OVER DINNER, AYNSLEE CAUGHT ME UP ON HER homework. “The newspapers said that the guys you drew were part of a Phineas Priesthood group. They robbed banks and did other stuff. I looked up the Phineas Priesthood, and guess what?”
“I give up.”
“They’re like Nazis and Hitler and stuff.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They even celebrate Hitler’s birthday, April 20. There was some stuff about the ‘Fourteen Words,’ but I didn’t get that part.”
I jumped up from the table and snatched up the phone. Beth answered on the second ring. “That pamphlet I gave you. From the church.”
“It’s right here. I haven’t had time to read it yet. We just walked in the door. The . . . ah . . . American Christian Covenant Church. What about it?”
“Where are they located?”
“South of Missoula. About ten miles away from us.”
“Do they list service times?”
“Yes. Sundays at eleven.”
“I’m going to have Aynslee send you some information. I need you to put that ole research brain of yours to work.”
“Let me guess.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “We’re all going to church on Sunday. But not our usual one.”
“Not quite. We’re all going to church, but not the same one.”
“Not fair, Gwen. I thought I was your partner.”
“You are. That’s why you’re keeping Aynslee safe and away from the Bible-and-swastika crowd.”
“Speaking of Bibles and research, don’t forget to prepare your Bible study for this next week. Given who’s coming to visit tomorrow . . .”
“What—”
Beth hung up.
As if I didn’t have enough on my mind. I looked at Aynslee. “Would you e-mail your research to Beth?”
“Sure. It took me forever to read it. I wish I could be a speed-reader like Beth.”
“That’s a learnable skill. Why don’t you look into it?”
“Okay. I already printed out some of the stuff I thought you’d like to look at. It’s on your desk.” Aynslee stood and grabbed her dirty dishes. “Mom?”
“What, sweetheart?”
“These people.” She took her dishes to the sink, rinsed them, then put them in the dishwasher. “Is there a chance, I mean, would they hurt you? Like last time?” She turned and faced me. “The stuff I read. They seem to hate a lot of people.”
“Oh.” I quickly joined her and put an arm around her. “Don’t worry.” I gave her a quick hug. “They think differently than we do, that’s all.”
“But one of the articles said that hate groups have gotten bigger by over fifty percent.”
I hugged her again, this time a bit harder. “Did the article say why?”
“The economy, and immigration, and stuff like that. They’re afraid of the government.”
“Hmm. That’s not so—”
“They call it the ‘Zion Occupied Government,’ and say that the white race is being overrun and diluted by nonwhites.”
“Okay, that’s different. You’ll have a lot to write about in your paper.” Dinner solidified into a lump in my stomach. “I’ll clean up. You go ahead and work on your homework.”
“Deal.” She moved toward her room. “What are we doing tomorrow?”
“I have some work to do.” I finished cleaning the table, placing my dishes with hers in the dishwasher. “Beth will be by to pick you up for the movie in Copper Creek, and she’s invited you to spend the night.”
“Really? That’ll be fun.”
She skipped from the room. I tried to remember the last time I’d gone to a movie with a friend. And the last time I’d skipped from a room.
The earlier downpour slowed, then stopped. I started the dishwasher and headed down the hall, pausing outside of Aynslee’s bedroom door. All was silent. I peeked in. She was sitting on the bed, earbuds on, and typing on her laptop.
I picked up my Bible, notepad, and pencil from the end table by my bed, then returned to the kitchen. Pulling down the Scripture verse magnet, I said a quick prayer. “Lord, inspire me, show me what is Your will in presenting this topic to the women’s group.” I looked up Colossians 3:13.
“ ‘Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others.’ ”
“You’re kidding me, Beth. I’m supposed to talk about forgiveness?” Jumping up, I slammed my Bible shut. “You’ll have to find another presenter.”
I stalked down the hall, entered Robert’s office, and turned on the lights. My gaze roamed around the masculine, green-plaid walls and stark window treatment. I squeezed my hands into fists. This is not Robert’s office. He’s gone. Never coming back. Now it’s my room. My space. Walking to the center of the room, I slowly turned around. I could set this up like a task-force room. With visuals and case files. The first chance I got, I’d paint it pink.
When Robert comes tomorrow, he’ll see no sign he’d ever lived here.
After shoving the desk away from the windows and to the right side of the room, I took the folding chair into my studio and returned with the leather desk chair.
From the supply closet in my studio, I yanked an uncut piece of white, thirty-by-forty-inch foam core, the material I used for the backing when I framed artwork. I took it into my office. Returning to the studio, I picked up tape, the drawings, and a portable easel.
After taping the drawings and notes to the board, I found a county map in the kitchen junk drawer and added it to the display. Three brightly colored pushpins marked where we’d found bodies and Mattie. The list of known and unknowns completed the display. The space was looking like a regular investigation room. Better.
Dave’s question was a good one. Using a black Sharpie, I wrote Why me? on the board.
Returning to my studio for notepaper, I found Aynslee’s research on my desk. The top sheet was a printout of the front page of the Spokane newspaper, dated five years earlier.
I gasped.
Dave leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It was late, and silence replaced the normal hum of voices. With budget cuts, officers out sick, and now these new cases, he was scrambling to have the county covered. At least the state crime lab completed their work on the McCandless farm and released the scene, so the officer directing traffic could be reassigned.
Once Gwen brought him the sketch of the Jane Doe in the pasture, he’d get Craig to check out missing persons and maybe release the drawing to the press.
He glanced at the program on his computer screen. Dre would be putting in for overtime, Gwen needed to be paid, and he’d need to bring in everyone to work on that torchlight parade, so his budget was already in the toilet, and it was only mid-April.
He could have an open hunting season if the autopsy proved wolves killed that girl. He already had a serial killer preying on women. It could be coincidence, but Dave didn’t really believe in coincidences.
Pinching away the looming headache, he reached for his pen. A delicate, rose-decorated cup of cooling tea rested beside his elbow. He shoved it away.
Gwen thought Wes was the culprit in throwing his cell phone into the bushes so he could take over the forensic work on the McCandless farm murders. He wrote Call Jeannie and reporter on the yellow legal pad in front of him.
The phone rang.
“Dre here. Just finished up with the body in the field. Gwen was right about her smacking into the barbed-wire fence. We found some torn material down a bit from the body.”
Dave jotted a note. “I’ll call Search and Rescue first thing in the morning to see if they can get a hound to track her route.”
“Good luck on that. We just had a real frogwash of a rain.”
“We’ll at least give it a try. Go on home and get some sleep.”
“You too.”
The symbol seemed to leap from the paper. A capital letter P with a line through it.
The headlines above screamed “Terrorist Suspects Identified.” I read the article as I slowly walked to the office.
The FBI revealed today the identity of two men who died last week in a traffic accident in Kellogg, Idaho, while fleeing from the scene of a shootout with police.
Kenneth Allen Weeks and Peter Lowell Evans opened fire on patrol officer Mike Higgins, then attempted to flee. They were struck by a logging truck driven by Harold Patton of St. Maries at the I-90 Division Street on-ramp. Patton was treated and released. Weeks and Evans were pronounced dead at the scene.
After the two men rented a house on Mission Street, one neighbor noticed a “striking resemblance” between the men and sketches released in the search for suspects in the fatal bombing of a Planned Parenthood site.
The composites, drawn by well-known Montana forensic artist Gwen Marcey, have been circulated by area police asking for the public’s help in identifying the suspects. The neighbor called police, and when Officer Higgins showed up, the men opened fire.
Wincing at the mention of my name, I skipped down and resumed reading.
Weeks and Evans were part of Spokane’s Phineas Priesthood cell, part of the Christian Identity movement.
I knew that symbol. The piece of paper under the dead cat, still in the plastic bag resting on the window ledge, contained the smeared Phineas Priesthood mark.
But I was missing something. I’d seen that symbol, or a part of it, one other time.
Picking up a pencil, I twirled it in my fingers as I walked around the room, pausing by the downloaded images from the body in the cow pasture. Of course. The scrap of map in the girl’s hand. In the far corner was a hand-drawn shape. A portion of the Priesthood symbol.
Taking the article, newspaper, and photo of the map with me, I trotted down the hall to the office. After taping everything to the foam core, I stepped back.
Why would an old Phineas Priesthood bombing case in Washington be connected to a serial killer in Montana? I drew the composites on the Priesthood case, but I’d basically been thrown off the local serial killings. And Dave’s question still remained. Why me? I shook my head, then pulled my sweater closer. Robert’s—no, my new office felt cold and smelled musty. Tomorrow I’d air out the room.
Sitting at the desk, I stared at the display, but nothing connected. Absently I tried the desk drawers one by one. A lined notepad, an empty tissue box, a broken stapler, a crumpled piece of paper, and a writer’s magazine featuring Robert on the cover. I stacked everything on top of the desk, then propped Robert’s face against the box. Smoothing out the paper, I recognized a list I’d thrown in Robert’s face during our last, epic fight. I’d written down every terrible thing he’d ever said or done to me.
The bottom drawer yielded a pistol. I pulled it out and placed it in front of me. I remembered Robert buying it on a whim.
Memories flooded my brain, whirling around, making me clench my teeth. When will I stop thinking about him? When will he no longer have the power to hurt me?
“I really want to hurt you,” I said to Robert’s image on the magazine cover.
I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. A massive yoke seemed to settle on my shoulders. I crossed my arms on the desk, rested my forehead on them, and closed my eyes.
A soft hand touched me.
I jerked upright.
Aynslee stood in the doorway, face pale. Beth was standing beside me. Early-morning sun streamed through the window.
“Musta fallen asleep.” My brain was as muddied as a gouache painting. I ran my tongue over my teeth, wondering if someone had left a dirty sock in my mouth.
“Did you hear me?” Beth asked quietly. “Gwen. It can’t be that bad.”
“What?”
“Please, just give me the gun.” She slowly reached for the pistol I still had in my hand.
“You mean this?” I aimed the pistol at Robert’s image and pulled the trigger.