by Laurel Dewey
“Well, howdy, again!”
Jane looked up and saw Diane, their waitress from the previous night. “Howdy,” Jane replied with a soft undercurrent of big city disdain.
Diane delivered two boot-shaped glasses of water to Kit and Jane, then leaned down, resting her elbows on the Formica tabletop. “Well, what’d you think of that interview last night with Lesley Stahl?”
“Well, I....” Jane searched for the right words.
“You think Lesley colors her hair?” Diane asked with a serious tone.
Jane regarded Diane with a confused gaze. “Yes.”
“Me too! And if I’d been Leann’s mama, I’d have put her in another shirt! It made her face look wide. Didn’t you think?”
Jane decided the conversation had reached the gossip stage. “I’ll have the hamburger, medium.”
Kit ordered the vegetarian quesadillas. Diane took the menus and turned to the front door. “Well, hey, Sheriff!”
Jane had a full view of the sheriff and his posse as they sauntered toward the empty booth behind Jane.
“Hey, Diane!” Sheriff Golden said in a familial manner.
“Coffees all around?” she asked, entranced by the Sheriff’s celebrity status.
“Yep,” the Sheriff replied. “And maybe a plate of nachos for me and the boys.”
Kit leaned across the table, speaking in a hushed tone. “Talk to him, Jane.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Get the scoop on Mr. Fagin and the item that was found on his person. Don’t mention Lou’s name. Just find out more than what we’re gleaning from TV!”
Jane found it interesting that Kit made a point of telling her to not mention anything about Lou. Why? If she was so sure he was connected to Charlotte’s kidnapping, wouldn’t she want to alert the sheriff to a possible suspect? “If I talk to the sheriff, there’s a good chance my presence in this town is going to get back to Clinton. If that happens, any chance I have to work under the radar will be negatively affected.”
“Well, then, how are you going to find out what’s happening on the inside? For God’s sake, Jane, time is ticking away!”
Jane agreed with Kit, but she wasn’t ready to swallow her pride and call Sergeant Weyler. “I have web subscriptions to services for background checks and criminal—”
“You need access to the inside!” Kit spoke in an irritated whisper. Jane looked up as the front door of the diner opened and Shane Golden walked in. The look of interest on Jane’s face piqued Kit’s curiosity and she turned around. Returning to face Jane, Kit realized something was afoot. “What’s going on?” Kit asked. “Who is that?”
“Shane!” Sheriff Golden called out.
Shane turned toward his father, obviously not comfortable with the attention.
“Come on over, son!” the sheriff insisted, waving Shane toward his table. Shane reluctantly obeyed. “Here, make room for my boy!” the sheriff instructed his deputies.
“Dad, I can’t stay. Mom asked me to come down and tell you we’ve got a couple TV trucks parked outside our house. They wanted to interview her or me—”
“What’d you tell ’em?” the sheriff asked.
“I told them no,” Shane replied, his voice sounding irritated for the first time.
“But you do have somethin’ to tell ’em!” The sheriff eyed his deputies.
While Jane could not see what was going on behind her, she distinctly heard the catch in Shane’s voice when he replied to his father’s remark. “What do you mean?”
Diane appeared with a tray of coffees and a pitcher of cream.
“If I say it in front of Diane,” Sheriff Golden remarked, “it’ll be all over this town by two o’clock!”
“Tell me what?” Diane asked, always ready to hear gossip.
“We found out that Shane got a full scholarship to USC!” the Sheriff proudly announced. The deputies cheerfully offered a flurry of congratulations. “He’s gonna be the first one in our family to go to university, let alone go there on a full scholarship!”
“What are you gonna study?” one of the deputies asked.
“Civil Engineering!” Sheriff Golden answered. “Just like we’ve been plannin’ all these years! Shane is gonna be responsible for buildin’ the roads of tomorrow.”
“You got yourself a smart boy, Sheriff,” Diane interjected.
“You betcha!” the sheriff agreed. “He’s worked hard for it. He’s had to give up a lot of holidays and amusements along the way so he could focus on his studies, but it’s all been worth it when you open up a red and gold envelope from USC that says they want your son to head their way!”
Jane snuck a look to her left side. A full-length mirror hung against the opposite wall, allowing her to catch a glimpse of Shane’s reflection. If this boy was happy about his university prospects, you’d never know it. Instead, a dark cloud of doom hung over him. How couldn’t anyone else see it, she thought.
“I gotta get goin’,” Shane said in a low-key manner. He started toward the door when his father called out to him.
“Tell your mom I’ll send a deputy over to the house to shoo away those media boys!” Shane nodded and exited the diner.
Kit studied Jane’s pensive face. “Tell me what’s going on, Jane.”
“I’m not sure,” Jane replied honestly.
Kit leaned across the table, speaking in a confidential tone. “Are you still paying attention to the coincidences?”
Jane didn’t want to admit it, but there did indeed seem to be one strange, dove-tailing fluke after another over the last few days. “I don’t know—”
“Don’t waste your time trying to explain or define any of it. Just pay attention.”
Jane and Kit ate in silence, gaining no additional pertinent information from the conversations between the sheriff and his deputies. They headed back to the Cabins, hardly exchanging two words between them. Kit commented that even with the bevy of herbs she packed, she was getting low on a particular formula and she wished she could find an herb store in town. Jane listened with half an ear, more interested in logging on to her computer. Back at the cabin, while Kit strolled backward around the periphery of the property, Jane wasted no time with her Internet search.
First, Shane Golden. A speedy check of three different criminal investigation sites turned up nothing. Next, Trace Fagin. Zero findings on any criminal record. Jane logged onto the DMV records and first examined Shane Golden. A digital photo popped up of Shane. His driving record was as clean cut as he was. Jane jotted down his home address and then entered Trace Fagin’s name. The DMV photo of the thirty-eight-year-old South Dakotan looked like a mug shot, but that could be said for most DMV photos. Fagin apparently liked to press the pedal to the metal, as he had two speeding tickets over the past twelve months. One was from California and one from Oregon. So he drives fast. If speeding were a felony, Jane mused, she’d be doing life without parole.
She entered Lou Peters’s name in the DMV search engine. Within seconds, Lou’s photo loaded onto the screen. Jane sat back and stared at his face. It was taken on the day of issue, less than a year ago. He would have been thirty-two at the time of the photo but he looked like he was in his late-twenties. He was fresh out of prison. Instead of aging and hardening him, it seemed prison had had no negative effect on his visage. Lou’s piercing blue eyes stared at Jane in a captivating manner. The tousled brown hair—perhaps an intentional look—reminded Jane of the cover models on GQ Magazine. His clean-shaven face gave off a fresh, exuberant look that said, “I’m taking on the world!” Was this really the face of a killer, or a man whose only fault was drowning in religious fervor and taking young girls for rides on his motorcycle? Jane saw that the address on the DMV records matched the same remote county road notated on the sex offender’s registry. A dead end, for now. She jotted down Lou’s license plate number on a slip of paper and tucked it into the pocket of her satchel.
Glancing at the inside of her satchel, Jane spied the
photo she’d stolen from the Bartoshs’ house. Jane propped it up against her computer screen. Her eyes first locked on the two young girls in the front row with the expressionless faces. She then directed her attention to the lanky, longhaired, seventeen-year-old girl on the far left. From the way that part of the photo was purposely hidden on the Bartoshs’ photo board, Jane was certain the girl was Mary Bartosh. Jane pulled the photo closer, brushing her index finger across Mary’s no-nonsense appearance. “What happened to you, Mary?” Jane whispered. Out of curiosity, Jane entered Mary’s name into the DMV search engine. Five entries appeared on the screen. She checked them all, but none of them looked anything like an older version of the snapshot in front of Jane. Perhaps Mary was married and had gladly dropped the Bartosh name years ago? Still, Jane’s suspicious nature couldn’t help logging on to two of her criminal sites and doing a search for “Mary Bartosh.” However, it proved fruitless. Maybe, Jane thought, the girl was dead. If so, what secrets did she take to her grave? Jane pulled a cigarette out of the pack just as Kit opened the front door.
“You’re not smoking that in here!” Kit declared, breathless from her backward walk.
Without acknowledging Kit, Jane quit out of the Internet programs and shut down her computer. She grabbed her satchel and a pack of matches, slid past Kit, and walked outside. Overhead, the dark clouds merged together as a sudden crisp wind cut across the parking lot. Jane lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. The cold, wet air felt invigorating at first, but quickly drove deep into her bones, causing Jane to brace her body against the repeated gusts of blustery weather. Rain fell quickly, and Jane took refuge in her Mustang. The clouds burst open with a relentless gush of water and wind. Jane sucked another few puffs on her cigarette, contemplating how she was going to do what she knew she had to do. She wasn’t used to swallowing her pride for fear of choking on the sinew as it went down her throat. But the days were ticking away.
The storm continued unabated outside the Mustang as Jane flicked open her cell phone and dialed the number she knew by heart. The downpour seemed a fitting backdrop for her mood at that moment. She pushed the SEND button and let out a deep sigh of resignation. Two rings and no pickup. Three rings. Then four. Five rings and voice mail clicked on. Sergeant Weyler’s voice sounded like warm honey poured into a steaming cup of tea. The recording beeped and Jane paused, swallowing hard. “Hey...Boss,” As that single word struggled from her lips, Jane realized she was shaking. “I...ah...need your help. Call me.”
Jane hung up and sucked the nicotine dry from her ash-heavy cigarette. The storm pounded violently on the roof of the Mustang as her father’s voice reverberated in her head. “You’re so easy. Now you’ve made yourself vulnerable.”
CHAPTER 21
Jane sat in the Mustang, contemplating her next move. She would have to wait for Weyler’s return call and the inevitable questions that had nothing to do with her case. Weyler probed people he cared about and he cared about few people. Sometimes he acted more like the den mother of his detectives back at DH, supporting them, allowing them free rein, but also checking in with them periodically to see how they were doing. It was an uncomfortable alliance for Jane during her drunken tenure at DH, but it was also oddly comforting.
Lighting a second cigarette from the dying one clenched in her mouth, Jane squashed the spent ember in the car’s ashtray. The unrelenting rainstorm continued outside, drowning out her worried thoughts for a while. Pulling her satchel onto her lap, Jane rummaged through the contents and came across the generous stack of newsletters that Ingrid Bartosh had given her. Issues of The Congregation Chronicle ranged from the debut issue in January, 1989 to the most recent offering. Under the header of each issue was the proclamation in bold type, WE ARE WARRIORS FOR JESUS! Warriors, thought Jane. To her, that word implied a rabid individual who saw life as a continual fight. A “warrior for Jesus” was someone who was willing to give his own life for that of his Savior. Jane wondered how many of Bartosh’s followers took that idea to heart and followed through with their own combative distortion.
Glancing at the 1989 debut issue, Jane read the first few paragraphs of the featured cover editorial by Dr. John Bartosh titled, “The Word Becomes Flesh.” The article was Bartosh’s personal mission statement for The Lamb of God Congregation. It compelled church members to study and commit to memory the book of John and especially the first chapter. In this chapter, Bartosh wrote, there were hidden messages and literal passages that the perceptive student of Jesus Christ would easily decipher. The entire King James Version of the chapter with its fifty-one verses could be found on page two of the newsletter. Bartosh made a point of bolding specific passages he felt were significant, such as verses six through nine.
“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. The same came for a witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe. He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light. That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.”
Jane reread the verses again. “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” Was it a coincidence that Bartosh’s first name was John? Was Bartosh implying that he was sent from God and that his word was filtered through God? That’s the way it appeared to Jane. Bartosh could have chosen any book from the Bible as his manifesto for his Congregation, but he chose a book that cleverly insinuated a Divine connection. He was either an egotistical militant or a power monger or both, Jane decided. The next bolded text was verse twenty-three.
“He said, I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, Make straight the way of the Lord, as said the prophet Isaiah.”
An asterisk followed the word “Isaiah.” When Jane checked the bottom of the page, Bartosh wrote a brief footnote: “Members must seriously study the book of Isaiah as it outlines the signs of the end times, especially chapters one and two.”
Jane grabbed a pen from her visor and circled the footnote. It occurred to her that Bartosh had specifically quoted from Isaiah during their visit. Something about children rebelling and becoming corrupters. Searching through her satchel, she found the tape recorder with the cassette tape still inside it. Jane noticed that the ninety-minute tape had run nearly to the end of side one. She punched the REVERSE button, allowing the tape to spin midway through their conversation before hitting the PLAY button. Bartosh’s booming voice seemed to reach out of the recorder.
“We are in the fight for our final redemption.” Bartosh exclaimed, taking a deep breath. “If we lose this fight, the hammer of God will fall, Lucifer will rule, and darkness will engulf this earth, erasing the beloved blood sacrifice of our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
Jane’s ability to recall conversations and remember the pace of what was said convinced her to speed the tape forward. Taking another drag on her cigarette, she hit the PLAY button.
“I have nourished and brought up children, and they have rebelled against me.” Bartosh recited, in midverse. “Ah sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a seed of evildoers, children that are corrupters: they have forsaken the Lord, they have provoked the Holy One of Israel unto anger, they are gone away backward.” Bartosh took a deep breath. “Isaiah, Chapter one. Verses two and four, respectively.”
Jane stopped the tape. Between the raging storm outside and the state of her mind at that moment, she didn’t want to hear Dr. Bartosh’s grating voice any longer. She noted the next three, bolded verses of John: twenty-nine, thirty-two, and fifty-one.
“The next day John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.”
Aha! The origin of the name Bartosh’s chose for his Congregation suddenly came to light.
“And John bare record, saying, I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it abode upon him.”
Jane couldn’t make any reasonable connection to why Bartosh bolded that verse. Then the final verse, number fifty-one.
“And he saith unto him, Verily, verily, I
say unto you, Hereafter ye shall see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man.”
Okay. Perhaps, Jane reasoned, this final bolded text served to stir the cockles of his follower’s hearts. After all, just the visual promise of angels ascending and descending was enough to make true believers rise up and spread The Word.
The second featured article from the debut issue was titled “The Hammer of God Will Fall on All Sinners.” Dr. John Bartosh was, once again, the author. A drawing of a hand holding a hammer in a striking pose framed the top of the article. Reading through it, Jane felt as if she were hearing a fire and brimstone speech, filled with castigating vitriol and dire warnings. “The hammer of God is swift and sure,” Bartosh wrote. “Our Lord Jesus rebukes anyone who chooses to sin against Him. Understand that to sin against Jesus IS a choice we all make consciously. God made us perfect. It is WE who soil our souls and entrap our minds with the filth the secular world offers. While our Lord and Savior is a loving God, history has shown that He will only allow so much sin before He willingly allows his hammer to fall onto those who refuse The Word.” Jane decided the text was extremely visual. She tried to imagine Jesus chasing sinners with a hammer in his hand, screaming that He was going to pound them into submission. Somehow, Jane concluded, it just didn’t seem to fit Jesus’ profile.
Peeling through the thick stack of newsletters, Jane chose another at random and read the back page. There was a large “Acknowledgements” box that referred to “our sisters” and “our brothers” and their achievements.
