“Now I’ve thought about this a great deal and it strikes me that this is exactly what the Messiah would say. And here’s another fascinating thing: Rabbi Kaduri wrote down the name of the Messiah and promised that after his death the identity of the Messiah would be revealed. This is exactly what happened. He wrote the name down on a piece of paper and put it in a sealed envelope and gave this to one of his followers who opened it after the rabbi’s death. And d’you know something? It turned out that the name that the wisest, oldest, and best-respected rabbi in Israel had revealed to all his followers was the very same name that Christians have known about for more almost two thousand years. Jesus. That’s right. Hallelujah and amen.
“Now, as you can imagine, that gave a lot of the rabbi’s followers a real big problem. No one likes to admit that they made a mistake. And not just any mistake. Imagine it: The rabbi’s revelation meant that they’d rejected their own Messiah, that they’d handed him over to the Romans to be crucified, like it says in the gospels. So what were the followers of Rabbi Kaduri to do in the light of this revelation? Well, I’m sad to say that a lot of them chose to suppress the old rabbi’s posthumous message. But of course, the truth will out. Like I say, I think that’s one of the reasons that Rabbi Kaduri told me about the details of his vision: because he guessed that maybe some of his own followers would try to keep things quiet and because he knew that I’d tell you people about it. And he was right. The name of the Messiah is Jesus, friends, and he’s coming very soon. And when he does, there’s going to be a great reckoning. In the Gospel according to St. Matthew it says, ‘Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. I baptize you with water for repentance but one who is more powerful than I am is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals, he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.’
“I tell you, brothers and sisters, that it’s already started, too—this great reckoning that the Bible speaks of. Things are happening in Israel right now—things that were foretold in the Bible—that prove this to be the case. Political events and historical forces that herald the last days before he comes again. His enemies are already in disarray. The day of judgment is at hand when the unrighteous will be condemned as it says in the Book of Revelation. Hallelujah.”
I glanced at my immediate neighbors as they muttered “Amen” or “God be praised”; I didn’t find them laughable or contemptible because they were ecstatic about something in which I no longer believed myself, but I did pity them. You can bet when people start talking about enlightenment and messiahs that the rock on which their truth is founded can be carried on the back of a mayfly.
I stifled a yawn, wondering how much more of Pastor Van Der Velden’s bullshit I could take without heading for the men’s room; possibly there was someone outside—one of the greeters, perhaps—who might tell me something more about poor Gaynor Allitt. I was about to risk making an early exit when I caught a glimpse of someone who looked a lot like Ruth and, for a moment, I reflected that I would certainly have preferred a vision of my wife to one of God or Jesus; frankly, I wouldn’t have known what to say to anyone or anything more divine than my own wife. But it was Ruth; and now that I was certain of it, I realized I had no idea what I was going to say to her when—as seemed likely—we spoke; naturally, she would assume I had followed her here and be none too pleased about that. And I hardly wanted to tell her I was there on Bureau business; not that she would have believed that for a minute. Equally, there was a strong possibility that she would ignore me altogether and that by speaking to her I would cause an ugly or embarrassing scene. None of this was especially troubling to me, however, compared with the fact that Danny was nowhere to be seen and the apparent significance of the man Ruth was standing next to. He was tall and handsome, and wearing a blue suit that was a bit too large for him in the way that the largest size in the shop is too large for anything other than a four-hundred-pound gorilla or Goliath’s younger brother. He looked like a football player, or a bodybuilder, or perhaps a small building. From time to time, Ruth would glance up at him—he was six and a half feet if he was an inch—as though in search of his approbation, and he would glance back at her and give it with a broad smile. In that respect, at least, they were like any of at least a thousand other couples in that church; just seeing them made me feel like a fish out of water.
Finally Van Der Velden finished speaking. We had yet more prayers and then a hymn before the show was over and people turned toward the aisles and started to head for the exits. That was when Ruth saw me and her face could not have looked less pleased if the outsize boyfriend had trodden on her toe. Pain quickly gave way to irritation as I pushed through the crowd to reach her.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s not what you think. I didn’t follow you. I had no idea you’d be here. Really, I give you my word on that.”
“Listen, buddy,” said the giant. “Don’t make trouble, okay?” He put his King Kong hand on Ruth’s shoulder—a proprietary gesture I didn’t much care for.
“Really, I’m not here to make any trouble, I’m just trying to speak to my wife, that’s all. I don’t know what she’s told you about me, but all you need to do is give me a minute here. All right?”
The big man glanced at Ruth, who nodded back at him. “It’s okay, Hogan,” she said.
“Hogan?” I repeated, in spite of myself.
“I’ll see you back at the car, okay? I can handle this.”
Reluctantly, Hogan walked away, leaving me alone with Ruth and her killing look.
“Where’s Danny? Please tell me how he is.”
“You’re not here on official business,” she said.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I don’t believe you, Gil. I’m not listening to your nonsense. It’s obvious that you must have followed me here.”
“Ruth, honestly, my finding you here is just a coincidence. But now that we’re both here, can’t we just talk for a moment? Please. Did he get any of the presents I sent him?”
“He got them, Gil.”
“Did he like the Xbox game?”
“It was a little old for him, Gil.”
“All kids like the games that are too old for them, honey. That’s just how it is. You just have to go with that.”
“So tell me: What’s the official business that brings you all the way down to Clear Lake?”
“One of the church members here—Gaynor Allitt—is dead. She committed suicide this morning. I came here to speak to someone and see if anyone can explain why she might have done it. You see she was the sub in an—”
But another man—fiftyish, with a broken nose and a pimp mustache—had heard what I said and butted in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing some of what you were saying just now. Did you say Gaynor Allitt is dead?”
“Yes, sir. I did. And she is. Did you know her?”
“Yes, I knew her. My name is Frank Fitzgerald.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald, my name is Gil Martins and I’m a Special Agent with the FBI. If you might give me a moment here—”
“Yes. Yes, I will. In fact, you wait right there, Agent Martins, and I’ll be right back.”
Fitzgerald went away urgently. My eyes followed him long enough to notice that under his coat he was wearing a radio on his hip; it looked more likely than a gun.
“You see,” I told Ruth. “He believes me even if you don’t.”
Ruth shot me a disbelieving look, as if she hoped that the earth would swallow me up forever.
“Where’s Danny now?” I asked again, looking around. “Did you bring him with you today? I’d like to see hi
m.”
“He’s not here. He’s back home. When all this is sorted, Gil, I expect you can, but until then, I don’t want him disturbed. This has been quite upsetting enough for him already.”
“Well, we can agree on that much at least.” I glanced around as people continued to file out of the church. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”
“That’s two things we can agree on.”
“You know, this church, it’s a long way from Corsicana, Ruth.”
“I’m not living there.”
“Oh? Where are you living?”
Ruth looked surprised at that. “At my house on Driscoll Street, of course. Where else?”
Now it was my turn to look surprised. “Is that where Danny is now?”
She nodded. “Gil, you left a message to say you’d moved out, so I took you at your word.”
“Even by your standards, that’s fast work.”
She looked away; it was easier on her eyes than looking at me and my grief.
“Well, who’s taking care of him?”
“He’s spending the day at Robbie Murphy’s house. He’s the boy across the road.”
“I remember. He’s the one Danny hit, right?”
“That was just boys being boys. Really, they’re the best of friends. I’m surprised you even remember that.”
“Of course I remember. I still love you both, Ruth. And I want you back. More than anything in the world I’d like things to be just the way they were before. That means no more atheism, no more Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens, no more stupid irreligious remarks. You have my word on that. I’ll even come back to Lakewood with you.” I shook my head. “Things just got on top of me for a while. You know? Pressure. It got to my head, I think. But I’m all right now.”
Ruth looked pained; she was good at that; Ingrid Bergman in Joan of Arc; but all the pain in her voice was directed my way. It couldn’t have hurt more if she’d used a razor on my ears.
“I believe you, Gil. But we both know you don’t believe in God. Don’t you see? You’d be living a lie and so would I. How long could we keep the lid on all that? Three months? Six? No, it couldn’t ever work. Besides, I don’t go to Lakewood anymore. This is my church now.”
“Ruth, you can’t be serious. These people—they’re even bigger cranks than the ones at Lakewood. You’re an intelligent woman, Ruth. A lawyer. You’re supposed to be hard-headed about these things. Do you really want our son growing up in an environment like this? For Christ’s sake, Ruth—”
“It’s for Christ’s sake that I’m here, Gil. It’s a pity you can’t see that.”
“Don’t do this to me, Ruth. Don’t do this to our boy, please. A boy needs to have his father around. Just like a father needs to see his son growing up. You’re taking all of that away from me. And for what? Because I’m a sinner? Because I’m the chaff that needs to be thrown into the unquenchable fire? Please, Ruth. You may not realize it now, but I promise you’ll regret this. One day you’ll wake up and realize what was lost.”
Frank Fitzgerald appeared at my side again. “Pastor Van Der Velden would like to speak with you, Agent Martins,” he said.
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
I turned to look at the man beside me. Now that I saw him close up again—close enough to smell his breath and see into his eyes—I saw the steadiness and experience in the man, and how deliberate he was, and I knew instinctively that the radio on his hip was a gun after all. Did he wear it for his own protection or the pastor’s?
“Right now he’s busy meeting some of the many people who’ve come along here this evening.” Fitzgerald glanced over one of my shoulders and then the other, as if trying to see if he could pick out a partner I might have brought with me. “But he’s invited you to wait in his private office for a while. Until the last of his parishioners has gone. Would you do that, please?”
Parishioners. I liked that. It made the setup at the Izrael Church sound almost benign, like garden parties and picnics and pink paper packages tied up with fucking string.
“Sure, I can do that,” I said. “No problem.”
I glanced back to where Ruth had been standing, but she’d already taken advantage of this momentary distraction and had disappeared into the crowd.
Fitzgerald must have noticed the disappointment on my face because he touched my arm in a gesture of contrition; at least I think that’s what it was; his grip was as firm as the cinch on a rodeo rider’s saddle. He didn’t let go of my arm until I started to follow him.
“What happened to her?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“To Gaynor. You did say she committed suicide, didn’t you?”
“No disrespect, sir, but perhaps it would be better if my explanation could wait until we’re in the pastor’s office. What happened today was traumatic, to say the least, and I’d rather not go through it all more than once. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes, of course. Then you were with her.”
“More or less.”
“I shall certainly miss her,” he said. “She was a long-standing and much-loved member of this church. And a steadfast Christian.”
“I wouldn’t know about anything like that,” I said.
SEVENTEEN
Frank Fitzgerald walked me through an important-looking door at the top of a flight of stairs; it looked important because it was large and curved like an enormous wooden shield. He left me alone in a high, circular library that was floored in marble and probably designed by an extraterrestrial being with a fetish for brushed aluminum. In the center of the floor, underneath a glass ceiling, was a semicircular desk, and ranged around the room were a series of glass cases containing old illuminated Bibles of the kind that a whole monastery of scribes must have worked on for a lifetime of rainy Sundays. I looked at one of these and told myself that the word of God was a lot more believable when it was written in Latin. Probably the old Roman Catholic Church had been right about that: the minute you allowed people to read the Bible in their native language you were opening the door to interpretation, debate, challenges to doctrine, heresy, and, finally, atheism. There’s nothing like reading the Bible to put you off the whole idea of God and religion.
“That’s an interesting one you’re looking at.”
It was Nelson Van Der Velden and he was alone. He came and stood next to me in an invisible cloud of aftershave and sanctimony. He was taller than I had supposed, with good, clear skin and hard blue eyes. Immediately, I had the strong impression I’d seen him some place before, but where?
“That particular Bible was commissioned by the first king of Jerusalem, Baldwin I, in 1100 A.D., to celebrate the establishment of his new kingdom. What makes it especially interesting from a theological point of view is that it’s only the Old Testament, which has led some to speculate that the monks who illustrated it were also members of the Knights Templar and Manicheans—which is to say that they believed in the dual nature of God and not at all in the divinity of Jesus Christ. Personally, I just think they ran out of time and money—possibly both. But praise the Lord, it is wonderful, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is.” I owned some pretty rare DC comic books myself, but I saw no reason for us to get off to a bad start by telling him that.
“Nelson Van Der Velden,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Special Agent Gil Martins.” I shook his hand and handed him my business card.
He glanced at it and frowned. “Didn’t the little roundel used to be embossed in gold?”
“We’ve had to make some budgetary cuts,” I said.
“Pity. Gold looks so much better.”
“I guess those medieval monks thought so, too.” I nodded at the Bible I’d been looking at.
“The use of gold was intended to represent the multiple grace of heavenly wisdom. But gold served
a higher spiritual purpose, too. It was meant as an act of praise, to exalt the text. Along the way, of course, it did also demonstrate how powerful the owner was.”
“I expect J. Edgar Hoover had something similar in mind,” I said, and showed him my gold shield. “It’s not made of real gold, of course. I wish it was. I’d have hawked it and bought a fake.”
Van Der Velden smiled patiently. “Frank tells me that a member of our church has committed suicide.”
“Gaynor Allitt,” I said. “She jumped from the top of the Hyatt Regency in Houston just a few hours ago.”
“Oh my goodness, that’s awful.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Were you there?”
I nodded.
“How ghastly for you. How ghastly for you both.” He shook his head. “Gaynor Allitt.”
“Did you know her?”
“I’m trying to fit a face to the name. That’s not always easy with a membership as large as ours.”
“How many is that?”
“Eleven thousand.”
“I go to Lakewood, so I know what you mean. There’s almost eighteen thousand there.”
“Oh, man, that’s a good church,” said Van Der Velden. “And Osteen’s one great preacher. The best. He has a real gift.”
I nodded. “Do you remember her now? Gaynor Allitt? Tall, red hair, late thirties.”
He winced. “No. I’m sorry, Agent Martins. Under the circumstances, I wish I could. I feel kind of bad that I can’t.”
“I gained the impression from Mr. Fitzgerald that she’d been coming here for a while. In fact, he described her as a much-loved member of this church.”
“Well, if Frank said that, then I’m sure she was. As our membership secretary, he has a lot more to do with the grassroots membership of the Izrael Church than I do.” Van Der Velden shrugged. “Me, I’m just the front man. Tell me, Agent Martins, have you any idea why she did it?”