Reluctant Runaway

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Fists squeezed Tony’s lungs. “Erickson! Minnesota!”

  Silence answered.

  Seven

  Eyes on the downed trucker, Tony raced around the front of the SUV Polanski quick-stepped into view from the far end of the semi, gun pointed at the subject on the ground. Tony knelt beside Erickson, sprawled by the driver door. So much blood. He laid two fingers on the pulse point at the throat.

  “This one’s finished,” Polanski said. “How’s Erickson?”

  The Minnesotan’s chest was a mess; his face peaceful as a child’s. The spirit was gone—not in the building. Why, God? Tony looked at Polanski and shook his head.

  She said something sharp in Polish. “How could this happen?” She shoved her pistol into its holster like she was punching someone. “We knew we’d get a reaction from Winston. But taking on three FBI agents in an open gun battle? Off the charts insane! Was he on something?”

  Numb calm blanked Tony’s insides. “Testing for drivers is strict. One offense and they lose their license. Besides this guy’s record—or lack of one—showed no indicators for drug use.” He looked down at the body of the man he’d grown to like and respect. An ache radiated from his marrow. His shoes crunched on glass from the shattered driver’s side window as he stepped around Erickson. He opened the blood-spattered door and got on the radio.

  Within twenty minutes, the crime scene was cordoned off and Evidence Recovery Technicians trolled the area. A pair of ambulances sat nearby, lights lazily turning. EMTs lounged on the bumpers while the coroner finished with the bodies. No rush on this call-out.

  At least nobody indulged the usual morbid humor that helped them cope with an overload of gruesome. The death of an agent rated reverent concentration.

  Tony swallowed the bile in his throat and continued his phone conversation with the Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Bernard Cooke. “Winston’s truck is now fair game for a search, but it’d be better if we could get a warrant for the whole property”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Cooke’s voice held a trace of gravel. Everyone came a little unglued when one of their own went down. “Break that truck down to the bare chassis if you have to.” The ASAC cleared his throat. “With an agent-involved shooting, there’ll be an internal investigation. Henderson from the OPR is on the way.”

  Great. The Office of Professional Responsibility. Tony bit out a laugh. “Correction. He’s getting put of his car. I’ll follow up with you later.” He broke the connection.

  Half-Pint Henderson walked up to Tony, his stare dark and flat. “I have to take your gun.”

  “I expected that.” He handed it over.

  “Polanski fire hers?”

  “Nope.”

  Henderson nodded. “I’ll verify with her and check her gun.”

  “You do that. Better not take my word for it.” Did that flare-up come out of his mouth?

  The short man’s eyes slitted. “I’m just doing my job, Lucano. And you, more than anybody else, need me to do it right.”

  Tony shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “I know.” He squeezed a coin until it hurt his palm. “But I need to rip something up, and you’re handy.”

  “I hear you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Nothing right now” The OPR agent’s gaze wandered the scene. “I’ll wait for the initial reports from the coroner and the ERTs. Then we’ll sit down at the office in a recorded session and go over the details from your perspective.”

  “All right. Then I’m free to go about my business?”

  Henderson nodded. “For the moment.”

  Tony took his hands from his pockets. “I’m going to tear a truck apart.”

  “Find something while you’re at it.” The OPR agent walked away.

  A gurney carrying a white-sheeted body rattled past.

  Less than an hour ago, Minnesota was breathing the same air he was. Where was the big Norske now? Why had they never talked about anything that mattered forever?

  Tony stared at the pavement. Absorbed in his work. Distracted by his personal life. A slow burn spread across his skin. He stood naked before God, and a few fig leaves of excuses couldn’t begin to cover him.

  The rich browns and ochers of desert landscape swept past as Desi drove Interstate 25 toward Santa Fe. With her cell phone set on speaker and fitted into the dash holder of the rental car, she took care of business with the HJ Securities office in France. Keeping her eyes on the road and her hands on the wheel was no problem, but keeping her mind on the conversation with Paris? Forget it!

  Business lasted until she neared La Cienega, too close to Santa Fe for a call to Tony. Sorry. Later, hon.

  Inside the city limits, she stopped at a gas station to exercise her feminine right to ask directions. Fifteen minutes later, Desi parked across the street from a clapboard building sandwiched between a liquor store and a bakery. A painted sign over the door said Inner Witness Ministries. Then in smaller letters beneath, Washed in the Blood. Desi winced. Scriptural, but a little off-putting for anyone who didn’t speak Christianese.

  She watched pedestrians and vehicle traffic. Traffic was fair at the bakery and good to brisk at the liquor store, but no one went in or out of the ministry entrance. Gray drapes covered the display window. She’d have to go in to see if anyone was there.

  Desi crossed the street between spurts of traffic. Bakery smells brought a tummy rumble. Past lunchtime and she hadn’t eaten anything since Jo’s Tex-Mex omelet. Desi warned her stomach to cease and desist and opened the door to the ministry headquarters. Canned worship music and the cloying scent of potpourri greeted her. After the bright sunshine outside, the florescent lights pulled her into a dim, secretive world.

  In front of her sat a hardwood desk with a flat PC screen, but no receptionist. Behind the desk, a pair of portable partitions blocked the view of the rest of the office. A narrow opening between them led into an unlit rear area—black and forbidding as a cave. Dank cold flowed toward her, and Desi shivered. Silly impression. She shook her head and turned away.

  To her left, three stuffed chairs were arranged around an oval coffee table with ministry magazines scattered across the top. Five pictures hung over the sitting area, the center one a huge version of the painting of Jesus she’d seen on the magazine at Jo’s house. His arms stretched toward her. Was he saying “Come to Me” or “Get Me out of here”?

  “Anybody home?” No answer.

  The glow of the PC screen beckoned, and Desi walked behind the desk. The screen saver was on. She jiggled the mouse, and a spreadsheet of revenue figures appeared. The details were lost on her, but the bottom line trumpeted that this ministry could afford a better facility than this stark storefront or the cheap warehouse-type building at the other location. What were they doing with their money? Donating it to the poor?

  Yeah, right.

  She left the computer and stepped toward the pictures. The top one to the left of the portrait of Jesus was a photograph of a short, slender man standing behind a podium, Bible open in one hand, the other arm raised with the pointer finger stabbed heavenward. The Reverend Archer Romlin. Hair as thick and gray as wool, eyes pale and compelling. One could almost see lightning shoot from their silver depths. The next photograph showed Romlin in a TV studio in front of cameras, the same dynamic energy radiating from his face and posture.

  Desi moved to the photographs on the other side of the portrait. One was of Romlin praying with a large group gathered at the front of an auditorium, and the other …

  Goose bumps chased up her arms. Hamilton Gordon. The massive man filled the right half of the picture. He posed sideways, dressed like an executive on the golf course—but he stood in the desert without a green in sight. His bulbous face was turned toward the camera, but his hand clasped the man’s on the other side of the photo, Reverend Romlin.

  Desi laughed out loud. Talk about David shaking hands with Goliath. And what were the two of them doing out in the middle of now
here?

  She peered closer. There! Behind the men—turned earth and a pair of shovels. They were breaking ground. For what? A new ministry facility? That would explain where the donations were going, but it didn’t give her a clue why they were building so far from civilization. The only structure in sight was a crumbling cliff dwelling in the far background. You don’t find those near any well-traveled road.

  “Oh, you’re here already. Ham said not to expect you until after one o’clock.”

  At the sound of the breathy voice, Desi turned to see a young woman coming in the door. Her fresh face and bouncy ponytail didn’t put her too far out of her teen years. The snug clothes over a generous figure emphasized her youth rather than adding maturity.

  The woman looked back at the entrance. “How did you get in? Wasn’t it locked?”

  Expecting someone from Ham Gordon’s office? Maybe she should explain … in a minute. “No, sorry. I walked right in.”

  The woman’s cheeks reddened. “I stepped out for lunch. Can’t have been gone ten minutes. I was sure I locked up after myself.”

  “No harm done.” Ten minutes? Not hardly She’d watched the door for longer than that. “I amused myself, looking at the photos.”

  “Terrific, aren’t they?” Ponytail gave a tight smile and hurried to her desk, where she deposited her purse.

  Prada? Someone gets paid well for long lunches and unlocked doors.

  “Those pictures show how far Reverend Romlin has come in the past three years.” The woman’s eyes lit like she was a fan swooning over a pop star. “Prime-time television. Speaking engagements nationwide. Got to get the word out! And now Sanctuary. Those of us in the Inner Circle are so excited we could just about bust.”

  Sanctuary? The thing they’re building? “Tell me more about Sanctuary.”

  The woman smiled like she’d been offered a special treat. “Come on back, and I’ll show you the model for the Holy City” She pointed toward the blackened rear area.

  Holy City? Yikes!

  “It’s even got the prayer kiva at the center. One of Ham’s best ideas—incorporate native culture into the total worship experience. He saw the model last time he dropped in, but I’ll bet he’d like his administrative assistant to have a gander, too.” She flicked a light switch on the wall, and the area behind the partitions lit up.

  Should she or shouldn’t she? Little Girl Friday seemed to think Desi was the administrative assistant who worked for Hamilton Gordon—an unknown quantity who could walk through the door at any moment. Besides, it didn’t feel right to keep letting this airhead believe the wrong thing. Oh, well. Desi’s conscience might have misgivings, but the rest of her was following the young woman into the back room.

  They stepped into a long room dominated by print shop equipment. Rather run-down machines for a ministry with money.

  “Never mind that stuff.” Her hostess waved a hand. “We’re donating it to the local Salvation Army. Over at the new warehouse, they’re busy as bees with the new equipment. Books, CDs, the magazine. Orders are pouring in. Got to get the word out!” She laughed. “But I said that already. Listen to me go on. This is what you need to see.” She led the way to a square table and pulled back a maroon velvet cloth, beaming at the revealed miniature structure like she was looking into heaven itself.

  The model consisted of three concentric oval walls made of adobe, each two stories high. The insides of the walls were lined with apartments like rings of condos. A low, hump-roofed building filled the central courtyard. This structure had no door, but a ladder led up to a large hatch in the middle of the hump. The prayer kiva? Much of it must be underground or no one could stand up inside.

  “Impressive.” Desi closed her mouth on the hordes of questions that fought to escape. She was supposed to be someone in the know.

  Ponytail let out a moony sigh. “And to think I get to be one of the first to move in.”

  Move into a religious commune in the middle of the desert? Worser and worser. Maybe a teensy question wouldn’t hurt. “You’re a member of the Inner Circle? Does that mean you get to live in one of these?” She pointed to the central wall of apartments.

  “Oh, no, no, no.” The hair whipped back and forth. “That’s for people like the Reverend and Ham, the ones adept at hearing the Witness. I’ll be happy to share a room with other novices on the outer wall.” She stepped closer to Desi. “I’ve attended the Reverend’s meetings since he started out in ministry, but I was surprised when he invited me to apply for initiation into the Inner Circle. Few of his followers are even allowed to know there is one.” She giggled. “But he says I have a pure heart, the kind that can have a direct pipeline to God if trained properly.” The ponytail bobbed up and down.

  No doubt the good Reverend intended to train her himself. “When’s the grand opening?”

  Her hostess let out an adolescent squeal. “Only six months!” She sobered. “But you’d know better than I do how well construction is coming. Ham told me you keep a finger on the pulse of everything to do with his business. That’s why he wanted me to give you hard copies of those financials for your files.”

  Fess-up time. Desi opened her mouth.

  The woman clapped a hand to her cheek. “I knew I forgot to do something before I went to lunch. I pulled them up but didn’t print them out. Just give me a sec.”

  Desi followed her into the front room. “I’m not here for the ministry’s financial records.”

  Her hostess paused with her hand on the mouse. “You’re not? But Ham said—”

  “I’m not who you think I am. I don’t work for Hamilton Gordon. I’m here to see what I can find out about a missing woman.”

  “Missing woman? I don’t understand. Ham is missing someone?”

  “No, I said I don’t work for—”

  The door thrust open, and a beanpole of a man strutted in. Thick glasses magnified cold brown eyes. His head swiveled from Desi to her companion and back again. “Which of you is Hope? I’m Chris Mayburn, here on behalf of Hamilton Gordon.”

  Mouth ajar, Ponytail lifted an arm and waggled her fingers.

  Desi laid a hand on the young woman’s arm. “I’m a drop-in interested in the ministry.” She smiled at the newcomer. He frowned back.

  The man turned his attention to Hope. “The papers? And a disk, if you don’t mind.”

  “You’re Chris.” The young woman squeaked a laugh. “When Ham called I thought the Chris he mentioned was a woman.”

  Mayburn’s frown bowed to meet his lifted chin. “As you can see, you were mistaken.” He rested a frigid gaze on Desi. “I trust no other mistakes have been made.”

  Desi smiled. “Hope’s been the perfect promoter for Reverend Romlin’s ministry.”

  The woman coughed. Desi didn’t look at her. A laser printer whirred.

  “Indeed.” Mayburn tilted his head. “Where have I seen you before? You look familiar.”

  “I don’t care to guess.” All that positive publicity for HJ Securities a few months ago had its downside, and she was looking at it in this man’s flat stare.

  “Ah, the Jacobs woman.” His tone implied that she might carry something contagious. “What brings you to Inner Witness Ministries?”

  “The sister of a friend speaks well of the Reverend Romlin. I was in the area … ” She shrugged. “But how did you find this office?”

  She widened her eyes a la Hope. “Isn’t this where inquirers are supposed to come?”

  “The public office is two miles from here. Reverend Romlin uses this one to confer in private with … ah … substantial investors.”

  Yeah, the ones who like to build secret cities.

  “Are you interested in making such an investment?” The glasses glinted as Mayburn’s lips stretched into a smile the width and warmth of an elastic band.

  “I’m interested in everything about this ministry. Your boss and I met at that White House bash. He was the first one to tell me about Reverend Romlin.”

&nb
sp; “See?” Hope chuckled. “Everything’s cool.” She stood up and held out a manila envelope. “The hard copy and a CD just like you asked.”

  Mayburn took the packet. “Well, then, I’ll get back to the office.” He nodded to Desi. “Why don’t you drop by Gordon Corp while you’re in town? No doubt Mr. Gordon would love to renew your acquaintance.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t have time today. I have a business appointment in Albuquerque.”

  “Another day perhaps. And you’re staying where?”

  “If Mr. Gordon wishes to meet with me, he’ll find me.”

  “He will? But I—” Mayburn clamped his jaw shut and went as red as the tomatoes in Desi’s morning omelet.

  She smiled. “Ham knows all, sees all. At least, a great deal more than he ought.”

  “It’s the Inner Witness.” Hope’s whisper was worthy of a séance.

  More like illicit access to people’s private information. How did Gordon know to find her at the DC airport yesterday? Was he tracking her moves now? He was sure to find out about her visit to this office. Did she care? What was his interest in her? Icy fingers stroked her insides. Tony was right. These people were trouble with a capital T.

  Mayburn tucked the envelope in the crook of his arm. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Jacobs.” His arctic gaze contradicted his words.

  “Are you a believer, Mr. Mayburn?” Little Miss Ponytail stared at him with gentle eyes.

  The administrative assistant stiffened. “I work for Mr. Gordon.”

  “One more thing.” Desi lifted a hand.

  “Ye-e-es?”

  “Your boss wanted to discuss a matter of mutual interest with me, but he never got around to it. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

  “It wouldn’t be my place to say … even if I did.” The man flung the door open and left.

  “Poor thing.” Hope sighed. “No faith to anchor his soul.”

  Desi studied the young woman’s earnest face. “Faith is a wonderful thing when it’s invested in the right Person. I’m a believer in Jesus Christ as the Way, the Truth, and the Life.”