I walked up the front steps of the church and into the foyer. A sign said OFFICE, and an arrow pointed left. I went left. There was a set of stairs and another arrow. I followed the arrow down and in the basement of the church found a collection of office cubicles separated by frosted glass partitions. There was air-conditioning and fluorescent light and the sound of typewriters. A young woman at the reception desk said, "May I help you."
She had a frizzy perm and some makeup. She wore a white blouse with a round collar and an olive skirt.
"Is there someone who normally talks to people with questions," I said.
"Questions about the church, sir?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Owens is our director of community relations," she said.
"May I speak with him," I said.
"Certainly, sir. Would you have a seat. I'll see if Mr. Owens is free."
I sat and she stood, and walked down the corridor. She was wearing high-heeled shoes with no backs and her tan legs were bare. Not bad hips for a religious zealot. Susan had told me that those kind of shoes were called fuckme shoes. "On the assumption that you didn't want to order them in quite that way to a saleslady at Filene's," I had said, "what else would you call them?" Susan had said that she'd simply have to find some and point. She'd never heard them called anything else. Probably called hold-my-hand shoes here.
The receptionist returned and smiled and said Mr. Owens would see me. I followed her down the hall and she ushered me into one of the cubicles. There was a gray metal desk and two gray metal chairs and a file cabinet and a picture of a man, probably Bullard Winston, on the wall. Owens stood and put out his hand.
"Bob Owens," he said.
Owens was tall and trim with sandy hair and some freckles. His hands had large knuckles and they cracked slightly when we shook hands. He had on a seersucker suit and a white shirt and a light yellow tie.
I sat in one of the metal chairs and said, "I am looking for a young woman named Sherry Spellman." I took my license out and handed it across to him. He looked at it, smiled, handed it back.
"Not a flattering likeness," he said.
"It didn't have much of a start," I said. He nodded.
"Sherry is with us," he said.
"Here?" I said.
Owens smiled. "She is with us," he said.
"I'd like to speak with her if I may."
"I'm sorry, sir, that isn't possible," Owens said.
"Why not?"
"She has sought refuge with us. We cannot very well violate her refuge at the first request."
"She's here voluntarily?"
Owens put his head back and smiled and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "My God, yes. How else would she be here? This is a Christian church."
"Her friend says she was taken forcibly. That's why he hired me."
Owens didn't smile. "That is absurd," he said. "Who is this friend?"
I shook my head. "No need for you to know," I said.
"The charge may well be actionable," Owens said. His face was severe, and with his freckles he looked like an angry child.
"Simple charge to disprove," I said. "Let me talk with her."
"No. I cannot. She has a right to sanctuary. She has a right to come here and be undisturbed."
"I appreciate that. On the other hand, you can probably appreciate why I can't just take your word for it."
"I'm afraid you'll have to."
"There are several ways to do this. But the easiest would be to talk with your boss. May I see him?"
"Mr. Spenser," Owens said. "This is harassment, and it is intolerable. Sherry Spellman is here of her own volition, she is well and happy and does not wish to be bothered. That is the end of it. You'll have to leave."
"Another way would be I could call the cops," I said.
Owens pushed a button on his multibutton telephone and in ten seconds the frizzyhaired receptionist stuck her head in the door.
"Ask Corey to send a couple of men down here, please, Miss Chase."
"Yes, sir," Miss Chase said, and pulled her head out and closed the door.
"Or I could get up and go out and begin to look through the buildings," I said. "See if she is here."
"I have requested two church deacons to come by and escort you from church property, Mr. Spenser: I'm sorry to be so brusque, but we do not turn the other cheek here. And we do not accept intimidation. And we believe in direct, immediate, and vigorous action when necessary."
There was a knock and Owens nodded and two large young men came in wearing white short-sleeve shirts and chino pants. They were both obvious body builders. One had a crew cut, the other was balding, though he was still in his twenties, and combed the sparse brown hair over the bald parts. Vanity even here.
I said to Owens, "I will need to see Sherry Spellman and talk with her. And I will. But busting up your deacons this morning doesn't seem like the way to go about it." I stood up. "I'll be in touch," I said. No one spoke. I walked past the deacons and out of the church. They followed and stood on the church steps and watched me as I drove away.
CHAPTER 10
I drove back down Route 114 to Middleton Square and had a cup of coffee in the Blue Bell Restaurant. It was 10:45. Across the continent Susan would be putting on her makeup now, and spraying some perfume on herself and making sure her hair was perfect. I looked at my reflection in the window. My hair wasn't perfect. Neither was I.
I had more coffee and a piece of cherry pie. I didn't much care for getting pushed around by a couple of overbuilt Jesus freaks. No point in starting a fight. Except to relieve some of the aimless hostility that simmered almost at the border of repression. But that was personal, and it wouldn't do anything for Sherry Spellman. I wasn't sure it would do anything for me. It wasn't a good time for me to be hostile. I felt not so much weak as slow. And getting beaten to the punch by some guy who combed hair over his bald spot would not make me feel better.
The woman behind the counter said, "Want another piece of pie?"
"Sure." Maybe if I ate enough my energy level would rise. Maybe I was suffering from low blood sugar. It was pretty good cherry pie.
I tried to concentrate on Sherry Spellman and the Bullies. My concentration wasn't what it used to be either. I could try to go over Owens's head. I could talk with Bullard Winston. If you're going over a head, you may as well go all the way over. If that didn't work, I could always go back to basics. When in doubt, sit and watch.
There was a pay phone outside the Blue Bell and a phone book that hadn't been ripped loose. I looked up the Bullies and called the main number.
"Bullard Winston, please."
"Who's calling, please?" It was a pleasant female voice with overtones.
"My name is Spenser," I said.
"May I ask the reason for your call, sir?"
"I'd like an appointment to speak with Mr. Winston."
"Reverend Winston does not normally make appointments."
"I'm looking for a missing girl," I said. "I have been told that your organization is holding her captive."
"Thank you for calling the Reorganized Church, sir," she said, and hung up. Another triumph for smooth talk. I got in my car and drove back up toward the Bullie compound. I parked across from the entrance and sat. Other than Sherry Spellman, I didn't know what I was looking for. I just watched. Some cars came and went. People went in and out of the church. People went in and out of the bungalows. A group of people came out of the church together as if there had been a service, or a class. Various dogs nosed around the shrubbery or slept in the sun, sprawling on the warm gravel of the drive. At noon a large number of people went into one of the bungalows, and being an experienced investigator I surmised it was the dining hall and they were having lunch. I saw no sign of duress. No plaintive screams for help, no leg irons, no automatic weapons. Not even a beret or a fatigue jacket. The place looked like a pleasant religious community. Clever disguise. Periodically one of the three identical blue Ford Escort station wagons that were parked beside the church would crank into life and drive out of the compound and up or down Route 114. Sometimes there was only a driver. Sometimes the car would have passengers. They were always driven by a deacon in what I realized was the deacon's costume. White short-sleeve shirt, chino pants. At three in the afternoon the whole community turned out on the green and did an hour of calisthenics led by the kid with the crew cut who had watched me off the property that morning. I didn't see any sign of Sherry Spellman, but I was too far away to be sure, especially since I was working from a photo of her, face only. On the other hand, if she were locked away in a dungeon, it wouldn't much matter what photo I had.