Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Three Complete Novel Box Set: Trust Me Once, Twice Burned, Fourth Victim

by Jan Coffey

  The true age of this section of the house showed in the thick, rough-hewn beams. They were dark and ancient and covered with cobwebs. Ian moved around the cellar. When he looked into the alcove behind the furnace, spider webs trailed onto his face. As he brushed them away and backed out a brown mouse scurried out from under one of the water heaters and ran along the wall, disappearing into a crack at the base of the stone foundation.

  There was no one in sight, but there was a door at one end of the cellar that seemed to lead to another section. It was open slightly, and Ian could see a light on in a room beyond.

  Dropping the bag he was carrying onto the table, Ian headed toward the door. A new padlock hung open on an old latch. The light in the room went out as soon he reached the doorway. Instinctively, Ian stepped out of the way. He was not about to become a clear target.

  A second later, Rita emerged carrying a large black plastic garbage bag. Through a tear in the bag, Ian spied crimson red fabric.

  “I thought I heard somebody down here,” Ian said good-naturedly. “Do you need a hand with that?”

  She swung the bag behind her and closed the door with her foot.

  “What are you doing down here?” she said brusquely, closing the latch and fastening the padlock.

  “Dan told me this is where the laundry is.”

  “Just leave it. Somebody will do it for you later.”

  “No, I don’t have anything better to do right now.” He looked over his shoulder at the machines. “They look pretty standard to me. I think I can handle it.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, dragging the bag toward the stairs.

  “Are you sure you don’t need a hand bringing that up?”

  “No,” she said curtly, lifting the load and starting up the stairs.

  “Going over to the camp?”

  His question caused her to miss a step. She stumbled but caught herself. She lost her grip on the bag, and she had to trap it against the stairs with her legs. As she did, the tie at the top gave, exposing the clothing packed inside. Red. Everything was solid red.

  Rita cursed under her breath and twisted the top closed again.

  Ian realized that she had no intention of acknowledging or answering his question. “I saw Wilson’s car is gone. Do you have a ride tonight?”

  “I’m fine,” she said emphatically. Without another word, she ran up the stairs with her load.

  Ian followed the sound of Rita’s footsteps across the floor above. She didn’t leave through the rear door, but walked down the back hall to the vicinity of the reception desk. A minute later, a number of people moved toward the main entrance. He heard footsteps going down the front steps and then the sound of car doors opening and closing. Ian guessed the engine that came to life in the parking area was the Stern’s minivan. He waited until the car drove off.

  There was nothing in this room that interested him. With its gray stone walls and painted concrete floor, the space had been organized to fit the lie that had been fed to Kelly all her life.

  Ian took out his flashlight. The padlock on the door was a good one, so he took a penknife from his pocket and pried out the two nails that attached the latch to the door. Swinging them out of the way, he opened the door and flashed the beam of his light into the separate section of the cellar. There was a low hum emanating from a far corner. The room appeared to be a storage space of some kind. He stepped in and flipped the light switch.

  The room was mostly filled with boxes. Chairs and desks and beds were neatly stacked against the walls, near more metal shelves filled with boxes. Everything seemed to be labeled. Ian closed the door behind him and looked at a stack of boxes to his left.

  He stared at the labels for a long moment. They were all marked New Mexico. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He looked again at the things stored there.

  Everything was clean. No coating of dust could be seen on anything. Even the smell of the room was different, and he looked into the far corner. The hum was coming from a dehumidifier.

  Ian picked up a chair sitting next to a table. There was a label on both the chair and the table. New Mexico. Study. Butler. He looked at the label on a reading lamp. The same information.

  A chill ran down his spine. It was all from the Butler Mission in New Mexico. Everything belonging to the self-proclaimed prophet—from the barebones furnishings in the buildings to the books from Butler’s own apartment—had been put on auction to pay the burial expenses of those victims whose families had not come to claim their bodies. Ian remembered the auction taking place. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to go, but he knew that there was a good-sized crowd who did come to bid on the property. He’d thought it was ghoulish then, but he hadn’t had any idea.

  It was all right here.

  Ian tore open the top of a box by his feet. It was packed with books. A loose inventory lay on top. He scanned the titles. They all had to do with religion in some way—books on the Apocalyptic Scriptures, Hindu mysticism, the writings of St. Germaine, Atlantis and ancient Egypt, the Dead Sea Scrolls. The list went on. Part of Butler’s personal library. He dropped the sheet back in the box and moved toward the wall. Metal shelving housed smaller boxes. The dates on these were more specific, and everything was filed in chronological order.

  Ian opened the box dated February.

  In it he found a series of curled black-and-white photographs. He stared at the images, feeling his gut twist at the sight of the smiling faces. Groups of people were working together, moving beds and furniture into a building. Sitting together at meals. Standing at a church service. Butler speaking to a rapt crowd.

  He opened another box. And then another. All similar pictures. It was a photographic record of the Butler Divinity Mission. These photos had not been at the Mission the day of the suicide.

  Ian moved along the shelves and pulled off one of the earliest dated boxes. Butler looked so young in these pictures. They had to be photos of the first days of the Mission, while they were still in Albuquerque. He shoved the box back onto the shelf and pulled down another, thumbing through the pictures. He was about to put the top back on when one of the photos caught his attention. Ian pulled out the picture and looked at the face of the woman who was seated beside Butler in the shot. She looked like she was conducting an interview.

  Rose Wilton. Kelly’s adoptive mother.

  Ian searched inside the box again, digging deeper. He found more pictures of her, all of them with Butler. Different days, different outfits.

  He looked at the date on the box. These were taken before Kelly was even born. She would have never known of the old connection.

  Kelly had never escaped the Mission. She’d never been safe.

  Ian felt the walls of the cellar begin to close in on him, but he fought off the sensation. He had to see it all. No, he thought, he had to see the last days.

  Moving down the rows of boxes, he looked at the date on each until he found the one he was looking for. It was a different kind of box. He took it down off the shelf and tore open the sealing tape. There were no curling prints in this one, but only a single photo album.

  His hands were shaking as he opened to the first page. He turned the page. Each one contained a lone photograph mounted beneath a plastic sheet. His chest was tight and he could barely breathe, but he looked at each picture. They were all gathered in the chapel. All of them were listening to Butler, their faces lit with excitement. Several pictures of the font. The cups. The passing out of candles.

  Ian closed the album and carried it to the chair that once had belonged to a monster. He sat down and opened the album again.

  Halfway through, he came to a picture of Butler holding up a cup. He stared at the face of the man, trying to discern something there that would explain what was about to happen. Nothing. He turned the page.

  Each page after that was a record of those coming up to receive their cup from their spiritual leader. The photographer had taken the pictures to capture the believers thre
e at a time. One was taking the cup while the other two waited patiently.

  Ian felt the tears burn his eyes. He tried not to focus on the lost children, on the trust that was evident in so many of the faces. He flipped the pages faster and faster. He was searching for one thing, one person.

  And then he found it. He found Anne—smiling, confident, beautiful—taking the cup of poison from Michael Butler’s own hand.

  Chapter 17

  Dan lay motionless in the grove of trees by the parking lot, trying to ignore the damp cold seeping up into his body. He’d been lying here for well over an hour, and his joints were stiff. He could smell the earthy scent of pine and soil, and he listened to the voices of the group members as they left the dining hall en masse and returned to the cabins. The sun was long gone when they began filtering down toward the benches and the stage, and he could see from their silhouetted forms that many were wearing robes or carrying them over their arms.

  Time dragged by in endless ticks of his watch, but when he felt it was dark enough, Dan moved toward the back of the dining hall. The sound of the people gathering at the benches in front of the covered stage reached him as he crossed to the building. Pressing his back against the wall, Dan strained to hear, but he couldn’t tell if anyone was still in the dining hall or the kitchen.

  He was not in the shadows for even a minute when a light went on in a window above him, throwing a long rectangle of yellow onto the dirt lane. Hearing a voice coming toward the back of the building, he quickly moved to the Dumpster and squeezed himself behind it just as the door above him opened.

  “It’ll take two of you to carry the large vat down, you know.” The voice sounded as if it came from a young man standing at the door, and the response from within was muffled. “Just hurry up. The font has to be filled before the service starts.”

  The door banged shut and a pair of sneakered shoes came down the wooden steps. Dan’s muscles tensed as the young man approached the Dumpster. The top creaked open and a number of empty plastic containers were tossed in, the hollow sound echoing. The top banged down but the man didn’t immediately move away.

  Dan wondered if he’d been discovered. He held his breath as seconds ticked by. His mind considered the possible situations and his own responses. Pretty limited, all in all. Against his back, he felt the vibration of a door closing somewhere in the dining hall.

  Then, as the sound of a keyboard came across the speakers, he heard the young man move away. Dan let out a deep breath and edged from his hiding place. Peeking around the corner of the building, he could see brilliant footlights lit the stage, two of them focused on the banner hanging at the back. His field of vision of the stage itself was obstructed from here.

  Over the lake, the moon was just beginning to rise, but it was enshrouded in a strange, unnatural looking fog that clung to near edge of the lake.

  Someone spoke into a microphone, asking everyone to be seated as they’d been instructed. The keyboard player fired up, and the chords of a gospel song filled the air. People in the congregation immediately began to sing.

  Staying low, Dan ran in the shadows until he reached a cabin behind the administrator’s office. Ministers in red robes and white sashes were standing by the door of the camp office. As he watched them, a solitary figure, robed in white, emerged. The entourage formed around their leader, but Dan recognized “Father” Ty Somers immediately.

  “Bingo,” he breathed.

  As the escort moved toward the stage, Dan edged forward. From here, he had a clear view of the front of the stage and much of the swaying, singing congregation. They were all dressed in identical blood red robes.

  The stage itself was lit up like a photography studio, with lights and screens. Directly in front of the stage, a half dozen members of the cult’s inner circle took their places, facing the assembly, ready to lead the congregation in prayer and song. Joshua Sharpe was standing at the far end. In the very center of the stage, on a large chair draped in a shimmering white cloth, Tyler Somers sat down, withdrawing in an attitude of deep meditation, his body motionless and his eyes shut.

  Dan saw Ken Burke move down the center aisle, his camera clicking as he recorded the scene. The photographer focused on Somers, then turned and photographed the congregation.

  Right beside the font, an empty easel stood with red and white sashes draped over it. There were cups on a table on the other side of the font. A flash of concern shot through him. He looked at his watch as the singing stopped.

  Somers stood up and moved to the microphone and silence fell over the assembly. He smiled and held up his hands. A woman cried out a blessing on him from somewhere toward the back.

  “May the great Lord and his prophet and saint Michael smile down upon us, children.”

  A great “Amen” sounded out in response.

  “Sit, brothers and sisters, for we have much to discuss.”

  The congregation settled onto the benches.

  “THIS is the time of our Rapture!” Somers began thunderously. “THIS is our time…our turn…OUR PATH!”

  As he was speaking, the fog behind him began to dissipate. Without looking, he gestured at the lake.

  “The planets and the stars have aligned themselves once again, children, opening the way for us across the universe. Do you see it, brothers and sisters?”

  The moon, huge and white, suddenly became visible in a cloudless night sky, and the moonlight reflected brilliantly in the lake, its beams broken up into a million shards on the surface of the water. It looked like a path of gold across the lake.

  Cries of “Yes!” and “I see it” rang out.

  “It is our path,” he continued. Somers moved back and forth across the stage, looking into the eyes of his congregation. “We are the Chosen Ones. It is our destiny!”

  “Think, brothers and sisters, of how our lives follow the divine plan. In this, we conform to His will. There is no struggle in this. We join Him willingly, in happy and joyous exaltation of Him and His saints who have gone before us. Our path is His design, His divine plan.”

  Somers raised his hands to the heavens.

  “Use me, Michael, as the instrument, as you are eternally the instrument, of the Ideal One. Guide me from the shores of the fiery lake, you saints who have ascended through the ages, guide me at this time of Tribulation. Teach me, holy ones, how to walk the eternal path at our moment of Rapture.”

  A shout came from the believers, “Bless him, Michael.”

  “Brothers and sisters, let us join our hearts and our souls to recognize the light-bearer, the one who holds open the door to eternity. In our unification, in our sharing of the Divine Blood, we shall no longer walk on the dark path of our limited human reason. Unified with Him, we share in the divine energy that dispels human ignorance. Out of this energy comes the garment of eternity, the great seamless garment of the living Divinity.”

  “Look to the skies.” Somers pointed toward the rising moon. “Born of the Divine Sun that created all energy, that planet is a sign of our redemption. Just as the Moon is a magnet in this existential plane, controlling the ebb and flow of the tides of the great oceans, the Divine Magnet that created the universe controls the ebb and flow of the very shadows and the light. Now is the time when the Divine Magnet draws us, with a transformed consciousness, into the ascendant plane. As we break off the ties of our frail human existence, we renew the ancient covenants in which we are called back home into the very bosom of Him.”

  “Now is our time, my family. When Khumba Luxor last occurred, aligning the celestial bodies and opening our spiritual path, our Prophet Michael led our brothers and sisters through the eternal door. Now the stars and planets are again in place, and the Prophet left us His own Divine offspring, our own Luna-K, to lead us past the tenacious ties of this earthly existence. Born of the House of Cancer, she is the Moonchild to take us home. Nurtured and guided to this place and time, Luna-K shall become herself the pathway of the holy flame. For us, for this moment, f
or this Khumba Luxor, the Father has left us his own child, the conduit of the divine energy force. She is the holy flame, the Divine Magnet, the day and the night, the conscious and the unconscious, the Creator and Destroyer. She is here, brothers and sisters, to lead us home.”

  Somers continued to work his spell upon the congregation, telling them the meaning of the event that they were about to participate in. Alternately praising them for their faithfulness and then chastising them for their sinfulness, he gradually raised the pitch of his message as he went, enveloping them in his power. The emotions of the believers spilled out as he spoke. Then, when he had them firmly in his grip, he returned to his earlier exhortation.

  “The time when we shall ascend into the heavens has come,” he cried out. “Can you see them, sisters and brothers? Can you see the Prophet, sainted and clothed in white? Can you see him there waiting for us? Can you see him with our brethren who have gone before, standing before the White Throne, their arms open to us? Welcoming us?”

  “Prepare yourselves, children. The glory of our ascension awaits. The current of energy that will carry us is again open to us, His Chosen Ones. As the Christ showed us on that Easter morning, we have been given our passage. There is no life’s end for us. We have the chariot of fire. We have with us the eternal Thread of Contact. We have the Angel of His Blood. Luna-K—the Moonchild, the Divine Magnet, the holy flame—is with us. ”

  Somers raised his hands over the multitude. A picture of Kelly was carried up and placed on the easel beside the baptismal font and draped with the crimson and white cloths. People cheered and there were shouts of joy from the congregation. Ken Burke’s camera continued to click away.

  “Luna-K will lead us, my children, out of the limited colors of human existence into the infinite spectrum of eternal light. Into the heavenly world of ascended saints and divine beings. They await us…and our time is near! Prepare!”

  As the keyboard began a low somber chant, assistants hurried down the aisles, distributing candles. Somers went to the white throne and sat down, clearly overcome with exhaustion at being the vehicle of the message. His hands were draped over the armrests and his chin was on his chest. A minister came with a cup of something to drink, from which he managed a sip before wearily rising to his feet. Burke focused his lens on Somers’s face.