Mullins's heart opened a little and his fears abated as he contemplated the magic and mystery of the Christ child's birth. Here, in God's showcase, alone in the outdoors, he found his true spirit, his communion with the Father.
From the breezeway connecting the parsonage with the church, he glanced at the crèche and then stood in awe of the snow-shrouded figures.
Carefully placed lamps illuminated the snow-covered nativity scene where the Christ child lay in the manger Mullins himself had fashioned years ago. Mary and Joseph leaned over their precious newborn. An ox's and donkey's head were visible over stall doors positioned behind the manger.
It truly was a work of art.
Something was off though. He broke a trail in the fresh snow to adjust the spotlight on Mary to make certain that her poignant smile was visible from the road. Then he looked again at the scene to make sure everything was perfect. It seemed so; the shepherd carrying a lamb hadn't fallen and the three kings, wise men seeking to give the savior gifts, approached, all covered in snow, all piously ... wait a second.
Why were there
four
kings?
He blinked. Looked again. Counted softly, his breath clouding: “Gaspar ... Balthasar ... Melchior ... and a
fourth
?” One without draping robes or a crown or a gift held in extended hands. No, the fourth figure, covered in snow, seemed more like a modern-day Frosty the Snowman.
Probably some kid's idea of a prank.
“Great,” he muttered, trudging through the snow, disturbing the perfection of the scene. And, yes, he saw impressions where someone else had been here, though the tracks were softened with a three-inch layer of snow. So whoever committed this sacrilege had done it hours before.
Wait a second. The figure, partially obscured with a frosting of snow, was definitely female. Seriously? And he could see ice beneath the snow. A sculpture. Blasphemy! That's what this marring of the nativity scene was. Was the sculpture of a woman intended to be some kind of political statement, some ultraliberal nonbeliever's way of pointing out that the only woman in the crèche was the blessed Virgin Mary? Or was it, perhaps, something worse?
At least he found it before morning light, or rush hour, if that's what you could call it here in Grizzly Falls. At least school buses wouldn't stop at the corner where the children inside looking out the windows might see the obvious mistake.
Or perhaps this was something much worse. Could it be that someone knew what had happened in Tucson and was sending him a personal and humiliating message? Someone who wanted to embarrass him? Cecil Whitcomb, Peri's father? He'd never been satisfied with Mullins's slap on the wrist. Could he have traveled all the way north to Grizzly Falls for retribution? Cecil had wanted, no, make that demanded, Calvin's resignation from the clergy and, as furious as he was, Cecil wouldn't have been satisfied with a public flogging.
Nonetheless, he couldn't afford a breath of scandal to whisper through this parish, so he had to get rid of the offensive statue or whatever it was. Using his gloved hand, he tried to dismantle the thing, but it was rock solid. Heavy. “Come on, come on,” he whispered, brushing the snow from the thing's “head” with his gloved hand. Sure enough, it was an ice sculpture, the features definitely feminine, but in the darkness, it was difficult to see.
Taking the time to adjust one of the spotlights so it was easier to work, Preacher Mullins returned to the crèche and the offensive piece of “art.” Something was very off about this ... It was more than a prank. With mounting dread, his innards tightening with a dark, new fear, he carefully brushed more snow away to stare deeper into the face of the sculpture and his own heart turned to ice.
Inside the thick ice, he stared into the wide, blue eyes of a very dead and frozen woman.
Chapter 10
P
escoli's jaw hardened as she shined her flashlight into the face of the dead woman, a face distorted by an inch or so of ice. “What the hell is this?” she whispered, wondering at who would place a dead woman, naked and encased in ice, in the middle of a nativity scene at a church. Her red hair fell to her shoulders, her skin so white as to be translucent. All trapped in a thick, molded layer of ice.
The entire area was roped off with crime scene tape, and the techs were going over the churchyard, looking for trace evidence in the snow. Preacher Mullins, who'd made the 911 call, was huddled under the overhang of a breezeway linking the parsonage with the church, and his wife, white-faced and shaken, stood at his side. Police vehicles were parked on the street and the road had been blocked, traffic diverted.
From an upstairs window of the two-storied Victorian parsonage, the silhouettes of three girls and another woman, someone from the church no doubt, were staring at the activity. Every once in a while, Lorraine Mullins glanced over her shoulder and shook her head, indicating her children were to be spared this horror, but as often as the children were shooed away from the window, they returned, fascinated.
Alvarez exhaled a pent-up breath as she checked in with the officer in charge. A news van had rumbled up and parked near the roadblock at the end of the street. Traffic slowed to a standstill as it passed and bystanders were collecting in groups.
“I think we just found Lara Sue Gilfry.”
“Really?” Alvarez studied the ice-encased woman. “Who would do this?”
“Don't know, but I'd think the case is ours, as the church is just outside the city limits.”
Lips tight, Alvarez stared at the weird sculpture and Pescoli filled her in on the details, how the preacher getting ready for his early-morning regimen had stumbled upon an anomaly in the crèche that he'd personally built and obviously took pride in setting up year after year. Neither he nor his wife, nor, they were certain, any of their children had heard the noise that had to have surrounded the placement of the ice sculpture.
“Looks like it was dragged here,” Pescoli said, showing the trough in the snow that wound from the church's lot to the front of the crèche. They were hoping for a footprint that would show the tread of a boot or shoe, or a tire track but so far hadn't found anything.
Alvarez shined her own flashlight over the single track that was covered in snow. Shaking her head, she said, “I don't get it.”
“Who does?”
“What does the preacher say?”
“ âHide that blasphemy! Get it out of here! It's a slap in the face of the church! The good citizens of Grizzly Falls don't need to see anything so vile! Not here in God's house!' Or something close.”
“Seems like you were quoting him.”
“Paraphrasing. But he's not happy.”
“Who would be?”
Pescoli glanced from the weird ice sculpture to Mullins's worried face and said more calmly, “Yeah, I know, but I think there's more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
“Don't know. Yet.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “But I intend to find out.”
Together they interviewed Mullins. He was angry, ranting and railing about the audacity of the act, while his wife, Lorraine, appeared shell-shocked as they sat on benches in the vestibule of the church. Though warmer than outside, the foyer of the old church was still chilly. Mullins, calming slightly, said that he'd had trouble sleeping, had decided to work out and tweak his sermon. On the way to his office he'd discovered the body. He'd been pretty clear on the time, four in the morning, give or take a minute or two.
It was now after seven and, through a tracery window, Pescoli noticed that it was still dark as midnight.
Neither the preacher nor his wife knew of anyone who would do such a horrid thing; none of the parishioners were disgruntled, that they knew of, nor did the church have any enemies.
They seemed sincere, and yet, there was something about the way the wife kept her head lowered and had trouble meeting Pescoli's gaze. Could it be that the preacher beat his wife? Or was that just too obvious?
“You'll be taking that poor woman away soon,” Mullins said, and it sounded more like a demand than a request.
“As soon as we figure out how to do it.” They wanted to move the ice intact so as not to lose any bit of evidence that might have been trapped in the frozen water. Melting was an issue.
“It's grotesque,” Lorraine finally said. Seated next to her husband, bundled in jacket, gloves, ski pants and boots, she shuddered. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”
“That's what we're trying to find out. What can you tell us?” Alvarez asked.
“I heard nothing. I was in bed all night, and I looked out our bedroom window a little after ten, I think.” She glanced at her husband for confirmation. “Just after we prayed together.”
“Ten fifteen, maybe ten thirty. I remember turning out the light after reading and seeing the clock at ten fifty.”
“Okay,” Lorraine agreed. “And I remember looking at the crèche. It's something we take pride in. Calvin did most of the construction himself. I don't recall seeing anything out of the ordinary, no extra figure. It was snowing, of course, but the lights were focused on the scene and it was as it should be. Calming. Serene. Something I love.” Her throat caught.
“And you fell asleep right after you looked out the window?”
“I have three daughters,” Lorraine said, as if that explained it.
“And she's expecting,” her husband chimed in proudly.
Maybe that explained the dark circles under Lorraine's eyes, but Pescoli wasn't completely convinced. Something was off here in this cold church foyer with its dimmed lights and feeling of hidden secrets.
The preacher offered, “I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.”
They reaffirmed that they'd heard nothing all night long. “I even, uh, went to the bathroom,” Lorraine admitted. “I don't know what time it was, but I didn't hear anything or look out the window. I, um, I kind of don't even really wake up.” Lines creased her smooth forehead. “Who is the womanâthe victim?”
“No positive ID yet,” Pescoli said. “But we think she may have been one of three women who've disappeared lately. Possibly a woman named Lara Sue Gilfry. Did you know her?”
“Gilfry? No.” Lorraine was shaking her head slowly, as was her husband.
“No,” he said certainly as he grabbed his wife's gloved hand and laced his fingers through hers. “Never.”
“She worked over at the Bull and Bear. It's a bed-and-breakfast in town.”
“Never heard of it,” Lorraine said as she stared at the floor, watching a spider as it scurried quickly beneath the bench.
“No. I'm ... I'm sure I never met her.” The preacher removed his stocking cap with his free hand, his dishwater blond hair spiking up. Without thinking, almost frantically, he smoothed it.
“So she wasn't a member of your church?” Alvarez asked.
Mullins and his wife shook their heads. “No.”
“We haven't informed Gilfry's next of kin yet, so this isn't for public knowledge,” Pescoli warned. “We're just looking for information.”
“Okay ...” Lorraine said, then, “You know ... Brenda Sutherland, she's a member.” Lorraine blinked hard as she lifted her head. Her lips folded in on themselves, and the cords of her neck were visible, as if she was straining hard not to break down completely. “Could this ...” Waggling a hand to indicate everything happening, she cleared her throat. “Could this have happened to her?”
“Oh, honey, that's really getting the cart before the horse,” her husband cut in, his grip on her hand visibly tightening. “We don't know what happened to Brenda. She may be fine.”
“No ... no, she's not!” Lorraine was blinking hard, her neck arching as she lifted her head defiantly. “She would never have left her boys willingly.” Turning her head, she faced her husband. “You know it. I know it.”
The preacher nodded slightly. The hand holding his wife's relaxed. “That's true,” he admitted. “Brenda Sutherland is a devoted mother.”
“Very devoted.” Lorraine, pale as a ghost, met Pescoli's gaze with her own. “You have to find her. You have to!”
“And the madman who did this,” Mullins asserted. “I'm telling you, this is Satan's doing. Whoever froze that woman and carved the ice around her is working for Lucifer himself!”
Â
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It was a good morning.
The sun was up, sparkling on the new-fallen snow, and a bit of a breeze was kicking up the freshly fallen powder. He trudged to the box to retrieve the paper and, walking back to the house, opened up the thin pages. There was nothing about his art inside, of course. The paper would have been to press far before his sculpture was discovered. And he'd been there, too. In the crowd held back by police wire. So he knew his picture had probably been taken by the police and there was a chance he would show up on a news camera's footage, though he doubted it. But no one would question his reasons for being in the neighborhood if he were to be asked.
He'd avoided any contact with the police as he'd stood in a group, staring at the crèche, where the police had tried to figure out a way to take out the perfect ice statue. He could have told them. A simple winch and a pickup or van, but, oh, how they'd fussed, uniformed officers, detectives, crime technicians ...
Idiots!
It had been wonderful watching them so befuddled. Now, as he had much earlier at the church, he hummed the refrain that ran through his head.
We three kings of Orient are ...
Christmas was definitely his favorite time of year, though it hadn't always been so. Some of the memories from Christmases past weren't kind ones and they had the tendency to spread through his brain like corrosive acid, eating away at the gray matter, reminding him that pain and pleasure were lovers, one was not as intense without the other. He'd watched the police from the shadows. They'd flailed and stewed, talking and frowning while the stupid preacher looked on and wrung his oh-so-pious hands. Fortunately, that holy moron had done his best to destroy the crime scene, hypocrite that he was. The uniforms, crime scene investigators and detectives had invaded the crèche. The disturbing thing was that he'd witnessed one of the detectives, the dark-haired one with the intense brown eyes, searching for him in the crowd, trying to identify him. Seriously, she'd eyed the bystanders, hoping that she would catch him.
Bearing gifts, we traverse afar ...
Catch him? She didn't have a prayer. Of course he would come out the victor in this game. She just didn't know it yet. But she would. And soon.
He felt a niggle of anticipation at that, a drip of adrenaline at the thought, and he reached into his pocket and played with his hidden treasure. Oh, she'd know all right. This was about to get personal for Detective Selena Alvarez. . .
Of course, not to throw suspicion on himself, he'd left the church early while more curious neighbors and drivers stopped and stared. He'd returned home, though he'd longed to stay and witness the cops' frustration, the preacher's distress.
Later, he reminded himself now as he walked around to the back of his house, stepping carefully in the tracks he'd already made through the pristine snow, and on the back porch, he slowly removed his boots, then walked into the mudroom of the old farmhouse in his stocking feet. Through the cold kitchen, past the woodstove, where his great grandmother had made her incredible biscuits, to the front of the house and the den he'd created from the old parlor.
He was certain that the “big” news story in Grizzly Falls was generating interest all over this part of the country, possibly beyond. Fortunately, he'd had the wherewithal to record every local station because he knew he would want to play the recordings over and over again. Then there was his computer; he was already reading the first bits of news as they'd started streaming on the Web. Too wired to sleep, he intended to keep watching the reports as they rolled in.
There was a thud overhead as his wife's feet hit the floor as she climbed out of bed. Mentally, he counted her footsteps, just six. Always just six. Less than a minute later the toilet flushed. Three footsteps and the plumbing creaked again as she turned on the water over the bathroom basin. Then, within three minutes of waking, she was on the stairs, her slippers quietly gliding on the old wooden steps. He waited, already irritated, 'til she poked her head into his office. “Busy?”
As if there were any question.
“Hmm.” He barely looked up. God, she was beginning to get under his skin. He thought of what he would do to her ... when the time was right. For her, there would be blood. Like the first one.