Authors: L. J. Sellers
Then what? Sarah didn’t know what to think. If Darcie’s claims were true, then her little sister Delilah wasn’t safe growing up in the church and she had to get her out. Maybe none of the women were as safe as they thought. Sarah felt sick to her stomach. Reverend Carmichael was like a father. She prayed she was wrong.
Chapter 40
Monday, Nov. 6, 9:16 a.m.
A hospital was the worst place to get any rest, Eric thought irritably. The night before, he’d been awakened every two hours by a nurse taking his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. Now he was so tired he couldn’t tell if he felt better or not. He planned to leave anyway. Joe had brought his clothes the night before along with the cheeseburgers, as promised. All Eric had to do was get up and get dressed. He was working up the courage to try again. Yesterday’s collapse had him worried. Thinking of Jenna, Eric clamped his teeth together and swung his legs to the floor.
The pain was bad, but not like before. Encouraged, he stood up. The room dipped and swayed for a moment, then stabilized. Eric padded into the bathroom to take his second stand-up piss in two days. It felt good to be on his feet. The agony in his chest would take some getting used to though. Getting dressed turned into a ten-minute exercise in self-control. Every movement was excruciating. Lifting his arms to slide into a shirt, bending over to put on socks and shoes. He fought to keep from moaning out loud.
“Where do you think you’re going?” An attractive, gray-haired nurse in a bright yellow smock stood in the doorway, arms folded, looking more amused than upset.
“Home.”
“Then you won’t be needing your pain medication?”
Eric bit his lip. “That’s right.” He would regret it, he knew, but his pride had a mind of its own.
“Please stay another day.” She came into the room, her voice serious now.
“I can’t.”
“Someone tried to kill you. What if they try again?”
Eric landed back on the bed with a thud. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of a second attack. He was in no condition to defend himself, but he would be even more vulnerable if he stayed in the hospital, drugged and accessible. Eric changed his mind about going home. Maybe he could stay with Joe for a few days. Or with Jackson, who carried a gun.
Ashamed of his fear, Eric forced himself to stop thinking about his attacker. The police would pick up the guy soon.
He stood. “Do I need to sign anything before I go?”
“Your doctor will want you to sign papers saying you checked out against medical advice, and I need to find a wheelchair for you. Hospital policy.”
Eric slipped out as soon as she was gone. He took the elevator to the first floor, trying to look normal instead of like the walking wounded. He turned left when he exited the elevator and walked about a hundred feet before he realized he was headed in the wrong direction. Frustrated, he headed back, picking up his pace in spite of the pain.
On the other side of the building, the hallway opened into a large main lobby that was busy with people going in and out through automatic doors and crowding around a three-sided admitting desk. Eric reached for his cell phone, but realized he didn’t have it. Was it with his bloody clothes? He headed for the pay phone in the lobby and called a cab.
He glanced up at the clock behind the desk. A man at the opposite end of the counter caught his eye. Holy shit! It was the guy who stabbed him. Eric’s heart beat like a jackhammer. The man nodded at the clerk and moved away.
Eric tried to follow, but a large group of people had gathered in front of the counter. They looked like an extended family with unhappy business. He sidestepped them, then hurried toward the automatic doors. The man was already outside, jogging toward the end of the parking lot. Eric followed as fast as he could, his wound screaming with every long stride. He slowed his steps when the man jumped into an old black truck and fired it up.
What now?
For a fleeting second, he pictured himself leaping into the back of the truck as it sped out of the parking lot. In reality, he knew he’d never make it. The best he could do was get the license plate number.
A flash of yellow caught his eye. His cab! Eric shuffled back to the hospital entrance where the cab had come to a stop. He climbed in. The cabbie was fifty, fat, and had a strictly no-nonsense look. Eric grinned at him. “I know this is going to sound silly, but I want you to follow that black truck.”
The cab driver looked back over the seat with one eyebrow lifted skeptically. “Say what?”
“Follow that guy in the black truck please. I’ll give you twenty bucks.” Eric reached for his wallet, which he’d found in the nightstand next to his hospital bed.
“If this is about drugs or any other crime, forget it.” The cabbie twisted around to get a better look at him.
Eric started to tell him the truth, then changed his mind. “I think he’s screwing my wife and I have to know for sure.”
“You poor bastard. I’ll try.” The man turned back around and gunned the cab out of the parking lot.
“It would be best if he didn’t know we were back here,” Eric said.
“Is he the violent type?” The driver stared at him through the rearview mirror. “Maybe packing a gun? Tell me now if I’m about to get my ass shot off.”
“I don’t think so.” It didn’t sound convincing, even to him. Eric sincerely hoped he wasn’t putting the cab driver in any danger. “What’s your name?”
“Rich Bonavatti.”
“I’m Eric Troutman.”
It occurred to Eric that he should call Jackson for help. Again, he reached for his cell phone, but still didn’t have it.
“Do you have a cell phone?” he asked the driver.
“My battery is dead. I’ve got it charging now. We can check it in a few minutes.”
Eric considered his options. If the killer headed out of town or changed vehicles while he stopped at a pay phone—if he could find one—they might lose the guy. It was best to stay with the truck until he had a license number at least. This guy could lead him to Jenna.
Up ahead, the truck made a left turn on Eleventh Street. Rich eased into the left lane. “Any idea where this guy’s going?”
“No.” Eric didn’t feel like chatting. His chest hurt like hell, and his bowels were tied up in knots. “You don’t happen to have any aspirin do you?”
“Sure.” Rich dug around in the glove box, tossing papers on the floor until he came up with a small bottle. “It’s generic.” He tossed it over the seat.
“Thanks.”
Eric worked up a good spit and swallowed two. They stuck in his throat for a moment while he worked up another spit. He would have killed for a cup of coffee.
Rich was surprisingly good at maneuvering through the heavy traffic and keeping the truck in sight. After twelve blocks, the black rig turned right on Polk. Rich followed a minute later.
“This is kinda fun.” The cabbie grinned into the rearview mirror. “Beats taking little old ladies to church.”
Eric tried to grin back but couldn’t muster it. Rich was being a good sport, but Eric just wanted it to be over. He felt like he’d aged ten years in the last week.
Polk was narrow and bumpy with a stop sign at every cross street. The truck never got far ahead, but a red Volkswagen turned in front of them off Tenth Street, and a white Neon wedged between them and the Volkswagen at Ninth. Eric started to worry. He rolled down his window and leaned out.
The sky was dark with the threat of rain. Cool, moist air whipped past his face. Eric watched the black truck pull into a bank at the corner of Seventh and Polk.
“He’s at the bank.” Eric shivered and rolled up the window. His body felt depleted, unable to generate heat or strength.
Rich grunted. “Should I pull in or circle around?”
“Pull into the alley next to the drive-up windows.”
They waited for what seemed like ten minutes before the traffic cleared enough to make a left turn. Rich finally screeched across in front of an old couple in a mint green sedan, hitting the gravel alley at a dangerous speed. They bounced through a foot-deep pothole, throwing mud and water in all directions. When the cab stopped lurching, Eric spotted the truck in the bank parking lot. He didn’t see the driver. Rich kept going.
“Turn around.” Eric wished he was driving.
“As soon as I get out of this alley.” The cabbie was still excited by the chase. “You noticed they put up a barrier?”
Eric looked back, barely seeing the short cement blocks. The ex-con had come out of the bank and was striding toward his truck.
“Stop!”
Eric’s face smashed into the front seat as Rich slammed the brakes. Pain radiated from his chest to his fingertips. Fifty feet away, the truck roared to life. Eric strained to see the back license plate. He didn’t get a good look at all six characters until the truck backed out. SQR-354.
“Let’s go! He’s headed out the Seventh Street exit.”
Rich hit the gas, bouncing through the alley toward the cross street a block away. When he hit the pavement he turned hard to the left.
“No! The other way!” Panicked, Eric shouted at the top of his voice.
“I thought you wanted to turn around.” Rich slammed the brakes and shot him a look.
“Go around the block.” Eric ground his teeth.
Rich jammed the cab in reverse, tires squealing, and backed into the alley. Eric was trying not to panic, but the truck was getting away. The cab sent gravel flying as Rich hauled ass to the right. They screeched to a stop at the corner of Seventh and waited for a break before they could join the flow of traffic. The wide, one-way street was heavily congested. Rich accelerated, weaving back and forth across the four lanes, passing everyone. Eric watched the side streets and parking lots but didn’t see the truck.
Damn! He couldn’t have gotten very far. He had to have turned off somewhere. Eric started to sweat.
“He could have gone back down Polk,” Rich offered.
“I looked.” Eric was so upset he could barely speak. He had come so close.
“Sorry I lost him.”
“It’s all right. Not your fault.”
“I hope things work out with your wife.”
“I’m not optimistic.” Eric’s chest tightened. A person could only take so much abuse and disappointment.
After the cab driver dropped Eric at home, he called Jackson, who actually answered for a change. “I saw our ex-con when I was leaving the hospital a while ago. He’s driving a black truck with the license plate number SQR-354. I lost him at the corner of Seventh and Polk.
“You left the hospital?” Jackson seemed not to have heard anything else.
Eric closed his eyes. The left side of his chest hurt like hell. “Did you get that license number?” he asked. “The sooner you get it to the dispatcher, the more likely we are to catch this guy.”
“Still doing my job for me?” Jackson sounded a little amused and a irritated.
“What did you find out about the doctor?”
“Stop playing detective and get back to the hospital. I know I was skeptical at first, but I’m on it now.”
“Fine, but I want to know about the doctor anyway. I’ve earned the right.”
“I guess you have.” Jackson paused, as if to consult his notes. “After Carmichael quit the hospital, he found God and started his own church, which has a mailing address in Blue River. The church itself is in an old survivalist compound off Deercreek Road, out in the middle of nowhere. The members, who seem to be mostly women and children, live there commune style and rarely come into town.”
Jackson paused, probably to drinks some coffee, then continued, “Federal agents raided the place back in ‘94 when the survivalists were stockpiling weapons, so someone at the Bureau knows how to get there. I’m still working on that end. The FBI doesn’t like to share.”
The news that Carmichael was a religious nutcake sent a chill down Eric’s spine. “I know how to get to Deercreek Road.”
“Don’t even think about it, Troutman. I’ve already got an arrest warrant for the doctor, and as soon as I have a more specific location, I’ll get a subpoena to search the compound.”
“What about the ex-con?”
“His name’s George Grafton. He did thirteen years at Pendleton for armed robbery. He’s kept himself clean since he got out. His address is the same as the church, which by the way is called the Church of the Reborn. Patrol officers are on the lookout for Grafton now.”
“Any idea why they would kidnap Jenna?” Eric could picture a sacrificial altar stained with blood.
“None. The church has been quietly collecting donations and minding its own business for nine years. Or so we think. Who knows how many missing women might turn up out there?”
“That’s a frightening thought. You’d better get that license number to the dispatcher.”
“I already did. Either go back to the hospital or at least sit in your Lazyboy and don’t move.”
“Keep me informed okay? I want to know as soon as you pick up either of these guys.”
“Take care of yourself.” Jackson hung up.
Eric was amused by Jackson’s concern but had no intention of giving up now. He called the newspaper, but Joe wasn’t at his desk. He left a message asking him to investigate the Church of the Reborn and find its location if he could.
Eric got in the Firebird and headed to Sheri’s on Eleventh Street for food and coffee. He couldn’t bear to stay in the house. It no longer seemed safe. The hope that Jenna might still be alive had rekindled with a flare. Carmichael might be grabbing women and brainwashing them into joining his church or, hard as it was to imagine, enslaving them for other purposes. Either way, Eric couldn’t rest until he knew for sure.
Chapter 41
Monday, Nov. 6, 10:17 a.m.
“Another girl!” Elizabeth was jubilant. Of the three remaining embryos, one had begun to malfunction, dividing into irregular cells. Thankfully, the last two were both females. She’d been scared since she’d thrown the male in the trash, leaving herself with only three. The outburst had been rash and inexplicable, so unlike her usual controlled self. Elizabeth had blamed it on the nicotine withdrawals, then had helped herself to a Valium from David’s drug cabinet. By the time he came down after his nap, she was feeling more relaxed.