I turned to face him.
Ryan looked at me, the astonishing blue eyes full on mine. “I’m sorry, Tempe. I’m sorry for everything. For trying to make you into what I want you to be. For being less than what you want me to be. For loving things and places that keep us apart. For leaving you that first time. For running away when Lily died.”
“Ryan—” My heart was going hard and a little fast.
“I love you, Tempe. I came here to tell you that. Just that. And to promise that I will never hurt you again.”
I opened my lips to respond. Could find no words. Seconds ticked by on Gran’s mantel clock.
“Nothing to say?” Ryan’s tone held not the slightest note of impatience.
“I’m waiting for the part that begins with ‘but.’ ”
“There is no but. I love you.”
“Does this mean you’ll stay for supper?” Regretted as soon as the quip was out.
Ryan’s head dropped, then hung a moment. When it came up he regarded me with a look of obstinate imperturbability. And more. Compassion. Kindness. Remorse?
“I know Pete hurt you. I’m not Pete. I know I hurt you. I can’t change that. But I am changed.”
I started to respond. He raised a hand to stop me.
“I know you have obligations. Katy. Your mother. Your job. Responsibilities that tie you here as firmly as I’m tied to Quebec. But we can make it work.”
I swallowed, not trusting myself to speak.
“I will never betray you, Tempe.”
I felt as though liquid nitrogen had been injected into my bloodstream. I’d heard that promise before. That exact statement.
Ryan must have read the look on my face. He rose and gathered his duffel.
“Wait,” I said softly.
He did. But clashing emotions were scrambling my wiring. Seconds passed. A full minute. No sound left my lips.
“It’s okay, Tempe.”
“No. It’s not. You’re right. I’ve been paralyzed by indecision. It’s childish and self-indulgent and unfair to you.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because I don’t.” Suddenly words poured forth, racing like water carving a mountain gorge. “I know that I love you. That I’m happiest when I’m with you. Not because you buy me flowers or make me laugh. Or share my love of Giacometti or The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. I don’t simply love you. I genuinely like you. I admire and respect you. And, in most situations, you respect me.”
“Most?” Puzzled.
I flashed on the times I’d been in a tough spot and Ryan had ridden in all guns blazing. Literally. “Your impulse to save the day on my behalf scares the hell out of me, Ryan. It makes me wonder if you really believe in me as a capable person.”
“You mean intervening when some scumbag is about to shoot you?”
“That’s one example.” Defensive.
“I don’t want you hurt.”
“And I don’t want me hurt. But your overprotectiveness implies that I can’t take care of myself. That I can’t handle difficult situations on my own. I love you, Ryan. But I need my autonomy. I need to know I can rely on myself.”
“That’s it? No more cop-to-the-rescue routine?”
“That’s just part of it.” Jesus! What was the rest? I took a moment. Then, “If Katy ever comes to harm I know I’ll reach out to those I love. To Mama, Harry, maybe to you.” I could feel my cheeks flaming, but there was no turning back. “When Lily died, you chucked me away like last week’s garbage.”
Ryan started to interrupt. I barreled on.
“I don’t need you in my life, Ryan. I learned to live without you once. Twice. I didn’t like it, but I survived.” Quick shallow breath. “I don’t need protection. I don’t need a bodyguard. I need someone who will be there, both physically and emotionally. When life is good, and when life gets rough.”
“And you doubt my ability to fill that role?” Flat.
“I don’t know what I think, Ryan.” Stepping back and staring down at the furry cottontails on my feet.
A very long, very leaden silence slammed between us. No one moved. The clock ticked.
After what seemed a lifetime, I looked up. The sadness on Ryan’s face nearly broke my heart.
“Will you spend the night?” I asked, barely above a whisper.
Something skittered across the troubled blue irises, vanished before I could read the meaning. Two more ticks from Gran’s timepiece. Three. Four. Then Ryan’s lips hitched up in an unexpected grin.
“I’ve delivered my stirring and persuasive communiqué. You’ve responded with equal eloquence.” Delivered with a lightness that was obviously forced. “I think now it’s best that I leave.”
“That’s not how I want it.”
“Nor I.” His eyebrows did a few Groucho hops.
“Then—”
Ryan crossed to me and kissed my cheek. Tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “You need to be by yourself.”
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“Home.”
I nodded, tears threatening hard.
Christ on a flagpole! Don’t cry! Don’t you dare cry!
Cupping my chin in his palm, Ryan tipped my face up so my eyes met his. “We are different in many ways, Tempe. But our differences complement each other. Together we were better, stronger. More than just the sum of you and me. I truly believe that.”
I ached to wrap my arms around him and press my cheek to his chest. But there was a rigidity to his shoulders now, a tautness to his mouth that froze me in place.
Behind me, footsteps crossed the floor. Inside my head, words crashed like cymbals. By yourself. And Ryan’s chosen tense. We were. We were.
The door opened and closed softly.
I stood paralyzed, mind spinning, fire burning beneath my breastbone.
Certain I’d driven away a true shot at happiness.
Uncertain why.
Saturday night.
Gonna keep on dancing to the rock and roll.
After a good cry, then supper, I decided that serenity would come only via resolution of the Cora Teague situation. I also decided that, like me, Slidell probably had no social life. If he did, screw it.
I went to the study and phoned him as Ryan had suggested. Skinny listened, interrupted with a minimum of tasteless commentary.
When I’d finished, “Yeah, well, just one problem, Doc. Exorcists aim to kick Satan’s ass. They don’t aim to kill.”
“No, they don’t aim to kill. But the rites can and do turn deadly.”
I put Slidell on speaker and used the notes from my online research, editing as I read aloud.
“In 1995, a twenty-five-year-old Korean woman from Emeryville, California, turned to Jean Park at his self-created Jesus-Amen Ministries. The woman couldn’t sleep and meds didn’t help, so Park decided she was possessed by demons. During the six-hour exorcism, the woman was struck as many as one hundred times, causing multiple rib fractures and internal injuries. After she died, members of the congregation sat with her body for five days because Park told them she’d awake and be cured.”
I heard a female voice in the background.
“Hold on,” Slidell said.
The phone went muffled. Slidell returned moments later. “Look, I just wanna—”
I continued, abridging even further.
“1997, the Bronx, a five-year-old girl was tied down and forced to drink a cocktail of ammonia, vinegar, pepper, and olive oil. Her mouth was taped shut. When she died, her grandmother and mother wrapped the body in plastic and left it outside with the trash. Their proof of demons? The child had thrown tantrums.
“1998, Sayville, New York. A seventeen-year-old girl was suffocated with a plastic bag because her mother was trying to destroy a demon inside her.
“2008, Henderson, Texas. A thirteen-month-old girl was bitten more than twenty times and hammered to death. Mama and her boyfriend felt the baby was possessed by a demon.”
&nb
sp; “That ain’t the same. Those cases are just whackass parents—”
“Fighting demons in the name of God.” I barreled on. “2011, Floyd, Virginia. A man and his fellow church members felt his two-year-old daughter was possessed by evil spirits. The kid was found dead on a bed surrounded by Bibles. Her injuries included fractured ribs, abrasions, lung contusions, and hemorrhage. Cause of death was manual asphyxiation.
“2014, Germantown, Maryland. A mother, acting with a female accomplice, stabbed her four kids, killing two, convinced that evil spirits were moving back and forth through the children’s bodies. The women identified themselves as members of a group called Demon Assassins.”
“Sounds like some kinda death metal band.”
“Those are just a few examples.” I was surprised Slidell knew the genre. “There are dozens of news stories about the dangers of exorcism. Whole websites dedicated to the subject.”
“But you’re talking amateurs, right? Priests get training so things don’t go off the rails.”
“Let me share some facts, Detective. During an exorcism, the ‘possessed’ ”—the air quotes were pointless; Slidell couldn’t see me—“person is often restrained. Tied up. Strapped down. Straitjacketed. Many exorcists, priests or otherwise, see the rite not as a prayer but as a confrontation.”
“So the padre does some hocus-pocus and commands the demon to haul ass. The church tells him how to do it.”
“The priest is supposed to follow procedures approved by the Vatican. But guess what? Many ad-lib. And think about this. The exorcism, once begun, must be completed no matter how long it takes. Hours, days, weeks—”
“No play no pay?”
“—because if the exorcist quits, the demon then pursues him.”
“Yeah, that’s a motivator. But what’s this got to do with Strike?”
“It’s got to do with Cora Teague. Teague was epileptic. I think she died in the course of an exorcism. Ditto for Mason Gulley, who had a genetic condition that affected his appearance.”
Again, the female voice, now more insistent.
“I’m coming!” Slidell barked, I assumed to Verlene, not bothering to cover the handset.
“Remember the key chain audio?” I pressed on.
“The one you failed to seize.”
“Three voices. Two men and a girl. Maybe Cora secretly recorded her own exorcism.”
“Why?”
“To blackmail those responsible? To slip to the press? Because she was scared shitless the assholes would kill her? Does it matter?”
“Just for the sake of argument. Who’s on that tape with her?”
I’d asked myself the same question. “Maybe Hoke and her father, or another member of the congregation. Maybe a specialist brought in from outside.”
“You make these yaks sound like the AMA.”
“There actually are professional organizations. The American Association of Exorcists. The International Catholic Association of Exorcists. The International Association of Exorcists. Which, by the way, was recognized by the Vatican in 2014.”
“Don’t misconstrue this to mean I’m agreeing with you. But, even if you’re right, Teague and Gulley ain’t my cases.”
Misconstrue. High oratory for Skinny.
“Strike was investigating Teague.” I spoke with exaggerated patience. “Strike had the key chain. Strike went to Avery. Strike was murdered. Her death has to be connected.”
Slidell thought about that. Or at least refrained from comment for a while. Then, “There was nothing on Teague in any of Strike’s cartons.”
“What about Mason Gulley?” I asked.
“Nada.”
“What’s in the files?”
“Shit on Strike’s citizen sleuth operation. I got guys cross-checking names.”
“How long—”
“More breaking news. Wendell Clyde’s alibi is solid.”
“He was with the blogger all weekend.”
“Aslanian. Yeah. I’m sure they’ll be announcing their nuptials any minute. Look, there’s a function I gotta go to.”
“Will you run Granger Hoke? See what pops?”
“That pleasure should drop to Deputy Dick.”
“I’m certain there was something in Hoke’s history Father Morris was hiding.”
“Deputy.”
“Okay.” Blasé as hell. “But it will be embarrassing.”
“What the sweet Christ are you talking about now?”
“Ramsey beating you out on a collar for Strike.”
I heard the beep of Slidell hanging up.
I glared at my mobile, as if it, not Skinny, was the source of my irritation. Or maybe it was. Seemed all I’d done for days was talk on the phone. Mostly to people questioning my ability to reason.
And then there was Ryan. Nope. No thinking about Ryan until the case is resolved. Until. No. Leave it. Focus on the case.
I needed action. Involvement. Yet there was nothing I could do.
Frustrated, I phoned Ramsey and told him everything that had happened since last we’d spoken. Clear. Succinct. No conjecture. No grabbing-at-puzzle-pieces speculation. His response shocked me.
“I’ve been doing my own research. Hoke killed a kid.”
“Holy shit.”
“In a way. The death occurred during an exorcism.”
“What happened?” I was too stoked to acknowledge Ramsey’s joke.
“Full details were never released.”
“Of course not.”
“The incident took place in Elkhart, Indiana, in 1993. Hoke was solo priest at a small Catholic parish called Church of the Holy Comforter.”
I bit back a comment on the irony of the name.
“During a Wednesday night prayer circle a mother volunteered her nine-year-old daughter for exorcism. The rite was performed two days later in the family home. The mother held the child’s arms while Hoke sat on her back.”
“Restricting her lungs and causing suffocation.” The anger was so bitter I could taste it in my throat.
“Yes.”
“To expel a demon living inside her.”
“Yes.” I heard Ramsey swallow. “Later it came out that the girl was autistic.”
“Sonofabitch.” My skin tingled freezing hot as I leaned back in my chair. So this was what the good Father didn’t want to tell me. “Was Hoke charged?”
“No. Following an inquiry, the death was ruled accidental.”
Screw facts. I unfurled my theory about Hoke and his bullshit church.
“Look, Doc. The guy is several exits past weird, but accusing him of murder is pretty far out there.”
“Hoke suffocated a nine-year-old girl,” I snapped.
Humming silence. I could practically hear Ramsey clicking through the same faults in my thinking that Ryan had pointed out.
His next revelation surprised me almost as much as his first.
“We may have Strike’s laptop.”
“Are you serious?”
“A vagrant found an old Gateway while dumpster-diving behind Dunn’s Deli in Banner Elk.”
“Have you told Slidell?”
“I was about to call you, then him.”
“Where’s the thing been for five days?”
“The fine citizen held on to it, thinking he might make a few bucks. But the battery’s dead and he had no way to charge it. Failing to find a buyer, he decided to try for a reward by turning it in. He called us about two hours ago. The thing just landed here at headquarters.”
“What makes you think it belonged to Strike?”
“The initials HLCS are on the cover.”
Hazel Lee Cunningham Strike. The now familiar flicker of guilt went through me.
“Can you boot it?”
“We’re searching for a charger.”
“Skinny’s out with his girlfriend. Call. Make him look important.”
Of course I couldn’t sleep. A nonstop PowerPoint played in my head. Images. Recorded voices, two bullying, one
frightened.
At two I gave up and went downstairs. It was becoming a pattern.
After making tea, I sat at the dining room table. Stared at the hated box, which stared back.
Ignoring the accusatory ruckus of unsorted receipts, I drew a tablet and pen toward me. Based on Ryan’s comments, I headed columns. “Victims.” “Cause of death.” “Place of death.” “Time of death.” “Motives.” “Suspects.” “Weapons.”
I eyeballed the empty lists. Got the same result as with the box stare-down.
I tore off and crumpled the sheet. Began a diagram. Nodes with names and notes. Lines connecting the nodes.
Cora Teague—Graduates high school, goes to work for Brice family. River dies, returns home, disappears.
Eli Teague—Dies at age twelve, ER doctor suspicious.
John Teague—Owns convenience store–gas station op. Religious zealot, pugnacious.
Fatima Teague—Housewife, submissive.
Owen Lee Teague—Failed at real estate, dog trainer.
Realizing I knew little about Fatima or Owen Lee, nothing about the other Teague siblings, I began a list of questions on a separate sheet.
Mason Gulley—NJF, disappears same time as Cora Teague. Johnson City, TN(?) Posts as OMG (?) about Cora Teague on CLUES.net, turns up dead at Brown Mountain overlooks.
Grandma Gulley—Catholic, judgmental. Big.
Susan Grace Gulley—Slips me information about Mason, spies on Cora during Mason’s stay in Johnson City, TN. Detests Cora. Angry, rebellious. Big.
I added questions below the one concerning the Teagues. Where did Mason stay in Johnson City? Why? Why wouldn’t Susan Grace divulge the reason Mason went to Tennessee?
Hazel Strike—Websleuth, finds CLUES.net post about Cora Teague, finds my NamUs post, finds recorder at Burke County overlook, confronts me with theory UID ME229-13 is MP Cora Teague. Murdered.
More questions. Why did Strike go on hiatus from websleuthing? Where was she murdered? By whom? How did her body end up in the pond?
Granger Hoke—Defrocked priest, Jesus Lord Holiness church, deviant brand of Catholicism, exorcist, accidental death of child during rite.
Joel, Katalin, River, and Saffron Brice—Disillusioned Jesus Lord Holiness members. Saffron, broken arm. River, SIDS.