Prayer

  All of the people seated around me smiled or nodded in agreement; one of them shook my hand; and I felt real welcome—almost.

  “Praise the Lord,” said Van Der Velden. “One of the things I like most about the gospels is God’s sense of humor. The way he turns stuff around on the people who are trying their hardest to trip him up. Me, I always imagine there’s a twinkle in his eye when he outsmarts them. And it’s one of the things that makes the Bible such a great book to read, isn’t it?

  “Yes, sir, I love my Bible. I read a lot of other stuff, too. Sports, of course. But I also read a lot about science: Popular Science, Scientific American. Richard Dawkins. Stephen Hawking. No, really. You might say that I like to keep a close eye on what the opposition is up to.” He chuckled again; and so did the congregation. “One of the things that amuses me about scientists is the way they’ll twist themselves into knots to look for a scientific explanation for something that is staring them in the face. You’ve heard of the expression ‘nature abhors a vacuum.’ Well, so does science, which has spent almost three thousand years trying explain the idea of empty space in the universe. Aristotle said the universe was filled with an invisible medium he called the ether. So did Sir Isaac Newton. If you’ll permit me another joke, it was Newton who first made something out of nothing, with his laws of motion in space.

  “Today, you’ve got quantum physicists trying to get us to take them seriously when they come up with what are some pretty nonsensical conclusions about that same space, which they now want us to call dark energy. They tell us now that a quantum vacuum is a vacuum that isn’t really a vacuum on account of the fact that it contains an infinite amount of this same dark energy. Dark energy is what you’d have left after you take out all of the galaxies of stars and planets that—some of these scientists will tell you—amount to about 70 percent of the mass of the universe. And of course, some think that and some think this and about all they can agree on is that they don’t agree about anything very much. More than a few of these scientists even want us to accept the idea that they may actually need to come up with a whole new physics just to reconcile all of the contradictions that exist in the physics we already have. And let’s not mention all of the money they want to spend. They’ve already blown millions of dollars inventing something called the Large Hadron Collider to find out about, you guessed it—nothing. It’s a mystery, they say, this nothing. Because while nature seems to abhor a vacuum, it doesn’t seem to mind a quantum vacuum. So that’s all right, then.”

  Van Der Velden chuckled again.

  “Can you imagine the howls there would be if Christians did that? If we came up with a whole new Bible to explain some of the things they say we can’t explain? We’d never hear the end of it, would we? Now, if all of this seems like much ado about nothing, then you’d probably be right. Because I think you’ll agree with me that Christians already know what to call this invisible energy in the universe. We already have an explanation for how to make something out of nothing. And we sure don’t need a new physics to do it. There’s nothing mysterious about the identity of this invisible force, is there? We sure don’t call it dark energy, or a quantum vacuum, or the uncertainty principle, or the Higgs particle. Maybe one of those scientists was beginning to get the idea when he called it the God particle. But then we knew about that all along, didn’t we? We’ve already got the best explanation in the world for how to explain what can’t be explained. We’re talking about God. If those scientists are happy with a big fat nothing in their lives, then so be it, but me, I prefer something better. If you want a reason for why everything happens in the universe, you sure can’t beat Almighty God. They’ve all been looking in the wrong place. Because all of the answers to the universe and everything are right under our noses. They’re in the Holy Bible. This Bible.”

  Van Der Velden grinned and held up his Bible, which seemed to be the cue for everyone in the congregation to stand and do the same, and to repeat a mantra that sounded as if he and they had said it many times before. I stood up and considered holding my FBI ID wallet in the air—in its black leather cover it was almost as big as a small Testament—and then rejected the idea as perhaps a provocative step too far; so I folded my arms and waited.

  “Because I believe that this Bible contains the revealed and incorruptible word of God,” they all said. “I believe what the Bible tells me—”

  “That the Father Almighty created heaven and earth,” said Van Der Velden.

  “I believe what the Bible tells me,” said everyone.

  “That by him all things are made through Christ our Lord, who was crucified for our sins, that all prayers are answered,” said Van Der Velden.

  “I believe what the Bible tells me,” said everyone.

  “That Christ rose from the dead and ascended into heaven.”

  “I believe what the Bible tells me.”

  “That he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.”

  “I believe what the Bible tells me.”

  “About the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. Amen. Let me hear it: Did you receive the message today?”

  “Yes,” they clamored.

  “Let me hear it: Did you receive it today?”

  “Yes!”

  “Amen and praise the Lord. Thanks for coming. Thanks for listening. Bless you all.”

  The organ struck up with something loud and grand, the choir joined in as if the Messiah had phoned in to say he was on his way, and the service was over. People started to shake my hand and to clap me on the shoulder as if I were the prodigal son.

  “I guess you must have come straight from work,” said one.

  “You on duty after this?” said another.

  “Something like that,” I answered politely, and made my way toward the figure of Frank Fitzgerald, Nelson Van Der Velden’s gatekeeper.

  Fitzgerald was standing by an elevator at the back of the church auditorium that led up to the pastor’s Bond-movie suite of offices. He was stockier than I remembered and, what with the black suit and the broken nose and the earpiece and the way his hands were clasped in front of him, he looked less like a church elder and more like a security guard in a nightclub. He regarded me with distaste and, given the way I was dressed, I couldn’t exactly blame him.

  “Kind of discourteous, don’t you think—you dressed like that to come in here?” He turned and operated the elevator with a key. The doors opened immediately. “This is a church, mister, not a crack den.” He inserted the same key, and when the doors closed, he pressed the only button.

  “Haven’t you heard, Frank? Religion is the opium of the people. Good for keeping people quiet.”

  “So is television. You might just as well ask people to stop being human as hope they’ll ever give up the things that make them feel happy.”

  “Religion sure didn’t make me happy.”

  “And so now you’re what? An atheist?”

  I nodded.

  Fitzgerald snorted his contempt. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Just fine,” I lied.

  Fitzgerald said something, but the sound of the doors opening again meant I didn’t hear it; either that or I wasn’t meant to hear it.

  “You’ll have to leave the hog’s leg with me,” he said. “If you want to see the pastor.”

  He ushered me to go ahead of him into Van Der Velden’s office.

  “No can do,” I said. “This stays on my hip even when I’m in the shower. That’s just Bureau regulations.”

  “The pastor’s got his own regulations, too,” said Fitzgerald. “This is where I come in.”

  I might have ignored him except that there was a SIG Sauer automatic in his hand. It had a little American flag engraved on the side and it was pointed at me.

  “Guns make him nervous,” he added.

  “Maybe we have something in common af
ter all,” I said. “Guns make me nervous, too. So why don’t you put that one down before you get yourself into trouble?”

  “No, it’s you who’s in trouble, my friend. Mr. Brick Agent operating on his own. You’re not supposed to do that, are you? Just in case someone gets the drop on you like this?” He winced. “I know. You see, when I’m not here looking after the pastor, I work for the Department of Homeland Security. Coast Guard.”

  “So you’re kind of like a bodyguard.”

  “No, I am a bodyguard. About the only place I don’t watch out for him is when he’s preaching and when he’s playing tennis at the Houstonian Club.”

  So that was where I’d seen Van Der Velden, at the Houstonian Club; and the reason I hadn’t recognized him before was that he’d been dressed in tennis whites.

  “I’d do as he says if I were you,” said a voice.

  I glanced around and saw Nelson Van Der Velden come into the enormous room.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald can be a hard man to contradict. Especially with a weapon in his hand.”

  “That’s not a very Christian outlook he’s got there,” I observed.

  “On the contrary,” said Van Der Velden. “In the Book of Nehemiah it says of the Jews who were building the walls of Jerusalem, ‘Those which were building the wall, and those that did bear burdens, with those that loaded, every one with one of his hands wrought in the work, and with the other hand held a weapon.’”

  “Well, gee, I guess that’s all right, then,” I said. “You know, if he takes his orders from you, then it could be said you’re going to be in the same shit he is.”

  “Here,” he said, coming over to my back and calmly taking the Glock from my holster. “Let me help you with that.”

  I might have stopped him but for the SIG that was still leveled at my head; and I didn’t doubt that Van Der Velden was right about Fitzgerald; he had the air of a man who knew how to use a firearm.

  Van Der Velden lifted the automatic, dropped the nineteen-shot magazine into his hand, and began to shuck the shells into his desk drawer. Clearly, he knew what he was doing, too, but then, in Texas even babies can handle a firearm and sometimes do. When the magazine was empty, he slotted it back into the Glock and returned the gun to me.

  “You know, I can’t remember if the Reverend Billy Graham employed a bodyguard, but I’m betting not,” I said.

  “I’ve had death threats.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why.”

  “I really don’t think understanding is your strong suit, Agent Martins,” observed Van Der Velden. “Otherwise you’d hardly have turned up in my church looking like that. What’s the big idea? Were you trying to be offensive?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Are you wearing a wire, perhaps?” asked Van Der Velden. “Frank?”

  I shook my head, but Fitzgerald went ahead and searched me for one all the same.

  “He’s clean.”

  Fitzgerald holstered his gun and, with much less grace, so did I.

  Van Der Velden glanced at his bodyguard. “It’s all right, Frank. You can go. I don’t think Sergeant Sunday is going to try to arrest me now.”

  He shrugged at me.

  “That’s what it looks as though you were planning to do. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “If it is, then you’re resisting arrest, and you’re in a lot of trouble, Pastor. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve suggested that,” said Van Der Velden. “And it doesn’t sound any more plausible the second time.”

  Fitzgerald nodded at his boss and left the room.

  “You see, Agent Martins,” added the pastor, “right now, it’s your word against a man of God’s. A man of God who has some social standing in this state.” He smiled and sat down behind the desk. “Somehow I don’t think that your superiors are going to take kindly to your being here, dressed like gangbusters. After all, I’ve got about eight thousand witnesses to your insensitivity. That’s not the FBI way, is it? Not since Waco. And aren’t there some operational guidelines on how you people handle an investigation when a church is involved? I believe you’re obliged to seek the approval of your own legal counsel.”

  “You’re very well informed, Pastor.”

  “After our last meeting, I had my lawyer check up on exactly what you’re allowed to do.”

  “I’ll bet you did. But since you bring them up, I’d only be in breach of those operational guidelines if I was investigating you undercover; and I’m hardly that, am I?”

  “No, I agree. You could never be described as acting undercover.” He nodded. “Yes. Now I begin to understand your thinking, perhaps.”

  “There’s that,” I said. “And the fact that maybe I wanted to get a reaction out of you, Van Der Velden.”

  “Which begs the question, why? The last time you were here, I think I answered all of your questions about the unfortunate Miss Allitt very politely, did I not?”

  “You were very polite,” I said. “Just not very truthful.”

  “I don’t doubt that you have a good reason for saying that, Agent Martins.”

  I tossed him the thumb drive on which Ken Paris had made a digital copy of Esther Begleiter’s recording.

  “This is my good reason. A little home movie Gaynor Allitt made before she killed herself. I made you a copy of your very own.”

  “I assume this movie has something to do with me,” said Van Der Velden.

  I nodded.

  “I also assume that you mean me to watch it now, is that right?”

  “That’s right, Pastor.”

  “And I will gladly do so, if only to humor you, sir; after that, I will even answer any tiresome questions you may have regarding this unfortunate woman and put your mind at rest regarding my relationship with her, following which we can perhaps both get back to our respective lives as quickly as possible. Is that satisfactory to you?”

  “Entirely. You express it very clearly, Pastor.”

  “That is my calling, Agent Martins. Just as it is yours to be a royal pain in the ass.” He held up the thumb drive. “I can just plug it in, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Computers are not my strong suit.”

  Van Der Velden flicked the cordless mouse on his enormous desk and awakened the screen of his computer; then he leaned below the desktop to fit the thumb drive into a USB port.

  “I’d have thought it would take some expertise to be able to send one of your prayer victims an anonymous self-destructing e-mail,” I said.

  Van Der Velden ignored me for a moment. He moved the mouse on a mat that said TAKE IT TO THE LORD IN PRAYER: BUT DON’T GET UPSET IF HE DOESN’T SAY YES, clicked on the file containing Esther Begleiter’s video, placed a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his face, and leaned back in his expensive office chair.

  “Is that what she alleges? Miss Allitt?”

  I had to hand it to him. He looked as cool as if I had just accused him of arguing that the Earth is round.

  “Watch the video.”

  As the film began and Van Der Velden heard Esther describe him as an “arch practitioner of evil,” the pastor shot me a reproachful look that was about as fake as his alleged visions of the Messiah.

  “I don’t mind listening to some criticism of myself and this church—we live in a democracy, after all—but I really don’t see why I should be abused while I’m doing so.”

  “Just watch the video,” I said patiently.

  Van Der Velden made a holy-looking steeple out of his fingers and tapped them together thoughtfully. Most of the time he paid the film close attention and, once, he even wrote something down. It was probably a note for his lawyer when he contacted the Bureau to complain about me, to tell Chuck that I was a disgrace to the Bureau and sacrilegious, too—that I deserved to be suspende
d or investigated myself. I was ready for that. I figured that my so-called mental condition—occasioned by too much overwork leading to the successful arrest of the HIDDEN group and the prevention of a terrorist atrocity on the streets of Houston—would probably be enough to get me off the hook with maybe not much more than a severe reprimand. Maybe.

  What I wasn’t ready for was what happened next.

  Please, said Esther Begleiter, in her last words to camera, stop them if you can. For me? But be careful, too. You have no idea of what you’re dealing with.

  Van Der Velden nodded as if in appreciation of what he had just sat through and then switched off his Windows Media Player. He was smiling a strange sort of smile.

  “That’s for sure,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You undoubtedly will be, Agent Martins, before this week is out.”

  I grinned. “This is the bit where you tell me that you’re going to report me to my superiors. Go right ahead, Van Der Velden. I’ll take my chances.”

  Van Der Velden laughed. “I’m not talking about any earthly superior, Agent Martins. After watching Miss Allitt’s home movie, surely you must realize that.”

  “Oh?” I smiled.

  “I thought you believed in God.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “You did. The last time we talked you said you worshipped over at Lakewood Church.”

  “No, I said I went there. But I stopped worshipping there a long time ago.”