Grounds to Believe

by Shelley Bates

  Every instinct demanded that he pound on a judge’s door and get the piece of paper that would allow him to search the compound until he found his child. But instinct had to give way to common sense. They’d go tomorrow, when his head was clear and he could think rationally instead of emotionally. And after he’d spent a good long time on his knees.

  I’ve never been so afraid, Lord. Help me.

  “Okay. I’ll be here when shift changes,” he said aloud.

  “Good man. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out. With any luck, we can get ’em on a couple dozen weapons charges and seize the property.”

  But luck had run out. When he and Corny drove up to the compound the next day and prepared to demand entry, only the hot wind answered them. The door he’d knocked on yesterday stood partly open, swinging on rusty hinges. They ran inside, then searched the other houses and the barn in about twenty minutes, but came up with nothing more incriminating than some broken windows and another cache of bullet casings out by the field of vegetables.

  The Church of the Seventh Seal had pulled up and moved out, and taken his daughter with them.

  Six years later

  Memorandum

  Date: June 3, 2004

  To: Sergeant Bruce Harmon

  Organized Crime Task Force

  From: Lt. Leslie Bellville

  Hamilton Falls P.D.

  Re: Cult

  File Ref: HF04-193

  Per my e-mail yesterday, attached please find Forms 17A and B outlining evidence of what is believed to be a religious cult known as the Elect of God operating in the Hamilton Falls area. We believe there is child abuse among members of this group, but are unable to investigate with uniform members due to its closed social structure.

  We understand Investigator Ross Malcolm specializes in cults as part of his duties in the OCTF. We request his assistance for a period not to exceed three weeks, overtime and expenses to be charged to the Town of Hamilton Falls.

  Please advise Investigator Malcolm’s availability ASAP.

  Chapter One

  Who shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth.

  —Romans 8:33

  The pager beeped as Ross pulled off the freeway for gas. He glanced at the number and frowned. What was the matter with those guys? Couldn’t they survive for two days without yanking on his electronic leash for help?

  He tilted the motorcycle onto its side stand at the deserted pump and pulled the pager off his belt. He frowned at the number on the display and stalked over to the pay phone next to the ice machine.

  His partner picked up on the first ring. “Organized Crime Task Force. Harper.”

  “This had better be good, pal.” Ross leaned on the dented metal of the bracket protecting the phone from the weather.

  “Oh, it is. How’s the vacation?”

  “Two days isn’t a vacation. It’s a weekend. I’m scheduled for five days leave, Ray. Five. You page me, you better be telling me my apartment building’s burning down.”

  “Nope. Worse than that. They got a live one.”

  “Who?”

  “Hamilton Falls. We just got a memo asking for your services. The lieutenant out there says their fink just blew the whistle. A near-miss this time—which adds up to two and a half kids total over the last couple of months. That’s ‘reasonable and probable grounds to believe,’ in my book.”

  Ross stood silently, watching a flock of children spill out of the fast-food place next door. Shrieking, their giggles high-pitched, they tumbled into the play area.

  One small town. Two deaths and a near-miss in four months.

  “Ross?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Think fast. Harmon knows I’m talking to you.”

  So much for his hard-earned five days. “Tell him I’ll call him from Hamilton Falls.”

  “What about your vacation?”

  “I guess scenic Interstate 90 was it. Look on the bright side. The woman of my dreams could be anywhere, even in Hamilton Falls.”

  Ray Harper snorted. “Just make sure she doesn’t have kids.”

  Ross sipped a cup of coffee and considered the manila file folders on the blotter. The lieutenant who usually occupied this office was out at an accident scene. At the front counter, a uniformed patrolman just out of the academy took a complaint, while a telephone rang insistently at an empty desk in the bullpen. Outside the door of his borrowed office, a laser printer began to wheeze.

  He had never been to Hamilton Falls before, but the familiar government-issue furniture, the beige linoleum, the numbering system on the files, and even the bad coffee combined to make him feel at home. He could have been in any law-enforcement office in the state.

  Ross stretched as the caffeine hit his bloodstream. He ran his fingers through his thick brown mane. Hair. One of the perks of working on the Task Force.

  He stacked the files and spread the contents of the first one on the blotter. He hated reading this stuff.

  The autopsy report on the so-called SIDS baby, Andreas Wyslicki, lay on top of a transcript of a police interview with the pediatrician, Michael Archer. Ross started with the interview, reading slowly. His approach to such a witness was to absorb details not of medical procedure, but of per sonality, of speech patterns, of hints to the habits and pre occupations of the speaker. And Archer was definitely preoccupied.

  Archer advises the baby arrived by ambulance approx. 18:40 March 12th. Parents reported that the baby alarm had gone off because he had stopped breathing. They had done CPR to no effect. Paramedics could not revive him, and he was pronounced DOA at the hospital.

  Ross took another sip of tepid coffee.

  Archer cannot account for victim’s death. Has been victim’s pediatrician since he was born two months ago. Archer requests he be allowed to view autopsy report when completed.

  No doubt.

  The station clerk’s voice penetrated his concentration. “He’s in Lieutenant Bellville’s office, Harry.”

  A uniform leaned in the door. “Investigator Malcolm?”

  Ross put his hands on both arms of the chair and levered himself to his feet. “Yes. You’re Harry Everett?”

  “The same. Glad you could join us.”

  “I’m not. I was two days into a five-day leave.” The other man looked intimidated until Ross smiled. Then Everett smiled back.

  “Sorry about that. But these kids…well, we needed the help.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been reading the reports. I’d like to get some background on your informant.”

  “No problem.” He leaned out the door. “Jenny, would you bring me the fink file on Rita Ulstad?” Ross watched as the station clerk, a pretty blonde with a Meg Ryan haircut, sashayed out to the records room and returned carrying another manila folder. That short skirt did less for her than she probably imagined. “Thanks.” Everett smiled absently and opened the file she handed him.

  “Anything for you,” Jenny crooned to Everett as she moved away, but her glance remained on Ross, sparkling with interest. Ross had no doubt about the message. He considered it briefly and rejected it. If there was a woman in his future, he hadn’t met her yet. That was one thing he was happy to leave up to the Lord.

  “So.” Ross tilted back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “What do you have in mind for strategy?”

  Harry Everett handed him the file to give himself a moment. “I’ve heard about you,” he said finally. “That you got broken in at Waco.”

  Ross frowned and moved restlessly. “You heard wrong,” he said shortly. “That was long before my time.”

  “But you’re a cult specialist, right? The only one the Task Force has. You did that bunch of Aryan wanna-bes in the hostage situation in Spokane, right?”

  Ross fought against the memories that welled up out of the dark place inside him, a place he tried to keep scabbed over and undisturbed. His last sight of Annie and Kailey floated in his mind’s eye for a moment, the way i
t did every time he busted into a run-down apartment or staked out a house, searching for evidence of the organized crime these little cults were so good at hiding. The kids were the worst. Big frightened eyes. Utter distrust. Just like Kailey, screaming at the sight of him.

  Ross came back to the present with a jolt and struggled to remember what Harry Everett had been talking about. Oh, yeah. Spokane. “I was involved.” He got the conversation back on track with an effort. “Tell me what you need.”

  Everett backed off and got to the point. “I think we need an undercover. I think you need to buddy up to one of the members and find out as much as you can. I’d suggest our informant, but she’s lost their trust and doesn’t interact with them anymore. There’s got to be a reason for these deaths, but no one knows enough about the Elect to find out what it is. They could be into blood sacrifice, for all we know, and faking the accidents afterwards.”

  “What does your informant say?”

  “She says they’re not like that. But there’s two and a half dead kids. That’s evidence of something weird, in my opinion.”

  “Two of them were natural, weren’t they?”

  “You have to ask yourself. Look at the last one. A pillow and some steady pressure wouldn’t be very natural.”

  “But to what purpose? If you’re going to make a blood sacrifice, why do it that way, with no ceremonial?”

  Harry shrugged. “Who knows how they think?”

  “Okay. So where do I find these people?”

  “Easy. Pick the most upstanding citizens in Hamilton Falls and you’ll find one. The principal of the high school. A fireman. A bookshop owner.” He nudged the informant’s file and it slid off the stack. “We’ll arrange a conference for you and our fink can give you the details.”

  Ross pulled his notebook out from under the folders and began jotting down notes. “All these upstanding citizens belong to a cult? Usually cult members isolate themselves, don’t mix.”

  “They don’t. You can’t get them to socialize at all. They won’t even let their kids play sports.”

  “Then why are they so successful in Hamilton Falls? Do they have something on the mayor or what?”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” Harry scoffed. “I didn’t vote for the guy. But these people are honest, even if they’re trusting to the point that it’s easy to rip them off. They don’t believe in lawsuits or stereos or anything.”

  “And this makes them a cult?”

  “You tell me. You’re the expert.”

  “I will, when I know more. So who else belongs?”

  “You’ll love this. The doctor on all these cases.”

  Ross’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “Yeah? The pediatrician?”

  “Couldn’t find a thing on him. But maybe you can—from the inside.”

  Sounded like the logical place to start. “Tell me about the most recent family.” Ross turned a page of his notebook.

  “The Blanchard kid is the son of the high-school principal. You should see the wife. What a doll. The sister’s not bad, either, if you like the wholesome type.”

  Ross set his teeth and ignored the bait. “How did they come to your attention?”

  Everett jerked his chin at the folder. “Ulstad. She’s a nurse at the hospital, and to hear her tell it, these people are knocking off their kids one by one. She used to belong and got kicked out. You’ve got to take her with a grain of salt because she’s got a massive hate on for these people, but her information is worth looking into. Especially with the Blanchard kid. He was the near-miss.”

  “How soon can I talk to her?”

  “I’ll try to get it set up for this afternoon. After that, you’re on your own as far as finding a way in. Although I have a few suggestions.”

  He gave Everett a long look. “Like what?”

  “The sister I just mentioned.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s single.”

  It took a second to sink in. “Are you suggesting I pursue one of the women?” For the first time in his career, he wondered if his obsession was going to take him where he wasn’t willing to go. An angry, uneasy heaviness began to swirl in his stomach as his body recoiled at the thought.

  “There’s worse ways to earn a living. Let’s see what we can get on her.” Harry leaned out the door a second time. “Hey, Kurtz! C’mon back in here, would you?”

  Jenny Kurtz smiled as she did so, perching on the edge of the desk to be sure that Ross got a good view of her legs. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “You’ve lived here all your life, right?” Harry said. “You know the folks in town pretty well.”

  “Sure. What do you need to know?”

  “Do you know the Blanchards?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Madeleine was a couple of years ahead of me in high school. I don’t know her husband. But I graduated with her sister Julia.”

  “What can you tell us about her?”

  “That stick-in-the-mud?” Jenny looked amused. “What do you want to know about her for?”

  “Because she’s connected to this case Investigator Malcolm’s here for. Tell us about her.”

  “I don’t see her much anymore, thank goodness.” Jenny giggled with a sudden memory. “She was such a Goody Two-shoes in high school. Some of the boys thought it would be funny to write her phone number up on the bathroom wall—you know, ‘for a good time, call…’ A couple of the crazy ones actually did it. She wouldn’t know what to do with a guy if she had one. She probably tried to save their souls.”

  Ross eyed her with distaste. There was nothing quite like the cruelty of the “in” crowd to the outsider, all the more amazing when he reflected that high school for Jenny had been a good many years ago. Some people matured. Some just stayed stuck at seventeen forever. “How do you think she felt about it?” he asked in spite of himself.

  She shrugged. “Who knows?” And who cared, from the tone of her voice.

  “Do you know where she lives?” Harry asked, bringing them back to the matter at hand.

  “No, but she works at that bookshop downtown. Quill and Quinn. I never go in there. They don’t stock anything good.”

  “What about her religion?” Ross asked. “Know anything about that?”

  “Only enough to know it gives me the creeps,” she said, making a face. “Nothing but black to their ankles and high-maintenance hair. I went once, for a joke, when they had some kind of meeting at the hall downtown, but—”

  “Where’s the hall?” Ross interrupted.

  “Fourth and Birch, right next to the post office. It’s easy to miss, though. No signs, no cross, no nothing. Boring.”

  “Thanks.”

  Harry glanced at him and took his cue. “Thanks for your help, Jenny. Shut the door on the way out, would you?”

  She slid off the desk. At the door she looked over her shoulder. “Anything else you want to know about old Julia McNeill, you give me a call.” With a toss of her hair, she swiveled around the door and closed it behind her.

  “We need to talk about my cover story,” Ross said. “You dragged me in here with the clothes on my back. I’ve got a good pair of jeans and a shirt outside on the bike. At the moment I’m not very convincing convert material.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think they’re too fussy.”

  “I don’t want to take the chance. I need an image, and I need a good reason to join.”

  “Why do people usually get religion?” Harry waved his hand. “They get in a car accident, they lose a loved one. Take your pick. Have a revelation on me.”

  They lose a loved one. He’d gotten a revelation over that, all right. The law made a great weapon, even if he sometimes felt he was fighting alone, spurred on by his fear and his memories. He’d find Kailey some day. One assignment at a time. One prayer at a time.

  First, the persona—a grieving husband escaping his loss. Talk to the informant. Then, track down Miss Goody Two-shoes.

  Chapter Two

&
nbsp; The woman had called herself Miriam for so many years that she’d pretty much forgotten her real name. The only entity her real name mattered to was the government, and she didn’t have anything to do with them.

  Or hadn’t, anyway. Until now.

  She looked at the child sleeping on the orange plastic bench at the bus depot and sighed. She’d signed up to do the right thing, so she had to go through with it. Moses had told her where they were going after they’d buried Annie, and she’d just have to meet them there when she was done.

  Minus the child.

  She picked up the pay phone’s receiver and dialed Information.

  “What listing, please?”

  “The sheriff. And could you put me through to the number?”

  “That will be a dollar twenty-five, please.”

  Miriam put the quarters in the phone, and the number rang through.

  “Inish County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “I’m looking for a deputy named Ross Malcolm. Could you transfer me, please?” The formal language, the politeness, felt stilted on her tongue.

  The woman rang her through, and Miriam dared to feel a little hope threaded through the mass of her built-up distrust and fear.

  “Human Resources.”

  “I’m looking for a deputy named Ross Malcolm who works there.”

  A clicking sound rattled in the background. “The only person by that name who’s worked here since I’ve been here transferred up to Seattle several years ago.”

  The flicker of hope died. Seattle was on the other side of the state. At the ends of the earth.

  “Did he go to a sheriff’s department there?” she asked faintly.

  “Nope. Seattle P.D. Anything else I can help you with?”