ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Chapter 21
THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO MARKET

Victoria Blake watched the Nation’s Capital shrink as the cab sped toward rural Virginia. At a stop, the driver leaned over the seat and brought a dose of droop-eyed ugliness back into her world.

“Where do you want out?”

“Isle of Paradise Spa.”

“You work there?” he grinned, revealing a row of rotting teeth. “You don’t seem like one of those girls who drown her blues in a hot tub. Maybe you’re the towel girl, huh?”

She hesitated, but he didn’t notice.

“Change towels? Right? Yup, I’m a great towel changer.”

“Lady, you’re nuts. That’s what you are.” She had to agree with him because this charade was a tricky thing for the First Lady to pull off.

She paid him and went into the spa. The same receptionist was still sitting at her desk, filing her nails.

“Hey,” the security guard suddenly appeared. “You can’t walk in here, lady. You’re not a member.”

“How do you know?” she asked, but she let him push her backward, out the front door.

“I see you here again, sister, and I’ll call the cops.” He left her on the curb.

Two senators’ wives came out complaining. They brushed past her without showing any recognition on their faces.

“Say, are you the new girl?” The man was the same one she’d seen in the sauna. “You need to use the back door. And pick up an ID in Personnel.”

“Oh, thanks,” she replied. “I’m a towel girl.”

He looked at her oddly. “Towel girl? That’s a new one. I thought we hired a reflexologist.”

“I’m definitely a towel changer,” she insisted.

“Must be the Linen Room. The rules are the same. You need a uniform and an ID. Follow me,” he said, and led the way to the back of the building. “You want to come in this way. They don’t like us to use the front entrance. That’s for the fancy, high-society wives.”

The back hallway wasn’t as upscale as the areas used by wealthy and famous clients. She followed the Sauna Guy into the locker room.

“You want to wear a clean uniform every day. They get mad if you don’t look spotless. So, if someone messes you up, just come back and grab some clean clothes,” he passed her a flamingo pink coat and lavender slacks.

“Thanks, this really is lovely.”

“Funny. Maybe you’ll last longer than they usually do here. At least you’ve got a goddamn sense of humor. Now take your sweet ass down to Personnel and get an ID badge.” And with that, he vanished.

A heavy woman with a sparse mustache and squeaky, sensible shoes entered. She examined Victoria.

“Where’s your name tag?” she hollered. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m new,” Victoria stuttered. “I’m going straight to Personnel this minute.”

“Good. Say, you sure are cute,” the woman smiled, and Victoria turned beet red. She hurried down the hall, leaving the woman to entertain herself.

“Excuse me, do I know you?” Senator Ashton’s wife stopped her. Then she patted her silver-blue curls. “Are you the girl who does my pedicure?”

“Uh, no. I’m not,” and she wasn’t lying. “Have you seen Margreth Willson?”

It’s Mrs. Willson to you, sweetheart. She’s in the Tropicana Room. She was hobnobbing with Blake’s wife this morning and just breezed her way into the most prestigious room in the building. Showing off. Say, don’t I know you?”

Victoria lifted the stack of towels higher so that only her eyes were visible.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Then she rushed down the hall, away from danger. Or so she believed. After what felt like an eternity, she reached the Secret Service’s territory. That led directly to the highly secure Tropicana Salon.

A.J. Baldridge’s discarded magazine still lay on the chair. The blank faces of the monitors stared at her. The door to the Tropicana Salon was shut. Victoria could hear muffled voices on the other side. It wasn’t Margreth; the voice was too deep. It was a man. No— it was two men.

There was a bolt on her side of the door, and she thought for a long time before sliding it into place. Then she looked for the switch that controlled the bank of monitors. She’d seen it done a million times.

The monitor in the main hallway flickered on. The entrance was busy with employees and clients. The next switch turned on the sauna monitor, and there was Sauna Guy, large as life, handing out towels to women of different sizes, all wrapped in fluffy white terry robes.

The next two monitors watched the building’s front and back entrances. Nothing unusual was happening outside.

The final switch revealed the Tropicana. The camera was pointed at the far wall, and she could see a man’s head. He looked familiar, but she didn’t recognize him, so she used the joystick to pan the camera. First, it moved downward, showing black shoes standing in a sea of red soup. She pressed a button and captured a wide-angle shot.

Margreth lay on her back, helpless. A wad of cloth was jammed in her mouth. Her toes had been removed and littered the floor. The stumps spurted, shooting fluid across the room.

Victoria gagged. She was so terrified that she was tearless. Then she panned the camera to the other side of the room and captured the other tormentor.

“You might wonder why we’ve gone to such trouble to gather information from you.” The man’s back was to the camera, but she knew he must be sneering by his tone. “We need to determine how much you know and who you’ve told. You will, of course, forgive me.”

Victoria looked at the phone. It felt miles away from her. She was frozen with fear as she watched the horror her friend was going through. The man turned. The face was that of someone she saw every day. Someone her husband trusted.

“So, you told Victoria Blake nothing? Is this true?” Margreth nodded weakly yes.

“And Victoria Blake doesn’t know her child is part of a top-secret government research project and is actually a clone?” Margreth made a gurgling sound.

“Was Jake Barnes the only person to whom you divulged everything?” Margreth nodded, “Yes.” Her eyes reflected stark, naked pain.

Victoria felt a wave of dizziness and collapsed into the chair.

“Neither the President nor Mrs. Blake knows anything about the Government’s involvement in the cloning project? You didn’t tell her this morning?” Another shake of the head indicated no.

“Good job. I’ll finish you off and do you a favor. Sorry for the inconvenience of our little visit. But you should have known better than to poke your nose where it didn’t belong.”

Victoria didn’t want to watch the rest, but her eyes were glued to it. This couldn’t be real. And what about Margreth’s nose? How could she breathe?

As Margreth’s life ebbed onto the spa floor, Victoria sat in the pitch-black room, watching. When she realized she was tilting dangerously in the chair, she lowered herself to the cold tile floor and hugged her knees. As the men tore Margreth apart before Victoria’s eyes, her resolve hardened like a rock against her heart.

Arthur Holmstead, the Associate Director of the CIA, was covered in Margreth’s blood. He worked feverishly, trying to dismantle his victim. The other man assisted.

Holmstead wiped his knife on the sheet. The two men looked toward the door, as if they’d heard something in the outer room. The stranger tried the door, then turned to Holmstead in a panic.

“It’s locked. Someone’s outside.”

“Find a battering ram, you horse’s ass,” Holmstead spat. Then he looked up at the camera’s eye, and she felt him peer into her heart. “You’re dead, whoever you are.”

Victoria grabbed her pile of towels and hurried away, not bothering to turn off the monitors. In the locker room, she found a storage area filled with boxes of cleaning supplies. She huddled behind an industrial drum containing floor wax.

Afternoon turned into evening, and the building grew silent. She slipped from her hiding spot and headed straight for the front door, but there was no way out. The outer door was locked with a deadbolt, so she needed a key. She grabbed the phone from the snotty receptionist’s desk to call her husband’s private line.

“Hello, Vic. Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Where are you? We’ve been worried sick.”

“I know. It was stupid of me.” The truth was dangerous turf. “I have something to tell you.”

“It better be a good story. You gave the Secret Squirrels a heart attack. Baldridge is interrogating anyone who moves. He even threatened Troast with the rack. Art Holmstead even offered to look for you. Isn’t that nice?”

“I’ll get there as quickly as I can.” She hung up before he could say more.

She sneaked down the hallway, just in case one of Margreth’s killers was still there. The colorful sign on the back door told her what she needed to know.

Reminder: Third shift coming up!

Mr. Safety advises using the front entrance after 10 PM!

The schedule was posted near the time clock, and Victoria checked it. Betty was expected to arrive at any minute for her late evening cleaning shift.

“Betty, you’re my ticket to freedom,” Victoria muttered. “Get your sorry ass to work, girl. I’ve got to get out of here.”

She crouched behind the receptionist’s desk, still shaken from Margreth’s ordeal, when she heard a key turn in the front door.

“Hell’s Kitchen,” Betty growled. “This place is like a mausoleum at night. My mama warned me I’d end up in a dead-end job.”

The woman shuffled down the hallway and disappeared. Victoria headed straight for the door. The woman’s keys still dangled in the lock. Seconds later, she was sprinting across the porch, only to be stopped short. An Arlington Police cruiser idled at the curb.

The urge to run into the officer’s safe arms was strong, but something held her back. She slipped around the side of the building and crouched in the bushes. The cruiser pulled away from the curb, slowly moving down the street. Ten ragged breaths later, siren wailing, the patrol car returned.

Victoria peered at the squad from her hideout. She could see the officer’s face as he approached the building. It was Holmstead’s assistant—Margreth’s tormentor.

Deep in Victoria’s mind, a crucial part of her suddenly snapped like a twig. It was as if a mysterious switch had been flipped, causing her feet to freeze and her pounding heart to slow. I must live—I have a child.

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WASHINGTON, DC
Chapter 20
VICTORIA BLAKE’S SECRET

Nameless, blurry faces gathered on the sidewalk as the First Lady’s motorcade sped past. She was still in shock from Margreth’s revelations and couldn’t shake the ominous prick of fear.

Not a human. That’s just not possible. Jefferson is a normal baby. He doesn’t resemble a damned monkey. Still, there’s some truth to that story.

The activity level increased in the front seat. A.J. had made at least four calls to God knows where. She looked out the rear window—a few more cars had joined the procession. It was a damn parade. All they needed was a brass band.

Something was wrong with the Secret Squirrels, as she liked to call them. A.J. Baldridge was as jumpy as a one-legged man in a sack race.

The limousine pulled into the circular driveway of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and the White House loomed before her in all its splendor. The feeling of returning to this place never seemed to fade; it never quite felt like home. Nicholas greeted her at the private entrance, while, as always, the driver avoided the crowds gathering at the front.

A.J. usually hustled to get to the door, but today he was preoccupied. Nick opened it, and her questions turned to concerns about Jefferson’s illness.

“Honey,” she took his warm, strong hand and kissed his cheek. “A.J. said you called the doctor?”

“Yes, I did. But Jeff’s doing much better now.” He glanced toward the far end of the lawn. “What in the bejesus is going on?”

“I was just about to ask A.J. the same thing,” she admitted. Hearing the car door slam, she turned and watched Baldridge run across the White House lawn toward a group of his friends, who were gathered in a huddle. “He sure took off in a hurry.”

“There’s always some disaster lurking with those guys. Some nut-job calls in a bomb threat, or a group home walkaway is seen nearby with a submachine gun, and they freak out. Every so often, they get it right. Then again, sometimes they totally mess up, like Hinkley.”

“Well, Hinkley was all about Jodie Foster. Women will lead you to that kind of thing,” she smiled. He snorted.

Always the consummate politician, Nicholas took his wife’s arm and gracefully led her past the busy staff and a few reporters. He consistently played to the photo opportunity, showcasing the First Couple in the best light for the public.

He told her, “It wouldn’t do for the President to get caught picking his nose.” And she agreed.

On their way to Jefferson’s room, they paused in a somewhat hidden nook on the landing. Nick shed his gentleman’s pretense and embraced his wife.

“Do you think our lives will ever be the same again?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“I really don’t think so,” he admitted. But he didn’t sound as sad about the loss as she felt. “Gilda called. She says the SS found a listening device in her alarm clock, and one of those video cameras was in the showerhead. It’s not just us; it’s the children who’re affected by this damned intrusiveness.”

“I dislike it. The media always needs a new scandal every hour.”

“They’re competing in a market where the average person likes to see a big crash or mass killing at least once a day.”

Victoria shifted topics. “Nick, speaking of scandals. We might have one brewing.”

“It’s all about ratings,” he was rambling. “If they can’t get footage of the President getting a blow job in the Oval Office, they’ll settle for a slaughter at Bob’s Grocery Store.”

Blesstasia, part of the domestic staff, came down the stairs with a stack of linens, and their moment of privacy vanished. Nicholas threw his hands up, frustrated, and stomped past the squat woman, who was so overloaded she looked like she might topple. They tiptoed into their baby’s nursery.

Jefferson was sleeping. Still flushed with fever, he peacefully sucked his thumb. The nanny’s southern half was loaded into the rocker, but she had draped herself over the crib rail and seemed to be napping.

“Nick, I have to talk to you,” Victoria whispered. He silenced her with a wave and ran his hand through his son’s hair. She didn’t want to tell him her ‘your baby’s a monkey’ news’.

“Not now, Darling. There’s a news conference in ten minutes. I’ve got to find that damn speechwriter. I’m not witty under pressure, and I’m not good at speaking unprepared. The stupid bastard still has my script.”

He gave her a quick hug.

“We’ll talk later. Remember, that goofball Prime Minister of Ethiopia will be here for dinner — the guy with an obnoxious wife. He’s a loud talker, but very smart.”

“Seriously? I don’t want to deal with that stupid woman,” Victoria snarled, feeling like the day couldn’t get any worse. “The woman’s loathsome. She smells like rotten fish, and I hate her.”

Nick avoided giving his ‘politician’s wife’ speech. Victoria didn’t seem like she was in the mood.

“I told the doctor that if you call, he needs to get his ass over here or his next job will be in a leper colony.”

“Great, Nick. I’m sure he’s eager to respond,” she lifted Jefferson and rocked him in her arms. He felt like a tiny oven, radiating warmth. “Besides, leper colonies don’t exist anymore, silly.”

“He’s the best there is, Vic.” He had a quick flashback to their college days, and a touch of nostalgia crept in. “Love you.”

He hurried from the nursery, leaving her to care for their sick child alone. Well, not entirely alone. Elsie Hodgeworth sat slumped in the rocking chair.

“Elsie, wake up.” Victoria shook the woman, and she woke up suddenly.

“Mrs. Blake,” she mopped her wrinkled brow with a tissue. “My goodness gracious. It doesn’t do for you to get yourself all worked up. Babies get sick all the time.”

Elsie gently took the child from Victoria’s arms and placed a cool cloth on his forehead.

“They’d just as soon throw up a meal as keep it down. Jefferson’s fever is breaking,” Elsie cooed. Chanting in a singsong voice, she soothed the sleeping child.

“A.J. said it was an emergency.” Victoria was confused by the agent’s urgent claim.

“I don’t know why he’d get you all worked up, if you don’t mind my saying. I called over an hour ago and said Jeff was doing a bit better.” Elsie laid the baby down and tucked the sheet around the mattress.

“Strange. Still, I don’t think we can be too careful, especially with Jefferson,” Victoria said.

“Of course not, dear,” the old lady agreed, as if she thought Victoria was deaf. “By the by, I heard about your Gilda.”

“Oh, yes,” Victoria remembered Nick’s news about the camera. “It’s appalling. Those sick media hounds were probably going to post her online. Live footage of the First Daughter washing her bum or something.” She said this, hoping Gilda wasn’t dating an Iranian student or smoking pot.

“I heard it on the radio. Your Gilda apparently threw quite a fit over the violation of her privacy. She’s her father’s daughter, all right.”

“I didn’t hear that part,” Victoria wondered what else Nick was hiding. “I’ll have to call her. A parent’s always the last to know. Have you taken Jefferson’s temperature lately?”

“It’s 101, down from 103.”

“That’s high enough to fry an egg!” Victoria leaned over and kissed him on his warm forehead. “Elsie, do you think Jefferson looks a little, uh. Well, does he look ordinary?”

“He’s about the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen. Got a voice on him too,” Hodgeworth whispered, although Victoria wasn’t sure why. “He was crying this morning, and suddenly he let out a hell of a shriek. He had half the staff in here in a New York minute. Nobody believes that little Jeff made all that racket, but I swear it’s true.”

“Funny you should mention that, Elsie,” Victoria frowned. “He did that last week when we were getting off the helicopter. Nick said it was the whine of the engine. I was sure it was Jeff. Made the hair stand up on the back of my neck,” Victoria puzzled this into the he’s not a real baby equation.

“You know what, Elsie? I have an important errand. It’s imperative, or else I wouldn’t leave little Jeff,” she whispered, just in case. “Cover for me, okay?”

Elsie Hodgeworth nodded, and Victoria, thankful for her support, grabbed her purse and searched through the mess.

“Somewhere in this trash bin, there’s a card with the Isle of Paradise Spa’s phone number,” she mumbled. Then she paused, eyeing Elsie.

Though she trusted Elsie, everyone has a price. She didn’t know what the nanny’s limit for betrayal was.

It’s too late now, she thought as she dialed.

“Hello?” Victoria tried a Midwestern accent, but it sounded silly.

The spa receptionist sounded bored; Victoria would have recognized her nasal whine anywhere.

“Yes, could you tell me if Margreth Willson is still there?” The nanny seemed unaware of Victoria’s conversation.

“You haven’t seen her leave? That’s good. No, no message,” Victoria eyed Elsie. The woman seemed distracted, but she attributed this to simple worry. She was determined to see Margreth. Hopefully, the Secret Squirrels hadn’t eavesdropped on their afternoon meeting. She’d go back to the spa.

“Ms. Hodgeworth?” Victoria asked. “I’m leaving now. Don’t forget, if anyone asks, you don’t know where I went. Not even Nick, okay?”

Before Elsie could come up with an answer, including her fear, Victoria kissed the baby again and left.

“Oh dear,” she managed before Mrs. Blake disappeared.

Elsie Hodgeworth told herself she needed to call security. She rubbed her chin, lost in thought.

Blast it all, I refuse to do it. They can find another snoop if they don’t like it.

She looked down at the sleeping baby, who had now cooled considerably.

Victoria Blake has everything. But it’s not a life I’d want to be burdened with. And all I have are four kids who don’t speak to me and a serious problem with my best buddy, Jack Daniels.

She remembered the threats in that damp room deep below the CIA building’s subbasement last week. A couple of turbaned, angry men with unnaturally white teeth had tried and succeeded in intimidating her. But now she realized she had nothing left to fear.

This baby’s going to have his nanny, no matter what kind of devilish plot those foreigners hatch against the Blakes.

As she had this internal conversation, she remembered the dark man’s dangerous black eyes. Elsie Hodgeworth was left worried about a sick baby.

Victoria moved down the hallway, staying close to the wall and avoiding the security cameras that kept constant watch. She reached the master suite and went straight to her dresser.

She chose a loose sweater and a pair of ragged jeans. From an old gym bag, she pulled out a pair of tennis shoes that had seen better days. Placing the clothes in her carryall, she quietly headed back down the hallway toward the public side of the building.

Miraculously, she made it to the East Wing without any issues, aside from passing a few staff members too low in the hierarchy to matter.

She slipped into the ladies’ room, changed her clothes, tied her hair into a ponytail, and wiped off her makeup. She appeared younger and more attractive.

Victoria opened the door and waited patiently, planning her escape. When a security guard bent down to drink from the water fountain, she slipped into the hall. She passed just inches from him, but he was unaware of her presence. She had become just another annoying tourist.

Within minutes, she’d joined the buzzing crowd gawking at the Lincoln Room. They make it so hard to have privacy. She held the thought in abeyance and went unnoticed—an unimportant part of the “flotsam tourista,” as Nick liked to call them.

As the guide described the Kennedy assassination, an elderly woman dressed in polyester glanced at Victoria. She held her plastic purse tightly, as the poorly attired First Lady seemed to be in urgent need of money.

Mingling with everyday folks, Victoria Blake left the White House alone for the first time since becoming First Lady. She pushed her way through the crowd, battling a dizzying panic attack.

At the curb, she flagged down a passing cab. The vehicle jerked to a stop, and she hurried inside. She turned pale as she saw the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror. The dark-skinned driver was leering. His limp hair left oily marks on his collar. A bit of food was hanging on his lip, and one eye was half-closed and drooping.

“I need to get to Arlington,” she said, watching his expression.

His eyebrows knit together in deep furrows. His droopy eye looked as if it was stuck in a wink.

“Lady, this isn’t the Salvation Army. I don’t give advice, and I don’t give free rides,” he said. She did look a step above a bag lady on the food chain.

“I have money, really,” she was insulted to think she looked destitute.

“Right, and I have an elephant in the glove box. People stiff me all the time. Let’s see some green,” he was watching her with his one good eye.

Victoria dug into her purse and pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill.

“That’s a good girl. Do you want to go for a little ride downtown? I have rooms at the Embassy. I pay my girls well.”

“Good God.” Victoria was stunned. “I’m not in that line of work.”

“My luck, huh? Alright, then. I’ll take you to Arlington.”

Jesus H. Christ, she thought. This has been one wild day. I should have just waited for Margreth. Once the Secret Squirrels find out I’m missing, they’ll tell Nick. Then Nick will call the Coast Guard and have them dredge the Potomac. Still, it feels good to be free for an afternoon.

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CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN
Chapter 19
THE PREACHER MAN

Barney hit the brakes at James Street, turning into the neighborhood of old clapboard houses that brought back nostalgic childhood memories for both Hank and him.

“Look,” Hank Bradford gestured toward Mrs. VanderLaan’s porch. “The old bag must be indoors. That must be the best luck I’ve had all day.”

“Probably inside baking a batch of tasty-shit so you’ll give her the old hi-dee-ho,” Hank chuckled until Barney caught his shoulder with a good wallop.

They parked in the church lot next to Esther VanderLaan’s, which also served the parsonage. A weathered welcome sign proclaimed, “Broken hearts are mended; Wounded souls are healed” in faded black script. The parish had shrunk over time, with some members passing away and others remaining in the nursing home, which held them captive.

“I haven’t been here in months, Barn. It’s damn shameful, the state of my soul.” Hank dreaded the pastor’s scornful demeanor. He wouldn’t say anything, but he’d be thinking about it. Hank could read his puritanical mind.

“Walls will probably tumble under the load of sins you’re carrying.” Barney wasn’t helpful. “I try to do it once a month myself, but my feeling about God is, you’re much better off if you don’t call attention to yourself. Ya know what I’m saying. Keep your head down and your powder dry.”

“That’s an uplifting thought, Barn. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Hank followed the sidewalk around to the parsonage, which was connected to the Revelation of Faith Baptist Church by a breezeway. He guessed that the conduit symbolized the Reverend’s constant connection to God. Barney was eager for his first chance to question the pastor directly, mainly because Hank often added a bit of profanity to his interrogations. He hurried to get to the door first.

Barney knocked for a long time before the Reverend’s elderly mother answered the front door.

“Hello, gentlemen, won’t you come in?” Ruby Mae Carrington was dressed in a strict black dress.

Her hair was pulled tightly into a steel-gray bun that no hair dared to escape from. Her skin looked grayish, making her seem as if she were made of pewter. Her thin fingers touched his hand, and creeping bugs seemed to crawl up to his shoulders.

“Is the Reverend here, Ma’am?” Barney bowed slightly, though he wasn’t quite sure why, maybe because she was the closest thing to the Queen Mother in Cedar Creek.

“He’s in the study, boys.” She still thought of them as boys. “My son is busy with his sermon, as he should be.”

“I don’t suppose we could interrupt him for a little while.” Barney held his hat respectfully, following Mrs. Carrington’s rule against wearing hats indoors.

Hank expressed his opinion, earning a disapproving look from the widow.

“We’re on some urgent police business, Mrs. Carrington,” Hank said, already feeling the urge for a cigarette even though he had just crushed one out in the parking lot.

“Ah, the Bradford lad,” she crowed. Hank felt as if he’d just launched a baseball through the window and was about to get a stern talking to. “I haven’t seen you on Sunday for quite a while.”

“He’s been in the institution, Ma’am,” Barney quipped, much to Hank’s chagrin. “They think he’s all sorted out now.”

Knowing she was being toyed with, Ruby Mae Carrington gave him a frown and snapped like an angry turtle.

“If you must see him, come this way.” They followed her into the parsonage.

She led them down a hallway lined with sepia-toned prints of intimidating faces, grim and cold. Hank felt as if eyes were watching him, as if his sins were bleeding onto the floor for these long-dead spirits to see. The house was spotless, but a sense of decay hung in the air like a toxic cloud.

In the library, Reverend Claypoole Carrington sat behind a mahogany desk. He was a stern-looking man with a large wart on his chin. Gaunt, his cheekbones jutted sharply around the hollows of his eyes.

Hot damn, Barney thought, just like in Night of the Living Dead. Hank was starting to get a similar case of the heebie-jeebies.

“Why hello, Chief. And Hank Bradford, how nice to see you again.” His pastoral message was delivered with a pleased expression, or at least as delighted as Reverend Carrington ever seemed, since there was no sign that a smile had ever crossed his face.

Hank was sure he caught a whiff of mothballs, the smell he often noticed in the breath of older folks. He looked around the room.

Old missionary’s rotting from the inside out, he thought. Several leather-bound tomes were scattered across the desk. Wads of paper decorated the ink blotter. Sermon-ball rejects, Bradford suspected.

Unbidden, Hank and Barney sank into worn leather chairs that were as cracked and faded as Ruby Carrington’s face. Hank reached for his cigarettes, but a sharp look from the Right Rev made him reconsider. Instead, he peeled his hangnails back to the quick.

“Fly, oops, I mean young Claypoole, might have been out at the O’Bryan place the other night. I guess you heard about the trouble.” Barney fidgeted. Carrington unfolded a sermon-ball, examined it, and frowned.

“The lad does wander on his bicycle.” The Reverend looked up briefly. “Was there a complaint?”

“I’ll be straightforward, Reverend. We found a body on O’Bryan’s land yesterday morning. We also found a bunch of Bite’Ems wrappers under a nearby tree.” Barney hesitated. “You know, we hate to think young Claypoole might be involved, but we need to rule him out, sir.”

The Reverend hesitated. He briefly remembered the dusty, dull years when his wife, Stella, was still alive. He can still picture her in the kitchen, pointing the meat fork at him and shouting like a fishwife.

“That boy,” she’d bellow. “He bears watching. Mrs. VanderLaan caught him hanging around the bathroom windows again. Mark my words, Clay. He’ll disgrace this house.” She had speared the roast with such force that the juices splattered onto her Sunday dress like an apron in an abattoir.

“I’ve got both eyes open, Stella. He’s the Lord’s own. He’ll not stray,” he’d assured her. But he’d been wrong and too distracted by his own low-down, nasty tricks. And Clay Carrington daily assured God that his evil thoughts were just Satan’s stain on his own soul, not leaching out to taint anyone who was pure of heart.

He quickly went back to the present.

“Junior has a minimal capacity for thought,” the Reverend said with a haughty tone. “I’m sure you both know that. We really can’t get him to tell us anything, can we?”

Then, he leaned back in his chair, satisfied with his answer. No, he was not responsible for the boy’s every move.

“We’d like to see his shoes, sir. Maybe a hair sample and a look at the clothes he was wearing.” Hank studied the man. He could see the wall rising as if it had an electronic eye that activated with any implied responsibility. “Just in case—you know—something matches.”

Barney piped up.

“The results may rule him out entirely, then we’ll all feel more comfortable,” and, having said his piece, Barney tapped a hefty fist on the Reverend’s desk. A few sermon balls danced off the edge. He caught a glimpse of what the Reverend had been working on. It was a collage of rectangles and circles.

Claypoole Carrington stood and straightened himself. His white collar wrapped around his thin, turkey-neck like a snow-white garrote.

“I assume you have a search warrant?”

Barney grunted with disgust.

“No, but we’ll get one. In the meantime,” Hank added, “we’ll be taking Fly, I mean Clay Junior, with us. We’ll ask him a few basic questions, see if we can get any response. You’re welcome to come along. He’s not considered a suspect right now, just a witness.”

The Reverend opened the study door, signaling that their conversation was finished.

“Gentlemen, my son is one of God’s mentally challenged individuals. He has little verbal ability, unless you count that annoying ‘Hi-Fly’ he keeps spouting. I prefer not to visit your station. It’s a small town. People talk.”

“Whatever you say, Reverend. I’ve known Fly since he was a baby,” Hank assured the walking skeleton. “We’ll take good care of him. We used to do a bit of fishing together, Fly and me. Well, I fished. He mostly ate candy and fed wrappers to the crawfish.”

“I appreciate that, Hank.” He grasped Hank’s forearm with a claw. “And Stella, God bless her righteous soul, she’d thank you, too.”

Uncertain if he wanted or needed the approval of a long-dead, rotted-in-the-grave ghost, Hank pulled away and followed Barney out the door.

Old Lady Carrington led them out through the kitchen without offering a piece of the fresh-baked pie resting on the counter.

Chances are, Hank thought, that pie’s bubbling over with sinner’s intestines or eye of blasphemer, some nasty treat anyway. And that made him view it with less longing.

“I know my grandson isn’t a typical boy, but I assure you he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Yes Ma’am, we know. We just need to rule out every possibility,” Barney pressed on toward the porch and scrambled down the steps toward Fly, perched on the garden gate.

Hank looked back and yelled, “We’ll be back later with a search warrant.”

Mrs. Carrington had already vanished like a ghost, probably munching on her pie. His stomach rumbled.

“Hi, Fly.” Hank smiled. “Wanna go for a ride again?”

“Whup, whup, whup,” was the only reply as Fly jumped down from the gate and followed them to their car. A girlie magazine stuck out from his back pocket. He patted it, reassuring himself it was safe there.

The pastor stayed still in his high-backed chair.

I was out that night, not Junior. In fact, I checked on the boy when I came in. He was awake, his light on, hunched over his desk. It was just after dawn. The boy was working feverishly with toothpicks and glue, building some silly project or another. He didn’t even notice me, so I left him to his work. It seemed innocent enough. And I, I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?

Rising from his chair, Reverend Carrington headed upstairs to his son’s bedroom. The room was perfectly tidy, just as Ruby Mae Carrington always kept it.

He searched the closet and found nothing unusual. He looked at the table where Junior had been working. The object in the middle was stunning. He must have stolen it from somewhere. Still, it was made entirely of toothpicks and glue, so maybe—he decided not to think about it right now. He lifted the mattress off the floor and was shocked to find his personal collection of pornography.

But it was hidden in the lectern! Junior found it anyway, and now here we are. I’ve guided him to this.

Claypoole Carrington sat on the edge of the box springs, a stack of smut resting on his bony thighs.

Ah, he groaned and flipped through pages of pierced nipples and erotic poses. Stella’s worst fear came true. Junior would be exposed to my sinful ways and become corrupted. The Devil’s made off with his soul, and now I’m ruined. Ruined.

Feeling control slipping from his life, the Reverend broke down in tears. Ruby Mae Carrington found him.

Shaking her finger, she began, “Claypoole, have you been bringing evil into the house of the Lord again? How many times have I warned you? Sins of the father are visited upon the son. As Ephesians tells us, ‘No fornicator, unclean person, nor covetous man . . .”

He couldn’t stand hearing any more of the endless criticism. A rush filled his ears. From deep within his chest, his heart, stretched taut, sent shards of intense pain through his body, warming him and bringing all the long-suppressed physical desires to the surface.

“My soul,” he screeched, “is a witness to my iniquity. My sins hang like ornaments on a harlot’s Christmas tree.”

“Shut your pie hole, Claypoole,” Ruby Mae yelled.

“I see it, decorated with translucent balls filled with nude women, their breasts swollen.”

“Ahayeeeee . . .,” Mrs. Carrington covered her ears and looked heavenward for reprieve.

“It consumes me. I’m a fornicator, mother. I lusted after Betty Tanner and dreamed of taking her under the picnic table after Thanksgiving potluck. I lusted after Felicia Snart and imagined nailing her on the rectory table. I’ve . . .”

“My God. You’ve lost your mind, Claypoole.” She turned to leave after seeing him in his nakedness, his sinful nature exposed.

“Mother,” he called after her. The sting of her rejection cut deep as he sat among the books that had been his many lovers during these long, lonely years. He was heartbroken, a shattered man. The ghost of Stella sat in the window seat, mocking him.

“In truth,” he murmured. “I did not watch the boy, my dearest Stella. He slipped away while I was window peeping. He followed my lead to perdition, taking the express railroad to Hell just like his father.”

Receiving no reply from the banshee, he stood up and walked into the hallway.

“Mother… mother?”

Ruby Mae Carrington refused to answer. Not today.

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No Tour Guides in Hell:
Chapter 17
911

Location

CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN

Richard Underhill heard the crunch of gravel, a warning that the body-remover had arrived. He was under the kitchen sink looking for the carpet stain remover when the approaching vehicle startled him. His hands, skilled at darker tasks, weren’t quick enough to stop the bleach bottle from spilling. He pulled back to avoid the acrid fumes and hit his head hard on the cold-water pipe.

“Shit,” he spat, like a cobra with its tail caught in a door. The fumes were dizzying. He groped for the edge of the counter and hauled himself to the window ledge. He peered out.

Emily! I was sure it was the body snatchers. What a nowhere, pond-sucker town. I’d probably make the front page if I peed in a mailbox, but I let my kid just disappear, and nobody can do the math. One kid went missing on Fredericksburg Road; another was found in O’Bryan’s hayfield. It’s just math, folks.

Outside, Emily hesitated. She could see her boys in the car, their mischievous little heads spinning like tops. At least she wasn’t bringing them inside; that would have made things tougher. Emily looked around, scanning as if some internal radar was warning her.

Come on, you trembling fool—just a few more steps. Come to Papa. Damn, it’s a good thing I pulled the car into the pole barn. Stupid bitch thinks I’m gone.

He hurried to the bedroom, just in case any debris from his misadventure was lying around. He wanted to drag out this cat-and-mouse game a little longer. Oh, he’d tell her about Sarah—just before he choked the living shit out of her.

He knew she’d let herself in. He waited, sitting quietly on their bed. Soft footsteps trailed down the hallway into the boys’ room. The rustling and noise next door indicated she was in a hurry to pack and make a quick escape. Richard felt the adrenaline of a good hunt course through him. With his trap set, he was simply waiting for the kill.

“Ayaah. . .” She couldn’t hold back her scream. An armload of socks flew into the air and bounced around uselessly. “I thought nobody was here.”

She clutched her chest, fearing her heart would jump out and bounce away with the sock balls.

“Surprise!” His voice was smooth and unbothered. He lazily stretched and yawned, displaying his boredom.

“Where’s Sarah? I didn’t see her around.” She backed up, creating space to run. Like a hare caught in a wolf’s trap, she avoided inevitable slaughter by confusing her enemy with a distracting question.

“Sarah skipped off to Maggie’s birthday party and never came back. I guess she’s eating cookies and listening to the nonsense that O’Bryan woman fills her head with.”

Emily watched him carefully. Something about his words didn’t seem sincere. His lips twitched on one side, which was a bad sign. She looked around the bedroom — it was too tidy. He’d cleaned up a bit too much. Her eyes examined everything closely.

She saw a wad of cotton batting on the carpet near the bed. The little fear that had wrapped around her heart now took a bite of it. Hooha was always losing stuffing; he shed marshmallow orbs around the house as quickly as Emily could restuff him.

“So, that’s that.” She backed toward the door, socks forgotten. “I’ll just stop by Maggie’s on my way out of town. I want to say goodbye to Sarah properly.”

Emily knew the riskiest move was to turn her back on his beady little eyes. The first hint of an impending attack always came from that sinister stare.

Underhill slid off the bed and turned his back. He always did this when he was about to unload a big stinkpot of lies on her.

“Actually, Sarah never made it to Maggie’s.”

“What?” Emily’s voice sounded strange and distant, almost lifeless. “She didn’t make it. I don’t understand, Richard. Where is your child?”

But her heart knew. It was pounding like a bird caught in a cat’s grip.

Richard Underhill turned to face her; his eyes reflected his disgust. Then he spewed more lies into the air.

“I went to O’Bryan’s house the next day. They said she never showed up.” He hesitated. “Mike said they figured she wouldn’t be coming over with the body found on their property and all.”

“What are you talking about?” Her lips felt thick and blubbery. Somehow, the air had been sucked out of the room. “What body?”

“I haven’t heard any details yet, but apparently little Maggie O’Bryan found a dead body yesterday afternoon, right in the damn cornfield. The police have been crawling all over the place.”

Richard looked out the window into the yard. The boys were hanging out of the car windows and spitting at the side mirrors. Little monsters—that’s what they were.

“I stayed away from the chaos.”

“Your child’s been missing for days, and you haven’t told anyone. Have you? Did you look for her?”

It’s funny she asked that because she knew Sarah could run away, might run away, but most likely, Sarah didn’t run away.

“I figured she’d just come home after missing a dinner or two. Hell, she’s probably out in the pole barn having a tea party with some stray cat.”

Emily could hear the boys. They had gone wild in the unsupervised car. It was only a matter of minutes before they made their way to the door. She stared at Underhill, noticing almost as an afterthought his immaculate shoes and careful choice of clothing, despite being sealed inside his lair.

Vomit rose in her throat, fueled by fear and a firm conviction that he was not only insane but as evil as the devil himself.

“Besides, Emily.” He smiled, but his eyes didn’t. “Kids run away all the time. They always turn up—somewhere. Even in cornfields!”

Emily felt cold. It wasn’t a chill that August heat could chase away. He was giving her a nugget of truth, and though she wasn’t quite sure she understood it, it was the signal that he had no more use for her. And that was truly a dangerous place to be.

Her husband kept yammering as she left the bedroom and stepped into the hall. He didn’t seem to notice, still lost in his evil words. His back was to her, but she felt like his iron grip was around her ankles, holding her in place. With feet of lead, she turned and ran.

She heard his feet pounding the stairs as she hurried out the front door. The boys were bouncing in the back seat.

“SIT DOWN,” she yelled as she jumped in. She turned the key, and the car coughed to life. He was only a few feet away when the tires sprayed him with a shower of gravel. Emily tore out of the driveway so fast that the boys turned into human superballs in the backseat.

“Mommmeeee,” they wailed. She kept her foot on the gas and sped past the service station with the payphone standing sentinel at the roadside. She couldn’t get involved. Then she remembered Sarah’s plaintive voice. And how she’d failed her.

A call would only take five minutes. Underhill couldn’t hurt her here; it was way too public. She hesitated but then turned and headed for the phone booth.

“Dispatch.” Sheila’s voice was cigarette-hoarse and tired.

“I want to report a missing little girl,” Emily yelled over the road noise.

“How long has she been missing?” the dispatcher asked with more interest.

“I’m not sure. Maybe three days.” Emily’s voice was barely audible.

“What’s your name? I hope you don’t live at a payphone on the State Highway, because that’s what you’re showing up as.” She hated prank calls.

“I was living at 1420 Fredericksburg Road with my husband, Richard Underhill, but I left him. I came back for my children’s clothing.”

The dispatcher rolled her eyes.

“Are you getting a divorce, ma’am? Is there some hostility between you two?”

“It’s not what you think. Please just check on her. Her name is Sarah Underhill.”

“How old is she?” Sheila squeezed a Twinkie out of its packaging and took a bite. A nagging feeling in the back of her mind told her this might be important, but the spark dimmed and quickly faded away.

“She’s six.” Emily watched her boys smear orange taffy on the car windows. “I asked him where she was, and he said she went to a birthday party. Then he admitted that she never made it to the party. You must check. Please.”

“What was she wearing when she disappeared?” Sheila watched Steve Brooks lean over the countertop to grab something. He was drifting away from the conversation, and that was a good thing.

Emily admitted, “I don’t know what she was wearing.”

“Great, that’s just hunky-dory. What does she look like? You do have some kind of idea about that, don’t you?”

“She’s small for a six-year-old, with long, dark auburn hair and green eyes. She looks fragile and undernourished to me. But she’s my husband’s daughter. I’m sorry, I don’t know more. He’s evil. I can tell you that.”

“Stay right there, Ma’am. Or you can come to the Cedar Creek station immediately. It’s your choice.”

Emily looked down the road. There was no sign of Underhill’s vehicle. He hadn’t bothered to follow her.

“I can wait here, at least for a little while.”

“Fine. You do that. I’ll send an officer.” Sheila hung up, crumpling the report into a ball. “Damned prank calls.”

She was about to throw the wad into the trash can when Steve snatched it away from her and smoothened the paper.

“What do you have there, Sheila?” he frowned. “Jesus H. Christ, Barney would’ve killed you.”

“Wha. . .,” she stammered, her Twinkie forgotten.

“You have a missing kid report that matches the description of little Jane Doe, and you’re just going to toss it in File 13? Even I know better than that, and I’m just a rookie.” He waved the slip under her nose.

“I’ll handle this. Let Barney and Hank know where I went. And don’t mess up.”

Steve grabbed a notebook and turned to Sheila.

“Don’t you ever pull a cheesy stunt like that again, or you’ll be flushing toilets at the Thunderdog Lanes for a living.” Then he stomped out.

“It’s not like that hasn’t happened before,” she said to his back.

Emily was sitting on the edge of a wheel-balancing machine, drinking a Coca-Cola, when Officer Brooks arrived. She watched him say a few words to the clerk, then stroll into the repair bay.

“Hi. You must be Emily. I’m Steve Brooks from Cedar Creek Police Department.” He was tall and handsome, with calm hazel eyes. He was everything Richard Underhill wasn’t.

“Yes, I’m Emily.” She managed to shake his hand, though somehow she had already gotten thick black grease on it.

“I left my husband a few days ago. His daughter, Sarah, was really upset. I’m not sure where her biological mom is, but I didn’t have any parental rights. I had to leave her behind.”

“Okay, so when you left him, was she okay?”

“Yes. So, I went back today to get the kids’ clothes. She was gone.” Emily turned.

Her boys were helping the gas station attendant. He was washing a car window, and they were hosing off his shoes.

“And he told you some fishy story? That’s what the dispatcher’s report said.”

“Yes, he said she went to Maggie O’Bryan’s for her birthday party, but then he found out she never arrived. Nothing he says adds up. I don’t know how to put it any other way, but the man is a monster. Where do you think she could be?”

This beautiful young mother was so overwhelmed with anxiety that Steve almost confessed what he suspected, but he remained silent.

“It’s hard to say, Ma’am. Maybe nothing’s wrong. We might need to get in touch with you… could you just write your number on this pad?”

“I’m sorry. It’s probably silly of me to call you guys, but he said you found a body at O’Bryan’s, and then he admitted that Sarah never came home.”

“No problem, Emily,” he smiled gently at her. “I’ll be in touch.”

Emily finished her Coke and watched him walk back to his squad car. She wasn’t divorced yet, and little Sarah was missing.

Steve’s adrenaline was rushing. He felt like he had just met the most beautiful woman in the world and cracked his first case—all in one lucky moment.

Steve pulled the cruiser into the driveway on Fredericksburg Road. Richard Underhill must be a darn fool to give up a woman like Emily.

The house was eerily silent. The swings showed only a gentle breeze swaying them. It felt like a haunted homestead if there ever was one. He knocked on the door, which was slightly ajar. He had half-expected there to be no answer.

As he turned to leave, a very short, balding man stepped into the doorway. He was slightly bow-legged, and his cheeks looked like he’d been in the rouge pot. Not a guy you’d picture having beautiful Emily as his wife.

“Yes?” Underhill didn’t seem flustered when a uniformed officer came to his door.

“We’ve received a report that your child is missing.” Steve took the open door as an invitation and walked past the leprechaun into the house. “I’m going to need some details. Mind if I look around?”

“You got a warrant?” Underhill still held the door open, clearly hoping he’d block Steve’s way. As if he could. Richard was so short that Steve could have stepped over him without messing up the man’s thinning hair.

“No, I don’t. Most people in your position are more than happy to cooperate,” Steve shot back, confidently maintaining his alpha energy.

“Well, I’m not most people, and I want you on the other side of the threshold,” Richard hissed.

Seems quite aware of his rights. Bet he knows the system from past contact.

“Mr. Underhill,” Steve persisted, “are you from this area?”

“We moved here last year,” Underhill admitted, eyes flashing with anger. He flung the door open wide and pointed. “Now get out.”

“Your attitude stinks, Underhill. I know you have a six-year-old daughter, and I know she’s missing. Do you want to produce a recent photo and a proper description? Or do I have the Police Chief ask you personally with an engraved search warrant?”

Steve, acknowledging Underhill’s rights, stepped back onto the porch but maintained the demeanor he had learned at the academy.

“She’s just a kid—your typical six-year-old pain in the neck. She’s probably run away.” Underhill scratched his goatee. “Fact is, when I took her to the circus just last week, she threatened to run away and join them.”

He acted as if he was about to cry, then he took out his wallet and showed two old, worn photos.

Steve looked at them. Sarah Underhill, on her first two-wheeler, grinned back at him. A tooth was missing. The other was a somber child sitting next to the monkey’s cage at the zoo. If a heart could truly sink, his did. Her eyes shimmered, bright in the glossy photo, still full of dreams and hopes, still alive.

“Mr. Underhill, you’ll need to come down to the station with me.” Steve could almost smell the miasma of decay that had permeated the hospital morgue. It was as if the rot exuded from Underhill and not from the child at all.

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