Into the Light (29 page)

“Do that!”

“You know I can’t. I mean, yes, I was at this property for Mindy, but I’m so close to something—something big—that I can feel it.”

“Quit WCJB. We could use you at DPD. You’re really that good.”

“Oh, I don’t know if we should work together. I get the feeling our styles match better in private.”

Dylan took my hand. “No more computer, pictures, or Google Earth searches. Let’s work on that private compatibility.”

CHAPTER 29

Stella

“Stella,” Dr. Howell said, “I need you to meet me at the medical center—right away.”

I blinked awake at the sound of her anxious voice. “What is it?” I focused on the clock near my bed; it wasn’t even three in the morning.

“I’d rather show you. Can you be here, in the ICU, in half an hour?”

This time of morning there wouldn’t be much traffic, but that was still cutting it close. “I can be there in less than an hour. I’ll hurry.”

“OK, and please don’t tell
anyone
where you’re going.”

I looked to my right, saw Dylan with a pillow pulled over his head, and replied, “If it’s that important, I won’t.”

“Believe me, it is.”

“OK. I’ll see you as soon as I can. Bye.”

The line went dead. Dylan rolled, his eyes blinking in the red glow from the bedside clock. “Jesus, Stella, do you ever get to sleep through the night?”

I leaned down and kissed his lips. “Go back to sleep. You can lock up before you leave. I need to run.”

He huffed, rolled back under his pillow, and muttered, “Shit, I’d argue, but I’ve got a lot happening today. Besides, you wouldn’t listen anyway.”

I hurried to the bathroom and made myself presentable, as presentable as one wants to be this early in the morning. Less than ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and ready to go, I made my way back to Dylan. “I’m sorry this woke you. I’ll leave a key for you on the table by the door so you can lock up.” I bent down to kiss his cheek. His inviting scent combined with his radiating warmth pulled me closer. The outside temperature had dipped the last few nights, making Dylan and my bed a much more compelling option than Tracy and an ICU. Just as I was about to kiss him good-bye, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer.

With a raspy morning voice, he asked, “A key? You’re giving me a key?”

I shrugged in his embrace. “You have to be able to lock up.”

Burying his stubbly face in the nape of my neck, he mumbled, “I’ll give it back tonight.”

It took every ounce of my willpower not to climb back into my bed. “Or you could hold on to it, and then if Fred ever needs something, and I can’t be here, you could swing by.”

“I could do that. The little guy and I really bonded. Did you see how excited he was last Sunday to watch the Lions game with me?”

I laughed. “Yes, you two were something else. Call me later?”

“Or since I have a key . . .”

“I”—I hesitated—“will see you later.” I kissed his cheek and went to find my warmer coat.

Since that night over a week ago when Dylan had stayed at my place, he’d done it more. I’d thought about giving him a key before now. After all, I had one to his place, though I’d been reluctant to accept it. He’d convinced me to take it at the same time he’d convinced me to leave clothes. I guess they kind of went together; however, I’d never used his key. Maybe I hadn’t felt comfortable being at his place without him. While I waited for my car to warm, my cold cheeks rose; I was comfortable leaving him alone at my place. As I exhaled, faint crystals of ice hung suspended in the cool morning air. My empty stomach clenched at the realization: as I’d said good-bye to the sexy man in my bed, I’d almost told him that I loved him.

When the hell did that happen?

Last week when I’d told my mom, on the phone, that I’d invited him to Christmas with us, you would’ve thought I’d told her that one of my stories was being considered for a Pulitzer. She was beyond elated that I was in a steady relationship. With two daughters, she was champing at the bit for grandchildren. Currently all she had was Fred. I’d felt bad when I let her know that he wouldn’t be making it for Christmas. Fish and carsickness made for a messy bowl.

I shook my head at the possibility. Maybe at twenty-nine years old I was ready to look at a future with someone. I’d never thought it would be with someone like Dylan, a detective, and someone others considered a hard-ass. However, when we were together, I didn’t see him the way others did.

The Saturday before he and Fred bonded over football, had started a little rocky. For some reason he wasn’t happy about my strawberry jam. I’d walked into the kitchen and found him staring at the jar. When I asked him what was going on, he explained it was an allergy. I promised I wouldn’t use it when he was near, but I would eat it. It was delicious.

Later that day we went to Dearborn for the Apple Harvest Festival. Though my research was finally falling into place and I wanted to keep working, Dylan persuaded me to take a day away from everything. I smiled at the memory; I had enjoyed the outing. The day was one of those unseasonably warm autumn days, a gift from the prewinter gods. With a warm breeze and a clear blue sky, we walked hand in hand around the festival, talking, laughing, and enjoying candied apples. As evening came, we sat on a blanket with another one wrapped about our shoulders, drinking spiked apple cider and listening to live music. While Dylan drove back to my place, I dozed off and on. For the first time ever, I experienced a complete sense of security and contentedness.

Later I told myself that it wasn’t all about Dylan; it was also about the progress I’d made on the money trail surrounding the buildings around The Light. Doing as Bernard suggested, I’d finally connected some dots. Though I’d done it all without revisiting Highland Heights, I planned to go back as soon as the first snow fell. I wanted proof that the abandoned building was in use. Footprints behind the locked fence would be that evidence, and with the way my teeth currently chattered, I’d be getting those soon.

My most exciting connection I’d made, the one I’d yet to share with anyone, was about Marcel Clarkson, the benefactor who’d donated the building that currently housed The Light. Marcel was also the original CEO of Wilkens Industries. He’d begun that private company in 1972 and had one son, Garrison Clarkson. My moment of discovery came when I realized that prior to 1990 Gabriel Clark, the founder of The Light, didn’t exist, and after 1990, Garrison Clarkson ceased to exist. The paper trail on Garrison’s demise was fuzzy at best. There was a small hospital notice listing Garrison Clarkson as deceased; however, I couldn’t verify that with state death records. The only other mention of Garrison was in a 1998 interview with Marcel in which he mentioned the loss of his son.

Though The Light’s website gave little information on Gabriel Clark, other than that he claimed to have risen from the ashes of darkness, assuming I was right and he truly was Garrison Clarkson, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Garrison had grown up in a stately older mansion in Angell, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He came from old money, earned off the backs of autoworkers. His father, Marcel, had begun Wilkens Industries and diversified the family fortune during the stock market boom, increasing its worth exponentially. Garrison had attended the University of Michigan, followed in his father’s footsteps, and climbed to the top. Then in the late 1980s the markets crashed and, according to undisclosed insiders, a family feud ensued. That was about the time Garrison disappeared and Gabriel Clark was created.

If I’d connected the right dots, Garrison Clarkson became Gabriel Clark, a divine preacher and prophet of God.

The early 1990s was the boom of self-discovery. Men and women faced with financial devastation flocked to self-help and motivational seminars. From what I’d pieced together from archived media blurbs, Father Gabriel, as he branded himself based on the archangel, rose to the top. Perhaps ordained, or perhaps recognizing the financial potential, Gabriel traveled about the country conducting free seminars for thousands of participants. Each seminar encouraged
only the participants interested in personal success
to purchase his materials. According to the IRS, in 1992 sales from his books, manuals, and videotapes topped $10 million.

Near the turn of the century, the same time that Marcel became ill, Gabriel stepped away from the traveling circuit and settled down with The Light. By that time he had a ring of three trusted advisors who were named as members of his advisory commission. Their names were listed on the original application for tax-exempt status: Michael Jones, Raphael Williams, and Uriel Harrison—interestingly, all archangels.

If Uriel Harrison was Uriel Harris, the developer, my circle was complete.

Without evidence, I assumed the feud between Marcel and his son had ended before Marcel Clarkson’s death, because in 2001 Gabriel Clark’s and Marcel Clarkston’s combined net worth was transferred to The Light. On paper, Garrison Clarkson or Gabriel Clark, was penniless.

My theory was that Father Gabriel was still connected to Wilkens Industries, the entity that also owned Entermann’s Realty. It was still a leap, and I was working on the particulars; however, if I was correct, Father Gabriel didn’t live in a run-down church building in Highland Heights. He lived in the mansion in Bloomfield Hills, the one with the landing strip. He also wasn’t penniless, but based on flight plans, flew in a multi-million-dollar plane.

His having the old school building under his control guaranteed its abandoned appearance, and he also had control of the two buildings with the passage between, and the perfect cover for production of anything he wanted.

If I took my theory to the next logical step, and the witnesses’ mother was also correct, there was a connection between The Light and the missing women. I wasn’t convinced it also included the dead women. Perhaps that was me trying to incorporate too much, but I knew that at the very least I had something for Bernard, and that story alone could get him entry to the old school building on Glendale. If the only thing that was being done inside its walls was the making of delicious preserves, then we had a missing-persons story, possible tax fraud of a not-for-profit, and tax evasion of Gabriel Clark/Garrison Clarkson. If instead there was a connection to the drug story I’d originally begun researching, then Bernard Cooper would hit pay dirt. With a week and a half to spare on Bernard’s deadline, this story that had taken me months had the potential to give him national exposure.

Since the pieces were just now falling into place, I hadn’t shared them, but I’d saved everything on my laptop. Each day I also e-mailed the zip files to myself, knowing that in the case of fire or burglary, they’d at least exist in cyberspace. As one last precaution, I backed everything up on a hard drive that stayed hidden in my underwear drawer. Though it seemed excessive, I knew this was big. For that reason I purposely didn’t have any information on my work computer. I feared the server wasn’t secure.

The rush of it all made me almost giddy. I made my way through the medical center in search of Tracy. I found her sitting in the waiting area with her knee bobbing up and down. As soon as our eyes met, she got up and hurried in my direction. My elation evaporated at the lines around her eyes and her furrowed brow.

“Tracy, what is it? Is someone you know . . . ?”

That didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t call me.

“No,” she said, taking my hand and leading me through a pair of double doors. “I have a good friend who’s an emergency room doctor. We went to med school together.” Her voice was a low whisper. “We were talking a few weeks ago about unusual cases; I mentioned some of the things we’d discussed. Then last night she called me.” As we moved along the quiet corridor, she looked about nervously. “I promised her that you wouldn’t use her name. HIPAA violations are seriously frowned upon, but when she told me about the woman’s fingertips, I came to see. That’s when I called you.” We stopped at a private room where beeps came from behind the door. Tracy squeezed my hand and whispered excitedly, “Wait until you see this!”

My heart raced as we approached the woman in the bed. She was connected to multiple tubes and equipment. Her right cheek was swollen and purple and her eyes were closed. Tracy reached for the unconscious woman’s hand and turned it palm upward. Her fingertips were white, the skin freshly burned.

I gasped. “Has she spoken? Does anyone know what happened?”

Tracy shook her head. “No, she was found near Woodward Avenue and Richton Street, running and stumbling with no coat or shoes. A motorist picked her up and brought her here. The man said that she was barely conscious when he found her, but by the time he arrived, she was passed out.”

“Did she say anything to him? Have the police been called?”

“I don’t know any more from the man who brought her here. Even what I’ve told you is classified. DPD came when she first arrived, but nothing can be done without her statement.”

I scanned her from head to toe: only her upper chest, head, and arms were visible. “Other injuries?”

Tracy nodded. “Again, I haven’t been told much. We need to get out of here before someone finds us. That’s why I wanted you to come now, before the morning commotion.”

“We passed the nurses’ station,” I reminded her.

“I have a few friends. Officially we’ve never been here.”

I touched the woman’s arm and thought about the victims in Tracy’s morgue. Thankfully, despite what she’d been through, this woman was warm.

“Let’s get out of here,” Tracy said. “As long as you promise her anonymity, my friend who was the attending doctor last night said she’d talk with you.”

I agreed.

A few minutes later we were seated in the hospital’s cafeteria, nursing cups of hot coffee and talking with Dr. Jennings, a young woman of Asian descent, with tired eyes and pulled-back hair.

“I can’t go on record,” she began.

I shook my head. “You won’t. I promise. Thank you for speaking to me.”

She nodded toward Tracy. “She told me what you’ve been trying to do. As soon as I saw the fingertips, I remembered Tracy’s stories. That’s why I called.”

“Did the patient say anything?”

“No, she’s been unconscious since she arrived. Not only is she injured, but she was suffering from hypothermia. I think it was near twenty degrees last night.”

I took a deep breath. “What about the Good Samaritan who brought her in? Did she say anything to him?”