I considered the timing. Sara could have left, but maybe she didn't die in May as her parents assumed. If she gave birth to Lawrence's child in the fall of '87, the mission trip was a cover to hide the pregnancy from her family. "Several months passed from the time she left until you knew she was... gone for good?"
"We kept hoping for a miracle throughout the year. Andrew wouldn't give up the search. He was a strong man back then, poured his heart and soul into his ministry—I think sometimes to avoid spending every minute thinking about Sara."
"Why did you finally have that memorial service at Christmastime?" I asked, remembering what Oscar Drummond had told me and the small newspaper article mentioning the celebration of Sara's life.
"How did you know? From the books?" She glanced over her shoulder at the shelves.
"I located someone from the youth group. Oscar Drummond told me."
"Ah, Oscar. Nice young man. Anyway, I convinced Andrew we had to let go of Sara. In the years that followed, I thought I'd made the right decision, because Andrew seemed to be coping well. He moved up the ranks, brought so many more people to our church." The smile that had disappeared when Mrs. Rankin had been talking about her daughter's death returned.
"But things have changed?"
"He has his good days. Lucid ones. And I hope you'll be kind enough to not say anything about his unusual behavior tonight. We don't want to trouble those who need him and might falter if Andrew were forced out of his position here."
"Sure. I'm just looking for the truth, and I do appreciate your help. I knew Sara's death took a toll on your husband the first time we met, but I didn't realize the magnitude."
"Maybe Andrew is onto something about you, Ms. Rose, because I'm inspired by your dedication to your job. You've learned so much in a day's time, and I've done nothing to reach out to the others who must have felt our terrible loss back then. They were her friends, after all."
"Oscar would love to hear from you." And love to manage the church money, given half a chance. Plenty of money here, that's for sure. Enough money to help keep a big secret? But before I could think harder on this, I heard the muffled ring of the phone in my purse. "Excuse me," I said.
I answered and was surprised to hear Burl's voice. "I found the place."
"The place?" I said, confused.
"Verna Mae's storage unit. In Houston. I'm on my way there."
"Can I meet you?" I asked.
"Sure." After he gave me the address, I hung up and looked at Mrs. Rankin. "Thanks for talking to me. I know it wasn't easy."
"Can you find your way out?" she asked.
"No problem," I answered.
As I hurried to my car, I was willing to bet Sara had left home to hide a pregnancy and gave birth, maybe in that Mexican village. Was Mrs. Rankin telling the truth? Or did Sara's parents guess the real reason she left? They might have made up the mission trip story and the mysterious fall to keep the church from learning the truth about their daughter's sin— and they surely would have considered her behavior a sin. Maybe they hoped Sara would return after time passed—their "lost child" miraculously found. But then a real tragedy occurred—teenage pregnancies can be dangerous, and Sara could have died in childbirth. The Rankins found out somehow and left the baby with Verna Mae.
Then I thought of another scenario. Jessica Roman could have been Will's mother and was lying through her teeth today, thinking she could get busted for abandoning a child.
You don't know enough to be sure of anything, I thought, as I climbed into my Camry. I pulled out of the parking lot hoping that storage unit would yield something to tie everything together. I needed more than wild guesses.
21
The address Burl gave me was off the toll road that Jeff mentioned Verna Mae traveled every week. Had the storage facility been her regular destination? Would Burl and I find some important truth hidden there?
My heart was thudding against my chest as I made a conscious effort to stay within the speed limit. The last thing I wanted was to be delayed by a ticket. With it being past nine p.m. on a Sunday night, the highways were deserted. Burl thought he'd be arriving about nine-thirty, but I knew I'd get there before him.
Indeed, I arrived at the U-Store-It at nine-twenty, just as my cell phone rang. It was Burl. He was tied up in traffic thanks to a major accident on the Baytown Bridge. He told me I could wait in my car until he arrived, or go on home and he'd let me know what he'd found tomorrow. Yeah, right. Like I would do that.
He had no idea I had copies of those keys to unit B-109—the number I remembered from the tag—and since I was as fidgety as a zoo animal at feeding time, I had to use them.
I got out of my car and bypassed the card swipe– equipped barrier, a wooden arm blocking a direct drive-in route to the rows of storage units. Instead, I used the key similar to a house key and opened a tall iron gate.
I soon learned the B row was at the end of the A row to my far right. As I walked toward the B units, doubts began to creep in. Burl would play this by the book, which meant he'd want a warrant or the manager out here. In fact, he might have a warrant in hand and a manager on the way to meet us.
Damn. I'd been chasing cookie crumbs for days and I knew in my gut this place was important. I wouldn't let a traffic jam make me wait while I chewed my fingernails down to the quick, not when I could be in and out before Burl knew the difference.
The front entrance had been well lit, and though each unit was supplied with a halogen light over its wide door, the farther back I walked, the darker it seemed. Hurricane fencing ran behind all the units at the edge of the property, but it wasn't tall enough to keep anyone out. Heck, I could have crawled over if I wanted to risk scratches and bug bites from the overgrown weeds. Could be an electric fence, though, or one that triggered an alarm.
I finally reached B-109 and used the hem of my shirt to hold onto the padlock securing the door, not wanting to destroy any prints that might belong to someone other than Verna Mae.
I keyed the lock, and the padlock snapped open. I slid open the door, and a blast of air-conditioning hit me as I peered into the darkness, the halogen light worthless since it was mounted to illuminate the driveway. I used the small flashlight on my key chain to hunt for a light switch. If there was air-conditioning, there was electricity. I focused my light on the left wall and saw what I was looking for. I flicked the switch. Nothing happened.
Great. No lights.
I swept my meager tool from left to right, and even with such little light, what I saw raised chill bumps on my arms.
"Damn," I whispered. The whole place had been set up as a shrine to Will.
On a small low table near the back wall sat Will's high school graduation picture. I went there first and squatted in front of the table, saw that the photo was flanked by candles... and so much more. To the left were snapshots of Will as an infant, held by a smiling Verna Mae. Definitely the same baby I'd seen in Verna Mae's albums before they disappeared. The blanket he was wrapped in grabbed my attention, too. I didn't need to see the POSH PRAMS label to know I had taken a picture of this blanket and had held its twin at Marjorie McGrady's house. To the right were photos of Will holding a baseball bat, playing basketball as a teenager, and the most recent of him in his UT basketball uniform.
When I started to get up, I noticed the velvet kneeling rail along the front of the table, the kind you see in church. A whole platoon of goose bumps climbed my neck this time. Verna Mae Olsen had more than a few spokes missing from her wheels. Did she come here and pray in front of this altar she'd made? Make the trip week after week for the last nineteen years?