Strangers (7 page)

“Gone with him where? Did he say?”

“Chew up some dirt on Salt Basin Road.”

“Chew up some dirt. Meaning?”

“Racing, man. On- and off-road, you know?”

“He do that sort of thing often?”

“Sure. Wild dude behind the wheel sometimes. Took some chances I never would and I ain't no chicken.”

“How did he seem to you that night? Nervous, excited?”

“Nah.” The idiot's grin again. “After bein' with Alana? Wasn't no excitement left in him.”

“Just his usual self, then.”

“Yeah. Sure. His usual self.”

“You see him the nights of the other two rapes?”

“Huh? I dunno. When were they?”

I told him the dates and approximate times. Firestone stopped working, stood with his mouth open even wider while he struggled with his memory. At length he said, “Three weeks, four weeks … nah. I can't remember that far back. Cody and me, we don't hang together that much anyhow.”

“Not close friends, then.”

“Nah. He does his thing, I do mine.”

“Who would you say his best friend is, other than Alana?”

“His best bud? Prolly Jimmy.”

“Jimmy Oliver, the sheriff's nephew.”

“Yeah. The sheriff don't like it, them two hanging together so much, but wasn't nothing he could do about it until he picked on Cody for banging them women.”

“What's your opinion of Sheriff Felix?”

“Opinion? You don't want to mess with him, that's what you mean. He's one hard dude.”

I had a residence address for Jimmy Oliver, but not his place of employment. I asked Firestone if he knew.

“Jimmy, he likes horses, does part-time ranch work when his ma don't make him work with her at her church.”

“Which ranch?”

Shrug. “I dunno, now. Me and Jimmy don't hang, never did.”

“Which church, then?”

“One over on Humboldt, by the ballpark. Divine something. Jesus freaks, you know? Mrs. Oliver, she cooks and cleans for old Pastor Raymond. But watch out for her, man. She's a mean old bitch and she don't like Cody any more than the sheriff does.”

 

6

There was nobody home at the Olivers' older, ranch-style house, so I drove over to Humboldt Street. It was a pothole-patched street that ran parallel to the Union Pacific tracks. The ballpark—a dry-looking Little League field, actually—was at the eastern end, the church Rick Firestone had mentioned in a lot diagonally across from it.

Church of the Divine Redeemer, it was called. A plain building painted white with a huge gold-colored wooden cross jutting skyward above the entrance. Small parking area in front, another small, detached building at the rear that was probably a rectory. One of those offshoot sects, judging from its name and size, that take root in rural towns like this one. Not necessarily Old Testament, fire-and-brimstone religion, but nonetheless the kind that appeals to individuals with strong, conservative religious beliefs. Its congregation would be small, loyal, and strict in its adherence to biblical teachings—“Jesus freaks,” in Firestone's offensive term.

I pulled into the deserted parking area, past a signboard that gave the service hours and announced something called a “prayer breakfast” on the coming weekend, and parked and went first to the church. The unlocked door opened into a large, empty room about as austerely appointed as you could get. Rows of unpainted pews, a lectern in the middle of a raised platform and an undersized pipe organ off to one side, and the wall behind the platform bare except for the two-by-three-foot outline of a cross and a gold-painted wooden crucifix propped up below it. The crucifix was nearly twice the size of the outline and appeared to be newly made, the bas-relief Christ figure roughly but effectively carved, so it hadn't been the one that had hung on the wall. That was all there was to see. It struck me as a pretty grim place to worship, but then in no-nonsense churches like this, God would be considered more fearsome than benign and devotion to Him a pretty serious business.

“Can I help you, brother?”

I was still facing toward the lectern when the voice, a commanding baritone edged with suspicion, spoke from behind me. When I turned, the man who'd just entered came striding up the center aisle. He looked to be in his upper seventies—thick white hair, the skin of his angular face as age-crinkled as parchment, dressed all in black—but he moved in an authoritative fashion that belied his years.

“I thought I heard a car drive in,” he said. His expression was stern, guarded, and there were shimmers of light like banked fires in eyes so dark they were almost black. “Your reason for entering the Lord's house uninvited, brother?”

“I didn't realize I needed an invitation. The door was unlocked.”

“Was it? Yes, of course it was. I must be more careful.”

“The church doesn't have an open-door policy?”

“Not since Satan sent one of his minions to steal Jesus's image from us,” he said bitterly, gesturing toward the wall behind the lectern. “Our most treasured possession, a fine bronze crucifix presented by members of the congregation.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“No sorrier than I, brother.”

“You're Pastor Raymond?”

“Ah, you know my name.” The parchment face wore a quizzical expression now, his head cocked birdlike to one side. He may have been elderly, but that powerful voice of his still resonated. Whatever sermons he preached, I thought, he'd hold his congregation spellbound while he was doing it. “Not acquainted, are we?”

“No, sir. I've never been here before.”

“You'll forgive me, I trust, for my suspicions in these trying times. In normal circumstances Almighty God and the Church of the Divine Redeemer welcome all with open doors and open hearts. You've come seeking guidance, brother? The healing hand of our Lord Jesus Christ?”

“Actually, I came to speak to Jimmy Oliver, if he's here.”

“Young James? No, he isn't. Not until Saturday, to mount the new crucifix he created for us in time for Sunday's services.”

“Would you happen to know where I can find him now?”

“No, I wouldn't.” The zealous earnestness in Pastor Raymond's voice had evaporated; if I was neither a thief nor a potential new member of his flock, he was no longer interested in me.

“Jimmy's mother, then,” I said. “I understand Mrs. Oliver works for you. Is she here?”

“Mrs. Oliver works for the Lord. But yes, she's in the rectory. Very busy, I'm sure, but I'll ask if she'll speak with you. Your name?”

I told him, adding, “But it won't mean anything to her—she doesn't know me. Just tell her I'm looking for her son.”

Pastor Raymond turned abruptly and walked out of the church. I followed him onto a cracked concrete path that led around to the building at the rear. At the door he said, “Wait here,” and disappeared inside.

I waited. Three or four minutes passed before the door opened again, to frame a middle-aged, graying woman, tall and thin and stern-faced. One glance would have been enough to tell that she was Joe Felix's sister; the family resemblance was striking.

“Yes? What is it you want with my son?”

“I have a few questions for him, is all.”

“Questions? About what?”

“His friendship with Cody Hatcher.”

Her faced closed up. It was a visible reaction, like watching a not-very-appealing cactus flower suddenly fold its petals at dusk. She said through pinched lips, “Who are you?”

I gave her a straight answer. “A detective working with the Hatcher boy's attorney, and a friend of his mother—”

“Them! Come to give aid and comfort to the wicked!”

“Hold on now, Mrs. Oliver. Cody Hatcher is innocent until proven guilty—”

“‘The soul who sins shall die. God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap.'”

Now she had me bristling. “That may be,” I said, making an effort to keep my voice even, “but your son doesn't share your opinion of Cody's guilt. The two of them are friends.”

“No more. My son walks only with the righteous now.”

“I still intend to talk to him.”

“I won't permit it. My brother is sheriff of this county and
he
won't permit it, I'll see to that.”

“I don't think either of you can stop me.”

She glared the kind of hate at me that only religious fervor can engender. “‘And He shall bring upon them their own iniquity, and shall cut them off in their own wickedness; yea, the Lord our God shall destroy them.'”

Footsteps sounded behind her as she backed up a step with her fingers white-knuckled on the door edge, and I heard Pastor Raymond's voice asking, “Who is that man, Mrs. Oliver?”

“Another of the devil's disciples,” she said.

And slammed the door in my face.

*   *   *

The Lucky Strike Casino and Restaurant was the largest of the two gaming spots in town, the front entrance presided over by flashing neon-lit images of a pick and gold prospector's pan. The interior was laid out like a squared pie cut into three more or less equal wedges. The casino was the wedge you walked into first, so that you had to pass through its noisy come-on glitter to get to the other two—a bar-lounge on the left, the restaurant on the right.

There wasn't much casino action at this time of day. All but one of half a dozen blackjack tables were shut down and covered, the open one occupied by a woman dealer and a male player who both looked bored; the roulette and craps layouts were dark as well. A handful of individuals were throwing their money away among the banks of modern electronic bandits: progressive slots, Video 21, Joker Is Wild video poker. The usual thin pall of tobacco smoke hung over the room, forcing me to breathe through my mouth as I made my way into the restaurant. There was a move afoot in Nevada to ban smoking in all casinos, I'd heard, and some places in Vegas and Reno had established nonsmoking sections in gaming rooms as well as where food was served, but in rural areas like Mineral Springs, where a large percentage of the population still poisoned their bodies with carcinogens, the old ways still ruled.

Gold was the dominant color in the Lucky Strike, naturally; the employees, including Cheryl and the others working the restaurant, were all dressed in bright amber-yellow tunics. It being the tag end of the lunch hour, the place was moderately crowded with what appeared to be a mix of locals and travelers on a rest stop. Main Street out front and a nearby parking lot were lined with cars, pickups, motor homes, and long-haul trucks.

One of the back-wall booths in Cheryl's station was free. I caught her eye on the way to it, and she hurried over with a glass of water as soon as she finished delivering food to a couple at a window table. The tiredness that showed in her face and her movements tugged at me; she hadn't slept much last night, either. By the time she finished her shift, she'd be half-dead on her feet.

“Something to tell me?” she asked, but the hope in her voice was threadbare. She didn't need my headshake to know it was too soon.

“Couple of things to ask. I won't keep you long.” I had a menu in my hands, pretending to read it as I spoke. “Do you know where I can find Jimmy Oliver? Which ranch employs him?”

She thought about it. “You might try the Neilsen ranch, the X-Bar, about five miles out River Road. I think Cody said that's where Jimmy usually works.”

“My car's no good for desert driving. Is what you drive an all-terrain vehicle?”

“No. Plain station wagon. But you're welcome to borrow Cody's Jeep. It's in the driveway at the house.”

“You have the keys with you?”

“No, they're inside, on the hook with the shed key by the kitchen door. The red button on the chain is for the alarm, the black one for the door locks. I'll give you my house key and you can leave it under the bottom step in the carport—” She broke off as one of the other waitresses approached. Then, “You'd better order something so I'll have time to get to my purse.”

“Ham and cheese sandwich and coffee.”

I sipped water, waiting. It didn't take long for her to come back with the food. She slipped the key under the sandwich plate when she set it down and I palmed it as she straightened. One of the other waitresses must have been nearby because she said in a louder voice than she'd been using, “Will there be anything else?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

“I'll bring your check.”

I made short work of the coffee and the sandwich. Cheryl gave me a brief, wan smile as I passed her on the way out.

*   *   *

I parked where I had the night before, on the street in front of Cheryl's house. I didn't relish the idea of leaving the car there for a lengthy period, with my laptop in the trunk and the GPS unit and the .38 Bodyguard clipped in a compartment under the dash inside—all three of which I'd taken into the motel room in my briefcase last night, and would every night for the duration of my stay. Unlike the Jeep, my car had no alarm system. I'd had a struggle with myself as to the advisability of bringing the handgun into Nevada in the first place, where I had no vehicle carry permit for it, but I was glad now that I had in spite of my solemn promise to Kerry. The way things were in Mineral Springs, I was better off hazarding a gun violation charge than being without means of self-defense if things got hinky. But I'd be a fool to carry a loaded weapon without good cause, and the risk of leaving it in the locked car in broad daylight was pretty small. Even if some idiot did break in, it was safe enough; the dash compartment was well hidden and you had to know it was there and where its spring catch was located, far down beneath the wheel, to pop it open. Plus there was the fact that vandals, like vampires, are creatures of the darkness.

For that last reason, probably, Cheryl's house and property hadn't been targeted again since last night. I took a turn around it to make sure. In pale sunshine the fire damage to the shed seemed minimal enough: scorched boards, mainly, though several would need replacing. The Jeep Cherokee parked under the portico was a four-door, five or six years old, its fire-engine-red paint job pitted and dulled by streaks of dirt and dust; there were some scrapes along the passenger side and a couple of hood dents, but they had been there awhile, apparently the result of careless driving. Small miracle Mineral Springs' lunatic fringe hadn't attacked the Jeep in their nocturnal prowlings.