I bet you have.
“But pay attention to the insight we have here. When Phinehas killed the man and woman, he was killing one of his own kind, a ‘man of Israel.’ In the past we’ve talked about the true, literal, chosen people of Israel: the white, Anglo-Saxon, Germanic people.”
I glanced around. Heads nodded all around me.
“So what is God saying here? He’s identifying race traitors. Those who destroy and betray their own race, and those who are creating mongrels.” He paused and looked at the congregation. “This is war, people!” His voice rose. “War! And what do we do with traitors during war? What did Phinehas do? He killed them. This includes anyone, anyone, who betrays us.”
I gripped my Bible so hard my fingers ached. There was the answer to the question Dave asked, “Why me?” The Lone Wolf decided I was a race traitor for the work I did to identify his group and foil his plan.
The pastor jabbed the air with a finger. “Death is the only way to treat race traitors. Death in such a way so as to send a message to other possible defectors. Remember the Fourteen Words, ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ ”
The whole congregation chanted the words together, as if repeating the Lord’s Prayer.
Sweat dampened the back of my dress. I could barely breathe.
The pastor’s voice dropped, and he said quietly, “This is survival of the fittest. We must cut the chaff from us and their seed. You have a duty, a God-given duty, to seek revenge on those who have harmed our race!” He flung his arms out to the side, perfectly matching up with the cross behind him.
I glanced at the people around me. Their faces were blotched and red, jaws clenched, hands drawn into fists.
I had to get away from this man, this room, this vitriolic speech.
Slipping my pencil back into my purse, I pulled out a tissue, placed it over my mouth, and started coughing. Swiftly I stood, made an apologetic gesture, and continued my fake coughing attack to the exit. A few heads turned, but most seemed riveted by the sermon.
No one was in the lobby, nor could I see anyone loitering in the parking lot. Before making my dash for freedom, I snatched a selection of pamphlets from the rack.
Once out of sight of the church and heading toward my rendezvous with Beth, I yanked off the wig and fluffed my hair. I didn’t want anyone connecting me with the woman who had attended that church. After parking behind Nora’s Café, I thought about the hatred I’d just witnessed as I finished my transformation back to my regular appearance.
I looked in the mirror to apply eye shadow, then stopped. The expressions on the faces of the congregation had looked familiar.
I’d seen it on my own face after my fight with Robert.
I dropped my hands into my lap and bowed my head. “Heavenly Father, I know everything happens for a reason. I know it was by divine appointment that I was at that church today. Please help me, guide me, and protect me through this time. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
Someone tapped on the car window.
I jerked up my head. Beth and Aynslee were staring at me. I got out of the car and joined them. Beth looked ready to question me on my praying, but she didn’t say anything. Good. I wasn’t ready to share my moment of self-discovery.
The after-church lunch rush was in full swing, and we quickly grabbed the last empty table.
“Well,” Beth said. “How did it go?”
Before I could answer, the waitress appeared. “The usual?” she asked Beth and me. We both nodded. “How about you, hon?” she asked Aynslee.
Aynslee pointed to the menu. “Pancakes, eggs over easy—”
“Um, sweetheart—”
“I’m buying,” Beth said. “So go ahead.”
I gave her a grateful smile. “You are absolutely the best friend and partner.”
“Do I get that badge?”
“How about a shiny belt buckle?”
“You said that before.”
After Aynslee placed her order, she popped in earbuds, closed her eyes, and tapped the table lightly in tune with her phone.
“Did anyone recognize you?”
“No. I got a good look at the men. I’ll sketch them this evening.” I finished quietly updating Beth on my church visit, then placed the selection of pamphlets on the table.
Beth unfolded each one.
We both spotted the Phineas Priesthood symbol on the third pamphlet. Across the top was a quote. “It is our God-given duty to execute righteous judgment.”
“Wow.” Beth dropped it like it was on fire.
“So, this is what I think we’re dealing with. I think this killer evolved to what is called a thrill-oriented serial killer,” I said. “Looking at his actions in Spokane, he started by bombing and killing people, using the philosophy of the Phineas Priesthood as his reason. Then his buddies are caught or died, so again using the Christian Identity as a justification, he embarked on revenge.”
“Rather a common theme, using religion as a rationalization for amoral behavior.”
I nodded. “He may have used revenge as an excuse, but he found he craved the excitement of killing. When his second victim escaped, the killer chased him, but failed to catch him. That hunting of another person was immensely satisfying, a total adrenalin rush.”
Beth placed her fork on the table and pushed away her salad.
“Serial killer Robert Christian Hansen,” I said, “murdered between seventeen and twenty-one women in Alaska, many of them taken to a remote region, allowed to run for their lives, hunted down, and killed. I think the bodies in the grave were killed like that.”
“But how?”
“He must have given them a head start, then caught up with them at the McCandless farm.”
“What about the body in the cow pasture?”
“She also ran. I think they all were given a map, maybe a compass, but the Jane Doe in the pasture probably couldn’t read it. She ran the wrong way, and the wolves found her instead of the killer.”
“And Mattie?”
“I thought about her. She’s really the key. It was raining that night.”
“What?”
“Rain. That’s why he didn’t make Mattie run. He’d lose her in the downpour.”
Beth leaned closer. “Did her juvenile arthritis have anything to do with it?”
I glanced around the restaurant. “I suspect he chose his victims based on both a resemblance to Aynslee and . . . their having ‘undesirable’ traits. Like Hitler killing disabled and mentally handicapped people.”
Beth took a sip of water.
“The Lone Wolf’s intention was to sustain his own fantasies and to exact revenge on me as a race traitor. I was supposed to find the girls, adding another layer to his experience. But I didn’t, at least not for a time. He got tired of waiting. When he picked up Mattie, he decided it was time for me to discover his plan. He could have lost her in the deluge, so he simply took her to where he’d killed and placed the other bodies, tortured her, left the clues, then lured Winston to the site.”
Beth didn’t talk for a few moments. “You said this man is the perfect storm. Both a serial killer and a violent white separatist.”
“Yes.”
“But he waited, what was it, five years to go after you.”
I leaned my elbows on the table. “He’s tying up loose ends. I assume it was because the case is finally going to trial.”
“But everything was so planned out. Every detail.”
“Ooookay. Where are you going with this?”
“What if, once the last of the ‘race traitors’ are murdered, he decides to go back to his original plan?”
“Derail a train carrying deadly chemicals.” I thought about the railroad tracks running alongside of the highway. I was pretty sure it went right through Missoula. I finally shook my head. “He had three other men helping him with that plan. It would be something else.”
Beth pulled a purple notepad and lavender pen from he
r purse. “Like what?”
“Um. Well, it would probably need to be on the nineteenth or twentieth. If he thinks he might die in the attempt, it would be the nineteenth.”
Beth started the list. “Hate would be involved. That seems to be a theme.”
“Destruction, death, maybe a bomb and shooting. Hitler? Swastika, something that would sear into the American conscience. I don’t know.” I leaned back.
Beth leaned back also and stared at the ceiling. “Something maybe like Germany’s Kristallnacht, the night of broken glass. Pre-war, maybe 1938 or ’39, when civilians and the military attacked Jewish temples—”
“Yes! A Jewish target,” I said.
Aynslee pulled out the earbuds. “Battery’s dead. I heard all that. I know what date he’s going to strike. And what time. You might have figured out where.”
“What do you mean?” Beth asked.
“Your list,” Aynslee said. “April 20, eleven a.m. The anniversary of the shooting at Columbine High School.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I STARED AT MY DAUGHTER.
“We read about it in school,” she said. “The two boys that did it really got into Hitler and the Nazis. They wore swastikas and did the ‘Heil Hitler’ thing. They were going to blow up the school and shoot anyone who tried to escape.”
“So maybe a school?” Beth said. “Rather than a Jewish target?”
“Give me a minute.” I jumped up from the table and headed outside. Once there, I quickly called Dave. It went to voice mail.
I checked my watch. Dave usually didn’t turn on his cell until well after church. I left a message for him to call me.
Beth and Aynslee joined me.
“We have a possible day and time, but not an exact target,” I said. “Mattie is the key to finding this guy quickly. We’ll go to the hospital, get that composite, and turn it over to Dave. He’ll yell and squawk at me, but then we can step back and let him handle it.” I forced a smile.
Aynslee smiled back. “Don’t worry, I’m not afraid. You’ll keep me safe.”
We stopped at a grocery store on our way to the hospital and purchased a bouquet of flowers and glass vase. I parked my car in the visitors’ parking lot and turned toward Beth, seated beside me. She was almost hidden by the flowers. “I know this hospital rather too well,” I said.
“Because of all your surgeries and cancer treatments, I would imagine you would.”
“The room used for isolation is near the nurses’ station and in the old part of the hospital. That’s the bad news. It’s also near an elevator. That’s the good news. You know the plan. Ready?”
Beth nodded. Aynslee and I slipped from the car and headed across the nearly empty lot to the back of the building. I’d condensed my composite supplies to paper, a few pencils, an eraser, a photo reference book, and a cell phone, all which fit into a small canvas bag. The hospital was a cream-colored, single-story building sprawling over a gently rolling lawn. In the rear, a sloping ramp led to a service entrance belowground with both regular and vehicle-sized doors. Dumpsters lined up on the left, and just outside the employee entrance was an overflowing container for cigarette butts. After one of my surgeries, I’d overlooked this popular spot for the smoking staff members.
The garage door was open, and Aynslee and I slipped inside. A hallway bisected the lower floor. Listening for any sound of approaching staff, I moved forward past closed doors: Maintenance, Mechanical, Plant Operations, Housekeeping, and finally the door I sought. Supply.
The room was empty and filled with rows of neatly labeled, gray metal shelves. The section on my left held blankets, gowns, towels, spreads, and other linen. Behind the door were lab coats with the hospital’s name and logo embroidered on the pocket. I pulled on one, then found a small gown for Aynslee. “Put this on.”
“It’s, like, ugly.”
“Yeah. I know. Put it on anyway.” The gown covered her T-shirt and draped to her knees, with blue jeans and muddy sneakers below. I snatched a white cotton blanket, then peeked out the door.
Two orderlies sauntered toward the smoking area.
I ducked back and put my finger to my lips. Aynslee looked as if she might start giggling.
Coast clear, Aynslee and I crept down the hall. At the end, an arrow pointed left and noted Cafeteria. The elevator was straight ahead. I spotted a wheelchair. I’d just gotten Aynslee seated and covered her jeans and shoes with the blanket when the elevator door opened.
I gripped the armrest of the wheelchair.
“Need help?” a male voice asked.
“No, I got it.” My back was toward them, blocking Aynslee from their sight. “Now, listen to me, young lady, just because you have a wheelchair, you can’t just go anywhere in this hospital. Let’s get you back to your room.”
Aynslee had both hands over her mouth, and her eyes streamed tears from holding in her laughter. A hot flash bathed me in sweat.
“You bet,” the voice said. Footsteps retreated.
“Aynslee,” I whispered. “This isn’t funny!”
“I can’t help it, Mom.” She gasped. “I gotta go to the bathroom now.”
I waited for the hot flash to pass and Aynslee to get control of her mirth before entering the elevator. The timing had to be perfect.
The ride up seemed to take forever. My hands were slick on the wheelchair handles.
The door opened.
Beth stood at the end of the hall, peering at a room number. The nurses’ station sat on my right, with a short hall to my left, ending with a door blocked by a young police officer engrossed in a book.
Beth dropped the vase. The piercing crash echoed down the hall. Flowers splayed across the shiny floor, and glass shards flew in all directions. “Oh no!” she shrieked.
The officer dropped the paperback, put his hand on his service revolver, and charged past us. Nurses and orderlies popped from nearby rooms.
I shoved the wheelchair out of sight behind the nurses’ station, grabbed Aynslee, and flew toward the now unguarded door.
The room was dim, with the blinds half closed, but I could clearly see Mattie lying on her back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Cloyingly sweet-smelling flowers overwhelmed the odor of rubbing alcohol and cleaners. An IV line hooked into Mattie’s wrist, and her splinted hands lay crossed over her waist.
“Hi, Mattie; it’s me, Gwen.”
No response. I moved closer. “Do you remember me? We met . . .” Don’t remind her of the house. “Is there anything I can get for you? Mattie?”
The click of the IV pump created the only sound. I leaned over the bed so Mattie could see my face. “Mattie?” I asked quietly.
“Hi,” she muttered.
“Can I get you anything? Water, a soft drink . . .”
“I’d kill for a cigarette.”
“There’s no smoking in here with the oxygen and all, but maybe I can get you some gum.”
“Nah. That’s okay.”
“This is my daughter, Aynslee.”
Aynslee moved closer so Mattie could see her. The two girls studied each other. “Hi,” Aynslee said.
“Hi.” Mattie looked like she wanted to say more but snapped her jaw shut.
A single chair sat beside her bed, and I pulled it closer. Aynslee moved to the far side of the bed and sat on the floor. I concentrated on my senses; focusing on every movement, comment, pause in speech, subtle sound. “Mattie, I’d like to draw a picture of the bad man. That’s what I do, I draw faces.”
Mattie’s head moved just a fraction.
I unpacked my facial identification book and pad of paper. Speaking slowly and quietly, I said, “I have no idea how terrible it was for you, but maybe we can do this drawing and make sure he doesn’t do this again to anyone else.”
Mattie didn’t move.
“You might think this will be like on TV. That I’ll ask you a lot of questions, wave my pencil over a piece of paper, and, poof, I produce the spitting image of the suspect. Well, t
his isn’t television, and I’m not a movie star.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
“I don’t know how long I can stay, so we’ll work fast. When we’re done, it won’t be a portrait, only a drawing of your memory. It might eliminate some people and hopefully lead to an identification. An innocent person won’t be arrested because of this sketch.” I finished reciting the litany of disclaimers. It always reminded me of the flight attendants spiel just before takeoff. Keep your seat belt low and tight across your lap.
“Could I have a drink of water?” Mattie turned her face toward the window.
“Sure.” I poured a glass and then found the control to raise the bed. I held the straw so Mattie could drink.
Mattie sipped, then cleared her throat. “Thanks.”
I put down the glass and sat on the chair. “Just so I have an idea of what happened, think back to the day and tell me about it. Don’t leave anything out, even if you think it’s unimportant.”
Mattie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why every detail?”
“You might have seen something that you think is unimportant but is very critical. You may have information stored on what we call a memory peg. For example, let’s say you saw a small dog just before the incident. You watched the dog cross the parking lot and wondered if it was a stray. It passed in front of a car with an unusual bumper sticker.”
“I didn’t see a dog.”
“Uh, right, I mean, there may be clues, such as the bumper sticker, connected to unimportant details, like the stray dog, and if the details aren’t mentioned, the connecting clues might be lost.”
The Bones Will Speak Page 17
