by John Lutz
“People lead secret lives,” Carver told him.
“Oh, everyone does. But Reverend Freel is my client. I know his secrets.”
Carver decided he should be the one to end the conversation, to keep Brama off balance-if he actually was off balance. If he’d ever been off balance in his life. “There are secrets and then there are deep, dark secrets,” he said.
“And how did you come by what you consider to be knowledge of Reverend Freel’s deep, dark secret?”
“Since I’m going to be subpoenaed anyway,” Carver said, “I prefer to save that answer for when I’m under oath.”
“Well, ordinarily that would be wise of you, only I don’t intend to enter into that area of inquiry.”
“Maybe the prosecution will.”
“Oh, I do doubt that,” Brama said. “It’s not a thing to be taken lightly, spreading tales when the facts aren’t known and proof isn’t forthcoming.”
“The longer we talk, the more you sound like an attorney.”
Brama poured hot water into his cup and dropped in a fresh tea bag. “Mine’s a twenty-four-hour-a-day occupation, I’m afraid. Like yours, Mr. Carver.”
Carver pushed back his chair, scraping its iron legs over the balcony’s concrete floor, and stood up.
Brama didn’t try to stop him from leaving, which meant he’d accomplished his purpose. He’d wanted to talk with Carver to determine what he knew about Freel and Adelle Grimm, and to warn him, however subtly, about a libel suit if he continued to defame the reverend. It didn’t shock Carver that Brama had somehow found out about him following Adelle and seeing her meet Freel at the Blue Dolphin Motel. An attorney of his stature and with his connections would have informants, but not necessarily ones who knew all the facts. Or maybe Freel or Adelle had noticed Carver observing them and informed Brama. Either way, Brama had to be aware that he might not know everything pertinent about his clients. It had to be a worry.
Carver smiled down at him. “Don’t interrupt your breakfast. I’ll show myself out.”
“We should talk again,” Brama said. “I enjoyed it.”
Carver nodded, leaned his weight over his cane, and turned to walk back inside the room.
Brama unconcernedly resumed eating his scrambled eggs with obvious appetite and enjoyment.
But Carver knew they were cold.
36
Back at his office, Carver turned up the air-conditioning, then called Desoto in Orlando and told him about his conversation with Jefferson Brama.
“The man has a point,” Desoto said. “Operation Alive has Brama on retainer, and if you go around slandering Freel, you might find yourself slapped with a defamation of character suit. A con man with a congregation can’t have a devil like you threatening the bottom line.”
“You’re suggesting I should ignore his secret meeting with Adelle Grimm at a motel outside of town?”
“Maybe it was innocent.”
“You know better. How many reasons are there for a widow to meet her late husband’s possible killer?”
“I wouldn’t hazard to guess,” Desoto said, “and neither should you. Listen, amigo, I’m a sympathetic ear, but you should stop talking about this until maybe someday in court. I’ve come around to your way of thinking that Freel and Operation Alive planned the Women’s Light bombing and Norton was acting as their agent. The Coast Medical Services bombing, with clues left all over the place that it was the work of the same bomber, doesn’t mean to me that Norton’s innocent and both bombings were the work of somebody other than Operation Alive. That’s like when Hitler burned down the Bundesbank and blamed his enemies.”
“Wasn’t it the Reichstag Building Hitler burned down?”
“Whichever it was, it only worked for a while. And Hitler eventually wound up being the one who got burned.”
Desoto was quiet for a moment while Carver considered this shorthand interpretation of history. Spanish guitar played softly in the background like Muzak.
“I wonder if Dr. Grimm knew about his wife sneaking around behind his back with somebody like Freel,” Desoto said.
“I doubt it. People like Grimm are dedicated and pretty much blind to what’s going on in their personal lives.” Carver thought about Leona Benedict climbing into the taxi that would take her away from her life of pressure and fear. She had decided she’d had enough, and her choice had become simple. Cab fare was cheaper than the price of marriage to a man with a mission. Adelle Grimm had endured the same ugliness and threats, existed under the same kind of terrible and destructive pressure.
“Perhaps Dr. Grimm stopped paying attention to his wife in the essential ways,” Desoto said.
Carver knew he didn’t mean sex alone.
“There are rumors here in Orlando,” Desoto said, “that Belinda Lee Freel has the same sort of problem with her husband. His cause has consumed him and left nothing for her.”
“Except money,” Carver said.
“It’s not a question of either-or, my friend. She and the good reverend have shared more than the same toothbrush through the years. Belinda Lee’s name is on most of the corporate papers. The Freels’ business interests are entwined in ways that will guarantee her at least half their worldly goods. And if she gets a good divorce lawyer, Reverend Freel might walk out of court with only otherworldly goods.”
“That means if Freel killed Dr. Grimm, maybe Belinda Lee is next.”
“God would frown,” Desoto said.
“Possibly somewhere along the line Freel changed gods, and now he worships money. The dead presidents on money never frown.”
“But those presidents are stern. Money can be a harsh god, amigo. And unlike the other God, it’s unforgiving.”
“Wicker says Freel’s alibi for the time of the bombing is tight.”
“It is. I double-checked it personally. He was chairing a church council meeting at the Clear Connection at the time the Women’s Light Clinic blew up. At least that’s the story of the other six council members who attended.”
“You sound dubious.”
“Freel might be a confidence man,” Desoto said, “but his followers are fanatics. They’d lie for him if he asked. To them, the pro-life movement is a holy crusade. They’d be lying so he could commit murder to save lives. He’d lie so he could commit murder to have Adelle Grimm and his unsullied reputation and all of his money. Both gods would approve.”
Carver wasn’t as sure as Desoto that Freel was completely a confidence man. He remembered the note in Freel’s voice and the pure bright light in his eyes. Might he not worship two gods and still be a true believer? The loudest singers in the church choir on Sundays sometimes manipulated stock or juggled the books through the rest of the week.
“Why would Freel have to be in Del Moray to plant the bomb himself?” Carver asked. “Why wouldn’t he simply use Norton?”
“He couldn’t be sure that way, because Norton wouldn’t know the real purpose of the bomb. Even though Freel planned the bombing for when Grimm was in the clinic, he had to know the bomb would be close enough to his victim to prove fatal when it went off. My guess is he planted it in the clinic well before the demonstration and set it off unseen from nearby, or activated the timer for when he knew Grimm would be conducting an abortion, leaving himself plenty of time to get clear of the area. Norton was a bomb nut and made such an obvious patsy, he might have even given Freel the idea.”
“Have you offered your theory to the FBI?” Carver asked.
“Sure. They didn’t buy into it. They still like Norton because they’ve got him, and with plenty of evidence. As they see it, Operation Alive is involved only because it unknowingly-or at least unprovably-provided motivation. Suggesting a conspiracy and a different actual suspect makes the investigation messy. The feebs like to get in and out in a hurry without losing any skin.” Desoto paused. Carver heard him draw a deep breath on the other end of the line. “There is one bit of information on our friend Ezekiel Masterson, by the way. You know a
woman named Mildred Otten?”
“I’ve talked to her,” Carver said. “She has a bitter and biblical view of the world.”
“We’ve talked to her, too. It turns out Ezekiel is her son from her first of many marriages. Not that she knows where he is. Not that she’d tell us anyway. She says they’re estranged and the only time she sees him is at services at the Clear Connection, and he hasn’t attended for weeks.”
Mildred’s son. Carver thought about it. “I guess it figures. Spouting scripture might be an inherited trait.”
“It seems so in some families, especially these days and with families involved with the good Reverend Freel.”
There was a flurry of unintelligible voices on the other end of the connection. Voices speaking in English, though, and not coming from Desoto’s stereo.
“Crime marches on,” Desoto said into the phone, “and it just marched into my office. I’ve gotta go to work here.”
“So you’re saying Freel’s alibi only looks good?” Carver said. He valued Desoto’s judgment on such things and wanted to be sure of what he thought.
“Freel is a guy who’s claimed out-of-body experiences,” Desoto said. “He can go anywhere he wants anytime, and with an alibi. Believe me, he could have been in Del Moray the morning the Women’s Light Clinic went up. And in solid enough form to have detonated a bomb.”
Desoto hung up to join in battle with the forces of crime before Carver could thank him.
Carver let the receiver clatter back into its cradle, then sat back and looked at the closed office drapes, glowing with light and heat filtering through them to make the air-conditioning work its hardest. Natural heat was always in a battle with artificial cold in Florida. It was unrelenting and implacable. It knew that eventually it would win.
People like Martin Freel felt that way, too, whatever their delusion. Sooner or later they would win, if not in this world, in the next. Carver himself was usually reassured in time of doubt by the knowledge that he could outlast if not outsmart any adversary. When the people hanging by their fingertips finally let go, he’d still be there hanging by his fingernails. He would do what was necessary for as long as necessary. He knew that about himself. It was his religion.
Now he was beginning to recognize the same characteristic in Freel. And maybe Freel, with his religion underpinning his self-righteousness and will, was even more obstinate and persevering than Carver. More obsessive.
Carver didn’t like to think of himself as obsessive; he preferred to be regarded as dedicated rather than obsessive. But he knew that in different fashions, he and Freel might have the same relationship with truth, might carry the same burden.
So there the two of them were.
Obsessive.
37
After lunch,Carver drove into Orlando. He parked near the reverend’s house on Selma Road for a while but saw no one arrive or leave.
Starting the engine and running the air conditioner from time to time wasn’t enough to make the car’s interior bearable. The sun glared through the windows and radiated with thermonuclear might through the canvas top, and everything metal became hot enough to fry food on.
Finally Carver gave up and drove to the urban oasis of a shopping mall, where he had a Diet Pepsi and sat on a bench and cooled off, watching the roaming consumers: retirees in walking shoes, simultaneously exercising and escaping the heat; idle teenagers seeking each other’s support and trying not to “fall into the Gap”; expensively dressed plastic-possessed women from East Del Moray, cruising the more exclusive shops. Malls were as American as Sunday barbecues and Charles Keating.
It was late afternoon, and a few degrees cooler, when he staked out the Clear Connection. He sat in the Olds, watching sunlight glint off the wide areas of glass and make the building seem a delicate crystal creation meant to be a temporary thing of beauty, as ephemeral as life itself. Excessive, for sure, but he had to admit it was appropriate architecture for a church.
Within an hour, Freel’s sky blue Cadillac pulled from the front drive and jounced over the slight incline to the street. Freel was alone in the car and appeared to be smiling.
Carver started the Olds and followed, staying well back, occasionally even using parallel streets as a precaution against being seen. Freel would have talked with Jefferson Brama by now and would be on his guard.
They drove out the Orange Blossom Trail until Carver noticed a parked police car and a crowd of people carrying signs. They were dressed casually to withstand the heat and seemed to be milling in a general circular motion. The Caddy braked, veering right, and parked behind the police cruiser. Carver made a left turn into a restaurant parking lot and found a slot where he could see what was going on across the street without being noticed.
The crowd was picketing a low white building with a door simply stenciled TRAIL CLINIC in blue block letters. White wooden crosses as well as signs were being carried, and Carver recognized some of the pickets. There was the skinny guy with the bullhorn who’d been yelling outside the Benedicts’ house, shirtless and wearing baggy plaid shorts. He was dancing around and yelling through the bullhorn now, whipping up the demonstrators for Freel, but Carver couldn’t understand what he was saying. Cars driving by were slowing, their drivers swiveling their heads to read the pickets’ signs and see what was going on. A few of the drivers honked their horns, either in derision or support. One man shouted something and made an obscene gesture as he drove past.
Carver saw Freel standing on the sidewalk with one of the uniformed cops from the cruiser. Both men had their fists propped on their hips and seemed to be talking calmly. The cop removed his cap for a moment and wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief.
After awhile, Freel walked over to one of the demonstrators, a middle-aged man wearing a blue muscle shirt, and said something. A young woman carrying a bloody-fetus sign joined them and they moved away from the other demonstrators and talked for a few minutes. Then they hugged each other good-bye and Freel returned to the Caddy. As he started the engine, he smiled and waved to the cop he’d been talking to earlier, who was still standing fists on hips and somberly observing the demonstrators.
Freel drove back toward Orlando.
This time Carver followed him to a cable TV station. Freel went inside and was there for more than an hour, probably taping his weekly sermon for Sunday.
When he came out, a woman was with him. Carver, who by now was sweating and impatient in the hot confines of the car, perked up.
Freel had his arm strapped around the woman’s shoulder. She was wearing a long blue dress and high heels. She might have been attractive, but Carver couldn’t be sure. She had on oversize sunglasses, and he was parked too far away to make out her features. He noticed the color of her dress matched the Caddy as she got in. Freel walked sprightly around to the driver’s side.
“Maybe we’ve got something going here,” Carver said aloud to himself as he waited for the Caddy to pass, then fell in behind it.
The Caddy made its way to downtown Orlando, wove through the crowded streets for a few minutes, then parked in front of a restaurant on Amelia.
When Freel walked around the car and opened the driver’s side door like a gentleman, and the woman in the blue dress climbed out, smoothed her skirt with her hands, and stood up straight, she removed her tinted glasses. Belinda Lee Freel. As they walked away from the Cadillac, the reverend seemed to glance toward where Carver was parked, for only an instant, and he might have smiled. It was the same smile he’d given the uniformed cop just before driving away from the demonstration on the Orange Blossom Trail.
Carver swallowed his frustration and let out a long breath. He saw no reason to sit outside the restaurant in the stifling car. The Freels would doubtless linger over dinner in cool and pleasant surroundings, then drive home.
He decided to do that himself.
It was dark when he parked beside Beth’s car outside the cottage. He had stopped for chili and a beer, and his
stomach was in minor rebellion. The evening had cooled and he’d driven with the top down, smoking a Swisher Sweet cigar. He could still taste chili and tobacco as he raised the top.
The weather forecast he’d heard on the car radio had hinted hopefully at rain. Probably it was only another futile prediction and the storm clouds that blew in periodically from the Gulf would soar over Florida to vent their moisture in the Atlantic, but Carver didn’t want to take a chance on getting the old car’s interior soaked. Though it seemed impossible now, sooner or later it would rain again in sun-punished central Florida; what was summer without steam?
It took him awhile to get the top fastened down and the windows cranked up. The sky had become darker and the breeze was rattling the palm fronds. Maybe tonight was the night. He was acting wisely here, battening down the hatches on the rusty old land yacht.
Beth wasn’t in the cottage. Neither was Al.
Carver opened a can of Budweiser, then went out onto the porch and stood leaning on the wooden railing, looking toward the ocean. Lightning fractured the sky far out at sea, the promise of an off-shore storm, and he was sure he saw the forms of Beth and the dog walking along the beach.
He wiped moisture from the beer can off his fingers onto his shirt, got a firm grip on the crook of his cane, and went to join them.
Beth smiled at him through wind-whipped strands of hair when he approached. She didn’t have to adjust her pace to his as he fell in beside her; she was already walking slowly. Al ignored Carver and ran through the surf, picked up something in his mouth, then dropped it as a wave broke late and bowled him over.
“He likes the surf,” Carver noted. The breeze grabbed his voice and tried to whisk it away, but he was sure Beth had heard him.