by Jim Laughter
“Then get your ass out’ta here and go check us out of this damn hotel, son,” Morris said. “We got places to go, people to see, criminals to catch.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Preach drove all night to reach Portland by noon on Thursday. He’d feared the police may have been looking for him after leaving Matthew Barnes’ car parked at the rest stop in Ogden, but he’d seen no sign that they were aware of who he was.
“Forgive me Lord for doubting your plan,” he prayed.
But something stirred inside him that said his time was running short. He could feel the urgency of the hour and hoped he’d have time to fulfill his mission, and that he’d have the courage to follow the leading of God.
Preached parked the motorhome on the gravel parking lot outside of a humble wood-frame church on a small acreage on the east outskirts of Portland, Oregon. The yard was neat and well maintained, and the building was in good repair. A sign on a post near the road said New Faith Free Holiness Mission Church—Pastor Thaddaeus Griffin, along with a list of service days and times. The plan of God.
The front door on a single-wide mobile home set on concrete blocks beside the church opened and a young man stepped onto a makeshift wooden porch. Preach recognized him as the home missionary he’d met three weeks ago in North Carolina.
“Brother Preston,” the man called when he saw Preach step down from the motorhome.
“Brother Griffin. I hope I’m not too early.”
“No sir, not at all,” Griffin said. “We don’t start services until tomorrow night, but I expect you’ll want a day to rest and prepare.”
Preach nodded and shook Thaddaeus Griffin’s hand. The man seemed genuinely happy to see him.
Preach thought about the short bow and quiver of arrows stored in the cargo hold of the RV. According to church tradition, the Apostle Thaddaeus met his death in the country that is now the modern Iran after a missionary journey to Armenia, Syria, and Persia. He’d been shot to death with arrows by the Magi of Persia when he refused to deny his faith in Christ. This young pastor had no idea the fate that awaited him or how he fit into the plan of God. Surely this was God’s will for Thaddaeus Griffin.
“I’m sorry we don’t have RV hookups,” Griffin said. “We don’t get many evangelists through here.”
“Doesn’t matter. This old bus is self-contained. I can survive for a few days on my internal water and sewer, but I would appreciate access to an extension cord for electricity to help save my batteries.”
Griffin told Preach to pull the RV around behind the church to a corner of the parking lot that would afford him the most privacy. He helped Preach disconnect the Focus from the tow bar so he could more easily maneuver the large vehicle around the small lot.
“Nice little church you’ve got here,” Preach said after he’d secured the RV and hooked up the extension cord.
“The Lord’s been good to us,” Pastor Griffin replied. “We came here four years ago from a large church in Seattle and started from scratch. Now we have nearly fifty adults plus children, a thriving Sunday School and bus ministry, and I’ve already baptized six people this month. Lord willing, we’ll need to build soon. We’ve just about outgrown this little building.”
Preach examined the small house of worship. It reminded him of the first church he’d built over forty years ago with his young bride. What would she think of the mission on which he’d embarked? Would she see the vision as clear as he saw it? Would she hear the voice of God, or would she question his mission the way Simon had that day at the diner?
Did the Lord call her home at a time when we were the most happy just so he could send me on this mission of apostolic importance?
“Are you hungry, Brother Preston?” Griffin asked. “My wife and I were just about to sit down to lunch.”
“No, I…”
“Please join us,” a voice said from behind the two men. Preach turned around where he saw a young woman walking toward them. She wore an ankle-length color print dress with long sleeves. Her hair was arranged in a simple twist on top of her head. She wasn’t wearing any makeup or lavish jewelry or even ear rings, and she appeared to be several months pregnant.
The picture of holiness.
The woman reminded Preach of his own wife when she was expectant with their children. She stopped beside her husband and took his hand.
That could be us.
Preach looked at Pastor Griffin. “I didn’t know you were expecting a child.”
“Our first,” Pastor Griffin answered. “This is my wife, Sarah.”
Sarah—the same as my beloved.
“Children are such a blessing.”
“Do you have any children, sir?” Sarah Griffin asked.
“Three boys and two grandchildren—Abigail and Robbie.”
Pastor Griffin motioned Preach and Sarah toward the mobile home but Preach laid a hand on the young pastor’s arm.
“If you don’t mind, pastor, I’m pretty tired from driving all night. Would you be terribly offended if I decline your kindness and try to get some rest?”
Thaddaeus and Sarah Griffin put their arms around each other. He wasn’t able to reach all the way around her middle, which made Preach long for the simpler days of his life.
What were these conflicting spirits he felt stirring inside? He felt a pang of longing well inside him as he turned away from the young couple and returned to his motorhome. He locked the door and fell to his knees beside his bed to seek the face of God.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The FBI executive jet set down at Odgen-Hinkley, Utah’s busiest municipal airport. A scattering of DC-9 and MD-80 cargo-class aircraft, as well as a number of B737/727 jets were parked in the holding areas near massive hangers. No commercial passenger aircraft were present although Ogden-Hinkley serves as a weather alternative for Salt Lake International Airport. Corporate, general aviation and charter flights terminate only twenty-miles from the Sun Basin, Powder Mountain, and Wolf Mountain resorts making it a perfect place for the idle rich to park their private planes while they ski the slopes.
But Morris, Keller, Benjamin, and Cooper weren’t there for the snow. They were on the trail of a serial killer who had killed at least six people, maybe seven, and critically injured one. Now Matthew Barnes was missing, which could drive his tally of victims to nine.
The FBI jet stopped on the tarmac just outside of the main terminal where a black Chevy Suburban with darkened windows awaited their arrival. Two agents, a man and a woman, stepped out of the SUV and stood at the front of the vehicle. It wasn’t every day the DC bureau sent the director’s jet to Ogden with agents chasing a serial killer.
Morris and Keller approached the SUV while Cooper and Benjamin waited by the cargo hatch for their luggage and equipment. Cooper carried his gym bag over his shoulder, the only piece of luggage he’d brought with him.
“You two here to pick us up?” Morris called to the Ogden agents.
The man nodded and adjusted his sunglasses, watching Morris and Keller walk toward them. “You Morris?”
“Who else would I be? Santa Claus?”
Agent Donald Steed had heard about the brash and often arrogant Morris. He’d already decided that he wasn’t going to take any crap from the special agent, regardless whose airplane he was riding in.
“This is going to be fun,” Sneed said to his partner.
She nodded.
Morris and Keller stopped in front of the two agents and introduced themselves to Donald Steed and Jean Fontenot. Morris sized up his counterpart and sensed the man probably didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
I should be able to yank his chain a little.
“It’s good to have another female agent to talk to,” Keller said to Fontenot.
“Yes ma’am,” she answered.
“Just call me Lynn, okay? And I’ll call you Jean.” Fontenot decide she was going to like Keller regardless of what Steed thought about Morris.
It took Coop
er and Benjamin only a few minutes to load their gear and luggage into the back of the Suburban.
Much to the annoyance of Steed, Morris opened the front passenger side door and got into the front seat of the vehicle while Keller and Fontenot slid into the middle seat. Cooper and Benjamin climbed into the back side-facing seats and closed the hatch behind them.
“Where to?” Steed asked from behind the steering wheel.
“I wanna see Matthew Barnes’ car and all of the footage from that rest area,” Morris said.
“Do they have actual video footage of the RV and the car, ma’am?” Benjamin asked Jean Fontenot.
“Uh-huh. It’s not real clear, but it’s not too bad.”
“But it doesn’t show a license plate or any other identifiers on either vehicle?”
“Not that we could tell,” she answered. “But we just got it this morning.”
“This mornin’?” Morris asked. “I thought the state police found Barnes’ car Wednesday night.”
“They did, but he wasn’t listed as an official missing person until Thursday,” Steed said. “So they didn’t query the national database until last night.”
Morris couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If he understood their information, a Utah state trooper saw video footage of the RV pulling away with Matthew Barnes still inside. If so, why the hell didn’t they issue an all-points alert for the RV? They knew he was heading west on the I-84. Chances are they could have stopped him in either Utah or Idaho.
“Damn crazy preacher is probably half way across the country by now.”
Benjamin touched Jean Fontenot on her shoulder. “Where is Mr. Barnes’ car being stored, ma’am?”
“It’s at the state impound lot in Salt Lake City.”
“It’s not here in town?”
“Not for the state,” she said. “City impound can’t store a state or federal crime scene.”
“Agent Morris?” Benjamin said.
“What’cha want, rook?”
“I think we should forget the car for now and go look at that footage.”
“You do, do ya?”
“Yes sir. The car isn’t going to tell us anything we don’t already know, but the video footage might.”
“I agree with George,” Keller said.
“Me too.”
“You don’t have an opinion yet, Cooper,” Morris said. “You’re just along because I might need a cup of coffee later.”
Morris turned around in his seat and stared at the young red-headed agent. “Anybody ever tell you that you look like Conan O’Brian?”
“All the time, sir,” Cooper answered. “That and Woody Woodpecker.” He smiled at Keller.
Benjamin grinned and punched Cooper on his shoulder. “He likes you,” he whispered.
“Great! That’s all I need. This lunatic liking me.”
“Do you have a copy of the video footage at the field office?” Morris asked Donald Steed.
“Every damn minute of it,” Steed answered. “That and copies of the state police report and the local missing persons report. Hell, we’ve even got the victim’s home address and phone numbers, and we got it like we knew what we were doing without having to be coached by you.”
Morris faced Steed. “You got a burr under your saddle about somethin’, Agent Steed?”
“Hell no, not one damn thing. I enjoy being pulled off of my case load to chauffeur around hot shots from DC.”
Morris nodded.
“Well son, you won’t have to worry about that much longer. We brought our own chauffeur with us. Ain’t that right, Woody?”
“Sir?” Cooper asked.
“You reckon you can drive this fancy rig?”
“Now you just hold on there a damn minute, Morris,” Steed protested. “If you think…”
“Think what? That I’m gonna take any crap off the likes of you?” Morris snapped. “Son, I’m flyin’ around the country in the director’s damn airplane. You think for one minute that I can’t commandeer a damn Chevrolet?”
Keller smiled at Benjamin and Cooper. She loved it when Morris smelled blood and moved in for the kill.
“I’m just saying…” Steed stuttered.
“You ain’t just sayin’ nothin’,” Morris cut him off. “You just shut your damn mouth and get us to the damn field office and in front of a damn computer. We can handle the rest of it our own damn selves. Ain’t that right, Professor?”
“Yes sir,” Benjamin answered, not needing to know to whom Morris was speaking.
Steed drove in complete silence. He could only image the crap he was going to catch from his supervisor when he learned this vehicle had been commandeered by Morris. The worst part was this vehicle was the field supervisor’s which he drove to Ogden every day from Salt Lake City. Now he didn’t have a ride home.
Me and my big mouth.
Lynn Keller and Jean Fontenot didn’t let Morris and Steed’s little spat bother them. It was rare enough to work with another female agent. They weren’t going to let a little boy’s club pissing contest ruin their day.
Benjamin and Cooper sat in the back of the SUV and watched the city slide by, a city unaware that a serial killer had recently passed through here.
“How big of a territory does your office cover?” Keller asked Fontenot.
“Five counties,” she answered. “Along with our main office in Salt Lake City, we have 19 resident offices throughout our tri-state territory. The Salt Lake Division covers 136 counties in Utah, Idaho, and Montana.”
“So we’re going to one of these resident offices now? Is that correct?” Benjamin asked. He’d been listening to their conversation while watching the Utah scenery. “We’re not going to Salt Lake City, are we?”
Fontenot looked back at Benjamin and Cooper. Both men were too tall to be sitting in the back of the SUV. She could imagine that neither of them cared to ride with their knees folded up near their chests for forty miles.
“No, our office is over at 25th and Washington. It’s only four miles. We’ll be there in a few minutes, depending on traffic.”
Fontenot was true to her word. In only a few minutes of driving on a switchback access road and surface streets, Steed turned the SUV onto Washington Boulevard, a smooth six-lane stretch of asphalt that ran true north and south through Ogden. When they passed 26th Street, Benjamin saw a beautiful baseball facility that reminded him of the stadium he played in at Oral Roberts University in Tulsa. It appeared to be the only place on this whole stretch of asphalt with any trees.
The FBI resident office was located in an L-shaped 10-story building on the corner of 25th and Washington Boulevard. The building didn’t look like anything special, just simple concrete and glass, an ordinary municipal building like you’d see in any American city.
“You ever seen so many parkin’ spaces?” Morris asked Keller. “You could land a damn airplane in this parkin’ lot.”
Keller shook her head. If it weren’t for their designated parking spaces in DC, she knew she’d never find a place to park.
“I’ll bet you get your exercise just getting from your car to the office, don’t you?” she asked Fontenot.
“We have our moments, which is why I don’t wear heels to work.”
The agents rode the elevator to the eighth floor where it opened to a large plate glass wall of windows with the FBI seal embossed on a set of double-glass doors. Steed and Fontenot led the way through a series of hallways to a high-tech surveillance room filled with every conceivable computer device. A technician sitting in front of a large monitor waved at Steed and said he had the footage ready to view.
The Washington DC agents watched a bank of flat-panel LCD screens which sub-divided the footage into eight separate images. “The entrance is this one here,” the technician said, tapping the top upper left screen. “These others are from cameras spread out around the rest area, and this one down here,” he said, tapping the lower bottom right screen, “is the exit.”
“And the truc
k parking area?” Benjamin asked.
The technician touched the panel next to the exit screen. “It’s covered by a wide-angle static security camera on the west end of the visitor center building.”
“Good,” Morris said. “Let’s see it.”
The technician clicked an icon on the main monitor and they watched while a motorhome exited the interstate and made its way into the rest area. It didn’t stop at the visitor center but instead worked its way past the row of cars parked along the sidewalk and pulled on through to the semi-truck parking area at the west end of the comfort stop. The camera on the west end of the building clearly displayed the RV with a silver Ford Focus in tow.
“That’s our guy,” Keller said. They watched for a few more minutes but no one exited the RV.
Steed told the technician to run it up to a couple of minutes past 6 o’clock.
“Okay, here comes the Kia,” Steed said when a small black car exited the highway.
The car drove straight through the rest area directly to the motorhome and parked alongside it. A moment later the driver stepped out of the car and appeared to be looking the RV over. The door of the RV opened and an old man stepped down to the bottom step and greeted the driver of the car. “That’s Matthew Barnes.”
“And that’s our serial killer,” Keller said.
The two men entered the RV.
“Take a good look, kids,” Morris said. “That’s the last time you’ll ever see that poor son of a bitch alive.”
“You can’t know that,” Steed said.
“The hell I can’t,” Morris countered. “A man enters that RV, he’s a dead man.” Morris pointed at the screen. “We’ve got dead bodies scattered from hell to New Jerusalem because of that crazy son of a bitch.”
Twenty minutes later the RV pulled away from the parking area and onto the westbound interstate, leaving the black Kia where it had stopped.
