“Sorry. It’s just that if Harold T. Dobbs can join the human race, then there’s hope for all of us. Yes, indeed, I’m taking a long hard look at one Bonnie Pinkwater and her cynical and some might say devious ways. As the Good Book says, I’ve been weighed and found wanting. I even had a moment there when I thought Harold might have more on his mind than a damaged son.”
Lloyd wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin, then spread wide the yellow rectangle, seemingly studying the embroidered M in one corner. “Don’t be so quick to discount your misgivings, Bon. Over the years, I’ve grown to trust your intuition. There may be more to the good pastor than just the anxious parent.”
Bonnie set down her fork and studied her friend. “You know something, don’t you Whittaker?”
Lloyd reddened and pursed his lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I think the lion’s share of what we saw with Dobbs came from the shock of hearing someone shot his son.”
“But not all?”
“No, not all.” For a long moment, Lloyd didn’t answer, as if in doing so he would betray some agreement. “Do you remember that awkward scene when Harold dampened my shirt with his tears?”
Bonnie replayed the scene in her mind. She’d turned back to Dobbs and Lloyd to see the reverend in a clutch with her friend. Dobbs was sobbing and he was … Bonnie slapped the table. “He was mumbling something. I couldn’t make it out, but you could.”
“Yes, I could, and it set my teeth on edge.” Lloyd’s face went hard. “Over and over again, he hissed, The sins of the father, the sins of the father.”
“The sins of the father? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
In the space of a heartbeat, Bonnie reassumed the mantle of critical observer of one Harold T. Dobbs. Gone were any tender feelings she’d had for the man. “I knew it! I knew something wasn’t on the up-and-up with Dobbs. And what’s with all this bowing, scraping, and apologizing?”
“He’s a man of religion, Bon. Word on the street is that the founder of his particular creed was into forgiveness.”
“Clever, Whittaker, but you know as well as I do that Harold Dobbs ascribed more to the righteous indignation slant of Christianity than to compassion. You forget I went toe to toe with the troglodyte for a few rounds. It was an experience singularly devoid of forgiveness.”
“People change.”
Bonnie snorted and was about to launch into another eggplant assault when she caught a wary look in Lloyd’s eyes. She lowered the fork and her voice. “All right, let’s put aside Harold’s aberrant behavior for a moment. Where the heck has the man been all morning?”
“I don’t think even you expected him to show up for a funeral he’d been practically ejected from.” As if he’d just moved his knight to king’s bishop three and voiced check, he took a healthy bite of his flatbread pizza and laid his hands palms down on the table, his eyes level with hers.
“I didn’t until he showed up at the hospital. Did you see how he was dressed? A black frocked coat, black trousers, black shoes. Lloyd, the man was decked out for a funeral. I don’t think it’s a far leap to assume it was Leo’s.”
Take that, Mister Whittaker.
It was Bonnie’s turn to feel smug. She was thoroughly enjoying the give-and-take.
Lloyd did indeed hesitate, but only for a moment. “He’s a preacher, Bon. That’s how they dress.”
Bonnie was already shaking her head before Lloyd even finished. “Lame, buddy. It was eighty-eight degrees out there this afternoon. Even the Dobbster owns a Hawaiian shirt or two. If he wasn’t coming to a funeral, why dress like it? Unless you think he changed when he got word of Jason.”
Lloyd’s face conveyed the message that he had his doubts. “So where do you think Harold was?”
The question caught her flat-footed, and she was about to say so, when she had a wild thought. “Okay, this is just shooting from the hip, but bear with me.”
She lowered her voice and gave it her best Rod Serling. “Submitted for your approval, one Harold T. Dobbs. His son has gone off early to facilitate a funeral that Harold himself was summarily told he was unsuited to lead. The man is fit to be hog-tied.”
“You do Twilight Zone well.”
Bonnie nodded her acknowledgment of his compliment. “Thank you. Now, where do you go if you’ve got time on your hands and a stick up your irate self-righteous behind?”
“I figure you’re going to tell me.”
“And so I will. You go to see the man who orchestrated your humiliation.”
Lloyd smiled, with only a hint of misgiving. “Go on.”
Bonnie realized she was skating on thin ice. Any moment she expected Lloyd to let loose with a barrage of objections, and she really had no defense. Still she barreled on. “Let’s assume for a moment that Harold walks in on Rattlesnake as he’s preparing the sniper rifle for his little escapade with Jason.”
Lloyd whistled. “This is getting a bit far-fetched, Bon. If Rattlesnake shot Jason, what would have stopped him from shooting the good pastor as well?”
Bonnie let the question percolate around her cranium before she took up her argument. “Okay, then suppose Harold somehow caught a glimpse of Rattlesnake as he was carrying out the rifle but remained unseen.”
“This just gets better and better. Go on.”
Bonnie knew she was blowing smoke, but she was committed. She had to finish her line of reasoning. “Later, he hears of Jason being shot, and blames himself for not stopping Rattlesnake when he had the chance.”
“Do you really believe what you’re saying?”
In her mind Bonnie pictured a pie chart. The portion that represented her attachment to the Rattlesnake-Dobbs theory was a slim piece of pie indeed. Still, she could sense in the marrow of her bones that something major had scrambled the pastor’s brains, and now the man was carrying around a supersized portion of remorse.
“Okay, I’ll admit the scenario has a few holes, but I swear, Lloyd, Dobbs is significantly traumatized.”
Lloyd nodded in agreement. “Fair enough, but latch hold to what you already know about Reverend Dobbs. The man is a cold, calculating bully. If he saw Rattlesnake carrying a sniper rifle and then later heard his boy was shot, he would have notified the police, probably even before he came to the hospital. And it would have taken a lot more than what you described to knock that man off his pinions.”
“So what do you think happened to make such a basket case out of Dobbs?”
Lloyd frowned, then spread wide his hands. “I don’t know, but I’m sure you have every intention of finding out.”
“I think this is a real bad idea, Bon.” Lloyd held the elevator door for her to exit.
Bonnie had to admit, she didn’t like her chances of success, but she couldn’t walk away from these damn Dobbses without getting at least some of her questions answered. From where she stood, Jason Dobbs was a liar and his father had experienced something that freeze-dried his cerebrum. “You’re probably right, but I’ve got a plan.”
“Why am I afraid to ask what this plan entails?”
“I can’t imagine. Probably has something to do with not being held enough as a baby. Now listen. The plan is simplicity itself. I’m going to hold back and let you quiz Harold.”
“That’s your plan!” Hands on hips, Lloyd shot Bonnie a frown.
“Hear me out.” Bonnie turned to face her friend. “Normally, Pastor Homophobe would never put up with an inquisition featuring either himself or his son, especially considering the fact that Jason has been so recently and grievously hurt.”
Lloyd sighed. “But you’re thinking this ain’t one of them normal times.”
Bonnie smiled and nodded. “For two reasons. First, with any luck, Harold is still the chief engineer on the out-to-lunch express.”
“That’s just mean.”
“Maybe a little, but I’m endeavoring to put unprofitable sentimentality behind me. The second reason is that Jason is pr
obably drugged. We have an excellent chance of the boy spilling his guts because he’s under the influence of benevolent painkillers.”
“You’re completely shameless. And now the twenty-five-thousand-dollar question. Why me?”
“Harold still trusts you. Me …” Bonnie bowed her head in a self-deprecating manner. “Not so much.”
Lloyd stared at her unconvinced. “And you want me to trade on that trust by blindsiding the man or his incapacitated son in the hope they’ll reveal something in a moment of weakness.”
“That’s the idea.”
Lloyd shook his head and smiled. “How can you sleep nights? You know it’s likely Jason will be unconscious, if he’s even out of surgery yet. That’s saying nothing of the possibility he’s in the critical ward and thus only family can see him.”
“We’ll cross that bridge of sighs when we come to it.”
“Woman, you’re a pistol.” He reached for his door handle. “You know I’m not as devious as you. I’ll more than likely blow it, and Harold or Jason will just tell me to take a flying leap.”
“You’re stalling.” She chucked him on the arm. “I have faith in you, big guy. You can be underhanded and shifty if you put your mind to it. Now come on. Let’s see what those Dobbs boys are hiding.”
CHAPTER 17
BONNIE FOUND PASTOR HAROLD T. DOBBS ON HIS KNEES singing in the hospital chapel—arms upraised, head thrown back. She recognized the tune as “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
Composer Martin Luther, year 1529, eight years after the Edict of Worms. Inspired by Psalm 46. Translated to English in 1852 by Frederick Hedge. Theme song of the seventies cartoon show Davey and Goliath. Sung at the funeral of ex-president Dwight D. Eisenhower.
Get a grip, Pinkwater. There were times when the influx of unbidden factoids made Bonnie feel like Tippi Hedron, and Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds were dive-bombing her cerebral cortex.
Mainly because Dobbs had chosen the front of the chapel, Bonnie nodded toward a back pew, letting Lloyd go in first. As they sat, she knew they’d crossed the Rubicon. When Dobbs turned round he couldn’t miss them.
The die is cast.
“You okay?” Lloyd whispered. He obviously mistook the excitement on her face for anxiety.
“Couldn’t be better.”
Seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, Dobbs’s surprisingly sweet tenor rose as he marched through the rhythmic punctuations of Luther’s opus magnum. When the pastor reached the end—“His kingdom is forever”—his head fell to his chest, a marionette whose strings had been cut.
“Is he crying?” Lloyd asked.
Before she could answer, Dobbs stood.
Hands still raised, he began to furiously nod in great swooping arcs. “I understand, my Lord. Your way is hard, Your path steep, but Your voice is honey to my soul. Show me Your mind.” He lowered his hands, and bending over, scrubbed his palms on his thighs.
Lloyd leaned in. “We shouldn’t be here; this feels like voyeurism.”
“Hush.”
Unfortunately, the small chapel was blessed with outstanding acoustics.
Like a feline on alert, Harold Dobbs’s shoulders hunched and his back arched. Slowly, he turned round. When he caught sight of Bonnie and Lloyd, his eyes went wide, but surprise was only the first emotion displayed. On the heels of shock came a definite wrinkling of the forehead and a pronounced glare. This expression, in turn, was supplanted by a look of abject resignation and a marked drooping of shoulders.
Bonnie elbowed Lloyd. “Showtime.”
“Howdy, Harold.” Lloyd manufactured an open-fingered wave to accompany his brief and alliterative greeting.
“Smooth, Whittaker.” Bonnie felt an overwhelming urge to skedaddle.
A sullen Harold T. Dobbs listlessly ambled the half-dozen steps to where they sat. Bending down, he embraced Bonnie, then held her at arm’s length as if inspecting her for warts. “God hath made a table for me in the company of mine enemy.”
That would be me. Bonnie squirmed beneath this unexpected show of affection. “Good to see you, too, Harold.” So much for taking a backseat while Lloyd interrogates the pastor.
With a wave of his hand, Dobbs indicated Bonnie and Lloyd should slide into the pew and make room for him. As he sat, he patted Bonnie’s knee. “Before we talk, you need to know you might possibly be the last person on earth I would choose to hear my confession of shame. But God has taken that choice out of my hands. Since I seek forgiveness, it seems I must open my heart to my adversary. You, Missus Pinkwater, for better or worse, are God’s elected.”
Bonnie’s Imp of the Perverse desperately wanted to announce, I’ve long suspected that. With an effort of will, she resisted the urging. She merely nodded and presented what she hoped was a sympathetic expression. “I’m honored, Harold.”
Dobbs turned in the pew so he could face both Lloyd and Bonnie. “First, let me say that Jason came through the surgery successfully and is in recovery. He is no longer considered in critical condition, and they’ll be taking him to his room within the hour. I assume you’ll want to visit.”
“That would be great, Harold,” Lloyd said.
Bonnie regarded this man of the cloth, who decided to leave his wounded son to seek out a solitary audience with God. Whatever was troubling Dobbs must have weighed heavily on his mind and had demanded immediate atonement.
“My aim is alacrity, because from here we must contact Deputy Hickman.” Dobbs exhaled and held Bonnie’s gaze. “I woke this morning with anger in my heart. Anger directed at you, my son, and an overwhelming anger directed toward Alf Quinn.”
I knew it. “So you went to see him.”
Dobbs reddened. “I did, indeed. I hoped to catch him before he left for the funeral.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. He was alone in his office. Alf had deteriorated since I last saw him. He looked, for lack of a better word, unbalanced. Almost immediately, I lost all desire to take the man to task. I offered to pray with him, but it had been a long drive. I had to go to the bathroom. You know that tiny room in back?”
Bonnie could, indeed, picture the small bathroom hidden in the rear of Rattlesnake’s office. The door was constructed of old ammo box lids and blended in so completely with the martial theme of Alf’s décor that unless a person knew it was there, they could easily miss seeing the darn thing.
She nodded for Dobbs to continue.
“While I was in there, someone came.”
“Who?” Lloyd asked.
The pastor shrugged an I-wish-I knew shrug. “Although, from a crack in the door, I could see an arm or a leg now and then, I never could make out a face and the party never spoke much or loud enough for me to recognize a voice. Truth be told, Alf did most of the talking.”
Bonnie resisted the urge to ask the obvious questions like, What did Rattlesnake say? or Didn’t you poke your head out once? What was needful at the moment was to keep quiet and let the man tell his story in his own way.
“After an initial interchange, Alf got upset. His voice grew louder, more insistent, more heated. The first clear words from Alf made the breath catch in my chest.”
Bonnie was about to break in when Lloyd piped up. “What did he say?”
“No more killing. And then, I’m having second thoughts.”
Synapses started firing in Bonnie’s brain like Roman candles. Alf had hired someone to kill Furby. She wanted to turn straight around and tell Lloyd her theory had been right.
“Once again, the other speaker didn’t say much but whatever little there was, it incensed Rattlesnake further. He told his visitor to vamoose and hinted he meant to call the police.”
Uh-oh. Not a wise move with a murderer, Rattlesnake. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess this last bit didn’t sit well with Alf’s guest.”
Dobbs shook his head. “Not at all. He pulled a gun. The next thing I knew, he had pistol-whipped Mister Quinn.”
“How much of this pistol could you see?�
�� Lloyd asked.
“Enough to ascertain it was a nine millimeter.”
Bonnie and Lloyd exchanged glances.
“What?” demanded Dobbs.
“That’s the type of pistol that killed Leo,” Lloyd said. “Go on, please. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Dobbs waved away the apology. “I’m grateful for the chance to gather my courage.” He licked his lips, obviously ill at ease over the prospect of telling the next portion of his story.
“And herein my tale is one of vanity and cowardice. It is this sin and this shame I will bear the remainder of my days. Understandably, you will despise me after.”
Dear God, pastor, does everything that comes out of your mouth have to resonate like a sermon? “I don’t want to be a noodge, Harold, but didn’t you say something about having to contact Deputy Hickman.”
Dobbs’s face reddened and his eyes went flinty.
Now you’ve done it, Pinkwater. Your Imp of the Perverse resurrected the old Harold T. Dobbs.
However, Dobbs quickly recovered. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You’re right, of course.” For a moment, Harold looked lost in his narrative.
“Vanity,” Lloyd offered.
Bless you, Lloyd.
“Yes. Well at this juncture, the unwanted guest fired his pistol. The bullet pierced the bathroom door, narrowly missing me.” Dobbs licked his lips again. “I’m afraid I soiled myself.”
Bonnie permitted the tiniest of smiles before she extinguished it. More than anything she wanted to ask if the good pastor had done a number one or a number two. Even her Imp of the Perverse recognized the impertinent question as stupidly unproductive.
“Go on.”
“My legs turned to water. Quite truthfully, I felt light-headed and thought I might pass out. I sat on the commode. To my shame when the intruder got what he came for and finally took Alf with him, I stayed hidden. I made no attempt to even see in which direction they left.”
A nagging feeling took hold of Bonnie. Something felt out of kilter with the good pastor’s story. She couldn’t lay a logical finger on where her difficulty lay, but it buzzed round her psyche like a hornet.
Irrational Numbers Page 15