“What do you mean conforming to the cross?” Katie asked. “As in one should want to be crucified? That would please God?”
Miles could tell that Reverend McCamy wanted to lay his hands on Katie. To bless her or to punish her because he thought she was blaspheming? He couldn’t tell.
Reverend McCamy said, all patience, so patronizing that Miles imagined Katie standing up and smacking him in the jaw if she weren’t so focused on what she was doing, “We must embrace suffering to lead us ever closer to God, and in this suffering, there is greatness and submission. No, God does not wish us to be crucified like him. That is shallow and blind, meaning nothing. It is far more than that, far deeper, far more enveloping. Very rarely God’s grace is bestowed on a living creature and is manifested in the imitation of Christ’s travails on the cross.”
Katie said, never looking away from Reverend McCamy’s face, “You said that God doesn’t want us to nail ourselves to a cross in imitation of the crucifixion. What then is this gift bestowed on so very few?”
Reverend McCamy said, “How long does it take for the brownies to bake, Elsbeth?”
“Thirty minutes,” Elsbeth said. She never looked her husband in the face, nor did she look at Miles or Katie. She slipped the glass dish inside the oven, then turned to the sink to run water in the batter bowl.
Too bad, Katie had really wanted a taste of that batter. It was time to push again, time to maneuver him where she wanted him to go. She said, “These individuals who imitate Christ’s suffering, who and what are they? How are they selected? And by whom?”
Elsbeth whispered, “Don’t you understand? Reverend McCamy is one of the very few blessed by God’s grace, who is blessed by God’s ecstasy in suffering.”
Reverend McCamy looked like he wanted to slap her, but he didn’t move, just fisted his hands at his sides.
Katie said, ever so gently, her eyes as intense as Reverend McCamy’s, “You’re speaking of Christ’s wounds appearing on a mortal’s body. You’re saying that Reverend McCamy is a—what are they called?”
“Stigmatist,” said Reverend McCamy.
“And you’re a stigmatist, aren’t you, sir?”
He looked furious that she’d pushed him to this, and Miles realized in that instant that she indeed had, and she’d done it very well. For a moment Reverend McCamy didn’t say anything. Katie knew he was trying to get himself under control and it was difficult for him.
Katie said, “Homer Bean, one of your former parishioners, told us that you’d told a small group of men one evening about being a victim of God’s love, about being a stigmatist.”
Reverend McCamy said without looking up, “Since they have told you, then I will not deny it. Once in my life I was blessed to have the suffering of ecstasy with blood flowing from my hands in imitation of the nails driven through our Lord’s palms.”
Katie said, “You’re saying that blood flowed from your palms? That you have actually experienced this?”
“Yes, I have been blessed. God granted me this passionate and tender gift. The pain and the ecstasy—the two together provide incalculable profit to the soul. I have kept this private, all except for those few men in whom I once confided.”
Katie said, “And how is it you were chosen for this, Reverend?”
“You must recognize and accept the divine presence, Katie. You must believe that it is too overwhelming for mankind to fathom, that it must be the expression of ultimate faith. Thus the godless have sought to belittle this divine ecstasy, to trivialize it, to turn it into some sort of freak show. But it isn’t, for I have had my blood flow from my own palms.”
Miles said, fed up with this fanatic, his strange wife, and the damned brownies in the oven, “This is all very fascinating, McCamy, but can you tell me why Clancy and Beau kidnapped my son?”
It was as if someone flipped off the light switch. Reverend McCamy’s eyes became even darker, as if a black tide was roiling up through his body. He shuddered, as if bringing himself out of someplace very deep, very far away. He said, “Your son is one of God’s children, Mr. Kettering. I will pray for your son, and I will ask God to intercede.” With that, Reverend McCamy turned and walked out of the kitchen. After a moment, they heard him call out, “Elsbeth, bring the brownies to my study when they’re done. You don’t have to cool them.”
She nodded, even though he was no longer there. “Yes, Reverend McCamy.”
Katie said to Elsbeth, “Sam is a wonderful little boy. I will not allow him to be taken again. Do you understand me, Elsbeth?”
“Go away, Katie. Go away and take that godless man with you.”
“I’m not godless, ma’am. I just don’t worship quite the same God you and your husband do.”
When they were driving away from that lovely house, Miles said, “That was excellent questioning. I just don’t know what it got us.”
“I don’t either,” Katie said. “But I discovered I could pry him open.”
“They’re in on this, Katie.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think so, too.”
Miles slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Why, for God’s sake? Why?”
29
Sam and Keely were playing chess, loosely speaking, given that Keely had had only two lessons. Katie had a No-TV rule during the week so the house was quiet, with just a soft layer of light rock coming from the speakers, and an occasional ember popping in the fireplace. The air felt thick, heavy. Another big storm was coming.
“No, Sam,” Keely said, “you can’t do that. The rook has to go in straight lines, he can’t go sideways.”
“That’s boring,” said Sam, and moved his bishop instead because he liked the long diagonal. The only problem was he stopped his bishop in front of a pawn, which Keely promptly removed. Sam yelled out, then sat back, stroked his chin like his father did, and said, “I will think about this and then you’ll be very sorry.”
Keely crowed.
“Killers, both of them,” said Miles, happy to see Sam acting like a normal kid again.
Katie and Miles were seated on opposite ends of the long sofa, doing nothing but sipping coffee and listening to the fascinating chess moves made by two children whose combined age was eleven.
Two deputies, Neil Crooke, who got no end of grief for his name, and Jamie Beezer, who did a great imitation dance of Muhammad Ali in his heyday, were outside watching the house. When Neil called to ask if he could go unlock ancient Mr. Cerlew’s 1956 Buick for him since he’d locked his keys in it, Katie said go, but get back as soon as possible.
She excused herself a moment, and came back into the living room with a plate of brownies in her hands. “They’re not homemade like Elsbeth’s, but I’ll tell you, the Harvest Moon bakery can’t be beat.”
Miles took a brownie, saying, “You think they’re better than the ones Elsbeth McCamy made?”
“We’ll never know, at least I hope we won’t. Kids? Can the chess battle stop for a brownie break?”
When the plate was empty, in just under four minutes, Miles sat back and laced his fingers over his belly. He stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles, and leaned his head back against the sofa. He said as he closed his eyes, “It’s Wednesday night. I’ve known you since Saturday. Isn’t that amazing?”
Katie slowly nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see her, and said, “We’re sitting here like two folks who’ve been sitting here for a very long time.” Except for the SIG tucked into the waistband of her jeans and the derringer strapped at her ankle.
That was sure the truth, Miles thought.
Katie stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace that periodically spewed up a mist of color. “It seems much longer,” she said after a moment. “It seems natural.”
He opened his eyes and turned his head to face her. “I can’t stay here indefinitely, Katie, although I’m becoming fond of your microwave and your teakettle. The oatmeal was pretty good, too. But the bed is too short, and Sam snores on occasi
on.” He stopped, and sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees, staring at the rag rug Katie’s grandmother had made in the thirties. “This still isn’t over, Katie. What am I to do?”
Because Katie didn’t have an answer for that, she looked over to make sure the kids were occupied. They were on their stomachs, their noses almost touching the chess pieces. She said, “The meeting with the McCamys—you did good, Miles, asking Elsbeth that question point-blank. At least we know for sure now they’re involved—Elsbeth’s face gave it all away. She’s not good at lying. She’d lose her knickers in a poker game.”
Miles said quietly, “All right, they’re involved. Tell me why a preacher would have Sam kidnapped.”
“Okay, let’s just cut to the bone. Reverend McCamy had Clancy and Beau kidnap Sam, told them to take him to Bleaker’s cabin. To wait? Why? Well, I suppose, so he could make arrangements.”
“For what?”
“We don’t know yet, but if that’s the case, there has to be a reason, one that makes a great deal of sense to the McCamys. You know, Miles, there was something else Homer Bean mentioned. He said something about Reverend McCamy wanting a successor. No, wanting a worthy successor.”
“If that rumor about seeing Reverend McCamy in Knoxville at a real estate office is true, and he is planning to pick up stakes, then it would be logical, I suppose, that he’d want to find someone to take his place with all the sinful children. But what does that have to do with Sam? Sam’s a little young to be anyone’s successor. Just last month I told him for sure that he’d be my successor, but he couldn’t take over until he could spell guidance system.”
Katie smiled at that. Miles watched her scuff her toe against the carpet and leaned toward her as she said, “Bits and pieces, Miles, that’s what we’re gathering. Soon it will all come together. We’re close, I can feel it. I do wish that Agent Hodges would get back to us on the McCamy personal bank transactions and the church’s books.”
“Since he had trouble getting a warrant, he said it wouldn’t be until tomorrow.”
“There’s something else. It’s Reverend McCamy. I’ve known him a long time. This is the first time I’ve seen him come close to losing it. He was out of control a couple of times.”
“If they’re behind Sam’s kidnapping, they have to know that it’s just a matter of time before everything collapses.”
“Check!”
Sam came up on his knees, shook his fist, and shouted, “You moved the queen like a knight, Keely, and that’s cheating!”
Keely punched him in the arm, told him she was tired of chess, and got her favorite board game out of the cabinet, The Game of Life. In the next moment, they were flicking the spinner and laughing, fighting over the rules, which neither of them really understood.
Miles said, “You’ve done an excellent job with Keely.”
“And you with Sam. Can you imagine learning chess from a five-year-old who’s had only two lessons?”
“I gather you play?”
“Oh yes, my father gave me my first lesson when I was about Keely’s age. There are a couple of old guys who sit out in front of City Hall playing chess, probably been there since the Depression. I’ve never had the nerve to challenge either of them.”
He laughed and said in a voice that was too good an imitation of Reverend McCamy’s, “It’s a pity your husband left you and you lost your focus.”
She laughed, too, but it was forced since she really wanted to spit. “Can you believe he actually said that?”
“You handled him very well.”
“Maybe, but Elsbeth still didn’t let me taste the brownie batter.”
Miles looked at her straight on. She’d French-braided her hair again, and a few tendrils had worked loose to curl around her ears. He really liked that French braid, and those tendrils. She was wearing her usual oxford shirt and jeans, and scuffed low-heeled boots. “I saw a cream-colored straw hat on the coatrack by the front door. Do you ever wear that hat?”
“Oh yes. To be honest, there’s just been so much happening, that I haven’t thought of it. I’m lucky to remember my coat.”
“Eastern Tennessee is a very beautiful place, Katie.”
She nodded. “Yes, it is. It’s the mountains, really—always there right beside you, going on farther than the eye can see. Then you’ll look at this incredible hazy blue glaze over the Appalachians. You know, I’ve always found it strange that people think we’re country bumpkins, living out here. But the fact is, we aren’t exiled here. We look up and see more stars than any city person can ever hope to see, and you know what? We actually sometimes feel the urge to talk to strangers. You’ve seen the cows, the dairy farms, the rolling farmlands. We’re rich here, Miles, more than rich, we’re blessed.”
Miles studied her face as she spoke. “Yes, I can see that.” He paused, looked toward the kids, then said, “I won’t be here in the winter, Katie.”
“No,” she said slowly, “I don’t suppose you will.”
He slashed his hand through the air in frustration but he kept his voice low so the kids wouldn’t hear. “Usually I ask a woman I’m interested in to go out to dinner, maybe a show in Washington. Yet here I am living in a woman’s house and I’ve known her for what—four days?”
“I’m the sheriff, that’s different.”
“Is it?”
She made a restless movement with her hand, then smoothed out her fingers along her thigh. “You know what’s funny? My husband never lived here.”
He let her sidetrack him, it was safer. “What did you do with the jerk?”
She turned on the sofa, tucked one leg beneath the other, and leaned toward him. “The jerk’s name is Carlo Silvestri, and he’s the eldest son of an Italian aristocrat, and you’re right, he’s a jerk all the way down to his Ferragamos.”
“An Italian aristocrat? You’re kidding.”
“Nope. His father is Il Conte Rosso, a big shot who lives near Milan, into arms manufacturing, I believe.”
“How ever did you meet an Italian aristocrat?”
She gave a really big sigh. “I still feel like I should punch myself in the head for being so stupid. Carlo and two of his buddies were visiting Nashville. They wanted to see Dolly Parton’s breasts, one of them told me, so they drove east. When they landed in Knoxville, one of them, a Frenchman who must have thought it was Le Mans, was speeding like a maniac on Neyland Avenue, one of Knoxville’s main streets. I stopped them after a bit of a chase. The idiot had been drinking and nearly went over the guardrail into the Tennessee River.”
“So you hauled his ass off to jail?”
“Yeah, I did. Carlo decided he didn’t want to leave when his buddy got sprung. He said he fell in love with me when he saw me clap on the handcuffs. It was a whirlwind romance, I’ll tell you that. I was twenty-four years old, he was thirty-six, and I knew he was too old for me, knew the last thing he could ever do was leave Italy for good and live in Tennessee, but none of it mattered. I stopped thinking and married him. It didn’t matter that he was a spoiled egotist, too rich to have a clue about what responsibility meant. Women do that, you know. Stop thinking.”
“So do men.”
“For men, it’s lust. For women, it’s romance. You can get blindsided by both. I got pregnant right away. The problems started probably about a week later and never stopped. When Keely was about a month old, Carlo’s father, Carlo Silvestri senior, Il Conte Rosso, shows up on our doorstep in Knoxville, announces that his son called him to come and save him. I really got a good laugh out of that one. I told Carlo senior that I’d removed his son’s handcuffs a very long time before.”
“So what happened?”
“Daddy did something that will endear him to me and this town for the rest of our collective lives.”
Miles sat up. “What did he do?”
“He offered to buy me off for a million dollars if I would divorce Carlo without fuss, change Keely’s name to Benedict—my name—and never contact them agai
n.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“No, I’m not. I remember I just sat there and stared at him, trying to picture all those zeroes following a one and all those commas actually written out on a check, and wondering: Will they all fit in that little space?
“He actually believed I was playing him, that I was a tough cookie, and so do you know what the dear man did? He actually upped the ante. I’ll tell you though, I made sure the money was wired into my account before I agreed. Then both Silvestris were out the door within four hours.”
“What was the final buyout?”
“A million and a half big ones. I used it to put my dad’s company, Benedict Pulp Mill, back on its feet, which guaranteed a lot of folks around here continued employment and thereby, truth be told, got me elected sheriff of Jessborough. I’m the first woman sheriff of Jessborough or, for that matter, just about anywhere in eastern Tennessee.” She frowned at her boots, then said, “I don’t know if they would have elected me without the bribe.”
“It was more a by-product of the bribe, wasn’t it? It’s not as though you’re incompetent.”
“You’re a sweet-talking guy, Miles,” she said, laughing. “I’ll tell you the truth though, I was the best-trained candidate for the job.”
“Wade was the one who wanted to be sheriff, wasn’t he? The one you beat out for the job?”
She nodded. “Wade’s a good man, but he’s never worked on the streets of a good-sized city where there’s actual crime.”
Sam turned around and said, “Katie, since you’re the sheriff, can I be your assistant?”
“You know, that might not be a bad idea. But you might end up becoming something else, like president, so you just keep playing.”
Sam chewed on this a moment, then sprawled back onto his stomach, his nose nearly touching the spinner on the game board. They heard Keely say, “If I become president, I’ll make you vice president.”
Sam nodded. “Okay, that’d be cool.”
“I can give you orders all the time and you’ll have to listen to me.”
Blindside Page 20