by Allen Kent
I thought about him out there rooming with Farley and had to wonder. “Not that I know of. If he is, I know a lot of others around town who are much more open about it.”
“Yes. But not as odd. And not as isolated. Read the whole chapters, and let me know. I need to get some supper started for the sisters. They told me they’re used to eating early.”
“Thanks for taking them in, Marti. You’re good people.”
“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve learned,” she said with a light laugh. “They know everybody’s secrets.”
Not one, I thought, remembering their uncertainty about my question about Grace and Mara Joseph. Or, at least not one they were willing to share with me. “Better keep what they say to yourself,” I warned her. “When people go to see the Webbers, it’s like talking to their lawyer or shrink. Fortune Teller-Client Privilege or something like that.”
“My lips are sealed,” she assured me.
My mother was a firm believer in the infallible nature of the King James version of the Christian scripture. God, she was certain, spoke in ‘thees’ and ‘thous,’ and any attempts to render the Bible in modern English just diminished its sacred nature. So as I got into Leviticus, I immediately became aware of how concerned the Good Lord was with “uncovering other people’s nakedness,” what I assumed to be a seventeenth century euphemism for having sex.
By the time I finished the first of the chapters, the Almighty had condemned almost everyone in enough detail that I had to wonder if there was a soul in Crayton, married or not, who wasn’t pretty high up the sin scale. Leviticus seemed especially concerned about degrees of family relationship, and most families I knew had been living here and intermarrying for generations. If I mapped out a family tree of Crayton, some root or branch would probably creep into eighty percent of the homes in town.
But verse 20 of Chapter 18 was pretty specific and could well explain the 3, 18, 20 on the Parker’s gatepost. “Moreover, thou shalt not lie carnally with thy neighbor’s wife, to defile thyself with her.”
I figured that technically, a widow isn’t still your neighbor’s wife. But Terri had already moved onto the no-no list back at verse 16 which talked about uncovering the nakedness of your brother’s wife. I was tempted to give Marti a call back, but decided to see what the rest of the chapters might tell me. Two verses later, more paydirt—the verse that had turned half the Christian world into homophobes, even when they didn’t blink an eye at Cleo and Terri’s tax-friendly cohabitation.
“Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with woman kind; it is an abomination.” And right below it, “Neither shalt thou lie with any beast to defile thyself therewith.”
I couldn’t stifle a chuckle. Could someone who read this with the unquestioning eye of my mother view Fits Loony as ‘lying with beasts’ when he curled up for the night with little gray rodents snuggled all around him? Or were our vigilantes privy to some information that brought Fits and Farley Buzzard together even before Fits went into hiding?
All I knew was that in my county, we tried to wrap our faith around the verses about loving your neighbor and about staying away from being judgmental.
It wasn’t until I was into Chapters 19 and 20 that I came across a reference to “observing times” and a warning against “turning after people who have familiar spirits, and after wizards.” A cross-reference sent me to Deuteronomy which specifically prohibited visiting “an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer,” a word that a quick search on my phone showed to be something of a catch-all for ‘all of the above.’
Marti was right. An avenging angel—or coven of avenging angels—appeared to be reaping its own version of biblical justice on our community. But my lead suspect lived outside the county, and the place I suspected he was being schooled in judgmental righteousness was also just across the county line.
Chief Prater wanted this whole thing to go away until he could slip comfortably into retirement. But I needed help. And the person who was probably in the best position to provide some cross-jurisdictional assistance already had her tail in a crack from helping me once before. There was also some remote chance that whoever was making a list of traffickers in abomination around Crayton knew that during a night of weakness, Joseph and I had uncovered each other’s nakedness.
I decided to call her anyway.
19
“I was just thinking about you,” she said when she answered, then added, “in a strictly professional sense, of course.”
“Of course,” I said with a chuckle. “But what prompted the thought?”
“I just heard from my attorney. She said yours is hoping to depose Verl Greaves tomorrow. She was invited to sit in and wanted to be certain she isn’t going to hear any surprises.”
“I think we’ve told them about the shooting exactly as it went down,” I said. “But I’m surprised Able has invited her—and hasn’t called me.”
“I don’t think she’s going to ask any questions—or that he’s set a time yet. He just wanted to let Allyson know he was going to try, and tell her she was welcome to be there.”
“But not you?”
“No. Definitely not me.”
“Hmm. I need to make sure I’m free. But that isn’t why I called—and not to try to tempt you with a dinner invitation, though it has crossed my mind.”
“Allyson suggests we avoid unofficial contact until this complaint is resolved. Since this is pretty much a ‘we said, they said’ situation, it may be best if we don’t appear to have other reasons to support each other’s stories.”
“Well, then no dinner invitation. I’m calling because I’m in a bit of a jurisdictional bind and thought you might be able to help.” I quickly explained about the fire at the Webbers’, the shouts about the sisters being ‘observers of times’ and ‘diviners of spirits,’ and one of the arsonists’ mention of Aunt Lucy.
“The Webbers only have one client named Lucy,” I explained, “and from my visit with her, I’m pretty sure I know who the nephew is. But he lives in Greene County, and he’s going to some little church at Whipple Crossing that’s also out of my jurisdiction.”
“Why don’t you contact the authorities in those counties?”
“Well, I’m not sure I have enough to support a warrant. And I believe this may be bigger than just the attack on the Webbers.” I told her about someone tearing up Fits’ place and the fire that killed the Parkers.
“I’m thinking it might be the same people. Whoever it was scrawled numbers in black paint at both of those places. Marti had a flash of inspiration that they might be Bible references. It looks like she’s right. We appear to be dealing with some gang of Old Testament vigilantes trying to purge the county of their personal brand of abomination.”
Joseph was quiet for long enough that if it weren’t for strains of Phantom of the Opera playing in the background, I would have thought I’d lost her.
“This sounds pretty bizarre, Tate,” she said finally. “But what do you think I can do to help?”
“I’d like to have someone drop in on that little feedstore church at Whipple Crossing, see who’s there, and find out what’s being preached. My guess is that someone from Crayton or this county is a regular. I’d be recognized if I went. You wouldn’t.”
Again, I was treated to a full minute of The Music of the Night before she spoke again.
“First of all, Tate, if this group has anything to do with these attacks, they’re going to be suspicious of anyone they don’t know dropping in on them right now—especially someone who looks like a little Jewish girl from University City. And second, I wouldn’t recognize anyone from Crayton if I did run into them.”
“Hidden body cam,” I suggested. “You go, record whoever’s there, and I’ll check to see if I know anyone.”
“And no matter what I wore, you think I wouldn’t look like a state patrol investigator from Saint Louis?”
&
nbsp; That one caused me to think for a moment. She was right. Everything about the way Mara Joseph looked, spoke, and carried herself cried out ‘big city.’
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she offered. “We have a couple of officers here who are as homespun as you could ask for. One is a Latina. I think a couple dropping by the church would attract less suspicion than some lone stranger. I’ll ask if they would be willing to go undercover for a Sunday service.”
“Saturday,” I corrected.
“Saturday?”
“Yeah. They follow the ancient law.”
“I’ll talk to them,” she agreed. “It will have to be an unofficial favor for me and completely off the record. I don’t see the commander agreeing to this. If they’re up to it, I’ll have one of them call you. You tell them when and where. How would they even know about this place? I’m sure they’ll be asked.”
Before deciding I might be recognized if I went myself, my first thought was to ask Joseph to go with me and drop in as a couple, knowing we would very likely be asked that question. Lucy Studdard is thick enough with the widow community in Crayton and free enough with her advice that I had come up with an answer.
“This Lucy the Webbers mentioned has a lot of friends around town. I’m pretty confident that she’s shared that her nephew Roy has found a spiritual home at some little place at Whipple Crossing.”
“You try to come up with the right widow friend for Aunt Lucy,” Joseph suggested. “I’ll see if I can talk a niece or nephew into seeking some spiritual help of their own.”
20
Before I had a chance to check in with Able Pendergraft the next morning, he called the office.
“I’ve arranged to depose Verl Greaves this afternoon at four over at the courthouse,” he said. “Officer Joseph’s attorney is coming down from Jefferson City to sit in, but I will be doing the questioning. I think with the approach I want to take, it would be very helpful if you could join us.”
“I assume Officer Joseph isn’t coming?”
“Right. In fact, I’ve asked that she not. I’m just going to introduce Allyson Penn as being from the state attorney general’s office. I won’t even mention Joseph until I get to the final questions. She’s something of a lightning rod for Verl. He will have his counsel with him, and there will be a court stenographer. But I want Verl to feel like he’s just talking to the two of us.”
“I can be there. I have the Parker funeral at ten and expect to hear from Grace around one or two o’clock. Otherwise, I’m trying to follow up on this rash of fires we’ve been having.”
“I heard about the Webbers,” he said. “And how is this search in Scotland going? What a mystery that is—and such a tragedy.”
“Not much so far. I’m hoping Grace will have more for us this afternoon. I have to admit, it’s eating at me, Able. The most important challenge we’re dealing with right now, and I can’t contribute anything.”
“You sent Grace,” he reminded me. “People I talk to are grateful for that. I’ll see you at the funeral—and expect you in the meeting room off of the commissioners’ offices at four. You won’t be expected to say anything. Just be there and look pleasant.”
I chuckled into the phone. “That, I can do.”
The Parker funeral was one of those demonstrations of why small-town America is such a wonderful place to live. We had lost two of our own, and everyone in town felt a need to share in the grief. We are all so tightly connected here that having two others missing added to the pain. It was cutting deeply into a collective heart.
I found a back corner and scanned the standing-room-only crowd, watching for any sign of guilty curiosity. I saw only sincere mourning. Reverend Latimer spoke of the couple as if, after suffering the tragedies of losing others they loved, they had found new joy in a relationship that was as sacredly bound as any present. I saw no skeptical frowns or judgmental shaking of the head. Only a genuine shared feeling of loss.
Following the internment, Crayton assembled again to eat and remember and worry. With their children disappearing in foreign places and houses being set aflame here in town, life might not be as simple and safe as it always had been. I ate and commiserated with them and did what I could to assure them they were safe and well looked after.
Grace’s call at 2:00 p.m. gave me reason to wonder.
“I’ve been thinking about the cases you’re working on,” she said, following a quick, “Hi, Tate. It’s me.” She apparently had the same bad habit of ruminating over problems that were beyond her ability to do anything about.
“It’s just too coincidental for all of that to be happening in Crayton in the same week. Someone attacking Fits’ place. Fires at both the Parkers and the Webbers. These incidents have to be related.”
“One of the reasons I’m missing you,” I said with a chuckle. “Between your intuition and Marti’s mystery reading, I’m not sure they really need me around here.” I told her what we had learned about Lucy Studdard’s nephew, the Bible references, and the mysterious group of feedstore worshipers at Whipple Crossing.
“Whipple Crossing?” she repeated with the same incredulous note I had heard from Rocky. “There’s nothing at Whipple Crossing.”
“That’s just it. Why would any church group choose to meet in such an out-of-the-way place unless they wanted to be out of the way? I’m thinking this is a fringe cult of some kind.”
“Now, that’s ironic,” she said solemnly. “The latest lead we have here on the kids sounds like just that. Some kind of secret society. A couple of the people who are here with Outlander tours have told us there’s a rumor going around of a secret group that’s developed around the series. A ‘go out on the fells and dance around naked’ kind of bunch.”
“The fells?” I asked, cutting her short. “You’re already picking up some of the local lingo.”
“That’s what Conall calls them. It’s like the Highlands. Wild places out away from everything.”
There he was again. Good old Conall. “This Inspector MacKay sounds like an interesting guy. Tell me about him.”
She laughed. “He’s a lot like you, Tate. Married to his job. I don’t believe he thinks about anything else.”
I hope not, I thought selfishly, then asked, “Tell me about these naked dancers on the fells.”
“No one really knows if this group exists, for sure. But a couple of the real Outlander groupies told us they’ve seen posts in chat rooms inviting people who want to get deeper into what they call the ‘more mystical sexual aspects’ of the series to join another chat. I think I told you one of the things that’s made the series popular is that there’s a lot of pretty explicit sex.”
“And what makes you think the group might be connected to the kids’ disappearance? Is there any evidence this group is even around there now?”
“Not for sure. It seems to be an America-based bunch. The police here had never heard of them. But this guy we talked to earlier today had gone into their chat room for a while and said it talked about a number of them coming together in Inverness for ceremonies that hinted at sacrifice.”
“Like human sacrifice? Killing someone?”
“It wasn’t that clear. He said it could have been something like Claire sacrificing her wedding vows when she slept with Jamie. This group seems to believe in the power of the Callanish Stones as a doorway to another time and thinks something to do with sex opens the portal.”
“And these Callanish Stones must be something in this Outlander series.”
“Oh, no,” she said, as if this should be common knowledge. “There really are Callanish Stones, named after some that are on an island up off the north coast of the country. They are these stone circles like Stone Henge, but in places around Scotland. People built them back in prehistoric times for some kind of ritual. I’ve been out to see some not far from here that aren’t as impressive, but they do exist.”
What happened, I wondered, to that pretty Latina who had never been as far as
St. Louis? Callanish Stones? Highland cults? Dancing naked on the fells? This wasn’t the ‘experience’ I had in mind when I’d seen Grace off in Springfield.
“So, they’re thinking the kids might have been taken to be part of some ritual?” I asked. “That seems a little far-fetched.”
“They’ve just added it to the list of possibilities. And it’s no more far-fetched than some feedstore church that is carrying out ritual killing of people they think are breaking some Old Testament commandment,” Grace retorted.
“Hmm—I guess you’re right,” I admitted. “Stay on it. Anything new from Rosario?”
“No…” She hesitated, then added, “…but there is one other thing I wanted to tell you. Inspector MacKay told me today that they’re looking for a new detective inspector. He thought I might want to think about putting in an application.”
I remember once cutting a limb loose with a chainsaw in a pile of fallen trees and discovering that it had been spring-loaded as the tree fell. It snapped back into my chest with such force that the jolt almost crushed my heart to a stop. Grace’s words hit me with just that kind of force and left me sucking for air. After a moment she asked, “Are you there, Tate?”
“I’m here,” I stammered. “That just caught me off guard. You’ve only been there for a couple of days, Grace. And he already thinks you’d be a good candidate for a job there?”
I heard indignation in her voice. “And you don’t think I would? Conall said he’s been impressed with the way I’ve questioned people. He thinks it’s made a big difference to how some of the American tourists respond. There are so many tourists here all the time that he thought having an American on the force could be helpful.”
