The Seekers, page 24
“Museum. Unless you need me, Dallas. Then, I’m with you. There’s no way I can go back to bed.”
“The museum is fine,” Dallas said. “I’ve got some work to do, and I’ll be right here at this table. I have to call Dot and Jared, and they’ll come out here, I’m sure. And I’ll get hold of headquarters. I’ll be here.”
Carl sighed with relief and followed Keri and Joe into the museum. They all set to work. They hadn’t been there that long when Joe mentioned that they did need to eat. Carl protested, but when Joe made sandwiches and returned, he brought a box of crackers for Carl.
He managed to eat a few and told Joe he was grateful.
“It was a long night, turning into a long day, and it will be a long night again.”
At first, Keri wasn’t really sure how she was going to manage to do anything. She didn’t know exactly what went on at a crime scene, but she imagined that by then, the medical examiner had taken the body. Of course, crime scene investigators would comb the area for clues. Eventually, they would finish, too. She’d felt so numb, day had come and was on the way out once again, and she still felt as if she was numb or half frozen. She wasn’t sick like Carl, fortunately. She might have somehow led them to Catrina’s body, led in her sleep by some ghostly hand—but Joe had pulled her quickly away before she’d really taken in the sight. She wasn’t a cop, and she wasn’t a forensic expert, and she didn’t mind that she hadn’t seen anything. Carl had described the body for her.
She’d asked him to stop.
Now, he sat curled into a chair in a corner of the museum. Joe took down a volume on the history of Pennsylvania, and she started digging through everything in the desk again.
Hours passed. She found a newspaper article from 1930. It had been written by Creighton Mariner, the journalist who had described the scene in the Miller Inn and Tavern in 1926, after the massacre.
Our area recovers; a new buyer has purchased the old inn, which, so sadly, has lain dormant for years. Such history to be lost! And yet the inn is just the right size to survive. Farmers and friends come to the tavern for ale, and travelers come for a night and quickly leave the next morning. This goes well, I believe, for none should play in the woods by night; it is said that Satan keeps many a residence throughout the world, but I do swear that one lies deep there in the pines. This is my place in the world. I know.
She reflected on the piece, thinking that Creighton may well have been the man who murdered everyone in the tavern and led the lynch mob against Hank Bergen.
“Where are you?” she wondered aloud. “If I could just see you, if you just...”
She realized that Joe and Carl were staring at her.
“Sorry.” She grimaced. “Talking to myself.”
She kept leafing through the many newspaper articles that had been written about the Miller Inn and Tavern over the years. Many of them were by Creighton Mariner.
I am getting the impression that you were quite the deceiver, Mr. Mariner, cloaking the truth behind your written words, and yet such an egotist that you had to leave hints lying around.
He’d written another article, suggesting the Miller Inn and Tavern was a good highway stop for those traveling from the east and southeast if they were seeking to see the Amish country or going to Gettysburg or points in western Pennsylvania.
One can always find a good ale, and if the dogs bay by moonlight, know to hover by the great fires that burn, the company of friends—or even of strangers.
“He sure as hell knew something was going on, if he wasn’t a major part of it.”
She had spoken aloud again; Carl and Joe looked up at her. She smiled. “Sorry.”
“Hey, I like the company,” Carl said. “Even if you’re not talking to me.”
Digging again, she found another article—written after Creighton Mariner’s death. At the age of seventy-eight, he had succumbed to heart disease in 1954. Another journalist had written a tribute to him, making use of an interview he’d had with Mariner right before his death.
Naturally, he’d asked him about the bad business in 1926.
“Mr. Mariner,” the interviewer had asked, “I can only imagine the horror you and your fellows encountered when asked to witness the scene at the Miller Inn and Tavern after the brutal killings. Have you ever been dismayed that you were brought in, as it proved to be a futile endeavor, since Hank Bergen was dragged out of his home and lynched for the crime?”
“Nothing is futile,” Mariner said. “At the time we entered the Miller Inn and Tavern, all that was known was that the guests and John Newby had been murdered. Since we would be called upon to describe the scene when it would have been time for charges to be brought, it was not a futile endeavor.”
“And yet, there was never any proof discovered that Hank Bergen was the killer.”
“The proof was in John Newby himself,” Mariner said. “His excesses had grown to a terrible extent. He had taken a local girl, and one can only imagine her father’s distress.”
“Yes, but the torture chamber was not discovered until after the massacre took place. How could Hank Bergen have known that his daughter had been taken, tortured and killed by John Newby?”
“Rumor, sir. Rumors about the devil in the woods.”
“I’ve heard that he proclaimed his innocence until he died,” the interviewer said. And at that point, he interjected his own opinion, stating, At this point, Mr. Creighton Mariner seemed distressed that I pursued this line of questioning. He was agitated and impatient with me.
“This is all of no account,” Mariner said. “Newby was a horrible man, filled with excesses and carelessness. He deserved very much to die.”
“What of the innocents who died with him?”
I believe then, the interviewer wrote, that Mariner reverted to previous years—he had served in France during World War I—for he suddenly stated, “Collateral damage, sir, there is always collateral damage when a leader run amok must be taken down. That is the way with war!”
“That wasn’t the war, Mr. Mariner. Innocent people died.”
“We are none of us innocent!”
“Sir, were you part—”
“Hank Bergen did it. His daughter was dead, and then he was dead. As it should be. They were together in death. And Newby, the crazy rat-bastard, was gone. Case closed.”
“Sir, this is a hard question. Were you involved with the lynch mob who killed Hank Bergen before he could have his day in court?”
“You’re asking me to answer questions about events thirty years ago! I remember almost nothing. Nothing! This interview is over.”
The interviewer went on to say that while Creighton Mariner had been a fine journalist in his day—and should be honored in death—he believed that the man, horrified by the scene at the Miller Inn and Tavern, had been involved with the lynch mob. It was disturbing to the interviewer that Mariner had seemed to far more appreciate the fact that Newby was dead than to rue the fact that so many innocent people had died.
“The lynch mob...and the murders,” she said aloud.
“Did you find something?” Joe asked.
“I did. I seriously believe that Hank Bergen was innocent, and Creighton Mariner killed all those people back in 1926. You have to read this—the interviewer doesn’t accuse Mariner of anything, but if you look at the subtext, you can see... I think the journalist might have suspected that Mariner committed the murders and, at the very least, instigated the lynch mob...”
They were both staring at her.
“And we have two women killed in the here and now,” she whispered, carefully turning a page in the brittle old newspaper. “I still think that—Oh, my God!”
“What, what?” Carl demanded, jumping up.
Joe stood as well, staring at her with a fierce frown. She beckoned to him; Carl was already at her side.
“There’s a picture of Mariner in his coffin,” she said, handing the newspaper over to Joe as Carl peered over her.
Joe looked at it.
Creighton Mariner was wearing a medallion. It hung just above his hands, folded in prayer. The medallion had the same insignia that Dr. Sam Jeffries had shown Joe and Keri. The same one that Belinda and Jamie had seen on Detective Billings’s key chain.
A hawk, flying above a seated man with a horned ram’s head.
“He did it,” Keri said flatly. “Creighton Mariner committed the murders. I don’t believe that there’s any way to prove it now, but I intend to write up everything that I’ve learned, and hopefully, at least as far as history goes, clear Hank Bergen’s name.”
Joe was looking at her thoughtfully.
Carl said, “Well, Keri, I know your work, and I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job.”
“It says something.” Joe nodded. “It’s important that you found what we now believe to be the truth about the old murders. It’s another puzzle piece. We’ll get it put together.”
Dallas came striding into the room, knocking lightly at the open door so as not to startle them.
“Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins will be down by tonight,” he said. “Late, I guess, since it’s already getting dark again. Belinda is going to remain on duty in the house, while Jamie watches outside. Tomorrow, Special Agent Cabot will come out while Special Agent Harrington will stay in the city and watch over Ed until he’s out of the hospital.
“As of tomorrow, we’ll have four Krewe members and an NYC agent with us. I’ve also asked Captain Dickey to leave us with the police we have and divide them into two twelve-hour shifts. Four people we trust. I went out and checked with the officers. They’re good with the plan, and Captain Dickey is fine with it, too.
“I’m heading back out to the graveyard. One of the forensic team members has something to show me.”
“Maybe you should have company,” Joe said.
“I am armed, and members of the forensic team are still out there.”
“Wait, Dallas, please. Could I go out there with you?” Keri asked.
“Okay.”
“I am not going back out to that graveyard,” Carl said.
“We won’t be gone long,” Keri said.
She showed Dallas the newspaper clipping she had found and said, “There’s also this. They never did find Beatrice Bergen’s body, but her father was buried out there, in the graveyard by the church. A memorial was set up for her there, too. Some neighbors decried what happened, saying they were certain that Hank Bergen hadn’t committed the crime, and they saw to it that he was buried and that Beatrice was given a memorial stone as well. I think that maybe once I get all this out there, well, Hank and Beatrice can rest in peace. I’m not sure how it all works, but the burial ground is still hallowed, even if the church was deconsecrated. His grave is about twenty feet to the right of the church. If I can’t find it right away, I’ll give up.” She looked from Dallas to Joe. “I need to see that grave. Please.”
Joe nodded to Dallas, silently waiting for an objection.
“All right,” Dallas said, “but stick close with me.”
“Like glue,” she promised.
Joe looked at Dallas and shrugged. “Carl and I will bond some more.”
Dallas grinned. “Don’t forget that Brad and Serena are upstairs. Belinda is in the tavern, ready to do whatever is necessary, and Jamie is in his car outside.”
“We’re covered,” Joe said. He looked at Keri and added, “I’ll be here.”
Then he stood and walked over to her, taking her hands and standing close. “You’re okay, you know. You’re really okay.”
“Well, of course, she’s okay. She’s the best,” Carl said.
Joe smiled.
Keri knew what he meant. “I am.”
Joe whispered, “Wish them the best for me.”
“What are you people talking about?” Carl asked.
“The spirits, Carl. In the graveyard. She’s going to tell them that she’s found the truth.” Joe took his chair again and leaned back, smiling.
“And you know,” he said softly, “the truth will set you free.”
15
Joe had wanted to be with Keri, especially if she was out to hunt for the ghosts who had plagued her, awake and asleep.
But he understood. Carl wasn’t really a coward—he was smart. He didn’t have training, and despite what he might have learned for movies, he wasn’t in a position to defend himself against an unknown enemy intent to actually kill.
Joe couldn’t blame Carl for being ill at what he had seen. Granted, Detective Billings hadn’t awakened any love in any of them, and she might have deserved some justice, but she was a human being, and such horror visited on a woman was enough to shake the strongest constitution.
They wouldn’t be long; Dallas was a big believer in power in numbers.
Joe sat back to read again, hoping that Carl wasn’t feeling talkative. Thankfully, he was more tired than chatty. He sat in a chair with his head leaned against the wall, his eyes closed.
But before Joe could begin to concentrate on anything, his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “Hey,” he said, surprised that Angela Hawkins from headquarters had called him instead of Dallas.
“Hey, just tried Dallas, but I didn’t get him.”
“Ah,” Joe said.
“First, is everything all right? Well, other than Detective Billings being murdered last night.”
“Dallas is meeting with one of the forensic experts,” Joe explained. “We only have Brad and Serena here from the Truth Seekers in the inn, Carl is with me, and we have one officer in the tavern and one out in his car.”
“We’re already on the way,” Angela promised. “Thought about flying, but really, even with Adam’s plane, it’s just as fast to drive. But I have some news. In a preliminary search on the dark web, I came across something potentially worth following. There’s something called the Order of the Deep Woods, and we believe that it’s run by someone from out there. The church’s website is a mass of double-talk, offering an unknown place for those who seek escape. It’s just the type of thing that would appeal to a rebellious teenager, promising drugs and sex and absolute freedom.
“The tech department is trying to find the source, but it’s bounced off dozens of servers and hard to trace. But it seems likely that this Order of the Deep Woods could be a title for whatever is going on out in York County. There’s a mention of a commonwealth, and there are only four in the United States—Kentucky, Virginia, Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. There’s something about the birth of freedom and a mention of ‘the bell that rings,’ which could be the Liberty Bell. We’re still going on supposition, but you need to know that this appears to be a well-orchestrated machine that probably has been operating for years.”
“Thanks, Angela. Deep Woods, eh? There’s a large, heavily forested area to the right of the backside of the tavern. We’ll need to get a good group going to check it out.”
“We can do that. We’ll draw on the FBI offices for manpower.”
“There are good cops here, too, despite what happened.”
“I believe you, but Jackson can get what he wants from the FBI and I’m not so sure he wants to start ordering the local police around. Of course, we’ll take what help we can.”
“I’ll tell Dallas as soon as I see him. He won’t be long.”
“Thanks. So how are you doing on this?”
Joe smiled. “Really well. Other than the corpses part of it, of course. It feels like I’m doing the work I’m meant to do. See you when you get here.”
He ended the call and saw that Carl was awake, watching him. “Hey, if you ever hear that I’m about to buy a historic tavern again, do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Talk me out of it,” Carl told him.
Joe chuckled and gave his attention back to his book.
But he wasn’t seeing the words.
Catrina Billings had managed to kill Julie Castro, but she’d had help. The organization—the Order of the Deep Woods, if Angela was right—had helped her. But had condemned her as well.
Who else might be calling the shots?
He heard movement out in the tavern and stood, ready to draw, but it was just Belinda, walking toward them from her position.
“I’m starving. I’m going to hit the kitchen,” she told him. “Want anything?”
“An energy bar of some kind,” Carl said. “I think the catering company brought some they make themselves. I’d love one if you can find any.”
“I’m fine, but thank you,” Joe said.
She disappeared. A minute later, she called back, “It’s me, bringing an energy bar for Carl. These are delicious. That company is really good. They catered a birthday party for a friend, and the food was out of sight.”
She tossed Carl a bar, smiled at Joe, and said, “Back to my post.” From her vantage point at a corner table in the tavern, she could see the back of the bar, the front door of the tavern and the door to the kitchen, and even the stairs up and the stairs to the basement.
Joe thought about Detective Billings again. She’d obviously risen to a position of power. She was local, and she’d grown up with all the truth and all the lies and the legends. Maybe she’d suffered at the hands of superior officers—things were growing easier for women today, but in many instances, there were men who still wanted to dominate in particular work venues. Maybe she’d even felt put upon at times, wanting to belong, and therefore, she’d become an easy target for a cult leader.
But who the hell was the leader? And what was the connection to New York City?
He glanced over at Carl, who appeared to be resting again after his snack, eyes closed and leaning comfortably back in his seat. Pulling out his phone, Joe hit Redial on Angela’s number.
Eileen had been the one to first see Julie’s body in the basement. She hailed from New York, and Joe’s mind had been turning that way. Of course, she wouldn’t be the only one involved—if it was a cult, that would mean a membership, except that this membership would be small and very particular.
