“Not ’til the weekend. You know where the church is?”
“Yeah, yeah! I’ve got it.” She remembered the place with its brick siding, triple spires and tracery windows. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten.”
“Fine.”
He reached for the door. “You’re serious?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, meeting the questions in Tate’s eyes. Someone killed Merritt Margrove and she didn’t think it was Jonas. But who? And why? Someone was calling her, hinting that Marlie was alive. “You bet I’m serious. Dead serious.”
*
“What the hell’s going on?” Thomas, climbing out of the department-issue SUV, eyed the main entrance to the hospital, where, despite the freezing temperatures, a crowd had gathered. Dressed in thick jackets or coats, wool caps and gloves, earmuffs and boots, fifty or sixty people, mostly women in their thirties or forties and standing near the doors, some with backpacks, others with strollers, many with signs that read: ! FREE JONAS!
Wasn’t he already free?
WHO’S THE REAL KILLER?
Well, if not McIntyre, who knew?
WHERE’S MARLIE?
Good question.
JUSTICE FOR JONAS!
Oh, give me a break!
They were chanting and yelling, some actually on their knees in prayer while a couple of security guards were trying to keep them at bay outside the building, snow falling around them. One woman in blond dreadlocks yelled, “We want to see him! Justice for Jonas!”
Another, braving the cold in short sleeves and a vest, with tattoos down two arms and a mop of black hair, yelled, “Free Jonas! Free Jonas!” The chant continued, growing louder, a thirtysomething with a brunette ponytail who looked like a soccer mom screamed, “We want Jonas!”
“Yeah!” another voice chimed in, and the crowd started shoving forward, a wave of people in wool hats, winter jackets, scarves and boots screaming to get inside.
“These are Jonas McIntyre’s fans,” Johnson told him as she eyed the crowd.
“I figured.”
“Apparently there are legions of them, not just in this country but worldwide thanks to the Internet.”
“Holy shit.” Thomas couldn’t believe it. The man was a stone-cold killer, the embodiment of evil, a person who had slaughtered his family in a bloody massacre.
“A fan club on Facebook called for a rally here,” Johnson was saying. “Twitter, too. Other sites. Like TikTok and Instagram. Where’re all sorts of crazy conspiracy theories running rampant.”
“Like what?” he asked, locking the SUV remotely as they made their way through dozens of people who were surrounding the main doors of the hospital, creating a raucous, energized mass. Some appeared calm, others angry, a few much louder than the rest. Those that shouted tended to be closer to the hospital doors, while onlookers hung back. Already a van bearing the logo of a Portland TV station was parked in the crowded lot.
Snow continued to fall. Small flakes swirling and dancing with the wind, catching on hats and in hair, melting on already-red faces.
“One of the theories is that Jonas McIntyre isn’t really here,” Johnson was saying. “That he’s being held by the government in some secret spot.”
“What?” He twisted his head to stare at her.
“You know, conspiracy theories. The government is lying to us.”
“You mean like Roswell, New Mexico, and UFOs?”
“Or who really killed JFK,” she said.
“There’s a rumor going around that he’s somehow going to come down from his room to talk to them.”
“From some secret government spot?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She nodded. “Remember, some of his fans think he’s like some spiritual prophet or god or something.”
“He’s not coming down. Spiritual god or not, he’s under guard.”
“Doesn’t matter. They believe what they believe.”
Thomas wasn’t having any of it as he eyed the mass of people. “If he’s so god-like, why did he allow himself to be locked up for twenty years?”
“Because he chose to?”
“Oh, shit, that’s completely nuts.” He was moving closer to the hospital, Johnson beside him.
“For most people, yeah. But some of his followers think—”
“Followers?” He threw her a glance as they tried to ease through the shoulder-to-shoulder people in the horde, most with cell phones and cameras recording the action.