by Laurel Dewey
“Calm down!” Jane patted Leann’s hand. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
Leann got control of her thoughts. “You’re the psychic. Can you look in the future and tell me what I should do to make it right?”
Jane calmly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She opened her eyes and gazed above Leann’s head. “Go to the sheriff. Tell him you have thought long and hard about that day and that you are no longer positive that you saw Charlotte get into any car. Insist that all your testimony be erased from the record and that you would feel more comfortable if they explored other angles.”
Leann looked at Jane in stunned silence. “Are you serious?”
“You have to do this. If you let this mess fester, trust me, by the time you’re in your thirties, you’re going to be self-medicating with drugs or alcohol. You’ll always be looking over your shoulder, wondering if someone’s going to figure it out and come get you. That’s no way to live.” Jane leaned forward. “Do it.”
Leann nodded in reluctant agreement. “Okay.”
“I need to go now. I’m glad we could talk. It seems like it was destined, doesn’t it?” Jane thought of something. “By the way, when you talk to the sheriff, there’s no use mentioning me to him. He’ll tell you that he didn’t hire a psychic. Law enforcement never recognizes our valuable work, especially in a small town like this.”
Jane started to walk away when Leann spoke up. “Wait. Since you can see in the future, where’s Charlotte?”
Jane wasn’t prepared for that question. “It’s still in God’s hands.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell the sheriff?” Jane nodded. “Can I ask you one more question?”
“Sure.”
“Am I ever going to be somebody?”
Jane stared at Leann. “Yes. You’re going to keep doing well in school. Then one day, you’re going to leave this town and discover that there’s a world of people who can’t wait to know you. Don’t mess up that good future of yours. Okay?”
Leann choked on her tears. “Thank you.”
Back at the cabin, Jane revealed to Kit what she had learned from Leann. Kit was more impressed by Jane’s ability to pull off a New Age persona. “I knew she was lying,” Kit declared. “Now, we can focus on the real criminal!”
Jane wolfed down her late lunch and changed out of her psychic garb and into a comfortable pair of sweat pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She clipped her cell phone to her waistband to keep it close at hand. While Kit busily went about changing the colorful water jugs outside the cabin and rinsing the pieces of jade that soaked in the water, Jane went online to check out the Bartoshs’ Ministry Forum. She’d never participated in an Internet Forum but Jane quickly figured out how to navigate around the long list of individual threads. Their titles ranged from “A discussion of God and family” to “Prayer needed for a Member in Oregon.” The third thread on the list showed a lot of activity—over 2,000 hits—and was titled “The Power of Sacrifice.” Jane selected the thread. Unlike many of the others, this particular thread was started by Dr. Bartosh in early November. His initial posting read like a sermon with the usual fist-pounding cadence.
There is great power in sacrifice. Without understanding sacrifice, how do we learn the true meaning of what our Savior went through on the cross? Sacrifice cleans our bodies, spirits, and minds. It makes us pure again. Look around you and you will see that there is nothing truly pure in this world anymore. Man has turned away from God. Children have been drawn into the dark hole of temptation. They know nothing of real sacrifice. They only know what feels good to them. Ask yourself this: Did Jesus ask what felt good to Him or did He do what his Father asked without question? Did Jesus fight his Father when He was told of the sacrifice he needed to make for Mankind? No! He bore His suffering with dignity, knowing that His Divine sacrifice would save the souls of Mankind for eternity.
Bartosh’s rambling continued on for another page. Jane sat back, letting out a long, tired breath. She could literally feel Bartosh’s fist coming through the screen. How could anyone live with this man, she wondered. With that, her thoughts turned to Mary Bartosh. So what if she got pregnant fourteen years ago? If that was her only way out of her father’s house, Jane reasoned it was a good trade-off.
Jane scanned the following posters—almost all with Biblical names—who were more than happy to discuss what sacrifice meant to them in relationship to God. Each post was equally dry until she came upon two posters who engaged in a heartfelt repartee. One called himself Luke.D.61, the other Manul.Crst.123. Their passionate, written exchange began in early November and continued up to the present, with the last posts dated December 30. Jane scrolled down and read those posts.
Luke.D.61 wrote:
I know without sacrifice in my own life, I would not be able to appreciate the glory of God. When you start to understand that sacrifice is not a punishment but a gift that continues to give you greater understanding of what it feels like to be alive and drinking in the wonder of this world, you seek it out with greater gusto.
Manul.Crst.123 responded:
I feel your enthusiasm, Luke.D.61! Thank you again, Dr. Bartosh, for coming up with this allimportant message! I have preached the power of sacrifice to everyone who would listen! We MUST be willing to feel the pain of Christ in order to move closer to HIS heart. I have suffered at the hands of society, but I have suffered with dignity. But when I think of my pain, I know it’s nothing but a pinch on the arm to what He suffered for us. I have sacrificed everything for God, but I love him SO VERY MUCH that I want the world to understand His pain so that they can come to Him and be saved. The Great Commission of Christ demands that we do it! We will ratchet up our ministry to a new level! Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Luke.D.61, if all God’s children understood this?? As Dr. Bartosh has said for years, it’s the children who are in harm’s way. We must do everything we can to bring them to God!!
GOD WITH US
Manul.Crst.123 signed off all his postings with those three words: “God with us.” It seemed an odd fragment of words that strangely hung in limbo. Jane reread two sentences in the last post: “The Great Commission of Christ demands that we do it! We will ratchet up our ministry to a new level!” She was almost positive that Dr. Bartosh used those exact words during their interview. Jane sat back and entertained the notion that perhaps Bartosh was masquerading on the Forum as Manul.Crst.123. But why would he do it? There were at least forty posts by Manul.Crst.123 over the past two months, and many of them were long-winded. Did Bartosh have the kind of time it took to write this much passionate banter? Furthermore, Jane got the distinct impression during their visit that Bartosh knew little about the verbiage used in the Forum. She recalled how Ingrid gently corrected him when he used the word “print” instead of “post” when talking about the Forum. And yet, Manul.Crst.123 seemed to be a cutout version of Dr. Bartosh.
Jane sat back, letting out another tired sigh. Didn’t these people have anything better to do than write ad nauseam about sacrifice? Perhaps it was Jane’s naturally instigating personality, or just something to momentarily entertain her, but she decided to put in her two cents. In order to do so, she needed to create a name and an e-mail address that would not be shown on the discussion board. Requiring an e-mail address for such Forums always separated the true-blue seekers from the lookie-loos. She set up a fictitious e-mail account and then decided on her name. What better name than Mary, mother of God, she thought. Thus, she became known as “Mary.mog” on the Forum. Jane couldn’t help but smile as she logged onto the Forum with her new moniker. She hit the POST REPLY button and wrote a brief response meant to goad the faithful.
Sacrifice? I know the beast all too well. If sacrifice is such a great thing, then why do I still feel let down? How much sacrifice am I supposed to endure before I feel as good as all of you?
Jane reread her post and decided it had just the right venomous twist to rile the troops. She gleefully hit the POST button and wat
ched as her strident words were added to the thread.
Kit entered the cabin, holding a piece of jade in her hand and a jug of water in another. “Weather’s turning bad again.” Kit situated herself on her bed, poured water from the jug into a glass, took a few sips, and then lay flat on her back with her head slightly propped up. Jane watched askance as Kit placed the piece of jade over her forehead, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths, exhaling each time with great gusto. Kit let out a mellow sigh, opened her eyes, and reviewed the stack of newspaper clippings that Jane and she had collected earlier that day.
“What are you doing?” Jane asked, a bit afraid to hear the answer.
“I need insight,” Kit replied matter-of-factly, the piece of jade wobbling precariously on her forehead. “Jade brings to light that which is hidden.”
“Right. Of course. I figured that’s what you were doing.” Jane’s tenor was obviously sarcastic, but in a gentle way. She pulled out the bottle of Arnica and popped another four pellets under her tongue before sprawling on her bed.
“You really should try walking backward,” Kit advised, never taking her eyes off the newspaper clippings.
“Uh-huh,” Jane tiredly replied.
Kit balanced the clippings on her belly and stared straight ahead. “The strange calls,” she said, slightly preoccupied. “The ones you got on your cell with the restricted ID? Have they stopped?”
“Yeah.” Jane was close to relaxed until Kit brought up the disturbing and mysterious caller.
“You never told me what the person said.”
“She whispered to hide her voice. She said, “‘Let me help you’ three times during the short conversation. Then she said, ‘You’re looking for Lou Peters?’”
“She said his name?” Kit replied, stunned.
“Yeah. I said I was and asked how she was supposed to help me. She told me to meet her in front of the Stop ’n’ Save on Buena Street in thirty minutes—”
“Wait a second,” Kit said, turning her head. The piece of jade dropped next to her shoulder. “How did she pronounce ‘Buena?’”
“Like it sounds,” Jane said offhandedly. “Bwaa-na.”
“But don’t you remember what Barry said to us when we checked in? He made a dramatic point of informing us how the locals were always correcting tourists when they called the street ‘Bwaa-na’ instead of the local pronunciation, ‘Boo-na.’”
“So what?”
“You’re certain the caller pronounced the street ‘Bwaa-na?’”
Jane reflected on the memory of the call. “Yes. I’m positive.”
“So that means the caller is not a local resident,” Kit enthusiastically responded, sitting up and facing Jane.
“Or they are local and they’re just pronouncing the street name the way the rest of world says it.”
“I’m telling you, small-town locals have a covetous mentality. If they choose to refer to something by an odd-sounding name, they will continue to do so quite unconsciously. Whoever called you is not a local.”
Jane considered Kit’s theory. It felt right to her. “Okay. So they’re visiting and, for some reason, they want to meet me. But they didn’t show up.”
“Maybe they did. Maybe their ultimate goal wasn’t to meet you. Maybe they just wanted to see you from afar. Or perhaps, it was the ol’ bait and switch. Put you one place while the real action’s going on somewhere else.” Jane had already entertained both options. But somehow, hearing them from someone else lent a plausible credence to them. If the latter was true, did that mean that the actions of Shane Golden at mile-marker forty-four during that time were what the caller wished to push Jane away from? Then again, how could the caller know that Jane would be anywhere near mile-marker forty-four and spot Shane’s Firebird? The bait and switch theory didn’t make plausible sense to Jane. So perhaps the former was true. Maybe Jane’s presence was demanded so the person could view her actions from afar. But what actions, she thought. All she did was stand in front of the market.
“I think this person wanted to see you,” Kit said, seeming to read Jane’s mind at that moment. “Observe you. Identify you.” Kit shuddered. “I just got a chill. And goose bumps. That’s confirmation, kiddo.” Kit recovered the piece of jade from the bed and reclined back on her pillow. “What did I tell you about this jade? Encourages insight and brings to light that which is hidden! You really should give it a try.” Kit exhaled a deep breath and replaced the jade on her forehead before closing her eyes.
“I gotta do some thinking,” Jane said, getting up and grabbing her jacket.
“Which means you need a smoke,” Kit said softly, her eyes still closed.
Jane grinned at Kit’s perceptive deduction. “Wow. There really is something to that jade.” Kit opened one eye to look at Jane and they exchanged soft smiles before Jane walked outside.
Jane no sooner lit her cigarette than her cell phone rang. It was Weyler. “Hey, Boss,” Jane answered.
“Happy New Year, Sergeant Perry,” Weyler proclaimed.
“I’m not your sergeant yet,” Jane retorted.
“For the amount of background favors I’m doing for you, you damn well better be!” Weyler’s voice was easy as usual.
“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today.” Jane took a drag on her cigarette.
“Mrs. Weyler had me tied to the snow shovel this morning until my back went out. I had to sit down to relieve the pain. But while I was sitting, I figured I’d do some intelligence snooping for you on my computer.”
“Hey, Boss. If you want to get pain relief, you have got to get yourself some homeopathic Arnica. This stuff rocks.”
“Arnica,” Weyler said with obvious skepticism. “I’ll look into it. Here’s what I found out. The Bible-thumper, Rachel Hartly?” Jane took another nervous drag on the cigarette, not sure what was coming next. “That’s not her real first name. It’s Linda Hartly. And she’s got a criminal record. Ten years ago she was arrested for taking part in an abortion clinic bombing. No one was killed, but a doctor from the clinic was injured and forced to quit his practice.”
“Was the group the Lamb of God Congregation?”
“No relation at all. But it was shortly after that episode that Linda Hartly became Rachel Hartly and joined the Lamb of God.”
“Yeah, that goes with the territory. Bartosh told me all about it. It’s part of being born again. A lot of them choose a Biblical name that resonates with their new identity.”
“I see. Well, Rachel, Linda whatever, is as right-wing militant as they come. In her deposition after the clinic bombing, she wrote in great detail what she believes. She’s against the government, calling them ‘pawns of Lucifer.’ She staunchly reiterated that Christians are continually persecuted by secular society and must do whatever it takes to protect themselves from being victimized by a world gone mad. She stressed that she follows the rules of God and not the rules of man. She believes in self-sufficiency, grows her own food, and raises her own animals because she thinks that the secular world is poisoning us so they can weaken our resolve to seek the Lord.”
Jane halfheartedly wondered if Rachel gave her dead goat a Christian burial before launching into the Reader’s Digest version of her trip to Hartly’s house that morning. “I can’t tell if Lou Peters lives in her guesthouse.”
“I hear doubt in your voice.”
Jane sucked another drag on her cigarette. “When Lou checked in with the sheriff, he never mentioned his change of address. At that time, he’d already vacated his old house and moved on. From what Kit tells me, the guy’s very premeditated with his actions. I think he went to the sheriff so they wouldn’t come looking for him. They probably assumed he had the same address and were impressed by his receipts that proved his whereabouts. I’m sure they checked his name off the list. The thing is, Boss, if Peters did kidnap Charlotte, and if he’s following his pattern from before, he’s moving back and forth between where he lives and where he’s got the kid. It’s appare
ntly the way he covers for himself. He kept Ashlee drugged the whole time so there was no chance she’d yell out or escape when he wasn’t there.”
“How do you account for the receipts from the Shell gas station and The Hummingbird Motor Lodge? They’re time coded and an hour’s drive from Oakhurst.”
Jane felt an icy shiver speed up her spine when Weyler said hummingbird. “Time frames don’t matter anymore,” Jane declared as she told him of her confrontation with Leann Hamilton.
“How’d you get her to confess?” Weyler said.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The point is, Charlotte could have disappeared anytime and anywhere.”
“The dogs picked up her scent at mile-marker forty-four. Maybe that’s where it happened. It’s where they nabbed Trace Fagin.”
“Fagin has nothing to do with this! Leann promised she’d go to the sheriff and do whatever she could to take the heat off him. Can you do anything from your end?”
“I can throw out some deflectors to my contact, but that’s about it. Fagin was still found with the bracelet—”
“I don’t give a shit if he was found with her fucking jewelry box! He’s innocent!”
“I’ve got a call in to the lab regarding the DNA on the condom. Keep an eye on Hartly’s house. See if you can catch sight of Peters.”
“I’m afraid my Mustang is too much of a marker. I can’t be scoping the place 24/7 in a big blue target. If she’s as paranoid as you say she is, she’s gonna recognize me and report me to the sheriff. I can’t risk that, Boss.”
“Then check out her place occasionally.”
Jane halfheartedly agreed. She was about to say good-bye when a thought crossed her mind. “Hey, Boss. I need another favor. Can you check into a woman named Mary Bartosh? She lived in the Big Sur, Carmel area fourteen years ago. She’d be thirty-one or thirty-two now if she’s still alive.”
“How does Mary tie in with Charlotte Walker?”
“She doesn’t.” The photo of Mary with the tough girl attitude flashed in Jane’s mind. “But there’s something there. I just don’t know what.”
