Danger in Numbers

by Heather Graham

  “Maybe he was just trying to get rid of me,” Amy said.

  John laughed at that, then stopped. Laughter seemed to cause him pain.

  “Guess we can’t joke around for a while,” he said.

  “Don’t laugh, but I’m not sure I was joking.”

  John didn’t laugh; he did smile. “He’s a good man, kid. You’re going to do all right with him. And you’re going to have to do all right for the two of us.”

  “We’ll be fine,” she assured him quickly.

  “They’re going to have me on sick leave for some time, I imagine. That doesn’t mean I stop being an officer of the law. You make sure you keep me up on what’s going on.”

  “Definitely. I’ll be in—”

  “Don’t say you’ll be in here every day,” John said firmly. “You just keep me updated every few days. I’ll get a tablet in here—”

  “Your kids are not going to want you working. The department is not going to want you working. John, you had a heart attack—”

  “Right. Not a brain attack. I can still use my eyes and deductive reasoning.”

  “But you need to rest and be calm.”

  He lowered his voice, though it was just the two of them in the room, as he said, “I can lie here and think while you two do the grunt and footwork. Amy, promise me—yes, I know, the department, everyone else, will want me just sleeping. I can’t do that, Amy. I’ll go nuts. Please, you want me to rest and relax? Then promise me that you’ll keep me in the loop.”

  She nodded slowly. She knew John.

  “All right,” she said softly.

  “And give Hunter a chance.”

  “I will, of course, just—”

  “Good. You two will do all right together.”

  “John...”

  “That’s it. Now, I’m tired,” he said. He closed his eyes, then slipped one open. “You’re still here? Get going—get out of here. Go to work.”

  Amy sat stubbornly still.

  He looked at her again.

  She smiled. “Not to worry. My industrious FBI partner is out there doing his thing. He’ll report to me, and I’ll join him for our next step.” She leaned toward him. “Just as soon as one of your kids gets here.”

  * * *

  Detective Victor Mulberry met Hunter at a local coffee shop between several stretches of sugarcane, ranch land, cows, a small neighborhood and several houses of worship.

  “How is Agent Schultz doing?” Mulberry asked him anxiously. Hunter was happy he could tell him John was stable, doing as well as could be expected, talking already, and the doctors believed he’d make a full recovery, along with lifestyle changes.

  Mulberry was glad to hear it.

  “I have Rabbi Goldstein—the mainstay of our Jewish community—on his way. Along with Father Brennan, of the Catholic church, Father Westin, Episcopalian, and Pastor Colby, Unitarian. Naturally they’re all horrified, and they’ve assured me their congregations couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder. So...”

  He looked at Hunter warily, as if afraid Hunter would rip the men apart, determined they had to be involved.

  Hunter smiled and shook his head. “They are holy men in their various houses of worship. People come to them. They know what’s going on with people, especially in a small community like this.”

  “I’ll tell you, a Catholic priest will not break a vow regarding words he hears in the confessional,” Mulberry told him.

  “I don’t want him to. Trust me, please,” Hunter said.

  Mulberry nodded, then he turned slightly, looking toward the door.

  Hunter had taken the seat facing the door; by habit, he never chose a chair from which he could not see the entrance of any establishment.

  He didn’t need Victor Mulberry to tell him it was Rabbi Goldstein who had arrived first; the rabbi was wearing a prayer shawl and a yarmulke. He appeared to be in his forties, and he was quick to smile as he greeted a few of the other diners in the small coffee shop.

  Hunter stood and Victor Mulberry did the same. They had the only large table in the little place, toward the back to the left, behind the counter.

  But Rabbi Goldstein saw them and hurried to them, offering his hand as Victor introduced him to Hunter and Hunter said, “Thank you for your help, Rabbi Goldstein.”

  “Call me Rabbi David. I always felt more comfortable with my given name.”

  Hunter inclined his head.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” the rabbi said, taking a seat. “I love many of my colleagues. I’m sure Victor will tell you we all get together now and then and discuss ways to help the town so that it helps everyone. We’re a small community, very neighborly—strange when you think of the size of the cities and counties near us. But few people think of the middle of the state or cows when they think of Florida.”

  “You’re right, sir,” Hunter said. “But I’m hoping you might have heard something. Had a stranger drop in, or maybe even lost a member of your synagogue to a different type of lifestyle.”

  “No, I haven’t lost anyone. But while I haven’t heard or seen anything unusual, Pastor Colby thinks he might have something to tell you. I’ll let him explain. I only know his story secondhand.”

  “Would you like coffee? Something to eat?” Hunter suggested.

  “I would.”

  Rabbi David Goldstein called to their waitress, a young woman he obviously knew.

  But then it seemed everyone here knew everyone else here.

  While she brought coffee—a carafe and more cups, the others might want coffee, too—the rabbi asked her about her family.

  “Mom is doing better. The Parkinson’s medication is kicking in,” she said.

  “I’m so happy to hear that,” he told her.

  When she was gone, Hunter asked, “One of yours?”

  “No. I just know the family. We are the epitome of a small town.”

  Hunter smiled and then quickly stood. The other three men they were expecting were arriving.

  Fathers Brennan and Westin, and Pastor Colby.

  Brennan was an older man with neatly clipped graying hair and a handsome face, somewhat worn, and bright blue eyes. Westin was perhaps just about fifty, lean and balding, and Colby was the youngest of the group, forty or so, a man with a quick smile who moved with energy.

  “Coffee on the table! Leave that to a cop,” Colby said, happily pouring a cup.

  But Rabbi David corrected him. “No, sir. Leave that to a rabbi!”

  There was laughter.

  “Thank you, Lord, for the rabbi,” Father Brennan said. But then he looked at Hunter and said, “I’m here, Special Agent Forrest, because we’re all ready and willing to help with this horrible situation. I’ve weighed my thoughts, as have the others. But I honestly can’t think of anyone in my congregation who could even conceive of such a brutal and vicious thing to do to anyone.”

  “Nor can I,” Father Westin said, “but again, we’re here if you need to ask any questions, if we can think of anything.”

  “I may have something,” Colby said gravely. “It wasn’t a situation that occurred with me, specifically, but with one of our younger ministers, a young woman named Karyl Vine. She was at the back of the church a few Sundays ago singing—we do a lot of singing, have a great group up at the altar—and she noted a girl in one of the rows who was singing her heart out, but who looked as if she was a bit down and out. She had a strange conversation with Pastor Vine about sin and redemption. I thought she had to be someone’s cousin, a relative...new to the area? But even though she stayed for coffee and donuts, talking, and Karyl invited her back and to groups, assuring her we were there to help at any time, she didn’t make another appearance.”

  He hesitated and glanced at Father Westin.

  Westin said, “He’s afraid she might have been
the victim. Karyl got the feeling the young woman was running from something—or someone.”

  “Can I speak with Pastor Karyl Vine?” Hunter asked.

  “She went a few days ago to see her family in South Carolina, but I think she might be coming into church this afternoon. She was due back last night, and she always comes to choir practice, which starts at seven. I can find out if she’s there now, or when she will be there. I know Karyl is going to want to help as she’s our liaison for troubled youth—a very sweet and wonderful young lady.”

  The others at the table nodded. “Very caring,” Rabbi David said.

  “Can you call her?” Hunter asked.

  He glanced at his own phone while Pastor Colby called Karyl to make sure she was back and find out if she was going to be at the church ahead of the choir practice. He had another text from Amy.

  John is doing well. His daughter is arriving soon.

  He hesitated. He could handle the rest alone. But he wasn’t the lead investigator on the case yet; John Schultz had been, officially, which now meant it was Amy Larson’s case.

  He assured himself he was a team player.

  She might be young, but she was intriguing. A determined agent, she seemed able to handle herself well. And then there were her sketches. He remembered watching her at the autopsy, thinking she was just right for law enforcement. The grotesque nature of the crime demanded empathy with the victim, without falling prey to an emotional reaction that could cause problems while questioning those who might help with the case.

  He did need to give her a chance. He wondered what made him wary of her.

  There was something about her—maybe the fact she seemed to like him just as much as she might like Florida mosquitos. Or because she thought this was her state—and he didn’t belong.

  She didn’t know how much it was his state, as well.

  He needed to pull her in. He put through a few calls to the field office, arranging for transportation for his “partner.”

  Pastor Colby looked at him and gave him a thumbs-up sign, ending his call.

  “Karyl is home. She heard about the woman who was found...murdered,” Colby said. “She’s afraid it’s the young lady she met, too, just because the girl was so distraught. She’s happy to do anything at all that will help.”

  “We can meet her at your church?” Hunter asked.

  Pastor Colby nodded. “An hour or so okay for you? The café here has good food.”

  “I could eat,” Father Brennan said.

  “It is dinnertime. Early dinner. But neither Father Brennan nor I are spring chickens anymore. Early is supposed to be dinnertime for the aged,” Father Westin said.

  “Dinner, it is,” Hunter said. “And you can tell me about your churches. And what you know, if anything, about ritual murders.”

  The men looked at one another and then back at Hunter.

  Brennan cleared his throat. “None of our religions condone ritualistic murders.”

  “No, of course not,” Hunter said. “But, Rabbi David, the punishments for certain sins are pretty harsh in the Old Testament, right?”

  “Stoning to death for adultery,” Rabbi David said, “and various other infractions. But your victim was strung up on a cross. I didn’t get that from the news, and none of us intends to share specifics—Detective Mulberry told us she was up on a cross.”

  Hunter glanced at Mulberry.

  “I was asking for help,” Mulberry said.

  “We would never share things like that,” Rabbi David assured him.

  “We have to answer to a pretty high power, so we’re careful that way,” Father Westin said.

  “I didn’t say a word,” Hunter muttered. “Still, in this case, I’m all ears when it comes to anything at all you can tell me about the various books of the Bible.”

  “Old Testament,” Rabbi David said.

  “New Testament,” Father Westin said, grimacing slightly at Father Brennan and Pastor Colby.

  “What interests you?” Colby asked.

  “The Apocalypse,” Hunter said.

  “Well, you need to read—” Father Brennan began.

  “I have read,” Hunter interrupted quietly. “What I’d love to hear is your interpretations. I mean, what do you think? Revelation 6:8. Is the rider of the pale horse Satan himself? Or, as some say, do you believe it might be Christ, and He has come to take us all home?”

  For a moment, the rabbi, two priests and the pastor were silent.

  Then the discussion began—lively and passionate, with even the rabbi putting in his opinion.

  Hunter sat back and listened.

  * * *

  Brenda Schultz Nelson arrived about a half hour or so after Amy at last convinced John she wasn’t leaving until his daughter arrived.

  Amy saw her moving through the ICU with such an anxious look on her face that she hopped up to meet her outside the door.

  John was attached to all kinds of medical tubes and lines, and she wanted to assure Brenda her father was stable and coming along well.

  She made it out and closed the door just in time, catching Brenda just feet away.

  Brenda, an attractive young woman with short-cropped dark hair and her father’s gray eyes, had obviously been crying as she’d anxiously made her way there.

  She threw her arms around Amy, sobbing, “Oh, my God! He’s alive, right, he’s...he’s okay?”

  “He was helped right away, Brenda, and yes, they say he’s going to be fine. He’ll need rest, here, and then at home. But—”

  “He has to retire!”

  “Brenda, I’m just going to suggest you’ll give him a second attack if you say that to him. You know how your dad loves his job,” Amy warned, and then hoped she hadn’t been offensive.

  “I know, I know, but—”

  “We’ll all look out for him. And don’t worry, the department is going to keep him behaving while he recuperates from all this.”

  “Of course, of course. And I guess it’s not just his work. Dad hasn’t ever seen a hunk of fatty meat that didn’t have his name on it.”

  “We’ll watch him, I promise, Brenda.”

  Brenda seemed to stand a little straighter. She wiped her face and tried for a smile. “Right, I know. I know he loves you and you care for him. I mean, I think my dad believes he’s just about working with one of his own kids.” She managed a laugh. “That has to be hard at times.” She sighed softly. “So, he wasn’t running after anyone or anything?”

  “We were in autopsy,” Amy told her.

  “Well, that’s ironic.”

  “It was lucky. Dr. Carver was there and knew what to do.”

  “And you stayed with him. Thank you, Amy. I’m...I’m fine. My husband has the kids for the next few days. He took the time off. He wanted to be with me here, but I didn’t want the kids seeing their beloved grandpa like this, so...”

  “I’m here if you need me. You dad is on the mend.”

  “I’ll take over. You go and do what you need to do.” She hesitated. “The media is all over it. I know about the case you’re working on.”

  “Of course. Sensationalism. I hope we’ve kept most of the details out of the press.”

  “All I got from the media was she was found dead, and it appeared to have been a ritualistic killing. No other details.”

  “Good. So, your dad is in and out of sleep. I know how happy he will be to see you and your brother, too.”

  “Johnny Jr. is driving, and he will be here soon.” She stood very straight. “I don’t forget I’m a lawman’s daughter. I’ve got this. Go!”

  Amy smiled. “All right.”

  Brenda hugged her fiercely again, and Amy headed out of the ICU and down the stairs, only then remembering she didn’t have her car. She’d come with the ambulance after Hunter Forrest had driven t
hem to autopsy.

  As she debated the issue, her phone rang.

  It was Hunter, right on cue.

  “I’ve sent a car for you. John just called me on his daughter’s phone and said he kicked you out. An agent from our satellite office is picking you up and bringing you out here. Sending you a picture of the car and license plate. Special Agent Ryan Anders will be there any minute, outside the main door.”

  Amy was startled and silent for a minute.

  “You do want to come out on the investigation, right?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes, of course, thank you. I’m outside the main door.”

  “Good. This is an interesting little town. Nice people.”

  “Oh.”

  Apparently, nice people could prove to be vicious killers. They both knew that.

  And they both knew how to play the game.

  “Where is he bringing me?”

  “The Church of the People,” he said.

  “The Church of the People?” she said suspiciously. “A sect? Are they a cult?”

  He laughed softly. “No, not a cult—we’d have been all over that like fleas on an old dog. Unitarian.”

  “But you think that—”

  “No. I don’t believe any legitimate pastor, priest, rabbi, imam or leader of any recognized religion would sanction such a thing. But we may have found what I’m looking for—someone who passed through such a church, searching for redemption. Anyway, I’m heading there in a bit myself. I’ve just enjoyed a lovely meal with several men of various creeds, and I’ve met a pastor who may lead us somewhere. See you soon.”

  4

  “I’ll show you around,” Pastor Colby said. “I’m not taking anything away from the others, but I think we allow a bit more free thought and bring in a younger crowd. That means we have great music—not just organ music. We have guitars, drums, violins and keyboards, not all together all the time, but upbeat and conducive to camaraderie. We are careful to respect one another around here. But I was bragging about my church! So here we go—we’re traditional in the layout of the main church, vestibule, the nave and the sanctuary. Oh, and we have a balcony for the choir, when not just down in the sanctuary. We have great woodwork, touches of Gothic here and there in our arches, and a very open feeling.” He paused, grinning at Hunter. “My colleagues and I are big believers that God is where we are—the beauty of the sky and the earth are His temple, just as any man-made structure.”