Though The Light’s website gave little information on Gabriel Clark, other than that he claimed to have risen from the ashes of darkness, assuming I was right and he truly was Garrison Clarkson, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Garrison had grown up in a stately older mansion in Angell, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He came from old money, earned off the backs of autoworkers. His father, Marcel, had begun Wilkens Industries and diversified the family fortune during the stock market boom, increasing its worth exponentially. Garrison had attended the University of Michigan, followed in his father’s footsteps, and climbed to the top. Then in the late 1980s the markets crashed and, according to undisclosed insiders, a family feud ensued. That was about the time Garrison disappeared and Gabriel Clark was created.
If I’d connected the right dots, Garrison Clarkson became Gabriel Clark, a divine preacher and prophet of God.
The early 1990s was the boom of self-discovery. Men and women faced with financial devastation flocked to self-help and motivational seminars. From what I’d pieced together from archived media blurbs, Father Gabriel, as he branded himself based on the archangel, rose to the top. Perhaps ordained, or perhaps recognizing the financial potential, Gabriel traveled about the country conducting free seminars for thousands of participants. Each seminar encouraged only the participants interested in personal success to purchase his materials. According to the IRS, in 1992 sales from his books, manuals, and videotapes topped $10 million.
Near the turn of the century, the same time that Marcel became ill, Gabriel stepped away from the traveling circuit and settled down with The Light. By that time he had a ring of three trusted advisors who were named as members of his advisory commission. Their names were listed on the original application for tax-exempt status: Michael Jones, Raphael Williams, and Uriel Harrison—interestingly, all archangels.
If Uriel Harrison was Uriel Harris, the developer, my circle was complete.
Without evidence, I assumed the feud between Marcel and his son had ended before Marcel Clarkson’s death, because in 2001 Gabriel Clark’s and Marcel Clarkston’s combined net worth was transferred to The Light. On paper, Garrison Clarkson or Gabriel Clark, was penniless.
My theory was that Father Gabriel was still connected to Wilkens Industries, the entity that also owned Entermann’s Realty. It was still a leap, and I was working on the particulars; however, if I was correct, Father Gabriel didn’t live in a run-down church building in Highland Heights. He lived in the mansion in Bloomfield Hills, the one with the landing strip. He also wasn’t penniless, but based on flight plans, flew in a multi-million-dollar plane.
His having the old school building under his control guaranteed its abandoned appearance, and he also had control of the two buildings with the passage between, and the perfect cover for production of anything he wanted.
If I took my theory to the next logical step, and the witnesses’ mother was also correct, there was a connection between The Light and the missing women. I wasn’t convinced it also included the dead women. Perhaps that was me trying to incorporate too much, but I knew that at the very least I had something for Bernard, and that story alone could get him entry to the old school building on Glendale. If the only thing that was being done inside its walls was the making of delicious preserves, then we had a missing-persons story, possible tax fraud of a not-for-profit, and tax evasion of Gabriel Clark/Garrison Clarkson. If instead there was a connection to the drug story I’d originally begun researching, then Bernard Cooper would hit pay dirt. With a week and a half to spare on Bernard’s deadline, this story that had taken me months had the potential to give him national exposure.
Since the pieces were just now falling into place, I hadn’t shared them, but I’d saved everything on my laptop. Each day I also e-mailed the zip files to myself, knowing that in the case of fire or burglary, they’d at least exist in cyberspace. As one last precaution, I backed everything up on a hard drive that stayed hidden in my underwear drawer. Though it seemed excessive, I knew this was big. For that reason I purposely didn’t have any information on my work computer. I feared the server wasn’t secure.
The rush of it all made me almost giddy. I made my way through the medical center in search of Tracy. I found her sitting in the waiting area with her knee bobbing up and down. As soon as our eyes met, she got up and hurried in my direction. My elation evaporated at the lines around her eyes and her furrowed brow.
“Tracy, what is it? Is someone you know . . . ?”
That didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t call me.