by John Lutz
He pushed through the tall glass doors into the Clear Connection and was immediately struck by the pure white light that infused the building. What little wall space there was had been painted pristine white, and gray carpeting with a white fleck pattern ran down the two main center aisles toward a bleached-wood pulpit. The pews were also bleached wood, of a lighter shade than the pulpit. Behind the pulpit was a crucifix that at first appeared to have been carved from ice but was actually glass. It picked up the colors of the flowers arranged on either side of the pulpit and seemed to glow with crystalline life. Despite all of the glass and sunlight, the church was cool almost to the point of being cold. The air-conditioning system made a low hum that would be inaudible when there were people here and a sermon was being directed from the pulpit. To the right of the glass crucifix was a wide alcove and a small door that led farther back into the building.
“Hello?” Carver called. His voice seemed to be fragmented and muted by the light, sent in all directions but not very far.
After a few minutes, the door in the alcove opened and a man about sixty with a flowing mane of white hair stepped out and smiled at Carver. He was wearing a cream-colored suit, white shirt, and blue tie and was slightly stooped as he walked up one of the center aisles to where Carver stood at the rear of the church.
As he drew nearer, he got older. Loose flesh hung at the sides of his jaw, and his kindly eyes were faded and surrounded by a web of fine creases in his tanned flesh. Carver changed his estimation of the man’s age to at least seventy. “Can I help you?” His voice was soft and sincere, as if Carver had come in for solace and he was eager to comply.
“I’m looking for Reverend Freel.”
The man’s gaze went to Carver’s cane. “Have you been injured?”
“Long ago.”
“Perhaps we can help you here.”
“No,” Carver said. “Doctors have told me this is permanent.”
The man smiled. It was an incredibly kind and wise smile. “We don’t do faith healing here, sir. I meant perhaps we could help you with your acceptance and your faith.”
“Maybe some day,” Carver said, making it sound sincere. “Is Reverend Freel available?”
“I’m Jergun Hoyt. Perhaps—”
“I’m afraid only Reverend Freel will do,” Carver interrupted.
“And you are?”
“My name is Fred Carver. I’d like to talk to the reverend about a private matter.”
Jergun Hoyt studied him with his faded, kindly blue eyes made to seem wiser by the crow’s-feet at their corners. “Reverend Freel isn’t in today, Mr. Carver. If you could leave a message—”
“Where might I find him?”
The crow’s-feet extended and deepened as Jergun Hoyt smiled wider. “Oh, I’m afraid he’s unavailable. You must understand that many people walk in here and request an audience with him. Though he’d love to, he simply can’t comply with them all. That’s why if you were to leave a message, or phone for an appointment, it might be better for you.”
“What exactly is your position with the church, Mr. Hoyt?”
“I’m the reverend’s assistant. During services I lead the choir, and I tend to the church in Reverend Freel’s absence.”
“A sort of sinecure?”
Hoyt smiled tolerantly. “A sinecure is paid much to do little, Mr. Carver. I take care of quite a bit of the church’s business, much of it of a financial nature, and my work is strictly voluntary. I retired to Florida five years ago after a long career in the banking industry.”
Carver considered asking for Freel’s home address just to see if Hoyt would refuse, then decided against it. Hoyt might alert Freel, and Carver had the address in the file Desoto had given him anyway.
“I’ll take your advice and phone later,” Carver said and thanked Hoyt for his time.
Hoyt stood, stooped and still smiling, watching as Carver limped from the church. Carver thought that if it were possible to smile your way into heaven, Jurgen Hoyt would be high among the angels.
Surprisingly, Reverend Freel’s house was rather modest, secluded behind a stone wall and lush foliage but with a shallow front yard. There was an unlocked gate, which Carver opened, at the mouth of the driveway.
Leaving the Olds parked in the street, he walked up the driveway to the house and onto the front porch. At least Freel didn’t use his congregation’s donations to treat himself to a high lifestyle. Unless he had other property in other cities under other names, not to mention investment portfolios. For some people, life was a game with mirrors.
The house itself was a white clapboard structure, well kept up, with dark blue trim and an aluminum screen door. A radio or TV was on inside; Carver thought it was probably a TV soap opera but couldn’t be sure. When he pressed the doorbell button, the incomprehensible dialogue between a man and woman abruptly stopped.
A small woman in a white dress approached behind the dark screen door. She opened it to see Carver more clearly, and revealed herself to his gaze. She was pretty but with coarse features softened by dyed blond hair piled high on her head and combed in wild little wisps around her ears—the cotton-candy blond Desoto had described. Beneath the white dress, her figure was beginning to thicken with middle age. He guessed she was in her late forties.
“Belinda Lee Freel?” he asked.
“I am.”
“My name’s Fred Carver. I dropped by the Clear Connection to talk with your husband and they told me he could be found here.”
She smiled. “Well, this is where he lives.” She had a hint of southern accent.
“Then he’s home?”
“I surely didn’t say that. Just why do you want to talk to him, Mr. Carver?”
“It has to do with the Women’s Light bombing in Del Moray.”
Her darkly made up eyes narrowed. “Would you be another reporter?”
“No, I wouldn’t be,” Carver said honestly.
“Police?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“A woman I—a woman carrying our child was injured in the bombing.”
She let the screen door shut and backed away a few steps, retreating into shadow. “Are you dangerous, Mr. Carver?” she asked in a tone she might have used to inquire about the weather.
“No. Not to you or your husband, certainly. There are just some questions I need to have answered.”
“Are you attempting to prove Mr. Norton guilty?”
“I don’t think the authorities need me to do that, Mrs. Freel.”
“The authorities are in league with evil, standing in the way of God’s work.”
“Norton and the rest of the demonstrators were from Operation Alive. I understand your husband organized the demonstration that day.”
“My husband has a mandate from God, Mr. Carver. I do think I fear you. I fear for him.”
A larger form took shape beyond her, behind the screen. “I don’t believe we have anything to fear from Mr. Carver,” a resonant male voice said.
“He’s an agent of the devil,” Belinda Lee said.
“I hardly know the devil,” Carver lied.
“I am Reverend Freel,” the male voice said. “Meet me around back of the house, Mr. Carver, in the garden. We can have that talk you want. Perhaps I can help you in some way.” He sounded as if he sincerely wanted to help, just like Jurgen Hoyt.
The door behind the screen door closed.
Carver left the porch and limped along a stepping-stone walk that led alongside the house and to the backyard. An iridescent green hummingbird hung suspended on the bright blur of its wings before a red feeder mounted on a pole, then whirred away in an abrupt, flat trajectory like a jade bullet. Butterflies flitted about in the flowers bordering the walk.
It was a surprisingly large backyard, and private. The grass smelled as if it had recently been mowed. A tall stockade fence followed the property line except for a space in back that allowed a view of trees and a small lake. Gardenia
bushes grew along the fence on both sides of the yard. In a corner formed by the fence in the back of the yard were two concrete benches in the shade of a tree.
“Mr. Carver, how nice to meet you.”
Freel had come out a back door and was standing beside Carver. He was a tall man of about fifty, with black hair going gray at the temples. He had a chiseled face and large, bulbous forehead. His eyes were gray, friendly but calculating, and remotely amused. There was a curved scar near the right corner of his thin lips. Carver had seen scars like that left by broken bottles used as weapons. Freel was wearing gray slacks that draped like expensive cloth, a white shirt with a button-down collar, no tie. On his feet were gleaming black loafers with pointed toes.
“Do come sit,” he invited, leading the way to the benches beneath the tree. “I could have Belinda bring us some lemonade,” he said over his shoulder. “My wife has received a spate of threatening letters from pro-choice activists lately, so you can understand her suspiciousness.”
Carver declined the offer of lemonade.
Freel sat down on one of the benches and rested his hands on his knees. He looked inquisitively at Carver, who sat opposite him on the other bench. He wasn’t at all what Carver had expected. This man was genial and a little rough around the edges, though that might have been a pose. He did have a confidence man’s air of total trustworthiness, too good to be true except for those who were yearning for someone or something to believe.
“I heard what you said about your wife losing your child in the explosion,” he said. “You have my sympathy, Mr. Carver.”
“Not my wife. My child, though.”
“Horrible,” Reverend Freel said, either about Beth’s marital status or about the death of the unborn. “But wasn’t she going there to . . . ?”
“She was going inside to cancel her appointment,” Carver said. “We were planning to have the child.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carver. Violence has a way of begetting violence.”
Obviously Freel was referring to the violence done to the unborn inside the clinic. “I’m told Adam Norton is a member of your congregation as well as of Operation Alive.”
“Most Operation Alive members are also members of the congregation.”
“Do you believe Norton is guilty?”
Freel rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t anticipate the judicial system, Mr. Carver.”
“Why is Operation Alive’s attorney defending Norton?”
“Adam Norton is one of my flock who’s in dire trouble. Wouldn’t you agree he needs the best legal counsel?”
“Yes, but aren’t you afraid the presence of Jefferson Brama in the case will make it seem all the more likely that Operation Alive was behind the bombing?”
“It might well look that way, Mr. Carver. But Adam Norton acted alone when and if he planted that bomb.” Freel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your friend who lost the child, does she need help?”
“What kind of help?”
“The sort of help the church can provide. Do you yourself need spiritual guidance and comfort, Mr. Carver?”
Carver smiled sadly. “Probably we all do. Did Adam Norton give you any indication at all that he was fanatical enough to plant a bomb?”
“He seemed dedicated, Mr. Carver. Fanatical? I’m not sure. There’s a certain line between fanaticism and dedication not so easy to discern. Reasonable people might differ as to whether someone’s crossed that line. Was Martin Luther a fanatic?”
“I expect so,” Carver said.
“Then maybe Adam Norton is. He believes in the sanctity of unborn life, and he acted on that belief. Improperly, I certainly agree. And if guilty, he should pay the penalty. But before judging Adam Norton outside of court, Mr. Carver, or judging Operation Alive, consider the life that was lost inside that clinic on a daily basis.”
“You can’t stop that from happening,” Carver said. “The other side is as determined as you and Norton and Martin Luther. And the law is with them.”
“The law of man doesn’t mean much in this instance except as an inconvenience.”
“It means the abortionists are acting legally and you’re criminals,” Carver pointed out.
“Civil disobedience can be a citizen’s responsibility, Mr. Carver.”
“Is that in the Bible?”
“Oh, of course. I’m speaking of Jesus. But it’s not only in the Bible. Thoreau—”
“Thoreau never set off a bomb,” Carver interrupted.
“Nor did Jesus. That I would not condone.”
“Would you condemn it?”
“Certainly.”
“Publicly?”
“I’ve stated publicly that I do not condone it. Bombs are not a part of Operation Alive.”
“Norton had books on bomb making in his home,” Carver said. “The police found blasting caps in his car. Did he mention anything about this to you, talk at all about bombs, before he used one on Women’s Light?”
“We didn’t discuss bombs, only the strategy for that day’s demonstration in Del Moray.”
“Were you in Del Moray at the time of the bombing?”
“No, I was here in Orlando.” Freel straightened up, looked as if he might yawn and stretch, but didn’t. “I answered all of these questions when they were posed to me by the authorities. I’ll be glad to answer them again for you if it will help to ease the pain of your grief.”
Carver stood up and leaned on his cane. “Your wife Belinda, Reverend Freel, is she a true believer?”
Here was a question the authorities hadn’t asked. For an instant, surprise, then maybe anger, flashed in Freel’s eyes. “My wife is a born-again Christian, Mr. Carver, if that’s what you mean by ‘true believer.’ ”
“Adam Norton describes himself as a born-again Christian.”
“And so he sees himself.”
“Christians don’t blow up innocent people with bombs.”
“That’s certainly true. Not without sin or regret, anyway. And, hopefully, not without redemption.” Freel stood up. “May I walk with you to your car, Mr. Carver?”
“No thanks, I’ll go it alone. I appreciate you giving me some of your time, Reverend Freel.”
“Certainly. And no man or woman has to go it alone in this life.”
“Just to my car, though,” Carver said, “I don’t think it will matter much.”
As he made his way along the stepping-stone walk toward the front of the house, Carver heard a door close as Freel went back inside. Though he hadn’t been the fire-breathing clergyman Carver had expected to meet, the reverend’s determination and self-righteousness fairly shone from him.
Carver disagreed with Desoto’s assessment of Freel as a more of a con man than an idealist. The reverend was a fanatic with a mission.
23
CARVER STOPPED AT PetPitStop, a sort of supermarket of pet supplies just outside Del Moray, and bought a twenty-five-pound sack of Bow-Wow-WOW! low-calorie dog food. After a recent diet of table scraps and premium frankfurters, Al needed something to keep his weight down. Carver was dismayed to find a wide selection of dog pedicure clippers to choose from. He stood before the display for a while and then chose an efficient-looking pair of nail clippers he thought he wouldn’t mind too much if he were a dog. Insomuch as he could imagine having paws instead of feet. Why he was willing to buy such expensive clippers he wasn’t sure. Maybe he felt guilty for buying the low-calorie dog food, which was the cheapest of an array of choices and probably not what he would have selected if he were a dog. Al would eat economy class but have a top-notch pedicure.
As he drove the rest of the way into Del Moray, it occurred to Carver he’d be passing within a few blocks of A. A. Aal Memorial Hospital. He decided to drop in and see if Dr. Galt was available. It might be a good idea to talk to him without Beth knowing about it, to see what he thought about Beth leaving the cottage so soon and coming in this evening to visit Linda Lapella.
After parking in the lot near the
main entrance, he went into the spacious and cool lobby and asked a woman at the information desk if Dr. Galt was in the hospital. She told him the doctor wasn’t on duty but would be there to make his evening rounds at about seven o’clock. Carver thanked her and turned to go back outside to his car.
That was when he saw Dr. Benedict sitting on one of the low, soft sofas in the lobby, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. His shoulders were hunched and he looked weary.
Carver walked over to him.
“Dr. Benedict?”
Benedict nodded without looking up.
“Taking a break?” Carver asked.
“I’m not seeing patients today,” Benedict said. “I came here to see Delores Bravo.” Still not looking up at Carver.
“Something wrong?” Carver asked.
Benedict raised his head and stared up at him. His features were set in distress and anger. A vein was pounding like a pulsating blue worm in his temple. “The violent cretins have claimed another victim. Another senseless death for a cause already lost.”
“Delores Bravo?” Carver asked, feeling a thrust of rage himself at the thought of the spirited young woman’s death.
“Officer Lapella,” Benedict said.
Carver sat down beside him on the sofa. This wasn’t right. The doctors had diagnosed Lapella’s injuries and predicted recovery. “But the prognosis—”
“The prognosis was wrong,” Benedict said. “They are sometimes. It was the head injury. A kick to the head, who can tell what damage it causes? She’d had a CAT scan and an MRI, and the images hadn’t shown the kinds of injuries that would be fatal. But the images are difficult to interpret, even for experts. There was more damage than anticipated. There was unexpected hemorrhaging, pressure, cell degeneration in vital areas. She died a little over an hour ago.”