The Occupied Read online

  “What would that be?”

  The Reverend looked at me hard, like he might be trying to remember something. “Did you say you went to Good Shepherd?”

  “No. Just came to your church that one time to meet with you. It was Bobby’s idea.”

  He nodded. But then something distracted him. He zeroed in on my swollen ear and the bump on my forehead. “Looks like you were in a car crash.”

  “No. I just crashed into someone bigger than me.”

  Cannon seemed to be searching for the trail that he had wandered off, then found it. “What you were saying before . . .”

  “I was asking about what you just said. About the ‘usual’ reason for someone getting murdered.”

  “Yes. Well, I was with a missionary organization before I was ordained. Before the synod. Working in South America. Along the Amazon in Brazil. Mostly among the indigenous tribes. While I was there, I encountered the powers of darkness. Demonic evil.”

  “I recall Bobby mentioning that to me way back when.”

  “We did exorcisms in the jungle. God worked miracles. So many people were set free.”

  “Did you ever talk to Bobby directly about that? The exorcisms?”

  He gave a half chuckle. “Not that I can recall. I wouldn’t have. My background caused quite enough of a stir among the congregation. As you can imagine. Gossip spreads fast.”

  Then out of the blue, he mentioned something else. “Missionaries have to study the language. Culture. The pagan lifestyle of the tribes. A common bond of communication and trust must be created before you can go deeper. Into the real spiritual issues, that is. When I came to Manitou to pastor the church, I did that. Went to the county museum here in town. Studied up on the area.”

  “The museum in the building that used to be the old courthouse?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Do you know where the word manitou comes from?”

  “They must have taught us something about it here in the schools, but I can’t remember.”

  He said, “It comes from Indian tribes. Algonquian mostly, I think.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Supernatural spirit.”

  Images flashed in my head. The photographs of Heather’s mutilated body, and Bobby’s too. Maybe Cannon’s experience with jungle demonism as a missionary could give me a lead.

  I asked, “Your time in South America—did you ever encounter a situation where the hearts were cut out of victims?”

  He thought on it and said, “Not personally. But we heard of that sort of thing. There’s plenty of that in pagan cultures. Even in tribes today.”

  Then Cannon threw something else at me unexpectedly. “I had my own idea about those kinds of horrible practices.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “This is not inspired. Just the gospel according to John Cannon. But I think that kind of practice—the removal of the heart—is the private joke of the devil. His demonstration of power. Over the world. And over flesh. And a repudiation of God. He mocks anything that is good and pure. Does it, I think, with a cynical grin. He has an appetite for devouring things. And people.”

  I wasn’t following, so I asked him to explain.

  Cannon said, “In the Gospels. The Roman soldier thrust a spear into the chest of Jesus. To make sure he was dead. And blood and water poured out, from a heart that had burst. You know, I believe Jesus died from a broken heart. Rent apart, having taken on himself all that evil, that blight of sin of the human race.”

  “But those pagan practices we were talking about . . .”

  “The heart,” he said, raising his voice. “It’s about mutilating the heart, don’t you see? Mocking the Savior.”

  Again, the images. Heather, Dunning Kamera’s victim, and Bobby too. And even the knife attack against me in the art museum in New York, a thrust that came into the same part of my body. Only the extraordinary appearance of some museum guard, or whoever he was, stopped me from being a homicide victim myself. I was lucky to be alive. Several times over.

  There was a sinking feeling in my gut. My bravado about solving Bobby’s case and coming to Manitou in search of the killer. Was I a fool on a fool’s errand, thinking I could handle this?

  I found myself suddenly longing to get back home. Longing for the peace that I felt in my cabin on the edge of the Atlantic. Especially on those days when the ocean was calm and grayish blue, and it would be so still that the expanse of water would bleed into the horizon. The peaceful-looking place where the sky meets the sea.

  Cannon disrupted all of that. “Do you have any other questions?”

  I told him yes, I did. “What side of Jesus’ chest was punctured by the spear?”

  Just then the sound of a bell rang through the building. Rev. Cannon’s eyes brightened. “Have to go. That’s the lunch bell. It’s meat loaf day today. It’s not half-bad either.” Then he looked back at me. “Oh, your question?”

  I repeated it, and Cannon took only a second or two before answering. “The Gospel accounts actually don’t answer that question. Tradition says the entry was on his right side, opposite the side where his heart was. But as I said, just a matter of traditional church thinking. I seem to recall it was bolstered by other medical facts, though I can’t remember them right now.”

  I stood up and said, “About what you said, Rev. Cannon. About the word manitou meaning ‘supernatural spirit.’ You didn’t say whether that meant a good spirit or an evil one.”

  I was now aware that an aide from the retirement home had swept into the room. She offered to help Rev. Cannon to the cafeteria. He struggled to get to his feet, and when he did, he planted them under the walker and prepared to walk.

  Once he had mounted the walker he returned to my question. “Manitou,” he said. “Now, about that word. For me, there’s only one Spirit that’s truly good. But many that are bad. Now, what those Indian tribes meant by it, I’m not sure.”

  I thanked him and turned to leave. But there was something else that was bugging me, and I needed to get Rev. Cannon’s take on it while I had him. So I decided to walk alongside him while he made his slow shuffle toward the cafeteria.

  “Rev. Cannon, just one last question. Treat it like a game. Trivial Pursuit perhaps.”

  His eyes lit up.

  By then I had been thinking back to that very similar message that had been delivered by three violent and possessed souls, all of them in New York: Dunning Kamera, Hanz Delpha, and Sid Castor.

  So I started out, “If I were to use the phrase ‘dead already’—or something similar, like, for instance, ‘already dead’—would that mean anything to you?”

  The old pastor scrunched up his face, then turned to me with a bright expression. “Got it. Yes. Dead already. Jesus was on the cross, and the Roman soldiers were about to break his legs to hasten his demise, but then they noticed, according to the Gospels, that he was dead already. As a result they didn’t bother, and thus they fulfilled the prophecy that no bones of the Messiah would be broken.”

  I stopped, grappling with that last bit from Rev. Cannon as he kept moving toward the cafeteria. Cannon twisted half around in my direction with a great effort and said, “Good game. I like that. Any more questions like that one?”

  I told him no, but thanked him for his time.

  Then it was Cannon’s turn. He suddenly shouted back to me, saying, “I remember you. You were the smart aleck.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  He added, “You and Bobby were together that day in my study at the church. And you were the smart-aleck one.”

  I smiled. “Yes, sir, I was. You’ve got a better memory than you think.”

  “I always was fond of Bobby,” he said. “That boy had a bright future. And he always kept his eyes on the prize.”

  “He was the real deal, even when the girls were practically throwing themselves at him.”

  Rev. Cannon nodded and gazed down the hall the way we’d come. “I seem to recall that pretty blonde, Ma
rilyn, kept batting her eyelashes at him. But he never gave her the time of day.”

  I did a bit of a double take. “You knew Marilyn Parlow?”

  “You were friends? Marilyn’s parents were longtime members at Good Shepherd, and she was sweet on Bobby. Since elementary school. Poor girl. Went through two or three marriages. Always looking for love, I think. Not finding it. Not the real kind. Right up to the day she passed.”

  A deadweight dropped in my stomach, and my face must have gone pale because the reverend responded with concern. “I’m sorry. You hadn’t heard that news? Marilyn died a few years back. Cervical cancer, I was told.”

  He stepped closer and patted me on the arm. “It is sad when you start losing friends and peers. Believe me—” he extended his other hand, taking in the sterile hallways and shuffling retirees around us—“I know what it is to see people pass beyond the veil. We still grieve, but with hope, if our trust is in the Lord.” He gave my arm one final squeeze, then turned and continued toward the cafeteria. “Trust him, son. All other ground is sinking sand.”

  As I exited the building and started toward my Fiat rental car, I realized that Rev. Cannon never got around to explaining something. How the brutal murder of innocent people in Manitou, or anywhere else, could ever be considered “usual.” But my mind was already on fire with everything else Cannon had just told me.

  On the drive back to the Holiday Inn, my cell rang. It was Dan Hoover, and he said that he was in Seattle, had a day off before his jazz tour started up again, and wanted to know how things were coming in my investigation.

  I pulled over and shut off the engine, then took a breath and told him first about Augie. That I’d thought he was dead, possible suicide. Then it turned out the corpse wasn’t his after all.

  Dan made me repeat it again. When I did, I said, “I know this whole thing is confusing. And bizarre. And doesn’t make much sense—”

  “I don’t get it. What’s going on in Manitou, anyway?”

  “Something evil.” I left it at that for the time being. But I had more news to share. “Remember Marilyn?”

  “Wow, yeah. Blast from the past. Hot on you, right? Or was it Bobby?”

  “Complicated,” I replied. “Anyway, I found out she died too. Cancer.”

  “Geez. Sad, man.” Then, “Well, what about the guy who did that to Bobby, anyway? Are you making headway?”

  I told him that the guy who the police had in custody probably didn’t do it.

  Dan was thunderstruck. “Wow. Man. Where does that leave us? Got me looking over my shoulder.”

  In spite of myself, I found myself repeating my pledge again. “I’m not leaving till this is done.”

  Dan said, “Man, Bobby’s gone. Susan, Augie’s wife, she’s gone. Any idea, then, where Augie is? I’m worried he might be in trouble too.”

  “The detective I am working with thinks the same. We need to get to him before something bad happens.”

  I ended the call by reassuring Dan that I would not give up on nailing Bobby’s killer and also locating Augie.

  When I got back to the hotel, I figured I’d head over to the Ranch Roundup Steak House for dinner, but first I pulled my Bible off the nightstand and turned to Ecclesiastes. I had been going back to this book of the Bible lately, and I flipped to a passage that had been lingering in my thoughts for a few days now: that God has placed eternity into the human heart. The echoes of the supernatural that we sense. But like everything else, enemy forces have twisted that yearning and turned it into something ugly. And dangerous. The question was how to navigate that.

  But as I pondered and prayed, my belly was rumbling. I decided to navigate my way to the steak joint that was walking distance from the hotel. The great questions of life would still be there when I returned.

  41

  While I ate my T-bone dinner at the Ranch Roundup, I leafed through the local news in the Manitou Times that I had picked up in the metal newspaper box outside the restaurant. Two things caught my eye; they seemed only tangentially related. One was a full-page advertisement for the Opperdill Real Estate Development Company. It was the land business of Jeffery Opperdill, who I recalled was the son of Hoskins Opperdill, the man who owned the foundry where my father was killed in his industrial accident. The ad sported a big, full-color picture of Jeffery Opperdill. He looked fit, was smiling broadly, and seemed to be about my age, with blond hair and mustache. A little too blond. Probably a dye job.

  The other news that I spotted in between bites of steak was farther back in the paper near the sports section: a notice of an upcoming Manitou City Council meeting about the future of the abandoned Opperdill Foundry located along the Little Bear River. Those two bits of information didn’t seem connected at the time, except for the fact that the Opperdill family name was involved in both.

  When I finished dinner, I put in a call to Dick Valentine back in New York. I presumed his years in homicide would have likely put him into contact with a variety of doctors and medical professionals. He didn’t pick up, so I left a message on his voice mail.

  “Trevor Black here, friend. Would love to catch up with you sometime. So, here’s the reason for my call. I am still working the case involving the murder of my high school friend here in Wisconsin. I’ve got an unusual request. Remember the Bible story about the crucifixion? The Roman soldier jams a spear into the side of Jesus and blood and water pours out. I need a medical opinion. Why the separation of blood and water? How would the puncture wound have produced that kind of result? There’s lots of information on the Internet, but I’m not sure what’s valid. Would actually like a professional opinion that I could trust. Do you know any people in medical forensics who might be able to give me some answers? Not sure how or why it seems important to me, but there it is. Anyway, let me know. And I’d also like to know if you’re staying safe and still catching bad guys. You’ve got my number.”

  As I started to amble back to the Holiday Inn, which was about half a mile away along the bypass, I wondered why I hadn’t driven instead. There was no sidewalk, so I walked just off the edge of the shoulder of the highway to make sure I didn’t become a squashed bug on someone’s front windshield. I fished out my cell and put in a call to Ashley as I walked. Again, no answer. I was starting to feel like people were avoiding me. The prompt beeped, and I left a message telling her that I would like to reconnect about the Bobby Budleigh case and had been wondering how she was doing on her other cases. Not that she could discuss those with me, of course, but I was just thinking about her. And that I really enjoyed our dinner together. I ended by asking her to call me.

  When I reached the grounds of the hotel, I headed for the keyed-access entrance at the rear of the building rather than walking all the way around to the front lobby. I saw a few cars parked in that part of the lot, but I was alone, and the only sound that I heard at first was the echo of my own footsteps. Then, when I was about twenty feet from the rear door, my cell rang. I looked down at the little luminous screen—a restricted number. Could be Dick Valentine calling back, I thought. As I brought my cell up to my ear, I was about to tap the Accept button.

  Then the sensation. The scent of smoky incineration and putrid rot.

  And the feeling of a presence behind me. And then two hands coming around my neck in a choke hold from a guy who was bigger than me and stronger. So much bigger and stronger that I was lifted up off the ground at least six inches as I clawed at the hands to release me. The hands were squeezing the breath from my throat. I couldn’t speak. I was shaken like a wet dishrag until I thought my brains would be scrambled in my skull.

  Next came a voice. But it was more of a cacophony, like a piano hitting the pavement after falling three stories.

  Yet the words were clear. “If you stay, Trevor, I’ll make you my slave.”

  Then my short flight through the air.

  I was tossed forward to the asphalt, and as I fell, my arms were out, and they kept my face and nose from being busted when I
hit. I gasped for breath, flipped myself over, and tried to find my attacker. He was gone.

  My cell was on the ground, and I heard someone on the other end, but by the time I picked it up, the incoming call had ended.

  I stumbled to my feet, a little unsteady, wondering if my shoulder had been dislocated again when I fell. I rotated it slowly around, but no, it just felt like a sprain. Bruised forearms, but that was it. I heard myself explode with a burst of profanity. An unpleasant reminder that the old me wasn’t quite gone. I was tired of being ambushed. Punched and kicked. Handled like a side of beef in a meat locker.

  A beam of light from the headlights of a car came swooping into the parking lot and approached. I saw Ashley Linderman’s unmarked car pulling up to me.

  Ashley jumped out with her hand under her suit coat and on her sidearm, then approached me cautiously as she tossed a look in all directions. “Are you all right? You look a little shook up.”

  “I think so. What are you doing here?”

  “I was cruising, and I called your cell. Then I heard a sound. Like you were choking.”

  “Yeah, that was me choking all right. I must have clicked on your call when I was being manhandled.”

  “By who?”

  “He came from behind. I couldn’t see him.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  “No. But he said something. He said that if I hung around here, he’d make me his slave.”

  “Sounds medieval,” she said.

  “You have no idea.”

  Ashley’s expression changed. A gentle look. I felt something wet dripping down my upper lip, and as I did, Ashley reached in her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. She dabbed it to my lip, and I saw bright-red blood. I must have banged my nose when I hit the ground. I noticed Ashley’s hand trembling as she held the handkerchief, but I knew it wasn’t fear. Probably her ongoing struggle with GAD. Must be hard, I thought, considering the job brings her into contact with a parade of dangerously bad actors.

  “Keep the handkerchief,” she said. “You know, Trevor, maybe you’d be safer finding somewhere else to crash tonight.”