Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club by L. J. Sellers Page A
Authors: L. J. Sellers
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worst transgression against God. Teaching God’s children to fornicate freely is the second worst transgression. You must stop or God will punish you. This is a promise. And God does not break His promises.
—God’s Messenger
Ruth reread her letter, made one minor correction, and printed three copies. Then she printed envelope labels for Sheila Brentwood, the director, Andrea Drake, the manager, and Kera Kollmorgan, the hypocrite who had called her a “fanatic with no regard for human life.” The nerve! From a woman who assisted with abortions and reached out to corrupt children into sexual deviancy.
At the last moment, Ruth remembered about fingerprints. “Damn.” The curse slipped out. She pinched the skin on the back of her hand and apologized to God for swearing.
She shredded the envelopes and went to the laundry room for latex gloves. Back in the office, she pulled on the gloves and started over with the envelopes. When she finished, she deleted the electronic files and opened ten of Sam’s Word documents to erase her files from the software program’s history. She didn’t want Sam to know about this activity. He was president of Eugene’s CCA chapter and an advocate of legal intimidation of abortion clinic staff and clients. But he did not support breaking the law. So Ruth kept her activities to herself.
She hurried the stamped envelopes out to her car and shoved them under the driver’s seat. McMillan Street was dark and silent under a blanket of stars, and the sound of a car door closing rang out into the night. Ruth cringed at the noise and hurried back inside. Rachel stood in the foyer, her face blank, her hands in her pants pockets. Ruth knew the expression well. Rachel was still angry but would not show it. Good. The girl was learning some self-control. Just as motherhood had taught Ruth to master her own impulses.
“Did you finish your homework?”
“Yes. May I use the computer now?”
“For an hour.” Ruth checked her watch.
Rachel turned away without another word. Ruth squared her shoulders. Her daughter would come back around. She always did.
Chapter 10
Wednesday, October 20, 8:45 p.m.
Kera changed out of her work clothes, made a cup of decaf, and listened to her voice mail. Three reporters had called asking for interviews about the clinic bombing. Sophie Speranza of the Willamette News had promised her anonymity, but the TV reporters wanted her to go on camera. Kera decided to ignore them all. She should never have done the first interview on the morning of the bombing. Now they saw her as an easy source.
She sat down at the kitchen table to pay bills. The mortgage statement, sitting on top of the stack of mail, made her dread the legal complications she faced now that Daniel had decided to stay in Iraq. Would she have to sell the house? Did he expect her to file for divorce?
Kera picked through the mail, looking for more bills. Most of the stack was junk. Credit card companies wanting to loan her money and charities wanting her to give them money. Kera dropped most of it into the paper recycling.
One letter stopped her short. It was addressed to Nathan at a base camp outside of Baghdad, and the handwriting looked feminine. It had been among her son’s possessions that the Army had finally returned to her. Kera had placed it on the table, thinking that she would open it later.
Weeks had passed, but still she could not bring herself to face the letter’s contents. She considered simply tossing the letter in the recycling so she wouldn’t have to think about it again. Stabbing the back of her hand with the letter opener would have been less painful than reading the last communication written to her son.
Kera set the letter aside for another time. Some day she would have to take the plunge and sort through Nathan’s stuff. She would try again this weekend. If she succeeded, she would call St. Vincent DePaul’s and ask them to come pick up everything of Daniel’s
—God’s Messenger
Ruth reread her letter, made one minor correction, and printed three copies. Then she printed envelope labels for Sheila Brentwood, the director, Andrea Drake, the manager, and Kera Kollmorgan, the hypocrite who had called her a “fanatic with no regard for human life.” The nerve! From a woman who assisted with abortions and reached out to corrupt children into sexual deviancy.
At the last moment, Ruth remembered about fingerprints. “Damn.” The curse slipped out. She pinched the skin on the back of her hand and apologized to God for swearing.
She shredded the envelopes and went to the laundry room for latex gloves. Back in the office, she pulled on the gloves and started over with the envelopes. When she finished, she deleted the electronic files and opened ten of Sam’s Word documents to erase her files from the software program’s history. She didn’t want Sam to know about this activity. He was president of Eugene’s CCA chapter and an advocate of legal intimidation of abortion clinic staff and clients. But he did not support breaking the law. So Ruth kept her activities to herself.
She hurried the stamped envelopes out to her car and shoved them under the driver’s seat. McMillan Street was dark and silent under a blanket of stars, and the sound of a car door closing rang out into the night. Ruth cringed at the noise and hurried back inside. Rachel stood in the foyer, her face blank, her hands in her pants pockets. Ruth knew the expression well. Rachel was still angry but would not show it. Good. The girl was learning some self-control. Just as motherhood had taught Ruth to master her own impulses.
“Did you finish your homework?”
“Yes. May I use the computer now?”
“For an hour.” Ruth checked her watch.
Rachel turned away without another word. Ruth squared her shoulders. Her daughter would come back around. She always did.
Chapter 10
Wednesday, October 20, 8:45 p.m.
Kera changed out of her work clothes, made a cup of decaf, and listened to her voice mail. Three reporters had called asking for interviews about the clinic bombing. Sophie Speranza of the Willamette News had promised her anonymity, but the TV reporters wanted her to go on camera. Kera decided to ignore them all. She should never have done the first interview on the morning of the bombing. Now they saw her as an easy source.
She sat down at the kitchen table to pay bills. The mortgage statement, sitting on top of the stack of mail, made her dread the legal complications she faced now that Daniel had decided to stay in Iraq. Would she have to sell the house? Did he expect her to file for divorce?
Kera picked through the mail, looking for more bills. Most of the stack was junk. Credit card companies wanting to loan her money and charities wanting her to give them money. Kera dropped most of it into the paper recycling.
One letter stopped her short. It was addressed to Nathan at a base camp outside of Baghdad, and the handwriting looked feminine. It had been among her son’s possessions that the Army had finally returned to her. Kera had placed it on the table, thinking that she would open it later.
Weeks had passed, but still she could not bring herself to face the letter’s contents. She considered simply tossing the letter in the recycling so she wouldn’t have to think about it again. Stabbing the back of her hand with the letter opener would have been less painful than reading the last communication written to her son.
Kera set the letter aside for another time. Some day she would have to take the plunge and sort through Nathan’s stuff. She would try again this weekend. If she succeeded, she would call St. Vincent DePaul’s and ask them to come pick up everything of Daniel’s
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