Dead Giveaway (23 page)

  Marty said, ''You're serving mankind in your own special way, Jessie.'' He balled up the paper sack that had held his sandwich and tossed it in her lap. ''Take care of that for me on your way back to work.''

  ''Sure, asshole.'' She looked at me. ''Anything else?''

  ''You're certain Lawrence and Sara were . . . close?'' I said.

  ''You mean doing the nasty? Oh, yeah. I'm sure. I could tell by the way they snuck their little church school glances across the room. I would have liked a little of that Lawrence action myself. The guy was hot.''

  ''They're all hot to you,'' Marty said. ''Even the scuzzy ones with hair growing out of their ears.''

  ''Okay. I'm done here,'' she snapped. She opened the door, launched the twisted bag at Marty's head and left.

  After Marty drove me back to my car, I thanked him for his help, and he apologized for the interaction between him and Jessie, saying he got carried away. He said she was a smart woman wasting her brain and it pissed him off, that he ran into way too many people like her.

  I was a little pissed off myself at the information the Rankins had omitted. I decided another visit to them was in order. Maybe they didn't know about Lawrence and Sara, but I was beginning to think that trip she took had been a mission all right, a mission trip the Rankins organized to get their daughter away from her black boyfriend. I needed to know when Sara left, and if I got lucky, the pastor and his wife might even come clean about what they knew or suspected about Lawrence and Sara.

The parking lot was packed when I arrived at the church and discovered a late Sunday service was in progress. I tiptoed into the sanctuary and chose one of those movie theater–type seats in the last row. Pastor Rankin was miked, and I had to admit the little man could make you believe he was alone with you despite the full house. No wonder they needed this huge place.

  I'd come in on the tail end of the sermon and only knew Pastor Rankin had focused on God's grace, grace that allowed friend and foe alike to gather as one community. I didn't really listen to the words, but focused more on the rhythm of his delivery.
Does someone teach you to speak like that? I
wondered.
Or was he born with the ability?

  He finished, saying, ''All of you are present on earth to glorify God, to expand His kingdom by proclaiming His word in the world.''

  I was surprised when the audience stood and applauded. No one applauded in my church, not for anything. This whole production reminded me of a Broadway play.

  I hung around in the vestibule for what seemed like an hour as people visited with each other and the Rankins. The crowd finally began to disperse and then the pastor and his wife were alone, preparing to leave.

  They both seemed surprised to see me. ''I have a few more questions,'' I said after we exchanged greetings.

  Mrs. Rankin said, ''Did you just arrive?''

  ''No, I came in on the end of the sermon. Impressive, Pastor.''

  ''I'm so thrilled you joined us tonight,'' said the pastor's wife when he didn't respond.

  Rankin was wearing that odd smile that had made me so uncomfortable the other day, his eyes never straying from me. Finally he spoke. ''You've brought the light again. More light to fill our church home and our hearts, Abby Rose.''

  I thought this aura business might have been a diversion last time, but now I wasn't so sure. He seemed so sincere, so mesmerized by me when it should have been the other way around.

  As for Mrs. Rankin? She was definitely bothered and was staring at him with that same confused look I'd noticed yesterday. ''Andrew, the only light you seem to be speaking of comes from God or from Jesus, our savior. Please remember that.''

  I decided it was time to fish or cut bait, get to why I was here. ''Why didn't either of you tell me Lawrence knew Sara?''

  Mrs. Rankin didn't miss a beat. ''You never asked.''

  Now
that
answer pissed me off. Not wanting to burn my bridges, however, I bit my tongue and sweetly said, ''Okay. I'll try to be direct. Did you suspect they were having a little romance?''

  ''Of course not,'' said the pastor. ''I told you before, he was . . .
black
.'' He whispered the word ''black,'' a tactic used often in these parts to let a listener know where a speaker stood on race relations. I already knew where the pastor stood, though. Blacks might be welcome to worship here, but they would never really belong in the fold.

  ''Sara had no boyfriend,'' Mrs. Rankin said. ''She was very involved in charity work, school, many other things, too. Besides, she'd left for Mexico before the murder, so I'm unsure why it even matters that they knew each other.''

  ''The police never asked about her either, did they?'' I said.

  ''No. She wasn't here the night Lawrence was arrested. They had no reason to ask,'' she said.

  ''Some people happen to think Sara and Lawrence were close, maybe even intimate.''

  ''Intimate only with God.'' Pastor Rankin had flushed so red I thought we might need to call the fire department. His eyes had filled, and I was worried he might plunge over the deep end again.

  ''I didn't come to upset you, Pastor,'' I said. ''I'm trying to get at the truth.''

  ''Oh, I know,'' he said. ''The light of truth follows you everywhere. God is helping you in your quest. Allow Him to lead you down the righteous path. Give in to His wishes, and the truth will follow.''

  Problem was, Rankin's so-called righteous path led me to this church, but his unwavering stare made me wish I was somewhere else. ''Are you certain you knew nothing about your daughter's relationship to Lawrence?'' I asked.

  ''There was no relationship,'' Mrs. Rankin said, placing a manicured hand on her husband's sleeve. ''You know how spent you are after a sermon, Andrew.'' She looked at me. ''The sermons sometimes take him someplace else, a place where his senses are heightened. I think he needs to rest.''

  I said, ''Well, I'm not resting until I learn the truth. See, there's a man sitting in prison for a crime he didn't commit. If Sara was the person you say she was, she'd want you to help him—not take a nap right now, Pastor.''

  ''Yes . . . she would want to help,'' Rankin said. ''Sara cared so much for the less fortunate, the—''

  ''Please let him gather himself before you continue,'' Mrs. Rankin said. ''We
are
willing spirits, but a church this size has its stresses.''

  ''I hate to be persistent, but I
need
to know about Sara's trip,'' I said. ''When did she leave? When did you find out she was missing?''

  ''Maybe we should go into the office,'' Mrs. Rankin replied. ''All I ask is that you be gentle with Andrew. He has not healed from our loss despite accepting God's will. Any questions concerning that time are distressing.''

  Andrew took my elbow as we walked down the hall to the office. ''I feel so humble in your presence, Abby Rose. Your dedication to your cause, the determination in your eyes—how I wish I had half of your passion.''

  I fought the urge to pull away from his touch. How could someone go from being vibrant and in charge of a huge audience to downright disturbed in less than an hour?

  Since they were vacuuming the pastor's office, we opted for the library and sat in those cushy chairs. I took a deep breath before I spoke. Having had a min ute to think made me realize that being a little less pushy might be a better approach with them.

  But before I could open my mouth and offer a kinder, gentler Abby, a lady in turquoise scrubs with little panda bears all over the fabric came rushing into the room. I recognized her as the one who had been driving the van yesterday.

  ''Pastor? I—'' She looked at me. ''I am so sorry to interrupt.'' She stood there, her fingers working, obviously distressed.

  Pastor Rankin stood, his concern evident. ''Is it Chester? Is he going downhill?''

  The woman nodded.

  Reading my questioning look, Noreen Rankin said, ''This is Olive, our nurse's aide. She visits the shutins, makes sure they get medical care, takes them out to pick up their medicines. We don't know what we'd do without her.''

  Olive sure had a huge job if she was serving the gigantic congregation by herself. Maybe there was more than one aide, though.

  ''Noreen, Abby Rose,'' said the pastor, ''I'm needed elsewhere. Will you forgive me if I leave?''

  ''Is someone sick?'' I asked.

  ''Yes. Please return, Abby Rose. We have much to discuss and the light . . . I think I understand now. You've been sent to help me past the sorrow.''

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Rankin close her eyes and shake her head. Maybe she needed to consider upping his meds.

  The pastor left with Olive and I turned to Mrs. Rankin. ''Tell me about your daughter. You must have loved her very much.''

  If Noreen Rankin was unnerved by her husband's less-than-normal behavior, she'd stuffed it down. She rested against the cushions, raised her eyes to the stained-glass ceiling. ''She was our angel. Gifted in so many ways. God must have needed her, called her to His side.''

  ''She left for the mission trip several weeks before Lawrence was arrested, correct?''

  ''Yes. Our ministry was working in central Mexico with a town in need of help. Sara felt the calling.''

  ''But what about school? It wasn't summer, so she was supposed to be in school, right?''

  ''School is more than a classroom and textbooks, Ms. Rose. Her education never stopped.''

  ''She went alone? Didn't that worry you?''

  ''Her father took her, left her in the hands of the pastor there. Andrew was much more in touch with reality back then.'' She looked me straight in the eye. ''He does have some lingering emotional problems, as I'm sure you've noticed.''

  ''But he is a wonderful speaker,'' I said with a smile, at a loss for anything better to say.

  She just smiled back.

  I had to fill the awkward silence, so I moved on. ''When did you realize Sara . . . wasn't coming back?''

  Mrs. Rankin fiddled with the hem of her pale yellow sweater and spoke softly, saying, ''May. We got a call, that horrible phone call every parent dreads. She'd fallen and they couldn't find her body. What a nightmare. We spared no expense searching, but she was gone. I have spent years learning to accept God needed her and took her. I am at peace with that today.''

  ''The pastor's not at peace,'' I said.

  ''He's not always in touch with the world outside that sanctuary. He thinks she'll walk through the door one day, still sixteen, still as full of life as ever.''

  I considered the timing. Sara could have left, but maybe she didn't die in May as her parents assumed. If she gave birth to Lawrence's child in the fall of '87, the mission trip was a cover to hide the pregnancy from her family. ''Several months passed from the time she left until you knew she was . . . gone for good?''

  ''We kept hoping for a miracle throughout the year. Andrew wouldn't give up the search. He was a strong man back then, poured his heart and soul into his ministry—I think sometimes to avoid spending every minute thinking about Sara.''

  ''Why did you finally have that memorial service at Christmastime?'' I asked, remembering what Oscar Drummond had told me and the small newspaper article mentioning the celebration of Sara's life.

  ''How did you know? From the books?'' She glanced over her shoulder at the shelves.

  ''I located someone from the youth group. Oscar Drummond told me.''

  ''Ah, Oscar. Nice young man. Anyway, I convinced Andrew we had to let go of Sara. In the years that followed, I thought I'd made the right decision, because Andrew seemed to be coping well. He moved up the ranks, brought so many more people to our church.'' The smile that had disappeared when Mrs. Rankin had been talking about her daughter's death returned.

  ''But things have changed?''

  ''He has his good days. Lucid ones. And I hope you'll be kind enough to not say anything about his unusual behavior tonight. We don't want to trouble those who need him and might falter if Andrew were forced out of his position here.''

  ''Sure. I'm just looking for the truth, and I do appreciate your help. I knew Sara's death took a toll on your husband the first time we met, but I didn't realize the magnitude.''

  ''Maybe Andrew is onto something about you, Ms. Rose, because I'm inspired by your dedication to your job. You've learned so much in a day's time, and I've done nothing to reach out to the others who must have felt our terrible loss back then. They were her friends, after all.''

  ''Oscar would love to hear from you.'' And love to manage the church money, given half a chance. Plenty of money here, that's for sure. Enough money to help keep a big secret? But before I could think harder on this, I heard the muffled ring of the phone in my purse. ''Excuse me,'' I said.

  I answered and was surprised to hear Burl's voice. ''I found the place.''

  ''The place?'' I said, confused.

  ''Verna Mae's storage unit. In Houston. I'm on my way there.''

  ''Can I meet you?'' I asked.

  ''Sure.'' After he gave me the address, I hung up and looked at Mrs. Rankin. ''Thanks for talking to me. I know it wasn't easy.''

  ''Can you find your way out?'' she asked.

  ''No problem,'' I answered.

  As I hurried to my car, I was willing to bet Sara had left home to hide a pregnancy and gave birth, maybe in that Mexican village. Was Mrs. Rankin telling the truth? Or did Sara's parents guess the real reason she left? They might have made up the mission trip story and the mysterious fall to keep the church from learning the truth about their daughter's
sin—
and they surely would have considered her behavior a sin. Maybe they hoped Sara would return after time passed—their ''lost child'' miraculously found. But then a real tragedy occurred—teenage pregnancies can be dangerous, and Sara could have died in childbirth. The Rankins found out somehow and left the baby with Verna Mae.

  Then I thought of another scenario. Jessica Roman could have been Will's mother and was lying through her teeth today, thinking she could get busted for abandoning a child.

  
You don't know enough to be sure of anything,
I thought, as I climbed into my Camry. I pulled out of the parking lot hoping that storage unit would yield something to tie everything together. I needed more than wild guesses.

21

The address Burl gave me was off the toll road that Jeff mentioned Verna Mae traveled every week. Had the storage facility been her regular destination? Would Burl and I find some important truth hidden there?

  My heart was thudding against my chest as I made a conscious effort to stay within the speed limit. The last thing I wanted was to be delayed by a ticket. With it being past nine p.m. on a Sunday night, the highways were deserted. Burl thought he'd be arriving about nine-thirty, but I knew I'd get there before him.

  Indeed, I arrived at the U-Store-It at nine-twenty, just as my cell phone rang. It was Burl. He was tied up in traffic thanks to a major accident on the Baytown Bridge. He told me I could wait in my car until he arrived, or go on home and he'd let me know what he'd found tomorrow. Yeah, right. Like I would do that.

  He had no idea I had copies of those keys to unit B-109—the number I remembered from the tag—and since I was as fidgety as a zoo animal at feeding time, I
had
to use them.

  I got out of my car and bypassed the card swipe– equipped barrier, a wooden arm blocking a direct drive-in route to the rows of storage units. Instead, I used the key similar to a house key and opened a tall iron gate.

  I soon learned the B row was at the end of the A row to my far right. As I walked toward the B units, doubts began to creep in. Burl would play this by the book, which meant he'd want a warrant or the manager out here. In fact, he might have a warrant in hand and a manager on the way to meet us.

  Damn. I'd been chasing cookie crumbs for days and I knew in my gut this place was important. I wouldn't let a traffic jam make me wait while I chewed my fingernails down to the quick, not when I could be in and out before Burl knew the difference.

  The front entrance had been well lit, and though each unit was supplied with a halogen light over its wide door, the farther back I walked, the darker it seemed. Hurricane fencing ran behind all the units at the edge of the property, but it wasn't tall enough to keep anyone out. Heck, I could have crawled over if I wanted to risk scratches and bug bites from the overgrown weeds. Could be an electric fence, though, or one that triggered an alarm.

  I finally reached B-109 and used the hem of my shirt to hold onto the padlock securing the door, not wanting to destroy any prints that might belong to someone other than Verna Mae.

  I keyed the lock, and the padlock snapped open. I slid open the door, and a blast of air-conditioning hit me as I peered into the darkness, the halogen light worthless since it was mounted to illuminate the driveway. I used the small flashlight on my key chain to hunt for a light switch. If there was air-conditioning, there was electricity. I focused my light on the left wall and saw what I was looking for. I flicked the switch. Nothing happened.

  Great. No lights.

  I swept my meager tool from left to right, and even with such little light, what I saw raised chill bumps on my arms.

  ''Damn,'' I whispered. The whole place had been set up as a shrine to Will.

  On a small low table near the back wall sat Will's high school graduation picture. I went there first and squatted in front of the table, saw that the photo was flanked by candles . . . and so much more. To the left were snapshots of Will as an infant, held by a smiling Verna Mae. Definitely the same baby I'd seen in Verna Mae's albums before they disappeared. The blanket he was wrapped in grabbed my attention, too. I didn't need to see the POSH PRAMS label to know I had taken a picture of this blanket and had held its twin at Marjorie McGrady's house. To the right were photos of Will holding a baseball bat, playing basketball as a teenager, and the most recent of him in his UT basketball uniform.

  When I started to get up, I noticed the velvet kneeling rail along the front of the table, the kind you see in church. A whole platoon of goose bumps climbed my neck this time. Verna Mae Olsen had more than a few spokes missing from her wheels. Did she come here and pray in front of this altar she'd made? Make the trip week after week for the last nineteen years?

  I tried to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach and swept my light to the right and saw another set of framed pictures on a small covered table. I stepped over there. The large one in the center was Sara Rankin dressed in a white ball gown—the kind Mardi Gras princesses and debutantes wear. Her unsmiling expression made me think she might also have had on barbed wire underwear. I could think of only one reason Verna Mae Olsen had that picture here in the Church of Will Knight.

  The photo next to it interested me, too. I picked up the framed picture and held my light directly over it, squinting in thought. Two women, one of them a much younger, trimmer Verna Mae than the one I'd met. She had her arm around a teenage girl about her same age. A sister or a friend, or—

  I heard a muffled voice behind me say, ''Thanks.''

  ''Burl,'' I said, whirling, my face already heating up with embarrassment.

  Uh-oh. Not Burl.

  The man was dressed in black, his face hidden by

a ski mask. I stepped back, wishing I could melt through the wall like a ghost.

  ''Turn back around the way you were,'' whispered the man. A harsh stage whisper. Nasty voice. However, the gun he held offered far better incentive for me to do as I was told.

  I moved slowly, my legs rubbery and reluctant to comply. I hung on to my puny flashlight and keys while thinking about the gun I'd left in my glove compartment. Man, I could use that .38 about now.

  If he got close enough, I could use a key to gouge this guy's eyes—but he was breathing down my neck before I even finished the thought. He wrapped a forearm around my chest, his gun hand and weapon crushing into my left shoulder. He quickly snatched my keychain and light and tossed them away, then yanked my hands behind me. I felt plastic cuffs being snapped on.

  The adrenaline had kicked in, that all-over shaky feeling like after I've avoided a major collision. Except I'd avoided nothing. I was in a wild bull's pasture without a tree.

  ''Down on your knees,'' he said.

  My stomach tightened, and the image of Verna Mae's battered face flashed through my mind. This was her killer. My turn now. Would he put a bullet in the back of my head or—

  ''I
said
get down,'' he rasped.

  ''Can we talk first? We—''

  ''Do it.''

  Damn hard to use your brain when you're so scared even your underwear is quivering.

  I bent one knee, ready to do what he commanded, but apparently not fast enough. He pushed me, and I fell forward onto the floor. I tasted dirt first, then the blood from my busted lip. He sat on my back and tied my ankles together.

  Then a soothing mantra started in my head, a mantra born of common sense. ''He could have shot you already. He could have shot you already.''

  He got off me, and I heard him walking around. I turned my head in his direction but could only see dark feet traveling the perimeter of the unit. What the hell was he doing? Then came the sound of breaking glass. Now I got it. He was smashing open the picture frames. Yes, but—

  I smelled the gasoline before I heard it splashing around me, the odor so strong instant nausea rolled in my gut.

  Holy shit. A bullet would be welcome compared to burning to death. One by one, small crackling fires were springing up within a few feet of my head, their flames jumping in the darkness.

  Then he lit the cloths draped over Verna Mae's makeshift altars and the whole unit brightened with a horrible
whoosh. I
took in a deep breath and held it, not wanting to inhale the smoke.

  If being scared out of my mind wasn't bad enough, the worst moment came a second later.

  He caressed the back of my head, his gloved fingers trailing down my back.

  ''Sorry,'' he whispered.

22

I heard him run away, and it only took about a nanosecond for me to realize he'd left the door open. Between the wind and air-conditioning, the fire was spreading, engulfing the contents of B-109.

  
The door is open, Abby. Open. As in you can get the hell out.

  I didn't have to stop, drop and roll: I only needed the roll part. Trouble was, I was facing the back of the unit. Rolling would only take me left or right and not away from the fire, and its heat was already making me sweat.

  I quickly turned over onto my back and sat up. Pretty damn easily, too.
Bless you, Jeff, for getting me in shape,
I thought, as I scooted on my butt out of that place.

  I'd made it all the way to the A units when Burl found me. Thank God he didn't ask questions. He just uttered, ''Damnation,'' before cutting me loose. Ever the careful cop, he took a Baggie from his pocket and stashed the plastic cuffs inside before pulling me to my feet. Then we ran.

  Flames were flicking into the sky by the time we reached the entry gate. Burl helped me into the passenger seat of his Land Rover and called 9-1-1. The station must have been close, because we heard sirens almost immediately and the first fire truck pulled in only minutes later.

  They had a swipe card—probably fire code regulations or something—and drove their truck in. Burl spoke to the cops who'd come barreling in on the heels of firemen and then returned to me.

  He pulled a bottled water from the back floorboard. ''Here. Drink this.''

  I twisted open the top and drank greedily.

  ''We need a paramedic for you, Abby?'' he asked.

  ''No. I have a busted lip and a bruised ego, but other than that, I'm fine.''

  ''Were you in B-109 when the fire started?'' he asked.

  ''Yes. And I am so sorry, Burl. I—''

  ''How's your breathing? You inhale any smoke?''

  ''I got out of there pretty fast, so I'm really okay,'' I said.

  ''Good. Now what the
hell
do you think you were doing, girl?'' The anger had finally surfaced, and I couldn't blame him. I was pretty mad at myself.

  ''I know I should have waited for you, but—''

  ''You got more buts than an acre of monkeys. You could have been killed.''

  ''But I wasn't,'' I said. ''And you know something? That's weird. He had a gun. He could have put a bullet in me.''

  ''Maybe he thought you'd die in the fire.''

  ''He left the door open, Burl. He
knew
I could get out. He didn't want
me.
He wanted to destroy that place.''

  Burl nodded in agreement. ''Makes sense, and from the looks of that fire, we may never know what was so important.''

  ''I saw some of it. Had a little flashlight and—oh, no.''

  ''What?''

  ''My car keys. They're in there.''

  ''Don't count on finding them anytime soon,'' said Burl, looking up at the black cloud hanging over us. * * *

  After I filled in the cops and the firemen on everything that happened, Burl drove me to Kate's place so I could get a house key. I'd lost that, too.

  On the way, I explained everything I could remember about the inside of the unit, and Burl said he'd get with the firemen tomorrow about examining whatever could be salvaged from the fire. As expected, Burl had a warrant to search the contents, and I guess that still counted even if there was nothing but ashes left. I called Jeff, but got his voice mail, so I didn't leave any message aside from asking him to call. Some things you do not leave as a recording.

  I rapped on Kate's back door. She must have been in the kitchen, because she answered right away.

  ''What happened to you?'' she said, focusing on my fat lip. She pulled me inside by the wrist, and I winced. Plastic cuffs are brutal, I'd learned.

  She looked down and saw the red abrasions. ''Oh, my God. Where have you been? Who hurt you?''

  ''I'll explain everything, but I will need my house key before I leave. Lost my car keys, too, but I have a spare at home.''

  She put an arm around me and gently led me to the kitchen barstool. ''You need help getting up?''

  ''I'm fine, Kate.''

  ''I have something to help heal your lip, so—''

  ''Do I have to drink it? Because I'd rather have coffee than drink any of your—coffee! Yes. I want a huge mug of dark, strong coffee.''

  ''You're not making sense. You've been saying for the last week that you might never drink another cup of coffee in your life. Were you hit on the head or—''

  ''Go get your magic potions and fix me up, doc. Then I'll explain.''

  After my lip had been slathered with goo and some different homeopathic ointment had been applied to my wrists and ankles, I told her everything over freshly brewed Starbucks Kenyan. It tasted
so
good, and I was thankful my coffee aversion had ended. Near-death experiences tend to make you appreciate what's important in life, I guess.