Crown of Thorns (Nick Barrett Charleston series)

by Sigmund Brouwer

  An invisible God who holds them in judgment for their wrongdoing.

  No accident, I thought, that the Catholic church of the Middle Ages denied churchgoers access to the Bible by making sure only Latin versions were available. Keep the priests as go-betweens, and allow only the priests the power of the knowledge of what the Bible contained. In my cynicism, I admired this strategy and its effectiveness but saw it clearly and I decided it would not ensnare me.

  Yes, I grew to be an enlightened man of the dawn of the third millennium.

  Then I learned more. For as Francis Bacon said, a little science estranges man from God, but a lot brings him back.

  Bertrand Russell’s famous book was written in the 1930s, before physics and astronomy had pushed science to the frontiers of the truly unknowable. When Russell wrote his book, scientists, including Einstein, believed we lived in a steady-state universe, one that had existed forever. And now? Even atheist physicists and astronomers acknowledge there are questions that cannot be answered, for those answers lie outside of science. More recent science has shown us that the idea of a steady-state universe is

  as inconceivable as that of a flat earth—the same steady-state universe theory cherished in the centuries following Galileo as evidence that the Genesis account was merely a quaint myth.

  As for the God in the sky as omniscient judge of evil actions, it was Martin Luther’s great reformation that broke the historical Catholic church’s stranglehold on politics. When the abuses of wrongful authority and corruption were stripped away from the Catholic faith, once again the power of the love of Christ and his message to humanity was able to triumph in individual lives.

  The radical, civilization-transforming message brought to this world by the man named Jesus was very simple: You do not have to make yourself right to approach God. Rather, approach God and he will make you right.

  When I finally understood this, my own life was transformed. The Creator of this universe was not a vengeful judge of my actions. He was a father—as Jesus had said to his students over and over—who ached for me to turn to him and his love, regardless of what burdens of regret and resentment and guilt

  I carried.

  Yet the fight against a legalistic approach to God that Jesus brought to the religious establishment of his day continues and continues and continues, with the oppressors of each new generation using God as a bludgeon against the oppressed. A bludgeon to give the oppressors power, to give the oppressors wealth.

  And I was face-to-face with one of those oppressors.

  **

  “Since you appear offended that I freely admit the church is a business opportunity for me,” Timothy Larrabee said, “let me ask you: Do you have faith in Jesus?”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t prepared at this moment to argue that it was a different faith than Shepherd Isaiah’s. But Timothy Larrabee brought the argument to me.

  “Because of all my time among the members of the Glory Church,” Timothy said, “I am very familiar with the gospel events. You, too, may recall the moment that Jesus answered a Pharisee who wanted to know the greatest commandment. The reply Jesus gave? Let me quote from Matthew chapter 22. ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.’”

  “Impressive,” I said. “The church is rubbing off on you.”

  He ignored my sarcasm. “Love God and love your neighbor,” he said. “As a nonbeliever, I will admit those two commands are frightening, especially with no other clauses to clarify them. It puts an onus on each of you believers as humans to be constantly aware of how to fulfill those commands. They are wide, boundless commands. Impossible to fulfill with anything near perfection.”

  “I was in the church on Sunday,” I said quietly. “I’m not sure how the public beating of a wife with her husband’s consent fits within either command, no matter how broadly you might try to stretch either.”

  “Exactly my point!” Larrabee thumped his cane down for emphasis. “It is a lot simpler to follow a list of don’ts than to decide what to do. In fact, I will tell you candidly that Shepherd Isaiah’s church is for those who are terrified—whether they admit it or not—of the vastness of the command of love given by Jesus. The people who are attracted to his church want the rules and regulations that will comfort them, even if there are times they seem too harsh. They want the don’ts, not the dos. They want a shepherd with an iron rod and a map of their lives laid out in front of them. Shepherd Isaiah understands that, much as it grieves him at times to wield the iron rod. He truly cares about his flock.”

  He drew a breath. “It is his life’s goal to be their shepherd. There are those on the outside who disagree with his methods. But those outside a flock are not familiar with the flock. The people who are strong and whole are not part of his flock. But the ones who are weak, he does protect. Oddly enough, despite having no belief and no concern but the pursuit of wealth, I respect him for that passion.”

  “Nick?” The voice that interrupted us came from Amelia. She stood at the edge of the courtyard. “I couldn’t reach you in your room, so I thought I’d come by the hotel.”

  I stood, happy and surprised that she’d stopped by.

  “Just a few more minutes,” Timothy Larrabee said. “Please.”

  I held up a hand to Amelia to indicate five minutes. She nodded and retreated back into the hotel lobby.

  “I’ve spent a lot of your time this morning without getting to the reason for my visit,” he said. “But I wanted you to know about me first before I ask what I came to ask. It has to do with my childhood, and with the fact that you came with the offer about the painting.”

  I nodded. “I understand you are willing to pay twenty thousand dollars for it.”

  He frowned. “And you know that because . . .”

  “Are you willing?”

  “Here’s the truth,” he said, after staring at me for a few more moments. “When I was a boy, I stole the painting from my grandmother. I needed money and she refused to give me an allowance. I now understand the financial circumstances that led to her refusal, and my remorse is that much greater because of it. Now, as you know, the painting has resurfaced. I am willing to purchase it and wish for you to be the middleman as you offered.”

  “Why not simply purchase it yourself?”

  “The person I sold it to forty years ago sought me out and has asked an outrageous price. It is a form of blackmail. She has threatened to go to Shepherd Isaiah’s congregation if I don’t pay what she requests.”

  “I would guess most would understand and forgive something you did years and years ago.”

  “No.” Timothy Larrabee shook his head vigorously. “My childhood was more complicated than that. There are other issues that I prefer to leave in the past. I want the painting without the questions it could raise.”

  He stood and leaned on his cane. From his back pocket he withdrew an envelope.

  “Here’s ten thousand dollars in cash. That’s your broker’s fee. I’ll pay up to thirty thousand more for it. If you can negotiate to get it for any less, you can keep the difference. Does that sound fair?”

  “You’re telling me the antique was rightfully hers to sell you.”

  “Correct.”

  I did not want a broker’s fee, but I took the envelope anyway, knowing Angel could use the money.

  “That’s not quite all,” he said. “Now that you’re indirectly in my employ, I have some simple questions for you.”

  “Which are?”

  “Answer my earlier question. Did Grammie Zora send you to me? And what else has she told you?”

  I was about to answer, simply because they were simple questions. Then I thought through the implications. He’d chosen to remain hidden among the congregation of the Glory Church for years already, although he professed no
t to share their fervent beliefs. What he essentially wanted to know was how he’d been found. For all his apparent openness to me, there was something he was hiding.

  I handed him back the envelope. “I’ve decided I would prefer not to be in your employ.” I stood.

  There was one person who could answer all of this. Grammie Zora.

  “You’re a fool,” he said. “Shepherd Isaiah and his flock are fanatics. Fanatics are dangerous. Financially, I represent those fanatics, and you have something that I want. Therefore, I can be dangerous.”

  “That was a threat, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes indeed.”

  I walked away, hoping the weakness of my limp wasn’t too obvious.

  **

  “What would you think about a carriage ride, Nick? We could pretend not to know anything about the city. After all, if I didn’t have my memories here, I would love everything about it.”

  Amelia placed her hand on mine at the breakfast table, where I joined her immediately after the departure of Timothy Larrabee. I enjoyed the softness of her touch. It was part of the roller coaster. Being with her had begun to feel like a dance—

  two steps forward, one back. Was this the woman who had pulled herself away from me the evening before?

  “How about midafternoon,” I said. I really wanted to say yes and go with her now. To succumb to my rush of feelings for her, the sudden gratitude that she’d graced me with her presence and was showing a small degree of physical affection. “There are some things I simply can’t get out of this morning.”

  “I understand,” she answered. She withdrew her hand. “I didn’t give you notice and . . .”

  I took her hand again. “Please. It’s not that I don’t want to see you. I wish I could change things.”

  She relaxed and smiled. “You’ve got my cell number. Call me as soon as you’re free today.”

  Chapter 18

  I believe one of the finest and most underrated locations in Charleston is along the Ashley River, upstream of the Citadel yet close enough to hear the bugles from the parade grounds. Here the egrets appear like ghosts rising out of early morning fog on the river. Here the city noises diminish enough that the splash of jumping fish and the croaking of bullfrogs replace the hum of traffic.

  And here I was to meet Richard W. Freedman, who, according to Kellie Mixson, had been a gardener on the Larrabee estate south of Broad.

  The drive was long and circular, cutting through oak-shaded grounds that would not have been out of place on a country estate. In parking my Jeep, I passed a Jag convertible, a Mercedes SUV, and a Lexus sedan. The automobiles matched Freedman’s white mansion and guest house in ostentation.

  Freedman was a stockbroker who had moved well beyond gardening. Kellie’s report indicated that Freedman was nearly sixty, but he looked much younger. Forty years earlier, he had been in his teens, a puppy in the Evelyn Palmer’s eyes, when he was in the employ of Agnes Larrabee.

  He was waiting for me on his front porch, leaning on the railing as I walked up to the house. I noticed that he noticed my limp. He said nothing, however.

  Richard Freedman’s black face had the angles of an eagle’s. He wore rimless glasses and had the white, even teeth that suggested a major investment in orthodontics. He wore black pants and a tan silk shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to expose a gold Gucci watch on his left arm.

  He beckoned me up to the porch. “Glad you’re punctual,” he said. “I don’t have much time and I don’t think I can be of much help to you.” His voice was surprising high and soft, given that he was not a small effeminate man by any stretch.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “Yeah, it is.” He pointed beyond a short section of reeds at a sailboat on the placid water of the Ashley River. “I love my name. Freedman. Became a family name after the Civil War.

  I think of it when I stand here and wonder how many of my direct ancestors I would have seen going upriver on barges to the rice plantations. I like to imagine how they would have reacted to knowing that one of them could proudly own a place like this one day.”

  Freedman turned to me. “I’ve been able to trace my lineage back to 1805. Amazing, actually, considering how few of our marriages and births were registered and how often families were split when slave owners sold brothers and sisters to different plantations.”

  I nodded neutrally. Any other response seemed inadequate or inappropriate.

  “You’re not a Barrett from the Barrett family, are you?”

  “I am.” I’d introduced myself over the telephone earlier, when I set up the appointment.

  “If I brought out my papers, I bet I could find a place or two in time where your great-great-grandfather buggy whipped my great-great-grandfather for stealing a chicken to feed hungry kids, or maybe sold some of my family like livestock.” He grinned. “What’s your old Jeep worth?”

  Before I could answer, he said. “I’ll write you a check for it for twenty thousand dollars. That’s easily triple what you’d get anywhere else. Interested?”

  “No.”

  “Take it. Buy another Jeep, same old vintage. Pocket the twelve- or thirteen-grand difference. I’m serious now. I’ll write you the check this minute. Be a pleasure.”

  “No.”

  “See? You’ve got as much pride as I do.”

  “Except whatever answer I give you, I’ll feel stupid. And whatever answer you get, you’ll feel like you’ve thumbed your nose at those nineteenth-century Barretts. Would you feel better to have me buggy-whipped for stealing a chicken off your property?”

  He laughed. “Alright. I am obnoxious. But let me tell you, it feels great. And I’m not as bitter as you might guess. Yeah, there are racial issues. But I was born in an America with enough freedom for me to dream big and reach what I wanted to reach.”

  “The gainful possession of enough wealth to casually humiliate white strangers.”

  “Exactly.” He laughed again then glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. In Charleston, you should be late for everything, but tee times are the exception. And I went to a lot of work to force this club to take me in as a member. Drives them nuts when I show up with a couple of black friends.” Another grin of triumph. “Love America. Love capitalism.”

  “Me, too. And I don’t golf.”

  “Smart man. Golf’s addictive.” Freedman frowned. The small talk was over. “What do you need? You said over the phone it had to do with Agnes Larrabee and the time I spent there as a gardener’s assistant. Not many people know about those days. Nor will they, correct?”

  “Correct,” I said. “It was a lousy way to force you into this meeting.”

  Over the phone he’d been reluctant. I’d merely asked him how much he might like for his business associates and clients to learn about his days as a gardener for a rich old white woman.

  “How’d you find out?” he asked, still frowning.

  “Evelyn Palmer mentioned your name. She remembers you as a teenager there.”

  “Evelyn!” The smile returned. “She was twice my age and every time I walked past her, she would slap my backside and giggle. It was about the only thing I liked about working there. Old Agnes Larrabee was a weird duck. Always spying on us to make sure we weren’t lazy. Stingy? She could hear a penny drop from a mile away.”

  “How about Timothy? Her grandson.”

  “Timothy . . .” Freedman gave it some thought. “There were those who thought he was snooty, and he had his moments. Can’t blame him, knowing what Agnes did all the time.”

  “What Agnes did?”

  “Insisted on perfection. In everything. Like he was going to grow up to rule a country. Poor kid. I’d tell him about sitting at the side of the river fishing with my father, and he’d soak it all up, eyes wide, like he was aching to get out of that prison just once.

  I think he looked up to me like an older brother, which was ironic because Agnes treated blacks like they were convenient machines. I ha
ted it so much, I almost went to the authorities to report

  her for child abuse. But I didn’t. I kept waiting, because they wouldn’t have believed me, a black kid. And before I could work up the courage to do it anyway, she died.”

  “Child abuse?”

  “Timothy had no one to talk to. Except me. Once he told me how they used to punish him. It broke my heart. The only good part about the story is how it made the kid tough. I really remember that, how he told me he finally stopped being so afraid of them.”

  “You’ll tell me now?” I asked.

  “Why not? She’d dead. He’s gone. It’s not like I’ll be liable for a slander lawsuit, is it?”

  **

  “Please,” Timothy said. “Not again. It makes me cry.”

  Samson led Timothy up the stairwell. His massive right hand engulfed Timothy’s wrist and fingers. Samson was prepared to drag Timothy if the little boy’s begging became actual physical resistance.

  But Timothy was only four. He was still as compliant as a puppy that returns to the master after each whipping, quivering for any signs of affection.

  “Please, Mr. Samson. I won’t make Grams angry again.”

  “You done what you done. And it’s my duty to follow Mizz Larrabee’s orders. You know Mizz Larrabee don’t abide with no pets. No animals. And what you was thinking, keeping a mouse in a box . . .”

  “Please. No.”

  Samson tightened his grip as they reached the top of the stairs, always expectant of the day the boy would finally pull away. Instead, Timothy straightened. A tiny soldier stiffening with pride at the approach to a firing squad. But his resolve faltered as Samson took him past the door to the Jesus room.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.” Timothy let all of his weight collapse. Terrified as he was, his obedience to disciplinary actions was so ingrained that his only attempt at escape was passive. He did not struggle to escape. Simply closed his eyes as Samson dragged his limp body toward the end of the hallway.

  Timothy began to shake with sudden sobbing. As Samson had dragged him up the stairs, Timothy had hoped for the Jesus room. If only it were the Jesus room, it would be just a good whipping. Much as he hated the Jesus room, Timothy preferred