Authors: Kylie Brant
Waking Evil 02 (42 page)
“He was a ‘celestial channeler,’ ” Dev corrected. He wished he’d brought his laptop, where he’d downloaded all the notes Denny had sent, but he thought he remembered that part correctly. “He maintained that he was in direct contact with God. And apparently his being in direct contact with nubile young virgins, in the plural tense, just made the signals stronger.”
“What, his penis was a sort of heavenly antenna? A divining rod in the most literal sense?”
That had him bent over in a spate of coughing so violent he vowed to stop trying to eat until this conversation was over. When he recovered his power of speech, he gasped, “You are a dangerous woman to eat ’round. Are you tryin’ to kill me?”
She selected another slice of pizza. Her technique was losing some of its earlier finesse: this time, she merely flicked the excess toppings off with her finger. “C’mon, tell me the rest. I fail to see how it remotely connects to this case, but I find myself morbidly fascinated. So this Rufus Ashton guy—a perv of the highest order—starts this harem of women in the name of religion. Then what?”
“Apparently Rufus Ashton, as head of the church, was allowed unlimited wives. The men in his church, the ones he allowed to be a part of it, were allowed wives in direct correlation to their standing with Ashton. Children were raised in a community atmosphere, and the female children were kept separate from the males. Many of the male children were banished from the town between the ages of ten to sixteen for various offenses.”
Her voice was caustic. “Here’s betting their biggest offense was making the old guys in the church look bad in comparison.”
“That’s where Denny’s research starts moving into supposition, but yeah. That’s what he’s figurin’. Of course by that time, the main Church of Elders had cut all ties with Ashton, so most of their written records end, at least relatin’ to him. But Denny had an undergrad student use this topic as an honor’s thesis recently, and there were a few more details uncovered in her research. Ashton did a bit of travelin’ and preachin’ on the side, in an attempt to gather more church members. In 1888, he was travelin’ through what’s now south-eastern Illinois, and he stayed with a farm couple by the name of Klinkel.”
He took a moment to tip his beer to his lips and swallow before he continued. “The Klinkels were quite taken with his preachin’. Seems he’d been ’round that area before. And durin’ the course of his stay with them, he took a shine to their daughter, Ruth. Pretty as a speckled pup she was, and Denny’s student apparently scared up some photos that proved it.”
Ramsey put a hand to her stomach. “Don’t tell me. She was his next ‘bride.’ ”
“You guessed it. He convinced her folks it was Ruth’s path to salvation, and they agreed to stand up with her as the Reverend Ashton took her hand in marriage. I ’spect it was pretty convenient with him bein’ able to say the words over them, while bein’ the groom and all.”
“How old was she?” Ramsey had given up all pretense of eating. Her gaze was grim.
“Fourteen.”
“And he was likely decades older. He prettied it up with religion, but a pedophile is still a pedophile,” she muttered.
He was to the part of the story that put him off his own appetite. “Details from here out are sketchy and garnered from genealogy buffs in the modern Klinkel family. Apparently there are letters that still exist between Ruth and her parents. Life in Buffalo Springs was hard. She’d joined thirteen other wives of Rufus Ashton, and the man was a strict taskmaster. Worked them like slaves. The labor of men and women alike was responsible for building the church, startin’ the quarry, and other businesses. Ashton expected absolute obedience to him and to the church’s guidelines, which of course he dictated. Accordin’ to these letters, he retained absolute control over his wives, children—one letter mentioned he had nearly forty—and other members of the church. Dissenters were dealt with harshly.”
He heard a slight sound and glanced down. Saw her tight grip on the soda can had crushed in its sides.
“How harshly?”
“Public whippin’s and whispers of more private punishment given out by the disciples of the church to the ‘sinners.’ Some of the people, men and women alike, disappeared and their names were never spoken again.”
“I hope that convinced her family to act.”
He gave a slow nod. “Thomas Klinkel went down to Tennessee to fetch his daughter home, marriage vows or no marriage vows. But you have to recall what the mail service was like in those days. What travel consisted of. By the time he received that last letter and got to Tennessee, at least a month has passed since his daughter had written it. Probably more. He sent one letter to his wife shortly after he’d gotten to Buffalo Springs. Couldn’t get anyone to talk to him about Ruth. The next day he had a meetin’ planned with Rufus Ashton, and he promised his wife he’d be bringin’ their Ruth back home.”
Dev paused a moment, but it was a moment too long. Ramsey interrupted his conclusion by stating, “And neither of them were seen or heard from again.”
His eyes narrowed in irritation. “How do you do that?”
“Deduction.” She made an impatient gesture. “And it ended there?”
Piqued, he considered not answering. The woman knew how to take the bang out of a good story. “It ended there. With young ones at home and now workin’ the farm alone, Matilda Klinkel had no way to find out what happened on her own. She did contact the US Marshal in the region, but the only word she heard was that her husband had never been seen in town and her daughter had died three months earlier of cholera.”
“Except she had letters disproving both those statements.”
“She did. But she was never able to interest the marshal into followin’ up. The secrets surroundin’ Thomas Klinkel’s and Ruth Ashton’s deaths were buried with them.”
The fierce frown on her face was contemplative, and he reached for another slice of pizza while she reflected on the tale he’d recounted. Folks sometimes had a way of glorifying the past, as if simpler times made for purer values. But he figured people were people no matter what time period they lived in. And he had to admit the thought of their town father being part of something so grisly made him feel a bit queasy, over a century later.
After several minutes, she shrugged. “There has to be information around we can dig up about this. Every town keeps historical records of details regarding their founding fathers, even if they tend to glorify them a bit.”
“Tried that.” His bottle empty now, he ran a thumbnail around the edge of the damp label, loosening it. “I spent some rather painful time in the Historical Museum—don’t ask—and read the extremely borin’ journals talkin’ ’bout life in those times and extollin’ Ashton’s virtues.” He’d assumed the authors had been Ashton relatives but suspected now they’d all been dutiful Ashton wives. “I found nothin’ that serves as verification for the worst of the story. Even went to the library, where I got only enough information to know what direction to have my buddy start lookin’.” Honesty had him adding, “Probably could go back when I have a bit more time and look harder, but I’m doubtin’ I’ll find anythin’ close to describin’ Ashton’s real actions.”
He saw the exact moment she’d reached a decision. Felt a surge of impatience as she said the words he fully expected to hear. “Interesting. Sad even. But this has nothing to do with Cassie Frost’s murder. Regardless of what you decide is causing those lights, you’re not going to convince me Rufus Ashton rises up again every generation to exact punishment on the unworthy.”
“Wouldn’t try to.”
She reached for her pizza. Chewed ferociously. “Do we know anything about the church offshoot Ashton started? Sancrosanctity? Does it still exist?”
“Denny says there’s no record of it anywhere, although various cult-type religions include a similar belief or two in their own guidelines.”
“How many churches are in Buffalo Springs?”
This was an area he definitely wasn’t well versed in. “Well, let’s see now.” He rubbed his chin. “We’ve got our Southern Baptist, of course. There’s the United Methodist over on East Union. They’ve always been regarded a bit suspiciously by the Baptists, but I figure that’s only ’cuz they bring in more tithin’ every year despite having half the number of members in the congregation.” He searched his memory. Found it embarrassingly empty. “I know there’s a Presbyterian. Bet you didn’t know Mark Rollins is a deacon there.”
When he stopped, he caught her eyes on him, amused, and he shrugged. “Okay. So I’m no expert in the local congregations. I go occasionally with my granddaddy when I’m visitin’. He’s a lifelong member of the United Methodist. But if you’re really interested in learnin’ more ’bout local churches, we can go talk to a pastor. Take ’bout ten minutes.”
“Seems like a waste of time. Like I say, it isn’t related to my case.”
Although there was every reason to agree with her, he couldn’t prevent a stab of disappointment. “Not yet.”
“Not at all,” she said flatly. “The victim’s sister said she wasn’t a member in any particular church. And certainly nothing else points to a religious bent to the investigation.”
“Unless the plant you were interested in turns out to have religious implications.” He helped himself to the last slice of pizza, watched her silently wrestle with his words. There wasn’t an impulsive bone in Ramsey’s body. Every move would be carefully weighed and evaluated before decided on. What made her a good cop could also drive him crazy if he let it.
“You have an idea of a pastor to talk to? I don’t have much more than those ten minutes you mentioned. I need to get back to work. And sometime today I have to find a place I can do my laundry.”
Satisfied, he hid his smile by ducking his head to gather up the trash. He’d figured on that intelligent curiosity of hers to close the deal. “Might’ve underestimated the time it will take, but it won’t be much longer than that. And I’ve got a solution to your laundry problem. You can do it at my house. After work,” he hastened to add when she threw him a thoughtful look. “I’ll fire up the grill. How do you feel about hamburgers?”
“Mildly interested, actually.”
“You can bring the wine.”
She stood up and slipped back into her suit jacket as he gathered up the trash. “Wine? With hamburgers?” She waited for him to step off the quilt before picking it up, giving it a slight shake, and folding it.
“It’s hamburgers. We have to class it up.”
“What’s the best place around here to buy wine that doesn’t come in a box?”
“Hurley’s Liquor is on Main across from the police station. They close promptly at five.” That brought a slight frown to her face, and he knew she was thinking of having to interrupt her work to shop. He didn’t offer to take care of it for her. It was time, he decided, for the woman to start putting herself out a bit for their relationship.
She skated a glance at him. “I wonder if they carry Boone’s Farm.”
He was pretty sure she was kidding. “Just remember you’re drinkin’ whatever you buy. But if you need recommendations, all you have to do is ask.” They moved in the direction of the car, pausing only so he could dump the trash in the litter can.
“I’m not completely without social graces, Stryker.”
He couldn’t deny a quick flicker of relief. “In that case, bring two bottles.”
Chapter 20
Teddy Molitor, head pastor of United Methodist Church, had one of those faces that would look young well into old age. Apple-cheeked and smooth-faced, he had short brown hair and dark-rimmed glasses covering kind gray eyes. He was exactly as tall as Dev, which meant those eyes gazed directly into his, brimming—at least to Dev’s imagination—with quiet reproach.
“Devlin.” Because he stuck out his hand, there was nothing for Dev to do but to shake it. “I’d heard you were home. Thought I might see you accompany your granddaddy one of these Sundays.”
He swallowed hard around a ball of guilt that was decades in the making. “I ’spect you will. One of these Sundays.”
Seemingly satisfied, the man turned his gaze to Ramsey, leaving Dev with a notable feeling of relief. “This is Ramsey Clark. She’s workin’ with Mark Rollins on the murder of that woman coupla weeks ago.”
Teddy’s expression went sorrowful. He gripped Ramsey’s hand in both of his. “Thank you for that, ma’am. It can’t be easy on you, that line of work. Bless you for havin’ the strength to do it.”
Ramsey looked even more ill at ease than he felt. “I appreciate it. I hope we’re not taking you away from anything.”
Brows skimming upward, Dev sent her a look of approval. Either holy men put Ramsey on her best behavior, or she was learning the ways of the rural south. That was as close to small talk as he’d ever heard out of her.
Of course she was a product of the south, he reminded himself. Mississippi, she’d said. Although she’d rid herself of the telltale drawl, he recalled that she could summon it whenever it suited her. She’d revealed just enough for him to figure the accent had probably been the easiest part of her past to shed.
“We have a couple questions, but I promise we won’t keep you long,” she was saying. “Dev wasn’t able to tell me how many churches there are in town.”
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