Page 26 of The Psychic

Beyond the oak doors lay a small vestibule and further beyond rows of plain, pine pews, positioned in front of a raised dais at the end of the room.

A peaked ceiling, also all in pine, was scattered with skylights and rose in arched beams overhead.

Sleet pinged and skittered across the glass as Cooper breathed in the clean, sharp scent of the wood.

Currently the entire space was empty. Atticus Symons walked down the aisle to the three steps that led up to the raised platform where a lectern stood poised and ready, dead center.

Presumably this was where Symons led his flock, whether he named himself Pastor, Father, Priest, Leader or whatever.

“Mary Jo is married and has two children of her own who are with her husband,” he told the man. “They all want to know where she is and that she’s healthy and”— not held against her will— “that she’s coming home soon.”

Symons had stopped near the lectern but had not yet climbed the few steps. He glanced back at Cooper. “This woman’s husband … is he in custody?”

“No.” Cooper frowned. “He’s just worried about where his wife is.”

“Shouldn’t he be here instead of you?”

The quiet way Symons held himself, the clasped hands at his waist … had to be an affectation, although maybe his feelings on the subject weren’t exactly unbiased. Cooper wanted to mow through everything and everyone to find Mary Jo. “Her husband asked me to bring her back.”

Symons said patiently, “Well. We have free rein in this country, Detective.”

“But we also have responsibilities to our families. Especially our children. Is Mary Jo here, or not? It’s a simple question.”

“I’ve already told you, there’s no one here called by that name.”

“How about any other name? Do you have any pregnant women here? Maybe you could check with your … flock and ask her to come see me.”

A bit of color entered the man’s cheeks. In a cooler voice, he said, “Please sit down. I will be right back.”

Cooper lasted about three minutes after the man had departed.

He was torn between following after him and calling his partner, Elena Verbena.

He chose the latter, but wasn’t surprised when the call went to voice mail.

Verbena was out of the job more than in it, at this point in time, owing to her mother’s long-term illness.

He couldn’t sit still. It felt too … passive. He wandered down the aisle between the pews, staring up at the colorful stained glass windows, now rain-lashed, those jewel tones muted against the dark afternoon.

We should all be home watching TV and eating popcorn, he thought.

He headed back to the anteroom. There was a pine bench against one wall, and a wooden lectern pushed to the wall beside the double doors.

A book lay open on the lectern, a Bible.

He glanced at it and saw an open leather folio below it with a number of names listed, a sign-in sheet.

He picked up one end of the Bible to look beneath it at the names.

Mostly traditionally feminine names popped out at him.

Maybe the women under Atticus Symons’s care?

He scanned down quickly. No Mary Jo.

But …

The hair on the back of his neck rose.

Quickly, he strode back to the pew where he’d been when Symons had left him, waiting, lost in thought.

When the pastor returned and told him he’d spoken to his flock and no one knew anything about the pregnant woman he was seeking, he nodded and thanked the man, who’d clearly expected some kind of fight and was puzzled, even maybe slightly alarmed, at his change of attitude.

Didn’t matter. Cooper had some thinking to do.

Symons was still staring after him as he left the church.

“Are we almost there?” Brandy asked tensely, staring through the rain-washed windshield past the frantic wipers.

“Almost.”

A few more miles passed beneath the SUV’s tires, before Brandy burst out, “She always had a crush on Clint, you know. Mel. She always did.”

“I remember.” Mel had always had a boyfriend in high school. Even though they hadn’t been all that close, Ronnie could recall Mel dating a bunch of different guys, flirting with others. None of those relationships had lasted long.

Brandy swore softly, then whispered, “She has to be all right.”

Ronnie remained silent, her hands tight on the wheel as gusts of wind buffeted the Escape.

“Maybe it’s not what you think. What you … saw … Maybe she’s okay. Maybe she’s not even there …”

Again Ronnie stayed silent.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t Clint. He would never intentionally hurt her … or anyone. He’s not made that way.”

Ronnie risked a glance at her. Now Brandy was hunched forward, face muscles taut, eyes on the road.

“And Clint is Hugh’s friend, or was his friend.

The Mel/ Clint thing was short-lived but intense …

Maybe, maybe Hugh did this. He would hurt her.

He’s not a good guy.” She was biting at a fingernail as if wrestling with how much to confide.

“The thing is, Hugh and Mel were split at the time she was with Clint, but Hugh is really the jealous type, if you know what I mean.” More finger biting until she realized what she was doing and dropped her hand.

Turning in her seat to face Ronnie, Brandy said, “It’s Hugh.

If someone did something to Mel, it was Hugh.

She’s been missing for a few days, like I said, and I’ve been worried. When I saw you at the hospital …”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry about what they say about you. I don’t care. I just want to find Mel. I warned her … I …” She pressed a hand over her mouth.

“You warned her about what?”

“About pissing Hugh off. She … wasn’t faithful. I told you that. And you know her. She’s always been kind of flighty, I guess. There were other guys. It’s just been a shit-show and I tried to tell Clint, but he never listens to me. Never.”

In love with love … Ronnie could practically hear Aunt Kat clucking her tongue over some of the girls in Ronnie’s high school, girls like Mel, whose heart could be easily won, easily broken, easily mended. Even having such thoughts made Ronnie feel like a traitor when she was so worried for Mel.

Yet, it seemed odd, almost prophetic, that Mel and Clint, Brandy’s brother and Mel’s grade school crush, had gotten together.

“Clint just got back from a fishing trip in Vancouver, B.C.,” added Brandy.

At this time of year? Maybe. Vancouver, Canada, was on the coast about three hundred miles north of River Glen and the weather was iffy at best, dangerous at worst, the beginning of December. “Hope the weather’s better there.”

“He fishes no matter what. Unless it’s really nasty I guess.” Brandy checked the dash clock for the umpteenth time. “I know you’re driving as fast as you can, but can you step on it?”

“No.”

“I know. I know.” Her eyes moved nervously as she eyed the storm. “We just gotta get to that clearing. Find her, if she’s there. Maybe the police have found her?”

“Maybe it wasn’t foul play,” Ronnie posed. She wanted to add, We don’t know that Mel’s dead. Let’s not think the worst. But she couldn’t.

“Is that what you think?” Brandy asked. “That it’s not foul play?”

No. “Does she have a dog?”

“A dog?” Brandy shot Ronnie a perplexed glance. “I don’t think so. But maybe Hugh has a dog. Why?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Ronnie said, but she didn’t believe it for a second.

It took almost an hour by the time Ronnie was bumping up the long drive to Aunt Kat’s white, two-story farmhouse. A sheriff’s department vehicle was parked outside, probably answering Aunt Kat’s 911 call.

They both hurried inside and Aunt Kat, gray-faced and grim, her silvery hair in a short bob, her rail-thin face as taut as Ronnie had ever seen it, handed Ronnie a green plastic poncho she snatched from a hook by the back door.

“I’ve got another for your friend,” she said, nodding to Brandy, who said in a small voice, “It’s me, Brandy. ”

Aunt Kat had already turned toward the kitchen and the back of the house, but now she spun back and put a hand on Brandy’s shoulder. “Why, yes, it is you. Brandy. Oh, my. So good to see you again.” But there was no life in her expression, her words without any enthusiasm, the situation too dire.

“Do you … Do you know if it’s Mel out there?” Brandy’s voice shook.

Aunt Kat shot Ronnie a quick look. “Let me get you that poncho,” she said to Brandy. “Come with me.”

They followed her through the kitchen to the storeroom.

She opened a tall cabinet which held canning jars, boots, jackets and scarves.

“The police left one car here and drove the others to the road that winds into the woods. Sheriff’s department and other police.

The man that found the body, Randall, is showing them where to go. ”

“Body?” Ronnie repeated as Brandy pressed her hands to the sides of her face and shook her head.

“No, no, no …” Brandy’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, honey. I thought you knew.” Aunt Kat’s soulful eyes held Ronnie’s gaze.

“I just thought she might still be alive,” Ronnie said as Brandy made a little squeak of protest.

“Who’s Randall?”

“Randall DeBoer, one of the neighbors. He hikes a lot and gets his own firewood. He generally doesn’t come on my property, or at least I thought he didn’t, but anyway he came and told me.”

“How did you know I’d want to come?” asked Ronnie.

Aunt Kat didn’t respond.

Brandy offered hopefully, “Maybe it’s not Mel.”

Neither Ronnie nor Aunt Kat answered her.

They pulled the ponchos on over their raincoats and Aunt Kat led them off the back porch to the gate that led to the orchard.

The trail was already heavily trodden, and veered off to a faint pathway leading into the woods.

It was midafternoon but dark enough that when they reached the edge of the forest it felt like night had fallen.

“Just keep following the path,” Aunt Kat had instructed when they took off.