The Lace Reader (17 page)

“So what are you doing here?” Roberta asked, partly curious, partly just annoyed. “You two didn’t hit it off?”

“Angela Rickey has been reported missing.”

“What? Again?”

“You seen her?”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I am not her keeper.”

“I didn’t ask you to take her in again. I only asked if you’d seen her.”

“Negative,” Roberta said, thinking about it. “Not for a while.”

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Roberta had told him very little about the few weeks Angela had stayed with her. Only that she’d gone back to the Calvinists. And good riddance.

“You didn’t see anyone fighting? Or hear anything unusual before she left?”

“Define ‘unusual,’” she said.

As if on cue, the wind pitched easterly and the screams echoed up from the deserted coast guard hangar where Cal was preaching. The sound of human agony chilled the already cooling air. What night was this? Thursday? Thursday was teen-exorcism night. It was a family outing, drawing crowds from as far away as Rhode Island. It was one of Cal’s most popular family events.

And one of the noisiest. Evidently the demons didn’t depart from their teenage hosts without putting up a good fight, one that echoed across the parking lot and up out over the water, startling even the nesting gulls, who quickly relocated. Even the wind rejected the sound, trying to shift directions again, throwing itself in circles with its efforts, knocking things about wildly: an old metal sign, the limb of a dying tree. Finally it caught and grabbed the breeze that held the big brass-band music from the pavilion and blended the two sounds until it seemed as if John Philip Sousa had written a score to march the demons right out of their victims and blow them out to sea.

Rafferty could just hear the calls coming in back at the station. Sound carried far over the water, even on a windy night like tonight. The townies were used to this by now. Most of the calls came from the summer people. Usually they thought it was some freaky tour that stayed open too late. Or one of the haunted houses. Rafferty had instructed the officer on duty to say, “We’ll take care of it,” or “We’ll look into it.” He had discovered from experience that telling callers The Lace Reader 143

the real source of the screaming did little to calm their already fraying nerves.

“This is too weird,” one particularly perturbed woman had complained. “Can’t you people do anything?”

Truth was, they couldn’t. As long as the services didn’t exceed the prescribed decibel level or continue past 10:00 p.m., the Calvinists were within their rights. The one time Rafferty had tried, Cal had countered by having his church members call the station six times to report a disturbance by a late-night folksinging traveler down on Winter Island’s Waikiki Beach who was trying to master Bob Dylan’s “My Back Pages
,
” then, failing that, had moved on to several rousing choruses of “Kumbaya.”

There wasn’t much to be done. The campground at Winter Island was a public place. The Calvinists paid their fees up front. And they paid for the entire season. They weren’t going anywhere until Columbus Day, when the park closed down for the winter. But by then the summer people would be gone, and windows would be closing against the chilling autumn air, and the people who were left would be looking forward to Halloween, when screaming of any kind simply added to the festivities.

Something registered in Rafferty’s peripheral vision. His eyes followed the figure of a man moving along the ridge. As he focused, he realized he was looking at the Calvinists’ robes hanging on a makeshift clothesline. Twisting in the wind. Tethered to their ropes, they filled with air, taking human form and spinning about. Ghost dancers. Hypnotic. It seemed to Rafferty that at any moment they could break free and dance down the hill and into the ocean, disappearing forever into the blackness below. Then, as suddenly as it had made them appear, the wind shifted again, and the life force flowed out of them, and they became once again what they were all along. Not dancers, not ghosts, just somebody’s laundry.

I’ve been in Salem too long,
Rafferty thought. 144 Brunonia

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Several more screams could be heard. Then Cal’s voice, rising above the others. “Name yourself, demon!” he bellowed. Rafferty had seen it at least a hundred times. If the demon didn’t depart, and it usually didn’t, at least not on the first try, Cal would grab the kid and shake him until the kid either stopped screaming or passed out, whichever came first.

Rafferty couldn’t believe that anyone would fall for this crap. People would believe anything. Bible-thumping born-agains were one thing. At least they’d read the book. But this was ridiculous. Cal’s sermons were plagiarized from Cotton Mather, old movies, and any number of late-night televangelists. Cal picked pieces of his favorites, mostly hell-and-damnation stuff. It was like choosing food off a Chinese menu. Hellfire from Column A, eternal salvation from Column B. The best ones he’d gotten from the Catholic Church, the early years, before they went all ecumenical. But clearly the Thursday-night exorcisms had become his bread and butter. Hey, what parent doesn’t think his teenager is possessed? Rafferty had spent enough time with his daughter, Leah, last summer to kid her about bringing her down to see Cal if she didn’t shape up. “Hey, I live in New York City,” she said to him. “You don’t scare me.”

Evidently imitation wasn’t considered flattery by the Catholics, who had enough trouble of their own these days and didn’t want to be reminded of past indiscretions. It was Father Malloy over at St. James’s who’d called the meeting of churches to discuss what could be done about the Calvinists. “Whatever happened to tar and feathers?” the priest had joked when the local churches voted unanimously to form a council that would meet monthly until the issue of Cal Boynton was resolved. “I mean, can’t we at least ride him out of town on a rail?” Father Malloy had only been half kidding. The Episcopal minister had seconded the motion, and Dr. Ward from the Unitarian church had called for a vote.

“Seriously,” a representative from the Methodist church had The Lace Reader 145

said after the laughter finally died down, “isn’t there anything we can do?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t a lot,” Rafferty had informed them. Everything he could do, he’d done months ago. Like getting the fraud unit on it. Problem was, the parents were almost always satisfied. And the kids didn’t want to talk about it.

Roberta squashed a mosquito, smearing a trail of blood down the window screen. She made a face, wiping her hands on her shorts.

“She’s crazy like the rest of them,” Roberta said. She hadn’t intended to say it, but here it was.

“Angela?” Rafferty asked.

“Towner Whitney.”

Rafferty searched his mind for a response, but he couldn’t come up with a thing. He wanted to say he was sorry, for tonight’s date, for somehow giving Roberta an impression that he’d never set out to give.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the story.” Roberta couldn’t let it go.

“Sophya, or Towner, or whatever the hell she calls herself these days.”

She spit the words. “She’s a certifiable nutcase.”

Rafferty remained silent.

“I’m just telling you because you weren’t here when it happened. I’m not sure you’ve heard the stories.”

“I’ve heard them.”

“She confessed to a crime that never happened. She had the whole town out searching for a body.” She looked toward the revival tent.

“Three different search parties. He wasn’t dead.”

“Obviously,” Rafferty said, looking down the hill.

“She never touched him. He wasn’t even in the fucking state at the time.”

It hadn’t been three search parties. It had been two officers and 146 Brunonia

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a dog. Listening to stories about Towner Whitney was like that old children’s game. Telephone or Gossip, something like that. The story changed as it was passed from person to person. Everyone’s version was a little different. So different, in fact, that Rafferty had actually pulled Towner’s police record himself, to get some kind of sense what the truth was. He had his own ideas about what had happened that night, ideas he wasn’t about to discuss with Roberta.

“Let’s stick to the subject at hand,” Rafferty said.

“Whatever,” Roberta said.

A Mini Wini with Kansas plates pulled up behind him. “I’m gonna go down and have a look around.” He put the cruiser in gear, ending any possibility of further conversation. Rafferty pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. Winter Island was an old coast guard station turned national campground, a strange mix of industrial compound and beautiful seaside retreat, complete with its own miniature lighthouse. The two sections were separated by an expanse of asphalt parking lot and boat launch ramp. A huge deserted airplane hangar flanked the parking lot, with long-abandoned barracks and commissary, a casualty of the post-Vietnam defense cuts. Cal had strategically planted his revival tent at the end of the hangar, which was lit with carnival lights he’d bartered from an errant carny who’d robbed his employer blind before the show left town. The lights and tent, plus the ne’er-do-well’s pocket change, were the price Cal extracted for the man’s soul. The demons evidently didn’t depart, but the carny did, leaving behind his ill-gotten gains, which Cal considered the ultimate gift from God, a portable church complete with lights and a fog machine that Cal set up inside the hangar to create an eerie feeling for the unsaved. Ever the showman himself, Cal pitched the tent with its opening facing the hangar so that sinners had to make the long trek toward salvation through the deserted cave, their footsteps echoing in concert with the sounds of the screech owls and other night creatures who had nested The Lace Reader 147

in its high rafters, as the penitents hurriedly made their way toward the light of Cal’s revival meeting. Only when the meeting was over did he open up the flap at the other side of the tent and let the newly saved go back to terra firma.

Cal was in rare form tonight.

Rafferty sat on top of the cruiser and listened to the next three exorcisms. Some of the demons had deep voices, some shrieked, and one talked in pig latin. At the end of the last one, Cal asked his penitents to dig into their souls and their pockets and make a contribution to the ministry. Anything would be acceptable, he said, but special prayers of deliverance would be spoken aloud for everyone who paid at least 125 dollars.

The collection took more than twenty minutes, after which Cal’s choir of redeemed witches sang a rousing chorus of “Bringing in the Sheaves” while the congregants began to file out. Rafferty was fanning himself with the search warrant when the service broke. People stumbled, dazed, into the parking lot. The teenager who had spoken in pig latin walked held up by his father. The mother, who was still crying, walked several feet behind. “Glad to have you back,” Rafferty heard the father say to his son. Rafferty wasn’t sure the kid was back. It looked more like he was simply in shock.

Rafferty watched as the crowd thinned out. He nodded to a man he recognized from the boatyard, but the guy seemed embarrassed to be caught here; he wouldn’t meet Rafferty’s eyes. Disturbed by the crowd, a wharf rat scrambled out of its hiding place. A barn owl that had been perched on a high rafter swooped down after the rat, flying just over the heads of the penitents and causing one of the women to swoon and drop to her knees, sobbing and swearing that she had just seen the Holy Spirit. There was a clicking sound and a sizzle, and then the place went dark. Rafferty thought for a moment that he might have missed Cal, 148 Brunonia

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but then the preacher emerged from the hangar side, dressed in his usual Armani, though it was far too hot. Still, Cal knew his audience. Evidently the devil was more likely to stick his neck out for Italian silk than for Holy Land muslin.

Two robed disciples stood watching as Cal emerged. Rafferty recognized them as Cal’s bodyguards. One was an ex-marine he used to see at AA, and the other was the one they called “John the Baptist.”

Cal motioned for them to go ahead without him. He paused briefly to allow a female penitent to kiss his ring. After offering the woman his standard blessing, he walked over to Rafferty’s car.

“Lovely evening, Detective.” Cal drew out each syllable of the last word hitting each consonant hard. “I expect you have come to inquire about our prodigal daughter.”

Rafferty would have chosen a different parable to describe Angela. But that was Cal. Already putting his own spin on things.

“I have a warrant,” Rafferty said, handing it to him.

“That won’t be necessary,” Cal said. “We have nothing to hide.”

The tourists in the Mini Wini were roasting marshmallows over a propane grill. The woman looked up from her s’more with mild interest as the two men passed.

“Which one is Angela’s trailer?” Always start with a question you already know the answer to.

“Was,” Cal said. “Angela left the order almost a month ago.”

“Any idea where she went?” Rafferty asked, watching Cal’s face for the answer.

“She went home,” Cal said. “At least that’s where we agreed she should go. We try to encourage runaway teens to reunite with their families. It is God’s way. And of course she needs her family now more than ever. With the pregnancy and all.”

Not bloody likely,
Rafferty thought. He’d already called Angela’s The Lace Reader 149

family. Home wasn’t a place she would go unless she had no other options.

“Mind if I look around?”

Cal ushered Rafferty to the old Airstream that had served as Angela’s quarters since she’d gone back to them after the last time she

“disappeared.”

“Mind your noggin,” Cal said, pointing to the low overhang. Noggin. The word was all wrong coming from a man wearing Armani. It was more like something from an Andy Hardy movie. It was a word consciously appropriated by Cal to make him appear harmless.

The Airstream was ancient and tiny, but he could see Angela’s touch. Candles everywhere. And angels—the warrior angels, Michael and Gabriel. Around the perimeter of the room, jammed into every available spot, were the
milagros:
tiny pieces of disjointed miracles—a head, an arm, a heart. Though her family was a loose mixture of native Maine and French Canadian, Angela had a thing for Spanish artifacts, which she usually picked up at the shops in the Point. A black lace mantilla hung in the corner. The kind old women used to wear to Mass back when hats were required. This one hung suspended in front of a picture of the Virgin, more veil than hat. For just a moment, Rafferty wished he had learned to read lace.