Danger in Numbers

by Heather Graham

  “A very handsome place,” Hunter agreed as they entered the vestibule. The other clergymen had returned to their own business, and Detective Mulberry had been called away on an urgent matter.

  Hunter surveyed the church.

  As Pastor Colby had said, there were fine arches and woodwork that managed to give the church both a bit of Gothic beauty along with spaciousness. The seats in the church resembled rows of carved chairs more than typical pews he had seen in other churches.

  “The kitchen is over in our function building. We have childcare there, Sunday school and meeting rooms, too. I just wanted to give you the lay of the land. Karyl is in her office. That’s out in the function building.”

  “Thanks, Pastor Colby.”

  The man grinned. “I’m Jared, by the way. I’m not even Pastor Colby all the time to my parishioners. Given names create an atmosphere in which people can be more relaxed.”

  “Jared,” Hunter said.

  The man smiled and then his smile faded to a worried frown. “Do you think that...that we might have had that poor young woman in here? Karyl will be devastated, of course. She’ll feel she didn’t do enough. She’ll feel she should have brought her into the flock, and kept her safe.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll discover the young woman’s identity soon,” Hunter said. He glanced at his watch. “My partner on this from the FDLE should be here any minute. You know, I’ve noted this is a large church. And it has a spectacular stained-glass window.”

  “Some of the wealthier members of the congregation like to donate.”

  “For a small town, you have several houses of worship. Are they all this big?”

  “Sure. People come from the north, south, east and west,” Jared Colby said. “Think of where we are—the next big thing you’ve got to the north is the Greater Orlando area. You’d have to go through the Everglades and state, tribal and federal land to the west. Big stuff to the east, but it’s a long drive. We collect from all this not-quite-Everglades, not-coast, not-theme-park town here. And I know this sounds too much like cotton candy and bull, but we practice what we preach—respect. So...”

  “Sounds good,” Hunter said. “Let’s step back outside. Special Agent Amy Larson should be arriving any minute.”

  One of the field office sedans was just pulling up. Special Agent Ryan Anders, fresh out of the academy, was driving. Hunter could see Amy next to him, studying the church as they arrived.

  “John?” he asked as soon as she got out of the car.

  “Considering the circumstances, he’s doing very well,” she said, looking past him to Jared Colby.

  “Hello,” Colby said.

  Hunter performed the necessary introductions.

  “Need me to stick around, sir?” Anders asked.

  Hunter had his own car, but he thought it might be a good thing if he and Amy took their time; he wanted Amy to make a sketch of the woman Karyl Vine had talked with, and he wanted to send it back to the morgue as soon as possible. Before putting it out on any media, he wanted Carver’s opinion to determine if it was the murdered woman, if it appeared that it might be her. Amy’s sketches could put life into a rendering, and since he wasn’t sure he wanted to release a crime-scene photo, he was hoping Amy’s drawing would be accurate.

  “Yeah, thanks. I’m going to have Amy do a sketch, and I’ll have you run it to Dr. Carver.”

  “Understood, but...”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, sir, you do realize it’s nearly seven at night, and by the time I get back... I’m assuming Dr. Carver goes home at some time.”

  “Right. We could shoot him an image via the phone.”

  “But I don’t care about the hour. I’ll be happy to stay, do anything, go anywhere.”

  Anders was fresh, new, and the weight of his responsibilities appeared to be something he took seriously. Hunter liked that in him. He wondered if Anders thought it would get easier; he didn’t want to douse the young man’s vision and tell him he hadn’t signed on for a job but for a vocation.

  Nothing got easier, especially seeing the cruelty man could inflict on his fellows.

  “Sure, stick around. We’ll see if there is anything that comes up.”

  Anders started to get back into his car. “She’s great, huh?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Amy. Oh, no disrespect meant. She told me to call her that.”

  “Sure.”

  “She studied the whole way over here—talking, too, and listening to my opinion. She’s so attractive... I guess I wasn’t expecting such a sharp mind. Sorry again! No disrespect meant.”

  “We’re all human,” he said. “But you’re an FBI agent. Best to make sure you’re showing respect to everybody.”

  He turned and headed back. Amy and Jared Colby were waiting for him at the front of the church.

  “Ready?” Hunter asked. Pastor Colby led the way.

  A door behind the sanctuary led out to a covered walkway with a barrel-tile roof and slight overhang. The walkway was about fifty feet and led to another hall with doors, the first labeled Office.

  Colby opened the door for them, and Hunter followed Amy in.

  The office held two desks, both facing the door, and the woman in question—Pastor Karyl Vine—was seated behind the second.

  She jumped up when she saw them, and Hunter could see the concern on her face. She was young—early thirties, tops—with sandy hair cut in a bob. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, comfortable for her work.

  She had been waiting for them.

  Colby made introductions.

  When they’d grabbed chairs and were seated, Hunter smiled. “So, please, tell us about this young woman you met, Karyl.”

  “I do so hope your dead woman isn’t her!” Karyl said passionately. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “From the beginning,” Amy said, reaching across the desk to squeeze the young pastor’s hand. “How did you meet her? Your congregation is a decent size, though I understand many people around here know each other.”

  Karyl nodded, clinging to Amy’s hand. “Jared was leading the service. I was in the back. We had a few of my favorite music people up there that Sunday, and I was...well, I love our music. I was rocking out in the back—you can rock out to God, you know.”

  “Of course. Sounds great,” Amy said.

  “She was in the back. I just...well, I saw her face. She turned to look toward the back doors. Almost as if...”

  “As if?” Hunter encouraged.

  “She was expecting someone, or even as if she was afraid someone might come. First, I thought she might be a teenager, trying out our church for the first time, the kid of someone who worshipped at another place. Except we’re not like that around here—religious-wise. We attend and help with fundraisers, no matter which church—or temple—is on it. Then I realized she wasn’t as young as I thought at first. She had to be in her twenties. Not that parents can’t still scare us when we’re grown up. But...anyway, when the service ended, I made a point of meeting her. She never gave me a last name. But she told me her name was Billie—short for Wilhelmina. She laughed about it and we both agreed that Wilhelmina was a heck of a name for a baby.”

  “Did you just chat in the church?” Hunter asked.

  “No, she, uh, looked hungry. And she was. Our coffee and donuts are served just down the hall. The last area serves as a conference room, and we have a little coffee shop opened after our services and during our groups.” She gave them an awkward look. “Our childcare workers are volunteer, so I make sure there’s plenty of coffee for them.”

  “You brought her in for coffee and donuts,” Amy said. “And to talk.”

  Karyl nodded. “She didn’t have a donut. She had a turnover.”

  “And you thought she seemed hungry? She ate it quickly?” Amy asked.

/>   “Every bit. I offered her something else, but she refused. By the time she’d finished, she seemed to be growing nervous.”

  “But you did talk,” Hunter said.

  “For the length of time it took her to eat that turnover,” Karyl said. “I couldn’t help but feel she was nervous the whole time, afraid someone was going to come. She kept looking around. I asked her if she was afraid of someone and she just shrugged and said something like, ‘We all have to be careful, right?’ And I thought she might have muttered, ‘They could be anyone.’”

  “And you haven’t seen her again?” Amy asked.

  Karyl shook her head unhappily. “Everyone knows a young woman was murdered out here in a ‘ritualistic’ style, which has put incredible pressure on all of us. Then again, the fact she was found on a cross is something only shared with the various heads of religious houses, but I can’t help but be afraid now. For her. When I look back, the more I’m convinced she was afraid someone was going to find her.”

  “Can you describe her?” Hunter asked. He saw Amy had leaned forward, slightly but intently. She was ready to listen. And he was sure she understood; a sketch was a kinder thing to show a friend or loved one or even an acquaintance. Autopsy and crime-scene photos could be heart-wrenching. And they could even be misleading, if the death had been cruel enough.

  “Amy, can you draw from her words?”

  She looked at him, startled.

  “I’m not a police artist...” she murmured.

  “You’re as good as any of them,” he said simply. “We can move your chair around the desk—if Pastor Karyl doesn’t mind—and she can watch and correct you. You have a pencil and a sketch pad, right?”

  She nodded, reaching into the pocket of her navy-blue jacket. It was a new sketchbook, he noted, about the size of a trade paperback.

  She brought her own chair around and sat next to Karyl.

  “Okay, I, uh...” Karyl began. “She was about five-six or -seven, I think. That doesn’t matter here, right? You’re sketching her face?” she asked Amy.

  “But it matters. Noted,” Amy said.

  Karyl was thoughtful. “She had an oval face, very classical, I think. Large eyes, a soft brown. Her nose was straight, and she had an expressive mouth. Nice lips, large and well formed. Her hair was a light brown, just a few highlights in it.” She paused, watching Amy sketch. “Cheeks a little thinner. Lips more defined. Her brows had a perfect arch, and she had really light, feathery bangs.”

  Amy kept sketching; everyone watched in silence. When she finished, she picked up her drawing.

  It seemed she had caught more than just an image. There was anxiety in the young woman’s eyes in the sketch, a softness and a vulnerability about her.

  Notes about her height and coloring were beneath the sketch.

  Hunter wasn’t sure if he was relieved or more worried. Their victim on the cross had been a blonde.

  Then again, hair dye was cheap. And if she’d been trying to hide, it was an easy way to change her appearance.

  He couldn’t tell. The face of their victim had been too badly slashed. But Dr. Carver just might have a better idea.

  “Is it her?” Karyl asked anxiously.

  Hunter decided to be honest. He stared at Amy, meeting her gaze, noting the very slight shake of her head.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Hunter said.

  “Oh, thank God! I mean, I’m so sorry for whoever was killed, but...well, I had this terrible feeling I had failed, that I could have done more...”

  Her voice trailed.

  “We would like to find this young lady,” Hunter said.

  “We sure would,” Jared Colby declared. “We help people. That’s our mission, to help all our brothers and sisters.”

  “We’ll need you to keep in touch,” Hunter said, producing a card and his phone at the same time. He handed a card to Pastor Karyl and one to Pastor Jared at the same time, then angled his phone to take a picture of Amy’s sketch.

  Jared and Karyl were staring at him.

  “We’re going to ask the medical examiner to take a look, too,” he said. “Make sure we’re not mistaken. You do think the sketch is a strong likeness?” he asked Karyl.

  “An uncanny likeness,” Karyl said.

  “Thank you so much. If you see her again, please contact us immediately. Or Detective Mulberry as he may be closer. She may be in danger. She might have been running from someone.”

  “But if she sees police—”

  “She really may need to be in protective custody,” Amy said.

  Karyl looked at Jared, and he gave her a firm nod. Hunter rose and Amy followed suit, pocketing her notebook. They both thanked the two of them for their time and headed out.

  “I’ll have Ryan get you home,” Hunter told her. “By the way, thank you. I didn’t mean to spring it on you, but you are one hell of an artist. I’m surprised you didn’t go in that direction.”

  She shrugged. “Thanks,” she said, giving him no further explanation. Instead, she asked, “Where are you heading now? What do you see as our next step?”

  “I’m going exploring,” he told her.

  “Pardon?”

  “I want to hang around here awhile.”

  “It’s night.”

  “I am that observant,” he said lightly.

  “Right. So—”

  “I’m going back to the little coffee shop where I met up with everyone earlier. I’m going to check out the back when it closes, see if there’s any suggestion someone came or went that way, and I’ll try to chat with any locals. Maybe meet a few of the farmers.”

  “All this...tonight?”

  “There’s an old motel about a mile south. It’s been there since 27 was one of the main ways north, I think. I’m going to stay over tonight.”

  She stared at him.

  “What?”

  “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

  “Look, Amy, there might be nothing to pursue here. You don’t have to bunk out here just because I am. You’re going to want to check on John—”

  “His kids are there. I’m good. If you’re staying, I am, too.”

  Ryan was out of the car, awaiting his orders from Hunter.

  Amy was stubborn; that was clear. She wasn’t moving, and he didn’t have the right to move her.

  “All right,” he said simply. “May I have the sketch? I sent a picture, but I’d like the drawing to get to Carver so he can really study and compare it.”

  “I may need the notebook,” she said. She tore out the sketch and handed it to Ryan. Hunter explained to the other agent that they had more to do, and Ryan could go home—but get the sketch to Carver first thing in the morning. Amy thanked him again for the ride.

  “Special Agent Larson, my pleasure,” he told her. He looked around. “I’m a born Floridian—Broward County. And I’ve never been out here before. It’s an eye-opener.”

  “Glad to bring you something new. We may be calling you out again,” Hunter told him.

  “I’ve been told to obey your every command, so you just say when,” Ryan told them. Then he keyed the ignition, waved to them and backed out of the parking space.

  “Do you think it matters? A phone pic or the real thing?” Amy asked Hunter as they watched Ryan leave.

  “I don’t know. But Ryan is available and wants to work. And I’m starting to think we need to get that image around to all local law enforcement.”

  “Just because a woman is shy and nervous doesn’t mean she’s part of a cult.”

  He looked at her. “And it might well mean she’s trying to get out of a cult. I know that you go on your gut feelings sometimes—all cops do. And on this...well, the behavior pattern fits. Go with me on this, will you?”

  Amy nodded. “Okay. We don’t have anything else.”


  “I just thought of something,” Hunter said. “You probably haven’t eaten all day.”

  She laughed softly. “Not true. Microwave sandwich for breakfast.”

  “I think you need to see the diner. After we get rooms.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  * * *

  Amy knew Hunter hadn’t thought the little motel could be full, and it wasn’t. And it was much as he had thought it would be—established in 1930, probably enjoyed a heyday in the 1950s and, now, clean but very outdated.

  The man at the counter was pleasant.

  “One room?” he asked.

  “Two,” Hunter told him. The man arched a brow. “I’m traveling with my sister,” Hunter said lightly.

  Amy tried not to frown. The man gave them two old-fashioned keys with plastic tags bearing the motel logo dangling from them.

  “Sister, eh?”

  He shook his head and told the man, “We’re both law enforcement.”

  “You’ll be about that murder,” the man at the check-in desk said sagely. He was middle-aged, with a pleasant face and mostly gray hair that fell nearly to his shoulders.

  “Yes,” Hunter told him.

  “Damnedest thing! Can’t believe it. Why, I think we had one murder out here years and years ago—in the 1970s. Some guy got mad at his wife’s driving, pulled a gun from his glove compartment and shot her. They careened into a canal—and he quickly paid the price. If he thought her driving was bad when she was living...well, he should have figured shooting her wasn’t going to help it any!”

  Amy smiled. “Have you had any strangers through here lately?” she asked.

  He smiled back, a fatherly smile. But his words were dry when he told her, “Honey, this is a motel. Everyone who stays the night is usually a stranger. Have I seen any stranger than normal strangers? Well, I don’t think so. Folks just check in here when there’s been a few bad accidents on the highway. When the turnpike and I-95 get bottled up, this road still goes north and south. Oh, and some like the back roads and might be heading for the dude ranch on up before you get to Orlando. Families, usually, with kids who still like things you do outside and not just video games.”