Pretty Girls Dancing(63)
“Do you recall when you heard of Whitney’s disappearance?”
“Oh, I’m sure Laura would have told me. She has her finger on the pulse of everything that happens in the area.”
An interesting choice of words for what some might describe as a gossip. Mark decided to level the same question at the man’s wife. “Do you also have lists of other people who might not have been directly affiliated with running the church camps? Repairmen. Groundskeepers. The people who clean the church.”
“We work with volunteers as much as possible to keep costs down. But several churches in the area employ the same janitor.” He set the cookie on his plate and pulled open his center desk drawer, withdrawing a notepad and pen. “We still hire someone to push snow, but we no longer pay for lawn care.” He began to scribble down some names. “Years ago, we employed Whitney’s father to take care of it for a summer, though I tend to think his mother might have pressured him into agreeing to do it.”
Everything inside Mark stilled. “Brian DeVries worked for you? Or all the area churches?”
“All of them.” He smiled. “It was a big job for one person. Now we have volunteers share the duty.”
“What year was that?” It had been seven years ago in September that Kelsey had been snatched.
The reverend looked confused. “I really couldn’t say. He’d probably recall it better than me.”
Mark’s smile was grim. “I’ll be sure and ask him.” Because that was yet another thing DeVries hadn’t bothered to share. “If you recall any other volunteers that might have been helping on a regular basis, I’d appreciate their names, as well.”
The pastor looked pained but dutifully began writing again.
Laura Mikkelsen returned with the lists she’d promised, and after taking them, Mark asked her several of the same questions he had of her husband. She’d learned of Whitney’s disappearance from the girl’s grandmother, the woman asserted. She verified her husband’s account of their whereabouts on the night the girl disappeared, as well as the timeline. And her memory appeared much more accurate than her husband’s when it came to volunteers—including DeVries—as she added several names of people who worked in the kitchen and on various fund-raisers. Collecting the papers from her and her husband, Mark rose after jotting a note to check with the Saxon Falls Police Department to corroborate their account of the domestic dispute the Mikkelsens claimed to have been called to.
An undisguised expression of relief on his lean face, the pastor walked him to the door. “I hope we’ve been of some help.”
“I appreciate your assistance.” Mark turned slightly to include Laura, who was following closely behind him.
She nodded serenely. “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.”
Mark couldn’t rely on any personal knowledge, but given her pious tone, he assumed she was once again quoting the Bible. When Reverend Mikkelsen pulled open the door, Mark stopped. Stared. Pinpoints of light punctuated the darkness in a semicircle in front of the structure. A murmur of voices could be heard chanting, but the words were indistinct.
“What’s this?”
“Some of our members have joined together in the evenings to pray about the evil that has touched our church twice now in the last few years. Two young girls have been sacrificed so far because of the growth of feminism in our country. We pray to God for his forgiveness, and to show us a way to promote the proper role for men and women in our society.”
Mark stared hard at the man. “The only one responsible for the evil visited on those two girls is the offender. He alone is responsible for the crime, and we don’t know his motivation.” If they did, they’d be a lot closer to catching the man.
“God has shown us his motivation.” The dim lighting gave Mikkelsen’s face an unearthly glow. “It’s our responsibility to right the societal wrongs that led to these crimes.”
Mark paused in the doorway of the hotel. Sloane Medford was bent over her laptop, which was placed in the center of one of the folding tables in the room that Ben Craw had last occupied.
“I got subs. Yours is in the bag.” Sloane didn’t look up as she uttered the words.
Mark had added a table since Craw had left, as the files and reports had slowly grown. With the other man in it, the room had always seemed more work space than personal. Sloane’s occupancy had changed all that.
Her boots were sitting just inside the door. Functional snow boots, but tall and fur-trimmed; decidedly feminine. Her red, fitted wool coat hung over the back of one of the desk chairs. She’d discarded her suit jacket on the bed, revealing a silky white blouse.
“In or out, Foster.” She didn’t look his way. “You’re letting the cold air in.”
Blowing out a breath, Mark stepped inside. Any trepidation he felt from working with her again seemed to be unreciprocated. She’d been nothing but businesslike since her arrival.
Locking the door behind him, he went to the fast-food bag and withdrew the remaining sandwich. Unwrapping it, he took a bite, then set down the files the Mikkelsens had given him and struggled out of his coat while he ate, talking in between bites. “What’d you learn from Dane Starkey’s family?” When they’d split up assignments that morning, she’d agreed to contact them.