Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [2]
Sanders came up just then. “What’s the name?” I asked him.
“Barstogi. Mother’s name is Suzanne. Kid’s name is Angela, but they call her Angel.”
“Father?”
“I didn’t see one. There’s some kind of meeting going on in there. Probably ten or twelve people.”
Peters ambled up. He glanced at his watch. “What time did you say the call came in?”
“About two forty-five,” Sanders answered.
“Five hours after she’s dead, somebody finally notices she’s missing.” Peters’ voice was grim.
I pushed open a gate that dangled precariously on one rusty hinge. Gingerly I threaded my way through the debris and climbed some rickety wooden steps. The bottom one was gone altogether. Most of the others were on borrowed time. We stood on a tiny porch with those kids silently staring up at us. None of them said a word. It struck me as odd. I would have expected a barrage of questions from a group like that.
“Don’t these kids talk?” I asked Sanders.
He stopped with his hand poised, ready to knock. “Not to me and probably not to you either. I meant to tell you. It seems to be some kind of religious cult. The kids aren’t allowed to talk to anyone without permission. Same thing goes for the adults.”
He knocked then. Through a broken windowpane in the door we could hear the low murmur of voices inside, but it was a long time before anyone answered.
The woman who opened the door was in her mid to late twenties. She was about five-six or so, solidly built. She had long dishwater-blonde hair that was parted in the middle and pulled back into a long, thick braid that hung halfway to her hips. With a little makeup, a haircut, and some decent clothes she might have been reasonably attractive. As it was, she was a very plain Jane. She looked very worried.
“Did you find her?” she asked.
Sanders didn’t answer. Instead he motioned to me. “This is Detective Beaumont, ma’am, and Detective Peters. They’ll be the ones helping you now.” He backed away from the door as though from the entrance of a cave full of rattlers. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Peters hovered in the background as well, leaving the ball in my court.
“May we come in, Mrs. Barstogi?” I asked.
She glanced uneasily over her shoulder. She looked as happy to have us on her doorstep as we were to be there. “Well, I don’t know…,” she began hesitantly, stopping abruptly as someone came up behind the partially opened door.
“I thought I told you to get rid of them, Sister Suzanne.” The unseen speaker was a man. His words and tone held the promise of threat.
“I did,” she said meekly. “I sent the first one away like you said. There are two more.” Before she had looked worried. Now she seemed genuinely frightened.
“Your faith is being tested,” he continued severely. “You are failing. Jesus is watching over Angel. You have no need to call on anyone else. Jesus wants you to trust in Him completely. Haven’t you learned that yet? Are you still leaning on your own understanding?”
She shrank from the door at his words. I think she would have slammed it in our faces if I hadn’t used my old Fuller Brush training and stuck my foot in the way. “We need to talk to you, Mrs. Barstogi. Is there someplace where we can be alone?”
I moved inside and Peters followed. The man who had been standing just out of our line of vision was a heavy-faced, once-muscular man in his late forties who was well on his way to going to seed. He was a little shorter than I am, maybe six-one or so. He was wearing one of those Kmart special leisure suits that went out of style years ago. On his chest hung a gold chain with a heavy gold cross dangling from it. The suit was electric blue. So were his eyes, glinting with the dangerous glitter of someone just barely under control.
He placed himself belligerently between Suzanne and me.
“We’re all family here,” he said. “No one has anything to hide from anyone else. Privacy and pride are Satan’s own tools.”
“Are you Angela’s father?” I