“These men? Do they have names?”

“Bobby and Stevie and Tommy. They’re old. One’s real fat. Greta hates them.”

Bobby, Stevie, Tommy … Nautilus figured he was hearing pseudonyms.

“Just the three men?”

“Greta says there used to be another one. She never saw him, just heard from one of the girls before her. He was real old, like a grampa. His name was Teddy, but the girls called him Whitey behind his back.”

“Whitey?”

“Yeah,” Rebecca nodded. “Because of his hair.”

54

Amos Schrum was staring at the floor as if it might rearrange itself into the solution to a problem. He blew out a breath and pushed back a shock of overhanging hair, turning to his visitor.

“Tomorrow’s Pentecost, Andy. It starts at midnight.”

Delmont was sitting beside Schrum and strumming chords on his guitar. Above the white slacks he wore a red-and-white checkerboard shirt with a blue paisley bandana around his neck. He set the instrument aside.

“Yessir, I know.”

“That project I told you about? It’s scheduled to happen as Pentecost opens. I’m supposed to be there, which means slipping from Key West shortly, at least for a few hours.”

“Don’t go, Reverend,” the singer said, taking Schrum’s hand. “You yourself told me it was wrong, and it’s more than wrong, sir, it’s evil and dangerous.”

Schrum patted Delmont’s hand and stood. He walked to the window and peered outside. The signs had shifted from Bless you and You are my light, to Praise Jesus for healing, Hurry back, and See you on TV. He let the curtain fall back into place. “I gave my word, Andy.”

“To Mr Winkler. He’s a man. What about your word to God?”

Schrum turned toward the door. “Is that the elevator I hear?”

“I figure it’s Mister Johnson and Dr Uttleman. I think they’re coming to take you to Pentecost.”

“Could you leave us, Andy? I need to talk to our friends.”

“I’m not sure they’re always your friends, sir.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Andy. Are you still going back to the mainland tonight?”

“I haven’t been home in days, Reverend. And now that you’re going to heal, it’ll be good to be back singing on my show again.” The singer started for the door, turned, concern in his eyes. “You’re staying here, Reverend? Not leaving tonight?”

“Let Hayes and the doctor in, Andy. Then please close the door.”

The singer departed. Seconds later Johnson and Uttleman appeared. They looked anxious, trying to hide tension behind expansive smiles.

“Sit and have a drink,” Schrum said. “Roland has a couple bottles in the desk. He’s been saving them for my complete recovery, but I’m feeling pretty feisty right now.”

Uttleman poured and the men sipped quietly until the doctor cleared his throat. “Uh, we’ve been hearing from Eliot, Amos. It seems Pastor Owsley has exceeded all expectations.”

“He’s sprouting angel wings?”

“Eliot now feels Pastor Owsley has the capabilities to launch the event.”

“Eliot doesn’t need me?” Schrum said, looking over the top of his glass. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“The Pastor has blessed the pieces as they’ve come together, and has done a splendid job of being a spiritual intermediary. He has … uh, a potent magnetism, especially as he’s explained his particular theological stance to Eliot, his thoughts on rewards in the here and now. How the world is supposed to operate when the Bible is correctly translated. Eliot and Pastor Owsley have become …” Uttleman frowned, struggling for a term.

“Co-dependents?” Schrum said.

Johnson stood, set his empty glass on the desk and gave Schrum a sad smile. “You’ve benefited greatly from Eliot’s munificence in the past few years, Amos. I hope you’re not sorry to see him shift allegiances.”

“Not at all,” Schrum said, reaching for the bottle and pouring another three fingers. He lifted his glass as if in toast. “I expect the new arrangement will be perfect for both men. Heaven-sent, so to speak.”

“How so, Amos?”

“Eliot and Owsley are both hungry men, Roland,” Schrum said, a wisp of smile crossing his lips. “It’s a blessing that they can now feed on one another.”

I left Belafonte and Monroe to write up their findings and assigned myself the daunting task of tracking down the religious maniac named Frisco Jay Dredd. Florida-wide BOLOs had turned up nothing and I figured the van had been ditched, hidden or disguised.

Belafonte followed me out the door of the meeting room. “Mr Monroe can handle the reports,” she said. “I want to go after Dredd.”

I sighed. “I need you here and ready to handle something, Holly.”

“What?”

“Sissy Carol Sparks, Dredd’s last abductee. If he follows pattern, the woman is dead and waiting to be found. When the victim shows up, I need you to follow through.”

She nodded softly. “I understand. I’ll be ready.”

I sat in my office and scanned the reports on Dredd and replayed my conversation with Wainwright. I couldn’t figure out a handle on the monster: the man was a drifter, a loner, taking cash jobs and moving around like the human equivalent of a neutrino, invisible, virtually undetectable.

My eyes tripped on the police report detailing the time Dredd had barged into a small Baptist church in Satsuma, Alabama, two years ago, pushing the minister – a Reverend Harold Tate – from the pulpit and proceeding to shriek about devils and damnation until the county cops arrived. The report mentioned it took three cops and two Taser darts to subdue Dredd. It also noted that the minister declined to prosecute, saying Dredd was “a sad case with a sadder history”.

I felt my pulse quicken: It sounded like Tate had known Dredd. Hoping against hope for some small tidbit, I dialed the church.

“Hello,” a gentle and countrified voice said. “This is Reverend Tate.”

“Reverend Tate, this is Detective Carson Ryder with the Center for Law Enforcement over in Miami.”

“Oh my …” Tate said, puzzled. “That sounds important.”

“Not such a big deal, sir,” I said. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions if I may. I understand there was a man named Frisco Dredd who commandeered your church one morning.”

“At night, actually. Evening service on a Wednesday.”

“Could you tell me about it?”

“Not much to tell. Mr Dredd banged open the doors in the middle of my sermon and started yelling about all sorts of things … sin, redemption, Jesus. He was obviously drunk or on drugs, not making any sense. He called several of the women in the flock whores and I asked him to leave.”

“I take it he didn’t.”

“He ran down the aisle like a mad bull and pushed me from the pulpit and continued his yelling from there. I was fearful for the people in the church and called the police. They came and hauled Frisco away, still ranting at the top of his lungs. I felt sorry for him.”

“It sounds like you knew Dredd.”

“The Dredds were originally from Satsuma, Detective. They lived in a broken-down gray house on the edge of town and a poorer, scruffier lot you never saw. The household was mother, father, three children and Frisco, who the family took in when Frisco’s mother died in childbirth. He never knew his father. I’m a religious man, Detective, saved by the blood of Christ. But I know I’m a sane man. I’m not sure I could say that about Mrs Dredd.”

“How so?”

“She was a zealot – is that the right word? Crazed by religion, excessive. But by religion, not by God, who I see as merciful and loving. To her, religion was a set of absolute rules and processes. She was a cruel woman, punishing. I heard that she used to tell Frisco that he’d killed his mother by being so full of sin when he was born.”

“My God.”

“The problem was – well, one problem was – that Retha Dredd was a woman of strong desires and excesses. Particularly when it came to men. She couldn’t stop herself from, uh, taking up with them.”