As Woods leaves the room, Gus reaches for the remote and flips through the local stations. There’s live video from Sky Harbor and live video from the C-ARC. There are reports from reporters live in the field. The operative word is “live,” as it is plastered across the screen from one channel to the next. All the channels share a fever pitch.
“A story that’s gripping the valley!”
“A dramatic scene unfolding...”
“A shootout at Sky Harbor!”
“An officer rushed to the hospital!”
Gus settles on Channel Four. Aaliyah’s channel.
“... The search at the C-ARC led to a shootout at Sky Harbor International Airport and the arrest of megachurch pastor Gleason Norwood who, police say, was trying to flee.
‘We placed Mr. Norwood under arrest for the murder of Viveca Canning. He will face charges of conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, racketeering, along with a whole host of other crimes currently under investigation.’
That was Phoenix Homicide Sergeant Jacob Woods, interviewed in the past hour. In another shocking twist to this story, the preacher’s excommunicated son, Gabriel Norwood, has also been arrested for his alleged role in the Canning murder. Police say Gabriel Norwood fired the shots that killed the 62-year-old woman, but that he was acting on behalf of his father. Still more startling news is coming out of today’s raid on the church! With more on that and the rescue of Aaliyah Jones, Marco Hidalgo-Suarez is live at the C-ARC.”
Gus sits up. His flesh prickles all over. Blood rushes from his face to his feet, then back up again.
“Marco, what’s the latest?
Well, this is just one of those startling stories that really shocks you! I’m standing in front of the Church of Angels Rising Cathedral, which today could be called the ‘Church of Fallen Angels’ Police say they have discovered what they call the ‘unlawful burial of bodies’ in an area underneath the church. Officials won’t say how those bodies ended up in the church’s basement graveyard nor will they identify the dead, but they do say pastor Gleason Norwood will likely face charges related to this discovery and is already facing charges related to the alleged kidnapping of our own Aaliyah Jones. Jones, who was working on an investigation of the church, went missing about a week ago. She was found alive this morning in that same underground area beneath the church. She was taken to an area hospital for observation. Police say they also discovered several other individuals who were held against their will. In a rare media conference, the chief of the Phoenix Police Department spoke about the grisly and gruesome discoveries.
‘We believe the individuals discovered today were being held against their will in accordance with some kind of church doctrine concocted and enforced by Gleason Norwood, the founder of the Church of Angels Rising. Doctrine or not, these actions were illegal. They amount to kidnapping and false imprisonment. In addition to the other charges Norwood is facing, he will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law’
News Four has not been able to determine the condition of Aaliyah Jones or the other individuals freed from the church. However, since Jones is an employee of our station, you can expect the first exclusive interview with her once she is released from the hospital. Stay tuned. It’s sure to be riveting. Back to you in the studio.
Thank you Marco Hidalgo-Suarez. Great job reporting out there. We’re looking forward to that riveting interview.
Authorities are not commenting further on the murder of Viveca Canning, a former church member herself. In still another shocking twist to this story, authorities say the dead woman’s husband may also have been the victim of murder, and have placed Tucker Charles, a member of the Church of Angels Rising board of directors, under arrest. At this time, police are not commenting on motive or evidence behind any of these alleged crimes. The county attorney has not returned our calls so far today. We will keep pressing for a response as we break into programming to bring you these live reports.
As we reported earlier in our coverage, a Phoenix police officer was wounded during today’s incident. News Four has now learned that homicide detective Alex Mills was shot in the shoulder while attempting to apprehend pastor Gleason Norwood at Sky Harbor. Police would only characterize the wound as serious, but say the detective is expected to survive. No word on his condition from Phoenix Memorial.”
42
It was supposed to be the other way around.
He was supposed to be at Kelly’s beside. He was supposed to be bent over her, fawning. But no. Here she is. She’s sitting in a wheelchair, a portable IV towering above, leaning to him at his bedside. She’s fawning. He’s barely conscious. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“I should have been there for you,” he tells her.
“You are here for me,” she says.
“How did it go? The surgery?”
“You need to rest.”
He turns to her. “How did it go?”
“Fine.”
They’re whispering. She’s exhausted. He can tell. His whispers are drug-induced. He has an IV of Demerol. He was rushed into surgery to remove the bullet, which came out, according to the doctors, without incident. The bullet, however, had already done some damage to the surrounding tissue and muscle. He should be getting out of the hospital in a few days. He’ll need physical therapy. The chief has been by; so has Woods. They’ve told him not to worry, to take all the time he needs to recover. Or maybe he dreamed that, or hallucinated. Who the fuck knows? It doesn’t really matter. He’ll get better when he gets better. Gleason Norwood is going to fry, that’s all that matters. Gabriel Norwood will likely fry too, but perhaps not quite as crisply if he cooperates. Speaking of fathers and sons, Mills thinks he spies Trevor out of the corner of his eye. Maybe a hallucination, because everything is a bit fuzzy now.
“Son?”
“Yeah?”
“Just checking. Not sure if you were here . . .”
Trevor laughs. “I’ve been with you for an hour, Dad. We already talked.”
“Oh.”
“Your father’s hopped up on drugs, Trevor,” Kelly says.
“So, Dad, can you spare a few hundred dollars?”
“Trevor!” Kelly begs.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I just thought this would be a great time to take advantage of him.”
Someone enters the room. Mills can barely make out the figure or even the outline of the person. But as the person nears the bed, Mills recognizes the uniform: it’s a cop. Mills has an officer assigned for security, and the man, Hall, leans over and says, “You have a visitor. He’s insisting on coming in even though we told him you’re having no visitors.”
“Who?”
“It’s your pal, that psychic guy.”
“Gus. Gus Parker?”
“Yeah.”
“Let him in.”
“You sure?” Hall asks. “The doctors said you weren’t supposed to have visitors. And those were my orders from the chief as well.”
“I said let him in. He’s been here all day with my wife.”
Hall nods, shrugs, and retreats. A moment later and in comes Gus Parker, striding toward the bed. “Are you okay?”
“He’s going to be fine,” Kelly says before Mills can answer.
“Thank God,” Gus says. “This could have been much worse . . .” “Is that a psychic hunch or just a cliché?” Mills asks him.
“When have you ever heard me utter a cliché?”
Mills lays his head to one side of the pillow, grins, and closes his eyes. He hears Kelly say, “Looks like he’s dozing off. He’s been doing that off and on since surgery.”
Suddenly the room is cold and still as Kelly begins to weep. “Jesus,” Gus says. “You’ve been through a lot today.”
“Yes,” she says.
“What can I do?” Gus asks. “Can I get you two anything?”
“We’ll be fine,” Kelly says. “You’ve already gone above and beyond.” “Come on, there must
be something I can do.”
“We have Trevor here. This is his chance to prove what a good son he is.”
Mills hears Trevor clear his throat, and this brings another smile to his face. Swirling through his drug-addled brain is the soft, cushion-like assurance that all of his best friends are here in this room, surrounding him, and with that assurance, it’s as safe as it’s ever been to drift away.
A few days later, Gus and Beatrice meet for dinner at Paradise Grill. She’s about to leave on the next leg of her book tour, and Gus tells her he’ll be missing her. Like a doting aunt, she grabs his cheek between her forefinger and thumb and pinches. “You can come join me, if you’d like . . .”
“I’d like to very much,” he says. “But I need to stick around. Alex is supposed to get out of the hospital today. Trevor’s going back to Tucson. I think I ought to help out.”
“You’re a good friend.”
He turns his palms up. “I guess. I know he’d do it for me,” he says. “Maybe I’ll meet up with you in a couple of weeks on tour. Where you headed?”
“New England. I have to get out of this heat.”
“I’d like to visit New England.”
“Then it’s settled,” she says.
“It’s unsettled.”
“How do you mean?”
He’s not sure. But, quite suddenly, it has occurred to him that all is not settled. There are threads hanging, tugging at him actually. One of those threads has a name. Aaliyah Jones. For some reason he’s drawn to her. He says her name aloud, “Aaliyah,” unaware for a moment that he has an audience.
“She’s the one coming through the door,” Beatrice says. “Toward you.”
Gus jolts back. “I told you about that?”
“You did. The day it happened.”
“Oh,” Gus says. “And you think it’s her.”
“I do.”
Aaliyah Jones is supposed to be giving her first interview tomorrow about her kidnapping ordeal. Gus will be sure to watch. Then he’ll be sure to call her.
43
Thank Christ August is behind them. September still swelters, but it’s not the incinerator of August, which explains why Mills and Kelly are meandering through the 25th Annual Tempe Art Festival, alternately admiring and mocking the displays. They roll their eyes at the ubiquitous dreamcatchers. There’s always a painting of a huge pink lily that bears a striking resemblance to the vulva. Always. It’s an art cliché. It’s standard fare. Consistently, there’s also faux Southwestern art and jewelry, silver and turquoise galore. “Did you feel that?” Kelly asks him.
“What?”
“The breeze.”
“Ah, I think you’re right,” he says. “Congratulations for surviving summer.”
He’s been out of the hospital for a few weeks, faithfully going for physical therapy, and he’s been back at work part-time. Kelly tells him he’s rushing it. And he says the same thing to Kelly, who’s been back at work herself for two weeks, but full-time. She’ll start her third week of radiation tomorrow. Then chemotherapy. She dreads chemo, and Mills dreads chemo on her behalf, but her prognosis is good. She may have to cut back some work hours during chemo, but her doctors believe she’ll survive more than the summer, that there’ll be many more seasons in the life of Kelly Mills.
Gus will meet up with Beatrice Vossenheimer next week in Boston. He’s never been to Boston, and he’s looking forward to seeing some of the places where real history was made. He’s already conjuring up visions (tourist visions, not psychic visions) of cobblestone streets, sailboats, and Kennedys. He’ll spend about a week with Beatrice as she promotes her book throughout New England.
It’s almost 5:30 p.m. He’s watching CNN. But he’d better get showered. He told Aaliyah Jones he’d pick her up at 6:30. He had reconnected with Aaliyah not long after her release from the hospital. He had watched the interview she gave her own station about her kidnapping and, in studying her closely, watching the way her mouth moved around her words and the way her eyes stared through the camera into his, he could tell she was sending a message specifically to him. She needed to see him, to talk this through. And so, he called her, and she came by. She wasn’t generous with details; he had to do most of the heavy lifting, but he was able to see her experience as both harrowing and defining. It defined her strength and resolve. They fed her and her fellow prisoners once or twice a day. She was locked away in that box of a room, in the dark, on a sheet upon the floor. She was given one hour a day to come out and talk to the other prisoners. She thought she might go mad. But she didn’t go mad. She wrote poetry in her head to keep her head busy. She knew she’d forget most of it, and she has, but poetry served a purpose. She willed herself to see images of hope and light. And she saw images of hope and light. She willed herself to hear the music of her life, and she heard the music of her life.
She says she never doubted she’d survive in a “big picture” kind of way, but she often felt she would not survive the day. At one point she hoped death would come, only to rebel against her own self-pity. And now Gus is drawn to her more than he had expected to be, more than he imagined. Her resolve does something to him, betters his own. They’re having dinner tonight. It will be their first real date. Tentative, but real. He doesn’t know what to expect. But that’s okay.
“The FBI has confirmed to CNN that it has rescued thirty-seven children from a labor camp-like setting in Sedona, Arizona. The camp is linked to the embroiled Church of Angels Rising, which is said to separate church members from their children for a period of six to eight years for intense study and so-called ‘field work.’ Unnamed FBI sources call the conditions of the camp ‘inhumane’ and ‘abusive.’ In fact, the embattled pastor of the megachurch, Gleason Norwood, already facing murder and kidnapping charges, is set to face additional charges stemming from the Sedona raid.”
Damn. Alex Mills has opened a can of worms that can’t be contained. The world could use a little more Alex Mills, and a little less cable news.
“And Gleason Norwood is not the only member of his family making news today . . . Just in to CNN, a jumbo jet carrying Norwood’s wife, Francesca, and 410 other passengers plummeted more than 15,000 feet during a flight over the Pacific last night. Early reports indicate the plane depressurized midway on Flight 1010’s journey between Los Angeles and Papeete, Tahiti. Also on board, we’re told, rock ’n roll legend Billie Welch, her sister, and a few members of her band...”
Sweat trickles down his forehead, from his temples and down his neck. His skin goes clammy, cold. He sinks to the couch. Closes his eyes. He’s tossed around in the surf, like a rag in a washing machine, a huge wave pummeling, having its way with him. He’s slammed against the rocky bottom.
Had Viveca Canning been on that flight, Gus is sure it would have gone down in the ocean. Her murder had changed the course of events. At least in his psychic mind it had. He has to pull himself to the surface now, wipe off the debris, and survey the damage. Billie must have been scared to death.
“Some passengers were treated for serious injuries, but none of the injuries are considered to be life-threatening. The aircraft was able to make it to its final destination after this terrifying incident.”
They purchased a few pieces of pottery. Nothing too extravagant. Just three matching pieces that eschew the whole Southwestern theme and go deeper south for inspiration, across the border into Mexico. A local artist, Brava Torres, created these pieces to evoke the Day of the Dead celebrations. Kelly says the pottery, which feature intricately carved elements of whimsical skeletons and colorful celebrants, gives her the last laugh over cancer, and that’s all Mills needed to hear. He told her she could buy all thirty pieces, but she said that’d be too much to pay for irony.
He has one hand on the wheel, another hand holding hers. There is something squeezing his chest he can’t explain. It’s not a heart attack. But it has a hold of him, a sort of bittersweet pounding in there. Love, loss, love, fear. He’s not sure but he’s
convinced that heartbreak, either of love or of sorrow, is real.
They pull onto their street and Kelly says, “You feel like Rosita’s Place for dinner?”
And he says, “I always feel like Rosita’s Place for dinner.”
And she says, “Good. Let’s drop off the merch and head out . . .”
“Any chance we can take a steamy shower together first?” he asks her.
“There’s a chance,” she says with a cluck of her tongue and a lascivious wink of an eye. “The new bald look is quite sexy on you.”
He runs his hand over the stubble of his unfamiliar scalp. “It’s the least I could do.”
As they swing into the driveway, Mills can see the profile of a man on their front doorstep.
“Who’s that?” he asks his wife, as if she’s supposed to know all things domestic.
She peers. They’re almost parked before she says, “Oh, shit, what’s he doing here?”
Mills parks and gets out of the car. As he moves closer to the man, he recognizes the demonic smile of Trey Robert Shinner.
“Trey?” Kelly says. “What are you doing at my house?”
The guy rises from the doorstep. Shinner’s pasty skin and greenish eyes give the impression he’s percolating with vomit. “I can’t think of how to thank you for winning my case, Attorney Mills,” Shinner says. “I’m indebted to you for life.”
She shakes her head. “No, Trey. As you know, your trust fund paid the bill.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he persists. “You know how if someone saves your life you’re supposed to be their servant forever more . . .”
Mills scoffs. “Well, that’s the stuff of legend, Trey . . .”
Shinner’s eyes begin to well. Tears are brimming. “No, no,” he begs. “It is not legend. I shall forever be your servant, Attorney Mills. I will spend the rest of my life repaying you for my freedom. What did you buy today?”
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