Into the Light

  The caller admitted that a twelve- and thirteen-year-old weren’t the most reliable witnesses, and though she didn’t want them personally involved, she felt compelled to share what they had told her. Even before the caller heard about Mindy on the news, her children had told her a story about a man carrying a woman from a truck to a plane. The woman calling admitted that because her children had been known to be imaginative, she hadn’t paid much attention to their story. She’d figured there could be any number of good reasons why they thought they’d seen what they described. However, once Mindy’s picture appeared on TV, her children brought up the story again. Even then, they only told the story; they didn’t mention the connection. It wasn’t until they were out one day and saw one of the flyers that her thirteen-year-old daughter pointed at Mindy’s picture and specifically said, “Mom, that’s the lady who couldn’t walk, so they carried her on the plane.”

  My heart stopped as I asked what they’d meant by couldn’t walk. Dina said she’d asked too. The woman hadn’t known. After they hung up, the woman had asked her children and called Dina back. Her children told her the woman had been sleeping.

  Dina said she’d called the detective in charge of the investigation, and he’d said he’d look into it, but she wanted me to know. I’d looked up private airstrips, but the ones I’d found weren’t in the area the woman had indicated. That was the main reason I was driving north on I-75.

  Exiting the interstate, I made my way into Bloomfield Hills. As I drove around the beautiful area, I thought about Foster’s suggestion that Dylan could afford a home here. Honestly, it was too bad that he and I together couldn’t afford one. Though I wasn’t ready for full-time cohabitation, as I drove the curvy roads around the majestic homes I found myself imagining the interiors with a very nice shelf for Fred’s bowl.

  The last known address of Uriel Harris wasn’t one of the big homes lining the hilly streets. The address took me instead to a large solid gate. Shrugging, I parked my car, walked up to a box beside the gate, and pushed the button.

  A man’s voice came from the box. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Uriel Harris.”

  “You have the wrong address.”

  I knew I didn’t. “Maybe I have his old address. Can you tell me how long you’ve lived here?”

  “This is private property. I suggest you leave.”

  Well, that was rude.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said as I released the button.

  Going back to my car, I grabbed my Nikon and walked the perimeter along the front wrought-iron fence. It didn’t seem to matter where I tried—I couldn’t see the house, or even get past the trees to take a picture. Though most leaves were gone, this property was lined with rows of pine trees, creating a living wall beyond the fence. Not only couldn’t I see the house, I couldn’t even get a feel for the size of the property. Still I snapped a few pictures here and there.

  I hoped that once I downloaded the photographs, I would be able to enlarge them and make out more than I could see in person. When I reached the end of the front fence, I saw that the angle of the side fence indicated that the property was wider in the back. As I took a few more pictures, I decided I should get the schematic of the property from the assessor, but first I’d try Google Earth.

  It wasn’t until I got back into my car that I noticed the security cameras at the gate. Sighing, I fought the urge to wave. Well, I couldn’t see them, but apparently they could see me.

  Next I spent an hour driving in circles. If there was an airstrip off Woodward Avenue and Eastways Road, I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t even find the access road. Maybe I did, but instead of an accessible street it was another one of the gated private driveways like the address on Kingsway Trace. The more I drove the more frustrated I became.

  Dead ends, I was so damn sick of dead ends!

  While I was on my way back to WCJB, lamenting my progress, my phone rang. Dylan’s name appeared on the screen in my car. I hit the green image and said, “Hello.”

  “Stella?”

  His voice sounded different. Maybe something had happened at work. “Hey, is everything all right? You don’t usually call during the day.”

  “Where are you?”

  Shit!

  I’d been so frustrated with the dead ends I’d forgotten to take the interstate and was on Woodward Avenue, approaching Highland Heights. “Why? I’m on my way back from checking out a lead.”

  Wanting to be able to honestly answer that I wasn’t in Highland Heights, I turned east toward the interstate, just north of the city limits.

  “I just had . . . never mind.”

  I wasn’t used to hearing Dylan anything less than confident.

  “Did something happen?” I asked.

  “No, I was just wondering if you could do dinner tonight?” His tone lightened. “Or do you have drinks with that hot fireman again?”

  I laughed. “Dinner would be great, but I need to be home tonight. I have things to do on my computer.”

  “You work too much.”

  “It doesn’t have to be all work. You could stay?”

  “Only if you let me take you out to eat.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll go home after work and you can come over. We can go out after that.”

  “See you tonight.”

  After dinner, while I downloaded my pictures, Dylan sat on my sofa. His legs were up on the ottoman as he watched TV. Looking at him, I wondered if this was what it was like when two people were together long enough to be comfortable. I’d never really dated anyone long enough to move into that stage. Maybe it was finding out about his parents, but since that morning a few days ago, I’d found myself thinking about him a lot more.

  Once I had my pictures from the day on my computer, I entered the address of the house I’d visited. Google Earth wouldn’t show me the exact dimensions of the property, but I was curious what was beyond that gate. The house was huge—no wonder it was valued at more than $7 million. There were a pool and tennis courts. Beyond the tennis courts were multiple smaller buildings, and then behind that, away from the road, closer to Eastways, was what I’d been searching for. There was an airstrip.

  “Holy shit!” I gasped.

  “What?” Dylan asked, coming up behind me.

  I shook my head. “I really don’t know.” I pointed at the screen. “See this?”

  His hands tightened their grasp on my shoulders as his face came up beside mine. When I turned toward him, I saw the muscle in his jaw flex.

  “It’s an airstrip,” I explained when he didn’t speak.

  “Are you looking to do some flying?” he asked, from behind clenched teeth.

  “No. See, Dina Rosemont called me about a phone call she received from someone who saw her flyer. She said that the caller told her a story about seeing a woman matching Mindy’s description being carried onto a plane.”

  Dylan spun my chair around until our noses touched. “She needs to tell that to DPD, not you. You have too much going on. I’m worried about you.”

  I kissed him. “I’m worried about you too. Did you ask about getting time at Christmas? And don’t worry, she did call DPD. Have you heard about it?”

  “No, I’m not directly involved with her case.” He shrugged. “You don’t want me to be.”

  “You’re right. You’re homicide. I’d rather her case not make it to you.”

  “So was that where you were today, following that lead?”

  I nodded, though I had been there for my story too. Our agreement was to discuss only Mindy-related work information. Turning back to the screen, I answered, “Yes, I couldn’t find it.”

  “Well, I guess that’s why it’s private. Did some lady really say she thought she saw Mindy getting on a plane?”

  I shook my head. “She said her children saw a woman, not getting on a plane—being carried onto it. It’s the first news that gives me hope. I mean it scares me, but at least maybe there’s a chance that she
’s still alive. Now I want to learn who owns this property.” I shrugged. “I know who owns it. I want to know who’s living there. I guess I didn’t realize the airstrip was on it.”

  “What do you mean you know who owns it?”

  I put my finger on his lips. “We’re getting into non-Mindy stuff.”

  “Stella, please stop. You’re too smart for your own good.”

  I brushed his lips to mine. “I love your support, but if I’m so smart, why is none of this making sense? Foster offered to take the story and put a fresh set of eyes on it.” I sighed.

  “Do that!”

  “You know I can’t. I mean, yes, I was at this property for Mindy, but I’m so close to something—something big—that I can feel it.”

  “Quit WCJB. We could use you at DPD. You’re really that good.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if we should work together. I get the feeling our styles match better in private.”

  Dylan took my hand. “No more computer, pictures, or Google Earth searches. Let’s work on that private compatibility.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Stella

  “Stella,” Dr. Howell said, “I need you to meet me at the medical center—right away.”

  I blinked awake at the sound of her anxious voice. “What is it?” I focused on the clock near my bed; it wasn’t even three in the morning.

  “I’d rather show you. Can you be here, in the ICU, in half an hour?”

  This time of morning there wouldn’t be much traffic, but that was still cutting it close. “I can be there in less than an hour. I’ll hurry.”

  “OK, and please don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

  I looked to my right, saw Dylan with a pillow pulled over his head, and replied, “If it’s that important, I won’t.”

  “Believe me, it is.”

  “OK. I’ll see you as soon as I can. Bye.”

  The line went dead. Dylan rolled, his eyes blinking in the red glow from the bedside clock. “Jesus, Stella, do you ever get to sleep through the night?”

  I leaned down and kissed his lips. “Go back to sleep. You can lock up before you leave. I need to run.”

  He huffed, rolled back under his pillow, and muttered, “Shit, I’d argue, but I’ve got a lot happening today. Besides, you wouldn’t listen anyway.”

  I hurried to the bathroom and made myself presentable, as presentable as one wants to be this early in the morning. Less than ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and ready to go, I made my way back to Dylan. “I’m sorry this woke you. I’ll leave a key for you on the table by the door so you can lock up.” I bent down to kiss his cheek. His inviting scent combined with his radiating warmth pulled me closer. The outside temperature had dipped the last few nights, making Dylan and my bed a much more compelling option than Tracy and an ICU. Just as I was about to kiss him good-bye, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer.

  With a raspy morning voice, he asked, “A key? You’re giving me a key?”

  I shrugged in his embrace. “You have to be able to lock up.”

  Burying his stubbly face in the nape of my neck, he mumbled, “I’ll give it back tonight.”

  It took every ounce of my willpower not to climb back into my bed. “Or you could hold on to it, and then if Fred ever needs something, and I can’t be here, you could swing by.”

  “I could do that. The little guy and I really bonded. Did you see how excited he was last Sunday to watch the Lions game with me?”

  I laughed. “Yes, you two were something else. Call me later?”

  “Or since I have a key . . .”

  “I”—I hesitated—“will see you later.” I kissed his cheek and went to find my warmer coat.

  Since that night over a week ago when Dylan had stayed at my place, he’d done it more. I’d thought about giving him a key before now. After all, I had one to his place, though I’d been reluctant to accept it. He’d convinced me to take it at the same time he’d convinced me to leave clothes. I guess they kind of went together; however, I’d never used his key. Maybe I hadn’t felt comfortable being at his place without him. While I waited for my car to warm, my cold cheeks rose; I was comfortable leaving him alone at my place. As I exhaled, faint crystals of ice hung suspended in the cool morning air. My empty stomach clenched at the realization: as I’d said good-bye to the sexy man in my bed, I’d almost told him that I loved him.

  When the hell did that happen?

  Last week when I’d told my mom, on the phone, that I’d invited him to Christmas with us, you would’ve thought I’d told her that one of my stories was being considered for a Pulitzer. She was beyond elated that I was in a steady relationship. With two daughters, she was champing at the bit for grandchildren. Currently all she had was Fred. I’d felt bad when I let her know that he wouldn’t be making it for Christmas. Fish and carsickness made for a messy bowl.

  I shook my head at the possibility. Maybe at twenty-nine years old I was ready to look at a future with someone. I’d never thought it would be with someone like Dylan, a detective, and someone others considered a hard-ass. However, when we were together, I didn’t see him the way others did.

  The Saturday before he and Fred bonded over football, had started a little rocky. For some reason he wasn’t happy about my strawberry jam. I’d walked into the kitchen and found him staring at the jar. When I asked him what was going on, he explained it was an allergy. I promised I wouldn’t use it when he was near, but I would eat it. It was delicious.

  Later that day we went to Dearborn for the Apple Harvest Festival. Though my research was finally falling into place and I wanted to keep working, Dylan persuaded me to take a day away from everything. I smiled at the memory; I had enjoyed the outing. The day was one of those unseasonably warm autumn days, a gift from the prewinter gods. With a warm breeze and a clear blue sky, we walked hand in hand around the festival, talking, laughing, and enjoying candied apples. As evening came, we sat on a blanket with another one wrapped about our shoulders, drinking spiked apple cider and listening to live music. While Dylan drove back to my place, I dozed off and on. For the first time ever, I experienced a complete sense of security and contentedness.

  Later I told myself that it wasn’t all about Dylan; it was also about the progress I’d made on the money trail surrounding the buildings around The Light. Doing as Bernard suggested, I’d finally connected some dots. Though I’d done it all without revisiting Highland Heights, I planned to go back as soon as the first snow fell. I wanted proof that the abandoned building was in use. Footprints behind the locked fence would be that evidence, and with the way my teeth currently chattered, I’d be getting those soon.

  My most exciting connection I’d made, the one I’d yet to share with anyone, was about Marcel Clarkson, the benefactor who’d donated the building that currently housed The Light. Marcel was also the original CEO of Wilkens Industries. He’d begun that private company in 1972 and had one son, Garrison Clarkson. My moment of discovery came when I realized that prior to 1990 Gabriel Clark, the founder of The Light, didn’t exist, and after 1990, Garrison Clarkson ceased to exist. The paper trail on Garrison’s demise was fuzzy at best. There was a small hospital notice listing Garrison Clarkson as deceased; however, I couldn’t verify that with state death records. The only other mention of Garrison was in a 1998 interview with Marcel in which he mentioned the loss of his son.

  Though The Light’s website gave little information on Gabriel Clark, other than that he claimed to have risen from the ashes of darkness, assuming I was right and he truly was Garrison Clarkson, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Garrison had grown up in a stately older mansion in Angell, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He came from old money, earned off the backs of autoworkers. His father, Marcel, had begun Wilkens Industries and diversified the family fortune during the stock market boom, increasing its worth exponentially. Garrison had attended the University of Michigan, followed in his father’s f
ootsteps, and climbed to the top. Then in the late 1980s the markets crashed and, according to undisclosed insiders, a family feud ensued. That was about the time Garrison disappeared and Gabriel Clark was created.

  If I’d connected the right dots, Garrison Clarkson became Gabriel Clark, a divine preacher and prophet of God.

  The early 1990s was the boom of self-discovery. Men and women faced with financial devastation flocked to self-help and motivational seminars. From what I’d pieced together from archived media blurbs, Father Gabriel, as he branded himself based on the archangel, rose to the top. Perhaps ordained, or perhaps recognizing the financial potential, Gabriel traveled about the country conducting free seminars for thousands of participants. Each seminar encouraged only the participants interested in personal success to purchase his materials. According to the IRS, in 1992 sales from his books, manuals, and videotapes topped $10 million.

  Near the turn of the century, the same time that Marcel became ill, Gabriel stepped away from the traveling circuit and settled down with The Light. By that time he had a ring of three trusted advisors who were named as members of his advisory commission. Their names were listed on the original application for tax-exempt status: Michael Jones, Raphael Williams, and Uriel Harrison—interestingly, all archangels.

  If Uriel Harrison was Uriel Harris, the developer, my circle was complete.

  Without evidence, I assumed the feud between Marcel and his son had ended before Marcel Clarkson’s death, because in 2001 Gabriel Clark’s and Marcel Clarkston’s combined net worth was transferred to The Light. On paper, Garrison Clarkson or Gabriel Clark, was penniless.

  My theory was that Father Gabriel was still connected to Wilkens Industries, the entity that also owned Entermann’s Realty. It was still a leap, and I was working on the particulars; however, if I was correct, Father Gabriel didn’t live in a run-down church building in Highland Heights. He lived in the mansion in Bloomfield Hills, the one with the landing strip. He also wasn’t penniless, but based on flight plans, flew in a multi-million-dollar plane.