Redemption (19 page)

Ingrid quietly padded into the room, carrying a handful of newsletters. “I don’t want to interrupt you two,” she said, gently crossing to Jane and handing her the reading material. “I’ve included issues of timely importance from the most recent to when we first started our newsletter almost sixteen years ago in California.”

Jane glanced at the newsletter’s bold name:
THE CONGREGATION CHRONICLE
. Underneath, the subtitle read, WE ARE WARRIORS FOR JESUS!

“I’m still learning my way around the Forum,” Bartosh interjected. “That’s why I put Ingrid in charge of monitoring the daily traffic. We call her the ‘Matron of the Forum.’”

“Monitoring?” Jane speculated that the Ministry Forum was about as exciting as dry toast. Still, she maintained her plastic smile of appreciation. “Sounds wonderful.”

“It’s another way The Lamb of God can spread The Word,” Bartosh said in a self-satisfied tone. “Often, we see members who print on the Forum—”

“You mean
post
, dear,” Ingrid tenderly corrected her husband.

“Right,
post
on the Forum. I often see names of those who have moved away, are in hospice, and so forth, and am more than happy to respond to their questions and faith-related concerns. We
have a Congregation brother in Chicago named Thomas, another brother, Matthew, in South Dakota, I believe. Ah, Manuel, Simon, Phillip....”

Jane noticed that, aside from Manuel, all the names belonged to the Disciples. She wanted to ask if Judas was on the Forum, but decided against it. “How ironic,” she said instead, “most share their names with the Apostles.”

“No irony. As I said earlier, when one is reborn into the true faith of God, you cast off the old world. For some, that means changing their names to align with the heartbeat of true Christianity.”

“Who chooses the name?” Jane asked.

“They do, of course. They choose a Biblical surname that resonates with their new identity.”

“Did you change
your
name?”

“No. I was blessed with the name John. Of all the names, it’s the one I would happily choose. I have always had an affinity for John the Baptist.”

“Why is that?”

“His faith was as strong as mine. He was willing to sacrifice it all—his body...his life...to serve Jesus.” Bartosh soulfully spoke from the depths of his heart. “I resonate with his unyielding conviction. My devotion to Jesus, Mrs. Lightjoy, is unwavering. One is only as strong as his faith. It defines you. It motivates you. It narrows your perception to what is ultimately required for your own salvation. Some might say I have tunnel vision when it comes to my beliefs. I say, so be it when our Lord Jesus is standing at the end of that tunnel.”

There were a few thoughtful moments of silence before Ingrid’s soft voice broke the solemnity. “It looks like you need a refill on your coffee, Jackie.”

Ingrid reached for the cup just as Jane put her hand on the saucer. The joint encounter forced the remaining coffee to spill over Jane’s skirt. Jane quickly stifled a crude exclamation as she recovered the cup.

“Oh, my goodness, Jackie!” Ingrid said with genuine concern. “I’m so sorry! It’s my fault! Let me help you!”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” Jane said, more interested in continuing the interview.

“Perhaps Mrs. Lightjoy can attend to the spill in our lavatory,” Bartosh advised.

“Really, it’s not a problem,” Jane assured them. “We have so much more—”

“We can’t have you walking around with a nasty stain on your skirt!” Ingrid said. “The bathroom’s just down the hall.”

Jane realized these people weren’t used to hearing the word “No.” With reluctance, she followed Ingrid across the family room and down a narrow, dark hallway lined with more portraits of Jesus and a dense grouping of photos. The bathroom was equally suffocating. With only one small window over the bathtub, the room felt like a tomb—a musty, pink-walled, Christian-themed catacomb with plaques of Biblical verses and guest towels embroidered with blue crosses and the words JESUS SAVES. Jane tried to imagine what it was like to live in this house. She’d been there for less than forty-five minutes and she could feel the stranglehold of religious judgment cutting off her natural spontaneity. To grow up in such an environment would be akin to a slow, deliberate ache administered directly to one’s heart. As the thought crossed her mind, Jane recalled Bartosh’s comment of his daughter, a girl “no longer with us” and “in Lucifer’s hands.” There was something unsettling about the way he talked about his nameless child and the distant look that came over him and then angrily vanished.

Jane heard the muffled ring of a telephone and felt an urgent need to get back to continue the interview. She quickly tossed tap water on her skirt to dilute the coffee stain, sopped up the moisture with one of the “Jesus Saves” guest towels, and returned to the darkened hallway.

Midway down the hall on the left wall, Jane noted a three-foot square collage of photos attached with plastic pins to a large corkboard. She moved closer to the photos, straining to make out the
faces in the faded light. Many of the photos were taken in Big Sur, California, and the roaring surf could be seen in the background. There were numerous five-by-seven photos, formal group shots of Congregation members with dates below each photograph. Jane stole a quick look down the hallway. She could hear Bartosh talking to someone on the telephone. His tone suggested that he was counseling the individual. Turning her attention back to the photos, she searched the crush of smiling faces and landed on the one face she was most interested in: Lou Peters.

There was Lou standing with a group of twenty girls and a few boys in front of an old cabin. The bottom of the photo read LAMB OF GOD YOUTH GROUP—PICO BLANCO, EASTER HOLIDAY, 1990. This was the youth group Charles Sawyer mentioned and the cabin was most likely the same cabin where Ashlee was murdered only a few months after this photo was taken. Jane moved closer, getting a better look at Lou. He wore a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. His tanned, muscular arms wrapped covetously around two smiling, young teenage girls who stood on either side of him. Lou did indeed remind Jane of a model with his engaging grin and penetrating blue eyes. As an avid student of body language, Jane couldn’t help but analyze the photo for anything unusual. Lou’s posture was confident, with the enticing tilt of his body toward the camera. The girls on either side of him looked about thirteen years old and the epitome of virginal innocence. Jane snuck another look down the hallway to make sure she was still alone. She could still hear Bartosh’s muted voice on the telephone. Looking back at the photo, Jane noticed that everyone looked genuinely happy except for two girls standing in the front row. They were around thirteen or fourteen years old. Both had brown hair and were neatly dressed in jeans and long-sleeved shirts. But in Jane’s eyes, their posture gave them away. Jane read it as reticence textured with anger. Or was it fear? Whatever it was, their body language clearly demonstrated that they didn’t feel comfortable.

Jane detected that one side of the photo showed a skirting image of a girl’s left arm. Running her fingers along the edge of the photo, she could see that part of the photo had been purposely tucked underneath an adjoining photo on the corkboard. A quick overview of the other photos showed that none of them overlapped. Jane pulled the pins from the photo and held it under the best light available. Jane was instantly drawn to the girl. She was seventeen or eighteen, by Jane’s guess, with a slim build and penetrating eyes. Her long brown hair fell past her shoulders, framing a narrow face that seemed both tired and agitated. Whoever she was, she did not look like she belonged in the photo. She had a cocksure stance that, coupled with that enigmatic stare, made her a force to be reckoned with. It was as if she was imparting a secret message with her steely glare. She reminded Jane of herself at that age—chock-full of attitude and brimming with rage. Jane instantly felt that familiar tightening in her belly that signaled a significant moment. It was the same feeling Charles Sawyer talked about when he noted the shiny, green, micalike particle inside the condom.

Jane weighed the consequences of her next action. The hallway was dimly lit. The question of how detailed-oriented the Bartoshs were came into play. Jane made the split-second decision and quickly rearranged the photos to fill in the missing gap. Just as she was pushing the last pin into the final photo, she heard footsteps padding toward the hallway. Jane turned and stealthily slid the stolen photograph down her shirt.

“Is everything all right?”

Jane turned around to find Ingrid staring back at her with a questioning look. “I think I got most of the stain out,” Jane said. Ingrid was silent as she regarded Jane with an uneasy look. Jane’s heart began to pound. “We should probably wrap up the interview so you two can get back to work,” Jane said, walking toward Ingrid with the plastic smile firmly pasted across her face.

“My husband is occupied with an important call. He told me to wish you the best with your article and he looks forward to reading it when it’s published.”

That was that. Jane realized she was being summarily dismissed. There was no point in arguing. Bartosh had spoken and his will would be obeyed.

Jane collected her notebook, Congregation newsletters, and tape recorder and headed for the front door. “Thank you again for arranging this interview.”

“It was my pleasure,” Ingrid said, grabbing a tan jacket and slipping it on. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

A moment of tension gripped Jane. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I always walk my guests to their car.” Ingrid crossed to the front door.

Jane followed, feeling a mix of anger and frustration building inside her. Ingrid may have come off as sweet and gentle, she may acquiesce to her husband’s wishes, but this was a woman who was also used to getting
her
way. What a formidable team the Bartoshs made, Jane thought. “I parked up the block more than halfway,” Jane offered.

“Exercise is good for the soul,” Ingrid piously replied as she started up the block.

They walked in silence. Jane peered into the distance toward her Mustang. She was fairly certain that Kit was still prone on the backseat. A million diversionary tactics swarmed in Jane’s head, most of which included chokeholds and takedowns. Sadly, those would not work in this situation.

Jane’s mind was still spinning when Ingrid spoke up. “May I ask you something?”

Jane’s gut seized up. “Yes, of course.”

“Did you notice a profound change in your niece’s personality?”

Jane felt a momentary release of tension. “I don’t know for sure. I only get to visit my sister once or twice a year, so—”

“People don’t go from good to bad overnight, Jackie” Ingrid interrupted, staring straight ahead. She appeared to be searching desperately for personal answers.

“Well, let’s see,” Jane said, using the opportunity to stop walking. “We visited with the family this past summer and...yes...yes, I did notice changes in Janie.”

“Was she more introverted? Did she stay in her room most of the time? Was she agitated at the slightest things?” Ingrid’s tenor was plaintive.

Jane looked at Ingrid and the pieces clicked. The reason Ingrid granted her the interview was because she felt she had found a kindred spirit in suffering. “Is that how your daughter acted before she died?” Ingrid’s eyes welled with tears as she sadly nodded. “She was seventeen?”

“Yes,” Ingrid whispered, the pain of that memory still raw. “Children are God’s greatest gift. He only honored us with one child and we did everything to raise her so she would know His love and follow The Way. But she was a defiant one from the moment she took her first breath. She questioned us
all the time
. As you can imagine, that didn’t go over well with my husband.” Jane vicariously liked this girl. “She had sort of calmed down and we thought she was on a better road, and then she became a teenager and everything fell apart. By the time she turned fourteen, it was all we could do to deal with her willfulness. We prayed, but she just got angrier and more out of control. I kept encouraging her to let God into her heart, but she’d have none of it.” Ingrid’s voice became agitated. “I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t let Him in! She was just too obstinate for her own good!” Ingrid’s mind drifted faraway.

“How did she die?” Jane carefully inquired. Ingrid remained in a daze. “Ingrid?”

Ingrid turned back to Jane with a foggy countenance. “She just left. One day she was here and then she wasn’t.”

For Jane, talking to Ingrid was like interrogating an uncooperative witness. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. She left?”

Ingrid looked off to the side, pulling up the memory. “She was gone less than a day when I emptied the trash basket in her bedroom. That’s when I found it. I didn’t know what it was. And I certainly never thought my seventeen-year-old daughter would!”

“What did you find?” Jane asked, more like herself than Jackie Lightjoy.

“A pregnancy test,” Ingrid stated, loathing each word. “And it was positive.”

Jane finally understood all the circumventing. The Bartoshs’ daughter was “dead” as in “dead to her faith.”

Ingrid stared into the distance. “She turned from God and chose to follow the path of sin. For my husband...for us...she was doomed. She had allowed herself to be taken in by the dark forces.”

Jane had heard a lot of appalling family sagas during her tenure as a detective. But getting pregnant out of wedlock at seventeen didn’t rank high on her “tragic” scale. However, for the Bartoshs, it was obvious that a pregnant daughter was a stab in the back and a slap in the face for all they stood for. To them, their daughter might as well have robbed a bank and killed a cop. “You haven’t talked to her since then?”

“No. The phone has rung a few times over the years and I’ve answered it to find air on the other end. One time, I said, ‘Mary? Is that you?’ But there was no response.”