5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5 (5 page)

Chapter 8

Blake passed along the row of kneeling communicants. Into each outstretched hand he placed a wafer and repeated:
The body of Christ, the bread of heaven.
The ritual had become rote and often his mind wandered as he looked into the eyes of one or another person, trying to read their thoughts. Indeed, parishioners sometimes assumed he must be able to read their minds. More than once he’d been confronted by one who complained he’d not visited them in the hospital. And more often than not they, or a family member, had neglected to tell Blake they were scheduled for surgery, or even had been admitted. So he studied each face seeking clues as to what they might tell him if he were to ask.

While caught up in one of those mental tangents, he nearly missed the young man’s pendant. A heavy silver chain bore what appeared to be an over-large, upside-down cross. At the crux, instead of a crucified Christ or some other Christian symbol, he saw a ram’s head, its eyes set with red stones that might have been rubies but were probably glass. Blake stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the pendant and then at the boy. He couldn’t have been much over sixteen. His hair, cut shaggy and moussed, had been dyed an unnatural black, which only emphasized the pallor of his skin and the rather prominent acne on his face. His clothes were ill-fitting—not that that was so unusual. Most boys who were dragged to church by their parents wore clothes that looked, to Blake, like they’d been rummaged out of their older brother’s closet or the reject pile at the Goodwill store. His eyes returned to the pendant. Lanny Markowitz, who had been trailing along behind Blake as chalicist, nearly bumped into him. The boy looked up and extended his hand forward to receive the Host.

“Son,” Blake said as softly as he could, “I’m going to ask you to leave the church.”

Lanny’s eyebrows shot up. The boy looked quizzically at Blake.

“Excuse me?”

“You can come back, but only after you’ve ditched that thing around your neck.”

“What’s wrong with my cross?”

“It’s not a cross. It’s a satanic symbol, and I won’t have it in here.”

Confused, the boy stood and walked back toward his pew. He started to sit. Blake pointed to the door.

“Jesus,” the boy said, “what’s up with you?” Red-faced, he stomped to the narthex doors and exited. He was followed by his girl friend who, Blake assumed, had brought him to church in the first place. She, in turn, was followed by her parents.

“What was that all about?” Lanny whispered.

“Satan.”

Lanny frowned.

“Later.”

The stir caused by Blake’s action carried over into the coffee hour. With reluctance, he slipped out of his robes and descended the back stairs to the basement which served as the church’s fellowship hall. Lanny sidled up to him.

“Barbara Starkey is looking for you,” he said. “She’s the mother of Peachy Starkey, the girlfriend of the boy you bounced from church.”

“I know who she is.”

“Before she shreds you with her tongue, would you mind telling me what happened at the rail?”

“The kid was wearing a satanic cross. Didn’t you see it?”

“I saw an upside-down cross. I thought it was a peace symbol, or something like a protest deal. You know? Like flying the flag upside down—that sort of thing. Help, save the church from the House of Bishops, or whatever…”

“Maybe that’s what the kid thought, too. I hope so. But the figure in the center was a ram’s head, not a peace symbol. I know about peace crosses. I wore one of those once, myself, back in the day. I’d know one if I saw one.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem with the thing on the kid?”

Blake spun and looked at his friend. Lanny hadn’t a clue. Like so many good church-goers, his idea of evil was largely cerebral. Yes, evil is real but…and there would follow a dissertation on a felon’s feelings of low self-esteem, an unhappy childhood, abusive parents, perhaps just the inevitable product of a dysfunctional family and a conflicted society. The list was endless and, in Blake’s view, made excuses for behavior that crossed the line, irrespective of its cause. He recalled an old seminary professor of his, near retirement, who described a trip to Nazi Germany in the late 1930s. He’d said that evil, real evil, was palpable in the air then. He was about to expand on the theme when Barbara Starkey braced him with a look that would etch glass.

“Mr. Fisher,” she began. Blake knew he was in trouble when a parishioner addressed him as Mister. “Just what were you thinking about making Chad leave? In front of everybody. He’s very upset. So, I might add, am I. I have been a strong supporter of this church, both financially and personally. My ancestors were instrumental in building this—”

“Yes, I know, Barb. And I appreciate all you’ve done. I told…Chad?…I told Chad that he could return if he removed his pendant and left it outside.”

“His cross? I’d have thought you’d be pleased to see a young person wearing a cross to church.”

“It isn’t a cross, Barb, it’s a satanic symbol, and it has no place in the church. Sorry.”

“Satanic sym…oh, come on. Surely you don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo.”

“I do, and so should you.”

“Well, of course…I mean yes, there’s evil in the world, but what harm can come from a silly little cross thing. He just wears it, he said, because he thinks it’s cool. You know how kids are.”

“I do know. And I know the consequences of well-meaning but dangerous behavior.”

“Dangerous? Really! Chad isn’t a Satan person.”

“Do you remember being in school and someone pinning a ‘kick me’ sign on another person’s back?”

“Yes, but…”

“Chad’s pendant is a kind of ‘kick me’ sign. It’s an invitation. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s advertising for the devil, and in a way, inviting him in.” Barbara opened her mouth to speak, but Blake cut her off. “I am serious, Barb. It begins with ignorance and ends in tragedy.”

“Oh, really, Mr. Fisher, I thought you were smarter than that. The Inquisition was in another century. This is not Salem. I think you owe Chad an apology.”

“Send him around. We’ll talk, certainly. In the meantime, think about this—how would you have reacted to Chad if he’d first been introduced to you wearing a swastika…perhaps had one tattooed on his neck?”

Barbara Starkey stared at Blake for a split second, her mouth agape, closed it.

“I hardly think that’s the same thing, do you?”

“I think it is exactly the same thing, as a matter of fact.”

Barbara Starkey marched off, her back stiff, head held high, a vision of moral rectitude. Lanny, who’d stayed to listen to Blake’s explanation, squinted at him, a frown on his face.

“You meant all that, didn’t you?”

“Every word.”

“I don’t know…” Lanny looked doubtful.

“Lanny, maybe this is a better example. Suppose you lived in a very tough section of town, gangs, crime, all that. Would you leave your front door unlocked and open at night? I guess you might never be bothered. Years could go by and nobody would attempt to hurt you. But would you risk it?”

“No, I guess not. No, definitely not. So the kid may not have any investment in the thing around his neck but why take the chance.”

“Exactly. And in the example I just gave you, would you advertise the door was unlocked?”

Lanny squinted at the ceiling for a second as if trying to remember something. “It’s funny, you know,” he said.

“Funny? How funny?”

“Up at the school the kids talk, you know, brag about this and that and…”

“And?”

“I hear rumors that some of them are into that kind of stuff. The Goths, mostly but some other kids as well. You’re serious about this aren’t you?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

“I need to think about it. Could you meet with the principal, if I set something up?”

“Yes.”

“Ram’s head. Why do I think I’ve heard that before?”

Chapter 9

Good to his word, Charlie had the photographs delivered to Ike in the morning—Sunday morning at that. Ike spread them out on the kitchen table and studied them. The resolution was remarkable. In addition, Charlie had sent three blowups of random shoreline. In them, he could even see bits of driftwood on sandy beaches. He made a mental note to ask for a blowup of the area where Trent Fonts thought he’d seen the piece of tail assembly. It might be helpful, particularly if he also could get a tide chart for that day. Trent said it wasn’t there the next week so why, he wondered, hadn’t someone reported finding it? Given the fact that the missing plane was on the news for days, you’d think a piece of tail section, if that is what it was, would at least generate a call to the police if not the FAA. Strange.

He shuffled through the images. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, but he hoped something would jump out at him. Nothing did. Just boats and ships—big ships, little ships. Ships sitting or moving—ships at anchor, cargo ships and container ships waiting south of the Bay Bridge for a pilot to come aboard and take them into port. Boats sailing, boats motoring—nothing out of the ordinary. He lined up the pictures of successive days side by side and compared them. Except for one small freighter that seemed to have repositioned itself in the night, the pictures for the morning of the fifth of July were not remarkably different that those for the fourth.

He turned his attention to the shoreline of Eastern Bay. It was formed by the southern peninsula of Kent island on the east and the shoreline of Delmarva Peninsula to the west. As with most coastlines in this part of the country, it was characteristically erose. Inlets, rivers, creeks, and small harbors increased the total shoreline measurement by a thousand-fold or more. No wonder sailors and watermen loved this country. There must be thousands of fishing spots, hunting grounds in any one of those rivers, and they were not the only ones around. What he couldn’t see was the water’s depth. That would be important if he ever hoped to locate Nick Reynolds’ plane. He locked up and went to breakfast.

As a breakfast venue, The Avenue Restaurant compared favorably with his usual haunt in Picketsville, the Crossroads Diner. He maintained, as a faith statement, that no one but a culinary incompetent or a drunk could possibly ruin breakfast. On reflection, however, he remembered one he’d been served in Grants, New Mexico, that qualified as a breakfast disaster. But those experiences were rare. Breakfast was one of America’s great achievements and a major contribution to the world. Gourmet or Denny’s, one was rarely a disappointment. For Ike, the advantage of the Rehoboth facility lay in the fact that it was not run by Flora Blevins, the proprietor of the Crossroads, and, therefore, Ike could order anything he wanted without her vetoing his choices or lecturing him on the benefits of deep-fat frying in bacon grease.

He slathered butter and syrup on a short stack with scrapple on the side. A fruit cup was his nod toward good nutrition. He might or might not eat it. A vision of Flora rose up in his subconscious and he felt guilty—for about two seconds. Three cups of coffee and a block of green melon, which he assumed was honeydew, and he was on his way.

A marine supplies store on the ocean highway supplied him with a boating chart of Eastern Bay and its surrounding area. The Exxon station next door sold him a road map of Maryland.

Spreading the maps and photographs side by side turned out to be a problem. He didn’t have enough table space. He found a card table behind the front door, and by positioning it next to the dining room table and pushing them both to the kitchen counter, he managed to create sufficient surface to assemble a display of three maps and the photos in approximate order. He spent the next hour studying one and then another. Not enough information. He called Charlie.

“Ike, it’s Sunday morning, for God’s sake.”

“Why aren’t you in church, Charlie?”

“What? You’re joking, right?”

“I never joke about the Almighty, Charlie.”

“Okay. Why are you calling me at this hour on Sunday? I just might have been going out the door to church, for all you know.”

“And I might have been having breakfast with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Have I got that pairing correct?”

“Who knows? I haven’t had my supermarket check-out line update lately. So, what’s up?”

“I’m looking at maps. Three different kinds of maps, all depicting the same area. It’s fascinating.”

“Really? You called me on Sunday, the only day I can catch up on my sleep, to tell me about maps?”

“I have an aeronautical map, a road map, and a local boating chart side by side. I have your satellite pictures arranged in the same order. I am studying the Eastern Bay—that’s a part of the Chesapeake Bay south of Kent Island.”

“What is so interesting about that?”

“I think that’s where your almost nephew-in-law went in. I can’t be sure, but that’s what it’s beginning to look like.”

“I thought the search was north of Kent Island.”

“It was. That’s why they never found anything. Since he disappeared from the radar over that bit of water, they figured that’s where he must be, but according to your sister’s answering machine, he flew another ten to twelve minutes. That would put him south of Kent Island somewhere near, in, or about, Eastern Bay.”

“Wow. What do you need? I assume you need something since you called me on the Sabbath—my Sabbath, not yours, of course.”

“I’m touched by your piety, Charlie. Okay, I am studying these maps and pictures, and each tells me a different story. The topography is the same, but the information each gives up is different. As I said, it’s fascinating. What I need—what I think I need—is more comparisons. Send me pictures of the area over time. Today, last month, August, last year, and a blow-up of a bit of shoreline.”

“I’d need to know where on the shore.”

“Right, hold on a minute.” Ike opened his laptop, clicked on Google Earth, and found the scrap of beach where Trent had indicated he’d seen the tail piece. He rattled off the coordinates. “I need the pictures for the three days following Nick’s disappearance.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. If your sister has not reset the time stamp on her answering machine, I want to know how accurate it is compared to the atomic clock.”

“My sister’s answering machine is important?”

“Very. I want to know exactly how many minutes and seconds elapsed from the time Nick dropped off the radar to when he made that call. That could produce a smaller area for us to look at.”

“You’re onto something, Ike.”

“I’m just digging, Charlie. It may be something and it may be nothing. Stay tuned. Oh, and light a candle for me, while you’re at it.”

“Candle?”

“In church. You said you were—”

Charlie hung up.

***

Frank spread the photos the evidence techs had provided him of the sinkhole. He laid them out on his desk and opened a topographical map. The sinkhole appeared obvious on that map. He marked the spot where he’d seen the bones and the path up the hill, and then down to the bottom of the hole. Then he tried to place the fire pits. He didn’t know why, but he figured since they were equidistant, it might be important. He squinted at the photos, searched for and found a magnifying glass. Next to one fire pit he saw what looked like a surveyor’s marker. He drew a circle and then spaced the other four in a pentagon. He drew in the bench at the center.

His mother called him to dinner. She wanted to tell him about Esther Peepers’ cat and the missing silver from the church.

Essie and his brothers, Billy and Henry, were already at the table. Essie’s face seemed locked in a chronic blush, but she had her hundred-watt smile on high beam. Apparently, Ma had filled her in on the probable cause of her bathroom addiction.

There would be a celebration that he guessed would last for the whole year. Grandbaby, Ma had said.

Well, good.