do they use that for? Look here, Sherlock, there are drawers under it, with underwear, her sweaters. And he’s got his shirts piled on top.”
“Oh my,” Sherlock said, stepping into the room, “you’re right. This green marble slab, isn’t it gorgeous, looks Italian. You know, this is odd, but I’d say that marble slab looks more like an altar than some place to stack your freshly laundered shirts.”
Katie walked around the large six-foot marble slab that was about three and a half feet off the white- carpeted floor. It was a lovely richly veined green, quite expensive. She saw something tucked under one corner of the marble. She easily flipped up an open stainless-steel cuff. A cuff? She found a cuff on each corner.
Katie raised an eyebrow.
Sherlock said, “I’d say they were for wrists and ankles.”
“Oh my,” Katie said, fingering one of the cuffs. “I’m kind of embarrassed. I was thinking Elsbeth was a regular garden-variety kind of subservient wife, but would you look at these cuffs? I can’t imagine it would be very comfortable lying on that hard marble.”
“No. I wonder what they do once he cuffs her down?”
Katie shuddered. “You know, maybe that’s not any of our business. This is creepy. Let’s check the rest of the house for Clancy, then we can come back here. Just maybe I can bust Reverend McCamy for something.”
“Nah, forget it, we’re actually breaking and entering here, Katie. Hang on just a second. What’s this?” Sherlock pulled two tie racks aside. She found a button and pushed it. A cabinet opened up. It was deep, maybe five feet high. On the left, there was an array of whips, artistically displayed. Next came a block of wood topped with thick fur, a netful of small silver balls, nearly a dozen dildoes of different sizes, shapes, and colors.
Near the top of the cabinet was a wide shelf with at least a dozen vials neatly lined up on it. “Illegal drugs?” Katie said, reaching for one. “If so, maybe I can figure out how to get a warrant.” She read the label. “Tears.”
“Tears? What could that be?” Sherlock reached out for the vial. She unfastened the round top and sniffed the liquid. “Phew!” Immediately she started to tear up. She swiped her fingers across her eyes. “It makes tears all right, Katie. Essence of onion?”
“Probably, but for what?”
“Well, maybe if she’s not crying enough while she’s being whipped, he gives her a whiff of this.” She refastened the cap and set the vial back on the shelf. She picked up another. “Look at this one. Of all things it’s called Man’s Instrument. I guess that says it all.”
Katie opened the lid and sniffed. “I wonder if a guy drinks it or rubs it on.”
Sherlock said, “Probably drinks it. Here’s one called Woman’s Gift. Pills, big red pills. I wonder what they’re for?”
“Maybe these pills assist the Man’s Instrument?”
“Viagra?”
“Could be.”
Katie said. “Well, it looks like there’s more to this than I’d ever imagined. Nothing illegal, though.”
“Even if we’d found a ton of cocaine, we couldn’t arrest him for it. Let’s go, Katie. I’d just as soon not be caught here by either the reverend or his wife.”
“There’s a thought that makes me shudder.”
Sherlock said as she closed the cabinet doors and rearranged the tie racks, “I guess everybody has their own version of hair rollers.”
They checked the third floor-former servants’ quarters, what looked like an old schoolroom, and an unfinished attic, filled with enough old stuff for a garage sale, but no Clancy.
As they let themselves out the back door, Katie said, “Whatever I saw in that window, I guess it wasn’t Clancy. I was just hoping for a sign of him, anything.”
“I know. I wonder what you did see.”
Katie shrugged. “Thanks for breaking the law with me, Sherlock.”
“No problem. Let’s just keep it between the two of us.”
They were back in Katie’s truck and in the McCamy driveway a good ten minutes before they saw Sooner and his wife drive up in their white Lincoln Town Car.
Sherlock said, “You’ll note that the car’s white, not black.”
“These people,” Katie said slowly, “aren’t exactly your garden-variety preacher and spouse.”
“You’re right about that. Savich isn’t going to believe this.”
“I hope he doesn’t laugh so hard he bursts his stitches. Okay, you up for a chat with Reverend McCamy and his sex slave?”
16
S herlock was fully prepared to greet Rasputin. She wasn’t far off, except that Rasputin had been ill-kempt with long black matted hair, and evidently didn’t bathe often. Reverend Sooner McCamy was dark, those eyes of his nearly black, as a matter of fact. He was charming, if on the aloof side, and that was a surprise to Sherlock. He made eye contact, shook her hand firmly. He was courteous, offering coffee and some cheesecake his wife had made that morning, before church. But somehow he just didn’t seem to be quite all there with them. He was away somewhere, in his head. And what was he thinking? He had a smooth deep voice-charismatic, that voice, it compelled you to listen. It was hypnotic, almost, and after hearing him speak for a few minutes, Sherlock understood his power over people.
This man appeared to have boiled himself down to the very essence of what a man of God should be. He frightened her for the simple reason that she could imagine some people hanging on his every word, maybe doing things they wouldn’t normally do. Or maybe he gave them permission to do things they shouldn’t want to do. Did disobedient wives listen to that voice and jump back on the straight and narrow?
Or was she over the top here? Sherlock didn’t know. But he sure didn’t seem like a man who would open any of those vials and apply the contents to either his wife or himself. He didn’t look like a man who would whip his wife with one of those riding crops with their beautifully braided handles. If he was a Rasputin, if he was evil on the inside, he kept it hidden real deep. Sherlock had to remind herself that there were more layers to people than you could ever guess.
As for his looks, she could only say that if one believed in a handsome Satan, then Reverend McCamy would fit the bill. His black hair was a bit on the long side, a bit curly, and he had a heavy growth of beard, noticeable in the early afternoon.
He looked like a monk whose thoughts were so different from hers that they weren’t even in the same world. He was in his fifties, but there was no white in his hair. Did he dye it? She didn’t think so. He was slender, but that was all she could tell about his body. He was wearing a black suit, a very white shirt, and a black tie. He had good teeth, straight and white.
Elsbeth was very pretty, just as Katie had told her, and that hair of hers was glorious. Thick, rich natural blond, in loose waves down her back. She was wearing her Jesus earrings, as Katie called them. When she walked the crosses swung. She was tall and slender, but big-breasted. What made alarm bells go off for Sherlock was that the woman seemed to look at her husband as if he were a god. She looked like she’d jump up onto that marble slab and offer her wrists and ankles for the cuffs, and yell as loud as he wished when he applied a whip. Sherlock couldn’t help wondering how she used that block of wood with one side padded with thick fur.
“I’ve heard that you’ve had some excitement, Sheriff. The little boy who was kidnapped, you rescued him?”
“Yes,” Katie said as she sipped on Elsbeth’s delicious coffee. “He’s just fine now. How were morning services, Reverend McCamy?”
He said nothing, merely nodded, obviously pleased with how the morning services had gone. He took a cup of coffee from his wife, not looking away from Katie. Elsbeth said, barely above a whisper, “Two new parishioners found God this morning. Two.”
Not by so much as a flick of his eyelids did Reverend McCamy acknowledge his wife’s words. He then turned his attention to Sherlock. “I’ve never met an FBI agent before, Agent Sherlock. Why are you here?” He kept his eyes
