Liberty or Death (20 page)

Well, I couldn't hide in here all night. I cast a quick glance at the mirror. Circles under my eyes dark enough to look like bruises. My impossible hair looked like the president should declare a disaster area and call in FEMA. And I looked even more scared than I felt. How come Nancy Drew never got scared or looked like hell? What was I doing wrong? Feeling reassured and empowered, I marched forth to meet my fate.

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

Barker wasn't alone this time. There were two men with him. I recognized them from the meeting at the church. I'd never seen them in the restaurant. "Let's go," he said, holding the door open. I walked through it, wondering if this was what it felt like to be marched to the gallows. The other two men followed behind us. I decided not to make conversation. I wasn't sure I could trust my voice anyway. Our footsteps echoed in the nearly empty street as we marched down the sidewalk, across the church lawn, and up to a side door. All the way, though I'm as brave as a barrel fall of bears, I kept wishing Kalyn and Andy would sweep past and rescue me.

Barker paused at the door and knocked. It swung open but the room beyond was dark. When I hesitated, he grabbed my arm and shoved me, propelling me through the room and up to a second door. Here he didn't knock, just pushed it open. "Go on!" he muttered. "I told you. The man's waiting."

The air had a damp, musty smell, as if the room we were in was rarely opened or aired. There was a shuffling of feet around me, another none-too-gentle push, and then, suddenly, I was alone in the darkness. The door shut and I heard the sound of a key being turned. I closed my eyes—I've found darkness is less scary if I close my eyes—and walked forward with slow, shuffling steps until I hit a wall. Keeping my left hand on the wall, I began to slowly circle the room. Three steps to a corner. Turn. Five steps to the next corner. Turn. Two steps to the door. Three more steps to another corner. Turn. Five steps to the corner. And turn. I was in a room not much bigger than a closet. Given the lack of a window, it probably was a closet. And there was nothing in here except me.

I didn't know what brand of religion this church espoused but it was sorely lacking in Christian charity. Locking the poor, friendless servant girl in a closet was positively Dickensian. Too tired and shaken to stand any longer, I slowly let myself slip down until I was sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, my legs sticking out in front of me like a doll on a child's bed. I was alone in the darkness, my nostrils filled with the scent of Theresa's kitchen and my own scared sweat. I had to keep busy. Not think. Stave off the fear and claustrophobia. Remember that I wasn't here for me.

Cautiously, I explored the floor around me. Rough. Wooden. I thought, from the grit between my fingers, that it hadn't been swept in a long time. With nothing else to do except be scared, I concentrated on exploring, on knowing everything I could about this space. Shifting from place to place, I traveled around the room, always in my sitting position, letting my fingers roam. I was almost around to the door when I felt something wedged into the crack between the wall and the floor.

It was stuck but I persisted, wiggling it until it came free. I couldn't see, of course, but it felt like a tiny cuff link, smooth and rounded on one end, with a little anchor or tail on the other. But a tiny cuff link was an odd thing to find in a closet in a church basement. And then, with a suddenness that took my breath away, I realized what it was. A shirt stud from a dress shirt. And Andre had been wearing a dress shirt when he was taken, because he was on his way to a wedding.

At some point, like me, Andre had been here in this closet. Oh, sure. This was a church. Probably it had seen lots of weddings, some of them with guys who wore shirt studs. But I knew, with an electrifying certainty that might have been pure delusion, that it was Andre's. It was ridiculous but I felt an overwhelming sense of elation, as though I had reached through some forbidden dimension and touched him, temporarily connected through our imprisonment.

There were footsteps outside the door, and the sound of a key turning. Quickly, I shoved the stud into my bra, where it was less likely to be found. The way I kept storing things there, I ought to get some bras made with pockets. I held my breath, wondering what was coming.

When the door opened, someone shone a very bright flashlight right into my eyes. I put my arm over my face and waited. I didn't plead or whimper or ask any questions. I didn't even get up, or look at them. I simply waited.

"Okay, get up and come with me." A new voice. These people were so pitiful. A whole army against one poor waitress. Lord knew how many of them it took to walk a dog. But I didn't share this insight. I would have bet money these guys were humorless. I just clambered to my feet, stiffly, now that I'd let myself stretch out, and followed, slowly, shuffling, keeping my eyes downcast. We went through a couple of rooms and into some kind of an office.

"Sit down." I sat, staring down at the twined fingers in my lap. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Power corrupts,
I thought, raising my eyes to his face. It was no more appealing or attractive than it had been last night. No more kind or generous or understanding, either, but almost savage and angry, but whether it was simply a professional angry pose, or whether he was mad at me, I didn't know. I did know that a reasonable person would be scared of this man. I didn't have to fake the tremble in my voice as I asked, "What do you want? Why am I here?"

"I ask the questions," he said.

I'd heard that before. From a big, scary Hawaiian cop. From an angry bully just before he broke my nose. My eyes began to water in anticipation as my already tender nose began to tingle. I felt a surge of righteous anger. But I wasn't Thea Kozak. I wasn't going to get right up in their faces and dare them to do their worst. Thea had PTSD, she did crazy things when people pushed her around. Dora was just a beaten-down woman trying to get over her belief that she deserved to be treated badly. As Dora, I wasn't throwing down challenges of my own. I wasn't sticking to my guns, come hell or high water. At one time or another, hell and high water had both come, and left me hot, sore, and wet. Nearly drowned. Nearly burned alive. I'd been a sole agent then. Today things were different. I nodded and waited for his questions.

"You drove Lyle Harding down to the jail to visit his father today. Why?"

"He's a sweet little boy. He misses his father."

"He's a complete stranger. You drove for three hours so he could visit. Why?"

"I felt sorry for him. He asked me if I would take him. I had the time off, so I did."

Hannon's fist banged down on the desktop, loud in the quiet room. "Don't lie to me! I asked you why?"

"He was hurting, and I know something about that. But I don't understand," I said, in the slow, puzzled way of someone who truly didn't. "He's just a helpless little kid. I like kids. Is it wrong to feel sorry for a sad little boy? You're a minister. I don't know what kind of a church this is, but do you think there's something wrong with doing for people less fortunate than ourselves?"

"Please, Mrs. McKusick..." He waved a hand at the other three men in the room. "Do you think we're idiots? People don't do what you did without a reason. Shall I tell you what I think?"

I didn't know what kind of a response he wanted, but I figured he was going to tell me what he thought no matter what, so I just sat there, hoping he wasn't one of those bullies who like to hit women for emphasis. Those people always make me lose my composure.

"I think you're a cop," he said.

I almost laughed out loud. Here I was being so Goddamned passive I made myself sick, and he thought I was a cop? "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head. "I think you're a cop they've sent here to see what you can find out. They think we're so dumb that we won't suspect you because you're a woman."

I stared at him stupidly. "You're kidding, right?" I repeated. "I mean, it's almost funny that someone would think I was a cop. A cop whose husband regularly beat the crap out of her and she couldn't do anything about it? Look, if you don't believe me, you could call Dom Florio. He's the guy who sent me here. He really is a cop. A cop married to Theresa's cousin Rosie. Call Florio or call the Anson Police Department and ask them if Michael McKusick used to get hauled in regularly for beating me up. For beating up his wife, Dora. I'd give you the number, but I always just called 911. Or you could call the hospital."

It was a bit of a gamble. If he called my bluff and did contact the Anson PD, I could only hope that Dom had alerted people to the situation so they could back up my story. And as for the hospital, I doubted if they'd give out any information to a stranger. But it didn't matter, because the Reverend Stuart Hannon wasn't buying my story anyway. He sat behind his desk with a piece of pipe clenched in his fists, playing with it and watching me with a smirk on his face.

"Oh, I have no doubt that any misinformation needed to back up your story has been cleverly planted."

I shook my head sadly. "Looks like you're even crazier than my husband," I said. "You guys must have your own reality. One that doesn't have anything to do with the real world."

"What do you mean, 'you guys'?" He made a sudden angry gesture with the pipe in his hand and I was off my chair and cowering in the corner so fast it surprised him. He stared at me, a puzzled look on his face that made him look ridiculous. I didn't answer. I stayed in my corner with my arms protectively over my head and waited, making little whimpering sounds, to see if I could shame him into behaving better.

"Get up," he said. I stayed there and kept whimpering.

"Look," he said finally, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know about your visit with Jed Harding."

I didn't move.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "Get back on your chair."

I still didn't move.

"Kendall? Timmy? Would you help the lady up, please?"

I didn't make it easy for them. Crouched down like that, wedged into the corner with my arms folded over my head, it was hard for them to get a grip on me without grabbing, and they didn't quite want to grab, especially since he'd promised they wouldn't hurt me. "Come on. Hurry it up," he barked. "We haven't got all night."

Awkwardly, they grabbed my arms and dragged me back to the chair. I took my arms away from my head and folded them protectively across my body. "I'm pregnant," I declared. "That's why I had to leave him, finally. Because he killed my last baby, kicking me in the stomach, and he would have killed this one, too. Even if you don't care about pushing women around, you aren't a baby killer like him, are you?"

It was a risky question. After Oklahoma City, we all knew that the militia did kill babies, when it was deemed necessary to make a point. But there was a big difference between parking a truck and walking away, and actual, face-to-face confrontation. I didn't think Reverend Hannon wanted to start beating on a pregnant woman in front of his men.

"You want to know about my visit with Jed Harding? I went to the jail, I dropped the boy off. I did some errands. I picked the boy up and came home. Jed Harding asked me how I met the boy. I told him about how I'd found Lyle in the ditch back there behind Theresa's parking lot, when he'd tried to run away from home. I told him I worked at Theresa's and he said she was hard but fair. He thanked me for coming and said I was a good person for doing it. I put the boy in the car and came home. It was my sense that that was about all the talking he ever did."

"How did he look?"

"You mean, like were they beating on him or anything?" He nodded. "I didn't see any bruises. He didn't look healthy, though."

"Did he say anything else?" I shrugged. "Did he talk about being released? What they were saying? Whether they were discussing it?"

"No."

"What about his wife? Did he talk about her?"

"He said she used to work at Theresa's before she left town. That the town was too small for her."

"Did he talk about us?"

"This church?" I said. "No."

"The militia," he said impatiently.

"He said the cops came all the time and asked him questions about that trooper they... you... took, like where he might be and who's in charge, and he tells them he doesn't know anything."

Hannon smiled and picked up the pipe again, shifting it from hand to hand like a lethal toy. "That's all?"

"I told you. He didn't talk much."

I wrapped my arms more tightly around my body. "I never expected to meet a minister who kidnapped people in the middle of the night, locked them in dark rooms, and gave them the third degree because they made the mistake of doing something nice for somebody. But hey, what do I know? Given my history, why should I be surprised? It seems more likely to me that I really am a battered woman working as a waitress and you aren't a minister. You sure don't act like any minister I ever saw. Even though I've read that God works in mysterious ways." That last escaped before I could stop it.