The Apostle (Carson Ryder, Book 12)

by J. A. Kerley

  But with the miracle of 1025-M nearing completion, it was time for Amos Schrum to have his own “miracle”: A healing. The next few days would bring cautious advisories from the COG PR staff – engineered by Johnson, no one from the staff allowed near the holy man – saying Schrum seemed to have been touched by God, his physical condition improved. The faithful wouldn’t need any medical information, God’s will that a great leader continue living, but there had to be a plausible explanation for the medical types who’d be yammering on news outlets.

  Uttleman would be asked to comment, and was speaking possibilities into a pocket recorder, trying to be as authoritative as Hayes Johnson.

  “Initially thought to be a cardiac event, but tests revealed a severe reaction to a medication Reverend Schrum had been taking …”

  Nice, Uttleman thought, listening to the playback. But it couldn’t be purely medical, there had to be a sense of divine intervention. He expanded on the theme.

  “An initial cardiac event followed by intense and recurrent bouts of arrhythmia with cardiac stress and enlargement suggested the worst scenario. I discovered the possibility of a toxic interaction between two of the many medications being administered to my oldest and dearest friend, and arrhythmia ceased. But I’m not sure even that discovery … no, that revelation, can explain the Reverend’s rapid recovery, nothing short of …”

  Miraculous.

  Perfect, Uttleman thought. Medical and mystical. There’d be the usual cynics and scoffers, but screw them … they didn’t fill the coffers.

  Uttleman startled to the sound of breaking glass from upstairs. He bolted to the elevator, pressing wildly at the button as outsized footsteps thundered across the floor toward the front. He’s going to the window! Uttleman sprinted the stairs to Schrum’s room, seeing a weaving, lurching Schrum pulling at the balcony door. The twenty-four-hour vigil was below on the streets, two hundred or more, many camped there.

  “Amos!” Uttleman yelled, crunching over a piece of broken glass, a shattered quart of vodka on the floor. “What are you doing?”

  Schrum seemed perplexed by the doorknob, his white hair fallen forward on his head, the eyes glazed and darting. “I have to tell the truth, Roland. I … have to regain my soul.”

  Uttleman advanced slowly, hands up. “You can’t do this, Amos. It might destroy you.”

  Schrum nodded toward the crowd. “Look at them, Roland. They believe in me.”

  “Because you’ve been a force for good, Amos. All your life.”

  Schrum’s knees buckled, but he wrenched himself upright. “You of all people know that’s a lie,” he said.

  “You’re drunk, Amos. Think of what you’re doing.”

  “I have to unburden, Roland. I have to witness before God.”

  Uttleman was frozen into immobility as Schrum turned the knob, the door swinging open. He began to stagger outside.

  “Don’t do that, Reverend,” said a quiet voice behind Uttleman. “Stay inside.”

  The doctor turned to see Andy Delmont framed in the door, wearing blue pajamas with indigo piping, his feet bare and pale. The singer stepped into the room, his eyes steady on the wavering Schrum.

  “Don’t step out there, Reverend,” Delmont said. “It’s the Devil moving your feet.”

  Schrum paused, rubbing his eyes as though trying to bring them into focus. “Andy … my heart says I should—”

  “Your heart’s in a dark cloud, Reverend, like we’ve talked about before. Come away from the door, sir. It’ll pass.”

  “Andy, I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s demons, Reverend. They’ll leave you soon enough. They always do.”

  “You know me, Andy,” Schrum nodded. “You’re my best counsel when I’m … like this.”

  Schrum pushed the door closed and lurched back across the floor. When his feet tangled and Schrum pitched forward, Delmont was there to catch him, half guiding, half dragging the drunken Schrum to his bed.

  “There you go, Reverend,” Delmont said. “You get yourself some sleep.”

  Schrum muttered something incomprehensible and rolled his head to the pillow, passing out. Delmont gently pulled the covers over Schrum, tucking them around the man’s shoulders.

  “You’ve done this before, Andy,” Uttleman realized.

  “The Devil wants Reverend Schrum to confess his sins to the world so his enemies can tear him down. We’re all sinners, Doctor, ain’t none of us perfect ’cept for God and Jesus. Reverend Schrum hisself told me that.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Sleeping in the back bedroom. Reverend Schrum likes me close in case he needs singing and comfort and other stuff.”

  Uttleman said thanks and good night and crossed the yards to his car as his adrenalin subsided and he replayed the incident in his mind. The kid sure seemed to know which words pulled Schrum back from the brink.

  “Reverend Schrum likes me close in case he needs singing and comfort and other stuff …”

  Stuff meaning protection? Uttleman wondered. Like keeping Schrum from making a fool of himself when drunk?

  Had the wily Rev figured that one out as well?

  Frisco Dredd sat low in the seat in the parking lot, watching shapes on the bright-lit street a half-block distant, pedestrians, traffic, bustle. But the small lot was tucked between two towering buildings, like in a shadowed valley.

  Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow …

  Three times Dredd had to duck low, people crossing the lot to enter cars after their meal or picture show.

  “Was it this dark when we left the car, Paul?”

  “Looks like a light burned out.”

  Dredd sipped from his bottle of water. He’d been in the van for hours, almost two in the morning. Waiting was easy because he could sing songs in his head and make the time disappear.

  I heard an old, old story, How a Savior came from glory,

  How He gave His life on Calvary, To save a wretch like me;

  I heard about His groaning, Of His precious blood’s atoning,

  Then I repented of my sins … And won the victory.

  Then, backlit in the lights of the main street, a woman’s shape, moving swiftly, long legs scissoring toward the lot. Sparks … the whore, leaving some man drained half-dead on a bed and reeking of sin and perfume. She moved closer and Dredd made out the motion of her hips and the backlit silhouettes of her long legs, hair swinging as she walked.

  Come on, harlot, come on …

  She’d have to pass behind the van to get to her little white car and Dredd was coiled to spring out and slap his hand over the Jezebel’s wet mouth, feel her hot scream beneath his palm, the tender lips opening and closing as her spit soaked his fingers, her mouth like a … He moaned as his animal strained against the wire but the blessed pain kept his mind on his holy task. Dredd put his hand on the door handle and started to push down …

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  A voice from nowhere, like the soft voice of a child. Dredd ducked low and eased his eyes above the dashboard, seeing someone walking to his quarry.

  “Jesus, kid,” the Sparks-whore said. “You scared the fuck outta me.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to. I, uh … do you have a little money? Some spare change?”

  “Lemme look. You new to town?”

  “I, uh … just got to Miami this morning. I hitchhiked.”

  Dredd could have grabbed the whore and tossed her in the van, hit her until she was still, but the other one would be screaming her lungs out. The main street was a half-block away, people walking, cops patrolling. Too dangerous.

  “Hitchhiked from where?”

  “A town in Arkansas – you’d never know the name, nobody does. I got a ride most of the way. But the guy who picked me up, uh …”

  “Wanted payment,” the jezebel said. “And it wasn’t money.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I jumped out and ran and got another ride here. I’m sorry to have to b
eg but … I ain’t had nothing to eat since I left.”

  “Here’s fifty bucks.”

  “WOW, thanks. I really mean it.”

  “No prob. So what are you gonna do in Miami? You got somewhere to live?”

  A pause. “I never thought about anything more than getting away.”

  “So you got nowhere to sleep tonight?”

  “There’s bridges.”

  “You like being raped?”

  “NO!”

  “Then don’t sleep under bridges. You got a job?”

  “I, uh, not yet.”

  “What can you do … you got a diploma?”

  “I figured maybe I’d get a job first and then get a GED down here.”

  “You got it in reverse, girl. GED gets the job. Hey … you like fucking for money? Sucking the dicks of wrinkly old guys?”

  “WHAT! Eeww … no.”

  “That’s about the only job left open. Listen, there’s a place you should go see. Butterfly Haven. It’s where you can be safe.”

  “That’s a goofy name.”

  “It’s because crawly worms change into butterflies, something like that. And so what if it’s stupid if it keeps you safe, right?”

  “I don’t know if I …”

  “Go to Butterfly Haven, tell them where you came from, why you left. The guy that runs it is a priest or one of them things. But he won’t give you a bunch of bullshit. And you’ll have a roof over your head while you figure out some solid moves.”

  A pause. The girl said. “Ma’am … can I ask how you know so many things? Did you, I mean, were you ever …”

  “I’m a … an airplane pilot,” the whore told the girl for some reason. “I fly across the ocean and all around the world. Airplane pilots know a lot of things because we see so much stuff. Good stuff and bad stuff, we see it all.”

  “A lady airplane pilot,” the girl said, like she was low on breath. “That’s so cool.”

  “Get in the car and we’ll go get something to eat, then I’ll drive you over to the Haven. Hurry … this place gives me the fucking creeps.”

  42

  The next morning took me straight to the DA’s office, a final meeting on the upcoming Shockel indictment. Waylon Jay Shockel was a serial rapist who drove a pilot car for overloaded semis. When overnighting at truck stops, Shockel went on the prowl. The legal proceedings had to be tight and by the book with no chance for a successful appeal. I’d spent two months tracking the rapist and if all went right, he’d spend the rest of his life prowling the confines of a cell.

  I was sitting with prosecutor Miles Billingsly when my phone rang, Belafonte. “My partner,” I said. “Got to take this.”

  I went to the hall. “When are you coming in?” she said. “I found something interesting.”

  “I’ll be another hour with the attorneys. You find something major?”

  A pause. “I guess not, not really. You’re gonna find it out anyway when Hayes Johnson calls. I just wanted to be the first to tell you, that’s all.”

  “Who’s Johnson?” My mind was on Schockel.

  “The CEO at Hallelujah Jubilee. I’ll only confirm what he tells you.”

  “And that is …” I looked up, saw DA Miles Billingsly looking my way and tapping his watch. “Gotta go,” I said. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

  Seventy minutes later I was back at HQ and heading to my corner office until Bobby Erickson called my name. Bobby was a retired Florida State Police Sergeant who worked the phones. He unfailingly wore his beloved dress blues, but had foot problems, so Roy let Bobby wear slippers, big suede pillows with fleece puffing around his ankles. Erickson was short and rotund and seemed perpetually concerned, lips pursed, eyes frowning over half-glasses.

  “S’up, Bobby?”

  He blinked at a pink call slip. “You had a call from a guy named Johnson. Wants you to call him back.” Bobby frowned at the note. “Haze Johnson? Who names a kid Haze?”

  “H-A-Y-E-S, Bobby. But yes, the homophonic confusion does tend to confirm your point.”

  He retreated on the fluffy pillows, shaking his head. “Confused homos? Some day I’ll understand what you’re saying, Carson. This ain’t the day.”

  “Belafonte around?” I called to his back.

  He pointed through the floor. “She went to the atrium to grab a yogurt.”

  I hung my jacket on the peg behind the door and sat. The call slip had Johnson’s number and I tapped it out.

  “Hello,” a deep and confident voice said. “This is Hayes.”

  The CEO of an influential broadcasting network and attendant enterprises had given me his private number? No long-distance management here. The guy was hands-on.

  “This is Detective Carson Ryder, Mr Johnson. Sorry I wasn’t here to take your call – a meeting.”

  “No problem whatsoever, sir. I’m happy to be of service in any small way possible.”

  “I take it you spoke to your people about the women in question, Teresa Mailey and Kylie Sandoval?”

  “I had them check records going back ten years. I assure you, Detective, neither woman has been in the employ of Hallelujah Jubilee.”

  “What I need to know. Thanks for your prompt response, Mr Johnson. I wish more folks were as attentive as you.”

  Confirmed: I hadn’t figured on any connection, and now knew for sure.

  Also confirmed: Outside of the religious aspect we were back to zero.

  Belafonte was back in ten minutes, spooning yogurt. “I just heard from Johnson,” I said. “Neither Teresa nor Kylie ever worked at Hallelujah Jubilee.”

  The spoon froze in mid bite. “What?”

  “No connection to the park. Neither victim.”

  She stared, as if my words were in Swahili. “I don’t quite … this is what he told you, the CEO of the network?”

  “Si, Señorita Belafonte. I wish we’d found a connection, anything. But I like this Johnson guy, he got right on—”

  “Meeting room,” Belafonte said, tossing the yogurt cup into the trash. “I think now would be appropriate.”

  I was up and on her heels. She pushed aside the sprawl of files to accommodate her laptop. “You ever get so you can’t sleep?” she said rapidly, like she couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “The damnable pictures racing through your head, and they go faster at night? That was me last night and I needed to do something, but I’ve been through the cases a thousandtimeseachand—”

  “Calm down, Belafonte. Talk slower.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out, continued at normal speed. “I started thinking about what Johnson said yesterday, about the employees in biblical roles. How they get their pictures taken constantly?”

  “Yes?”

  “There are photo-sharing sites all over the internet: Shutterfly, Reddit, Flickr, Picasa, Photobucket … tens of thousands of birthdays, vacations, weddings, bar mitzvahs, reunions … I entered the search words ‘Hallelujah Jubilee’. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of photographs. Johnson was correct about one aspect: people love being photographed beside actors in biblical garb.”

  Belafonte ticked keys to call up a file and angled the laptop my way.

  “Do you know who this is, Detective?”

  I saw a half-dozen tourists beaming for the camera as they flanked a young woman in a rough gray robe, a cowl over her head, hands clasping a baby lamb. I knew the face, though I had seen it in death.

  “Teresa Mailey,” I said, staring dumbfounded as Belafonte scrolled through a half-dozen saved shots. Teresa Mailey in varying costumes, with different people.

  “Kylie?” I said. “Was she also …?”

  Belafonte showed me five photos of Kylie Sandoval, ending with the girl in a brown coarse robe, a thick scarf over the amber tresses. She was posed before a bus, its side saying Possum Valley Baptist Church of Murfreesboro, Tennessee. A dozen hefty ladies flanked Kylie, all beaming like they’d just won the Betty Crocker Cookie Open. Kylie Sandoval was smiling as well, h
er mouth at least. The eyes looked sad.

  “Remember the coarse cloth I found hidden in Kylie’s closet?” Belafonte said. “Look at the scarf she’s wearing.”

  It was brown and rough-loomed and the same fabric Belafonte had shown me a few days ago. I heard Hayes Johnson’s voice in my head, deep and sincere and as smooth as warm butter …

  “I assure you, Detective, neither woman has been in the employ of Hallelujah Jubilee.”

  43

  A sudden sizzle of energy had me pacing the room.

  “Johnson had me hook, line and sinker,” I said, rounding the table a fourth time. “But he called, not a park employee. That was the only thing nagging me: People of Johnson’s stature don’t make calls about low-level employees.”

  “Unless they want to make sure the denial carries weight.”

  I nodded. “Damn, Johnson was good. I wanted to reach through the phone and shake his hand.”

  “Should we confront him with the photos?”

  I circled three more times, tumbling the situation through my head. “It’ll tip him off. For now we sit tight and think. You handed us a huge lever, Holly. Now we have to figure out how to use it.”

  “Holly?”

  “You prefer Belafonte?” I said, looking into the brown eyes that had spent hours scanning through photos in the dead of night. She’d listened to what Johnson had said, honed in on one sentence, turned it into gold. “I don’t care what you want to be called, I’m calling you a professional. Incredible work.”

  She reddened and looked toward her lap. “Thank you. And Holly will be quite fine.”

  I felt buoyed, suddenly alert, renewed. I didn’t know what we were looking at, but we saw something.

  “Let’s put a microscope on Hallelujah Jubilee,” I said. “Can you do that quickly and quietly?”

  “I’m on it. What will you be doing?”

  I turned to the window and gazed high into a blue sky brightened by sudden promise. Ever since Ava had proposed stoning and the method of death, I’d been considering going to a well I’d used sparingly but effectively.