No Sanctuary

“You think my release was a favor?” She dropped her hands to her sides, but her fingers curled into fists.

“Do you know your hero, Catfish Tarpley?”

“No, so you see he wasn’t out to help me, he was resolving another murder in order to help himself. What validated his testimony was that it was confirmed by one of your own. Someone in Vice.” Seeing a look of distaste flash across his weary features, she drove her own verbal knife deeper adding, “Do you know him?”

“I know of him. Generally, I stay away from those guys and they choose their own friends, too.”

“Sounds like a chicken way of saying you don’t think much of Detective Martel.”

“It’s the diplomatic way of not drawing conclusions before I have all of the facts. Who came to the prison to give you your good news?”

“My…an attorney hired by a friend.”

“Madeleine Ridgeway. She has been quite the friend to you,” he added surveying the property.

Bay pointed her keys at him. “Don’t. Don’t you dare condescend to me again. You and your facts. You never took the time to learn them before, why should I believe anything’s changed?”

“Have you forgotten I challenged the DA’s line of questioning during your trial? You don’t remember how I said something didn’t feel right about your case?”

“I remember he made chopped meat out of you,” she sneered.

Jack Burke dropped his chin to his chest. “I didn’t have the experience to help you. And just prior to that they’d dumped a helluva caseload on me to where—” he swore under his breath “—excuses. Christ, listen to me.” He met her gaze, his own full of misery. “All I can say is that I’m sorry.”

Bay drew herself to her full five foot four. “Feel better now? Good. Now get lost.”

His left hand moved in an almost unconscious gesture of supplication. “I’m serious about what I said. What I’d like—”

“What I’d like is to move on to the rest of my life.”

“Doing what? Driving the streets Glenn English drove, reliving over and over the first instant you saw he’d been turned into a human shish kebab?”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Someone has to snap you out of this daydream where you’ve turned into Cinderella and all’s well with the world.”

“If you believe that’s what I’m doing, I’d be surprised to hear you’ve resolved any cases in your career, Detective.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “If what you’re suggesting is true, all the more reason for us to talk. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Bay. You’re not up to it. You’re a ghost of your old self and that wasn’t much to begin with. Hell, they put teens in the hospital for weighing what you do.”

“You’re one to criticize.”

“Damned straight I look like crap. Know why? Because I’ve been living with what happened to you and my part in it 24/7.”

Bay stared. She didn’t want to believe him, but his voice almost shook when he spoke.

Nodding, Jack began heading back toward his truck. “I’ll give you some space. Think about what I said.”

“You think about this—I’ll never accept your apology. Never!”

He paused and said over his shoulder, “That I can live with. You ending up like your friend is a different story.”

6

Sunday, June 2, 2001

If it hadn’t been for her lingering indignation over Jack Burke’s visit and subsequent allegations, Bay might have wimped out of meeting the Ridgeways for church services. But she awakened on time that morning and despite feeling as substantial as an under-cooked soufflé, made herself shower and slip into the clothes Madeleine had purchased for her. Then with only a hefty dose of caffeine to bolster her, she headed toward the southernmost city limits of Tyler.

While summer remained weeks away, heat had established itself in the piney woods. Bay saw it compounding the waves rising from the traffic creating a blinding glare that had her wishing again for sunglasses despite the early hour. So much traffic, she thought with disbelief. The steady stream surpassed anything she’d noticed so far around the airport, almost matching rush hour on the Loop, and many of the vehicles were pulling into the turning lane where she needed to go. Of course, she already knew the church was large, but seeing it for the first time left her openmouthed.

Mission of Mercy rose above the dogwood and pines, an unbelievable mix of the gardens of Babylon and Hollywood’s rendition of Camelot. The snow-white mountain of granite glistened brighter with tall, lead windows and taller belfries interspersed with balconies adorned with planters full of red and white geraniums and assorted lush flowers. Bay estimated the whole structure took up a full city block and stood a good eight stories at its highest point.

Torn between awe and dismay, she waited for her turn to pull into the multiacre grounds, and unlike most of the traffic, chose a parking space as far away from the front doors as possible and nearest to the first street exit. “Mercy,” she said, peering through the tinted windshield for a better look at what she’d only glimpsed on TV. “No need to fly out to Disney World when it’s in your own backyard.” No one would convince her that God listened better in something like this; however, the playoff game-size crowd streaming toward the building obviously thought otherwise. Forget worrying about sitting with the Ridge-ways, she would be lucky to find them in that swarm.

Wondering about how many people the building could hold, she joined the parade; that’s when she spotted the less gaudy two-story complex behind and to the left of the church. Satellite dishes and microwave towers identified its purpose as the nerve center or communication studios from which KWRD transmitted their message for Mission of Mercy. Bay had done a little homework over the last few days watching TV so as not to disappoint or embarrass Madeleine in front of others, and had gotten an earful about services as well the church’s ministry. KWRD transmitted to much of the South and Southwest, also Mexico, several Central American countries and Colombia. Services or alternative spiritual programming were available virtually around the clock. Aside from live services, there was a talk show where Pastor Davis was joined by either his wife, the perpetually smiling Odessa, or Madeleine herself. Then there was home-shopping programming where a “faith representative” reviewed audio tapes, books, musical cassettes and CDs available for purchase. Years ago, Bay would flip by those channels thinking, “You see one of those, you’ve seen them all.” But she’d felt a strange mix of emotions as she’d watched this time because she’d met Martin Davis and knew Madeleine, who was such an important member of the church. Bitten by the celebrity bug, she thought with a cynical twist of her lips.

Her conflicted emotions blossomed into outright panic as Bay entered the sprawling vestibule and remembered from commercials how the congregation was often shown during the taped services. Bay hadn’t seen Madeleine or her son in them and hoped they sat out of camera range. The idea of finding herself in front of cameras again had her clenching her fingers tight to keep from scratching at the sudden itching along her neck.

“Praise God and welcome, sister. Do you need the assistance of a senior?”

Bay paused before the beaming man clutching a Bible. The glorious sunshine streaming in through the huge glass panes of the vestibule intensified his flushed, shining face and made it impossible to miss that his gray eyes were feverish with anticipation. “Senior what?” she asked.

“That’s our term for deacon or elder.”

A hand, as warm as the voice near her ear, cupped her elbow. Startled, Bay glanced around and experienced the double impact of Duncan Ridgeway’s dimples and amused blue eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him. He was the darling of East Texas media and she’d glimpsed numerous photos of him at the Ridgeway estate. But one-dimensional images didn’t do justice to the face best suited for color and animation, a leonine mane attractive from any angle, and intimate eyes that sparkled like a Caribbean sea as they observed the world with untiring focus. His was a face every fund-raiser yearned for, the kind of face that women would describe as romantic and men would see as competition but too friendly to resent. No wonder the ministry was doing so well, she thought with a mixture of artistic respect and cynical amusement.

“This is Mother’s very special guest, Ed,” Duncan Ridgeway said to the other man. “Thank you for looking out for her.” To Bay he said, “I’m—”

“Duncan. I recognize you from your photos.”

Even grimacing he charmed. “Of course, you’ve been to her office. She’s worse than a small-town talent agent who’s only success has been one client with a walk-on part in Cats.”

“Oh, I think she has more reason than that to be proud of you. You favor your father, though.”

Duncan touched his ringless left hand against the tie matching his pearl-gray suit. “That does my heart good. He was a lovely soul…but had just enough wickedness to make him the life of any party. I’ll tell you a few of my favorite stories sometime. Right now we’d better get inside. Mother was about to dispatch Elvin to your house.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was late.”

“You’re not. She’s chronically networking-orientated and thinks everyone else should arrive for services thirty minutes early.”

Duncan moved his hand to the small of her back as he directed her through the doorway and into the nave or what she’d heard referred to on TV as the Grand Hall. “She has her work cut out to convince me.”

Duncan chuckled as he acknowledged the wave of someone in an aisle seat. “So I heard. Don’t let her change you. Your strength is part of what she admires most.”

“She’ll probably end up labeling me stubborn.”

“Challenge keeps her young. To know Mother is to understand her middle name is Strategy.”

Bay was as conscious of Duncan’s touch as she was of the stares aimed their way. She wanted to believe that it had little to do with her, that like his mother Duncan Ridgeway possessed a charisma that drew the eye, as did their stature in the church. But there was no missing the whispering, and when her gaze locked with Holly Kirkland’s dark stare, her step faltered.