Death before Its Time

By K.L. Dempsey

Death before Its Time by K. L. Dempsey creates an extraordinary portrait of a woman caught in a labyrinth of revenge and evil by a man of God who is determined to destroy her and her family. Kate Heller Patterson, America’s most trusted female investigator, first introduced in the novels The Unholy Vengeance and The Vanishing Pharmacist, now finds herself and her family being hunted by the same pastor she once successfully put in prison. Suddenly released by the state’s governor for good behavior, Pastor Paul Bergman once again begins to terrorize an unsuspecting congregation while Kate struggles to regain control of her life, which is now faced with its own personal tragedy. The novel is a stunning psychological thriller filled with living, breathing characters that move the reader through each page with pedal-to-the-metal speed. From its cliff-hanging suspense and moments of wanted and unwanted romance, the novel has you breathlessly turning the pages to find the next twist. This is one of those rare thrillers that is entertaining with new creative suspense from a writer not afraid to break a heart to find awaiting new love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662456619

Book preview

1

Pastor James Wolf thought that the town was perfect. It was a place where he wouldn’t find himself under fire or any suspicions surrounding him. His closest friends had long ago deserted him, and as far as professional colleagues, well, it would be fair to say none existed either. The media who had once followed his career had now moved on as he had done during the last three years.

Today his eyes continued to be drawn to the attractive woman kneeling at the altar with the streams of bright blond hair on her back and around her head, reminding him of a colorful halo. This made Wolf smile as he recalled another time and another woman who had once been his organist and lover. His thoughts quickly turned to sadness remembering her death and the cause and effect of his past mistakes that had eventually resulted in his incarceration at the Blue Mountain Correctional Facility. He watched the woman get to her feet, turn, and glide past where he was seated, offering but a small forced smile before walking out the front door.

Wolf reached for the Bible next to the hymnal in the rack mounted on the back of the pew in front of him. It was the standard addition of the King James Bible, popular to most traditional Christians. The book fell open at the chapter in Mark, where the previous person had been reading about how to address a troubling issue involving a member of his church, maybe even the former pastor, he reasoned. After all, few things excited some members of a congregation more than the opportunity to find fault with their shepherd and to have the ability to do something about his perceived malfeasance. Funny, he thought, how often that section of Mark proved to be so popular in comparison to the oft-told parable known as the widow’s mite. Yes, it was much more difficult when the section about money appeared and he as a pastor started to talk about tithing. It was always much easier to talk about a pastor’s wife not being friendly or him not building the membership of the church to the satisfaction of the elder board than being called into accountability for bringing just a five-dollar bill to church for the collection plate. His eyes glanced up at the open door next to the altar where you could see the church’s conference room. That was where he was scheduled to meet the chairman of the congregation, a Mr. Ernest Sully. Over the years Wolf had learned the importance of paying attention and providing the necessary care expected to these types of meetings, and since this was his third meeting with Sully in all probability, the Church of All Believers had made their decision. It was a small church by all considerations, with a listed membership of 277 baptized members, which he knew would only represent a Sunday attendance of somewhere between 160 to 165 souls, maybe less. Perfect, he thought, because most churches that were able to afford a full-time pastor needed at least a hundred members before any pastor would consider their calling of him as their leader. The reason for that number was in large part because it took that many members to provide a decent income for any incoming pastor and his family. Wolf had no family, but he needed at least a $75,000 salary with health-care benefits, something that many churches still had a problem meeting. The reason was always the same, not the money but rather the existing feeling of church leaders and their members that pastors were but Benedictine monks. He knew that most men of the cloth were generally viewed by the majority of congregations as irrelevant or anachronistic, and although charged with the mission to keep alive both hope and values in place, they should be able to do it for little compensation. He knew from experience that small-town churchgoers were often hypocrites, and while many times this proved to be true, his only real concern was that they minded their own business. Finding a church that could do that was more difficult than wearing a hair shirt and was the reason why he had been most careful in selecting this congregation for an interview. Getting up from his pew, he walked over to the only non-glass stained window and looked out onto the parking spots reserved for the clergy and the chairman of the congregation and now observed Ernest Sully pulling his Porsche into the designated space. To call it a Porsche was, in fact, an understatement, as Wolf had only seen one other car in his life like the chairman’s vehicle. The standard features of the Porsche Panamera Turbo S Executive were breathtaking and could only be afforded by the very few, or in this case, someone like Sully, who was the retired former head of the American Board of Anesthesiology. Well, money was only money, thought Wolf, as he watched the seventy-year-old former full-time physician exit his car and head up the concrete steps leading into the church dressed for the meeting as if he were about to play in a foursome with Greg Norman. Backing away from the window, Wolf reclaimed his seat in the pew holding the Bible while waiting for Sully to enter the conference room with his briefcase and yellow legal pad. It was always important to give space to the decision-maker, he thought, while allowing himself a knowing smile. It had been this type of reserve that had served him well when coming up for his parole board review that had resulted in his early release despite the objections of his former nemesis, Private Investigator Kate Heller Patterson, who had been initially responsible for his incarceration. He had been lost in his thoughts about the Blue Mountain Correctional Facility when the soft voice of Sully caused him to jump.

Pastor Wolf, how long have you been waiting? I hope not too long, as I got stuck in some unfortunate traffic, he said, now standing by the lectern. At least you found something good to read while waiting for me, he added, allowing himself a moment to chuckle.

Yes, Mathew chapter 18, verse 15 has always been one of my favorites, Mr. Sully, because it has always been the foundation of what solves the majority of our conflicts within our family of Christians.

Oh?

Yes, said Wolf. I’ve always referred to this section of the Bible and often use it as part of my first sermon after accepting the call of a congregation. You are familiar with it? he asked.

Well, not exactly. Maybe you can help me recall the main points? asked Sully.

The main part that one has to remember is that if you feel that your brother Christian has sinned against you, the idea is to tell him the fault between you and him alone. If he hears you, then you have gained a brother. But if he does not hear you, the idea is to take with you one or two more Christians so that your concern can be shared with the sinner.

Sully weighed the pastor’s words before speaking. Interesting, very interesting, but let’s put this theology aside for a few minutes and discuss the purpose of our meeting, he said while turning and walking back toward the conference room.

Wolf followed the chairman into the room, noting that Sully was typical of most physicians when discussing religion. He had experienced this many times before with those in the medical field whose only true god often started with their skills to heal using modern medicine, not with the unknown who didn’t have a medical degree. He took a seat directly across from Sully, who, in traditional fashion, sat at the head of the table like an executive conducting a budget meeting that would be followed with a sales plan. Gazing over the shoulder of the chairman, Wolf noted the pictures of the last seven pastors that had served the congregation all dressed in their finest white gowns, two with Bibles placed on their laps. If tradition held the Church of All Believers, would have most of their rooms within the church named after each of the pastors?

Pastor, he said suddenly. Did you bring with you a list of those congregations that you once served? As you know, although it’s not customary for our church to check references or things like they do in business, we still like to have that information just for our records so that we have something to use for our yearly annual that we issue to each member.

Wolf got up and laid two fresh copies of his background in front of Sully without saying another word, waiting for the chairman to ask his questions. There was little doubt that any man who owned a car with a 570-horsepower, engine, twin turbo, seven-speed auto-shift manual transmission with overdrive plus an integrated navigation system would have done his homework reviewing his past. No, it’s best to let him make his move first, thought Wolf. With little surprise, it didn’t take long.

Our voters’ assembly has overwhelmingly approved your acceptance to be our shepherd, Pastor Wolf, so on behalf of our small church, the position is yours, said Sully. We hope that you can begin within the month, assuming, of course, this move won’t be too hard on your family.

First, please accept my thanks and that of your voting assembly for their confidence in selecting me as your new pastor, said Wolf. Second, moving should not be any problem at all since as you already know from past conversations I’m unmarried, having lost my wife to cancer four years ago. My only daughter is now attending the University of Cambridge in London, having been awarded a grant from their school of business. Third, and with deep appreciation, I’m returning the moving allowance that the church has provided since it would be my wish that it be donated to the men’s club for their future use, Mr. Sully.

That’s very generous, Pastor Wolf, and please call me Ernie. Everyone does.

Not Doctor? he said, smiling at Sully.

Only my wife calls me that, Pastor, and that’s when she wants me to take out the garbage. We’re very informal around here, and before long, unless you state otherwise, they’ll be calling you Pastor Jim. Now let’s discuss your compensation package. We have a parsonage attached to the church, something that the other pastors had always considered because it’s all inclusive, meaning that we also cover all the utilities along with providing a two-and-a-half car garage. Two years ago, the board of elders also recommended that we provide current free cable hookup, which now has been included in the compensation package, said Sully.

Thank you, Ernie, but I’m more like the modern clergy on that subject. Most of us now want to invest in our own home because the day will come when we all have to retire, and it’s best that we get used to living like our sheep, if you understand what I’m trying to say, said Wolf.

Fair enough, Pastor, but if you change your mind, it’s always available, said Sully. May I ask you what you were looking for in a salary? Remember that like all churches, we have to operate on a budget, he added, suddenly now sounding more like a representative of the Salvation Army than the man who owned one of the ten most expensive sedans produced in the world.

The man was interesting, thought Wolf, and had used a strange technique in his negotiating approach for the church. Instead of laying out the budgeted salary for the pastor and then having him decide if it was enough, he had, in effect, given him the job and now challenged him to reject it if the amount was too low, knowing that the majority of all pastors would never allow someone to feel that this was all about money.

I’ve looked around your town during the past week, Ernie, and I’m invigorated by the beauty of the section of land referred to as Whispering Willow. It’s close enough to your church and yet far enough away which allows me the ample solitude and quiet needed to develop those sermons that are intended to reach out to those sheep that have strayed and that we now want to once again grace the inside of our Church of All Believers.

The truth was, of course, his intent to live in Whispering Willow was more designed to remove himself from the prying eyes of members of the congregation and its officers. The house that he was looking at had a large three-car garage and would be suitable to store his collection of exotic pets, as he preferred to describe his hobby. That, of course, wasn’t something that he was going to share with Sully. Instead, he decided to move the conversation forward with words that would relax the chairman and allow him the opportunity to sing his praise to the voters.

Understanding the fine line of meeting church budgets, Ernie, it’s my feeling that simplicity is the best way to make these things best understood by all, especially the concerned voters of this congregation. Therefore if your budget allows it, my suggestion is for a $75,000 base salary plus health-care benefits to reach $80,000 the second year if I increase our membership by fifteen souls the first year. I have no interest in mileage compensation when visiting our members because that’s part of my giving back to our beloved church, and I will pay out of my salary for any special attendance at seminars in order to advance our cause, said Wolf. He knew from past experience that sometimes a good business plan had a tendency to silence a person, and he could tell that the chairman was impressed.

I hear nothing that can’t be managed, offered Sully. We need your type of leadership to build a church choir and a youth group that we haven’t had for the last five years. Heavens, I can’t remember even when was the last time that we actively even operated a food pantry, but I’ll leave all that up to you, Pastor. With what I anticipate will be the new direction that our church will be moving toward, my suggestion is that we get you a secretary as soon as possible. I’ll have our elder board move out on that in the next few weeks.

That’s very kind of you, but if it’s acceptable to the board of elders, I would like the opportunity to have the final say on this partner of mine because nothing is more important to a pastor than the woman that sits in the church office and has access to all the personal information of our members. I want this information guarded with the same conviction that one guards the privacy of his own house. I once had a secretary that shared information on the contributions of its members to her personal church friends, and that I can’t allow, said Wolf, noting that Sully was shaking his head in agreement.

Then we have an agreement, said Sully, getting to his feet and offering the pastor his hand.

Wolf could tell that Sully was the type of man that liked to have someone else manage the rough edges or at least place them safely out of sight and out of mind.

Unless you have anything else that you need to discuss, Ernie, I’ve got a long drive ahead and things to close out before I join our church family here, but you can be assured that we’ve both made a good decision for the future of our beloved congregation. Let’s keep in touch during the next two weeks. My beloved former departed wife used to say that men don’t understand the importance of doing laundry, but I can assure you that I’ve learned that it’s a hard job, and that still awaits me, he said, smiling at Sully as he moved toward the front door of the church.

Sully watched the man walk down the front steps of the church and marveled at his good choice for the future of his congregation. Now if the man only knew something about a car, he thought, watching Wolf pull away in his ten-year-old Ford Escape. Turning off the lights in the conference room, he picked up his briefcase and notes and started to head for the door when his eyes caught the two copies of Wolf’s resume still remaining on the table. Walking back, he picked the copies up and sat down, deciding to give them a quick review before he placed them on the church secretary’s desk for filing. As the former head of the American Board of Anesthesiology, he knew that resumes were often overstated by physicians with the hopes of securing a position within the hospital that could elevate their career opportunities. From what he had been told, pastors usually didn’t have those things on their agenda since their goals were more inclined to just demonstrate their love for the promotion of Christ and nothing more. Still, something was troubling about the meeting that he just had with Wolf. What that was he wasn’t certain about, but it was there. Picking up one of the copies, he began to scan the five pages and found little to be concerned about. Wolf had served several small churches in his career, which wasn’t unusual. The first assignment coming out of the seminary had been a country church in Ross, South Dakota, and as described by Wolf was his starter church home, having only forty-two members. The resume indicated that he left after two years in search of greater challenges, plus he had gotten married and needed a stronger salary to support his family. Reading on, Sully noted that the challenge came in accepting the senior pastor position in Jamesville, Iowa, which Wolf described as an independent leaning Lutheran church. He listed the church as having 175 confirmed souls. The reason for eventually leaving was listed simply as receiving a call to a more progressive congregation that showed interest in his desire to develop a religious-based program dealing in Bible study. Wolf didn’t elaborate on the program other than to suggest that it was geared to reach a large audience through careful study of the whole Bible in one year. Ernest leaned back in the chair reading some of the provided material which suggested that the congregation would be introduced in time to material that would connect the teachings of Christ to the fact that the universe, stars, and planets were all connected to God’s world. Sully finished the attached overview and turned to the fourth page of the resume. To his shock, the next two pages were blank. What in the hell? he wondered. Either the man clearly intended to submit an incomplete resume or whatever printer Wolf used had failed to copy the rest of the resume and he had not caught the mistake.

Sweat beaded on the head of Curtis Patterson. He had told himself over and over again that he had done the preflight check of the Cessna 172 and that everything had checked out normal. So what the hell was the problem? The burned-out light on the Cessna instrument panel was simply that and nothing more. He loved the Cessna Skyhawk more than any of the many aircraft that he had flown in his life. Measured by its longevity and popularity, the Cessna was first introduced in 1956 and now numbered well over 43,000 such aircraft built. On his trip back home after leaving Detroit Metro, he had maintained a ceiling of 9,500 feet for the past fifteen minutes, keeping the aircraft cruising speed at 125 miles per hour, but still the instrument panel had that single blinking now completely dark-blue bulb. He had to control his concern and not continue to be preoccupied with a burned-out landing gear indicator, or he would end up like the crew of that Eastern Airlines flight 401, which more than forty-two years ago had lost focus of their main concern—that being their altitude—and had caused at the time the second deadliest aircraft disaster to have ever occurred in the United States. Sad as the event had been, even more tragic was the fact that the captain, a veteran Eastern Air Lines pilot who was ranked fiftieth in seniority, had allowed his pilot staff to become so transfixed on a tiny flickering bulb that none of his crew had noticed that the autopilot had been disconnected, which accidentally caused the aircraft to gradually lose altitude and crash into the Florida Everglades.

In addition, Curtis had another problem that was on his mind. The woman waiting for him at home didn’t have any idea that he was coming back home a day earlier from his regular day job as a wide-body aircraft pilot for Delta Air Lines. His regular London trip had been canceled his having exceeded his allowable flight time hours for the month, so he had just deadheaded it back to Detroit where he always parked his waiting Cessna for the two-hour flight back to Lift Bridge.

And now this, this little damn bulb, he thought. Well, whatever was going on he wasn’t going to spend another minute worrying about it because if need be, he could land this four-seat single engine in a cornfield, if he had to do it. He couldn’t help but laugh because in truth that was the location of his private landing strip, a cornfield just five hundred yards from his house financed by his closest friend’s father, the owner of the largest lumber yard in a fifty-mile radius. Now glancing at the instrument panel for at least the fifth time, he found no additional concerns with the Lycoming engine package that he had ordered as part of the Cessna 172 Skyhawk. The package had been an upgrade from the standard 180 horsepower, which allowed the maximum engine rpm to increase from 2,400 to its current 2,700 revolutions per minute. As a result, taking off from the short runway in the cornfield had never been a problem, as his maximum takeoff weight had increased to 2,550 pounds. It was a good plane with an excellent safety record that gave his white-knuckle wife, Kate, just enough courage to earn her own private pilot’s license. Always the skeptic, though, she never failed to remind Curtis that despite the outstanding record of the plane, it was in October 1964 that the lead singer for the crickets Peggy Sue Got Married and Don’t Cha Know was killed in Harris County, Texas, while en route to a performance. Then of course she would also point out that in August of 1969, professional undefeated boxing champion Rock Marciano was killed when his Cessna 172 crashed while on approach to an airfield outside Newton, Iowa. Kate never gave up on her always wanting him to be careful. She needn’t worry, he thought as his experienced eyes scanned the instrument panel for any further signs of trouble. No, he was not like the inexperienced pilot that had flown the undefeated champ, a pilot that actually had no business flying in marginal weather, especially having no instrument rating who then in the last moments before killing everyone on board had hit a tree during the aircraft’s final descent. With Curtis, death before it was time made no sense, so unlike many of his pilot friends, he had no desire to perform any act of stupidity. Flying any aircraft requires constant concentration, which allowed him right away to fix his eyes on another bulb on the panel that had suddenly started blinking before going dark. It was almost like the two bulbs shared a secret that they weren’t sharing with him. He had spent his whole life taking the necessary hours for preparation and practice just to get everything right because experienced pilots understood that there was a fine line between life and death. It was an art flying an airplane. Every pilot was unique. It was what made their progress with their airline company so interesting, so provoking. He had won safety awards for his precision and care, and now this. Now suddenly the sounds inside the plane went quiet, and he watched as the single-engine propeller stopped its rotation, causing his heart to suddenly pound. Keeping his eyes focused on the ground below, he looked for the first open piece of land as his plane started to glide…

Kate had slept twelve hours that night then spent the rest of the morning working on preparing one of Curtis’s favorite meals. She knew of course that he would be disappointed that despite their best efforts she had not become pregnant, a situation that defied understanding since his standing joke after having Curtis Jr., four years ago, had been that he could get her pregnant just by smelling her perfume. The logic was there for anyone who could count, since the magic then had taken less than a month after they first were married. He had claimed that the vanilla, powdery, and sweet-smelling Shalimar fragrance, along with her beauty, had been responsible. Now the reality was that the ninety-year-old perfume creation hadn’t worked the last time, she thought, frowning as she put the bottle back on her nightstand.

Now walking to the back door of the kitchen, she looked out into the yard for Curtis Jr. and saw only his Detroit Tigers baseball cap on the ground. That in itself was unusual because like his father, young Curtis would never just disregard his prized things. Her husband would do his preflight checks repeatedly, and her son, not to be undone, would wash his basketball or football before putting it away and proudly show them to his dad. Her men were just born careful, she reasoned. Walking down the incline of their six-acre yard, she picked up the baseball cap and looked off into the distance, wondering if young Curtis had wandered down to the cornfield to look at the 4,500-foot paved runway which was where her husband would land his Skyhawk in the next two days following his scheduled week in London. Curtis Jr., where are you? shouted Kate. As a few minutes passed and there was no answer, her motherly instincts started to get anxious since she and her husband had communicated strict rules that he was not to leave the yard unless checking in first, and today he had not. Reaching the edge of the yard, she looked straight ahead and could see the length of the runway in the distance separated on both sides by the growing four-foot cornstalks. Curtis, this is not funny! shouted Kate once again, now clutching her hands together to relax. Thinking that he had doubled back to the house, Kate looked back to the two-story building hoping to see him waving at her. Nothing! She hated to admit it, being a former private investigator, but the damn house spooked her from the beginning; however, the night was the worst. The windows had at the present time no curtains as they were on backorder, and it would be at least three more weeks before they arrived. Now passing the area where she had picked up the baseball cap, she looked down and spotted the two shoe prints. They were too large to have been those of Curtis’s gym shoes. Bending down on her knees, she examined the shoe prints carefully before standing up straight again, all the time feeling her heart race. She had seen this type once before. Boat shoes, maybe Foot Joy men’s contour casual boat shoes, if she had to guess. What the hell would these prints be doing on her property, she wondered, and why near where Curtis was playing? None of this made any sense, but then again few things would that involved a missing kid, especially yours, she reasoned.

Then she heard the sound coming from the gravel road that ran past their home. Running up the grass hill, she reached the top just in time to see the car moving slowly down the road and away from sight but not quick enough to prevent her from identifying that it was one of the original PT Cruisers that had been so popular years ago. There were tears in her eyes from unexplained fear, but she kept herself together because she knew that the car had to make one more appearance on the road before it reached the highway and would then be gone from sight maybe forever, or at least for today. It took maybe three minutes before the car finally came into view from the cover of the oak and willow trees, but it was worth the wait. It was cherry red and possibly the early entrance to the model, she thought, but not the basic car since it clearly had a sunroof, something most PT Cruisers didn’t have.

Then she jumped, hearing a familiar voice. Mother, have you been calling me? asked Curtis Jr., walking up the hill holding a small rod and reel that his dad had bought for him prior to his recent trip.

Kate didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. She had never yelled at her son, but she had been completely gutted with fear. Curtis Aaron Patterson, where in the heck have you been? You’ve worried me to almost my death, young man, she said, knowing that her voice carried a heavy disappointment.

I was just down by our pond, fishing from the pier that Dad built. He wanted me to try the new fishing rod before he got back because he said he was going to take me bass fishing over at Maple Lake when he got back from his trip, said Curtis.

Well, Mommy was worried about you. I’m not angry, just nervous when I can’t find you, so next time just give me a heads-up, all right? By the way, why did you just leave your cap on the ground? I thought that it was very special to you, being it was your favorite team, the Detroit Tigers?

I didn’t leave it on the ground, Mom. I laid it on my tackle box at the front of the pier so the wind wouldn’t blow it into the water. When I heard your voice, I tried to find it, but the wind must have blown it away. I didn’t look for it when you called because I could tell that you were worried, so I came right away, Mom.

Kate smiled and pulled Curtis against her while whispering in his ear to forget everything and just come into the house for lunch. She watched him scamper away while she turned and glanced one more time at the gravel road. Just forget it, she said to herself. It was nothing but unnecessary anxiety in trying to protect the prince of the family, she thought while allowing herself a small smile. Just a case of compulsive behavior, and she had to guard against it returning again. Walking to the back door, she felt the vibration of her cell phone and the text message from Curtis Sr. Love you always. How strange, she thought, that he didn’t actually call and that he didn’t include the ending of his message with Hug-hug, something that he usually would never forget. He had taken that ending phrase as his personal signature from the very first message that he had ever sent her, and now just Love you always?

Kate watched Curtis Jr. eat while she sat at the kitchen table and looked out the large kitchen window and admired the view that showcased the large yard, the manmade fishing pond, and the row of evergreens that held the wind and snow in place when winter set in. When they had first married, he had completely gutted and remodeled the home that he had first built just for himself. A woman needed things, he had said, and the original house was mostly designed for a bachelor, so he had added extra bedrooms, an office for her, and closets that were bigger than most bedrooms alone. She had taken the largest new room and had covered one wall with magnetic whiteboards where she could pin up things and, if needed, write on, because she often loved to bring her private investigator work home to discuss with Curtis Sr. It was one of the things that helped make their marriage work. He would share with her his flight experiences, and she would use him for a sounding board regarding important cases that she was working on. He could walk in her special room and look at the board that she had created, see the time line where her case had begun, read any newspaper clippings, observe photos, and study the questions that she had listed to discuss with him. He had dubbed it the Heller Wall in reference to her maiden name, Kate Heller.

Her office also had a special desk that Curtis had purchased from the state capital and was once used by a former governor, a high-back brown leather chair and a small couch. A bookshelf had been built into the wall and concealed a large safe for evidence that she considered needing security. With sadness today, the wall was empty because she had sold her business to her partner, Howard Singer, whom she only saw on rare occasions, wanting him to run his own business free from the image that she had once created as the region’s best private investigator. Now picking up her cell phone, she texted Curtis Sr. a short reply to his message and then dialed Singer Investigations.

This is Howard, and like the commercial says, ‘We’re the best or nothing at all.’

Howard, this is Kate, and I’d be careful using that phrase, she said, laughing.

Kate Patterson! What a special surprise hearing your voice again. Does this mean the old Curtis has fallen in love with one of those twenty-two-year flight attendants and you’re now back in circulation? he said, laughing out loud.

If he has, it’s news to me, Howard, but should that ever be the case, you’ll be the first to know. As I remember, you can handle a gun better than me, and you’ll get an opportunity to do your former boss a favor. Do you have a moment that we can talk, or is this a bad time? she asked.

Do you want to discuss this over the phone or come in here? he asked.

The phone’s no problem, but don’t record this call, she said. It’s a private matter, and I need to be careful.

Then let’s talk. The line is lifeless.

There’s been an incident on my property, and while I doubt that anything is wrong, it involves Curtis Jr., which makes me nervous. I need your thoughts like in the old days, she said. I don’t expect anything to be done free, so just consider me a client.

Now don’t hurt my feelings, Kate. You got me this job and then sold me this business with a Kate Patterson discount, so let’s not talk about anything other than what you need me to do, all right?

Thank you. I need you to help me find out how many people might own PT Cruisers with a sunroof in this town and finally something about Foot Joy Men’s contour casual boat shoes and any store in the area that might sell them. Other than that, nothing else is on my mind, she said. Do you think that you can help me?

The PT Cruiser part might take a while, Kate, because there probably are still a lot of those around these parts, but I have friends in the motor vehicle department, and given a little time, I should be able to narrow the list down. Do you have any make or year, color, or partial plate?

They all look alike, but I’d say it was probably one about 2005–2010, cherry red, and most likely a stick shift based on how the person was driving it. No partial plate, just that I could see when it was driving away that it had a moon roof.

That will help a little. Did the owner try to hurt Curtis Jr.?

No, but then again, I might have spooked him before he had a chance. Sorry, I have to go, Howard, before my son picks up on my conversation with you, said Kate.

That’s fine, but one last question. Why do you have a concern about my salutation being the best or nothing at all?

It’s been used by Mercedes Benz since they first built their cars, said Kate, laughing.

The woodsman was a long way from being elderly and had hastened his decline through good luck and careful attention to living a healthy lifestyle. None of this bothered him because he had earned this life of bachelorhood by the simple fact that few women in this day and age were interested in a high school dropout who made less than $16,000 a year. Besides as the saying went, Why buy milk when a cow was cheaper? and there were still plenty available.

Allison was not a stupid man, just one that would rather spend his time outdoors rather than engaging in the real world that wanted one to be something other than what made one happy. What now made each of his days was his perverse interest in simple killing, and he had come to the woods today looking for something to shoot and to read his civil war magazine while waiting for that stray coyote or fox. Finding his favorite rotting tree log, he began to read the article about General Everett Burnside, a commander of the Army of the Potomac during the civil war. Forget about Patton, he mumbled to himself. Burnside’s life seemed a lot like his today when back in the 1860s everything seemed to have gone bad for the civil war general, from his botched Fredericksburg Campaign to the Battle of the Crater disaster at Petersburg. Everything had been going wrong in his life until Ulysses S. Grant finally had sent him home with instructions never to return to active service. It had been only then that Burnside had taken his inveterate firearms interest and followed up on his 1856 patent of the clever breechblock loading carbine that to this day carried his name. He smiled to himself knowing how hard it had been for the general, like himself, to convince others that he actually knew what he was doing. Burnside’s carbine was different as he had tried for years to move beyond his image of just having luxuriant whiskers that one day would also carry his name to fame. He wanted a rifle that would load from the breech rather than the muzzle, something that inventors as far back as the sixteenth century had continued to wrestle with the problem of its development. Burnside had solved the difficulty by creating a dropping block that was released by a loading lever and activated by a hinged clamping catch which chambered a unique cone-shaped copper-brass cartridge with a thick belt at its mouth and a small hole in the base to allow ignition from a separate percussion cap. Now turning the page on his magazine, David Allison, like General Burnside, hoped one day to make his fortune and become an expert in firearms and follow in the footsteps of his hero. As he continued to daydream about what this would mean to his life, he paused for a moment to glance upward into the sky and now watch the small plane fly silently overhead while not making a single sound. It was a strange moment, for few planes that he could remember ever used this as a flying lane, even those involved in crop-dusting. Standing up, he watched the small aircraft disappear from sight as it seemed to continue struggling to maintain its altitude. Turning away, he started to walk toward the entrance to the large wooded area when the sound of something crashing against tree branches caused him to dive to the ground in fear.

What in the hell was that? he thought as he pulled himself up to a sitting position and looked toward where the sound had come from. Disregarding his magazine, he grabbed his rifle and started his walk toward where he had heard the crashing sound. Allison had walked less than two hundred feet into the wooded area when he spotted the white piece of metal hanging from the lower branch of a birch tree. What it was had no connection to anything that he had ever seen. Well, whatever it was, it couldn’t have been what had caused the sound that he had heard because it was clearly too small to have created the noise that had scared him. Then he noticed an object about another fifty feet away resting flat on the ground in the tall grass. Walking over to the object he could tell that it was a tire connected to a shaft of about a foot in length. Puzzled, trying to connect in his mind what it was, he then remembered the small plane that had flown overhead. Shit. He had heard about this type of thing before, where parts broke off from aircraft landing on people’s homes, and it was his guess that was what he was looking at. A damn tire had snapped off that small plane—that was what this was, he thought, and the white piece of metal hanging from the tree was the fender that had covered the landing gear. Now, it was all coming back to him. Hadn’t the aircraft been laboring as it flew past him overhead? For all he knew the pilot had crashed somewhere in these wooded areas. Maybe it had been a federal express plane or possibly a private carrier carrying valuable cargo, maybe even bank deposits. He had seen that movie several times where hunters had come upon a down aircraft with thousands of dollars. This might be his lucky day after all, he thought, as he picked up his rifle and raced back to his parked car. If it had gone down, he intended to be the first on the site, and that would require him winning the race before some lucky farmer beat him to it.

Howard Singer had called his friend in the motor vehicle department and had learned that there were over 1,500 registered PT Cruisers floating around a twenty-five-mile radius of the Lift Bridge area, of which seventy-two were listed as stick shift. God, this was going to take time, he thought as he started to look through the provided twenty-seven pages of documents covering the little Chrysler that had now stopped its production over four years ago. Setting the massive files aside, he then pulled his notes on the Contour boat shoe, which he hoped would provide him a little more luck and something to go on. Catching a criminal was not an easy task, especially when you have few clues to start with. Kate was a reasonable person to do business with, but one must not forget, he thought, that she had walked in his shoes long before she had sold the business to him. She would want answers especially since it involved her son. With most people that hired a private investigator, it became human nature to seek explanations for the unexplainable, and despite their history, Kate would be on him like white on rice, though who could fault her when it involved her son? Picking up his office phone, he dialed the first store that he had found on the internet in Lift Bridge that carried the Contour Boat shoe.

Barney’s Footwear, answered a young woman.

Hello, my name is Howard Singer with the Singer Investigator services, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions?

Sure, I know who you are. You’re the man who bought the business from Kate Heller Patterson, aren’t you?

That’s right, he said, hoping that the caller wouldn’t go into a thirty-minute overview of how great Kate had been and how she missed her.

My name’s Barb, and what are your questions? she asked, surprising him.

I see on the internet that your store carried a shoe called the boat shoe, and I was wondering—

You don’t need to go any further, Mr. Singer, since we haven’t sold a pair of those shoes in over two years. With regret, the owner never has pulled that advertisement. You know how it is, I’m sure. Someone buys a new business and keeps the sign called George’s Diner, all because the cost of changing the name within the state or country is cost prohibited. It’s the same thing with advertisement. The cost of changing that advertisement copy is a financial killer, so you wait as long as you can before changing a single item, she said.

Well then, just for conversation’s sake, would you know of anyone who might handle the shoe? asked Singer.

Sure. Elmer’s Dollar Store might have a couple of pairs, if you’re lucky, and then you have the county correctional jail, she said, laughing. The fact is, the shoe is not a big seller in this area.

Singer was momentarily taken back by her comments, wondering if she was just having fun at his expense. You said the county correctional unit. The one near Funston? he asked.

Sure, that’s the one. I understand that not all prisons approve of that shoe for their residents, but some do, especially the ones that aren’t maximum housing units like the county correctional unit. Guys and women doing time in there are usually let out in less than two years if they behave themselves, said Barb.

Thank you for your help. I take it that you’re not the owner of Barney’s Footwear?

Not at this time, Mr. Singer, not at this time. It’s my husband’s business, but we are going through a divorce at this time.

I’m sorry to hear that, Barb. Should there be anything that my company can ever do for you, please give me a call, he said.

Thanks, but for now, I’m good to go, she said, but I’ll keep your name on file.

After hanging up, Howard sat back in his chair wondering if he should advise Kate of his findings but decided that he would wait pending additional information on the PT Cruiser. Besides, she had been out of the private detective business for some time now, so it was unlikely that any current clients would have issues with her. Putting his feet up on the desk, he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head and started to close his eyes. It was not long before he entered a shallow trance and a peaceful snore. The dream that followed clawed at him. He could hear a far-off engine in the distance whining. What it was he couldn’t make out, even though it grew louder, but some premonition began to tell him not to linger, and suddenly he pulled himself free of the dream and found himself staring at his coat rack and the vest that rested on the second hook. The vest hanging there was the one that had been purchased for him by Kate during one of the few moments that she had ever been angry with him. The vest had saved his life when they had tracked a killer to a local hotel, and he had made the mistake of trying to apprehend him without Kate’s help. Now it all came back to him, a maniac Reverend Paul Bergman had almost killed him, but the vest had taken the brunt of the shot, and he was now rotting in jail for killing his wife and girlfriend plus two sheriff’s deputies. In the end, Kate had shot him when he had attacked both her and her husband at their home. The job was filled with forgettable characters, and Bergman was just one of the many that made Howard’s highlight reel. There was a fine line between good and evil. Bergman had been evil.

2

Reverend James Wolf understood danger. Even in this small town surrounded by neighbors who averaged over sixty years of age, danger was still closer than one could imagine, and the threat was just one mistaken word to the wrong person. As he now sat in his custom-made chair, he would always think of it as his big house because the rooms were all large and the second floor expansive and perfect for his many hobbies. The leather chair complemented his impressive custom-made marble desk, which strangely was free of any personal pictures. The color of the chair, an espresso brown, had been selected after careful consideration and ordered direct from Frankfort, Germany.

Now getting up from the chair, he walked over to the hardwood bookshelf that he was putting together and picked up the instruction manual that listed the assembly order of the many pieces that lay on the floor. Picking up his power screwdriver and a handful of Phillips screws, he bent over and retrieved the board with the letter H. He hated these damn screws and cursed at the memory of its inventor Henry Phillip, the engineer who in the late 1800s first invented these cross-shaped pain-in-the-ass screws. Wolf knew that power screwdrivers like the one in his hand wasted precious seconds trying to fit the screwdriver into the damn slot of an ordinary screw, and once you succeeded, centrifugal force tended to make the bit slide off the screw and onto the floor or workbench. And even if by some sort of luck you avoided this, the screw would go in as far as it was going to go, then the power screwdriver would either stall, strip out the screw, or start to spinning around in your hand. That’s why he hated the standard screw, but the Phillips was much worse, he thought. Henry Phillips appeared to have a good idea when he opened up his plant, and then General Motors came calling wanting to use his screw in the manufacture of its