The Switch (18 page)

CHAPTER 13

Lamesa County was the smallest in New Mexico, but it seemed vast because it was also the most sparsely populated. Sheriff Max Ritchey liked it that way.

To some, the scenery through his windshield might have looked desolate. Not to him. To him it looked as cozy as the womb. He'd been born and reared in Lamesa County. He'd lived here all his life except for the two years spent at college in Las Cruces, a period of time he did not look back on with fondness, and his stint in the Air Force. He accepted an early retirement from military service, with no rank to speak of, returned to Lamesa County, married a local girl, and had three kids by her, one boy, two girls. He would likely die and be buried here.

Before becoming sheriff, his career history had been as undistinguished as his military service. He'd stocked and clerked in a hardware store, but after being passed up twice for an assistant managerial position, he quit and tried his hand at selling used cars and pickups. Sales wasn't his forte, either. That year had put a financial strain on his family from which they hadn't completely recovered until seven years ago when he landed a job as deputy sheriff.

He had served in that capacity only three years when he was approached and urged to run for the office. His opponent hadn't posed much of a threat, and Ritchey had practically been guaranteed a victory. Voter turnout that year had been at a record-breaking low. Nevertheless, Ritchey was as surprised as anyone when the ballots were tallied in his favor. He hadn't been contested in the past two elections, which he took as a sign that folks were pleased with the job he was doing.

He loved being sheriff, every aspect of it, from the smart brown uniform to the compact office he shared with three un-ambitious deputies. He liked cruising around in the patrol car and having people wave to him with an attitude of respect. He liked that he was permitted to carry firearms. He'd been taught at an early age how to use guns of all types, and his marksmanship skills were kept well honed by frequent trips out into the desert to shoot at the cans and bottles that his wife thought he collected to be recycled.

His shooting skills had never been tested on the job, however. Not in seven years. There was little crime in Lamesa County. Year before last they'd had a rape. A local teenager had picked up a hitchhiker on the highway. The drifter was long gone by the time she reported it. She was little help in identifying him; he'd never been caught.

A homicide had been committed on the reservation. A man had caught his wife in another man's bed and killed them both. The reservation's independent police force had done most of the investigative work, although there'd been no mystery to solve. It had been a clear-cut double murder, a crime of passion. Ritchey's role had been restricted to paperwork. As a rule, he let the Indians take care of their own business. He had no quarrel with them, and they appreciated his hands-off policy and wished every government official would adopt it.

Last fall some boys had been caught breaking into a rival high school for the purpose of shearing the buffalo-head mascot. Actually, that had been pretty funny, that bald-headed
buffalo. The boys had been expelled for a few days, and their parents were forced to buy a replacement buffalo head.

Every now and then Ritchey would lock a drunk in jail until he slept it off, or settle an argument between spouses. That was about the extent of the crime in his county.

So it was with a great deal of excitement that he had taken the call this morning from a Senior Corporal Lawson. "Dallas PD," the man had said in the gravelly voice of a present or former smoker.

"What can I do for you?"

"I've been investigating a homicide. The victim was a white female, thirty-five years old."

Ritchey sipped from a cup of coffee as he listened to the facts of the case. "Writing on the walls? Ugly."

"It was that. We got our perp. A little too late, as it turns out." Lawson went on to describe the bizarre suicide. "Eerie as all get-out," the detective concluded.

"Sounds like. Also sounds like you've got your case wrapped."

"Just tying up a few loose ends. This guy, name o' Gordon, was your classic loner. Weird as hell, but above-average intelligence. Good at his job. He was a lab technician at an infertility clinic."

"You don't say."

"Got along with the other staff okay but kept mainly to himself. Didn't mingle or shoot the shit at the coffee machine, know what I mean? And other than his obsession with the victim, he seemed to have no interests. No bowling league. No computer games. No church groups. And that's what's really odd."

"In what way?"

"Because he was real religious. You know of a Brother Gabriel?"

Sheriff Ritchey laughed. "Doesn't everybody?"

"Well, I didn't. I mean, I'd heard of him, but I'd never watched his TV show or listened to one of his sermons until after I discovered Dale Gordon's body and started going through his stuff."

"What's a killer got to do with Brother Gabriel?"

"That's where you come in, Sheriff Ritchey."

As a consequence of that call, Ritchey was now snaking his way up the narrow mountain road that led to the compound at the peak. As a professional courtesy, he had agreed to Law-son's request that he have a chat with Brother Gabriel to ask why Dale Gordon would have placed ten calls to him this month alone.

"Why don't you call him yourself?" he'd asked.

"I could. But I'd probably get the runaround. People tend to freeze up, get skittish over the telephone, become suspicious and won't tell you squat. They know you. You might get more. Besides, this is only background, follow-up stuff."

Ritchey was savvy enough to know that he couldn't just barge in on the county's celebrity citizen unannounced. Brother Gabriel owned the whole mountain on which his sprawling compound was situated. The last thing Sheriff Ritchey wanted to do was offend the famous evangelist, although Brother Gabriel took exception to being called such. Other TV preachers had given the word a bad connotation. Besides, he was unlike any other and resented being lumped into the umbrella classification.

Sheriff Ritchey had called ahead. He was expected. When he pulled to a stop at the entrance to the Temple, the guard stepped to his driver's window and said, "Peace and love, Sheriff."

"Peace and love," he said back, feeling a little foolish.

The guard looked him over, checked the back seat, and then returned to his booth and opened the electronic gate. From there it was another half mile (point six, to be exact) to the heart of the compound.

In addition to the main building, there were several outbuildings, among them dormitories for the people who lived and worked there. One building was a dedicated school with a
well-equipped playground. The building with the satellite dish on the roof was, of course, the television studio from which Brother Gabriel transmitted his various programs.

The building without windows was the command post for the elaborate security system, which was necessary to protect a world figure like Brother Gabriel. It was said he had recruited his guards from armies and intelligence forces around the world, handpicking the cream of the crop from soldiers and mercenaries trained to protect heads of state and willing to die if necessary to ensure that protection.

Brother Gabriel had legions of followers. Naturally, a man with that much power and influence over the spiritual lives of men and women had also cultivated many critics. He wasn't paranoid, but he was sensible.

He lived in what he called a "carnal" world, where lost souls were wont to do just about anything, sometimes for the thrill, sometimes for attention, sometimes for reasons that were permanently locked inside their troubled psyches. So the compound's security setup was extensive and state-of-the-art.

This was only the second time Ritchey had been to the compound. He was a little intimidated. He knew his every move was being monitored by strategically placed video cameras. He felt eyes watching him from deep inside the security building as he alighted from his sheriff's unit and climbed the granite steps to the imposing entrance of the main building.

It was rather like a sinner approaching the Pearly Gates. He wasn't all that confident of being admitted. His heart was pounding with excitement and trepidation as he depressed the button to the right of the wide glass doors.

He could see the guard seated behind a console inside the marble foyer. "Sheriff Ritchey?" The voice came through a speaker directly over Ritchey's head.

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you remove your hat, please?"

"Oh, sure."

He took off his wide-brimmed hat and practically stood at attention. "Come in," the guard said.

He heard the metallic click as the locking mechanism was released. Pulling open the heavy door, he stepped into an oasis of pastel marble. Soft music was playing. The guard was uniformed, spit-and-polished, but he smiled congenially. "They're waiting for you upstairs. Take the elevator to the third floor."

"Thank you."

There were cameras in the ceiling of the elevator, too.

Ritchey tried not to let his self-consciousness show. He concentrated on not shifting his weight from one foot to the
other, on not clearing his throat.

After a smooth, soundless ascent, the doors opened and he
stepped out. A man was standing there to greet him, whom he recognized as Brother Gabriel's right-hand man. Tall, erect, soft-spoken, immaculately groomed, a white carnation in the
lapel of his dark suit jacket.

"Hello, Sheriff Ritchey. Nice to see you again. It's been a
while."

"Mr. Hancock." Deferentially he shook the manicured hand
that was extended to him.

"Brother Gabriel is waiting."

Without further ado, Ritchey was escorted into an enormous chamber that reminded him of the Great Room at Carlsbad Caverns, the one you had to troop miles through the deep, dark cave to reach. But when you got there, it was worth the time and effort. So was this.

Gold everywhere. Molding. Furniture. Doorknobs. Hinges.

Everything that could be gold was gold. The wattage of the lighting was kept low, otherwise one might have been blinded by so much brilliance.