“Nymphomaniacal?”

“I don’t know much about that. I do know she often took up with more than one at a time. A sick, sad lady.”

“What about the father?”

“Tinker Dredd. He died early, alcohol. When alive he seemed to look the other way, though he couldn’t not know what was happening. I also heard that he, um, didn’t much care for women, and that maybe Mrs Dredd brought in some men that, um, he might, uh …”

“I understand, sir.”

“This was a horribly dysfunctional family, Detective. There was pain and suffering and the children were witness to the whole spectacle. But that was behind the scenes, the home life. There was the other side.”

“Excuse me … other side?”

“Just as the creator inexplicably gave Retha Dredd one side that claimed allegiance to the Lord and another that made her lie down with any man she saw, the family had ugliness on one side, beauty on the other.”

“You’re losing me, Reverend.”

“They were all musical, Detective. They traveled from town to town as the Dredd Family Singers, a gospel group. What a rough life that must have been for the children – living out of an old bus and performing like puppets at revivals and country fairs. The family never made any real money; there were a lot of little gospel groups competing for the same dollars, and the Dredds weren’t anything special … except for the one.”

“You mean Frisco?”

“Andrew Dredd. You wouldn’t know the name. But he went on to make a name for himself on the Crown of Glory Network.”

I felt my breath freeze in my throat. “Crown of Glory?”

“He’s a big singing star there. Of course, Andy couldn’t use a name like Dredd in big-time show business. These days he goes by the name Andy Delmont – much nicer. Andy’s a personal favorite of the Reverend Amos Schrum, who I hear is on the mend, bless his soul.”

55

I stared out the window, trying to stay calm and think. We had a blood connection between the COG network, the girls, and Frisco Jay Dredd, a connection named Andy Delmont, a man whose adopted brother had killed three women; no, four, the Sparks woman almost certainly wrapped in charred wool and beside a roadway or waterway. I shook my head over the destruction and pulled my laptop closer, Googling Andy Delmont, images.

The screen filled with dozens of photos of an attractive, baby-faced man ranging from twenties to thirties, almost all in what I took to be stage costume, white or sky-blue suits with a Western cut, some with glittery music notes on the lapels, some where he was wearing a matching cowboy hat. In some he was on a stage, a golden crown in the background underscored by the words Crown of Glory in shining, metallic gold. Delmont was smiling in every shot, either his default look or he showed the pretty teeth whenever he saw a camera.

Delmont looked eerily happy, like he’d buried the childhood of travel and travail, and I recalled Jeremy’s description of a man he’d seen several times at Schrum’s Key West outpost: “A goofy and ever-present fellow dressed like Gene Autry.”

Delmont, I figured. The constant smile was a bit goofy. Maybe even spooky. The question was, where was Delmont now? And how soon could I aim questions at his unsettlingly cherubic face?

I picked up my phone and dialed. “Baby brother,” Jeremy crooned. “I’m afraid I’m in a spasm of artistic creation, painting, so I’ll have to ask you to call back in—”

“I need to know if Gene Autry is still at the Schrum house.”

“Pourquoi est-ce, mon frère?”

“Have you seen him today?”

“I’ve walked twice around back of the place, just because it gives me a thrill to be so close to a miracle. The Crown of Glory network says the old boy’s ticker seems to have been touched by the Almighty, and requests donations to continue the healing. I’m not quite sure what God does with the money, but maybe the upkeep on Heaven is—”

“Have you seen Delmont, Jeremy?”

“He’s often on the back porch twiddling on a guitar. Not today.”

“Shit,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could … no, guess not. Thanks, Jeremy. By the way, how’s Ava?”

I held my breath. Come on, Brother, take the bait.

“No way I could what?” he said, curiosity in his voice.

“Find out if he’s in there – Delmont. Like you’ve said, the place is cordoned off, security front and back. Can’t be done. I’ll call back when this is over and explain why I’m so—”

“Give me a half-hour, Carson,” he said.

Nautilus and Rebecca had started pulling away when his phone rang.

“It’s from you,” he said to Rebecca.

“Greta.”

He turned on the phone. “Hi, Greta. Thanks for talking to us.”

“They was looking for me when I got back. The other girls. I don’t think they know anything.”

“You girls, the four of you … you don’t look out for each other?”

A grunt. “Be nice if it worked that way, mister. But it don’t. Someone’ll snitch. And get something for it. A day off, some cool dope.”

Nautilus recalled the girl’s blunted eyes and understood, figuring the girls had been expertly selected for their vulnerabilities: rejection by family, abuse, chemical dependencies, lack of self-esteem. When you have no worth, words like integrity and honor were just wind off a tongue.

Greata said, “The reason the others were looking for me … there’s a party coming. We’re supposed to clean up and put on our party clothes.”

“When?”

“Tonight. They’re usually late. But time don’t mean nothin’.”

“Where are these parties held?”

“At some fancy house by that lake … Tokalikea or somethin’ like that. The east one.”

“Tohopekaliga?”

“We get driven out there and party. We can spend the next day, too, eat up all the fancy food leftovers. Then we have to come back.”

A question had been nagging in Nautilus’s mind. “You girls at the special motel. You don’t, uh … you’re not like the others, the, uh …”

“The ones that come with the big smiles and always blessing everything?”

“Yes. What’s the story there?”

“Pretty much the truth, I guess. That we’re like a special mission of Hallelujah Jubilee: sinner girls brought there to meet Jesus and git saved. People leave us alone. The ones that don’t hold their noses, that is. Gotta go, someone’s coming. And anyway, that’s all I got to tell.”

My brother called back in forty minutes.

“Delmont’s not there, though old Schrum’s still in residence, God’s hand massaging the old ticker or whatever. No one’s quite sure where Delmont is, though he’s scheduled to play at the network tomorrow morning. It’s Pentecost, you know.”

“How did you find out about Delmont?”

“Assez facile, mon frère. I trotted to the local music store and bought a guitar case, a very nice one. I took it to the door of the Schrum abode and said I had a delivery for Mr Delmont … his new custom-made guitar? There was a soupçon of commotion as pretty young people and stern-faced guards yelled back and forth inquiring as to Mr Delmont’s whereabouts, an important delivery at the door and all. Consensus was that Rodeo Boy recently decamped for the airport, probably heading home to rest his hat before tomorrow’s show.”

“Thanks, Jeremy, masterful work. I’ll pay you for the guitar case.”

“Not necessary, Carson. It’s the perfect size for my hedge trimmer. And by the way …”

“Yes?”

“You don’t need to try and trick me into these things. You might simply ask.”

56

Sissy Carol Sparks felt like crying. She hadn’t cried in years and had almost forgotten what it felt like. The crazy man was going to kill her, burn her alive. That’s what he’d said.

An hour ago she’d had his mouth drooling open, his eyes riveted on her as she’d crawled to him, breasts swinging, hair swaying, the ache of the rock in her thigh, but a soft and wanton smile on her lips. “C’mon, mister,” she’d purred. “You don’t want to hurt me. I can do things to you that’ll leave you seeing stars for a week.”