August Moon (18 page)

I waited until I was a mile away to lock all my doors. As a resident of Battle Lake, I had been threatened by worse than a woman with a gun, but the creepiness of the Meales combined with Lydia’s kidnapping made the whole night menacing, from the trees to the moon’s liquid reflection on the lake to the raccoon scuttling across the road. I kicked myself for still not getting a good look at Sissy when she menaced me with the gun, but there was no help for it now. I’d need to come up with a way to slip inside that house in the daylight. Tomorrow.

Sunday morning was as
hot as the devil’s armpit, and it seemed draped in a cottony funk. Heavy clouds locked elbows in the sky, but even without a visible sun, the oppressive heat wasn’t letting up. The temperature and uneasy weather riled the already-stressed folks of Battle Lake. Lydia was missing, and if she wasn’t yet dead, she soon would be. The town was buzzing with people whispering their worst fears, locking their doors, not letting their children walk next door to play. A mandatory curfew had been enacted, and word was the FBI was in town, which made the seriousness of the crime inescapable and visceral.

For my part, I was out of Battle Lake in a week, and I didn’t know if that would be enough time to find Lydia, or to pin Lucy’s murder and the vandalism at the Fortune Café on the Meales. I needed a way to weasel into the Meales’ inner circle, and also to steal into Sissy’s house. The opportunity to accomplish my first goal presented itself nicely at the Café over breakfast.

“Hey, Sid, what’s this?” I held up the flier I had just ripped off their community bulletin board.

Sid looked up from the triple iced mocha with cinnamon she had been brewing. “I don’t know. That young Elizabeth-Taylor-look-alike from the Bible Camp stuck it up this morning.”

“Alicia?”

“If you say so.”

The flier said “Save Your Soul” across the top in gothic lettering. It was an invitation to the public to visit New Millennium Bible camp to “Cleanse Your Soul of Pagan Residue and Get Right with God or Pay the Price in Eternal Damnation.”

The front door opened, and I heard soft-tennie footsteps stop behind me, followed by an old lady voice. “You thinkin’ of joining? Remember that Jesus wants spiritual fruits, not religious nuts.”

“Mrs. Berns? What’re you doing here?”

“I was on my way to church. Right outside the door, in fact. That’s when I realized I didn’t wanna go in. I think it’s all the glue-free communion wafers I ate yesterday. They didn’t sit quite right. I coulda pooped through a sieve last night.”

“Maybe that’s why they only distribute one wafer a week.”

“Maybe. How’d your date with Weston go?” She nodded over my shoulder, and I could see Weston leaning toward a computer screen in the next room. I hadn’t noticed him when I first walked in, being too distracted by the flier.

“It wasn’t a date. He’s not my type.”

“Too nice, huh?”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s a very nice man. I’m just not dating right now.”

“Too bad. I bet your kids would be able to fly. Hey, Weston! You see Mira over here? Maybe you should come say good morning.”

Weston’s head popped around, and he quickly shut down his computer. When he stood, he had a strange expression on his face; it reminded me of the look Tom the taxidermist had had last night when we had caught him stuffing a different kind of animal—guilty and defiant all at once. I realized there was a lot I didn’t know about him. “Good morning, Mira. Mrs. Berns. How are you two?”

I took his offered hand and shook it, though the gesture seemed oddly formal. “Fine. I didn’t see you after we separated last night. Did you hear that a local girl’s been kidnapped?”

His eyes cleared and turned serious. “I did. I joined the search party.”

“They find anything?”

“Nothing. The FBI has been called in. At least that’s what I heard one of the local police say.”

“I wonder if they need any help?” Mrs. Berns asked. “I always enjoy a special investigation.”

I raised my eyebrows, envisioning Mrs. Berns with a badge, a gun, and a license to kill. “Good luck with that. I’ve gotta get going.”

“Where’re you off to?” Weston asked.

I held up the flyer. “To get saved.”

“I didn’t think you were the religious type.”

I studied him defensively. “Why not?”

“Because you’re a librarian, and you swear, and you’re so curious.”

“Nice save. I’m actually going because I have a hunch that the pastor and his family out at the Bible camp have something to do with the recent bad luck in Battle Lake, and I want to check it out more.” I wasn’t sure what drove me to reveal my conspiracy theory. I usually played my cards much closer to my chest, but Weston was giving off a weird vibe, and I wanted to call him out.

Weston looked at me sharply. “What makes you think that?”

I became protective of my clues, the few that I had. “Just a hunch. Anyways, I’m off.”

“Bring me with.”

“I don’t know, Weston. I work best alone.”

“If you two are going, I’m going too. I just gotta take a dump first.”

I glared at Mrs. Berns.

“What? Pretty girls poop, too. I’ll be right back.”

I studied her. She was dressed normal today—no superhero suit, no toy sharpshooters. “Fine, I’ll get a scone and some tea and meet you two out front. If you’re coming along, though, you can’t blow my cover. We’re all going to get saved, no questions asked.”

Mrs. Berns saluted and turned smartly toward the bathroom. Weston grinned and shrugged. For my part, I went to the front counter to order my breakfast. Sid gave me the “who’s that guy?” question with her eyes, nodding toward Weston, and I gave her back the “I’ll tell you later” look. Breakfast in hand, I headed out, Mrs. Berns and Weston on my heels. I ignored their chatter on my way to the Bible camp, the route becoming so familiar I could cruise it in my sleep.

I knew it was a bad idea to bring these two, and when we reached the Bible camp driveway, I warned them again that we were undercover.

“What’s our code name?”

“We don’t have code names, Mrs. Berns. We’re ourselves, pretending to be here to get saved.”

“Okey dokey, artichokey. But if you’re in trouble, I’m the Green Lantern, he’s Aquaman, and you can be Snow White.”

“I’m not going to be Snow White.”

“Fine. You can be Dyna Girl.”

“No, we’re just us. Weston Lippmann, Mrs. Berns, and Mira James. We’re here for salvation. If you can’t stick to that, you need to stay in the car.” Mrs. Berns looked hurt, and I immediately regretted my harshness. “Fine,” I grumbled. “I’m Dyna Girl, you’re Green Lantern, and Weston is Aquaman. But
only
if we’re in trouble. Okay?”

Mrs. Berns looked redeemed. “Ten four, good buddy.”

The parking lot was packed, as usual. People were streaming in and out of the cabins and the assembly hall, and a crowd was gathering around the pulpit in the water, to the east of the cabins. All the benches in the horseshoe around the pulpit were taken, and the congregation was seven deep. In the center was Pastor Meale, up to his ankles in slimy water. As the three of us marched toward the outdoor gathering, I looked everywhere for Alicia and Naomi. They were nowhere to be seen.

For the first time, I wondered about the soundness of this idea. I had been so excited to have an in at the Bible camp that I hadn’t considered what getting saved might involve, and how I was going to come off as a sincere, repentant sinner. If Mrs. Berns and Weston hadn’t been with me, I would have turned around. Two missing teens in a week, one dead. Those weren’t the kinds of odds a normal person would stick their nose in.

“Get a move on!” Mrs. Berns prodded me. “You’re the leader. Show us the way to the Lord.” She cackled as she followed behind.

I led reluctantly to the pulpit-in-the-water and hung out on the border of the crowd. I had just about decided this was a waste of time when an opening parted in the crowd. “You are here to be saved?”

There was no mistaking that Pastor Meale was pointing at me. It was now or never. “I am.”

“Then come to the front and give yourself to Jesus.”

I walked shakily through the crowd, and noticed that both Gary Wohnt and Sarah Ruth were at the front of the crowd, facing the pastor. Gary Wohnt, sunglasses-free, peered at me impassively. Sarah Ruth looked apprehensive. I flashed them both a weak grin, and cringed as the lukewarm water rushed over my leather sandals. The lake bottom was squishy underneath, and my feet made sucking noises when I pulled them up. The hot air smelled like peat moss.

When I was standing directly in front of the Pastor, I looked into his eyes, and strangely, my fear melted away. I knew he was taking responsibility for whatever happened next, and it felt good to share the load. Besides, what could happen in front of a crowd of people? He took me by the wrist and led me until we were at an open spot away from the pulpit, up to our waists in water. He placed one hand on my forehead and the other at the small of my back and pushed me toward the water. My back arched, and the bathwater-warm lake caught me. It was happening so quickly that I only had time to be thankful I had worn a bra.

Pastor Meale pulled me back up, his eyes closed, whispering fervently. “May God take her safely to his Kingdom.”

I looked around, relieved. That hadn’t been so bad. I turned to give Weston and Mrs. Berns the thumbs up when Pastor Meale took his hand off my forehead, grabbed my upper arm firmly, and ground his shoe-clad foot into my ankle. It was the same one that was still raw from the Les Pastner-trap-induced rope burn. I whimpered and went down, twisting to escape. I felt his hand on the back of my neck as I dove underwater, the fleshy bottom of the lake allowing me to spin out from under him. I didn’t surface until I had stroked several feet away, sure I was going to feel the full body of the pastor pin me underwater.

When I came up, I wiped my eyes quickly, ready to dive down again if need be. Pastor Meale was where I had left him and Gary Wohnt was coming toward him, knee-deep in water. Everyone else was humming rapturously and swaying with their eyes closed, with the lone exception of Mrs. Berns, who had hawk eyes trained on the pastor and the police chief.

I tried to put pressure on the foot Pastor Meale had crushed and squealed at the icy-hot pain that shot up my leg. My ankle was severely sprained, or broken. I swam toward shore as far as I could and hopped the rest of the way to Mrs. Berns, dripping filthy water. No one offered me a hand.

Mrs. Berns offered me a surprisingly strong shoulder to lean on. “Are you all right, Dyna Girl?”

“No,” I said, trying not to cry. “I think my ankle is broken.”

“The pastor dirty-dogged you, didn’t he?”

“He stepped on my foot.” I brushed dripping hair out of my face. “I suppose it could have been an accident.”

“I suppose walleyes can fly, too. Let’s get you to a doctor.”

“Where’s Weston?”

“He disappeared about the same time you got all moony-eyed and went into the lake. He can find his own way home.”

“I don’t want to leave him here.”

“Have you seen your ankle?”

I purposely had not. It felt hot and pulsed like a migraine. When I let my eyes wander down my mud-streaked leg, I was rewarded with the sight of my left ankle as wide as a rabbit in a snake’s throat, the skin purple and stretched. “Yeah, Weston can probably find his way home. Can you drive?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

“I’m pretty sure he is, but can you drive?” Don’t ever deflect a deflector.

“Not in the eyes of the law, but that doesn’t stop me from getting where I’m going.”

“Good enough.” We hobbled back to the car. I mostly limped, using Mrs. Berns for balance, and my ankle throbbed with every jolt. I periodically looked back at the congregation, but they took no notice of us. The air was hot but I was wet and in shock, and I shivered as we made our way.

Once we reached the car, it took Mrs. Berns a couple tries and painful grinds to figure out my stick shift, but soon we were headed to the Douglas County Hospital in Alexandria. When we arrived, I had Mrs. Berns bring out a wheelchair so I didn’t have to walk in. She wheeled me in with a flourish, and we spent the next several hours waiting next to sunstroked tourists, a guy with a fishhook stuck in his lip, and other assorted emergencies.

By the time we got to a doctor, I had lost most of the feeling in my ankle. My overriding sensation was of being covered in sticky, dried swamp water. An evil poking session and several x-rays later, my ankle was declared sprained, but intact. A kind nurse cleaned it off, wrapped an Ace bandage around tight as a tourniquet, and gave me an ice pack for the ride home. She offered crutches, but I didn’t take them. I wasn’t planning on being out of commission long enough to learn how to use them. In fact, thanks to a Paul Bunyan–sized dose of Percocet, I had decided I was going to drive us home. One trip on windy back roads with Mrs. Berns at the wheel had been enough for me.