Silver Anniversary Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Hands to work and heart to God,” said Lucy.

  “It must be a real struggle for you, though,” said Terry, who was working beside her, spraying the next table with cleaner. “You have family in Maine, don’t you?”

  “I do,” said Lucy. “And I pray that with God’s help we’ll meet again.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to see them sooner rather than later,” said Terry, in a whisper.

  “Whatever God wills.” Lucy wasn’t about to give up her act, and feared that Terry was merely testing her.

  “When I first came here, I thought Father Gabe was a modern-day prophet, a true man of God, but now I’m having doubts.”

  “We all have doubts from time to time,” said Lucy. “You should pray for strength to overcome your doubts.”

  “I have prayed, but I’ve seen some things that disturb me.” Terry sounded genuinely troubled and Lucy wasn’t sure how to react, or whether she could really trust her.

  “What things?” she asked.

  “Well, Father Gabe has special, private prayer meetings with certain members.” Terry paused. “They’re always young girls, and very pretty.”

  Not exactly a surprise, thought Lucy, figuring that seducing attractive young converts was pretty much the sort of thing charismatic cult leaders did.

  “I’m sure he’s just bringing them closer to God,” said Lucy. “Who are we to judge Father Gabe?”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Lucy.” Terry left her and went across the room to supervise the group that was washing the floor.

  Lucy had finished polishing the tables and moved on to the chairs, giving them a once-over with the rag. When Terry returned, she praised Lucy for her initiative and willingness to undertake the chore. “You know, I’ll be going out tonight to spread the good news about the Guardians. There’s a poetry reading in that bookstore on Broadway. Would you like to come with me?”

  Lucy’s heart skipped a beat; this could be the chance she was waiting for. She had to answer very carefully. “Do you think I’m ready?” she asked.

  “Well, it would be up to Father Gabe to decide, but I think he’s quite impressed by the progress you’ve made. Shall I ask him if you can accompany me?”

  “I will be happy to do whatever he decides,” said Lucy.

  Terry stepped closer and this time her voice was urgent, even desperate. “You could help me. We could get away. We could escape together.”

  Lucy wanted to believe Terry; she wanted to believe Terry’s offer was genuine. But something held her back from committing herself. “What will be, will be,” she said, and Terry squeezed her hand.

  After Terry inspected the dining hall and declared it satisfactory, Lucy wondered what her next assignment would be and if she would be included in the work party that included Zeke and Hagar. She was still curious about these people, who were obviously the cult’s worker bees. She thought that they might be resentful about their treatment and perhaps willing to give her information, or even stage some sort of rebellion. But as it turned out, she was the first on Terry’s list and was merely told to go with Grace, who had suddenly materialized out of thin air.

  Lucy suspected there was some sort of surveillance and communication system in the storefront mission that allowed for doors to magically unlock and for people to suddenly appear. It was a powerful control technique that allowed some people to know what was happening while others were kept in a state of ignorance and surprise, a situation which Lucy was experiencing firsthand. Here she was, completely at the mercy of Grace, who was bringing her who knows where. She had no idea what to expect, and it was only too easy to imagine horrible possibilities.

  Grace was smiling when she stopped in front of yet another unmarked door, and Lucy understood that the numerous doors and twisting passageways were in effect a maze that created confusion and made it impossible to find a way out. When the door opened, revealing a dressing room with showers, Lucy wasn’t entirely reassured. Grace showed her to a locker and produced a blouse and skirt similar to the one she was wearing, along with a cotton bra and pair of panties in the roomy style her grandmother used to wear, and a pair of navy blue sneakers. Lucy was then shown to a curtained cubicle, which provided a modicum of privacy, where she stripped and then stepped into the adjacent shower stall. There were no knobs, just a showerhead, from which warm water magically began to flow. A few minutes later it stopped, and she opened the curtain and found a towel hanging on a handy hook.

  Just that little fact unnerved her. Was the towel there when she stepped into the shower? Or did someone put it there while she was showering? Grace? Someone else? Or had it been there all along and she hadn’t noticed? Was she imagining the whole thing?

  “Do hurry,” urged Grace, who was waiting for her outside the cubicle. “Father Gabe is waiting for you.”

  Lucy’s heart skipped a beat and fell into her stomach—at least that’s what it felt like. She was suddenly terrified, consumed with dread. She knew only too well that Father Gabe held ultimate power in this little world he’d created and she was completely at his mercy. Anything could happen. She could be killed, diced up, and served as mystery meat for lunch. She could be drugged and raped. Or simply raped.

  “Lucy, do be quick. We can’t keep him waiting.”

  Struggling to control her fear, Lucy toweled off and put on the clothes. The bra was much too large and useless, the underpants too small. The skirt, a navy blue dirndl, and the simple white blouse were okay, but the sneakers were a bit tight. Finally dressed, she stepped outside the cubicle, feeling like a lamb about to be led to the slaughter.

  “Let me just give your hair a little combing,” said Grace. Lucy was about to protest that she could do it herself, but realized there were no mirrors in the dressing room.

  “Thanks,” she said, bowing her head and allowing Grace to part and arrange her damp hair with clumsy hands. The woman was surely no stylist and Lucy couldn’t imagine the combing was much of an improvement.

  “There, you look very nice,” said Grace. “Follow me.”

  Lucy followed her keeper down the hall to another closed door, which when opened revealed a small private chapel, where the walls were covered with red velvet curtains. There, Father Gabe was kneeling at a prie-dieu beneath a large, uplit crucifix. He remained there for a few minutes, then rose and approached Lucy. Grace stepped back, and Father Gabe enclosed Lucy in a big hug.

  The first thing Lucy noticed was that he smelled great, kind of fresh, like limes. She found herself wishing she could stay there, in that warm, safe embrace, forever. She knew better, knew he was playing on her emotions, but when it ended she felt quite abandoned. Father Gabe offered reassurance by squeezing her hands and smiling at her.

  “I’m so glad you’ve joined us.”

  “Thanks for having me,” said Lucy.

  “I have a special gift for you, and only you,” said Father Gabe.

  Oh, no, here it comes, thought Lucy, swallowing hard.

  “A new name.”

  “Oh,” was all she could manage to say.

  “From now on, you will be Leah.”

  Grace stepped forward, holding a bowl of water, and Father Gabe began the series of questions familiar to Lucy from baptisms in the Tinker’s Cove Community Church. “Do you believe in God the Father?” he asked.

  Lucy was about to answer when a high, shrill scream pierced the air. “You stay here,” he ordered, and dashed out of the chapel, into the hallway.

  Lucy turned, dodged Grace’s effort to block her, and ran after him. Reaching the door of the chapel, she stopped, blocked by her chubby buddy, Philip. Looking past him, she saw Matthew and Luke restraining a young girl who Lucy judged to be about fifteen, who was struggling to free herself. There were several other girls, all about the same age, standing in a group behind them, looking anxious and confused.

  “Lucy, help me,” said Grace, taking her by the hand and approaching the girls. “Let’s all go into the chapel for a minute,” s
he suggested, stretching out her arms and herding the group along.

  Lucy did as she was asked and joined the group, leading them past the still struggling girl and on into the chapel. As soon as they were through the door, Grace closed it. From the other side they heard another sharp scream, a thud, and then silence.

  “Where’s the food?” demanded one of the girls, the tallest. “They said there’d be chicken.”

  “And a movie, with popcorn,” added another.

  From their rather dirty clothes and hair, and the ratty backpacks and tattered plastic grocery bags the girls were carrying, Lucy guessed they were street kids. Cult members had apparently rounded them up, luring them with the promise of food and fun. The reality, she guessed, was most likely rather different. She remembered Terry whispering to her about Father Gabe’s private prayer meetings with young girls and guessed that these street kids had been brought to the cult for his personal pleasure. Or perhaps they would be trafficked to other locations, where they would be held captive and used as sex slaves.

  “All in good time,” said Grace, as the door opened and Matthew and Luke entered the chapel.

  “That’s right, chicken’s this way,” said Luke.

  “Go along, girls,” urged Grace.

  Lucy wanted to tell them to run, to flee, it was all a lie, but they were already leaving the chapel, mouths watering at the thought of the juicy chicken meal awaiting them.

  “That Tiffany’s a jerk,” one said, as she left the chapel.

  “Yeah,” agreed another, as the door closed behind them.

  Now Lucy was alone with Grace in the chapel.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Grace, smoothing the front of her skirt. “Father Gabe is so kind to these youngsters. I can’t imagine what upset that girl. They are often less grateful than one might expect, considering all the blessings they receive from him.”

  “It’s the way of the world,” said Lucy, with a rueful sigh. “Do you think he’ll come back and finish my baptism?”

  “I’m sure he will.” Grace fell to her knees. “Won’t you join me in prayer, while we wait?”

  Lucy knelt and bowed her head. She prayed, silently repeating the words that had become her mantra. “Get me out of here, get me out of here.”

  The chapel door opened, but it wasn’t Father Gabe who was returning to complete her baptism. It was Luke and Matthew, who she’d come to realize were the cult’s enforcers. They approached her and she began to rise, looking for some escape and finding none. They stepped beside her, one on each side, and grabbed her arms. She tried to shake them off, but couldn’t free herself. She was dragged to one side of the chapel and one of the curtains that shrouded the walls was yanked aside, revealing a door. The door opened and she was shoved inside a dark space where she could not see but clearly heard the click of the lock.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lucy’s first reaction on finding herself in complete darkness was paralysis; she was absolutely terrified. Soon, however, that fear turned to anger—how dare they do this to her—and she decided she had to take control of her situation. She had to figure out where she was, and if there was a way out. The door was locked—she knew that—but she groped around until she found the knob. She didn’t expect it to turn but she tried anyway, twisting as hard as she could. The door didn’t give, so she proceeded to explore the space, pressing her hands against the wall and feeling her way as she moved along. She didn’t have far to go before she reached a corner, then encountered a bunch of sticks, actually mops propped in a bucket. She was in a cleaning closet, a fact that was reaffirmed when she encountered shelves on the back wall filled with plastic bottles. Another corner brought her to the side wall of her prison, which she judged was about four feet square. She hadn’t felt a wall switch and she waved her arms above her head, hoping to find a dangling string like the one that controlled the light in her pantry at home, but didn’t find it.

  She sat down on the floor, which felt gritty, and tried very hard to believe there were no spiders in the closet with her. She hadn’t encountered any webs, but that didn’t mean spiders weren’t lurking in the corners, waiting to bite. Suddenly furious with herself, she hauled herself to her feet and checked out the shelves, hoping to find a hammer or screwdriver, or even a squeegee, anything she could use to pop the lock or break the door. All she found were sponges and rags, along with the bottles of cleaner.

  If she’d paid attention in chemistry class, she told herself, perhaps she would know how to use the cleaning products to rig an explosion that would free her. Of course, in the dark, it was hard to know exactly what chemicals the closet contained. She did know that if chlorine bleach and ammonia were combined, they produced a poisonous gas. Better leave the cleaning products alone.

  Sinking back to the floor, she knocked against the bucket of mops and remembered a worn out sponge mop that stood in a corner of her cellar, awaiting a fresh sponge. There was a metal panel that held the sponge insert and Lucy figured that if she could find a similar mop she might be able to use the panel to free herself. She scrabbled around in the bucket, examining the mop heads with her fingers, and discovered they were all plastic. A big advance, she supposed, since they wouldn’t rust, but useless for her purpose.

  If only she had some leverage, she thought, leaning against the door and propping her feet up against the back wall. Oh, gee, she did, she discovered, feeling the panel in the door give a bit. Excited, she explored the door with her fingers and learned it was an old-fashioned one with two panels. Those panels were made of thin wood, she knew, because she had similar doors at home in Tinker’s Cove, and her son Toby had once broken one by kicking it when he was practicing soccer skills with a hacky sack.

  Swinging herself around, she began kicking at the door panel with her feet and discovered it was much tougher than she’d expected. Much sturdier, apparently, than that door at home. And repeatedly kicking an immovable object, she soon learned, was extremely tiring. She decided to give it a rest for a few minutes and closed her eyes.

  Sometime later, she had no idea how long, she was startled awake by a loud noise. Sirens, lots of sirens! At last, they’d come to rescue her! Even with the muffling effect of the thick draperies that covered the chapel walls, she could hear sounds indicating a police raid. First were the sirens, then banging and occasional screams. Listening intently with her ear pressed against the door, she imagined the chaotic scene taking place in the storefront mission. Cult members were running, trying to escape the pursuing cops. Furniture was knocked over, doors slammed, fisticuffs were exchanged between struggling cult members and the cops who were trying to restrain them. She knew she had to help them find her, so she began banging on the door and yelling as loudly as she could.

  “I’m in here, in here!” she screamed. “Behind the curtains, pull the curtains!”

  But no matter how loudly she yelled, nobody came to rescue her. And soon, the noises outside grew fainter, and eventually ceased entirely. The raid was over and she hadn’t been found.

  Maybe, she realized with a sinking heart, they hadn’t even been looking for her. Maybe somebody saw the street kids entering the mission and called the cops. Maybe those heavy boxes she’d been shoving around in the cellar didn’t contain Bibles after all. Maybe they contained contraband. Illegal drugs, gold, guns, it could be almost anything.

  She sank to the floor once again, fighting the impulse to cry. Here she was, locked up like some medieval maiden who’d shamed her family, or some poor soul caught in the clutches of a sick serial murderer. A poem by Edgar Allan Poe came to mind, or was it a short story?

  Enough of this, she decided. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to get her out of this closet. It was time to buckle down and push, with all her might, against that door. So she did, pressing her feet against the wall and pushing as hard as she could with her back. When that didn’t work she flipped around and tried it the other way, with her back against the wall and her feet against the pane
l.

  That seemed to work better, as she felt the panel begin to give. Encouraged, she started to kick at it, and heard the welcome sound of splintering wood. It was only a crack, she discovered, feeling it with her fingers, but it was a beginning. Aiming her kicks as best she could, she whacked and whacked at the crack, damning the stupid sneakers Grace had forced her to wear and wishing she had her sturdy orthotic sandals instead. Or even better, a pair of sturdy Maine duck boots.

  Take this, Grace! Wham! Take this, Terry! Take this Gabe! Wham, wham! Wham, wham wham! Suddenly the panel gave, and Lucy was able to crawl out through the opening. Still on her knees, she yanked the curtain open, encountering more darkness. A thud, something falling, indicated she wasn’t alone. Someone else was in the dark chapel. She froze in place, holding her breath.

  “Damn,” that someone said. “There must be a light switch here somewhere!”

  The voice was familiar.

  “Bill?” It flew out before she could catch herself. What if it wasn’t Bill, what if it was one of the cult members?

  “Lucy?”

  “Oh, Bill!” She ran, stumbling, through the dark chapel toward the sound of his voice and slammed into something warm and strong. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if he would never let go. Never, ever let go.

  Lucy clung to Bill like a Titanic survivor hanging on to a bit of flotsam for dear life as they made their way out of the chapel into the dimly lighted hallway. There they paused and she gazed at the face she’d feared she would never see again. “I can’t believe you found me.”

  “I didn’t. I was searching for you, but I never would have found you in that dark room. You smashed into me.”

  “I was in a closet. I had to break the door. The police were here. I heard them, but they didn’t find me.”

  “They’re still here,” said Bill. “They’ve set up some sort of headquarters outside, in a mobile unit. They’re planning a room-by-room search, so they would’ve found you eventually.”

  “Probably after I starved to death . . .”