by Kyle Mills
Michaels frowned. “I just can’t think of anything we’ve missed. I mean, there’s the church angle, but I sure don’t see how that fits in with Eric Davis shooting his wife and killing himself.”
Beamon nibbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a throbbing that was likely to last until this thing was over. “Unfortunately, I can.”
Michaels looked hopelessly frustrated. “Please, Mark. This thing’s killing me.”
“I’m gonna say it again, Chet. None of this leaves the room, right?”
Michaels nodded his assent.
“I’ve talked to a few people about the Church of the Evolution and done a little research myself,” Beamon said. “They’ve created quite a religious machine for themselves—and their followers are incredibly devoted. Let’s consider the facts in chronological order.” Beamon held up his index finger. “One: Jennifer’s real mother changes her name and place of residence numerous times, though for no reason we can find.
“Two: Jennifer’s real mother and father are killed in a mysterious fire in the middle of the night, but their two-year-old daughter manages to escape and is found wandering around in the yard.
“Three: The Davises, a couple who moved to Flagstaff around the same time as the church did and who’d never tried to adopt before, pop in and take Jennifer right after she gets to the foster home.”
Michaels had a strangely bemused look on his face.
“You okay, Chet?”
“Huh? Yeah. It’s just that I do all this work gathering information for you—spend a ton of time writing it out, give it to you every morning, and, well, you always seem to be only half paying attention. I never thought you actually remembered any of it.”
Beamon laughed. His mother used to get on him for the same thing. “Where was I?”
“Four.”
“Four: Albert Kneiss decides he’s going to die this year, leaving a leadership void at the church.”
“Five: Kneiss’s granddaughter suddenly disappears, and her adoptive parents, in essence, kill themselves.”
Beamon stood up and grabbed his mug. “Process those five facts while I get another cup of coffee.
When Beamon sat back down, the young agent was scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad. He finally laid it down on the desk, and Beamon could see that he’d written down the five points almost verbatim. Michaels looked up at him. “I’m still thinking.”
Beamon put his feet on the desk and blew gently across the top of the mug. “Thinking is good. No hurry.”
Michaels sat motionless for almost five minutes, elbows on his knees, staring at the pad. Finally his head rose and he leaned back in the chair. “Okay. I’ve got something, but it doesn’t seem right.”
“Go ahead.”
“Jennifer’s biological mother was running from the church. Kneiss wanted Jennifer to eventually succeed him, but his daughter didn’t want anything to do with him and his followers. People from the church burned down her house with her and her husband in it, but made sure Jennifer wasn’t injured.”
He paused, looking a bit uncertain.
“Doing okay so far, keep going,” Beamon prodded.
“The church sends two devoted members to adopt her right away. They keep her, pretending not to be part of the church, because they don’t want any appearance of wrongdoing that could get into the press that they fear so much, and they wait. Finally, Kneiss announces that it’s time for him to ascend. The church takes Jennifer and orders her adoptive parents to commit suicide. Religion is probably as good a motivation for suicide as any—history’s proven that.”
Beamon nodded thoughtfully.
“There’s just one problem, though, Mark. Why the suicide?”
“It would be the only option. Think about it, Chet. They have to get rid of her folks—they’d be the first people I went after when she disappeared. And their backgrounds wouldn’t have taken heavy scrutiny with all the church connections.”
“Okay, I see your point. But why not just kill them? It’s like you always say, the simplest answer is usually the right answer.”
“You could just kill them, but consider the problems. Jennifer would hate her captors for killing her folks and would probably be reluctant to get involved with the Church. The second, better option would be to take Jennifer and then kill them. The problem there is twofold: Jennifer would think she had a family to get back to, making her conversion even more problematic. And, of course, when she did eventually find out they were dead, the shock could undo all their careful brainwashing.”
Beamon sipped at his coffee. “If it were me, I’d have the Davises commit suicide right in front of her. That would convince her of their devotion to the church and cut her off from any family support. I mean, can you imagine what something like that would do to a fifteen-year-old kid?”
28
JENNIFER DAVIS LOOKED DOWN AT THE dripping faucet and estimated the time at between 2:30 and 3:30 in the afternoon, March 6.
The design was simple. She had counted endlessly—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—while the dripping of the faucet filled the cup she had been provided. Then, by filling the sink with the cup and carefully scratching lines in the porcelain with a fork, she had built a clock.
Regaining her sense of time had gone miles toward helping her get her balance back. She’d used it to establish a routine: go to sleep at ten, wake up around eight. During the day, study the Bible the old man had given her; early afternoon, try to get some exercise. Then more study in the evening.
Her first impression had been right. Her meals were being served at erratic intervals, sometimes as little as an hour apart, sometimes as much as eight hours apart.
She hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone in seven days and she’d used that time to think. Sara was a liar. She told herself that at least ten times a day, trying to get the message to penetrate her fear and loneliness.
The old man she had been taken to—her grandfather—knew nothing of how she was being treated. That she was sure of. Sara was going to try her best to break her, she knew. Sara wasn’t going to hand over her position as head of the church easily.
At the sound of the key hitting the lock, Jennifer ran out of the bathroom, afraid that her makeshift timepiece might be discovered. She stood in the middle of the room and watched the door open and Sara walk through.
“I’m so sorry, Jennifer. So sorry to have left you alone for so long.”
Jennifer jerked back when Sara brought her hand up to touch her hair. The woman’s face transformed into an expression of concern. “Oh, honey. I know how lonely you must be, but you have to trust me. There’s no other way.”
Jennifer looked past her and saw the man who always seemed to accompany Sara on her visits standing in the doorway. She’d only caught brief glimpses of him before today—identifying him by his thick black mustache. But now she could see the scar running from it to his expressionless right eye and his thin, powerful build.
“What do you want from me?” Jennifer said, having trouble keeping control of the jumble of emotions trying to take hold of her. Sara was the only person who came to see her, the only person who really spoke to her. And while she knew that it was Sara who had imprisoned her, it was so hard to distrust the only voice in her life. Late at night she found herself trying to reinvent Sara as someone who cared about her. To convince herself that the only human being she had any real contact with was good.
“You know what I want, Jennifer. I want to keep you safe from the others. This is very complicated, you—”
“I don’t believe you,” Jennifer said. She’d rehearsed this conversation at least a hundred times over the past few days, but was still having trouble getting the words out.
“What did you say?”
Jennifer could hear the edge of anger in Sara’s voice and felt a sickening twinge in her stomach. She felt her resolve faltering, suddenly feeling like a small child who had angered her mother. She bit the inside of her mouth and concentrated on
the pain, a trick she used to focus her mind when she raced. “I don’t believe you.”
“Jennifer. Listen very carefully. It’s important that you fully understand what I’m going to tell you. Are you listening?”
Jennifer nodded.
“You’ve been alone in here too long and I know that what happened to your parents has affected you very deeply. You’re not thinking clearly right now. You have to trust me. I’m going to take you to see your grandfather now, but there will be others there. It’s very important that you say absolutely nothing unless it’s in answer to a direct question posed by me. Okay?” She reached out again, but Jennifer caught her by the wrist.
“No. It’s not okay.”
Sara withdrew her hand and looked down at the floor for a moment. When she raised her head again, her eyes had turned cold. Jennifer took an involuntary step backward when she saw the man at the door coming toward her. She dodged right, but wasn’t quick enough and felt herself being lifted off the ground and then slammed face first down onto the bed.
“Let me go!” she screamed as the man pinned her arms behind her. She thrashed wildly, feeling the rage building in her. They had no right! No right to hold her here. No right to have taken her life away. She kicked out hard when the pressure on her back eased for a moment, but only connected with air.
She struggled even harder when she felt the cold metal against the back of her hands and then heard the ratcheting sound as a pair of handcuffs closed around her wrists. She twisted around as Sara came toward her and then fell back onto the mattress, exhausted and helpless. There was nothing she could do.
The man holding her moved away when Sara reached for the chain between the handcuffs binding her wrists. Jennifer cried out in pain when the woman forcefully twisted the chain, but something in her kept her from fighting back.
“Don’t make another sound,” Sara said quietly. Jennifer complied, lying motionless on the bed as the man returned to his position outside the open door.
Her wrists felt like they were going to break, and the combination of the pain, fear, and frustration was bringing tears to her eyes. She pressed her face into the tangle of sheets beneath her and wiped them away.
“That’s better.” The pressure on the handcuffs eased. “See what happens? If you do what I tell you, everything will be all right.”
Sara didn’t speak again for what seemed like forever, and Jennifer just lay motionless on the bed listening to the woman’s breathing.
“I told you that I was taking you to see Albert and that some other people were going to be there. What else did I tell you?” the woman finally said.
Jennifer’s throat had gone completely dry and was making it a struggle to speak. “You … you told me just to answer your questions,” she managed to say in what sounded like a loud whisper.
“That’s right, Jennifer.” There was another long pause before the woman spoke again. “There’s no one else, you know. Your parents gave you to me. I cause your meals to brought to you, provide you with clean clothes, water. You’ve been orphaned for a second time, Jennifer. There’s no one left who cares what happens to you. No one but me.”
Jennifer pressed her face into the pillow again and began to sob quietly. Why was this happening to her?
“Don’t cry, dear,” Sara said, running her fingers gently up the inside of Jennifer’s bare leg and over the back of her panties. “Don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Jennifer could feel the lines of sweat that Sara’s fingers had left on her thigh. It made her feel cold.
The old man’s room was different now. The windows seemed to have lost their tint, and the heatless light of the afternoon sun painted the floor in wide strips.
The elaborate array of medical machines was gone and the old man’s bed had been moved into the middle of the room. Around it stood five conservatively dressed people. Two women and three men.
Jennifer’s breath came out as steam as Sara led her through the frigid room. She pulled back when they came within about fifteen feet of the bed, but Sara put a hand on the back of her neck and forced her forward. As they moved closer, she could see that the old man was completely motionless and that his limbs had been arranged in a configuration too neat to be natural. She felt the tears begin again as she was forced to accept the fact that the old man, whose eyes had carried away some of her loneliness and fear, was gone. And now there really was only Sara.
The people turned slowly from the old man’s body and locked their eyes on her as she and Sara stopped a few feet from them. The man who had handcuffed and later released her continued past them and joined the small group.
“Jennifer,” Sara said in a clear voice obviously meant for the others in the room. “Your grandfather told you that you were the one that God had named to take his place. Do you remember?”
Jennifer continued to stare down at the old man, the image of his lifeless body filling her mind.
“Jennifer?” Sara prodded in a gentle tone that carried a hint of menace in its timbre. “Do you remember?”
What she remembered was the biting steel of the handcuffs against the bones of her wrists and Sara’s quiet threats.
“Yes.”
“Then you accept your place in the church?”
Jennifer took a deep breath and looked away from her grandfather, trying unsuccessfully to clear her head. What else could she do?
“Yes.”
The people began walking up to her one at a time, each silently leaning over and kissing her on the cheek with eyes full of awe. All except the man who had come in with them. The man with the mustache. He kissed her as the others had, but his expression was one of quiet triumph.
In a moment they were all gone and she was alone in the room with Sara, her nameless companion, and the shell of what was once her grandfather and God’s messenger on earth. Jennifer looked around her and then back down at her grandfather’s body, feeling a small glimmer of hope in her chest. Sara didn’t want her there, she knew that. And she wanted nothing to do with her church. Jamie’s mom would take her in. It would be less than two years until she went to college and then she could build her own life. One that had nothing to do with Albert Kneiss or Sara, or her parents.
“I don’t want any of this,” Jennifer said. “Bring the others back in and I’ll tell them. You can have the church. It’s yours.”
Sara’s mouth curled into a smile devoid of warmth. “I don’t think you understand, Jennifer.”
“I do understand. My grandfather wanted me to take over for him as the head of the church.”
Sara shook her head. “He wanted much more than that for you.”
Jennifer was confused for a moment. She knew what he had said.
“Albert has served God for many years,” Sara said. “And God has taken him to his reward.” She reached out and took Jennifer’s hand. “You haven’t been chosen to lead the church, Jennifer. You’ve been chosen as God’s new Messenger.”
Jennifer tried to step back, but Sara tightened her grip on her hand. She looked down at her grandfather’s body, Sara’s words penetrating her mind. Good Friday was still a few weeks away. He wasn’t supposed to be dead yet.
“It will be time for you to take your place with God soon, Jennifer.”
“No!” Jennifer screamed, pulling away and trying to run. The man at Sara’s side caught hold of her before she could make it even a few feet. “That’s not what he said! It’s not and you know it. My grandfather wanted to give the church to me!”
“Your grandfather is dead, Jennifer,” Sara said smoothly. “You have no idea what he wanted. How could you?”
Jennifer squeezed her eyes shut and bit the inside of her cheek again, harder this time. How could she have been so stupid? She’d let Sara trick her into telling those people that she wanted to die.
She pushed at the man holding her, knowing that she had no hope of escaping his grip, and then sunk to the floor. There was no one left to help her. No one
cared if she lived anymore. And Sara only cared that she died.
29
BEAMON TOOK THE PLASTIC BAG OFF HIS frozen doorknob and pushed through the door into his living room. He leaned back outside for a moment to shake the snow off his parka and briefcase, then pulled the door tightly shut.
They were rotating, he thought as he sat down on one of the stools at the edge of his kitchen counter and began to flip through the pad he’d brought with him from the car. And they liked Fords.
He grabbed a Hi-Liter and put a green stripe over his notes relating to a red Taurus that had been popping up behind him more often than it should. That was two cars. It was possible that there were more, but he hadn’t been watching long enough to be sure of the pattern. What he was sure of, though, was that he was being followed. And worse, he was about seventy-five percent sure that his new neighbor’s decision to rent in that particular location had been influenced by the view. Of his condo.
He reached into the plastic bag that had been hanging on his door and pulled a damp envelope from it. The envelope contained a single yellow Post- it note.
Never got a chance
to thank you for
watching Emory.
Dinner at seven?
Carrie
Beamon glanced at his watch and then looked at the briefcase bulging with administrative bullshit. It had been backing up for weeks—what harm would one more day do? He walked over and opened the fridge but found nothing more than a few cans of beer. Showing up on Carrie’s doorstep with the dregs of a twelve-pack of Busch probably presented a little too realistic an image for this early in their relationship. Probably better to go empty- handed.
But then, what did he know? His history with women was less than impressive. If you didn’t count the logistically impossible attraction between him and his old partner, Laura Vilechi, his last date had been almost two years ago. A friend had set it up, describing the woman as intelligent and attractive, but a witch. Beamon hadn’t seen any serious problem with that—he himself had been known to be an occasional pain in the ass. What he hadn’t understood was that “witch” hadn’t been an evaluation of her personality; it had been a statement of religious affiliation.
