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October had been cold, but November had turned into Indian Summer with the temps in the mid-70s. Shelley was dressed in shorts and a cut-off T-shirt and sandals. Blake had to admit she had a body that made it all look good. Bobby, on the other hand, was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt with the name of some heavy-metal band on the front and their concert dates on the back.
“Shelley, you see that rifle case back there? I was able to get that for you from Homeland Security. Sorry it’s so big, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“The sniper training covered a variety of rifles. A gun’s a gun, right?”
Bobby jumped in, “You point it and pull the trigger, and a bullet comes out.”
“The trick is sighting the scope,” added Shelley. “I’ll check it out.”
Blake started to turn the motorhome around but stopped to answer his phone.
It was Morgan Keeler, the medical examiner. “I ran the DNA from within the wounds. In each case, there was some belonging to someone else but it wasn’t good enough to make a match with anybody. I would say, though, that the only way it could have gotten there is from the knife used by the killer. Does that help you any?”
“Yes, it does. And thank you, Morgan. I owe you two beers now.”
Blake put his phone away and returned to maneuvering the motorhome out of the parking lot. It was like turning a large bus, with no visibility other than the side mirrors and a monitoring screen for the camera on the back of the vehicle. And, in his case, it was more than turning a bus, because he was towing his Jeep as well.
As he was exiting the parking lot, he saw Bobby in the large interior rearview mirror over his head, extracting a Coke from the icebox. “Listen up,” Blake said, “what you’re wearing right now is fine. However, I hope you brought other clothing. For one thing, it may be cold in Reelfoot.”
Shelley smiled coyly. “I thought we were going to a resort area to play tourists.”
Blake laughed out loud. “That season is over after Labor Day. But if anybody is the tourist, I’ll be playing that part. You two are going to be playing house. I’ve rented the church where the first preacher and his family were murdered. Bobby is the new preacher and you’re his loving wife.”
Bobby almost choked on his Coke. “I don’t even go to church! How do you think I can pull something like that off?”
“Bobby is right, Blake. I can’t see him as a preacher – or me married to him as for as that goes. No offense, Bobby, but we’re just not a match.”
Blake used his no-nonsense voice to say, “I thought I made myself clear yesterday. If I want your opinions I’ll ask for them. Otherwise, start preparing yourselves for your new life.”
The conversation died, and the happy-new-adventure feeling was gone. They traveled north out of Memphis. Most traffic at that time of the morning was headed into the city, so the road was fairly clear.
Shelley passed some of the time by assembling and disassembling her new rifle, a long-range .50 caliber, and sighting it on distant objects.
Bobby, on the other hand, seemed at a loss as to how to spend the time. As they passed through Millington, he at last spoke up: “What should I be doing?”
Blake looked into the mirror and caught Bobby’s eyes. “There’s a Bible in that drawer next to you, beneath the printer. Thumb through it and find two or three sayings to commit to memory. You won’t be preaching, but it won’t hurt to be able to drop a quote now and again. Don’t worry, you’ll do okay. I’ll be there as the head of our church to see you settled in. Any questions about the church, or anything else, direct them to me.”
Shelley was going through her backpack looking for something a preacher’s wife might wear. “Blake, we’re going to need to stop at a Walmart so I can buy new clothes. My wardrobe doesn’t reflect the lifestyle of a preacher’s wife.”
Blake looked in the mirror and saw a pathetic-looking young lady. She sat on the couch, surrounded by clothes, frowning. “We’ll stop in Dyersburg and get both of you some proper clothes. By that I mean work clothes – we’ll be painting. And while we’re there we can grab a bite to eat. How does that sound?”
Inside Walmart, Bobby and Shelley went shopping for clothing, and Blake headed to the food bar – he had to have some coffee. He took his giant cup of coffee to a table in the corner and sat down in a chair with his back to the wall, an old habit. Halfway through his coffee, the burner cell phone in his pants rang. “Morning, Rainbow.”
“I’ve made contact and they’ve put me up in a safe house. I’m northwest of Turtle Island. There isn’t any sign of Willcocks or anyone else that was in that FBI photo. The group seems to have bought the story that I’m on the lamb from Hattiesburg, Mississippi, for killing a black man by the name of Wilber Wright. I’m sure they’re checking the story now. I just hope the cops don’t catch Wright’s real killer before I get out of here.”
Blake thought for a moment. There was no need to put his man in danger if they were going to keep him isolated. “If you haven’t made contact with the main group by tomorrow, I want you out of there. We’ll find Willcocks some other way.”
“I may have to go to Canada to get out of here, but I’ll call you.”
Blake was putting the phone back in his pants pocket when Shelley and Bobby arrived with their shopping bags, which they dumped on the table before going to get food.
Bob Rivers came into Operations to find it empty. Not only were there no people, but neither was there any coffee. As he stepped out onto the walkway, he could see two people through the big window of the room next to his own office. He walked around to the room and stood outside trying to piece together what they were doing. Wayne Roberts, one of the new guys, seemed to be in charge. There were four 4΄x8΄ wall boards on rollers, each with a sheet of magnetic covering. At Wayne’s direction, Peter was using magnets to attach pictures and pages to the boards.
Bob opened the door and stepped inside. “What are you two doing?”
Peter answered, “Wayne has a case and we’re laying out the information on the murders involved to see where the patterns will lead us.”
Bob looked at the papers scattered across the room. “I thought that was what the computer was being built to do.”
“My computer gives us information, but it doesn’t have instincts – instincts are a human preserve. My computer gave us all this information, and now we have to use our instincts to come up with a way to use it.”
Bob said, “Good luck with that,” and left them to it.
Peter hollered after him, “Aren’t you going to help?”
Bob waved and kept walking until he came to Taylor’s office. He knocked once and put his head inside. “Have you heard from Blake yet?”
Taylor smiled. “The GPS has them leaving a Walmart in Dyersburg, Tennessee. It’ll be a couple of hours before they reach the church. What are you working on?”
“I’m still going over the medical examiner’s report. I have a feeling I’m missing something. While those two are playing in the other room, I’ll have some quiet time in Operations.”
“Let me know if you find anything.”
“I’ll do that.” Bob closed the door and headed to the Operations Room, where the first thing he did was to put on some coffee.
Blake took Farm Road 20 north out of Tiptonville and spotted the small country church perched on a rise in the middle of a field of browning grass. At that distance the scene looked like a postcard, but as they approached, it became clear that the old church had seen better days. It was raised off the ground about three feet, with the foundation sitting on concrete blocks. Its white paint was peeling and dry rot was visible on some of the boards.
Shelley moved into the passenger seat. “Man, that place needs to be torn down and rebuilt.”
Blake parked about 20 feet to the side of the building. “I agree, but we’re not here to bring back a house of faith. We’re here to catch a murderer.”
Bobby opened the side door of the motorhome and mounted the steps to the church entrance. “Hey, the door is unlocked!”
Blake and Shelley got out and followed him inside. The interior was worse than the exterior. Bobby turned and looked at Blake. “It would take an army to clean this place up.”
“Listen,” warned Blake, “the cleaning and repairs are why there’ll be no church services. It’s our cover for being here, not a job that we’ll be doing.”
A voice came from the open door behind them: “Hello. This is private property.”
The three turned to see a striking-looking woman in her early forties with a rifle at the ready. Her dark brown hair reached to just above her shoulders. She wore her plaid shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots as though she had been born wearing them.
“I’m Pastor Blake Henry,” said Blake, “and this is the new pastor of this church, Pastor Robert Lee and his wife Shelley.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The woman lowered the rifle. “I had no idea someone was reopening the church.”
Blake took a step toward her. “Come, let’s go outside and talk. The smell in here is bad, and it needs to be aired out before we’ll be able to do any work in here.”
They all stood in the shade of the building and Blake asked, “Do you live close by, Ms.—?”
“I’m so sorry! My name is Betty Walker.” She put her hand out to Blake, who was surprised by the strength of her grip. “I live about 5 miles down the road, or a mile over that hill. The fence on the top is the start of my property.”
Blake could make out the fence if he squinted. “Did you attend this church when it was open?”
“I attended it for a while. After my daughter Mary Anna died, I lost interest.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter’s death. May I ask what happened?”
“There’s a lot of water around here – she drowned.” Betty started to walk to her car. “Welcome to the neighborhood. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Blake and his crew watched her drive off. “That’s a strange woman,” said Bobby, starting for the motorhome.
Blake followed Betty’s car with his eyes. “Most of the people back in these hills are very independent-minded. We’re strangers and it’s their nature to distrust us. Always remember: what they show you about themselves isn’t always the real person.”
Shelley stepped around Blake and joined Bobby toward the motorhome. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
| Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Ed Rogers |
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