"Neither was the rack and the strappado, as far as I know," I said.
The priest steepled his hands and placed them against his lower lip and nodded, smiling slightly. "You might think of these people as a kind of Christian version of the Jewish Defense League. They are activist. They might use force to achieve the goals of the religion."
"Is it really a religion," I said.
"Are you asking me to define religion, Spenser? In one sense a religion is a religion if it says it is a religion. The Bullies believe in a supreme being and a system of conduct derived from that supreme being's teachings and precepts."
Sigh.
"Religious belief is rather like love," Keneally said. "It can manifest itself in various experiential forms."
"Is Bullard Winston a genuine religious leader?" I said. "Or is he a charlatan."
"Power corrupts, Spenser. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Winston certainly appeared sincere at the outset, but now I can't be sure. There was some talk of drug use once, but nothing more than ecumenical gossip. Few men are immune to the temptations that reside in absolute authority. Those who resist most successfully are perhaps the recipients of divine aid."
Keneally leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his ankles on the desktop. A fortunate recipient of divine aid. His black oxfords gleamed with polish.
"How does the church feel about Winston's chances for divine aid?"
"There is, in my view, and it reflects the best thinking currently in the church, little justification for the Bullies' militancy in doctrinal sources, in patristic writing, or in scripture."
"How big," I said.
"Membership? Perhaps ten thousand nationwide. The founding church is here, in Middleton, and there are mission churches in a number of cities across the country and abroad-somewhere in the Middle East and Southeast Asia, I've heard. It seems to have a good funding base, and seems to be well managed."
"You have an address for the church headquarters?"
"No, but it is in Middleton and should be listed in the phone book."
"Okay," I said. "I'll go visit them. Any summation you'd care to give me before I go?"
"I don't know how much reason you have to be wary of these people," Keneally said, "but I have none. As far as I know the church leaders and membership are sincere, if doctrinally unsophisticated. The Bullies pose no threat to the established church or, as far as I know, to the established order. Its membership is probably disenchanted with more orthodox worship, and like so many other fringe religions, the Bullies provide a complete life, albeit a limited one. It is communal, rather rigidly ruled, and vigorously organized by a single purpose. Certain kinds of people find it a very attractive alternative to lives that have been chaotic or aimless."
"The Bullies are not the only source for that kind of satisfaction," I said.
"Indeed not." Keneally smiled. "Many in my calling are drawn by something not dissimilar. But the Bullies also, of course, represent an antiestablishment, and-for lack of a better word-revolutionary, option. The established churches are just that, established, and would thus be less inviting to a certain kind of person."
"A life with mission and without uncertainty," I said, "with some revolutionary zeal for frosting."
Keneally nodded. "One could do worse," he said.
"One often does," I said.
CHAPTER 9
The founding church of the Reorganized Church of the Redemption was on the former site of an animal park and theme village off Route 114 in Middleton. There were about fifteen acres with a green, and a plain white church at one end. Several bungalows lined each side of the green and behind them some small outbuildings, and then gardens. The whole thing looked like a cut-rate version of Old Sturbridge Village.
I pulled in onto the gravel drive that circled the green and drove up and parked beside the church. It looked like any New England village church. In the gardens behind the bungalows a number of people were working.
I walked up the front steps of the church and into the foyer. A sign said OFFICE, and an arrow pointed left. I went left. There was a set of stairs and another arrow. I followed the arrow down and in the basement of the church found a collection of office cubicles separated by frosted glass partitions. There was air-conditioning and fluorescent light and the sound of typewriters. A young woman at the reception desk said, "May I help you."
She had a frizzy perm and some makeup. She wore a white blouse with a round collar and an olive skirt.
"Is there someone who normally talks to people with questions," I said.
"Questions about the church, sir?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Owens is our director of community relations," she said.
"May I speak with him," I said.
"Certainly, sir. Would you have a seat. I'll see if Mr. Owens is free."
I sat and she stood, and walked down the corridor. She was wearing high-heeled shoes with no backs and her tan legs were bare. Not bad hips for a religious zealot. Susan had told me that those kind of shoes were called fuckme shoes. "On the assumption that you didn't want to order them in quite that way to a saleslady at Filene's," I had said, "what else would you call them?" Susan had said that she'd simply have to find some and point. She'd never heard them called anything else. Probably called hold-my-hand shoes here.
The receptionist returned and smiled and said Mr. Owens would see me. I followed her down the hall and she ushered me into one of the cubicles. There was a gray metal desk and two gray metal chairs and a file cabinet and a picture of a man, probably Bullard Winston, on the wall. Owens stood and put out his hand.
"Bob Owens," he said.
Owens was tall and trim with sandy hair and some freckles. His hands had large knuckles and they cracked slightly when we shook hands. He had on a seersucker suit and a white shirt and a light yellow tie.
I sat in one of the metal chairs and said, "I am looking for a young woman named Sherry Spellman." I took my license out and handed it across to him. He looked at it, smiled, handed it back.
"Not a flattering likeness," he said.
"It didn't have much of a start," I said. He nodded.
"Sherry is with us," he said.
"Here?" I said.
Owens smiled. "She is with us," he said.
"I'd like to speak with her if I may."
"I'm sorry, sir, that isn't possible," Owens said.
"Why not?"
"She has sought refuge with us. We cannot very well violate her refuge at the first request."
"She's here voluntarily?"
Owens put his head back and smiled and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "My God, yes. How else would she be here? This is a Christian church."
"Her friend says she was taken forcibly. That's why he hired me."
Owens didn't smile. "That is absurd," he said. "Who is this friend?"
I shook my head. "No need for you to know," I said.
"The charge may well be actionable," Owens said. His face was severe, and with his freckles he looked like an angry child.
"Simple charge to disprove," I said. "Let me talk with her."
"No. I cannot. She has a right to sanctuary. She has a right to come here and be undisturbed."
"I appreciate that. On the other hand, you can probably appreciate why I can't just take your word for it."
"I'm afraid you'll have to."
"There are several ways to do this. But the easiest would be to talk with your boss. May I see him?"
"Mr. Spenser," Owens said. "This is harassment, and it is intolerable. Sherry Spellman is here of her own volition, she is well and happy and does not wish to be bothered. That is the end of it. You'll have to leave."
"Another way would be I could call the cops," I said.
Owens pushed a button on his multibutton telephone and in ten seconds the frizzyhaired receptionist stuck her head in the door.
"Ask Corey to send a couple of men down here, please, Miss Chase."
"Yes, sir," Miss
Chase said, and pulled her head out and closed the door.
"Or I could get up and go out and begin to look through the buildings," I said. "See if she is here."
"I have requested two church deacons to come by and escort you from church property, Mr. Spenser: I'm sorry to be so brusque, but we do not turn the other cheek here. And we do not accept intimidation. And we believe in direct, immediate, and vigorous action when necessary."
There was a knock and Owens nodded and two large young men came in wearing white short-sleeve shirts and chino pants. They were both obvious body builders. One had a crew cut, the other was balding, though he was still in his twenties, and combed the sparse brown hair over the bald parts. Vanity even here.
I said to Owens, "I will need to see Sherry Spellman and talk with her. And I will. But busting up your deacons this morning doesn't seem like the way to go about it." I stood up. "I'll be in touch," I said. No one spoke. I walked past the deacons and out of the church. They followed and stood on the church steps and watched me as I drove away.
CHAPTER 10
I drove back down Route 114 to Middleton Square and had a cup of coffee in the Blue Bell Restaurant. It was 10:45. Across the continent Susan would be putting on her makeup now, and spraying some perfume on herself and making sure her hair was perfect. I looked at my reflection in the window. My hair wasn't perfect. Neither was I.
I had more coffee and a piece of cherry pie. I didn't much care for getting pushed around by a couple of overbuilt Jesus freaks. No point in starting a fight. Except to relieve some of the aimless hostility that simmered almost at the border of repression. But that was personal, and it wouldn't do anything for Sherry Spellman. I wasn't sure it would do anything for me. It wasn't a good time for me to be hostile. I felt not so much weak as slow. And getting beaten to the punch by some guy who combed hair over his bald spot would not make me feel better.
The woman behind the counter said, "Want another piece of pie?"
"Sure." Maybe if I ate enough my energy level would rise. Maybe I was suffering from low blood sugar. It was pretty good cherry pie.
I tried to concentrate on Sherry Spellman and the Bullies. My concentration wasn't what it used to be either. I could try to go over Owens's head. I could talk with Bullard Winston. If you're going over a head, you may as well go all the way over. If that didn't work, I could always go back to basics. When in doubt, sit and watch.
There was a pay phone outside the Blue Bell and a phone book that hadn't been ripped loose. I looked up the Bullies and called the main number.
"Bullard Winston, please."
"Who's calling, please?" It was a pleasant female voice with overtones.
"My name is Spenser," I said.
"May I ask the reason for your call, sir?"
"I'd like an appointment to speak with Mr. Winston."
"Reverend Winston does not normally make appointments."
"I'm looking for a missing girl," I said. "I have been told that your organization is holding her captive."
"Thank you for calling the Reorganized Church, sir," she said, and hung up. Another triumph for smooth talk. I got in my car and drove back up toward the Bullie compound. I parked across from the entrance and sat. Other than Sherry Spellman, I didn't know what I was looking for. I just watched. Some cars came and went. People went in and out of the church. People went in and out of the bungalows. A group of people came out of the church together as if there had been a service, or a class. Various dogs nosed around the shrubbery or slept in the sun, sprawling on the warm gravel of the drive. At noon a large number of people went into one of the bungalows, and being an experienced investigator I surmised it was the dining hall and they were having lunch. I saw no sign of duress. No plaintive screams for help, no leg irons, no automatic weapons. Not even a beret or a fatigue jacket. The place looked like a pleasant religious community. Clever disguise. Periodically one of the three identical blue Ford Escort station wagons that were parked beside the church would crank into life and drive out of the compound and up or down Route 114. Sometimes there was only a driver. Sometimes the car would have passengers. They were always driven by a deacon in what I realized was the deacon's costume. White short-sleeve shirt, chino pants. At three in the afternoon the whole community turned out on the green and did an hour of calisthenics led by the kid with the crew cut who had watched me off the property that morning. I didn't see any sign of Sherry Spellman, but I was too far away to be sure, especially since I was working from a photo of her, face only. On the other hand, if she were locked away in a dungeon, it wouldn't much matter what photo I had.
I sat until it got dark and didn't see much else. At five everyone went to the dining hall. At seven everyone went to the church. At eight everyone went into their bungalows. I went home.
I had some Irish whiskey for supper and watched the ballgame and when I felt sleepy and dull enough I went to bed and slept badly.
CHAPTER 11
The sky gets light around 4:30 in July in Boston and by 5:15 or so the sun is up. I lasted in bed until six and got up feeling cumbersome and slow, like a stone. Paul was on the couch, so I was quiet making coffee. The air-conditioner in the living room made enough noise to muffle my sounds and I turned on the early morning news while I sipped orange juice and waited for the coffee.
At seven I was lumbering along the Charles, and at 8:15 I was heading north over the bridge to look at the Bullies some more. When I left, Paul was still sleeping.
The commuter traffic was all in the other direction and I was parked by the church compound before nine. So far in two days effort the only thing I'd got out of this was two pieces of decent cherry pie. I had some coffee in a paper cup and I sipped it and watched the life of the Bullies unfold placidly before me. Everything was as before. The small station wagons came and went. The gardens were weeded, people went in and out of the church. A little before noon a smoky-rosecolored Lincoln sedan pulled into the drive and stopped in front of the church. There were two buggy whip antennas on the rear bumpers and a small one on the top of the trunk. I'd been thinking of getting some. Made your car look so official. People came out of the church and from the bungalows. They stood in a silent circle around the car. A tall guy in a dark suit and a white shirt got out of the front and opened the rear door. Stewart Granger got out. King Solomon's Mines, setting out on safari. He had on a crisp khaki safari shirt and matching slacks, and he carried a thick blackthorn walking stick. He moved slowly along the circle of Bullies, speaking to people, touching them on the shoulder. They dipped their heads as he talked to them, not a bow, but a kind of reverential nod. When he had worked the circle, Stewart went up the church steps and into the church. The people stood outside and watched the door he'd entered and appeared to say nothing. Probably wasn't really Stewart Granger. Probably Bullard Winston. He looked like the picture an Qwens's wall.
At noon he went to the dining hall. At 1:10 he came out and got into his car and drove back down Route 114. I copied down his license plate number. Maybe it would be a clue. A little after two o'clock one of the little station wagons pulled out and I followed it. I wasn't learning much sitting. Motion at least gives you the illusion that you're going samewhere.
We went down Route 114 to Route 62 and east to Route 1, and headed north on 1. Twenty miles north of Boston, in the upper reaches of Megalopolis, milk cows grazed in hilly pastures. Northern Essex County looked much as it must have in the eighteenth century. At least long stretches of it still did as the two-lane road meandered north among loose stone walls and white barns and wide tidal marshes with the marsh hay harvested in neat round beehive stacks.
I followed the Ford Escort wagon through Newburyport and over the Merrimack River and into Salisbury. North of Salisbury Center the Escort pulled into the dirt driveway of a frame farmhouse that had been shingled in beige asbestos with a fake wood pattern. The house was surrounded by vegetable garden for maybe 100 yards on each side. Stretching to a roadhouse on the left that advert
ised "All Country/All Day" and an auto salvage yard on the right, behind the house, were the tidal marshes. Close to the road a small shack with a sign that said FRESH EGGS, FRESH VEGETABLES, ORGANICALLY GROWN. There was a young woman in jeans and a print blouse tending the inventory. It was too early in the year for much except eggs. Hens were not seasonal. They could probably ovulate at will.
One of the khaki deacons got out of the Escort, carrying what looked like a small mail sack. He went into the house, came out in maybe three minutes still carrying the sack, got back into the Escort, and we headed back to the founding church in Middleton.
The courier was easy to tail. He didn't expect to be followed. I was driving a nondescript-looking Subaru hatchback with a four-wheel-drive option for winter crime-stopping, and it looked like most of the cars on the road. I drifted along two or three cars back. Normally tailing was very automatic and gave me time to think. Today I didn't think. I hadn't been able to think much since Susan left; instead, I realized I had been concentrating on balancing the dull ache. If I was careful, I could keep the ache from turning into despair. Across the road on my left a Weimaraner hunted the marsh flat, coursing back and forth, its nose to the ground, its short tail quivering with excitement. Beyond the dog, in the distance, was the rim of shoreline and the quality of open emptiness beyond. I'd never figured that out. It wasn't that you could see the ocean exactly, but you knew it was there. The Escort was getting a little far ahead and I passed a Chevy wagon with kids in the back making a V sign at me. It had no meaning anymore and the kids probably didn't know why they made it. But two fingers were better than one.
We passed Governor Dummer Prep School on the right. White buildings, a soccer field. I had noticed in the last few weeks that there was a kind of rhythm that, if one were careful, could be controlled. It was easy to lose the rhythm, but if one concentrated, one could stay in it and avoid sharp suffering. Keeping the rhythm also provided you with something to do. Gave you a kind of purpose in life, getting by without spilling over. A man needs a goal.
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