Cry From The Grave (Chapter 51)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 51

     Hastily planned dinners were not normally the stuff of celebration, but Martin and Marie Ballack insisted the entire team come over for dinner that evening. Marie provided a Bavarian pork loin complete with dumplings, carrots, onions, and apples.  She and Martin dodged around each other in the kitchen all through the late afternoon as he helped with the pumpernickel bread while also mixing an authentic German chocolate cake for dessert. Tori and a very slow-moving Paula arrived about five-thirty, while Crabolli ran late. But they soon discovered the ponderance was for good reason. She had picked up Hull, just released from the hospital and who was eager to have a home-cooked meal.
     The victuals were delicious and satisfying, the conversation light-hearted and enjoyable, and the beer cold.
     "You're going to be okay with this being your first meal back?" Martin asked Hull.
     "You'd have to shoot me again to keep me out," laughed Hull, "and seeing how we're nowhere near Innsbrook, I'd say we're safe."
     Paula Vaughan kept up with the conversation during the meal, but she excused herself to go to the bathroom just as Marie distributed generous slices of cake with scoops of ice cream around the table.
     "She misses Jill," Tori said thoughtfully regarding her daughter, as if to no one in particular.
     Marie passed her a fork. "Well, Jill comes home this weekend from her western swing. I'll make sure I tell her that." Tori's daughter and Ballack's sister had become good friends over the summer in the midst of their separate crises.
     "When exactly is Paula due again?" asked Crabolli, her mouth surrounding a spoonful of ice cream.
     "Any day now," replied Tori, "which is the same as last week. Just as long as it doesn't hap..."
     A crash and a bleat of agony sounded from the hall bathroom. White-faced, Tori leaped into the front hall from the dining room and sprinted around the corner toward the sound. Marie followed her, telling her husband, "Get ready to go if it's the real thing."
     "All the better," mumbled Hull out of his insanely full mouth. "I've missed the excitement."
     "We can't leave the ice cream out, dear!" Martin groaned.
     Ballack had left the table with his dessert and wheeled himself into the front hall when he heard Tori scream, "Her water broke!"
      Marie came running out. "Martin! Everyone! Let's get them out of here! I'll get the towels and go with them! You follow."
     "Right after we salvage this ice cream and put it away," Martin yelled as he searched for the keys to their Honda Odyssey. "Where are we headed?"
     "Progress West!" barked Tori from the bathroom, earning a heavy sigh from the Ballack patriarch. "And Martin, don't go wandering off! I need you to help get Paula off the ground in here!"
     Crabolli, Hull, and Ballack gathered in the kitchen as Martin blazed a trail into the hall bath and Marie rushed around.
     "Mom, I can go with Dad in the Honda if you go with them. Missy and Zane can come with us."
     "That's fine," gasped Marie. "I'll grab Tori's keys and start her car. Call Eddie, also."
     There came a crash from the bathroom, followed by a loud and painful curse from Martin.
     "You okay?" said Crabolli, running to the bathroom and peeking in around Tori.
     "I'm fine," howled Martin. "I just slipped and landed on my rear end helping Paula up. My hand got mashed under my body weight."
     "My water broke!" wailed Paula. "What do you expect?"
     "That was no break," Martin grumbled. "That was an explosion. It's like Lake Huron in there. Let's get moving. Cameron, down the ramp and open the car and direct Missy and Zane how to lock you down. I'll help get Paula out there and then we'll follow them." He tossed the keys to Ballack, who noticed his father's index finger was bent at a slight angle.
     "Oh, heaven help me," sighed Tori as Marie and Martin ushered Paula toward the garage door ramp. "I'm going to be a grandmother."

"You know, the sad thing is that we never stopped off for cigars," joked Ballack as they passed time in the waiting room outside the hospital's birthing area.
     "The sad thing is actually trying to play poker with a dislocated finger," replied Martin. "It changes the whole approach to the game. At least someone had the sense to bring the cards and copper." He threw seven pennies on the table. "That's my two and I raise five."
     "I'll see that," said Hull, placing five pennies down, followed by Ballack and Crabolli. "Missy's calling? Okay, I have two sixes and two kings."
     "I have three of a kind," Ballack said hopefully, showing off his triad of fours.
     "Full house, jacks high!" Missy Crabolli triumphantly whooped.
     "And all of you just went down in flames," Martin announced, "because I have four of a kind!" He slapped his cards on the table.
     "That's a full house with eights high!" Crabolli protested.
     "Four eights!" Martin jokingly slapped her hand away. He pointed to the queen of spades. "We said before dealing the hand that the dirty lady was wild. That makes it four eights! I win."
     "No news? I swear," wondered Hull. "It's been two hours.
     "All the more reason why it was critical to salvage the ice cream," Martin deadpanned.
     "Zane, it's labor, you Neanderthal," Crabolli complained. "And it's Paula's first. It's a crapshoot."
     "That's true," said Martin. "From start of labor to delivery, Cameron held out for sixteen hours. All that time, and we ended up doing a C-section anyway."
     "Dad," warned Ballack.
     "I assume there's a story behind this?" Hull sat up, greatly intrigued.
     "Dad!" Ballack shot his father a dirty look.
     "The first case he couldn't solve," Martin chortled, "was how to get out of the womb. Cameron's head was positioned sideways instead of down, so he was trapped. Absolutely trapped."
    "Hilarious," Ballack muttered.
    Suddenly, Marie Ballack burst into the waiting room. "Sorry," she panted breathlessly. "But I wanted to make sure everything was okay! We're done! It's a girl!"
     The foursome exploded in cheers. Martin leaped toward his wife and embraced her, kissing her forehead.
     "Everyone okay?" he asked.
     "Fine, just fine. They are checking her out and Paula's in a maternity suite now. Tori and Eddie are with her. It's just off another hall. We can go back there, but Tori has to give the go-ahead if all of us can crowd in."
     "Go ahead," said Crabolli, pulling Hull back. "Martin and Cameron, go ahead with Marie. We'll wait."

"Details?" asked Martin as Ballack rolled next to them.
     "Nine pounds, one ounce. Exactly twenty and one-half inches long. Her hair is sandy and her eyes are ocean blue," said Marie. Stopping, she blinked her eyes and then collapsed into her husband's arms, weeping quietly.
     "I know, honey," Martin whispered. "Too many memories. But he's safe. He has been for some time." And nothing more was said.
     "Where is the room?" asked Ballack.
     "Right here, two doors down," Marie pointed as she wiped her eyes, and they entered the suite, decked with pink balloons and ribbons. "Once Eddie recovered from nearly fainting, he ran down to the gift shop and bought out the place."
     "There goes his paycheck," Martin sighed.
     Tori hugged all of them. "Where's Eddie?" asked Marie.
     "Out making calls to everyone and probably running out of time on his cell since he won't do unlimited minutes," Tori replied. Ballack looked at Paula, who held a small bundle wrapped in a cozy blanket.
     "Come here," she beckoned, and they all crept forward. The bundle squirmed and emitted a little cry.
     For minutes, no one spoke. There was no need for comment. All the danger and fear and evil of the past four days diffused away at the sight of the precious child before them. Marie bit her lip and smiled, Martin holding her hand. Ballack turned to Tori.
     "She looks like you, Granny," he said.
     Tori rolled her eyes. "She'd better. If she looked like Eddie, she won't have a prayer of true love."
     "Well," said Paula, free of both labor and the weight of a womb-enclosed cherub, "I wanted to let all of you know her name." Her strawberry blond hair had fallen around her shoulders, and a cow lick dangled into her eyes. "I don't know where Dad is, but he can always get the news later."
     Tori covered her chin with both hands.
     "Mom," Paula began, "I wanted to say this privately, but this will probably be the best moment I get. I want to thank you for being there for me. Not much about the last nine months was ideal, and I've been scared out of my mind for a while. And I know you worried about how responsible I could be and still couldn't stop giving me advice..."
     "Oh, come on, baby," Tori wept. "This isn't making it any easier."
     "But Mom, here's the thing. You might have clashed with me, but at least you never rejected me. I couldn't count on my friends. I guess it's good Dad isn't here, because he wasn't one hundred percent dependable all the time, either. But for all the pain and all the arguments, you were always there."
     Tori didn't respond. She couldn't. The tears were flowing like a waterfall at flood stage.
     "And Marie," Paula continued, "you and your family have always been good to us. You always made food when we were pressed for time and you took me to more ultrasound and other OB appointments than I can count whenever Mom was swamped with work. You both have done so much for me, I'd like my daughter to have a part of you."
     No one moved.
     "So, I've decided to name her Victoria Marie."
     Ballack smiled. Whereas Beverly Overton's solo the day before had brought a shaft of hope, this was an explosion of joy. Tori hugged him and then turned to Ballack's father.
     "Martin," she said, "Could you pray a blessing over her? Our own priest will christen her, but I'd like to have this moment while we're all here. Could you do that?"
     Martin assented wordlessly, releasing Marie's hand. He drew beside the bed and leaned toward Victoria Marie's wriggling, exhausted body. Heads bowed around the bed as he murmured a brief prayer, placing his fingers on her forehead and making the sign of the cross.
     Ballack looked up and peered through the window, far into the distance of the overcast night. Amongst the clouds, he beheld the sacred imprint of this natal moment--a solitary and brightly twinkling star.

THE END

     Luke H. Davis is the author of Cry From The Grave, officially the fourth volume in the Cameron Ballack Mysteries. He is also the author of The Merivalkan Chronicles series of novels. He serves as Bible department chairman at Westminster Christian Academy in St. Louis. He lives in St. Charles, Missouri, with his wife Christy, son Joshua, daughter Lindsay, and their retriever Gretel.

Books by Luke H. Davis

Litany of Secrets

The Broken Cross

A Shattered Peace

Cry From The Grave

The Burning Glow (forthcoming)

in The Merivalkan Chronicles

Joel

Bjarna (forthcoming)

     

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 50)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 50

     Grateful that she had traded in her previous car for her present Hyundai Accent, Dana Witten steered the vehicle into her parents' driveway in Chesterfield, just near the intersection of Baxter and Clayton Roads. Drained from a long day of managing her students' attempts to grapple with Victorian literature, she was glad to be free and clear with no quizzes or papers to grade, thanks to her industrious push over the last few days. Dinner out with her parents for her twenty-eighth birthday was as good a thing to enjoy as any. She had stopped by her apartment long enough to change into jeans and a red sweater, put her hair into a neat ponytail, and to grab a pile of mail in her box. She had thrown the envelopes in with her collection of mail from school, and it was with some difficulty that she gathered the postal sheaves in her arms as she got out of her car.
     She noticed a cluttered pile of lumber in the garage, which explained why her parents' cars were parked by the curb but not why the wood lay there. Skipping over a pair of two-by-fours, she trapsied into the kitchen where her father sat looking over a copy of that day's Post-Dispatch. An accountant for Dierbergs, Sam Owens made a special point to leave work early this day.
     "Hi, Daddy," she said, bending down to kiss the top of his head.
     "Welcome back, darling," he said, straightening up in his chair. "You must have made good time or there was no faculty meeting today."
     "None, thank goodness," Dana replied. "Not enough to talk about, so we got the afternoon off." She laid her mail on the table and began sifting through it. "Is Mom home?"
     "She's getting ready. My car's having trouble today, so we'll take hers tonight."
     "We could take mine. I don't mind. It's not like we're going across the state." She continued to peruse the envelopes and bills while considering the mouthwatering meal she would enjoy later at Annie Gunn's, her birthday dinner staple for a number of years.
     "Suit yourself," said her father, "as long as I get to stretch out in the back." He got up to head back to the master bedroom.
     "Dad? What's with the lumber in the garage?"
     "You didn't trip over it, did you?'
     "No, but what's it for?"
     Sam Owens sat down, folding his hands. "It's been a long time in making this decision, but your mother and I believe it's time for Mimi to come live with us. She can have one of the two spare bedrooms. Two falls in the last month are two falls too many. But as you can see, our home isn't really set up for her, so we're having a ramp built in the garage going up to the door. Don Peterman said he could build it. He gave me two quotes: one if I bought the wood myself, and one if I didn't. I made a run to Home Depot yesterday and what you saw when you arrived is the result."
     Dana barely heard her father's news about her grandmother. She was looking wistfully toward the garage.
     Sensing the emotional shift, her father got to his feet. "It's worth it, Dana. No matter how long or short she is with us. And you never know," he said, laying the front page of the Post-Dispatch next to her. "You never know who might use it in the future."
     She watched her father take his slow, intentional steps to the back of the house. Trying to wrench herself from his doubletalk, she looked at the newspaper he had just placed on the table and her heart nearly stopped.
     The picture splashed across the page was an icon she knew well. Even before looking, she had a premonition what this vision would be.
     A headline screaming "HOSPICE MURDERER HALTED" topped the picture, but Dana was drawn to the subtitle below. SID detectives collar St. Matthew's Grove employee for recent triple murder. She read on through John Rearden's crisp, lyrical prose.
     "...and when the siege dropped around Beverly Overton, there directing the tactical movement was the expert team from the Special Investigative Division. Commander Stu Krieger was effusive in praising his detective team: Tori Vaughan, Missy Crabolli, and the wheelchair-bound Cameron Ballack. Krieger credited Detective Ballack with synthesizing the case's hieroglyphic data into a logical path which led to the arrest at Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Tuesday afternoon..."
     Dana's eyes softened and she felt her tear ducts release the first of their salty discharges. Desperate for any distraction, she pulled out one envelope, then another, finally settling on the collection of birthday cards she had recently received. And then she saw the front of the one red envelope, with the unmistakable and memorable script she knew well. It belonged to the young man pictured on the front page of the newspaper. She tore open the envelope and looked at the card.
     The gift of pain and memory was too much for Dana Witten, and--letting the birthday card fall to the table--she pitched forward, face in her arms, and loosed the wail of a heartbroken soul.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 49)

EPILOGUE

The Altar of Grace

November 13-14

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 49

     No amount of frustration could tamper the enthusiasm Ballack felt from closing out the St. Matthew's Grove case. Isabel Andrews accosted him promptly after the funeral was over, posing more questions than Ballack had the patience to answer. Recognizing her indignation at being used as the ruse to snare Beverly Overton, he finally told her they would provide more detail after they got a proper statement from Beverly and her lawyer. More than anything, he wanted to go home and sleep for two days straight. Adrenaline had kept him going and he could sense the torque rapidly leaving his body. But he knew he had a promise to keep. He first texted John Rearden about the arrest, seconds before a KSDK news van slid to a halt in front of the church.

    "No interviews," he snapped, rolling toward the Sprinter, content to allow Crabolli and Krieger handle the press. But they were not to be denied, and it was another ten minutes before they could extract themselves. He preferred Rearden's professionalism instead.

     "Detective Ballack?" a voice sounded behind him. He turned to face Reverend Fisher. "Sorry to keep you. I do want to thank you--and you also, Detective Vaughan--for your handling of this. Dean was a friend, and even though this doesn't bring him back..." His eyes misted.

     "It's what we're designed for, Reverend Fisher," he replied.

     "I hope the service wasn't spoiled on our account," said Tori.

     Fisher shook his head. "On the contrary, I thank you for being as silent and unobtrusive as possible. Your justice was clear enough to catch the guilty yet quiet enough to honor Dean's memory."

     "Justice isn't in the bank yet, sir," reminded Ballack. "That's what the county prosecutor is for. But we'll keep you posted."

     "He looks like he knows the hospice will crumble for good," said Tori as they moved toward the van.

     "It's been a pillar of destruction the last few days," replied Ballack. "And the rot was there for a long time before. At least now, the patients--wherever they are--might feel a bit safer."

     Just as they pulled away from the scene, Rearden called him.

     "I'm on my way to the station," he said. "Webster?"

     "Yes," said Ballack, "and you can go by the church and snoop around as well, once things calm down. Let Krieger know I've promised you first interview with him."

     "I'm on my way."

     "Are you going to leave your back door unlocked?"

     "No, but there's an empty planting box there, covered by plywood, in case you need to deliver something."

     "Which is what we're doing."

     "You keep promises. I like that in any profession."

     "Just drink it slowly, John. I don't have the salary to perpetually finance your assistance."

Ballack was taking the next day off, having slept in until nine o'clock. Rhoda graciously stayed past her staggered shift by fifteen minutes and gave him a shower in his accessible bath. His father left several made-from-scratch biscuits on a cookie sheet next to the kitchen stove, with the squeeze jar of honey nearby. Rhoda also got him a hard-boiled egg and a root beer out of the refrigerator. Ballack reasoned he was close enough to lunch to justify the soft drink choice. Using a knife as a wedge, he cracked it open and took a long gulp.
     The doorbell rang and his mother checked the window before answering.
     "It's Scotty," she announced.
     Ballack rolled into the front hall and took one look at Bosco's ashen face as the lieutenant entered the house.
     "Back deck?" he said, not even greeting Marie.
     Ballack nodded. "Let me get my chow if you don't mind carrying the drink. Want one yourself?"
     Scotty graciously declined the offer and less than a minute later, they were sitting outside enjoying a rippling breeze and an occasional break of sunshine.
     "Well, congratulations," said Bosco after they got past the obligatory male small talk. "Stu called me last night and told me everything. I swear you should donate your mind to science. Brilliant." He spoke with pride, but the huskiness in his emotion revealed pain rather than joy.
     "Thanks, Scotty. But don't forget it takes a great man to recognize talent. I couldn't have had this opportunity if it wasn't for you sticking your neck out in the first place."
     "What's the latest on the perp?"
     "She confessed everything to us when we made the arrest, but of course, once her lawyer showed up at the station, Krieger said she withdrew everything. There's a considerable legal battle ahead, but isn't that the risk we take as detectives? We solve the puzzle and make the arrest. We don't prosecute the accused. Our little gamble."
     "Still...success. You earned it, is all I can say."
     "Seriously, Scotty, why did you come over today?" Ballack asked as the breeze trebled in speed and the air dropped in temperature. He was glad he was dressed in his royal blue windpants with the full-length in-seam snaps with his Duke University turtleneck pullover.
     "You're averse to a chat?"
     "No, but when have you ever dropped by in the middle of the day? Either you have absolutely nothing to do, or St. Charles County is all sweetness and light and kum-ba-yah utopia, or something has just detonated in your personal life. Given how you looked when you walked in, I'd say we are looking behind door number three."
     "Debra and I are getting divorced."
     "And there it is."
     "That's a hell of a reaction. What gives?"
     "Come on, Boss. I have ears and eyes. You can't tell me you were about to keep this covertly to your death. Last April when I called you from DaySpring? That wasn't Debra's voice all giggly drunk in the background, and I dare say that splash of water sure wasn't you draining potatoes in the sink."
     "It was the hot tub," Bosco confessed.
     "And why are you telling me?"
     "Just something I needed to say, a kernel of honesty between fellow detectives. I'm headed down to Defiance to meet my girlfriend and then scope out a spot for lunch. Since I happened to be coming this direction, I thought I'd stop in."
     "Glad you did. That's a long way out to meet your woman. Does she live down there?"
     "She works in Washington, lives in Augusta. We make do."
     "Why do I get the sense you're telling me this for more than male bonding?"
     Bosco swallowed. "Because it's a professional issue, too. I've been letting things slide, and the negotiations for the divorce might get ugly. When I spoke to Stu last night, he said I could be working through my issues, or I could be first up for some potentially front-and-center SID matters. But not both. He's right, of course. I can't be dabbling in two worlds. As a result, I'm going inactive from the SID for now and will focus solely out here until all this blows over. Once that gets done, I'm back with the SID."
     Ballack chewed the final bite of his first biscuit. "I'm sorry. Look, I'm sorry about all this, and I was a little flippant when you mentioned it just now about you and Debra. I wasn't trying to give the impression this is all on you."
     "No sweat. No offense taken. I'd better get going because Lauren's going to get there before me and I can't delay. I took the day off, although you have the look of someone who's earned his. I'll see myself out down the steps here. Thanks for listening. And I know you don't pray, but could you ask your parents to do so?"
     Ballack shook his hand. "You know I'll ask them."
     "Thanks, Cameron."
     A lump formed in Ballack's throat, weighted with sorrow for his mentor and friend. He held his grip with Bosco. "You're still the best, sir. I am what I am because of you."
     Smiling, Scotty Bosco nodded his thanks before descending the stairs.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 48)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 48

     For reasons Ballack could not fathom, one of the prescriptions in Dean Hibbler's will was for a full memorial service complete with Holy Communion. While the atheistic doctor's maneuver baffled Ballack, it at least gave he, Tori, and Crabolli time to sneak off to their places in the church during the prayers. Tori took over on the Beverly Overton watch, escorting the nurse to the front pew in the right transept and sitting down behind her. From across the way, Missy Crabolli kept her hateful vigil firmly fixed on their target. Ballack joined Krieger in the back, looking out over the congregation of about one hundred, heads bowed as Nick Fisher's melodious voice carried offerings of peace to their waiting hearts and tuning their cadenced responses.

     "For our brother, Dean," began Fisher, "let us pray to the Lord Jesus Christ who said, 'I am Resurrection and I am Life.' Lord, you consoled Martha and Mary in their distress; draw near to us who mourn for Dean, and dry the tears of those who weep."

     The congregation murmured their affirmations. "Hear us, Lord."

     Ballack turned to Krieger. "By the way, I promised Missy that she could cuff her."

     "You and your promises," Krieger smirked. "But okay. She's earned it."

     Fisher continued to intone the liturgy. "This is never easy," Ballack whispered to the commander.

     "What?" replied Krieger, in a response so soft that Ballack had to strain to hear it. "Making an arrest in church or going to a funeral?"

     "I'd rather make a thousand arrests on holy ground than attend another one of these," said Ballack.

     "It comes for everyone, Detective. It's coming one day for my dear wife. The wound that will never completely close."

     Ballack had no response. Fisher continued the responsive prayer, finally concluding with "Comfort us in our sorrows in the death of our brother Dean. Let our faith be our consolation, and eternal life our hope. Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to you our brother Dean, who was reborn by water and the Spirit in Holy Baptism. Grant that his death may recall to us your victory over death, and it might be an occasion for us to renew our trust in your Father's love. Give us, we pray, the faith to follow where you have led the way, and where you live and reign with the Father and the Holy Spirit, to the ages of ages. Amen."

     Despite the incongruity of the prayers when matched with Hibbler's lack of faith, Ballack could not deny the beauty of those words.

     The mourners came forward for the Eucharist, and as they did so, the organist softly played a pedestrian version of "The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Hath Ended." Ballack kept a firm eye on Beverly Overton as the last of the congregation drifted back into the pews, Suzanne Lamotta being one of them. She looked back into the open doors to the narthex and gave Ballack the briefest of waves as she took her seat.

     The organ ceased and Fisher gave the slight nod to Beverly, who arose from her pew, crossing the nave to a solitary microphone near the altar. Ballack noticed the organist had moved, as well, to a piano set up near Crabolli's location. The first dampered notes rang delicately throughout the church, a comforting melange. He couldn't calculate why, but the moment Beverly approached the microphone, Ballack was overcome with a sense of peace. For closing this case? Because of what she would sing? He could not tell.

     He closed his eyes and the one only they knew as Bowie gave her final euphonic statement.

     The sands of time are sinking,

     The dawn of heaven breaks,

     The summer morn I've sighed for,

     The fair sweet morn awakes;

     Dark, dark, hath been the midnight,

     But dayspring is at hand,

     And glory, glory dwelleth

     In Immanuel's land.

     The King there in His beauty

     Without a veil is seen;

     It were a well-spent journey,

     Though sev'n deaths lay between:

     The Lamb with His fair army 

     Doth on Mount Zion stand,

     And glory, glory dwelleth

     In Immanuel's land."

     Without knowing why, even Ballack could sense something had gripped him. Something about the words, the music, had penetrated his heart. It had not loosed his unbelief from its moorings, but there was something in the tundra of his soul that had mysteriously thawed by a trace.

     "O Christ, He is the fountain,

     The deep, sweet well of love!

     The streams on earth I've tasted

     More deep I'll taste above.

     There to an ocean fullness

     His mercy doth expand,

     And glory, glory dwelleth

     In Immanuel's land."

        

     The key change came, as expected. Ballack, eyes shut, heard every word. He traveled back nearly twenty years. And the solitary wish rose from within, that his brother might be--against all hope--in a place like that of which Beverly Overton sang. Like waves from the ocean upon the rocks on shore, the words thundered within the walls of the church as she finished with a crescendo.

     "The bride sees not the garment

     But her dear bridegroom's face;

     I will not gaze at glory

     But on my King of grace;

     Not at the crown He gifteth

     But on His pierced hand:

     The Lamb is all the glory

     Of Immanuel's land!"

     And with the final note, Beverly Overton put her head down, looking neither to the left nor the right. With Tori and Crabolli shadowing her from the far aisles, she made her way to the rear of the church where Krieger held the doors open and Ballack waited beyond them.

     "There's no press?" she asked him.

     "I'll text the journalist later," Ballack replied as the women approached. He looked at Krieger.

     "Detective Crabolli?" The commander said. "Go ahead."

     Surprisingly calm now, Crabolli produced a pair of handcuffs and secured the wrists with her one good arm. "Beverly Overton," she said with a pacific voice, "you are under arrest for the murders of Dean Hibbler, Rory Giles, and Helen Smith." She paused before continuing. Beverly had opened her mouth to speak to Ballack.

     "Do you believe, Detective?" she asked.

     He looked up at her from his wheelchair. "I don't, but I can hope, can't I?" He smiled. "Thank you, though, I'm glad you were able to sing."

     "Why do you enjoy the words when you don't believe them?"

     "I was wondering the same about you, Mrs. Overton," Ballack replied. "But truthfully, you caused me to remember Pascal. 'The heart has its reasons that reason cannot know.' A fleeting ray of hope, but hope nonetheless."

     With a sweater thrown over the handcuffs to block them from view, they walked toward the street, where Krieger's car was waiting in front of the hearse. Crabolli continued to drone the Miranda rights in Beverly's ear as Ballack and Tori stood at a distance.

     "Hope from someone like her?" Tori quietly asked him.

     They watched as Krieger eased their captured Bowie into the back of the car and Crabolli followed.

     "A singing killer. It's possible, just not probable," Ballack responded, "and not the first option if you're looking for illumination and peace."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 47)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 47

     Beverly Overton let go of the doorknob, shocked at the presence of the seated sleuth barring her path to Isabel's purse.

     "How did you get in?" she asked.

     "Same as we just did," said Tori, who entered the room with Missy Crabolli. "Walked straight through the door. Detective Ballack just happened to get access from Reverend Fisher."

     Ballack moved toward Beverly, never taking his eyes off her. When he was within four feet, he looked at her hand.

     "I can guess the story behind that wound, Mrs. Overton. I can tell you or you can tell us."

     He gestured toward the table. Beverly sat down, her eyes flicking from side to side, assessing her situation. Crabolli walked to the other side, sitting down and lifting her arm sling onto the table. With a blistering glare, she opened the right side of her jacket to disclose her firearm. Tori slowly covered the distance to the door and locked it from inside. She came back to Beverly's left side and showed her piece under her jacket as Crabolli had.

     Beverly suppressed a cough and looked meekly at Ballack. "The service will begin soon. I am singing. You can't keep me here."

     "Oh," Ballack said, stretching his arms over his head, a casual move that belied the saturnine atmosphere. "I've seen the order of the service. You're not due to come up for some time. At least until the commendation of the body. And don't you think it's pathetically ironic?"

     "What?"

     "You, singing at this, an event designed as the eternal homegoing of a man whose neck you skewered with a hunting knife just a little over one hundred hours ago?"

     "When did you know?"

     "I had an idea when you didn't know the correct version of twelve o'clock."

     "Excuse me?"

     Ballack released his stretch. He reminded himself to be professional and not act like he was enjoying this sequence.

     "When you told me you'd been to see Lincoln, and I said that quote," he said more calmly.

     "The one about the chimes?"

     Ballack nodded. "Hearing the chimes at daybreak, I said. I changed Falstaff's quote. Both Shakespeare's version from King Henry the Fourth and what was said in the movie were 'We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.' I figured you either failed high school English or else you were lying about having seen the movie."

     "I went to see my neighbors Sunday night when they returned from the movie," Beverly said. "It was late, but I had already taken care of Rory Giles, so I needed an alibi. When Mandy excused herself to go to the bathroom and her husband was changing in their bedroom, I looked in her purse and found the ticket stub. But thinking up a trap like that on the spur of the moment, Detective. I'm somewhat impressed." Beverly burned him with a wicked, glazed look.

     "I figured it was worth a shot," Ballack replied. "Of course, I didn't tell my partners anything about my impressions. I didn't want to be or have them distracted by a non sequitur if it came to that. I'm sure they didn't like being kept in the dark for so long, but I believe they might find it in their hearts to forgive me."

     "Happens rarely," said Tori. "I forgive you."

     "How about you, Missy?" Ballack asked.

     Crabolli kept her eyes rooted on Beverly Overton. "We're cool, C.B."
     Ballack leaned his right elbow onto his armrest. "Let's go back. You go by Beverly Overton now, but your first name is Jennifer. Beverly is your middle name. Your second middle name, to be exact. Born Jennifer Ella Beverly Trafford."
     "How did you discover that?"
     "A little trip up to Clayton to look at records. Divorced from Howie Dunnigan, you kept his surname until you married Lawrence Overton. You performed a nice little trick with 'J.E. Beverly' on your marriage certificate. We compared that with everything we found at the Recorder of Deeds and drew the right conclusion. It was a partial guess, but given that I nailed you on the Lincoln quote, we were riding a hot streak."
     Beverly, stone-faced, said nothing in reply.
     "Of course," Ballack continued, "upon your marriage to Howie Dunnigan, you were eighteen months removed from the tragic death of your brother, which you and your parents blamed on Dr. Dean Hibbler. The lawsuit reaps your family over three million dollars, a portion of which I'm thinking you believed should have been yours."
     "Trust fund," Beverly snorted. The organ music reverberated through the hallway. "It became my parents' hoard."
     "You must have believed with all your heart you'd get it eventually. You might not have been the best sister to Dave, but his death caused you to suffer, right?"
     "I suffered, yes. But how and how much is my story. You have no right to it."
     Ballack clenched and released his right hand. "No, you're right. I have no right. Maybe it was guilt, wondering if you could have been a better sister. Perhaps it was bearing this weight of anger for years and years and not having a true outlet." He drummed his fingers on the table. "No, maybe it was taking your rage into a marriage that never had a chance. Or it could be something more."
     Tori spoke for the first time in several minutes. "Like missing out on the money."
     "Here you are," said Ballack. "Frustrated beyond belief that your parents put their war chest from a Phyrric legal victory into a trust fund. Untouchable. Unreachable. Sure, your second husband might have made a fine living for you. That combined with your nursing created a nice nest egg. But it wasn't enough, was it? Always wanting more, were you."
     "It explains quite well how you could be in possession of your parents' two Rugers," Crabolli barked.
     "Settle down, girl," Ballack murmured softly. "Settle down. But Detective Crabolli makes a fine point. The insurance company found there were several items missing from your parents' house after the fire, but two of note were the guns."
     Tori shook her head. "Cold. Absolutely cold to torch your own parents alive."
     "They took away the money! I deserved my money!" screamed Beverly Overton.
    "Bound them, too."
    "Oh, for God's sake!" Beverly was shaking now. "That trust fund was to go to me upon their death, and then they call out of the blue one day. The typical accusations. I was ungrateful, I lacked compassion, I avoided them, all my concern was wrapped up in myself. They practically accused me of wanting to leave Lawrence at the time. That's when they dropped the news they had gone to Dean and gave him the money back! Gave it to him! The person who killed my brother! All for the sake of setting themselves free from sadness by forgiving him. Well, if they weren't going to hand the money over to me later, they didn't have to live a long life rejoicing in their philanthropy."
     "But it didn't end there, did it, Beverly?" asked Ballack. "Evil only begat more evil, and the thirst for revenge was never assuaged. You noticed that Hibbler had signed on with St. Matthew's Grove, and that's when you made your move."
     "That was to be a burr in his saddle as much as possible," Beverly said, "but of course, once we found out that closure was possible--if not inevitable--that was too much for me."
     "A knife in his neck," agreed Ballack. "You obviously went in through the copy room?"
     "The idiot might have hated me, but even he fell for the excuse that I needed to cut through to the library. He never saw the knife I cupped in my hand, the blade going right up against the underside of my arm." She stopped, rubbing her wrist as if to resurrect the memory. "I stole it from him, by the way."
     "No doubt. And it was you who ambushed us at Hibbler's lakehouse.
     "I was lurking around St. Matthew's last Saturday night. I had a tendency to take Isabel's messages, anything to help. I caught your voice mail and knew I couldn't have you on my trail. I put my car about a half-mile away on foot and put myself in a thicket about thirty yards away, on the other side of the service road running the far side of the house. I wasn't expecting to have the chance I did."
     "The chance?" Crabolli exploded. "You shot my partner and nearly killed him! You shot me clean through the shoulder!" She launched herself out of her chair and glared so angrily at the killer that Ballack immediately put decent odds on Beverly never walking out of the room alive.
     "Missy, for crying out loud. Let's wrap this up before Tori has to sit on you," groaned Ballack. He looked back at Beverly. "But the deaths of Father Giles and Helen Smith? I assume it's because you suspected they knew something."
     "For Rory, I had to. He practically cornered me after he met with you Sunday when you questioned us about our alibis after the lakehouse shooting. He never accused me bluntly, but he took me aside and said, 'Beverly, perhaps you know by this point that the truth is the only weapon for this present battle.' He thought he was being clever, but even I saw through it. I couldn't give him time to consider going to you. I stalked him that night and when he went back to St. Matthew's after dinner, I followed him there."
     "And you couldn't do with merely killing him," said Tori. "You had to use the altar."
     "That's when your whole world started collapsing," Ballack remarked. "The next day. Not just the Lincoln quote bungle, but you also had a new bandage and your wound was as fresh as when I noticed it Sunday. Begging it off as a burn from the copier was a bad idea; I saw it was a blister between your thumb and index finger. Firing the Ruger that often that quickly makes for a lot of heat, and your hand couldn't take it."
     "You sure have taken your time piecing the puzzle together, Detective Ballack," Beverly hissed.
     "And you haven't seen him at his best," said Tori.
     "That brings us to Helen Smith," Ballack said, wanting to complete this arrest, "and we spoke to David already today. You must have been on the roof, listening to Helen telling him about her dark ghost schussing up Eden way. So you had to get rid of her."
     "Not that anyone there would have thought her babbles were anything more than the eruptions of an elderly mind. But I couldn't take the chance and have the rumor mill snare James, Daryl, Verna, and the others."
     "Thus, you park at Eden for the second time in two days and made the same run. You strangled her in her room, went out the staff door, shot across the lawn, and drove around for an hour before coming in to work."
     "You know I parked at Eden?"
     "We discovered your parking ticket," Tori smiled.
     An unexpected lull fell upon the room, at which point the opening hymn burst forth through the wall, and the initial strains of 'Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer' pressed upon their ears.
     "All for revenge?" asked Ballack.
     Beverly returned his stare. "Revenge was my fuel, but not my destination. I hoped for St. Matthew's to continue on. It should have, under Isabel. Hibbler's death was my gift to her."
     "But you were sounded out by two others," replied Ballack, "making their deaths necessary. And the river of blood washed away any chance of Isabel receiving your gift."
     "She deserved it," Beverly sighed. "It should have been her."
     "It seems as if you love her," remarked Tori.
     "Yes. Yes, it was love."
     Ballack gritted his teeth. He had seen enough of the twin poles of love, the redemptive and destructive extremes. This was just too perverse to take.
     Beverly Overton placed her hands on the table. "I'm going to jail?"
     Missy Crabolli had reached her limits of patience. "If it was up to me, you heartless broad, you're going to die."
     "Missy, please!" Ballack snarled. "But yes, Mrs. Overton, we are going to arrest you."
     Her eyes grew soft and she placed her head gently in her hands. A minute passed before she lifted her face, tears glistening in her eyes. The hymn had ended.
     "I know I don't deserve this, but I have one request," she stated.
     Ballack shifted in his wheelchair. "Go on."
     "I have no right to ask, but in a few moments, it will be time for me to sing. This may be my last time to do so. I...could I?"
     Ballack rolled toward her, stopping a yard from her.
     "You're right," he retorted. "You don't deserve it, and you truly have no right. But I don't want Dr. Hibbler's funeral to be a time when confusion reigns. He at least deserves an orderly memorial." He signaled his partners to move toward the door. He continued, wagging his finger at her, "I will allow you to sing. But you listen and you listen well. I will have Detective Crabolli stand at the far transept and Detective Vaughan at the near transept. I will be at the back of the church, joining Commander Krieger. You will sing your solo, and when the music stops, you will come up the center aisle toward Commander Krieger and myself. Missy, Tori, you will keep abreast of Mrs. Overton's pace coming up the side aisles. Any questions, Mrs. Overton?"
     "I have none."
     He moved another foot closer and their eyes locked. "One final thing, Mrs. Overton. Don't try any funny business or try to escape. These ladies are excellent runners and will outpace your attempt. And they are excellent shots, even if one of them is one-handed right now."
     "I understand," Beverly said, then, as if addressing a monarch, she mouthed a quiet "Thank you."
     "Detective Crabolli, please escort Mrs. Overton to the back door of the nave."
     As soon as they left the vestry, Tori let loose a deep breath. "Do you think that's wise, Cam?"
     "It's the ultimate defeat for her," Ballack replied, "even if she doesn't recognize it. She kills Hibbler, and now she will honor his life before being arrested for his murder."
     "And if she tries to resist?"
     Ballack thought for a moment. "She won't." He moved toward the rear of the nave. "She won't."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 46)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 46

     The Trauermarsch, specially composed by Felix Mendelssohn for use at funerals, gently pulsed through the air of the sanctuary, past the open doors, and fell faintly upon the ears of four individuals huddled twenty yards from the entrance to Emmanuel Episcopal Church.

     "I'd suggest we do it that way," said Stu Krieger. "Any objections?"

     "It wouldn't tip our hand," nodded Tori, "so I'm all for it."

     "I see the rector ambling about the lobby," Krieger noted.

     "Narthex," Ballack corrected him.

     Krieger rolled his eyes. "I'll have a quick word with him. Remember, don't come in until I've given you the signal."

     Crabolli watched the commander walk toward the church. "Think it'll work, guys?"

     Ballack stretched his neck, desperately trying to loosen a few tight spots. "Bowie won't even see us coming."

Isabel Andrews sat in the front pew, watching the choirmaster go over a few last-minute details with Beverly Overton about her solo. Returning her gaze to the Bible in her lap, the nursing director returned to her meditation of St. Paul's words that love never failed.

     Her focus was so deep that she never heard the tall, imposing form come up behind her.

     "Mrs. Andrews," came the voice of Stu Krieger. She turned around, looking square into an intimidating, withering glare. He continued, "I require that you come with me now."

Beverly Overton recognized Commander Krieger on sight, his stern likeness a constant specter at St. Matthew's Grove over the past several days. What she wasn't prepared for was the crestfallen look on Isabel Andrews' face as she rose and exited the sanctuary with trembling steps, the commander keeping pace with her. What did this mean? Her mind raced with the possibilities although she forced herself to come back to the moment, breathing deeply. No matter the surroundings, the song was what mattered.

     She had mentally reviewed the third verse of the hymn when a young lady of about twelve years of age drew alongside her pew in the right transept. Irked at the interruption, Beverly masked her emotion and gently asked what she needed.

     "It's your friend," the child said sweetly. "She needs you to get her purse in the vestry. She said her license is in there with her phone."

     "What's the matter?" Beverly questioned her.

     "She has to go with that tall man in the suit," the girl stammered. "They have to take her and ask some questions. She needs you to hurry." She waved goodbye and trotted away.

     She sat there, the blood pumping, sad for her friend of many years. Certainly, Isabel would call her husband's lawyer about this. Checking her watch, Beverly ventured she had enough time to make it into the vestry and return so she could finalize her thoughts for her melody before the grieving masses.

     Rising from the pew, she strode toward the door leading to the back hallway. The crowds would still be making their way from the chapel and the viewing of Dean Hibbler's body. There were a few individuals meandering around, but her route was relatively unencumbered. She reached the door, remembering that Isabel had left her purse behind the cushion on the sofa lest someone unlocked the door in the meantime.

     Beverly took out the key Nick Fisher had given her and inserted it in the lock. Much to her surprise, the bolt was already free. Pushing the door open, she found the room as they left it, softly lit, with only one lamp in the corner left on. She shut the door quickly, but as she did so, she heard a voice come out of the gloaming, heralding a weary yet authoritative soul, one that pulled down an invisible iron gate around her.

     "Good afternoon, Mrs. Overton," came the voice of Detective Cameron Ballack.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 45)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 45

     "If you want to tie up that final loose end, I'd suggest we do it on the way," said Tori as she gunned the Sprinter down Big Bend back toward Webster Groves.

     "Yeah, I'd feel more comfortable if we had one more thing in our hip pocket," replied Ballack, "and if Helen Smith believed she saw someone head toward the seminary over the grounds, maybe there's evidence of it."

     "We're at three o'clock," Crabolli called from her bean bag chair, grimacing every time Tori made a sharp turn. As much as she wanted to finish the case with her colleagues, the pain in her shoulder was unforgiving.

     "Okay, from my vantage point, we've got a decent case," shouted Tori over the roar of the tires, which badly needed replacing. "I'll call Stu; you two go on in and I'll meet you in there. Hopefully, this won't be a messy arrest like the last one. Bowie had better cave gently."

     "I can't guarantee the gently part," said Ballack, whose lungs were feeling much better than the day before, "but Bowie will cave."

Tori had turned off Bompart, having shot past St. Matthew's Grove and entered Eden Seminary's campus. She slowed down as they passed South Hall and wheeled into a large parking lot.

     "Over there," said Crabolli, pointing off in the distance. "That looks like a maintenance and grounds building. They might know something about it."

     The person in the operations office was Terry Rehm, and although he worked afternoons, he said one quick phone call would solve their query.

     "Joey Cole comes in super early," he yapped, unaware of his voice's deafening volume in the small room. "Let me give him a ring."

     He punched some keys on the main phone on his desk. While he waited for an answer, Tori walked in finishing up her call.

     "Sir...Yes, good." She waited in silence for about fifteen seconds, during which Rehm's booming voice told them all he had connected with Joey Cole.

     "That's a plan, then. See you at three-forty, sir." She hung up. "Stu is on his way."

     "Great," replied Ballack. "Wish Zane was here for the festivities."

     Crabolli sighed.

     "Thank you, Joey," thundered Rehm before turning to the detectives. "He did have a 'transgressor', as he likes to call 'em. He saw the car Sunday night parked in the lot next to Goestch Hall over there. He let it go even though it didn't have a sticker and wasn't in the visitors' lot. But then he saw the same car this morning and he ticketed the thing. Looks like I have the duplicate copy here in this rack. Anyhow, same spot. No second chances. Here you go. You can see the ticket for yourself."
     He handed over a four-by-six-inch slip of paper with the seminary's logo at the top. It was a generic ticket used for a variety of automobile infractions, obviously made from a computer template. The items they noticed, however, were the make, model, and license number of the vehicle.
     "We've seen that make and model parked at St. Matthew's Grove before," said Ballack. He nodded to Crabolli. "You know what to do, Missy. I hope this is enough twine to tie everything up."
     They thanked Rehm and exited the building with slightly less hearing than before. It took Crabolli only a few seconds to make contact on her phone and relay the information. A minute later, as Ballack headed up the ramp of the Sprinter, she let out a celebratory yip.
    "Spot on, C.B.," she cheered, rubbing his head as if for good luck. "You should have these premonitions more often."
     "Forget that," he replied, looking in the distance, beyond St. Matthew's Grove and past Lockwood Avenue, toward the grounds of their coming rendezvous. "Let's go arrest Bowie."