Capturing Angels (21 page)

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“We don’t know how she’s been brainwashed, Mrs. Clark. You know about Stockholm syndrome, the most famous case I can recall being Patty Hearst.”

“Something about liking your captors?” John said.

“Exactly.”

“Hostages feel adulation, have positive feelings toward the captors. It’s irrational,” John explained, taking over in his usual manner, right now a manner I really appreciated. “I read where the statistic is as high as twenty-seven percent of victims show some evidence of Stockholm syndrome.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Clark. It could really be a factor for someone as young as Mary, especially since she’s been brought up with strong church influence, and this is all about religion. Also, look who delivered her to this situation, someone she had trusted and probably even loved. My guess is that some of those phone calls Margaret Sullivan made might have been to speak with her, comfort her, assure her that you and your husband were fine with the idea of her being with someone as holy as Sister Alice Francis. Who knows, right?”

I put my hands over my eyes to block out the thoughts he was putting in my head.

“That’s why I am reluctant to see you confront her too soon. She probably has to go into some psychological counseling, even someone as young as she is.”

“Her mental age is way above her chronological age,” John said. “Mary won’t have the usual reactions,” he added confidently.

“Which might be all the worse, Mr. Clark. These aren’t stupid people. People confuse fanatics with stupidity, but some of the smartest propaganda was created by Nazis. They’ll use logic and reason, as well as faith, on her once they see how smart she is. Your daughter might seem like a stranger to you for a while. It will take time.”

“We’re quite aware of all that,” John said. He held my hand to reassure me. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time? I’ve been reading up and studying and talking to people who are experts about this sort of situation. We’ll be fine, Agent Joseph. Don’t worry about us.”

“Well, I worry about the child, too,” David Joseph said.

“That’s exactly why we insisted we go along,” John countered.

It felt so good to have him at my side, my defender, our defender. I used to believe there was no problem, no difficulty, that John couldn’t solve and overcome. I had lost that faith for a while, but it was coming back in spades.

“Okay, okay,” David Joseph said, accelerating.

“If she is indeed there, Agent Joseph, do we have any idea how long she’s been in this location?”

“No.”

I looked ahead at the taillights of cars and the headlights of others. The darkness seemed to be unfolding as if God Himself was peeling it back for us.

“She was so close, really,” I muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“People, children, have been kidnapped and kept literally next door,” Tracey Dickinson said. “Seriously. We had a case like that only two months ago.”

“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you people for getting Margaret’s phone records and sifting through them so quickly,” John said.

“This case has never been relegated to some back burner, Mr. Clark.”

“I can’t say I was equally impressed with that L.A. detective you had alongside you in the house.”

David Joseph laughed. “Sticky Bogner. I know him well. He got the nickname from the way he attaches himself to anyone else’s investigation and somehow winds up with some credit, if not all of it. He’s relentless, so if you need to solve something, he’s good to have on the case.”

“Someone must have told him he wasn’t good enough to be a criminal investigator or something when he was a kid,” Tracey added.

If I could have laughed, I would have, but every part of me was twisted tight in anticipation. Even my lungs hurt.

We drove on, speeding through the night like some missile homing in on its target. David Joseph used his GPS when we arrived in San Bernardino. Before he made another turn, he tried calling ahead.

“Anything?” he asked. He listened and then flipped the phone closed.

“They’re just approaching the house,” he said.

The turns he took following the GPS instructions eventually brought us to a side road that had no street lights. Looking ahead, we could see a half-dozen vehicles, two local San Bernardino police, and one ambulance.

“That’s just a precaution,” Tracey said quickly. We pulled behind the last vehicle.

The house itself was well off the road and built at the crest of a small rise. It looked like a very large Queen Anne, with spindle porch posts. It appeared to have three floors, the top floor perhaps a loft or an attic. There were lights on in practically every window. A half-dozen police officers and another half-dozen FBI agents from the San Bernardino area were in front and on the long porch.

We stopped and got out of the car.

“All right. You’ve got to stay back for now, Mr. and Mrs. Clark. I’ll let you know as soon as I can. I promise,” he said.

John and I got out of the car and watched them walk up the drive. What struck me and frightened me was the silence. Suddenly, we heard an engine start behind us and saw the ambulance move toward the driveway.

“Oh, my God,” I said.

“Easy,” John said. “We don’t know if anyone was really hurt and, if anyone was, whether it was the people keeping the children or one of the children.”

The paramedics got out of the ambulance and moved quickly into the house with a stretcher.

“I’m not waiting way out here, John,” I said, and started up the driveway. John followed on my heels.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. It took me a moment to recognize and remember Special Agent Frommer, one of those who had been the first at our home after Mary’s disappearance.

“Hold on, please,” he said, putting up his hands.

“What’s going on?” John demanded.

We all turned as the paramedics carried out a bald, stout man who seemed to be was dressed in a monk’s robe. They brought him to the rear of the ambulance.

“Took four of our guys to bring that bastard down. Someone apparently broke his arm in the process. He was sort of the security.”

“What about the children?” John asked.

“They’re all inside. David’s trying to make sense of it.”

“We’re going in,” I said.

We continued toward the house.

“Whoa, horse,” Frommer said, running ahead of us. “You can’t go in there yet. It’s not all clear.”

John stepped up to him.

“It’ll take more than all you have here to stop us,” he said. He reached for my arm and continued walking toward the porch steps.

Every officer and agent turned as we started up. Tracey Dickinson stepped out.

“Our daughter,” I said, moving forward. “Is our daughter one of the children in there?”

She took one look at me and stepped to the side without speaking. John followed me into the house. My heart wasn’t just pounding. It was as if I had a closed fist under my breast trying to break out of my chest.

David Joseph was standing in the doorway of what looked like a small chapel. He turned when someone indicated that we were there and then came over quickly.

“Mary?” John asked.

“She’s here; she’s safe,” he said. “There are four others. I’ve called social services and therapists.”

“There is no therapist more important for my daughter than I am,” I said.

“It’s been a long time, Mrs. Clark.”

“I don’t need you to remind me,” I said. I could feel John’s body pressed against mine. We were like conjoined twins now, moving forward together, both of one heart, one determined purpose.

David Joseph looked at us as if he knew something we didn’t and then took my hand. I glanced at John, who nodded toward the chapel doorway, and then we walked with David Joseph and entered.

There were two rows of five wooden folding chairs facing a large framed print of Christ on the cross. Just to the right of that was a lectern and what looked like a large Bible. The front of the lectern was draped in red velvet.

All five children sitting in the first row before the altar turned when we entered. For a moment, I didn’t recognize Mary. Her hair was cut very short. She wore what looked like a cassock, as did all of the children. All of them had short hair. She rose slowly, but she didn’t cry out for either of us, nor did she smile with any sign of relief. I held my breath. Were the warnings David Joseph had given us about to show their ugly faces? Would Mary resent that we had come?

“Mary!” I cried. I held out my open arms. I looked at John. He smiled.

“Mary!” he cried.

She stepped into the aisle and smiled as if she had finally recognized us. “Hello,” she said. “We pray for people to visit us, people who need us.”

People? Visit?

I couldn’t speak. I just rushed forward and embraced her, covering her hair, her face, with kisses. When I paused, I looked over her shoulder and saw the four other children, three girls and a boy, staring at me. They looked desperate for a mother’s kisses, the memory of something they had nearly lost. Without anyone telling them to do so, they approached and gathered around us. I had the urge to embrace them all, but suddenly, they began to recite what I knew to be the Miracle Prayer.

“Lord Jesus, I come before you just as I am. I am sorry for all my sins. I repent of my sins. Please forgive me. In your name, I forgive all others for what they have done against me. I renounce Satan, the evil spirits, and all their works . . .”

Mary began to recite it, too.

“I give you my entire self, Lord Jesus, now and forever. I invite you into my life, Jesus. I accept you as my Lord, God, and Savior. Heal me, change me, strengthen me in body, soul, and spirit. Come . . .”

None of the police or agents near us said a word or tried to stop them. I held on to Mary and looked up at John. He saw the worry and desperation on my face. It was as if I thought these children could pull her away from me through their devotion.

He knelt down beside me and reached for Mary. Then he lifted her into his arms and stood. He nodded at me. We weren’t going to wait for them to finish. They all sounded as if they were under hypnosis. In any other place, in any church, at any other time, people listening would smile and commend them, but to me and, I was sure now, to John, they all, including my Mary, sounded like a Greek chorus reciting over the dead.

When he turned her away from them, she continued to recite the prayer, even as he carried her out of the chapel. I was right behind them. We seemed to be fleeing with her in John’s arms. Once we were out of the room, he lowered her to her feet and knelt to brush her short hair and touch her face. She didn’t look at all frightened, and that frightened me.

“Do something!” I told him, cried to him.

“Mary, don’t you know who we are? We’ve come to take you home. Do you understand? You should never have been brought here. Margaret did a very bad thing.”

She looked as if she was sorry for us. I looked at John and then at David Joseph.

“You’ve really got to let us take her to be checked out physically first, Mrs. Clark, and give some time for her to visit with a therapist. Remember how long she’s been in that woman’s control.”

“John!”

“He’s right, Grace,” John said.

Suddenly, as if she finally really realized who was holding her and who was with her, Mary screamed, “Daddy!”

John nodded. “Yes, honey. Yes. It’s Mommy and Daddy. We’re here now. You’re safe again.” He brushed her hair. The tears were streaming down his cheeks, cheeks that I once thought couldn’t stand the touch of tears and would evaporate them on the spot.

I knelt beside them, and we huddled, both of us surrounding Mary with our arms and our very souls. It seemed we would never let go, but I turned when I heard other people hurrying up the front steps and into the house. David Joseph began directing them into the chapel. An African-American woman who looked to be in her late thirties stopped next to us.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Clark, one set of parents,” David Joseph told her. “And their daughter, Mary.”

John and I stood, each of us holding one of Mary’s hands.

“Hi. I’m Lois Western from Child Protection,” she told us, and looked at Mary. “Hello, Mary.”

“Hello,” Mary said.

“I’m here to help you and the other children.”

“No,” Mary said without any tone of resistance. “We’re here to help you.”

I brought my closed fist to my mouth.

John reached for me. “It’s all right,” he said. “It will be all right. She just needs time to adjust.”

There was that strength again, that wonderful damn self-confidence and self-assurance. I wanted to drown in it.

I looked at Mary, who was still holding my left hand. She smiled up at me.

“You’ll have to go with this nice lady first, Mary, but we’ll be right with you.”

“It’s all right, Mommy. I don’t mind.” She looked toward the doorway and then at John, as if she knew far more than anyone, especially us, anticipated. “Will you and Daddy be coming along?”

“Yes,” I said. “We’ll be coming along.”

The other children began coming out of the chapel, escorted by other people from Child Protection.

“We have a vehicle right outside,” Lois Western said.

I turned when I heard more activity in the direction of the stairway. Two police officers were bringing Sister Alice Francis down. She was dressed in a nun’s frock, but she was in handcuffs. I felt like lunging at her and ripping out her throat to wipe away that damn arrogant smile she tossed at everyone as she descended. John sensed it and gripped my forearm a little tighter.

“Relax, Grace. She won’t get off, no matter how good the lawyer,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“Yes, but wherever she’s put, she’ll see it as just another chapel. You can’t punish someone like that.”

“Then leave it to God,” he said. He smiled. “I remember some other things from the Bible and recall something about Him not being happy about impersonators.”

I nodded and thought,
Yes, yes
. John’s eyes were opened wider, too.

Then I let go of Mary’s hand so Lois Western could take her out of the house.