by Cal Moriarty
Rod, who had been clutching the Bible on the ride over, passed it to Gudsen, who laid it on a book cradle in front of him. ‘They’re in the front?’
‘Yes,’ said Rod, ‘and some entries at the back also.’
Peter turned the page slowly, as if fearing a disappointment in what Rod had briefed him was there, one that might physically wound him. To his side, he had some pages that Clark could see were samples of Rebecca and the other wives’ handwriting. Researching Gudsen, Clark had discovered that he didn’t have any academic credentials in manuscript verification. He certainly wasn’t letting it show. He was well organized. He felt Peter’s gaze land on him: ‘Were you looking for a buyer for this Bible, Clark?’
‘A buyer? Oh. I hadn’t thought that far in advance. I was just keen to see if it was all for real,’ said Clark.
‘Well, thus far, despite the unorthodox nature of our Prophet’s since outlawed domestic arrangements, or maybe because of them, it does seem genuine. From very basic perusal, it certainly looks like Rebecca Hardy-Bright’s handwriting. You’ll easily find a good buyer for this. I just don’t know if it will be the Faith or not. It’s not generally something they would wish to have reminders of.’
Peter closed up the Bible and pushed it back towards the three of them. ‘Where’s the document you think might be the Testament?’
Clark thought Peter was doing better now, playing it much cooler. But, judging by the amount of stuff he’d had time to pull out of the archives, he had left his wife and kids at home the minute he got the call and headed out into the freezing night. Clark knew Peter really wanted to see the Testament. Clark could tell by the way he busied himself folding up pieces of paper, not wanting to look nor make eye contact, not wishing to overly anticipate the unveiling.
Rod, smiling now, pushed the Bible back towards Peter. ‘Where we found it.’
‘In here, still?’ Peter looked incredulous.
‘We thought it would be safer there,’ said Rod. ‘After all, it’s probably been in there, undiscovered, for a hundred and fifty years or more. And it doesn’t seem to have come to any harm.’ Rod prised the outer cover open for him to reveal the manuscript page hidden inside. Rod then passed Peter his tweezers and with the manuscript on the table in front of them, Peter took up a magnifying glass and began to pore over the document. Clark watched as his distorted lens eye feasted faster and faster on every word.
Clark made sure to stand silently as, next to him, Rod and Ron oozed excitement. It was better that way: if his plan didn’t work, the focus of failure would be on the Rooks, Rod in particular, and not on Clark. That way he’d get to try again, another time, another document, but maybe with different companions.
Clark watched as Peter silently picked up the Xeroxed pages and his magnifying glass and began comparing them against one another and then with Clark’s version.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ said Ron. ‘Not back here. The Mission for service, of course, every Sunday without fail. But never beyond that.’
Be quiet, Ron, Clark wanted to say. But didn’t. Instead, he gently took Ron’s elbow and guided him silently away from the table, not wishing to distract the want part of Peter’s brain, or risk bringing it back to the reality of reason.
‘It’s kind of ethereal, isn’t it?’ said Ron, looking skyward.
Clark figured Ron must mean the random beams of fake light streaked across the ceiling and the fact there were stained-glass windows up about forty feet in the air – not so much windows but huge panes of backlit painted glass featuring illustrated highlights of the Good Book.
‘You see here, and here?’ said Peter.
Clark and Ron stepped back to the table where Peter was now holding up Clark’s document.
‘This triangle? Sometimes it’s Phoenician and sometimes it’s Greek. It’s not consistent. It symbolizes the planet Lumina and the gateway to the Faith. So, it may not have been someone from the Faith who transcribed or copied it. There’s a few other examples. But, from what we already know, versions two and three we believe were orally transcribed from memory by someone who had seen version one,’ said Peter.
‘But not seen the original?’ said Rod.
‘That’s correct. Two and three have a lot of the same inconsistencies. Version one hasn’t.’
‘Also,’ Rod was looking at the documents now, ‘it looks as if the hand that drew version one is the same hand that drew this version we discovered.’
He was right, of course. Well, almost. Clark had spent months copying those movements, getting that perfected.
Peter held up their version and his Xerox of version one, as he referred to it.
‘But, and this is where it gets really interesting.’ He put them down on the table and laid version one on top of their copy. He used an upended pencil to indicate a line of symbols at the very bottom of their version. His pencil then hovered over version one. ‘Where version one is torn, all the way across, can you see here?’ They all leaned forward, nodded assent. ‘We can see little hints of a missing line from the bottom. A line that until now we have never seen the original of. But look how the small drawn parts of the symbols, ghosts if you will, from version one are here at the bottom of yours, fully formed.’
‘Amazing,’ said Ron and Rod at precisely the same moment.
‘It is amazing, isn’t it?’ said Peter.
‘Miraculous,’ said Clark as he clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, a gesture the others all copied.
To exactly match those symbols to ones that were used in Phoenician, Egyptian and Greek alphabets, and to which he knew Robert and Rebecca Bright must have had access, had led Clark away from Abraham City and the surrounding state, a thousand-mile round trip to one of Colorado’s most prestigious university libraries, where he had pretended to be a novelist’s research assistant, in search of the secrets of the past. He felt bad when they asked when the book would be coming out. Next winter, he said, and almost believed it himself.
‘Well, looks like you found yourself some treasure, Clark,’ said Ron.
‘But first we need you to get the Bible verified, even if it’s obviously not for us. Once that’s done we can begin verifying the Testament,’ said Peter.
‘Do you do that, Peter, the verifying?’ said Clark.
‘I do, with the help of some Faith scholars here at the library.’
So, no proper forensic testing. Just a few academics and Peter. Clark looked at the others. They all seemed to be sharing the same wide smile. Clark tried not to make his too wide.
21
November 2nd 1983, 9 am
Houseman Residence
Marty waited outside the nondescript house for Al to catch him up on the snowy path. ‘Surprise is the best form of attack. Car on the drive. Lights on downstairs. One upstairs. Told you she’d be here, didn’t I?’
‘We should have called first,’ said Al. ‘What if it’s not her? I got mountains of so-called evidence to wade through back on my desk. You too. And this place ain’t exactly on our doorstep.’
‘It’s her.’
‘Maybe it’s a burglar.’
‘Then this isn’t his lucky day. C’mon.’
Marty knew they’d be there. About now: breakfast time. Knew that Edie Houseman would want to have some kind of normalcy for the kids. She probably hadn’t even told them that their daddy was injured and in the hospital. Might not have wanted to worry them or answer endless questions they didn’t have the ability to comprehend the answers to. Just keep it quiet, all bottled up inside. Then, if you didn’t say it aloud too much, it couldn’t be true, could it?
At the door they rang the doorbell so discreet it dared to be found. Marty, badge in hand, nudged Al. ‘You not a cop today?’
‘Not if it’s a burglar: can’t face the paperwork.’
‘Yeah, and after all those tacos, don’t think you could face the chase.’
Al was just about to reply when the door inched open. A petite, mousy blonde
woman, looked about sixteen, except for the dark shadows underneath her eyes which told another story.
‘Miss, we’re here to see Mrs Houseman,’ said Al. He had obviously bet on sixteen, or was hoping to score some brownie points.
‘I’m Mrs Houseman.’
‘Edie Houseman?’ said Al.
‘That’s correct, Officer.’
Detective, Marty wanted to say, but didn’t. ‘We’re here about what happened to your husband, Mrs Houseman.’
‘Mommy! Mommy!’
Edie turned her face away from them and yelled into the back of the room. ‘Sssh Jack, Mommy’s busy.’
‘Would it help if we came in?’ offered Al.
‘Oh, yes, I’m sorry.’ The door swung open into the living room. She moved fast across the room and scooped up a young boy, maybe four or so, from out behind the sofa.
‘That’s his den, he likes it back there. Always hiding from Mommy. He’s a little devil. Aren’t you?’
‘Little devil,’ the kid repeated.
‘Cute kid,’ said Al.
Parents always liked that.
‘Thanks. May I offer you some orange juice?’
Winter. Snow on the ground. Cold soft drink for the guests. She was definitely a Follower.
‘That would be lovely, thank you, Mrs Houseman,’ said Marty.
‘Ice with that?’
‘No thanks, ma’am,’ said Al as she turned her back on them and headed out to the kitchen.
Marty nodded for Al to follow her. Al shot him a look, but got up silently and followed her out. Marty could feel Jack’s eyes burning through his back. He’d have to stick to a surface search, no drawers or cupboards. In case the ‘little devil’ had a big mouth. There were a few framed photographs: a wedding picture, some baby pictures and a collage on the wall. He started with the collage, peering close to see if there might be anything of interest. There wasn’t. The baby pictures were pretty standard, but he picked up the frames just to check the backs. They were cheap plastic jobs, from some Taiwanese factory. There was a picture of Edie and Clark. He assumed it was Clark. He’d looked kind of different the times Marty had seen him, all bloodied on the street, and all scratched and bruised up, that air thing on his face over at the hospital. And his driver’s license had been different, he’d had facial hair. Clark obviously hadn’t changed that picture for a few years because in this one he was clean-shaven. Marty held it up. Edie and Clark’s faces were in close-up. It was dark. Except for in the darkness there was an unnatural glow, not just from the light of the flash, but from what looked like a neon sign in the corner of the shot. It was so close to Edie’s face it looked as if it was sticking out her left ear. Marty smiled. Nice picture. They were having fun. Not Mission, obviously. She had make-up on. Her hair tonged and flicked. The Faith did not appreciate that kind of preening.
‘Mommy.’
Marty looked around. There was no one in the room but him and the kid who was stood right next to him now, staring up at him. Good thing he didn’t go through the drawers. ‘Mommy. That’s right. And Daddy?’
‘Daddy,’ the kid said, reaching up for the picture.
‘Let’s put it back, keep it safe, hey?’ Marty placed the photo back on the shelf. It was devoid of books or whatever else it was Houseman was selling. Instead, the shelves were filled with little china nick-nacks. There was a small artist’s sketch of Robert Bright, in a more upmarket-looking frame. Marty picked it up. Silver. A good weight. For some strange reason, Robert Bright was wearing a shepherd’s outfit, carrying a crook, and was surrounded by animals up on a desolate hillside. It looked exactly like a picture Marty had seen of St Francis of Assisi when he and Sherri had been on their honeymoon in Italy. A wedding gift from her dad. They had argued the whole time. Marty hated Italy. But maybe it was just the company.
Marty wanted everything to be normal for Drew. He was eight then. So Sherri had tried to keep his routine going, but everything had been falling in on them, collapsing like the walls around a condemned house. Two days after Liss disappeared Sherri had collected Drew from his grandfather’s and taken him to school. She had to collect him at lunchtime, his face streaked with tears, with what all the kids were saying about what had happened to Liss. Those kids didn’t know anything, but Drew was too young to understand that. Marty and Sherri had sat him down, said to him that nobody knew where Liss was, particularly those kids at school. But one day she might be back, walk back in the door just like she’d walked out of it. Marty didn’t know if they were trying to convince themselves or Drew. ‘What about them?’ Drew had asked as he looked outside where what looked like a delegation from every law enforcement agency stood out on the lawn. ‘Do they know where Liss is?’ Sherri had taken the boy straight back to his grandfather’s house. This time the trunk of her car was filled with suitcases.
‘I’m sorry. We had to make fresh. Your friend is good in the kitchen. He cut up all the oranges.’
‘Sorry to put you to any trouble, ma’am,’ said Marty as he picked a glass up off the tray.
‘It’s no trouble. It keeps my mind off —’
‘It can’t be easy,’ said Al.
‘It’s awful. Just awful. My sister’s coming over soon. I’m going back up to the hospital.’ She looked at her watch.
‘We won’t keep you long,’ said Marty. He was still standing by the shelf. ‘Nice photograph. You and Mr Houseman?’
‘Yes, we were in Vay . . .’ she stopped herself. Was she going to say Vegas? That large C, Caesar’s Palace, of course. He knew it looked familiar.
‘Oh, Vegas. Were you staying at Caesar’s?’
‘No, no. No. Sorry. That’s not Vegas. I don’t remember where that was taken.’
Very interesting. Why lie about that? Something to do with having no books, no TV, and serving OJ when it’s minus eight outside. Where would Vegas fit into that life? Maybe she and Houseman weren’t so devout after all.
Al took his cue from the silence that followed: got out his notepad and pencil. ‘On the day of the bombing, ma’am, did you see your husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time was that?’
‘He woke me with breakfast in bed.’
‘Do you remember what time?’
‘Oh, about six am. I was surprised, it’s usually just weekends he does that.’
‘Was there a special occasion?’
‘No. Clark just said he’d done a good deal on something and wanted to celebrate. We had pancakes. And syrup.’
‘Do you know what this deal was?’
‘He’d been out late, working on it.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Probably far. He didn’t say. He woke me up, coming in.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘Two am.’
‘He didn’t say who he was meeting?’
‘No. Clark wouldn’t discuss his business with me. The clients would expect privacy.’
‘And he didn’t say where?’
She shook her head.
Marty saw a handful of invitations on the small desk to the side of Robert Bright as Francis of Assisi.
‘Going to a wedding?’
‘Oh, no. I write those, for couples. It’s called calligraphy.’
Marty held them up, so Al could see.
‘Very pretty. You do all that? By hand?’ said Al.
‘Yes.’ She looked proud now. ‘Fifty cents each.’
Marty moved slowly around, checking what else the room might give up. He moved at a snail’s pace so it didn’t distract her from Al’s questions.
‘That’s a nice little sideline.’
‘It’s great with the kids. It means I can stay at home part-time. Work from in here. It’s fun. Clark and I took the class together.’
‘And your husband, Clark, where’s his office?’
‘Clark’s always on the road. Traveling here and there, with his coins, collector’s items and all that stuff.’
‘Do you have a number, for the office?’
‘Oh, I never call him when he’s at work.’
‘Wish my wife thought like that,’ said Al and they both laughed.
‘I beep him sometimes but only if it’s a real emergency. Like when little Jack broke his arm last summer. I called Clark from the emergency room.’
Marty jumped in: ‘Called him? So, there is a number?’
‘I’m sorry, Officer. I meant paged him. I paged him and he called back the number, the nurses’ station in the ER. They let me use their phone.’
‘That was nice of them,’ said Al.
‘It was. I was so upset. Stupid really. Only a broken arm. “Soon mended,” Clark said when he arrived. Brought Jack some sweets and he soon forgot the arm. Although he got half the neighborhood to sign the cast and cried when they had to take it off.’
‘Could we have your husband’s pager number, Mrs Houseman?’
‘Do you think it’ll help find whoever did this?’
‘Yes, ma’am. We do. We think he might have been going to meet someone.’
‘Maybe the person who planted the bomb?’
‘Maybe. No one’s called here, saying they were due to meet your husband that day?’
‘No. Clark doesn’t get business calls here. His work is really very confidential.’
Marty figured that was Clark’s way of getting out of the house, someplace.
Edie started foraging deep in her bag.
‘Clark was lucky, really. He’s still alive. That poor girl, Bobbi, wasn’t it?’ They nodded. ‘And Brother Gudsen.’
She pulled out a whole bunch of stuff, keys, a tissue, a pen.
‘It’s in here somewhere, my address book, always buried.’