Gone Astray

By Raymond Cox

Father Ted Caldwell, Rector of St. Christopher's, an inner-city parish in Connecticut, has helped his parishioners by investigating many problems they have experienced. But when Sandra Mahoney, a woman with whom he has gone through previous clashes, asks him to search for her missing daughter, Rachel, he is reluctant to take on the project. Rachel, a massage therapist, disappeared three months earlier after a bizarre murder of one of her clients.

Police have reached a dead-end in the case, and Father Ted does not feel he can shed any light on Rachel's whereabouts. However, the compassion he feels for Ms. Mahoney, who is agonizing over the disappearance of her child, slowly draws him into the situation. The police lieutenant investigating the homicide shares inside information with the priest, and with the involvement of his aunt Kate, Father Ted enters into a full-blown investigation.

Father Ted finds himself involved in a series of frightening events, culminating in a tragedy that brings his efforts to an end. However, after receiving more important information, he reluctantly resumes his investigation. Circumstances spiral out of control with explosive results, revealing the truth behind Rachel's disappearance and her client's murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 12, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595613946

Raymond Cox

Father Raymond Cox, author of Deadly Ambush, is a retired Episcopal priest living in Connecticut, still active when responding to a call for assistance at local parishes. He and his wife enjoy leisurely times spent with their two daughters and grandson.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

PROLOGUE

Her heart pounding, she huddled in the small alcove the bottom of the stairs, hunched over her folded massage table. Squeezing into a corner, she listened for approaching footsteps. Should she have tried to make a run for her car? Not really. But she’d realized that it was parked directly under the apartment’s window. Too late now. This small, almost unnoticeable space seemed to be about the only chance for not being noticed.

      Even though Sam had obviously been in a panic, trying to get her to take the suitcase near the door, at first she merely had been puzzled. Bu her curiosity got the better of her, enough to hide around the corner from the elevator.

      She had been halfway through Sam’s massage when he took the call on his portable.

      No, he’d said. Not busy.

      The voice at the other end buzzed out a string of sentences, loud enough for her to hear the angry tone at least.

      No. Sam’s voice had taken on a defensive tone.

      More of the buzzing voice on the phone.

      Visibly paling, Sam had jumped up from the table. No. No way. You’ve got it all wrong. Let me explain. His voice was shaking. He had stared at the phone and shook his head at its sudden silence. His caller had obviously hung up. Sam had slammed the instrument down and looked around him wildly, his gaze settling finally on a suitcase near the door.

      Oh God, oh God! he’d moaned. There’s no time.

      Look, he’d told her, his eyes wild with fright. There’s someone coming here in a few minutes. You shouldn’t be here. I want you to go. Now!

      Standing naked, he had hurriedly helped her to fold the table and rushed her to the door. Impulsively, it seemed, he had tried again to thrust the suitcase in her hands. He had told her to take it! To run!

      Whatever was in it, something had told her not to take it. She shook her head. There was a short tussle, but still she had refused to accept the bag. Sam dropped it back on the floor and sighed in resignation.

      You’re probably right, he’d said, then insisted again that she get out.

      Run! he’d snapped. Run for your life.

      Why? she’d asked, beginning to feel a frisson of fear. What’s the problem?

      He’d shaken his head. No matter. Just go!

      As she had gone out the door, Sam shoved the suitcase out into the hall.

      Please, he had pleaded. She stared at it. Why was it so important? Rather than leave it there, she had taken it around the corner to the stairway. But curiosity had kept her dithering in the hallway. What was happening? What was Sam so scared about? And what was in the suitcase?

      At the sound of the elevator coming up, some instinct had told her to wait around the corner from the apartment near the stairway. Within minutes she’d heard the elevator doors open. She had peered around the corner. Two men emerged. One was tall and well dressed, good looking, the other short and stocky, dressed informally in T-shirt and jeans. He was ugly with dark complexion, muscles bulging under his shirt. Briskly, they’d walked to Sam’s door and knocked.

      Open up, Sam, said the tall one, we know you’re in there.

      There was a pause.

      You know we can get in, one way or another, the tall man said.

      She heard the door being unlocked, heard Sam’s voice: Listen guys, it’s not what he thinks . . .

      The two men had gone in, leaving the door open. There was the sound of flesh striking flesh, and Sam’s cry of pain came clearly down the hall, followed by the sounds of crashing and breaking, and Sam’s whimpering pleas.

      Where’s the Mahoney broad? one of them said.

      Not here, Sam moaned.

      Has she been here?

      No, not her, he said vaguely.

      Now fear overrode puzzlement. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, she turned and began lugging the heavy table and the equally heavy bag down the stairs, one thought in her mind: to get out without being seen. It was just as Sam had said.

      At the bottom of the stairs, she’d hesitated. Remembering where her car was parked. It was right under Sam’s window. One thing she did know was she had better not be seen. She’d looked around the unfamiliar lobby and spied a small alcove tucked under the bottom of the stairs. Her terrorized mind, now numb to rational thought, told her to hide there.

      And so here she was, crammed into this tiny space with her table, hidden only if no one took the trouble to walk down the hall and look.

      As she waited, her pulse slowed a bit. What was this all about? What was in the suitcase that Sam had so desperately tried to foist off on her? He was obviously terrified of the person who had called. He’d panicked. Who had it been? Had he been warned about the two men who had so quickly arrived? And what was going on up there in that apartment?

      Just then she heard the sound of the elevator starting up. Her heart started its trip-hammer thudding again. By the time the doors opened down the hall, she was back in a state of terror. What she had heard going on in Sam’s apartment was quite clear. And these men were obviously not people she should run afoul of. She remembered the question: Where’s the Mahoney broad?

      She waited, tense, listening to the two voices.

      Whaddya think? Think the broad was here?

      Dunno. She’s gone. Don’t matter anyway. Sam was the one. But no cash. Boss won’t like that!

      Well, I think she was there, or had been. Maybe we should look.

      Ya crazy? Did you see her anywhere in the place? ’Sides, she’s not our problem. We were just told to deal with Sam, not her. What we gotta do is set it up for tonight. We’ll come back and clean up when no one’ll see.

      The voices faded. She peered around the edge of the alcove and watched them go out the lobby door. Coming out a little further, she could see a dark red car parked outside the door. Both men got in and drove away.

      She waited, her terror subsiding a bit. Had they really gone? They seemed to have gone.

      She walked to the doors. No sign of the car.

      She wondered what had happened upstairs, though she had her suspicions. She shook her head. No. No way. Not in broad daylight. Nervous though she was, she decided to check on Sam. See if he needed help of some kind.

      Swiftly, she ran back up the stairs to Sam’s apartment. The door was closed. She knocked. No answer. Doubly concerned for Sam, she knocked a little louder.

      Sam, she called. It’s me. Are you all right?

      Again, there was no answer.

      On impulse, she turned the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. Her pulse rate rising again, she opened the door and peered in. At first glance she could see that the place looked as though it had been ransacked. Chairs had been thrown about, a lamp was on the floor, and the television set had been shoved halfway across the room, its plugs ripped out of the wall. That was all. It was bad enough, but not a great deal of damage had been done. But it looked as though the men had been searching for something.

      Over in one corner a desk appeared to have been searched. The drawers were out, papers scattered over its surface and on the floor around it.

      Sam, she called. Sam, are you here? Are you all right?

      She walked toward the bedroom. And freaked! Not screamed. It was more an internal kind of scream. It was what had been lurking at the back of her mind. And there could be no doubt about it. Sam was dead.

      His bloody corpse lay just inside the door. Across the room she could see the bed had been pulled apart. The mattress was on the floor, the cover shredded.

      Panting with horror and terror, she backed out into the living room and out into the hallway, slamming the door on her way out—trying to put anything between her and what lay there in the apartment.

      Numb with panic, hearing the words Mahoney broad echoing and reechoing in her head, she raced down the stairs, grabbed the table and, without thinking, the bag, and ran out to her car, not even thinking of looking to see if anyone saw her, not concerned with anything but to get out, to run, run for her life as Sam had told her.

ONE

I’m sorry to keep you waiting," I said, trying to suppress a yawn as I closed the door to my office. I had been up since two o’clock, tending to several families whose tenement had been struck by fire. After getting them settled in temporary quarters in St. Christopher’s Family Service Center, I’d dragged myself back to the rectory for a much needed shower and one of Aunt Kate’s breakfasts. Both had provided some degree of restoration. Even so, just the few minutes walking through the heat from the rectory to the church office had left me feeling still bedraggled.

      By contrast, Sandra Mahoney looked crisp and cool, in spite of the ongoing heat wave. Even her daughter Sarah looked fresher than I felt. They both smiled at me. I was surprised. Surely this was the first time I had seen Sandra smile. But then, I had only met her twice before, both times under circumstances that would not have brought out the best in anyone.

      I pointed to the couch, and as they sat, I pulled my chair around from behind the desk and sat facing them. I was apprehensive about this meeting. In fact I’d been surprised when Monica, my secretary, said they had called for an appointment. Whatever they were here about, I suspected this would not be a pleasant meeting.

      Hesitantly, I asked, What can I do for you?

      Sandra smiled—again. Good grief! Whatever had got into the woman? I felt uncomfortable. Those smiles didn’t square with my previous experiences with her.

      She launched right in. Father, it’s about Rachel.

      No surprise. I’d expected that. I’d figured they were both here for some counseling. I felt compassion for Sandra even though she and I had wrangled in the past. But, I wondered, why me? Why not their own pastor? If counseling was what they were after . . . well, whoever needs help, right? It wouldn’t be easy with Sandra, given our somewhat negative history. In any case, I would likely end up referring them to a psychiatrist I knew who was very good with this sort of thing. Girding my loins, so to speak, I prepared to deal with them. I’d have preferred not to. Given the trauma these two had been subjected to for the past few months, it would be exhausting.

      Yes, I said. I can only imagine the enormous stress you’ve been through. And nothing has ever been resolved.

      Sandra nodded. It’s been bad. There’s the worry, of course. And the media have been beastly. Thank heavens they seem to have lost interest. But we still have to monitor our phone calls and check before we leave the house. You never know if one of them will still be hanging around.

      I nodded sympathetically. I’d experienced that same kind of intensive media attention myself a year ago.

      It’s a good thing they have such a short attention span, I said.

      We all nodded at one another in agreement.

      I sat back in my chair. Okay, I thought, ball’s in your court, Sandra.

      Oh! exclaimed Sandra sitting up straight. Sorry. I should explain.

      I nodded.

      We want you to find Rachel, she said.

      I stared at her. What? I thought you were here for counseling!

      Oh no, Sandra said primly. "I’ve been seeing my pastor, and Sarah has a shrink she’s seeing in New York.

      No, she went on, We’ve come to ask you to see if you can find Rachel.

      She couldn’t be serious. Still in shock, I looked from one of them to the other. I noticed that Sarah had a slight smirk on her face. What was going on here?

      Find her? I asked finally. How do you mean?

      Well, Sandra shifted uncomfortably, you know she’s been missing? All that business of the murder and everything? Father, you do read the newspapers, don’t you?

      She was getting agitated, her cheeks getting pink. Oh boy! Now she’d got her dander up. I was amused. This was much more like the Sandra I knew.

      Yes, I know all about that, I said. But isn’t that an ongoing investigation? A police investigation? A murder investigation?

      Well, yes. But I’m not concerned with the murder part of it, she snapped. I just want to find out where Rachel is. If I can find her, I know I’ll be able to persuade her to talk to the police.

      Preposterous! Was this going to be another Sandra event?

      I got up and walked around behind my desk, went to the window and looked out for a moment. Thank God for air conditioning. Otherwise I suspected the heat that was about to be generated in this office would cause a meltdown. I struggled to get a handle on my exasperation.

      I sat down and leaned forward.

      "Look, Sandra, I don’t know if you realize what you’re asking. In the first place, this is a police investigation. It’s been going on for several months now. Whatever the truth may be, Rachel’s disappearance has been linked to a murder. This means there are three possibilities.

      "One, Rachel was somehow involved in the murder itself, and at the very least she is a vital witness. Two, Rachel herself is dead. After all, she has vanished without a trace, and the police are usually very good at finding evidence if that is the case. Or three, Rachel is scared to death and managing to hide out somewhere, some way.

      In all three cases, the police—with their quite extensive network of resources—have so far not been able to find her or her corpse. Sandra cringed.

      And whether we like it or not, that was a brutal murder, and in some way it involves your daughter. It’s police business. Not something for me to get involved in.

      Sandra nodded her manner slightly cooler now. I looked at Sarah. The smirk was gone and she looked withdrawn, sitting back, her eyes staring at the floor. What was with her anyway?

      Isn’t Lieutenant Giannini one of your parishioners? Sandra asked.

      He is. And yes, he is in charge of the case. And no, he doesn’t discuss it with me.

      It would seem to me, Sandra said slyly, you would be able to get some inside information. You know Rachel, after all. And besides, a priest is often able to get people to talk when the police can’t.

      I stared at her for a moment in amazement.

      Sarah snorted. Ha! I told you, Mum! This idea of yours was absurd.

      You disagree with your mother? I asked.

      Of course! I told her this was nuts. I think it has to be left to the police.

      But what if they never find your sister? You prepared to let it go at that?

      She shook her head. No. I think Rachel has her own reasons for disappearing. Let her work it out for herself. If she needs help, she’ll ask for it.

      What if she’s dead, Sarah?

      Unexpectedly tears began to form, and she slumped back, shook her head.

      What? I said.

      She took a tissue out of her purse.

      Actually, Father, I don’t think she is dead.

      From what I had heard about the matter, I’d had the same notion. Rachel had vanished herself too thoroughly, and the alternative, that she too had been murdered, didn’t make sense. I understood neither her body nor her car had been found. Whoever had murdered Sam Bronsky hadn’t bothered to hide his body. Why hide hers? Nor were cars that easy to dispose of.

      Sandra had been sitting there quietly watching her daughter and me. I was relieved she had regained her composure. I was in no mood, and too tired, to get into a hassle with her. I sat back in my chair; she shrugged and turned to me.

      I think you would be the ideal person to search for Rachel, she now cajoled sweetly. The woman was certainly persistent.

      I grinned at her. Why me?     

      You have a history, you know, she said stubbornly. Look at what you did last year. You solved three murders and even got that man to turn himself in. You see things other people don’t. Priests do that. And people talk to you.

      O Lord! Not that again. I’d spent the best part of the past year trying to calm things down in my parish. And there’d even been some justification for my getting involved last time, because it all happened within the parish.

      I shook my head in dismissal. I didn’t solve those murders, Sandra. The police did. I just found some information to help them.

      Exactly! she said excitedly. That’s what I mean. You dug out some things the police couldn’t get at!

      I sighed. It was time to bring this to an end. Even though I felt sorry for her, I had to try to talk this woman out of her crazy notion. Knowing Sandra, I knew that was probably impossible. I had an uneasy feeling I was going to be dogged by her.

      Have you thought of hiring a private detective? I asked.

      She nodded.

      And?

      Oh, he was no use at all! she snapped. Slapped us with a huge bill and said that all the leads had run out.

      Have you talked to Joe—Lieutenant Giannini?

      She shrugged. He says the investigation is ongoing. But they’re looking for some new leads. Something like that. You know. The usual police gobbledygook.

      I grinned to myself. I could imagine Joe fobbing this woman off with some muttering and mumbling about nothing. Not that Joe would be anything but kind. But he sure wouldn’t want dear Sandra snapping at his heels all the time.

      Let me put it to you as clearly as I can, Sandra I said patiently. I’m a priest. My primary responsibility is to this parish. I celebrate the sacraments. I preach. I teach. I oversee the running of the parish. And beyond that, I have a responsibility to this neighborhood. I pointed out the window. As you can see there are many needs out there. More than I can even manage at times. All the poor and troubled people from around here beat a path to my door. I must also pastor to them in a variety of ways.

      Yes! exclaimed Sandra. I’ve heard all about you. How you are always taking care of people in trouble. Running interference for them with city hall and all the city agencies. Even going to court with them. To some agencies you are anathema. And you know what else people say? They say you are tenacious, resolute, persistent. You don’t give up. And that’s what finding Rachel needs. That’s who Rachel needs!

      I grinned a little at tenacious. Anathema sounded good too in a way. But I brought myself up short. No! You’re missing the point, Sandra. I am not an investigator. Not! I am not a policeman. Not! I am not a detective. Not! I’m a priest.

      She shook her head impatiently. But you are! An investigator! Don’t you investigate the problems that all these people have? Don’t tell me you just go racing off whenever you get a call for help. You look into it first. And don’t you often find people tell you things they wouldn’t share with anyone else?

      I stood up.

      I see you’re not getting it, Sandra, I said. Much as I’d like to help, this is one thing I can’t help with. However, I will talk to Joe Giannini and see if there’s any hope down the road. I’ll ask him if there’s anything you haven’t been told that he wouldn’t mind your knowing. But that’s all. I’m sorry.

      I opened my office door. Both Sandra and her daughter stood and went out the door, Sandra’s face white with anger. Sarah looking apologetic, I thought. As she went out she shook her head and mouthed sorry.

      I watched them walking down the path to the parking lot. Sandra was obviously yelling angrily at her daughter, Sarah was wagging her finger back at her mother.

      I felt bad for them. A bit guilty too. The stress these two had been going through must have been shattering. And to have no answers, to have a daughter missing, must be almost unbearable. But what could I do? If the police hadn’t come up with anything, how could I?

      Suddenly I was treated to what I thought at the time was a rather amusing vignette. As they walked toward their car, I noticed my favorite slumlord, Henry Morgan, coming toward them. As he drew near, he seemed to hesitate then stopped. Sarah, looking embarrassed and a little nervous, turned her head. Henry shook his head and continued walking, glancing over his shoulder from time to time, looking puzzled.

      Not your type, Henry, I thought. What did he have in mind? Looking for new tenants? Hardly. But he had appeared ready to talk to them. Sarah had, rather pointedly I thought, turned her head. Smart girl! I laughed. But still, I wondered what Henry had in mind. It wasn’t his style to come on to women. And he wouldn’t have known them. Not the same social circles.

TWO

Wow! What happened in there? my secretary asked.

      Sandra Mahoney strikes again, I said. I should have expected it. After all, it seems whenever I run into her, we’re going to clash in some way.

      Monica looked at me, her eyes wide with curiosity. Oh, Father! What did you do this time?

      I laughed. Not what I did do. What I didn’t do. You’ll never believe what she wanted.

      Well, it couldn’t have been counseling. I know you’d have caved in without a thought on that. Must’ve been something really wonderful.

      I explained what Sandra’s request had been.

      Monica shook her head. And you said no, right?

      Right!

      I see. Not going to play policeman again, right?

      No way.

      Uh-huh.

      My secretary shook her head. That poor woman. Her daughter missing and no idea where she is. Maybe even dead. That must be awful.

      I nodded. I do feel bad for her. And Sarah. But no dice. I can’t help this time.

      Mm hmm, my secretary nodded. And grinned mysteriously. Getting up from her desk she picked up her purse. Well, gotta go. It’s lunchtime. See you later.

      With a broad grin, she headed out the door.

+

Most days I spend some time in the church before lunch. I have a need to nourish my spirit before nourishing my body. Mornings were usually hectic with a constant stream of people looking for help in some form or another. Even though the parish had been funded to run a number of outreach programs—our day care and food bank for example—there were still many problems in this neighborhood, and a few strictly in the parish, that required my personal intervention.

      Usually I spent this quiet time praying the noonday office or meditating before the Sacrament. This day, however, I found myself preoccupied with thoughts of Rachel Mahoney. And her mother. And her sister. And the morning’s conversation.

      As I made my way to the church, I chuckled. Playing policeman. Monica had that right. That’s what I’d done a year ago. Not a very smart move. Not something that had endeared me to my parishioners. They’d had mixed feelings. It had involved the parish, and so to some degree they had supported me. But it had left a bad taste. I’d wound up spending many hours counseling some of those who had been traumatized by the events.

      It had not gone down well with the bishop’s canon, either. That gentleman had made it quite clear that the bishop would view any further such antics on my part as a breach of priestly conduct. At least that’s what he said the bishop thought.

      I had to admit Sandra’s request had me intrigued. Although I had been interested in the whole saga of Rachel’s disappearance and the accompanying murder, it had been from a distance, so to speak. Joe and I had discussed it briefly a couple of times. Judging by his obvious growing frustration with the case, I’d guessed he’d reached a dead end. No doubt Sandra was aware of this and why she had decided to take other steps. I had to wonder at her seeming unrealistic approach. Why call on me to try to do something? I’m a priest. Not the first person you’d call on for something like this.

      Point is she had sparked my interest as well as my sympathy. It had left me with a smattering of guilt. Not to the extent that I was about to go off on a chase for wild geese, of course. But she did have me wondering just where Rachel had gone. And why. Whether or not mother and sister had any information that led them to believe she was still alive, Sarah at least seemed quite certain she was.

      I was tickled by the thought there were some people who saw me as some kind of urban crusader. At least so Sandra said. Actually I had taken to this inner city ministry like a fish to water. Back when I was a student I had been deeply involved in the protest movements of the times. Even during my short pre-priesthood teaching career, I had gravitated to those people who seemed to have been discounted by society.

      I have more than a tendency to get myself involved with the neighborhood people and their problems, not content just to let those who had been called, or appointed, or hired to deal with things. That seems to be my way. I had come to know many of the local people, visited many of the people living in the broken down tenements and the homeless people who occupied the park across the street. One of our programs was a weekly supper the parish put on for homeless people and the working poor. Hardly a week went by when I wasn’t there and hobnobbing with our clients. I tried not to miss it.

      Nothing bad about all this, of course. One thing I had learned, the bishop—all bishops I’d heard—were always happy to find someone willing to take on these inner-city parishes. There was a tendency for the diocesan office not to look too closely at the day-to-day activities of their man on the spot. There weren’t too many clergy willing to take on the burden and so when someone showed up who was willing, and —praise God!—who even relished the job, there was a great deal of looking the other way when we tended to push the boundaries of traditional parish work. Even, apparently, when said priest tried playing detective, as I had last year.

      But. No playing policeman, I vowed.