Redemption (34 page)

“Yes.”

“Then why are you standing on my property when my signs at the gate explain how I feel about trespassers?”

“‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us....’” Jane offered, hoping averse from The Lord’s Prayer would soften this woman’s resolve.

“Is that your idea of humor?” the woman yelled. “Bastardizing our Lord’s words to fit your immediate needs?”

Jane found the question oddly ironic, given the woman’s knee-jerk, verse-spouting of Proverbs 10:7 just a minute earlier. Jane had had enough of the stalemate. “Look,” she said quietly, “put the gun down. This is not what Jesus wants you to do.”

The woman pulled the rifle point off Jane’s head. “Turn around,” she ordered.

Jane obeyed and looked into the emblazoned blue eyes of Rachel Hartly. She was a veritable mountain of a woman, nearing six feet tall. Rachel was the kind of woman people describe as big-boned and beefy. Her wavy, salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a no-nonsense style that brushed her earlobes. She wore no makeup, no earrings, no jewelry. Her boxy plaid wool barn jacket hid whatever size breasts God had given her. A pair of dark denim jeans fit loosely, scraping the tops of her well-worn, L.L. Bean gum boots. Instead of securing the rifle at her side, Rachel opted to simply take two steps back, continuing to hold Jane’s head in the site.

“What do you want, Ann Stone?” Rachel asked with a sneer.

Jane found herself surprisingly calm for someone who was staring down the long barrel of a .22 rifle. “I assume you are Rachel Hartly?”

“That’s right. What of it?”

“You greet everyone with your .22, Rachel?” Jane knew that one of the best ways to deal with someone who had you at gunpoint was to constantly repeat their name.

“No. Just those who come on my private property uninvited. Now, I’ll ask you once again.
What do you want?
”

“I’m looking for someone, Rachel, and I have reason to believe he might be living in
this
guesthouse. His name is Lou Peters.” Jane watched for any sign of falsehood crossing Rachel’s face.

“No one by the name of Lou Peters lives here,” Rachel steadily replied. Her cadence was strong and believable.

Jane stared into Rachel’s eyes, searching for any sign of deception. There was something there. It was behind her eyes. It was like a word that lingered at the end of a sentence with no punctuation. Jane knew there were so many ways for the criminal mind to rationalize a lie by the way the question was asked and then carefully answered. “Do you know Lou Peters, Rachel?” Jane pressed.

“I do not.”

“He’s a member of the Lamb of God Congregation. Are you not a member of that organization, Rachel?”

“I am. And proud to be so! But I do
not
know anyone named Lou Peters.”

“Well, that’s curious,” Jane continued very matter-of-factly, “because Lou does live in this community and the two of you are probably the only members of the Congregation from this area. Common sense says that you would know Lou.”

Rachel slowly lowered the rifle, never taking her steely eyes off Jane. “I vaguely remember the name from long ago. But I assure you, he does not live here any longer.”

Long ago
? Lou had registered as a sex offender less than seven months ago. Certainly “long ago” did not usually imply less than a year. Jane decided to let that claim go. But she would not let
Rachel’s second statement go unchallenged. “How can you assure me he’s not living here if you don’t know him?”

Rachel stiffened. “You attempt to manipulate my words.
So typical.
”

“So typical of what?”

“Your kind. You’d like to see all of us behind bars or dead. But we will not lie down and take your abuse any longer.” Rachel held her index finger high in the air. “A Divine declaration has gone forth from on high to those who are true believers! The Great Commission of Christ demands that we ratchet up our ministry to a new level! We will no longer seek
tolerance
toward us. We are not weak! We are not passive! We have taken our rightful ownership of Jesus!”

Jane was certain that Bartosh used those same words during their conversation. It appeared that anyone outside of the Congregation was considered suspect and someone who wished to thwart the Great Cause. It also seemed in vogue to parrot Bartosh’s words. Jane figured if you can’t speak for yourself, mimic someone else who you respect. Jane shifted her stance and in doing so, the newspapers slid down her jacket. She grabbed the bottom seam of her jacket, pressing her hand against her body to prevent exposing the papers.

“What are you doing?” Rachel asked suspiciously.

Jane reacted quickly. “I haven’t been feeling well lately. I ate some bad fish.” Jane grimaced in pain and realized she had a clear way out. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I need to go.” She turned, placing both hands on her jacket to secure the papers as she walked. “Sorry for any misunderstanding,” Jane said over her shoulder.

“If I see you near my property again, I’m contacting the authorities!”

Jane nodded and headed for the front gate.
The authorities
, she wondered. A woman like Rachel Hartly certainly didn’t trust the secular world of law enforcement. She must be talking about God and His soldiers.

As she neared the Mustang, she heard the faint ring of her cell phone inside the car. Jane swung open the door and answered the phone. “This is Jane,” she said. Silence. “Hello?” Jane said, irritated. It sounded like dead air, but then Jane realized there was the faint sound of someone breathing on the other end of the line. She quickly looked at the caller ID. Restricted. That was the same ID display from the caller who dialed her number after she left Lou’s former address. “Goddammit! Stop fucking with me! Who the hell is this?” Jane yelled into the phone. There was a moment of silence before the line went dead.

A bolt of electricity sped up Jane’s spine. Very few people had her cell phone number. Her brother, Mike, had it. A few of her connections at the FBI had it from the botched undercover job. Sergeant Weyler had it....

Just then, her cell phone rang again. Jane pressed the button to answer it without looking at the caller ID. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, or how you got this number, but you better stop playing with me!”

“Well, I see you’re still the same innocent, carefree young lass I grew to admire.”

Jane didn’t have to check the caller ID. She knew the sound of Sergeant Weyler’s voice.

CHAPTER 22

“Oh, shit,” Jane mumbled under her breath. She hadn’t talked to Sergeant Weyler in nearly six months. She had outright avoided his incessant phone messages. And now, after all this time, she had answered his call with a misguided, profane greeting. She nervously lit a cigarette and took a drag. “Um....” Jane stumbled briefly, trying to salvage the conversation. “Sorry about that, Boss. I’m in the car. Somebody called me right before you did and I don’t know who the fuck they are or how they got this number....” Jane suddenly realized that instead of feeling uncommunicative—the main reason she never returned Weyler’s calls—she found herself rattling on to him about her problems just like in the old days. They had shared a deep bond of respect from the first day Jane went to work for DH in homicide. Jane could always be who she was, warts and all, and Weyler still liked her.

“Boss?”
Weyler interjected, his smile reaching through the phone. “I thought I lost that title when you declined to return to our dysfunctional little family at DH.” Weyler always had an elegant way of speaking. Jane chalked it up to his love of PBS.

“It just slipped out,” Jane argued.

“You called me Boss on the voice mail message you left. One slip-up I can accept. But two?”

Jane let out a long sigh. “Look, you think it was easy for me to contact you?”

“Obviously not. They’ve had
five
pledge drives on PBS since I last talked to you. I didn’t know if you were okay or if you’d—”

“I saw you on television,” Jane interrupted, “with all the drugs and counterfeit money from the cartel bust. You were wearing your power suit and your red tie. And you looked pissed.”

“I was irate. DH shagged that bust from
your
sweat and labor. We rode your coattails and I told them so.”

Jane took a hard drag on her cigarette. “Told who?”

“Everyone who would listen!”

“Does that include your newest prick on the job, Sergeant Kenny Stephens? Was he the best you could get for that job?”

“No. The
best
turned me down. The
best
wouldn’t return my phone calls.”

Jane was touched by Weyler’s words. For a moment, she didn’t feel so inadequate as she had for the last few days. “That means a lot to me, Boss. But I don’t think that I’m the best anymore.”

“Tell that to your legions of fans who still call here on a regular basis! Not a week goes by that I don’t screen calls from people asking for your help. Hell, I had a call from a woman today asking if you could speak at her son’s graduation!”

Weyler’s statement seemed incongruous. No one had ever asked Jane to speak at a graduation ceremony. “What the hell—”

“That’s the price of fame, I guess.”

“I think it says a lot about society when they get jacked up in ‘worship mode.’”
Speak at her son’s graduation
, Jane mused.

“Christ, Jane! What are you doing in Oakhurst?”

“If I tell you, you gotta promise that you won’t say a word to anybody.”

“Fine.”

“There’s this missing girl—”

“The national case?”

“Right.”

“You working solo for the FBI?”

“I’m working solo, but not for the FBI. It’s a long story and I don’t have enough battery charged on my phone to get through it.”

“Well, plug in the car charger, start driving, and talk to me!”

Jane had always appreciated Weyler’s direct approach. She headed down the county road and back onto the highway that headed into town. Over the next thirty minutes, Jane revealed everything about the case to Weyler, including Kit Clark, her recent suspicions about Kit’s motives, Ashlee’s death, Lou Peters, Dr.
John Bartosh, The Lamb of God Congregation, the possibility of a January 5 deadline, the conversations with Detective Charles Sawyer, the strange, greenish, micalike particle on the condom, Clinton Fredericks’s meddling, the suspicions she felt regarding Shane Golden’s involvement, and her most recent escapade to Rachel Hartly’s house. By the time she finished her rapid-fire chronicle of events, Jane had driven fifteen miles north on Highway 41 toward Yosemite.

“Jane, you got yourself mixed up in a job that requires a
team
of people!”

“Yeah, well if I could clone myself—”

“So, you need my help?” Weyler stated, cutting to the chase.

“Yes. You know a lot of people. I figured I’d take a chance and maybe you’d know somebody out here on the inside who can feed you information—”

“Maybe I do.” Weyler said with an enticing tone.

“Is that a yes?”

“Possibly....” Weyler seemed to be dangling his help on the end of a stick.

“What’s with all the caginess?” Jane nervously puffed on her cigarette.

“You’re asking for one helluva favor. I’m going to have to pull a lot of rabbits out of a lot of hats!”

Jane sensed an oncoming bargain. “What’s the bottom line? A donation to PBS?”

“No. That would just sweeten the deal. I’ll agree to help you if you agree to come back to DH when it’s over and take the position of sergeant in homicide.” Jane pulled the Mustang over to the shoulder of the highway. Part of her felt insulted that Weyler didn’t think she was up to forging a career as a private investigator. The other part felt great pride that he still wanted to upgrade her to sergeant in homicide—working alongside Weyler—after her months of evasiveness. “Did I lose you?” Weyler asked.

“No, I’m here, Boss.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“What are you gonna tell Kenny Stephens?”

“If you agree, I’ll tell him to get his pumped-up ass outta here! And I’ll enjoy every second of it!”

Jane’s heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst from her chest. She sucked on her cigarette. “Okay, Boss. You got a deal.”

They discussed the most important things that Jane needed ASAP: more info about Trace Fagin, what item of Charlotte’s he had in his possession, whether the sheriff’s department had contacted Lou after Charlotte’s abduction, any information from local sources on Shane Golden, and finally, to start a relationship with the DNA lab that was analyzing the condom found alongside Ashlee. For anyone else, the long list was an overwhelming request. For Weyler, it would occupy the better part of a morning.

Jane hung up. The tension in her body was beyond palpable. She felt a tightness in her chest and then remembered she had not removed the stack of
The Sierra Star
newspapers she’d stuffed inside her jacket. She removed them and turned the Mustang back onto Highway 41. Suddenly, her phone rang. This time, she checked the caller ID and found the mysterious RESTRICTED on the display. She quickly pulled over to the shoulder of Highway 41 again and answered her phone. “Who the fuck
is
this?”

There was silence and then a whisper. “Let me help you....” the voice said.

Jane pressed the phone closer to her ear. “What?”

“Let me help you,” the voice still whispered, but there was a bit more definition to the cadence. Jane was sure it was a woman’s voice.

Jane took a suspicious look around the immediate area where she was parked, wondering if the caller could be watching her. “Help me with what?”

“You’re looking for Lou Peters?” the woman whispered.

“Yes,” Jane replied cautiously.

“Let me help you.”

“How?”

“Meet me in front of the Stop ’n’ Save on Buena Street in thirty minutes.”