Redemption

by Laurel Dewey

  “Hey, Janie!” Mike said in a singsong manner. “Just checkin’ in. Picked up your mail and watched some TV while I was here. Hey, that Sergeant of yours...ah, Weyler? He stopped by while I was there. Looked like he was goin’ to church the way he was dressed. Anyway, he really wants to talk to you. I told him you were drivin’ to California. Oakhurst, right? He seemed kinda pissed about that... I told him to give you a call on your cell. I went ahead and gave him your new number. That’s okay, right? See ya.”

  Jane clicked her phone shut and let out a long sigh. Mike could never keep a secret. For Sergeant Weyler to show up at her house meant he was not going to accept her silence. Now he had her cell number. Great.

  Kit read her New Age book until she nodded off. Jane took advantage of the respite from conversation to push her concerns about Weyler far back in her mind and go over the information she’d discovered in the last hour about Ashlee’s murder.

  Jane pulled a pad of paper from the leather satchel that was tucked behind her seat. She placed it on her lap and withdrew a pen from the visor. Detective Charles Sawyer had turned out to be a gold mine of information. However, with each question, Sawyer had brought up even more questions and possibilities that were equally perplexing. Jane put the pedal to the metal and started jotting down some of the more puzzling points that Sawyer had revealed.

  Foremost on her mind was the mysterious dark, green, shiny particle found in the condom. The fact that Sawyer had obsessed so much on that particle meant something to Jane. Cops have an odd gift—a built-in radar that lights up when they’re given incongruous information. It could be a word, a piece of evidence, a person, or a situation that trips the radar. Once the radar is tripped, the gut starts to clench, acknowledging that something is askew. It had happened to Jane hundreds of times, and each time that radar had proven to be right on the money. However, determining the incongruity often required weeks or even months of hard investigation.

  The two alleged rapes Lou Peters was accused of committing were a good example of nagging incongruity. After talking to Sawyer, the possible rapes took on a more sinister aspect, especially with the introduction of the anonymous caller who had spoken to Sawyer fourteen years ago. “High-strung.” That was the term he had used to describe the female caller. “Terrified.” That was another description of the woman. Terrified of death, Sawyer theorized. Jane mused that could be presumptuous. Then again, that old radar could have kicked in when Sawyer was talking to the female caller. So the next logical jump, if death was indeed a fear, was the usual conspiracy link: a cover-up. Jane wrote that word in capital letters on the yellow pad with a question mark. A cover for Lou, she wondered, or a cover for the real killer?

  Thinking back on the conversation with Sawyer, Jane noted the suspicious purchases by Lou of lanterns and rope. Certainly noteworthy, Jane figured, and just a bit too coincidental, given the seemingly premeditated nature of the items. Then there was the Valium used to drug Ashlee. That seemed to be available out of nowhere. Jane figured the perp would need a significant number of pills to last fourteen days.

  Fourteen days. Ashlee was fourteen. Was the time between the kidnapping and the murder significant or just coincidental on the killer’s part? If Lou was the killer, and if he was responsible for kidnapping twelve-year-old Charlotte Walker, did that mean Charlotte was destined to die on day twelve? She counted twelve days past Christmas Day, counting Christmas as the first day, and came up with January 5.

  Jane’s mind bounced to the discussion of Pico Blanco and the limestone outcropping where Ashlee’s cooked body was found. Sawyer recalled the “sacrificial” pose of the body. “Like an offering to the Gods,” he told Jane. Strange terminology, she thought, and yet it gave Jane a crisp image of how Ashlee had been posed by her killer. An unexpected shudder jolted Jane as she flashed on the grisly impression. A feeling of raw vulnerability washed over her, and for a split second, the comforting contemplation that a shot of Jack Daniels would feel good at that moment. Even though the consideration lasted less than a heartbeat, Jane was somewhat stunned and enticed at the same time by the notion. “How many shots does it take now?” she recalled asking Sawyer, only to discover that he was a full-fledged member of the first-name-only club. Jane still felt daunted by Sawyer’s thirteen years of sobriety. “But it’s a life worth living....” Sawyer advised. To Jane, that statement was analogous to faith. At that critical moment, trusting in anything was proving to be difficult. She yearned to encounter the black-and-white answers that led to black-and-white conclusions. But amidst the odd occurrences that had taken place in her life over the last few days, Jane was left with a sense that she was freefalling into a gray abyss filled with strange coincidences and even stranger wraith-driven connections.

  As if on cue, she felt the edge of the snakestone totem rubbing against her sobriety chips. Radical transformation, Jane thought. Insane logic, she assured herself. That snakestone was as insignificant as the odd connections to the sacred birds of Pico Blanco and their legend. The Eagle. The Crow. The Raven. The Hummingbird. The Hawk. It was all just a disjointed linking of coincidences, Jane told herself as she took the Horizon Drive exit off the highway into Grand Junction and headed toward Bartosh’s house on Eagle Road.

  Bartosh’s house was located in the center of Grand Junction, just off Main Street in what looked like an old, established part of town. Passing a 7-Eleven on the corner, Jane pulled into the parking lot and grabbed the conservative skirt and blouse she had purchased from the secondhand store. She emerged from the 7-Eleven’s bathroom looking prim and proper. Checking her reflection in the window, Jane decided that by pulling her layered, long brown hair back into a discreet ponytail, she could project an even more virtuous appearance. She grabbed a pack of black barrettes and, seeing a small notepad and pen combo nearby, Jane collected it as well, figuring it would work as a good prop.

  Back in the car, Jane brushed her hair back into a neat ponytail and asked Kit to borrow her tape recorder and a blank tape to use during the interview.

  Kit handed Jane a blank ninety-minute tape. “Where are you going to stash me? Neither Bartosh or his wife can see me with you.”

  “I can drop you off at a health food store and pick you up when I’m done.”

  “I’d normally say fine, but I’m feeling rather unsteady at the moment.”

  “Unsteady?” Jane asked, concerned. She realized that her worry for Kit was more deeply rooted than she expected.

  “It happens a lot lately. The only thing that helps is if I lie down and rest.”

  “That’s easy,” Jane said concisely. “We’ll move the bags from the backseat up front and you can lie down back there. I’ll park the car halfway down the block from where they live. Problem solved.”

  Kit nodded as Jane backed out of the parking lot and headed into Bartosh’s neighborhood. The weather in Grand Junction was light-years away from typical Colorado winter offerings. The temperature was a mild fifty-five degrees; warm enough to make jackets optional. Turning on to Eagle Road, Jane noted that the street was positively idyllic and pristine. The homes were solidly built, many made of brick, and looked as if they could withstand a hundred-mile-per-hour sustained windstorm without losing a shingle. But to Jane, it looked like a Disney movie set with false front homes that appeared too clean to be true.

  Jane located Bartosh’s modest one-story brick house and continued down the street half a block before parking. She cleared the backseat and Kit maneuvered her large frame into it. Jane collected her props and started to head off when a thought crossed her mind. “Do you know what the Brotherhood Council is?” Jane asked Kit.

  Kit thought for a second, adjusting her buckwheat pillow. “It’s an elite, fraternal group of men Bartosh gathers together to discuss Church matters. They’re handpicked by Bartosh. It was quite the honor back in Big Sur to be part of the chosen few.”

  “Why just men?”

  “Well, for one, Bartosh doesn’t acknowledge the Goddess. And tw
o, he lives in an old paradigm where men make the rules and women make the meals and babies!”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Okay,” she retorted sarcastically.

  “Don’t you get uppity,” Kit warned.

  “Uppity?”

  “Uppity! Bartosh and his misguided members hate uppity women. Women are bred to look congenial, have no personal opinions, stay in the background, and suffer. Not necessarily in that order...so don’t try to push the envelope and show how bloody smart you are or he’ll know you’re not one of the tribe!” With that significant statement, Kit punched her buckwheat pillow into a ball and closed her eyes.

  Jane smoothed a few stray hairs and walked up the block, transforming herself into the antithesis of Jane Perry. Arriving at Bartosh’s door, Jackie Lightjoy rang the bell.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Mrs. Lightjoy?”

  Jane tilted her head and flashed a demure smile as she extended her hand. “Mrs. Bartosh. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Ingrid shook Jane’s hand with one hand and cupped her other hand around Jane’s knuckles. The gesture was a universal body language sign that told Jane a lot about Ingrid. This was a woman who thought with her heart and was motivated by a strong need to feel the pain of others.

  “Please, call me Ingrid,” she said as stood aside to let Jane inside the door.

  “And you must call me Jackie,” Jane insisted as she moved inside the house. She was immediately taken by two things: a dense, almost claustrophobic, overheated environment, and the soft, nearly trance-inducing taped music of a choir singing “Jesus is the way and the light.” Ingrid was wearing a beige skirt that flowed well past mid-calf down her narrow hips and a pressed, white, button-front shirt that was generously cut to obscure whatever upper body the woman possessed. Her wavy gray hair with occasional streaks of brown underneath fell softly against her narrow shoulders. On her feet, she wore a pair of beige loafers that Jane surmised were purchased in the sensible shoe department. Ingrid appeared to be in her early sixties, although her moist, peachyrose face was devoid of both makeup and excessive lines. Jane did note a certain downturn in her mouth and what looked to be a quiet sadness in her hazel eyes.

  “I have coffee set up in the family room,” Ingrid said as she led Jane past the dimly lit living room, through the antiquated 1950’s-style kitchen and into a large room with mustard shag carpeting. To call this a “family room” seemed odd to Jane. The furniture, which consisted of a well-worn plaid couch, a single leather recliner, a large coffee table, assorted straight-back chairs, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase with a large cross cut out of the top center portion, did not seem conducive to family gatherings. The initial dense feeling Jane felt when she walked into the house seemed stronger in this stuffy room. There was no television, nor anything that reeked of jovial entertainment. The walls were blank except for three two-by-three-foot pictures of Jesus. One was an extreme close-up of His face and blood dripping from the crown of thorns atop his head, the second a traditional Christ on the cross crucifixion pose, and the third, a standing image of Jesus dressed in a flowing robe and knocking on a wooden door. Between the hot, confining environment, the drone of choir music, the feeling that Jesus was watching her from all angles, and the nauseating mustard shag carpeting, Jane felt the need to gird her loins for the job ahead.

  “My husband is finishing up ministering to a Congregation member on the telephone.” Jane glanced toward a well-lit, adjacent room less than five feet from where she stood. She could see the edge of a large desk, a small lamp, and a male hand balled up in a fist. While she couldn’t hear the private conversation, Jane noted how the fist bounced quietly yet purposefully off the desk as the muted voice made a point. For some odd reason, the idea of Oz behind the curtain popped into Jane’s mind.

  “Please have a seat.” Ingrid motioned to the plaid sofa. Jane sat down. Ingrid took a seat next to her, placing her hand on Jane’s arm. “I briefly explained the story you’re writing for Christian Parenting to my husband, as well as your personal family tragedy involving the nature of your niece’s death. I’m sorry. Her name again?”

  Jane immediately noted Ingrid’s forward behavior mixed with an added edge of righteous justification. Even though the story Jane had told about her “niece” was fabricated, she felt a sense of indignity as a tenor of judgment rang clearly in Ingrid’s genteel voice. “Janie,” Jane replied.

  “Yes, Janie,” Ingrid said. Jane wasn’t sure if this was some sort of test, but she figured she successfully passed the first hurdle of remembering her fictitious niece. Ingrid’s eyes drifted to the side, as if recollecting a bittersweet memory. “Seventeen years old, you said? Life hasn’t even begun at seventeen, has it?” Ingrid looked back into Jane’s eyes, seemingly in search of a deeper answer.

  “No, it hasn’t,” Jane softly replied.

  “I have a plate of sugar cookies!” Ingrid said in an abrupt, incongruous change of subject. “They were left over from my husband’s Brotherhood Council meeting. Do you like sugar cookies?”

  Jane couldn’t care less. “They’re my favorite!” Jane took a bite of a cookie while Ingrid eagerly awaited her review. “Homemade?”

  “Of course! Store bought won’t do! The Brotherhood loves them. I’m known for these cookies,” Ingrid said with an almost childlike candor.

  Jane figured the only woman who needed to brag about her cookies was Mrs. Fields. But then again, she’d entered an odd, new world, and she had to blend into it. Ingrid poured Jane’s coffee and stood up. “Aren’t you going to join us?” Jane asked.

  “No. You came here to talk to my husband, not me. And he only drinks coffee when he has to stay up late writing an article for the newsletter.”

  Jane recalled Kit mentioning Bartosh’s newsletter. “Newsletter?” Jane asked, taking a sip of the boiling brew. Jane noticed a somewhat burned quality to the coffee, a decidedly bitter taste that cheap pre-ground beans often produced.

  “Yes. It comes out every other month. We’ve been publishing it for over a decade. It’s the way Congregation members keep in touch with what’s going on.”

  “How many members do you have?”

  “I don’t know the exact number. We print close to seven thousand newsletters each go-around. But, the Congregation numbers far exceed that. And we have new members joining constantly, what with our members traveling overseas and ministering to the thousands of lost souls in the Middle East, China, India.... I’d be happy to gather together some back issues for you if you’d like.”

  “I’d love it. Thank you!”

  Ingrid’s attention focused behind Jane. “This is the man you came to see!”

  Jane turned around to find Dr. John Bartosh standing five feet from her. His entrance had been so stealthlike, it caught her offguard. Jane stood, extending her hand. “Dr. Bartosh! My name is Jackie Lightjoy. Thank you so very much for taking the time to speak with me today.”

  Bartosh shook Jane’s hand with a firm grasp. “You’re with Christian Parenting Today?”

  “Yes. I freelance for them. It gives me more freedom to spend time with my husband and children, while still doing God’s work.”

  Bartosh silently took in the scene, quietly judging and analyzing every word. Jane’s plastic smile belied the rapidly rotating wheels of observation that whirled inside her head. After the grave warnings and descriptions from Kit regarding Bartosh, she half expected to meet a repulsive ogre. Instead, the man who stood before her was mid-sixties, barely six foot tall, wore a crisp white business shirt, a dark suit with outdated lapels, polished black oxfords, and a plain wedding band. His complexion was ruddy, which tended to amplify the various strands of strawberry red hair that mingled in his mostly gray, wavy conservative coiffure. Jane was immediately taken by Bartosh’s steel blue eyes and their penetrating glare. She could easily understand how anyone lacking self-confidence might feel trepidation under such an intense gaze.

  Bartosh’s fixed stare upon Jane lasted longer than
normal. “You look familiar.”

  Jane realized Bartosh must have seen her photo or her appearance on Larry King Live. She needed to quickly work a believable angle. “I get that a lot.”

  Bartosh’s eyes continued to analyze Jane’s face with a thirddegree gaze. “Very familiar,” he said with emphasis. Ingrid joined the facial scrutiny.

  “Julia Roberts,” Jane said with a singsong tone.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The actress? People say I look just like her,” Jane lied. She waited for the celebrity name to register with Bartosh. It did not. “Pretty Woman? The movie?”

  “The one about the harlot?” Bartosh stated with severity.

  Jane was unmoved. “Yes, that one. But—”

  “I wouldn’t want to look like anyone who promotes prostitution to the masses.”

  If Bartosh was trying to use intimidation to wear down Jane, he was in for a long battle. While Jane Perry would have responded with a dizzy slur of four letter words, Jackie Lightjoy simply smiled. “Perhaps I should cut my hair to avoid the comparison.”

  “Perhaps....” Bartosh thought for a second. “Lightjoy,” he mused, crossing to the only lounge chair in the room, across from the couch. “I’ve never heard that name before.” He sat down, never taking his eyes off Jane.

  Jane sat on the couch. “It’s my married name.” Silence. Jane took up the challenge. “My husband’s family hails from England.” Stream of consciousness kicked in. “A tiny village near Southampton. When his ancestors came to the States, they took on the name of their village, which happened to be Lightjoy. It could have been worse, my husband jokes. His second cousins hail from Duck Bottom.” Silence. Jane took a sip of Ingrid’s burned offering and continued. Pulling out the tape recorder, she placed it on the coffee table. “Do you mind?” Jane asked, pointing to the recorder. “I have a pad for notes, but I find that a recorder helps me get quotes exactly right.”