Grounds to Believe (3 page)

T
he woman had called herself Miriam for so many years that she’d pretty much forgotten her real name. The only entity her real name mattered to was the government, and she didn’t have anything to do with them.

Or hadn’t, anyway. Until now.

She looked at the child sleeping on the orange plastic bench at the bus depot and sighed. She’d signed up to do the right thing, so she had to go through with it. Moses had told her where they were going after they’d buried Annie, and she’d just have to meet them there when she was done.

Minus the child.

She picked up the pay phone’s receiver and dialed Information.

“What listing, please?”

“The sheriff. And could you put me through to the number?”

“That will be a dollar twenty-five, please.”

Miriam put the quarters in the phone, and the number rang through.

“Inish County Sheriff’s Department.”

“I’m looking for a deputy named Ross Malcolm. Could you transfer me, please?” The formal language, the politeness, felt stilted on her tongue.

The woman rang her through, and Miriam dared to feel a little hope threaded through the mass of her built-up distrust and fear.

“Human Resources.”

“I’m looking for a deputy named Ross Malcolm who works there.”

A clicking sound rattled in the background. “The only person by that name who’s worked here since I’ve been here transferred up to Seattle several years ago.”

The flicker of hope died. Seattle was on the other side of the state. At the ends of the earth.

“Did he go to a sheriff’s department there?” she asked faintly.

“Nope. Seattle P.D. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No.” Dispensing with politeness, Miriam hung up the pay phone a little harder than she had to.

Seattle. Talk about finding a needle in a haystack. It would be less trouble to take the girl back with her. She was small, but even the little ones paid their way. She might make a good shill. God knew those eyes had made Miriam herself act completely out of character.

Had forced her to make a promise she no longer wanted to keep.

Rita Ulstad had agreed to meet Ross near a drooping Japanese maple on the hospital grounds. In front of them was the parking lot, scattered with cars. Ross turned as the petite nurse slid onto the bench beside him.

“Ms. Ulstad?”

Her face was so immaculately made up she could have passed for thirty. Fashionably mussed, her hair was tinted taffy-blond. “Call me Rita.” She looked him up and down. “You’re Ross Malcolm? The cop?”

He crossed his denim-clad legs, and his heavy riding boots sank into the lawn. “A lot of my work takes me undercover.”

“Wow. I guess I’ve never met anyone in plainclothes before.”

“I clean up when I have to.” He smiled at her. “Harry Everett says you can tell me about Ryan Blanchard.”

“Whatever you need to know. I’m past the point of professional discretion here. All I want is to see justice done and those people exposed for who they are.”

“Okay…who are ‘those people’?”

“The Blanchards? Or the Elect in general?”

“Start with the big picture and work in. What’s your history with this group? What are they called—the Elect?”

“As in ‘Who shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s elect.’ I don’t know how much you know about the Bible, but they use that verse as a recipe for justifying just about anything, let me tell you. Anyway, to get back to your question, I grew up in it. Spent thirty years in Gathering, three to four times a week. It’s mind control, plain and
simple.” The waving leaves of the Japanese maple flicked shadows across the baby-fine wrinkles in her skin. “They’re a cult. They tossed me out because I fell in love with someone they thought was unsuitable. It was that or give him up and spend the rest of my life in my correct but miserable marriage. There is no freedom of choice in the Elect, Ross. No second chances. You follow the rules or lose everything.”

“What do you mean by everything?”

“Friends, family, community support, everything that’s important.”

“Did they abuse you?”

She gave him a look hardened by resentment into implacability. “The worst kind of abuse is to deny another person their freedom.”

Ross thought about that for a moment, about the haunted eyes of all those little kids. The real root of all evil. “How well do you know the Blanchards?”

“Ryan’s dad, Owen, is an Elder so he’s well educated in mind control. The famous Blanchard charm is just a front. The whole town thinks Jesus has already come back, and is alive and well at Hamilton High.” Bitterness crackled in her tone.

“He’s the principal there, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t the Outsider parents have a problem with that?”

“Oh, I’m not saying he’s a bad administrator. He’s too smart to bring his beliefs to work in an obvious way. But he’s not the one I came to talk to you about. His son is.”

“What about him?”

“That child is four years old. He’s been admitted no fewer than twenty-five times. Had three major surgeries. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“It strikes me as hard on him and his family.” Ross tried to imagine sitting in a hospital waiting room twenty-five times, wondering over and over if your child would survive. A chill ran over his skin. The maple leaves rustled behind him. “What’s the matter with him?”

“That’s the problem. Nothing conclusive. He has seizures where he chucks up everything in his stomach. Sometimes he’s lethargic and unresponsive afterwards, sometimes not. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. We’ve thought it was some kind of massive gastric infection, but it can’t be pinned down with tests. Whatever he’s got, it won’t be diagnosed.” She paused for breath, and the angry color faded from her cheeks. “And now here he is again, back on the ward. Something isn’t right. I’ve tried to talk to Michael Archer but he’s one of them. His loyalty is to Blanchard and no one else. I took it to the head of my department here and got the door closed in my face. As soon as you bring religion in, no one will touch it. They think I’m nuts and Archer is in the right. So now I’m taking it to you.”

The hospital brass thought Rita Ulstad’s concerns were nothing but sour grapes and a desire for attention. Well, Harry had warned him. Her attitude toward the Elect colored her information—maybe even twisted it. Where did that leave his investigation? Or the well-being of the little kid?

A group of people emerged from the cafeteria door and walked toward the parking lot.

“Oh, no.” Rita Ulstad swung to face him, bracing an elbow on the back of the bench to put a hand to her face as a shield. “It’s them. The Blanchards, visiting the boy. They’re going to walk right behind us. Don’t let them see my face.”

All he needed was for the targets to see him with someone they didn’t trust. He should have anticipated that they’d be visiting the kid and insisted on a meeting away from the hospital. Ross slid over and put an arm along the back of the bench, bending close to give the appearance of a tête-à-tête. He peered cautiously over Rita’s shoulder.

Two young women bracketed a tall blond man. An older couple, the woman as well-upholstered as a pouter pigeon and the man so conservatively dressed he practically disappeared, followed them. The redhead on the blond man’s left was likely the mother. She was crying, holding a tissue to her face with both hands. All of the women were dressed in unrelieved black, right down to their stockings and shoes, as though they had just come from a funeral. The men’s shirts, at least, were white, but their ties were black, and devoid of anything so frivolous as a pattern.

“Julia, not so loud,” the pigeon said, tapping the redhead on the shoulder with two stiffly curled fingers. “Showing so much emotion in public is like saying you don’t accept God’s will. Look at Madeleine. Her resignation shows a lovely spirit.”

“Resignation, my foot,” Rita hissed in his ear, her lips brushing his skin. “She doesn’t deserve those kids.”

“The brunette is the mother?” he whispered. “Not the redhead?”

“Yes. And the harpy is Elizabeth McNeill, their mother. Isn’t she a terror?” Ross and his informant watched the family climb into separate four-door sedans and pull out onto the street. “All that rot about not showing emotion in public.” Rita sounded disgusted. “It’s unnatural.”

“I don’t get it,” Ross admitted. “Crying over a sick kid is reasonable.”

“That’s because you’re a rational man. It shows you how twisted their thinking is. To show her acceptance of God’s will in putting her kid in the hospital, Madeleine never drops a tear. That’s our Madeleine. Always the perfect example of godliness in public. Who knows what she’s like in private? If I had to live with someone that perfect, I’d choke. Poor Julia.”

“The sister?” The one Harry Everett wanted him to cultivate?

“Yes. She hasn’t got much of a life. Imagine having Madeleine thrown in your face every time you didn’t measure up.”

“She’s having a little trouble accepting God’s will.”

“She’s the most human of the whole bunch. I used to like Julia, even though she never has a word to say for herself. The self-confidence of a rabbit and no wonder.”

Would she make a good informant? Ross asked himself. Did she have the spine to talk to an Outsider, or would she scurry for cover before he could convince her he meant no harm? More important, would she make a good advocate for him with the church?

There was only one way to find out. He thanked Rita for her time and swung himself onto the bike.

On an assignment like this a guy needed a book to read. And if Jenny the clerk was right, he knew just where to look for one.

Miriam gritted her teeth and tried to remember Moses’ sermons on patience. But waiting patiently for the end of the world was a whole different kettle of fish than trying to deal patiently with the minions of bureaucracy.

On the whole, she was better equipped for Armageddon.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t give out that information,” the very young woman who answered the phone for Seattle P.D. said for the second time.

“Please. I’m his aunt. I’ve been out of the country for years and I’m trying to make contact with my nieces and nephews. Now, the sheriff’s department in Inish County had no problem telling me he’d signed on with you folks. Don’t you think Ross would want to know his aunt is looking for him?”

“I don’t doubt that at all, ma’am. But I still can’t give out information about present or former members of this department.”

“Former? You mean he isn’t with Seattle P.D. after all? Why, those girls in Inish County, they’ve made me waste all this money in long-distance charges for nothing.”

“Ma’am, I didn’t mean—”

Miriam gave a theatrical sigh. “I guess I’m just going to have to reconcile my differences with that boy’s mama.
Much as I hate to do it, since she was the one who started it all, but if it means not being able to see my favorite nephew after all these years in Africa, why…”

The girl on the other end of the phone was beginning to get flustered. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, ma’am. It’s just that the OCTF…well, we try to help them keep a low profile, if you know what I mean.”

Who or what was the OCTF? “Oh, I do indeed, young lady. Well, thank you for your time. I’m going to call my sister and give her the shock of her life. Goodbye.”

Miriam hung up the phone with a mixture of anger and glee. So the child’s father had moved on from the police department, too. What kind of a fly-by-night was he, anyway?

Now she had to find out what in the world’s end the OCTF was.

J
ulia McNeill crouched in the display window of the bookshop, draping blue muslin to form an artistic backdrop for a collection of children’s books—a display designed to catch the eye of a tired parent with a car full of antsy children.

She heard the throaty rumble of a big motorcycle coming down Main Street, and glanced out in time to see the biker ride past—the one who had been cuddling in such a disgraceful way with the nurse on the hospital lawn. Dark hair was almost completely covered by a helmet shaped like a chamber pot. His hands gripped brake and clutch with careless control, his boots riding at an insolent angle on the foot pegs. Everything about him shouted testosterone. The set of those broad shoulders and long legs proclaimed that he couldn’t care less what people thought of him.

Unlike herself. What people thought shaped her behavior, her choice of words, sometimes even her own thoughts. When you were one of the God’s own Elect, you
had to be responsible for your example every minute of the day. You never knew who might be watching—and be saved because of it.

“Where are the police when you need them?” she complained, looking over her shoulder into the interior of the shop. Rebecca was checking inventory in her big ledger behind the till. Quill and Quinn was no dusty hole-in-the-wall bookshop. Bars of sunlight from the skylights picked out the creamy paint, and the green trim accented the living green of ficus trees and fat, healthy plants on every flat surface not piled with books.

“What’s that, dear?” Rebecca frowned at the ledger.

Julia’s admiration for her boss ran deep. Rebecca was a wizard at math, her pencil flying down the columns of figures. There was no doubt she could have taken a degree and been a teacher. But showing off her brains was neither womanly nor humble. Instead, Rebecca’s talent had found its outlet in taking over the bookshop after her brother Lawrence passed away, rest his soul. It was a good thing the Shepherds had decided computers were the tools of the Devil, along with radio and television. If she had a machine to do her figures for her, her talent would probably atrophy. God certainly knew best.

“It’s that biker,” Julia said. “I don’t know why they don’t arrest him for belonging to a gang. I saw him when I was at the hospital. It makes you wonder if Hamilton Falls is safe anymore.”

Rebecca looked up. “Maybe he was visiting someone,” she replied gently. “Even bikers have families.” She made
a note in one of the columns. “Look at this, will you? They’ve shorted me again, by six copies. You’d think a distributor as big as they are could get an order right. If you’re done with that window, dear, you might try and make some sense of the back room. Aurelia Mills had her coffee group in here yesterday and the place is a shambles.”

Julia finished up her window display and stepped out the front door to have a look at it from the sidewalk. The cheerful, eye-catching covers of the books contrasted well with the blue backdrop. A few more copies on the right side to balance the whole thing, and she’d defy any passing parent not to break stride and have a look.

Main Street had been created to convince the traveler to stop driving and spend some money, and it looked its best in summer. White tables with umbrellas were scattered outside the door of the ice-cream shop next door, and across the street at the coffee bar, where Aurelia Mills’s women’s group got their lattes every Thursday, people lounged on benches and strolled past slowly. The air smelled of the petunias and moss in the baskets hanging from the lampposts above Julia’s head.

She gave a halfhearted wave to Dinah Traynell, who was across the street looking at some dresses hanging outside on a rack, although why she bothered was beyond Julia. Everyone knew Dinah made her own clothes because store-bought things weren’t good enough.

The poor girl. Despite the fact that she was from a family as high-ranking as the McNeills themselves, she was so standoffish she hadn’t a hope of attracting a husband.

“Hey, there,” a voice said behind her. “What are you up to?”

Julia turned and stretched her mouth wide in a smile. Speaking of husbands…Derrick Wilkinson smiled back. Looking neat and dependable in his white dress shirt, black trousers, and sober tie, he joined her in front of the window.

“I just finished a display.” She bumped shoulders with him in a companionable way. They might be a proposal away from getting engaged, but still, PDAs—public displays of affection—were out of the question. Julia rolled her neck, enjoying the warm weight of the sun. It seemed as though she hadn’t seen it in weeks. “I feel horrible for enjoying the sunshine,” she confessed. “Madeleine and Owen have been with Ryan from dawn till dark.”

“I’m sure you do your part, too,” Derrick said loyally.

“The Elect are wonderful. There’s a constant stream of casseroles on the front porch, and people must be cleaning out the fruit stands on their behalf. Everyone is looking after them, but still…Michael says it will be some time before Ryan can come home.”

“No wonder I haven’t seen you lately.”

Another prickle of guilt crept through her. Derrick was everything an Elect girl could want in a man. He was nice-looking, employed, responsible and drove a car that was neither too small to take elderly people to Gathering nor so big that it would be considered flashy. He was fifth-generation Elect. He was perfect husband material, and everyone in the congregation, including Derrick himself, expected
that the next time he proposed, she would say “yes.” Their future would be secure—and because she was the daughter of an Elder, Derrick would be named Deacon automatically. He would be given spiritual responsibility and social privilege second only to Owen’s and her father’s, who themselves were one step down from Melchizedek, the Shepherd of their souls and the final authority in the district.

Derrick’s shoulder bumped hers again and she realized she hadn’t replied to his gentle hint. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’ll call you, okay?”

“No hurry. You know where to find me. I’ve got to get back to work.” Dinah was still watching them from the store window, no doubt making sure they didn’t misbehave on the sidewalk. He gave her a cheery wave as he walked back up the street to the lawyer’s office where he worked.

Julia watched him go. So why hadn’t she said “yes” the last time? His proposals were starting to become a family joke. There was no reason to hesitate, and yet when he did something as innocent and expected as sitting with her family in Gathering, she got annoyed and put him off again. Was it that she wasn’t quite ready to give up her freedom for a life that focused on home and children? Every girl wanted that. She certainly didn’t want to end up like Dinah, pushing thirty and haunting the edges of everyone else’s lives.

But she still didn’t want to say yes. Not yet.

With a sigh, Julia turned and went back inside to deal with the used books. Her mother said she was stubborn and unwilling, and she was probably right.

Rebecca kept a large selection in the back room. She hadn’t been kidding about the coffee club’s depredations. Children’s stories were shoved on top of literature with callous disregard for Julia’s careful, genre-specific filing system. Someone had made off with a Jane Austen that had come in last week. Rats. Julia had been hoping to read it during slow midafternoons. She had to remember her example even in her choice of reading material—she’d heard once that a Shepherd in a neighboring district had pulled a sexy romance out of one of the Elect’s bookshelves and had spent the whole summer preaching about the dreadful things the lady of the house had allowed into her home and her mind—and by extension, into the Kingdom of God. After that, Julia had knelt by her bed and put the desire to read romances on the altar of sacrifice. She didn’t want Melchizedek preaching about
her.

She pulled over one of the straight-backed wooden chairs that Rebecca kept for the benefit of customers—a surface to sit on, but not comfortable enough to read a whole book—and began stacking the misfiled books on it. Inconsiderate New Age hippies, she thought. Swirling through here in their scarves and India cottons, talking about freeing their inner woman and doing nothing but making extra work for other people.

Rebecca stocked only literature, wholesome contemporary fiction, and lots of nonfiction, as well as the used books that the coffee club loved. She put her foot down at romances, murder mysteries or books about worldly reli
gions. The Shepherds might raise an eyebrow over a woman in such a public career, but Rebecca had been the instrument of salvation to so many people that the Shepherd had to admit that perhaps God used the bookstore as part of His mysterious plan. Her benevolent influence was probably the only reason Julia had been allowed to work here instead of at something more womanly, such as Linda Bell’s day care.

Julia sometimes wondered if God would ever get around to using her. Here she was, sister to the Elder’s wife, daughter of an Elder and practically engaged to the next Deacon, and no matter how hard she tried to keep her example shining, no one had ever come to God through her. What kind of a Deacon’s wife would she make?

Without actually taking the plunge and marrying Derrick, she had no way to know. Books, products of the world though they might be, were easier to deal with all the way around, she thought ruefully, and that in itself smacked of sin. She had reached the lower shelves containing the classics and was down on her knees when she became aware she was no longer alone. A customer stood in the doorway. Gathering the books that lay on the floor, she looked up with a “can I help you?” smile.

The biker smiled back.

Julia’s heart gave a panicked kick and she froze, clutching the paperbacks to her chest as though they would protect her. She had a sudden vision of herself and Rebecca being attacked by this Hell’s Angel. Things like that happened in the world all the time.

The blood drained out of Julia’s face and she scrambled to her feet. The spines of someone’s unwanted books dug into her back.

He wore a black leather jacket with the finish rubbed off one shoulder, as if it had scraped over the road. Faded jeans hugged long legs, and the toes of his boots were coated in dust. His hair was mussed and tamped down from the black helmet he held under his arm. A reddish brown lock fell over his right eyebrow. Pale gray eyes regarded her steadily—a killer’s eyes, ruthless and devoid of emotion.

His lips parted, and Julia tensed, her eyes going wide with fear.

“Sorry if I startled you,” the biker said in a soft bass voice that penetrated the roaring in her ears. “The owner said you’d be able to help me.”

“The owner?” Julia whispered. The one who could be lying unconscious in the other room at this very moment?

“I told him you’d know where it was, Julia,” Rebecca called from the front. “It’s that young man you saw a moment ago.”

Rebecca wasn’t unconscious. She was alive and well, and so, for the moment, was Julia. “Where what was?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.

“Are you all right?” the biker queried, looking at her strangely. “You look a little green.”

She took a deep breath. He wanted a book. That was all.

“I’m fine,” she said. Her arms relaxed around the stack of books and began to tremble. Gently, she placed the pile on the chair and gripped her hands to hide their shaking.
“Sorry. What is it you’re looking for?” She tried to arrange her face in a polite, businesslike expression.

“Do you have anything by Donne?”

“Dunne. As in Dominick? I’m afraid we—”

“No. Donne. As in John.”

John Donne? This filthy biker had come in here looking for
poetry?
Julia wished she hadn’t put the books on the chair. She needed to sit down.

He was still standing there, waiting for an answer. “I th-think we have a used copy of the complete works,” she stammered finally. “If it’s still here, it would be under Poetry and Essays.”

She got her feet moving and brushed past him. He was taller than either Owen or Derrick, although the boots were probably good for an inch of it. He was also big. Julia was used to standing next to people like Madeleine and her best friend, Claire, and feeling like a haystack. Now she felt small and feminine and vulnerable. It must be the jacket. It added to his bulk and made him threatening.

Poetry and Essays comprised half a shelf. “He’s not very fashionable these days,” Julia offered hesitantly, pulling Donne out of his place next to Boswell and a beat-up college edition of
The Norton Anthology.
“Here.”

He leafed through the compact volume, holding it reverently. His hands were clean, she noted. Nicely shaped. Long, supple fingers turned the pages. The cuffs of his jacket pulled back briefly, revealing a dusting of dark hair on the backs of his wrists. “Maybe not. But he lost his wife, too,” he said softly, almost absently.

Julia smiled weakly in the direction of his collar in lieu of a reply, and withdrew to the other side of the room. He stood quietly, stopping to read a page here and there, as she collected the abandoned books and began to shelve them.

“So where did you see me?” he asked, disturbing the silence. Her hands were still shaking, and she fumbled. A paperback fell to the floor with a slap.

“You—you just drove past, didn’t you?”

“I did. Anywhere else?”

“At the hospital,” she said reluctantly. She must be crazy, making small talk with a biker. Drat Rebecca anyway, for giving him the opportunity.

“Oh yeah? Were you visiting a friend?”

How nosy and callous could he get? But he was still a customer. Ingrained politeness and years of strictures against causing offense overcame her distaste. “My nephew.” Maybe if she kept it brief he’d drop it. Ryan’s life was far too important for small talk.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that was both soft and compelling. His boots made hollow thuds on the oak planks of the floor.

She concentrated fiercely on fitting the books precisely in their places, her back to him. When he spoke again, his voice came from directly above her. Instinctively, she tensed.

“I hope he’ll be all right.”