had settled in a stair-step fashion down part of the ravine. It was the most photographed location in the limestone quarry. Circling around the point of the boulder, I head down along the path, catching myself with the occasional slip on the frozen earth until I reach the point that takes my breath away every time: God’s View.
It’s a mystery how Marci found Stonehenge. What lies below God’s View seems to be only a maze of trees and rock, not a refuge for a teenage girl. Between the forest and the steady downward slope, I focus intently on my footing. Marci, I knew, had been visiting Stonehenge long before we met. She needed to get away from her parents’ watch; she said they never let up, eyeing her every move. Marci had come to Stonehenge to write in her journal, to think about her life and future, and then left those thoughts tucked away behind a stone in the back of the cave. It was the only place her parents didn’t know to look. She’d shown me the journal a few times, even a page with a scribbled I heart Luce surrounded by squiggles of color and hearts and our initials: M.T. + L.H. The police eventually found the journal after Marci died, its pages edged with moisture, ink, and earthen stains.
The path turns from hardened earth to limestone outside of Stonehenge, and I hold on to anything I can grab to steady myself. Stonehenge is only one of the many pocket-sized caves that climb above the ravine. Some caves run deeper and a few are long enough for minor caving expeditions. Stonehenge, though, has a small opening that gets larger the farther in you go. Its depth is a surprise. Most people don’t delve deep enough to find what Marci had, a curve to the left at the back of the cave, making a space large enough for a few people to sit within the natural light that carries in from the opening. It’s in this hidden back space of the cave that Marci and I fumbled through our love.
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