Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

eyes.”
    “No weapons. All clear …”
    Cathy stared at the distant figures, now receding to little more than ghostly shapes. Without a word, she, too, walked through the open gate.
    Jane followed her.
    They moved between rows of buildings that stood silent and dark, following in the boot prints of the police team. Ahead, Jane saw candlelight glowing warmly in the assembly hall windows, and she heard music, the sound of many voices raised in song. It was a sweet and ethereal hymn that soared heavenward on notes sung by children. The scent of wood smoke, the promise of warmth and fellowship, beckoned them toward the building.
    They stepped through the door, into the assembly hall.
    Inside, a multitude of candles lit the soaring space. A congregation of hundreds filled gleaming wood pews. On one side of the aisle sat the women and girls in a sea of pastel dresses. On the other side were the men and boys, clad in white shirts and dark trousers. A dozen law enforcement officers had gathered at the rear of the hall, where they stood looking about uneasily, uncertain how to proceed in what was clearly a house of worship.
    The hymn came to an end, and the final, thrilling notes faded. In the silence, a dark-haired man emerged onto the stage and calmly surveyed his congregation. He wore no priestly robes, no embroidered shawl, no ornaments that set him apart as different or special. Instead he stood before them garbed in the same clothes as his followers, but the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, as though in preparation for a day’s labors. He needed no costume, no eye-catching glitter to hold the crowd’s attention. His gaze alone, so intense it seemed radioactive, riveted every pair of eyes in the hall.
    So this is Jeremiah Goode, thought Jane. Though his hair was shot through with silver, it still looked like a young man’s mane, thick and leonine, falling almost to his shoulders. On this gloomy winter’s day, his presence seemed to give off as warm a glow as the flames leaping in the hall’s enormous stone hearth. In silence, he surveyed the audience, and his gaze finally settled on the police officers standing at the rear of the hall.
    “Dear friends, let us all rise to welcome our visitors,” he said.
    As if they were a single organism, the congregation rose in unison and turned to look at the strangers. “Welcome” came the chorus of greeting. Every face looked scrubbed and pink-cheeked, every gaze wide-eyed with innocence.
Wholesome and healthy
was the picture here, the portrait of a contented community united in purpose.
    Again, in unison, they all sat down. It was an eerily choreographed movement that set off a simultaneous creak of benches.
    Lieutenant MacAfee called out: “Jeremiah Goode?”
    The man onstage gave a solemn nod. “I am Jeremiah.”
    “I’m Lieutenant David MacAfee, Idaho State Police. Would you come with us, sir?”
    “May I ask why this show of force is necessary? Especially now, in our hour of distress?”
    “Distress, Mr. Goode?”
    “That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Because of the atrocities committed against our poor brethren in Kingdom Come?” Somberly, Jeremiah looked around at his congregation. “Yes, friends, we know, don’t we? Word came to us yesterday, the terrible news of what was done to our followers. All because of who they were, and what they believed.”
    In the audience, there were nods and murmurs of sad agreement.
    “Mr. Goode,” said MacAfee, “I’m asking you again to come with us.”
    “Why?”
    “To answer a few questions.”
    “Then ask them here and now, so that all may listen.” Jeremiah held out his arms in an extravagant gesture toward his followers. This was grand theater, and he was center stage, with the hall’s arches soaring above him, and the light from the windows beaming down on his face. “I keep no secrets from this congregation.”
    “This isn’t a matter for a public forum,” said MacAfee. “This is a criminal investigation.”
    “You think I don’t understand that?” Jeremiah stared at him with a gaze that seemed to sear the air. “Our followers were
murdered
in that valley.
Executed
like sheep, and their bodies left to be torn and devoured by wild animals!”
    “Is that what you heard?”
    “Is it not the truth? That forty-one good people, including women and children, were martyred because of what they believed? And now you come here, invited through our gates. You men with your guns