patients, then his employment will be a part of our rehabilitation program.”
“For sixteen years?” Tyrell inquired.
“I wouldn’t know how long Mr. Jeffs has been in treatment or employment,” Patterson said quickly.
“Of course,” Tyrell replied. “We have evidence that Casey Jeffs has received private clinical treatment for most of his life without apparent financial means. Do you know anyone who may be providing this support to him?”
Patterson stared directly into Tyrell’s eyes. “No, I’m afraid not.”
Tyrell forced a bright smile onto his face as though nothing untoward had passed between them.
“Thank you for your time, sir.”
Tyrell turned and walked to the office door, letting Lopez through first before looking back into the office to where Patterson stood as though stranded.
“Pastor? Daniel Neville.”
“Yes?”
“You said that you did not know him.”
“That’s right.”
“You also said that many of your younger patients create fantasies to cover their addictions,” Tyrell said quietly. “I did not tell you that Daniel Neville was young.”
Patterson’s eyes quivered in their sockets.
“Most all of our addict patients are young males,” he said. “That is a demographic of substance abuse.”
Tyrell turned and closed the door behind him.
“He’s covering something,” Tyrell said as he walked away with Lopez. “The only other route we’ve got is Senator Isaiah Black.”
Lopez stared at him as though he’d turned blue.
“You can’t just stroll into a senator’s office, Tyrell. They’ll call District or headquarters to confirm your identity and Powell will string you up by the balls long before we get through the damn door.”
“Look, if we can get Isaiah Black to give us an angle on Patterson, then we’ve got a lead we can follow. He might have heard or seen something. I can’t just tell Powell that we think Patterson’s covering something up; it isn’t enough to convince Commissioner Devereux to reopen the case.”
“This one’s cold, Tyrell, maybe we should do what Powell says and let it go until forensics turn in their data.”
“It ain’t over till it’s over, Lopez. Sometimes you just gotta do what you don’t want to.”
“That’s right,” Lopez said. “And I’m tellin’ you it’s too far. At least get a subpoena or something?”
Tyrell stopped, looking down at her for a long moment.
“Look, just do some digging into this Casey Jeffs and see what you can come up with. The money for his treatment had to come from somewhere. Patterson and Jeffs may be connected and we need to know how.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Lopez replied disconsolately.
“You’re losing it for this, aren’t you?”
“You’ve only just noticed?” Lopez asked. “We’re chasing a pastor around a church while talking about surgeons conducting insane experiments on abductees, trying to turn them into frickin’ angels. The hell you think I’m doing?”
Tyrell nodded, rubbing his temples again and feeling a slick sheen of sweat lacing his skin with beads of oily liquid.
“I know it’s crazy, but that’s what the evidence is telling us. You think that by following me everyone else will think you’re nuts too?”
Lopez sighed and spoke softly in the deserted corridor.
“Where I come from, there’s a place up on the foothills above the town called Pateon Cemetery. The people who have family members interred there have to pay a tax for the land. Anyone defaults, then the officials dig up the remains and put them on display in the Museo de las Momias, the Museum of the Mummies.” She looked briefly at the floor as she spoke. “Nobody goes there at night because there’s all kinds of bad shit goin’ down. Disembodied voices, things movin’ about on their own, you name it. So no, I don’t think we’re nuts, but Powell sure as hell will and I’m not willing to put my career on the line for this. It just isn’t big enough.”
Tyrell gave her a long look before speaking.
“Powell isn’t going to start blowing sunshine up your ass for playing the good girl,” he muttered. “Look where playing by the rules got him.”
“Yeah, and look where breaking the goddamn rules got you.”
A deep silence filled the corridor.
“Cheap shot, Lopez,” Tyrell observed finally.
“I’ll let you know what comes up on Jeffs.”
With that, Lopez turned and left him standing in the corridor.
JERUSALEM
This has got to be stopped.”
Ethan sat opposite Bill Griffiths on the veranda of his rented villa overlooking the city, trying to stave off his exhaustion.
“Why didn’t you tell me before that you were a journalist?” Griffiths asked.
“It was none of your business,” Ethan replied. “Now it is and I need your help.”
“I don’t know how to help,” Griffiths said, looking him up and