As we drew close I could see that the family center, though larger, was similar in layout to the church. Front and back entrances, but accessed from ground level, no stairs or stoop. Arched windows high up on the sides and in the rear.
The only thing different was a wing shooting off the eastern side at the back. It had two windows, small and square, not arched, not shuttered, and a separate entrance.
I looked, but saw no evidence of a basement or crawl space. No ground-level window or cellar door. No high foundation. I guessed the building sat on a concrete slab.
As at the church, each front door bore a heavy iron cross. I was veering that way when the Browning’s muzzle again kissed my spine.
“We go in the back.”
I diverted to the gravel laneway. Boots crunched close behind me. A short walk took us past a black Chevy Tahoe and brought us to the door at the rear of the building.
My mind began to short-circuit. I was totally alone with a man with a serious God complex and a loaded shotgun. Coming here had been ridiculously, insanely stupid on so many levels. What to do?
“It’s unlocked.” Right at my ear.
I turned the knob and the door swung in. We entered. As before, Hoke lit the overheads. Here they were tube fluorescents.
We’d stepped directly into a large kitchen. Double-sided fridge, eight-burner stove, deep farm sink. Lots of counter space with cabinets above and below. Everything standard-issue white, probably purchased at the local Best Buy or Sears.
No vase of fake flowers. No bowl of plastic fruit. Not a single touch of whimsy brightened the room.
There were two doors on the left, both closed. Hoke sidestepped to them, eyes hard on me. Gun never dropping an inch, he quick-turned the knobs then backhanded each.
“Go on. Spray your chemicals.”
One of the doors opened onto a pantry. Lots of flour, oatmeal, and pancake mix. No saws or axes. Nothing glowed.
The other door led into an arrangement I assumed was the rectory. A tiny living room, bedroom, and bath were lined up shotgun style, one giving onto the next.
I could hear Hoke’s breathing as I edged past him. Fast and hot. Like mine, his adrenaline was pumping hard.
The living room was crammed with a desk, bookshelves, a small table, and a single chair. An oval braided rug covered the floor. In one corner, a padded kneeler faced a framed portrait of a very Scandinavian-looking Jesus.
My palms went slick when I saw the photo lying on the kneeler’s armrest. A school portrait. The girl stared into the lens, unsmiling, eyes hidden by defiantly thick black bangs.
Easy. Wait for your opening.
In the bedroom were a twin bed, a dresser, and a wardrobe. Predictably, the wardrobe housed pants, shirts, and jackets, all black, and a rainbow assortment of brocade vestments.
A calendar hung to the right of the door, the saint of the month a woman deeply involved with farm animals. Only two hand-scribbled reminders. I read them discreetly. Last Wednesday’s entry said Rx. Today’s said SG.
Susan Grace Gulley.
I felt my scalp prickle hot.
Breathe. Steady.
The bath was maybe six by six, barely room for a shower, sink, and commode. I pulled out the luminol and sprayed. Nothing lit up blue. I didn’t bother with the other two rooms.
Back in the kitchen, I walked to the sink and pumped the luminol again and again. No reaction. I shifted clockwise, spraying at random spots. Got zero fluorescence.
Hoke watched, face rigid as Mount Rushmore.
Past the kitchen, male and female lavatories faced off across a narrow hall. Each had two commode stalls and a vanity sink with storage below. The shelves held soap, Clorox disinfecting cleaner, rolls of Charmin, and bundled paper towels.
The luminol produced not so much as a flicker.
The remainder of the building was taken up by what appeared to be a multipurpose room. Long collapsible tables were stacked against one wall, legs flat to their tops, awaiting the next fish fry or bazaar. Two rolling carts held the associated chairs.
At the far end of the room, a dozen folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle. Beyond them, in a corner, was an old-fashioned playpen, the kind I’d used for Katy but hadn’t seen in years. Its interior was filled with an assortment of toys and dolls. Beside it, shelving held children’s art supplies—paints and brushes, colored paper, glue, small scissors upended in a china mug.
Three wheeled coatracks lined the wall opposite the playpen, each with a collection of empty hangers. Otherwise, the room was empty.
As I sprayed and probed, I wondered. Was Hoke delusionally self-confident about the effectiveness of his cleanup, or woefully unaware of the sensitivity of luminol?
The windows were dimming when I finally admitted to myself a third and more likely possibility. I was wrong. No body was dismembered here or in the church. And my Google Earth check had shown no other structures on the property.
Still. In my gut I was certain Hoke was involved in the deaths of Cora and Mason.
Now what?
I had to talk my way out. Or fight.
“I apologize,” I said quietly. “I was mistaken.”
Several heartbeats passed.
“I’m going now,” I said.
“You bring a deputy to disgrace me before my parishioners.” Low and dangerous. “Now you return and accuse me of murdering children.”
“Step aside.”
Hoke didn’t move.
“Why are you praying for Susan Grace Gulley?” I demanded, hoping a quick thrust might unnerve him.
Hoke’s whole body tensed, but he said nothing.
“Did she sass her grandmother? Did the devil make her do it?” Shaking my hands in faux trepidation. “Will you also kill her?”
Hoke’s jaw clenched and his dark eyes burned into mine. His grip tightened on the gun. In that instant I knew. He had no intention of letting me leave.
Panic fired through my blood like a hit of speed. Hoke’s face blurred as I felt the fast, powerful rush.
In one lightning move I lunged, twisted, and kicked out with all my strength. My boot connected with the blue-black steel of the barrel.
Lulled by my earlier compliance, Hoke was taken by surprise. The Browning flew from his grasp and winged toward the playpen. A two-palm shove to the chest sent him pinwheeling backward. As I bolted for the door, I heard the sharp crack of bone against wood.
I pounded down the gravel lane, terrified Hoke was in pursuit. Terrified my spine would be severed by a load of twenty-gauge buck.
Legs and arms pumping, I raced across the lawn, grass and dead leaves flying up under my boots. The world was amber now. Time felt slowed, my movements sluggish, as though I were running through syrup.
I watched my car grow larger.
Ten yards. Five. And then I was there.
Lungs heaving, heart pounding, I yanked open the door, threw myself in, and turned the key. The engine roared to life. I shifted into drive, whipped the wheel, and spun a one-eighty. Pedal mashed to the floor, I shot onto the road. Though fishtailing like mad, I didn’t slow until I reached the blacktop. Then, I goosed it to eighty.
I pulled in at the first business I spotted, a hole-in-the-wall diner with blue neon letters on the roof saying CONNIE & PHIL’S.
Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy bloody freakin’ crap!
I stared at the diner, allowing my heartbeat to settle. A placard in the window announced fresh trout and homemade treats. Promised generous portions. Encouraged passersby to Phil up on good old mountain food.
I pulled out my phone. One call had come from Ramsey. He’d left no message. The other was from Ryan. Ditto.
I hit callback on Ramsey. He picked up right away. Background noise, voices and a slamming door, suggested he was inside.
I described my encounter with Hoke, explained my theory about the concrete pointing to Holiness church. The luminol. The Browning. My conclusion that I was wrong about that being the place Mason’s body was dismembered. “It didn’t go down there,” I said.