The Cedarfield Purge

By Mark Andrlik

HIS CHILDHOOD PASTOR WILL BE HIS NEXT TARGET... 

Eight-year-old Jarrod Kastle is traumatized when he witnesses the attempted sexual assault of his mother by the trusted pastor of his family church. When the pastor denies any wrongdoing and the local church hierarchy protects him, Jarrod and his parents are forced

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Nov 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685150983

Mark Andrlik

Mark Andrlik was born and raised in rural Minnesota and brings a unique, grounded perspective to his storytelling. Now residing in Lexington, Kentucky, with his wife, Evette, and their having two grown daughters, he ­finds inspiration in the stories that intersect faith journeys and suspense.

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PROLOGUE

S

hrieking voices of strings and thundering of lower brass reverberated at ear-splitting volumes, shaking walls, rattling light fixtures, and chasing two fleeing figures through the maze of doorways and hallways of Canterbury Community Church.

Mom! I’m scared! The child clung desperately to his mother’s outstretched hand with his own left, his right still clutching his treasured envelope, the strains of Modest Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain threatening to overtake them.

Jarrod remembered his mother saying that Kearney, the church’s sound technician, loved to blast his favorite classical pieces through the church’s brand-new, state-of-the-art sound system on those days that only a few staff members were around.

As they reached the heavy wooden door at the rear exit of the sprawling structure, she let go of his hand just long enough to twist the knob and push it open with her shoulder. Then she reached back and pulled him through into torrents of rain. Rolling thunderclaps shook the ground. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, the rumbles of the music within finally drowned out by elements outside.

Squinting through stinging raindrops, Jarrod peered up at his mother’s face, wet both with her tears and now with the rain. Mom looked so scared. Why did they have to leave this way, in such a hurry? She hadn’t even stopped to pick up her umbrella. What was the little game that Pastor Stevens had said that he and she were playing? Why was he touching her that way? And why did his usually friendly face look the way it did? Mom always seemed so happy when she was at her job at the church. But today she was behaving in a frightening way.

His mother dragged him down the back steps and across the familiar landscaped lawns and around the trees and bushes that surrounded the church, space on which Jarrod and his friends often played hide ‘n seek, dodgeball or tag. But today that world looked very different. Dark and scary. Under churning gray skies and slanting sheets of rain, trees bent and shook in the wind, scattering leaves and twigs around them as they sprinted toward the sidewalk that would bring them home, three blocks ahead.

Jarrod glanced at the envelope in his right hand. It was now soaking wet. Earlier this afternoon, Miss Bradshaw had told him that her note inside would make his parents very proud, and that he was a very bright and hardworking third grader. He couldn’t wait for both his mom and dad to read it; that is why he had decided to alter his usual route home from school. To surprise his mom at her job at the church so that she could read it right away.

But the surprise in the church office wasn’t what young Jarrod Kastle had planned.

CHAPTER 1

J

arrod Kastle sat attentively on the edge of a leather easy chair, watching the spirited antics of his animated host. From early adulthood he had envisioned a career in business or politics which would take him to the hallowed halls of the nation’s capital. Now he found himself in a high-level meeting with a United States senator.

Gentlemen, I love my country and everything for which it stands, Senator Theodore McCormick crowed. The portly and balding man strutted back and forth in his senate office, orating and gesticulating with one hand grasping an empty glass.

And that’s why I often butt heads with the Religious Right—and why the three of us are here tonight. He tilted his head toward the man sitting to Jarrod’s left, Dr. George J. Stanhope.

Friday evening found most activity in Russell Senate Office Building on Capitol Hill winding down as staff members locked up their offices and made their ways to bus stops and the nearby train station for their commutes home. Various congressmen and congresswomen exited to waiting limousines to attend DC-area social functions or other engagements. However, this evening the lights remained on in McCormick’s second floor office.

I get it, Senator, Jarrod responded. Yes, legislation can be effective in reining in their influence and power here and there, but there are limitations. For one thing, what happens in the Senate and House chambers and in the courtroom gets in everyone’s face. Right Wing conservative groups and television’s talking heads get up in arms when you outlaw displays of the Ten Commandments or attempt to control certain other practices in government venues or in the marketplace. Then your efforts end up getting stalled in some committee or get shuffled into the judicial system. Then either nothing happens, or at least a lot of time gets wasted.

Yes, you’ve got the idea. The senator stopped for breath and paused at the credenza behind his desk. He picked up a crystal decanter and poured golden-brown liquid into his glass. Then he shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie before plopping down on one end of a leather couch, facing both Jarrod and the man sitting to Jarrod’s left.

Comfortably situated, he took several breaths before speaking. Jarrod, judging by the look on your face, I’d say you’re on board.

On board? Jarrod was initially taken aback by the abrupt deviation in the course of discussion. I’ve envisioned an opportunity like this for years. To be honest, I feel privileged to be here. Working with the likes of the two of you.

Both men laughed, and the senator continued. Thank you for the compliment. But George and I aren’t anybody special. We’re just two more humble servants trying to serve our country.

But to respond to your comment. Yes, I’m on board. One-hundred percent. Jarrod stood to help himself to another ounce from his host’s store.

I believe you. And George swears by you. The senator looked toward his other guest. Sure, you’ve got the intellect and the academics and all, but that isn’t why you’re here. You’re here because of what you have inside. He thumped his heart. That’s what matters to George, and that’s what matters to me. Your loyalty to us and to our cause.

Of course.

One thing I will remind you about George, the senator continued, his demeanor suddenly serious. Don’t ever betray him. I’ve known the man for many years and know that he does not tolerate betrayal. Neither do I. There will be consequences. But you knew that, didn’t you?

Jarrod gulped inwardly. Oh, yes. I know.

Ultimately. McCormick pointed to an American flag hanging on the wall. You’re doing this for the good of our country. Never forget that.

Jarrod could only nod. Message received, Senator.

McCormick smiled thinly at Jarrod and leaned forward, almost as if he were afraid of being overheard. We’re in a war. Our definition of social justice doesn’t always line up with that of the religious factions. And that’s why George’s tactical style of battle sets well with me. If we would allow ourselves to be creative and a bit daring, we can work effectively through legal and appropriate measures that never make conservative talk shows or other news programs.

Amen, Brother, snickered George, raising his glass.

To illustrate my point. McCormick pulled himself off the couch and walked to a window looking out toward Washington DC’s skyline. This city is home to lots of churches, a few mosques and temples and other places of worship, including New-Agers, Devil worshippers and who-knows-what-else. Remember the flu epidemic of a few years back? Schools were shut down for weeks. And so were places of worship. I am personally aware that at least three of those ministries suspended services for several months, even physically locking their doors.

He turned back from the window. I have friends that attend each of them and know that membership rolls have dropped. Still down from what they once were. Folks get out of the habit of attending. Then their tithing lags. The effects can be long term, even permanent.

He returned to the couch. What I’m getting at is that faith-based organizations are fragile. They think they hold the market on divine power. Until something comes along that finds a weak spot. Then they can be managed appropriately. We don’t need acts of Congress to control them. We just introduce stumbling blocks. Inconveniences. Distractions.

Yes, Jarrod said. And money. Everybody, even the self-righteous, can be bought.

Absolutely! George, weighing in for the first time, drained the last drops of brandy from his glass and placed it on the coffee table. And Ted is right. We play it quiet and subtle. We keep things close, stay inside the lines legally. The so-called people of faith can be wolves in sheep’s clothing—to use their own analogy—when they want to be. Well… so can we.

Jarrod nodded. And, to clarify, we’re not talking just about Christianity, but others as well. Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, as well as lesser-known sects and belief systems. Any system that pledges allegiance to another so-called higher authority.

McCormick smiled. Correct. And it’s my nature to be forward-thinking, open to new ideas, even those that are still on the drawing board. That’s what sets me apart from many of my colleagues. I’m willing to venture out where others won’t.

He pointed at George. That’s why this character and I get along so well. George has a sound reputation for public service, and he and I go way back. He has the ideas and the money. I have the influence and connections to make his vision happen. And—the senator spread his hands toward the array of plaques and other displayed awards that graced three walls of his office— my record speaks for itself.

Jarrod cast an admiring glance toward the senator’s trophies. You’ve made your case.

The senator again leaned forward and lowered his voice. Remember that regarding our little initiative, the number of those that would understand and appreciate such an experiment is small. Make no mistake. What we do stays within the law but would be regarded by some as controversial. Therefore, we play this close. In other words, this meeting tonight never happened. Understand?

Oh, I do.

The senator turned to George. In that case and for the record, let’s move on to a subject of much greater importance. Are the trout biting these days?

George’s eyes lit up. Glad you asked, Ted. I’m flying up to the New York Adirondacks in a few days to find out. Just bought a new fly rod in fact. Are you coming with me?

I may do that. Jarrod, you should join us. There’s nothing like standing in a cool trout stream to clear your mind after you’ve wallowed around in this cesspool of humanity.

Jarrod checked himself before responding. He had no interest in fishing of any kind but wasn’t about to say anything that would offend his host. Well, Senator, I appreciate the offer. Let me get our operation underway, and then I’ll consider it.

Good answer. Jarrod, we’re counting on you to come through for us in Minnesota next week. We’ve studied and prepared for this effort for several months. This is your chance to get the ball rolling. It’s on you now.

I understand. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

Twenty minutes later, as he hailed a taxi in front of Washington D.C.’s Union Station, Jarrod replayed the evening’s conversations. This was the culmination of years of dreams and of weeks and months of hard work. This was an assignment for which he felt deserving and perfectly qualified. And he now had opportunity to avenge the devastating injustice dealt his family so many years earlier.

But the stakes were high. There would be serious consequences for failure or for disloyalty. Jarrod suppressed a shiver as he stepped into a cab. This was no longer just a dream or an ideal. It was real. As real as the feel of Senator McCormick’s firm handshake tonight at the meeting’s conclusion.

CHAPTER 2

G

eorge Stanhope, attired in polo shirt and khaki slacks, smiled at his attractive breakfast companion. Marie, this is what you were born for. I’m not asking something of you that you can’t deliver.

He paused as a waiter topped off his coffee cup. George occasionally conducted business in an upscale cafe a few blocks east of the US Capitol Building. This morning the popular eatery bustled with an assortment of customers including congressional staffers, lobbyists, and others who were willing to pay top dollar for farm-to-table breakfast offerings, free-trade coffee, and a wide selection of breakfast cocktail beverages. Waiters dressed in white shirts, black slacks, cummerbunds, and black ties delivered entrees and drinks on fine china and crystal glasses.

I don’t disagree with you. Marie Warren poked at an English muffin. I trust your judgment. It’s just that this assignment will be very different for me. I mean… an assumed identity? Really? You’ve never asked me to do anything like this before.

Yes, I understand your reservations. But I’m asking you because I trust you. This will be a simple thing for a young woman with your looks, your poise, and your intelligence. I am confident that you can handle it.

George well understood that the assignment would have risks. He anticipated risks whenever he conducted undercover activities; there would be safeguards and a backup plan in place. But his instincts told him that this young accomplice could be trusted and would follow his instructions to the letter. Whether Marie liked it or not, the reality was that he owned her.

She held silent, looking down at clasped hands. Okay. I’ll do it, she whispered at last.

That’s what I like to hear. He shot her a triumphant smile then looked at his watch. I will have Sarah meet with you to give you specific directions and the necessary documents. I’ll call her today. He patted his face with a linen napkin and stood. And, as an added incentive, I’ve got a quiet, private place in the Cayman Islands. You and I will take ourselves a little holiday there after this is finished. That should give you something to look forward to when the snows start flying in Minnesota.

Thank you, she replied in a tight voice. That sounds like fun.

George stood and picked up his jacket. Got to go. Another meeting across town. With that, he pivoted away from the booth, handing a fifty-dollar bill to the delighted waiter before walking away.

CHAPTER 3

J

arrod looked out the small oval window of the Boeing 727 as the morning blackness took on the faint hues of daybreak behind him. Around him, most passengers were sleeping or reading as the jet made its way westward after having lifted off from Reagan National Airport in Washington, DC, long before daybreak. In forty-five minutes, the plane would land in Minneapolis and his day would begin in earnest.

Even at the early hour in which his day had started, Jarrod’s thoughts were racing. The two-hour flight gave him space to indulge in assessment and reflection of his new assignment with the Triston Foundation, under the tutelage of a man of George Stanhope’s stature.

More coffee, Mr. Kastle? The pretty flight attendant bent near, steaming carafe in hand. She lingered and touched his shoulder, even after having refilled his cup. Is there anything else I can do for you?

No thank you. He disregarded the double entendre. This was not the first time that Jarrod, with his lean build, sharp features, and dark hair, had received such attention. Under other circumstances he might have engaged the attractive young woman in conversation and gotten a phone number, but today’s business would preclude any notion of female companionship.

He gave her a polite smile before returning his gaze to the window, where he idly studied a bank of cumulonimbus clouds, barely visible to the north, while recounting the talking points raised in his meeting with George and Senator McCormick two nights earlier. That discussion had impressed upon him for the first time the full weight of the role with which the two powerful men had entrusted him. And the pace at which his responsibilities had evolved since his first day on the job.

Jarrod’s first three months with his new employer had been spent exclusively at the foundation’s headquarters, located in a fashionable three-story brownstone in Old Town Alexandria. Side-by-side with other research staffers, he spent long days poring through thousands of databases containing both public and private records, profiling individuals and communities and corporations throughout the United States. He soon discovered that Triston’s founder rarely made an appearance in the foundation’s offices, preferring to conduct business either in his own home or in discreet public venues.

Then came George’s phone call on a Sunday evening. A summons which led to a series of private meetings, culminating with the other evening’s visit with Senator McCormick.

As the jetliner’s wheels touched down in Minneapolis, Jarrod redirected his thoughts to the day’s agenda while keeping one hand atop a shiny leather valise in his lap. Within, information that he could not afford to lose: documents outlining the vision and strategic plan for Triston’s Expulsion initiative. A far-reaching effort in assessing the power and influence of religious organizations in communities within the United States, with the ultimate goal of discrediting, crippling, and even eliminating those entities altogether. Cedarfield, Minnesota, would be the test case. If their methods worked in Cedarfield, then they could be taken to other communities.

Jarrod exited the plane, excited, after months of research and preparation, at the opportunity to meet his Minnesota team members for the first time.

As Jarrod passed into the cavernous atrium of a five-star hotel in the Twin Cities suburb of Bloomington, a man whom he perceived as an older version of himself bounded up and stuck out his hand.

Jarrod Kastle, I presume. Welcome to Minneapolis. The gentleman appeared lean and athletic, professional, driven, handsome facial features, but with sprinkles of gray in his dark hair.

And you must be Anthony Epps. Jarrod shook his hand.

After a few moments of friendly conversation, Anthony guided Jarrod across the atrium to a secluded nook in the rear, among large potted plants and a cascading water feature, where five chairs had been placed around a table. This is where you’ll be this morning. Reserved for your group with plenty of privacy this time of day. Refreshments right over there. He pointed to where a nearby linen-covered table held a coffee urn, chilled bottles of water, fresh fruit, and a plate of breakfast pastries.

Thank you, Anthony. Jarrod walked straight to the coffee service and helped himself to a cup. It’s nice to meet you in person, although I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.

Well, let’s see. More than three months of phoning and teleconferencing. That could be considered a long time.

Jarrod spread a generous helping of cream cheese on a bagel; in the morning rush he had skipped breakfast and hadn’t bothered to eat anything on the plane. The two men lingered near the refreshments table for several minutes.

Jarrod glanced at his watch. Let’s review a bit before the others arrive. We’ve got a handle on Minnesota’s business climate. What I need from you today is any wisdom and guidance you can offer regarding the local culture. To be sure that I handle these folks appropriately. You know, their customs, idiosyncrasies and so forth. I’m accustomed to dealing with the mindset of those who work inside DC’s beltway. We don’t need any faux pas today. You understand.

Anthony’s face got serious. Sure, a legitimate concern. Jarrod, I know that you’ve done your homework, so I don’t mean to insult your intelligence. But I will remind you once again about this group you’ll be dealing with, especially since we’ll be meeting face-to-face with a few of them shortly. Cedarfield has a reputation in these parts and a pack of leaders to match. Especially the mayor, Nick Bridger. Whatever you do, don’t insult him. I hear from various sources that Nick can be vicious. Not a pushover; you’ll see that as soon as you look at him. Friendly and outgoing when he needs to be but has a temper and the brute strength to go with it. I hear that he once broke the nose of a guy that insulted his wife. Right in City Hall.

Whoa! I’ll watch my step. I sure don’t need to have my lights punched out.

Right. Anthony patted his briefcase. That place has been a perennial challenge for us at the Department. What I’m telling you is that this is a modern day ‘wild west’ town. Shouting matches between city leaders and church pastors. Police called to city council meetings to break up fights. Public officials sending threatening letters to their foes, allegations of bribes and fixed elections, you name it.

No wonder the place has a difficult time attracting business. Jarrod shook his head. Who would want to live or work there? Or invest in business?

Right. The Twin Cities metro area itself has no trouble attracting an educated workforce. Business thrives here. But our rural areas, historically agricultural, not so well. Especially Cedarfield, for reasons of its own as we know.

Sure, Jarrod said. Just like many other parts of the country. Folks travel to the larger cities to work and do their shopping. Businesses in rural towns and cities suffer."

And that, Jarrod, is why we are grateful for the generous involvement of Dr. Stanhope and Triston. Oftentimes private enterprise and organizations such as Triston can grease the wheels of progress in ways that government cannot. Your support could be the shot in the arm that Cedarfield needs.

The sounds of commotion drew their attention to the front entryway of the hotel. There, a threesome had just entered, two men and a woman. Two uniformed hotel employees were trotting up to the tall man leading the group, waving their arms excitedly. Even from the rear of the atrium, Jarrod and Epps could hear their cries.

Sir, sorry, but you are not allowed to smoke here.

What do you mean I can’t smoke? I smoke wherever I want. The tall man’s voice carried as he blew clouds of cigar smoke into the air.

Sorry. Those are the rules. I apologize for the inconvenience.

As Epps and Jarrod watched, the woman following the tall man stepped forward and touched his elbow. Her brief words to him could not be heard, but the tall man gave an audible grunt, shrugged his shoulders, then walked back outdoors, returning a moment later without his cigar.

Looks like our guests have arrived. Anthony shook his head, grinning. As promised, this will be interesting.

Jarrod waved, and the trio crossed the expanse of the atrium to where Jarrod and Anthony waited.

Howdy. You must be Jarrod Kastle. The tall man spoke gruffly, evidently still miffed over being denied his cigar.

Jarrod nodded, extending his hand. Glad to meet you, Mr. Mayor.

The tall man squeezed it to the point that Jarrod felt pain, then turned toward his companions. "This here is