The Book of Judges

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  I was elated.

  Thrilled.

  Exhausted.

  Confused.

  And disappointed. Why Quint? What had he wanted?

  After giving the necessary details to the dispatcher, I turned to Brit again. “How did Quint get hold of strychnine?”

  She covered her face with her hands.

  “Enough drama. This is serious.” I was out of patience with her.

  “My dad is a pest control professional. I went home for a weekend and stole the gopher poison.”

  “Did you go with Adam and Quint up to Crown Point?”

  “No. No, I swear I didn’t. Quint said, Quint said we had to do it. That if we got rid of him and his influence, he said I could go to Canada to be reinstated. I tried to play it cool, but it was killing me inside, what I had done. I wanted this, needed this…hated this. You’ve got to understand.”

  “I understand you.” Bodie, again. Eyes still on the ceiling.

  I suspected she did understand Brit, and might be the only one. How common was mental illness in young people? Maybe my “Doctor” husband could tell me. But I couldn’t understand. Why kill a man you loved? Why kill a man for the privilege of being part of a group she didn’t even like? And what made Quint think they would like murder?

  I exhaled very slowly, training my thoughts to the main question. “And Linda? Did you procure the poison for that?”

  “No. He got it himself. It was just eye drops. He told me yesterday. Told me so that when the police interviewed me I would seem guilty, because I would know. He put them in her water. Told her it was a special drink for her stress. I’m going to jail. I’m going to jail.” She got up and roamed the room frantically. Mental health care in our nation was such that I did not try and tell her she wouldn’t go to jail. Especially because she belonged there.

  I heard sirens. Then the basement door opened, and the cops ran down the stairs. This time it was Julie.

  “For God’s sake Maura, what is it this time?”

  For God’s sake, indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rick sat on the edge of the old marital bed in his boxers. He was almost as fit as he used to be. I was fond of his aging look.

  His eyes were glued to his phone, so he didn’t notice me staring. I’m sure if he had, he would have sucked in his stomach.

  I was nestled in the arm chair, flicking between tabs on my computer, watching the news of the arrest blow up. Nothing like two attractive, innocent church kids getting arrested for two murders to light up the internet. As for national news, Buzzfeed picked it up first, which was a little disappointing. They turned it into another “isn’t Portland weird?” story. I supposed they were right.

  “Izzy made it safely home.” Rick tossed his phone aside. “With the snow in the mountains, I was worried.”

  My jaw tightened, and I folded my arms reflexively. “You’ve been sitting on my bed, after the night we had, texting her? Are you kidding me?”

  “I had to make sure she was okay. I’m responsible for her situation.” He didn’t look a bit guilty.

  I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. What was it Sandra Bullock said in Speed? Relationships built on crisis never last? I’d guess reconciliations based on crisis had the same hopes.

  It had been a couple days since the arrest and the all-night marathon at the station, making reports, being grilled by all the bad cops and none of the good ones, and dodging reporters on my way home in the dawn’s early light, but I was still worn out. I guess that was good for both of us.

  “Get dressed.” I directed Rick. “It’s after ten. Bruce and Vivian will be here any minute.” I was already dressed so I went downstairs with my laptop to look for an apartment. I hadn’t touched the check Pastor Bob had given me from the church fund and had hardly touched the money from Linda. Maybe it was time…

  It took five minutes of looking at rentals in Portland to realize it was absolutely not time. How did young people live in this town?

  I closed my laptop and made coffee.

  Bruce had called and begged for a get together to “debrief” after the crisis. Rick had been all for it. This was the stuff he lived for. He was going to get to tell Bruce and Vivian exactly how to emotionally handle having watched two of the people they were raising up to be an army for God turn into lunatic killers.

  Rick was going to have so much fun.

  Me?

  Not so much. What do you say to someone in this situation? How do you face someone when you’ve revealed to them that their loved ones are basically evil?

  I had done it so many times, cheating husbands, drug dealing brothers-in-law, teens running scams. Abuse of just about every type. But after the big reveal, I never had to debrief. Handing over the photos and daily logs was the end of my job. This debriefing, emotional support stuff, this was Rick’s bread and butter.

  By the time the Michaels had arrived, Rick and I were the picture of a married couple who were tired to death of each other.

  Bruce and Vivian, on the other hand, sat close on the couch, she leaned on him, but in a way that made one feel she was his support. “I can’t tell you how terrible I feel about all of this.” Bruce’s voice, like his posture, was broken. “Maura…I read your notes. You took notes those times we discussed the case, and I read them. I saw that you were going to meet an eye witness, and I asked the group to pray for you. I had no idea that Quint couldn’t be trusted. No idea that the killer was one of us.”

  “I knew you were the only one who could have known about the meeting.” The final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, and it was a relief. It had been Bruce, but he wasn’t the killer. “I hadn’t wanted you to be the one who hit her.”

  “But I caused it, and the regret I feel is immense.”

  “It’s only natural,” Rick said, smooth, oily, and so sure of himself. “In addition, you introduced Quint and Brit to both Linda and Adam, but you didn’t tell them to kill.” He tilted his head and smiled.

  “If only the board in Canada had been willing to meet with Brit. Then she wouldn’t have poured her heart out to Quint and Quint…”

  “Would have saved up his murderous inclinations for some other bunch of people? I guess that would have made it not your problem, at least.” I felt like the voice of reason, but my thoughts didn’t seem to make anyone feel better. I didn’t stop. “Quint is a sociopath, probably. It’s well known that religious obsession can be a sign of mental illness. But what does that make Brit, I wonder? She was so easily led by both Adam and Quint, and she seemed to have a need for the control the discipleship group had over her. Then again, everyone has their own kink, don’t they?”

  “Maura…” Rick’s voice had a strong tone of caution in it.

  “I knew they weren’t well. I guess you’re not far off, Maura.” Bruce gave me a sympathetic look. “Any group that seems extreme attracts people like that. Every few years we get someone who wants to be controlled because they like it. In times past, I had been able to help them grow…if not out of it, then through it.”

  “The rigors of a simple life of service have been a blessed part of the Christian world since the beginning.” Vivian sounded defensive. There was always one in a crowd, I guessed. She’d defend her favorites to the end. “For at least a thousand years Christian women have been giving up everything to live for Christ alone. This group, The Disciples…they just want to bring some of that, for a short time, to the lives of protestant women. It’s a gap in our tradition. We are lesser for not having it.”

  Bruce patted her leg. “No need to tell us that, love. I think all of us here get it. Or at least understand it.”

  “I wish you weren’t pulling out.” Vivian’s lips shrunk together.

  “You’re getting out of the biz?” Rick asked. “I can’t say I blame you.”

  “I am taking a sabbatical. I’ve been leading these groups for a lot of years, and this time…this was too much.”

  “Makes perfect sen
se to me.” My words poured out in sympathy. It was the first sensible act I’d heard in weeks.

  “I don’t imagine they’ll take us back into leadership though,” Vivian said.

  “And maybe that’s best, too,” Rick said. “After all, as long as I’ve known you, Bruce, you’ve been wanting to launch out on your own. Do the same thing, but more modern, improved.”

  I looked from Bruce to Vivian. If you had to guess, you’d say the older man in the cardigan sweater, button down shirt, and sensible brown shoes was the one who would want to run the old-fashioned ladies-in-skirts-serving-you club. Not his wife, the sophisticated, but motherly woman who looked like she might be on the school board, or work for the mayor. But then, if anyone knew looks could be deceiving, it was me.

  “I suggest you come by once a week, maybe for six months,” Rick said. “I think you and I could talk over this for quite a while, and it would be a real help. Vivian, you could come too, sometimes, but I think mostly it will be Bruce and I.”

  “Very sensible.” Her words were approving.

  I guess in a way she must also enjoy a little sacrifice and being held in second place. It didn’t make sense to me, never had. In seminary, they called me an “egalitarian” and the other wives worried about me, since they were “complementarians.” Vivian seemed to enjoy her role as a complement to her husband.

  But this was all a sign of too much time with Rick. What did I care what theologians called their hair-splitting opinions? I didn’t. I cared about getting on to the next job, the one that had nothing to do with the Bible.

  “Did you read the interview with Quint?” Rick surprised me. I hadn’t seen an interview come out. “He is clearly not taking his lawyer’s advice to be silent.”

  He passed Bruce a copy of Willamette Weekly, a local paper. Bruce glanced at it and then passed it my way.

  The lead paragraph said, “Quint Douglas has confessed to the murders of two Metro employees. He claims he was following direction from his religious leaders to eliminate enemies of the kingdom of God.”

  I didn’t read further. “Just as we had imagined,” I murmured. Bruce had been Quint’s religious leader. Bruce had been one of the first to suggest the Bible connection, and the first one to say the killer would want his motives known. Who was this man sitting on my couch? I narrowed my eyes and stared at him.

  But it was still just Bruce. A broken man stuck in a terrible situation.

  “I guess my days being interviewed by the police aren’t over yet.” He sighed deeply. “You know, you try so hard in ministry to help. Mac always says you can’t take it to heart when someone chooses drugs over the safety of your shelter. I guess this is kind of the same, isn’t it? I tried. What else could I do?” The hurt, the depth of grief in his eyes. It hadn’t been him. Quint, like so many evil people in history, had been led by illness and delusion.

  Probably.

  In the meantime, I was glad to be done with it. Glad to move on to easier things like divorcing that big galoot sitting next to me, staring at Bruce with false sympathy, his mind likely filled with the best-selling book he could write based on the case.

  I suppressed a smile. How could I hate Rick? I mean I did, but how? How could anyone hate a man with such easy-to-read motives?

  I didn’t hate him, but I held him in contempt and that was close enough.

  As for me, somewhere out there, the next case was waiting, and with it the money I needed to pay a lawyer’s fees and the first and last on one of those overpriced apartments that had nearly killed my motivation this morning.

  Vivian smiled at me from across the room. “If you ever need to talk, please know you can call me. Any time. I’m always available to counsel…to disciple.”

  I glanced at Rick. His eyes were sparking with laughter. I bit my tongue to keep from joining him. Call Vivian so I could enjoy some of her famous discipleship?

  Nope. Not for me.

  I think, like the Israelites in the time of the Judges, I’d prefer to just do whatever was right in my own eyes.

  The Hands of a Woman

  A Maura Garrison Mystery

  The Oregonian Monday, May 7

  Publisher Found Dead: Tent Spike in Head

  By, John Howard

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  Bruce Michael, the 58 year old publisher of a weekly Christian newspaper serving the greater Portland Metro area, was found dead on the campus of Holiness Bible College, located on Mt. Tabor. The deceased was found in the staging area for the event with a tent peg through his temple, pounded into the ground. Michael was on the campus for a student ministry fair. It is thought the peg came from his own booth, a white vinyl tent rented from Aloha Event Supplies.

  His wife Vivian Michael was taken in for questioning, but released. She had been in Canada until the morning after he was found.

  Now Available

  About the Author

  Traci Tyne Hilton is the author of The Book of Judges Mysteries, the Plain Jane Mysteries, the Mitzy Neuhaus Mysteries and the Tillgiven Romantic Mysteries. When not writing she has been known to knit socks, play the spoons, and teach Sunday School, though these days she is most often seen in her role as taxi-driver to busy children.

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  Traci attended Fackelbararnas Bibelskola in Holsby Brunn, Sweden, and earned a degree in History from Portland State University. She lives in the rainiest part of the Pacific Northwest with her husband the mandolin playing funeral director, two busy teens, and their dogs, Dr. Watson and Archie Goodwin. (Her family just admonished her not to forget the cat!)

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  You can join the Good Clean Book club at http://www.tracihilton.com and be the first to find out when her next book releases.