Page 5 of Go First
‘Yup.’
‘So ‘beaux’ meaning good and ‘bow’ as in arrows are both pronounced the same way.’
‘I’m not sure how I ever lived,’ Marcus said, ‘Without access to all this fascinating information.We got a call from the sister… sorry, the sister-in-lawof the guy who owns it.’
‘The tv preacher guy.Pastor Whitfield.’Kate dimly recalled some news story about the religious leader, but she couldn’t remember the details. ‘What did she say?’
‘That he ain’t saying nothing to nobody no more. Because someone took his tongue out. I’ll pick you up in ten.’
Kate’s mom had withdrawn to the next room, as she always did when her daughter was taking professional calls.She was a deeply contradictory woman: tactful and considerate in one moment, blatant as a bull in the next. And she made Kate be contradictory, too.She was touched that her Mom wanted to fix her up with Mike. But she couldn’t let her run her life like that. Kate had to draw a line. And more importantly, she had to move out.
But there was no point starting that conversation now. Marcus would be here, in far less than ten minutes, if he drove the way he drove when he was alone in the car. Tonight, Kate told herself.Tonight, she and her Mom would have to have the talk.Tonight, for sure.
CHAPTER THREE
Pastor Whitfield’s office looked more like a banker’s suite than the nerve center of a megachurch.
Kate stepped through the doorway behind Marcus, the soles of her plastic booties crackling on the Persian rug, and felt the dissonance hit her in the chest.Mahogany bookshelves lined with calfskin-bound commentaries.A sideboard gleaming with cut glass decanters.An oil painting of some generic Alpine lake—three feet wide, in a gilded frame—that screamed auction-house indulgence.
But then there was the body.
The earthly remains of Pastor Jonathan Whitfield lay sprawled across the desk, his gray-flecked beard soaked dark with congealed blood, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.His mouth had been forced open, the cavity ragged and raw.
Marcus swore under his breath.“No sign of the tongue.”
Kate crouched.She didn’t flinch.“Clean cut.Blade, sharp and short.”
She straightened up, caught the eye of one of the CSIs, a petite woman with whom she’d often worked before, called Desiree.“Did you already bag it, or…?”
Desiree shook her head.“Killer must’ve taken it as a memento.The vic died around midnight,” she added.“Give or take an hour.”
“Any idea how they could have subdued him?”Marcus asked.“He was a big guy.Strong-looking.”
“Hey Marcus,” Desiree replied.“There’s nothing immediate.He doesn’t look to have fought back.”
Kate straightened, eyes roving the scene.If there was no struggle, then potentially Whitfield hadn’t seen his attacker as a threat until it was too late. Or had an extraordinarily trusting relationship with them. Who would you open your mouth for?Your dentist?
And Midnight.Seven hours before his sister-in-law Margaret found him.That gap told her more than words could.
Margaret sat hunched on a chair in the corridor outside, wrapped in a police-issue blanket, face buried in trembling hands.Every time someone stepped near, she broke into fresh sobs.They’d tried twice to question her.Both times she’d dissolved into a heaving cascade of salt-water.The local sheriff had retreated, muttering about shock, or perhaps it was snot.
But Pearl Raymond—Whitfield’s secretary—stood stiff-backed against the wall.Early forties, neat bob, a suit too practical to be expensive but pressed within an inch of its life.Her lips pressed thin when her gaze slipped anywhere close to the doorway, but she kept her voice level when Kate approached.
“Miss Raymond?You worked closely with Pastor Whitfield?”
Pearl nodded once.“Eight years.I managed his calendar.All his appointments, travel, correspondence.Everything went through me.”
Kate detected something in the air around the secretary.Fresh booze.A stiffener to calm her nerves?Or to ensure she stayed in control.
“Tell us about yesterday,” Marcus said gently.
Pearl clasped her hands, principally to hide their shaking.“Usual Thursday routine.Prayers and Guided Meditation on our online channel.A meeting of the finance team.Then the rest of the morning training the new Messengers.”
“Messengers?”Kate queried.
“Spreading the Word,” Pearl said.“We’ve got satellite churches up and down the eastern seaboard, and now we’re moving into the southern states.Messengers prepare the ground before the Temple Builders come in.”
Messengers… Temple Builders… Anything that had its own vocabulary set small alarm bells ringing in Kate’s mind. A whiff of the cult. Once you created your own language, you created your own, unique way of looking at the world.And from there, it was just a bunny-hop from dividing the world into them and us.Or themagainst us.