“Why’s that?” Parker asked.
“They burned a hole in my card.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. He was just about to confirm that Parker was still there when he heard Parker’s voice, firm and almost indignant. “What did you just say?”
Conch repeated himself, adding this time how he’d found the card in the alley.
When he was done he heard Parker murmur a few curse words under his breath.
“Do you know something that I should know, Detective?” Conch asked.
“I’m on my way,” Parker said.
Conch was shocked. “What?”
“They’ve put me on leave. Paid. For now. Regardless. I’m getting dressed and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Parker began before his voice froze. When he spoke again he sounded frustrated. “Because I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Another lie.
The phone clicked in Conch’s ear.
CHAPTER 9
AS SHE WALKED UP the church steps, Janie holding her one hand and Seth the other, Tamara wondered about their reception. Would they be welcomed? Would they be shunned? In the sharp left turn that their lives had taken, would this be the road back or a road with a dead end?
She’d tried sending the kids back to school; it had lasted one day. As she feared all along, children were the cruelest of all creatures. Only two of Janie’s friends had stuck by her, one of them only reluctantly, and the rest had turned on her, calling her father a “murderer” and a “rapist,” the latter comment only revealing how misinformed the parents were and how little the children understood.
That’s how gossip worked, by digging its heels into a possible truth, that Kyle had murdered someone, and then using that possibility to cast light on every other possibility one could think of. The press was partly to blame for this, but this town, her community, all the people she thought were her friends, she wondered what they were saying about Kyle, about her, about the kids, behind her back. Based on the words that spilled from the mouths of their children? It was a lot.
When Tamara requested that all homework and class assignments be sent home indefinitely, the school office hadn’t even argued. She imagined it would take a year or more for everything to blow over, if even then, and she was most likely going to have to sell the house and move the kids elsewhere.
She was lost deep in these thoughts when she heard a voice.
“Tamara?” It was Pastor Williams.
She looked up and saw him standing in a blue suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar—he was famous for his dislike of ties—and his hands folded in front of him. He was tall and black, the son of a southern preacher who managed to successfully take over and lead a small church in an affluent, predominantly white neighborhood. There was a smile on his face as he looked from Tamara to Seth and then to Janie. “Hey, kiddos. How are you?”
Everything had taken a toll on Tamara. There was no denying it. She would’ve expected such days to toughen her up, but instead she was growing frailer, it seemed. So when her chest heaved slightly and she felt herself about to let go with a round of tears, she wasn’t surprised. It was silly, but lately she’d even stopped drinking water in the hopes it would prevent her eyes from having the ammunition they needed to make her so pathetic and vulnerable all the time.
Before she could lose it, Pastor Williams stepped forwards, his big hands taking her gently by the shoulders, and pulled her close for a hug.
There on the steps, just outside the large wooden double doors of the front entrance, Tamara closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she didn’t feel so desperate. Instead, she chose to feel a barely moving breeze pass by as she listened to a few birds chirp in a nearby tree.
Afternoon clouds were covering them, bringing a slight chill, but her pastor’s hug warmed her. Then he knelt and hugged the children, both at the same time, which made them giggle, a sound that brought her joy and gave her strength.
When Pastor Williams stood and stepped aside, Tamara could see people beyond him, in the church. A lot of them. This being the middle of a weekday, it was a surprise, but they weren’t seated or standing facing the pulpit; instead they were all facing the door.
Facing her and the kids, smiling sympathetically.
Stunned, she stuttered for a moment before she finally managed a soft, “What’s… ?”
Pastor Williams chuckled warmly. “Your friend called to tell us you were coming. So we sent out an ‘all call’ to the congregation, for those who could make it. Many did. Many more have sent prayers and thoughts, which Amanda put in a card for you.”
At first Tamara was confused. Then it hit her.
Trudy. No wonder she dropped us off and said she’d forgotten something at home.
Speechless, Tamara let him take her hand and lead them inside, where an ocean of hugs washed over them, one after another, wave after wave of love and words of sympathy and encouragement. She felt herself filling up with it, with hope, almost instantly. Then joy. Then a relief that was almost palpable.
It was while hugging Martha, the leader of her women’s group, that Tamara opened her eyes to see her favorite thing about the church: the seven foot tall wooden cross that hung over the stage.
Never in her life had she been so happy to see it. Because right then she knew, believed, felt: He was here too, in every embrace, in every conveyed word of mercy.
That was all it took. She let out a small moan and sobbed, heavy and free and hard. Then people were all around, laying hands on her and the kids, and she thought of Kyle, what he used to always say about these moments of group prayer, “It’s just a weird football huddle of the faithful, ain’t it, babe?” and, incredibly, she laughed.
Kyle. His voice. It was still with her. Through the tears and pain she felt now, she laughed softly at the memory of her lovely husband’s insecure anti-church talk. He was so funny. Almost all the time.
Then reality returned and Tamara sobbed all the harder, fearing that she would never see him again.
“Father,” Pastor Williams’ voice boomed out, “we ask you to be here today to bless and watch over Tamara, Janie and little Seth. Father, we ask you to help us, all of us, within these walls and without, not to judge or condemn. That is not our place.”
He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts for a second, before continuing, “We know not what has transpired, or why, or by whom or for what reason. All we know is what we need to know, that members of our church family are hurting and in need. So… help us all, Father, to be here for them. Not just today, but in the days to come. And, most importantly, for You to be there for them, and for Kyle, wherever he is. Amen.”
An echo of “amens” coursed over the crowd, and when Tamara opened her eyes again, she was stunned; there were a good two hundred people present. They filled each of the twenty or so rows of chairs that were in the sanctuary, they were in the lobby, the usher’s area at the back of the church and in the reception area. Everywhere she looked, she could see faces she knew: Dean from the San Francisco missions trip, Sandy from Bible study, the Garretts and Palmers from their couples group, Mary Beth, who led the young children’s ministry, and Kim, who handled the outreach programs for the local high schools.
Up on stage the praise band started playing, and Tamara could see dozens of flowers and cards were in the reception area with a big welcome sign. The crowd separated a bit and a few children squirmed through. They took Seth and Janie by the hand and tried to pull them away to the kids’ room. Instinctively Tamara clutched at them, but Janie looked up at Tamara with Kyle’s big brown eyes and said, “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll be fine.”
Her fingers were locked but Tamara forced them, one at a time, to let go, and the kids ran off.
Martha stepped up to her and grabbed her now empty hand. She was a slender, Hispanic woman with a smile that embraced you. “Just so you know, we talked a little while ago with al
l the kids, Tamara. We heard some of the stuff that was being said at school.”
Tamara looked her in the eye and nodded. Peter, one of the ushers, put his hand on Tamara’s shoulder. “It’s a big story, and they have little heads.”
“Regardless, we ain’t perfect here either, Tamara,” Pastor Williams said. “But we hope you know that we’re here for you now.”
Tamara nodded again. “Yes. Thank you so much. I so didn’t expect this.”
Martha laughed. “You weren’t supposed to. It was a surprise.”
“Yes. My friend… she dropped us off and left… but I’m gonna get her for this.”
“Get me for what?” Trudy said from behind her as she poked her way through the crowd. She was wearing a floral print dress and white flats, her red hair curled at the ends. That should’ve been Tamara’s first clue: that Trudy was getting so dolled up before they left. Well, that and the fact that Trudy never did the church thing to begin with.
Trudy looked at Tamara and smiled.
“I can’t believe you did this,” Tamara said, hugging her tightly.
“Hey. Someone had to rally the troops. I’m just happy I was able to walk in here without getting struck by lightning.”
Everyone laughed, and for a brief moment things seemed okay again. Or, at least, that they could be okay again.
As Pastor Williams was asking Trudy about herself, and everyone was now relaxing back into small groups of conversation, Tamara made her way through the crowd slowly, through nods and more hugs, and as she did so she saw the faces of a lot of people who cared about her, yes, but she also saw a good half-dozen people she’d heard were gossiping about her situation throughout the neighborhood.
She wanted to be angry with these people and their fake smiles, but she couldn’t be. It was what Pastor Williams had just prayed about. If she were going to hope that they all wouldn’t judge or presuppose things about her, then she simply couldn’t give in to the urge to judge or presuppose things about them.
Besides, nobody in church was perfect.
That wasn’t the point.
They were just supposed to be present. And today they had been. She should’ve been happy enough to leave it there, but she wasn’t.
Instead, she made her way to the stage and, after glancing quickly at the pianist as he played a church hymn softly, Tamara looked directly up at the cross, now hanging there close enough for her to see the wood grain cast beneath the stage lights, and she closed her eyes to pray.
It was a curt prayer, meant for only one person, and it wasn’t to either God or Jesus.
It was to The Gray Man.
Wherever you are… find my husband… save him and get him home. Please.
She exhaled, opened her eyes, looked back up to the cross and said—a little too loudly—“Amen.”
APPARENTLY, the ride just wasn’t going to stop. Parker had been through the ringer, over and over again, each day it seemed, for the past month; from the joy of getting promoted to detective, to being assigned to the almost legendary Napoleon Villa, of all people, for training, and then right on to the Fasano case. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Then? Chaos. A case made of confusion, and then being suspended with pay while his superiors continued looking for his partner, who’d disappeared in front of Parker’s own eyes with a creature from another… place. He shook his head.
“Just say it,” he spoke aloud to himself within the confines of his Mustand as he sped back up the 5 Freeway to Beaury. “An angel.”
He’d just gotten home, cracked open a cold beer and barely settled into the mess that his life had become when Sheriff Conch called.
What was it that Napoleon said that day about coincidences?
“There’s no such thing,” Parker said, his voice sounding solitary and alone, echoing off the dashboard.
So what were the odds that Conch would end up with a business card burned straight through, just like Parker’s had been back on the pier in Monterey?
Evidently the man they’d met at Victoria Brasco’s wine shop, the one who’d posed as one of her employees, got around. He was either trailing the case or leading it. Either way? He was around.
Parker reached up to turn on the radio, then decided against it. He could think better in silence.
He was convinced that if they fired him he could become a trucker. He knew the 5 “Golden State” Freeway so well by now that he could name every turnoff, rest stop and In-N-Out Burgers along the way, miles ahead of time. He’d even memorized a few large boulders.
Traffic was unusually heavy for this time of day. There was probably a breakdown or accident up ahead. But he was sure Conch would wait for him. He hadn’t sounded rattled on the phone when he called Parker, but he did sound concerned and perplexed. And why not? He had a missing girl on his hands, and possibly the perp sniffing around the crime scene.
That was the first thing that had to be determined; if the card had been defaced the same way Parker’s had been, then it was the same guy.
Or a member of the same group. Remember. We’d thought it was a long shot, but one of the angles on this case early on was that a satanic group was involved. Maybe that’s part of their MO?
Parker changed lanes, moving over to where he saw a break in the traffic.
Either way, be it the same guy or a member of the same group, it could mean only one thing: the Fasano case and Conch’s case might be connected somehow.
Whoever Conch’s vic is, we have to see if she had any associations with Caitlyn Hall.
From there it was going to be a matter of following the leads wherever they went. There was no use in getting ahead of himself, on this or anything else.
Still. He couldn’t stop his staggered, slow-moving thoughts that surrounded him like the traffic: something was wrong; something was off.
The man at the wine shop had stood there in front of him and Napoleon, natural as could be, in plain sight of the tasting bar and customers. And yet when they’d returned later to find the manager closing up, she was clueless as to who they were talking about because there were no male employees that worked there. It was possible that no one had noticed him, but barely so.
The jam was at the 2 Freeway interchange. Parker could barely make out the tires of an overturned car up ahead. The highway patrol, an ambulance and paramedics were already on scene. As he drove closer he could see that the driver of the vehicle had been placed on a stretcher and it didn’t look good; one of the paramedics was providing CPR while the other talked into his radio. Parker barely caught sight of the white sheet being flipped wide into the air by two firemen, who were evidently covering the body of the passenger.
Jesus.
He’d seen plenty of dead people in his life, and seen this ritual of covering the bodies played out on his job as a patrolman more than a few times, and certainly a good dozen times in Afghanistan. Still, it roiled his stomach. Someone was gone now. Someone with a family and friends who right this very minute were going about their day, completely oblivious to the phone call coming their way that would forever change their lives.
Death is no respecter of persons.
That was the army chaplain’s favorite line, uttered at each funeral and over each flag-draped coffin before it was loaded on to the C30 for the long ride home.
Parker blinked the memories away and returned his attention to the road. He’d rubbernecked just like all the other idiots around him, and that was almost always the reason for traffic jams this size: all the specters at the feast.
Glancing to the car next to him, he was sizing up his chances of getting in front of it when he noticed the person standing next to the stretcher, just behind the paramedic doing CPR. It was a man. He was short, with close-cut brown hair, in jeans and a white t-shirt. In normal circumstances he would never have been allowed this close to an accident scene. Parker tried to reason him away; he was someone from another vehicle in the accident, perhaps, or another passenger from the overturned car that had somehow c
ome out unscathed.
But then Parker noticed that the man on the stretcher was in jeans and a white t-shirt too, and though he couldn’t see his face since his nose and mouth were covered with a breathing bubble, his hair… it was close-cut and brown too.
It can’t be.
Parker braked. It hardly mattered. Traffic was almost frozen in place at this juncture anyway. Still, he heard the tires screech from the car behind him.
His mouth went dry just as the shimmer appeared; orange and yellow at first, fading into a pale white.
Next to the man now stood another one of the… he told himself to just say it… angels that Parker had seen for the first time out in front of the Brasco house, and, just like that night, Parker felt his brain going buttery at what his eyes were seeing. This one was not gray, but a faint yellow hue, and it stood at least seven feet tall as it put an arm around the man’s shoulder. Its features were sharp, with dull pink eyes and thick cheekbones.
It was time. His time. The man’s time. But the man was having difficulty with that. He shook his head in disbelief, as if he never saw his end coming, never had a chance to make a stand or say any goodbyes, and was stunned frozen at what was now upon him.
The angel spoke to the man, seemingly consoling him. The man nodded briefly, and as the shimmer in the air around them returned, the angel turned himself and the man towards it. It seemed like it was time to go.
Then the angel paused.
It turned its head curiously, first to one side, then to the next, as if it were dialing in on some sort of radio frequency while the air around it seemed to pulsate and shimmer.
Then, to Parker’s stunned amazement, the angel whipped its head around and looked directly at him. Parker froze as their eyes met in some sort of mutual exchange of acknowledgment, the angel seemingly just as curious about Parker as he was of it.
The car horn behind him blared, shattering the image in Parker’s eyes as he blinked. When his vision returned to where the angel and the man had been standing, they were gone. The paramedic that was on the radio was trying to swap with his partner to help with the CPR, but his partner waived him off. There would be no rescue today.
A Million to One: (The Millionth Trilogy Book 2) Page 9
