Unthinkable

by Brad Parks

  “A video?” Jenny asked.

  “Security camera footage, yes. If you can give me your email address, I’ll share the file with you. I should warn you, it’s . . . well, it’s pretty upsetting to watch, of course. It would probably be prudent for your husband not to let the family see it. But maybe he could just view it himself and then talk the family down? It would probably save everyone a lot of anguish and heartache.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  The call quickly wound down after that. But all the while, Jenny was wondering:

  A mental hospital patient? A suicide? How had Nate gotten involved in something like this?

  She was just beginning to ponder that question when her assistant poked her head through the office door.

  “Hey,” she said tentatively. “I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a police officer here to see you.”

  CHAPTER 21

  NATE

  I was still thinking about how to handle Heather Matthews when my phone rang again.

  Unavailable was getting back to me.

  Vanslow DeGange—and the wild imagination of the people who worked for him—must have finally woken up.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Do you think we can control the weather?” Rogers asked.

  It seemed like it must have been a trick question, but I couldn’t figure out what the ruse was. At least not yet. So I said, “I suppose not, no.”

  “Good. Early this afternoon a tornado will touch down outside Enid, Oklahoma, near the Cornerstone Assembly of God. It won’t damage the sanctuary, but it will steamroll the church’s gymnasium during the middle of the Women’s Outreach Ministry’s annual luncheon.”

  I gripped the phone harder.

  Marcus Sakey was one thing. I had barely begun to touch all the ways that prophecy was just manipulation.

  I couldn’t imagine how they were going to fake this one. Was there any precedent of people being able to predict tornadoes? Or spawn them? I didn’t think so, but . . . this couldn’t possibly come true, could it?

  “Please tell me you’re making this up.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Oh God,” I said. “How many people will die?”

  “None. We’re going to see to it that there’s going to be a sewage backup in the gym. It will result in a terrible odor and will force the ladies to reschedule their luncheon. The gym will be empty when the tornado hits. Mr. DeGange said there are a lot of ripples—a lot of lives saved. The story will quickly go viral, as you can imagine. People of faith all over the world will see it as divine intervention. And we’re going to let them. You will be one of the very few who knows the truth.”

  I blinked once, twice, three times before my senses came back online.

  This man wasn’t actually capable of forecasting a tornado. There was going to be some kind of sleight of hand. I just had to be watchful for it.

  “Okay, to make sure I’ve got this straight: a tornado will destroy the gymnasium at the Cornerstone Assembly of God this afternoon, but there will be no injuries because someone—”

  “The Praesidium,” he interjected.

  “Yeah, you guys, whatever, will make sure the building is empty.”

  “That’s right. By late afternoon, it should be on all the cable news stations. Pick a channel. It’s a slow news day. It ought to play big.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll see.”

  “I’ll call you after it happens. In my experience, you’ll need to talk.”

  “Right. Whatever.”

  I hung up.

  There was this tightness in my face and chest. What kind of crap was Rogers going to pull now? I took a few deep breaths, trying to relax myself.

  The whole time, I had been keeping one eye on the girls. They were still playing dress-up, though now Parker was using a patterned maxi skirt to play peekaboo with Cate, repeatedly tossing it over Cate’s head, waiting until the tension built to nearly unbearable levels, and then—surprise!—ripping it away.

  “Where’s Cate-Cate? Where’s Cate-Cate . . . there she is!”

  Every time Parker made the big reveal, it absolutely busted Cate up. My younger daughter had the best laugh, this deep-in-the-gut chuckle that was both slightly devious and totally delightful. And pure. And joyful.

  Ordinarily, this was the kind of thing that made stay-at-home parenting worth the struggle. Yet there I was, feeling like I was going to throw up.

  If this tornado actually happened, it would mean Vanslow DeGange was the real deal, and . . .

  No. That was a blank I couldn’t fill in.

  And, in any event, I wouldn’t have to. Because there was no way this was going to unfurl exactly the way Rogers said. I just had to stay on my game to spot the deception.

  With the girls still happily diverted, I pulled out my phone and did a quick search on tornado tracking.

  The first story was “Why it’s impossible to predict where a tornado will strike.”

  It confirmed my general understanding of twisters: that while meteorologists know certain conditions are likely to lead to tornadoes, even the most powerful computer models are helpless at forecasting the specifics of where or when one will touch down.

  So, obviously, Rogers was planning some kind of artifice here. Could the Praesidium use some special effects or Hollywood backstage to make it seem like a church gym had been wrecked? Hire some actors to pretend to be pious women who had been spared God’s wrath?

  It was time to start fact-checking this thing from every angle. To start, I went to a weather site on my phone and typed in Enid, Oklahoma.

  If it was a clear day, I would know right away something funny was going on.

  But no. A line of powerful thunderstorms was already being forecast to roll through early in the afternoon, with the potential to spin off . . .

  Tornadoes.

  I stared at my phone for a moment or two, blinking some more.

  Okay, obviously Rogers had done his homework. He wouldn’t be so careless as to fake a tornado where none had been forecast.

  Next, I searched for the Cornerstone Assembly of God in Enid. I was soon on a website whose home page was a photo of parishioners, their arms in the air, smiling rapturously.

  In a copperplate script, it said, Cornerstone Assembly of God: It’s Church. But Better.

  Above the photo were headings: About Us|Our Mission|Our People|Events Calendar|Contact

  I clicked a few of them. Either this was a real site or someone had gone through a lot of trouble to make an excellent forgery, right down to the picture of and greeting from the Reverend Kenneth L. Neathery Jr. He had a glorious dome of a bald head, grandfatherly rimless glasses, and an understanding smile.

  My final stop was the events calendar. The lone item in the block for today was 12 noon. Women’s Outreach Ministry Annual Luncheon and Awards. Location: CAOG Gymnasium.

  Right. So, again, Rogers was making sure all his t’s were crossed.

  I left the website, trying to think of some aspect of this “church” the Praesidium wouldn’t be able to counterfeit. I went back to the main Google search. In addition to the website I had just been on, there was a Facebook page, an Instagram page, a Yelp listing, a YellowPages.com listing. All had seemingly legitimate followers and customer reviews. There were also local news reports about church happenings, obituaries of dearly departed parishioners, and so on.

  This was a real church.

  I looked up the address on Google Maps, switching to satellite view. It was on the outskirts of town, in an area that appeared mostly agricultural, save for a convenience store just up the road.

  Set down in the middle of all those fields, the Cornerstone Assembly of God was a large rectangular structure, surrounded by a semicircle of asphalt. Behind it, connected to the main sanctuary by a narrow walkway, was a second building. It was smaller, and square, and looked from above like it could be a gymnasium.

  Something about this had to be fraudulent, thoug
h. I decided to call the church, but I didn’t trust the number listed on the website. Rogers could have hacked in and planted a number that one of his people was now answering.

  I went to the local paper, the Enid News and Eagle, and typed in a search for Cornerstone Assembly of God. I scrolled down until I found a listing for a food drive the church had organized three years earlier, which had a phone number in it.

  That seemed like something I could trust. Jenny’s lawsuit hadn’t even existed three years ago. There was no way Rogers could have been planting newspaper listings that far back.

  I dialed the number. After two rings, I heard a sweet-as-pie voice say, “Cornerstone Assembly of God, this is Connie, may I help you?”

  “Yes, hi,” I said. “My wife was wondering if there was still room at the Women’s Outreach luncheon today.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of room, honey. You tell her to just come on down. We’d love to have her.”

  “And does she need a ticket, or . . .”

  “Oh, heavens no.”

  “Is she supposed to bring something? A casserole—”

  “Just herself. It’s a buffet, so the food is already taken care of.”

  “It starts at noon, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a blessed day.”

  I assured her I would, then ended the call and stared at my phone some more. The church and the event seemed to check out. Where was the chink in the armor here?

  Whatever my next step was going to be, I never got there. Someone was knocking on my front door.

  Through the window I could see a tall man wearing sunglasses, an off-the-rack suit, and a tie that didn’t quite make it all the way down to his belt.

  I was no Vanslow DeGange. But I could make my own prediction:

  Heather Matthews had found me. The police had arrived.

  CHAPTER 22

  NATE

  My mind was working quickly even as I slow-walked to the door.

  Was there some way I could finesse my strange performance from earlier this morning?

  No, I would just have to stick with my existing fib: I was an art enthusiast there to see a Rembrandt; I’d just gotten the wrong house.

  I was at least reasonably certain I hadn’t broken any laws. The housekeeper had let me in. I had walked around without breaking anything or taking anything. And then I had left when asked.

  So, okay, let the cop lecture me, scare me, whatever he had to do to satisfy Mrs. Matthews.

  I opened the door. The guy was maybe half a decade younger than me, about two or three inches taller, and had a well-tended beard.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  “Are you Nathan Lovejoy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Ishmael Khalilu. I’m with the Youth and Family Unit of the Richmond Police. May I come in?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Youth and Family? What did this have to do with either of those things? Was it because my girls had been with me? Was this guy going to report me to Social Services or something?

  He walked in past me, and I closed the door behind him. He was doing that cop thing where his eyes were going all over the place, greedily collecting information—to be used against me later, no doubt. He wasn’t even trying to be that surreptitious about it.

  I suddenly wished I hadn’t invited him in. It wasn’t too late to ask him to leave. The Fourth Amendment was squarely on my side with this one. The guy didn’t have a search warrant, and therefore he had no right to be inside my house.

  But if I started getting pushy with him, he might return the favor. And that wasn’t a fight I needed.

  “Are your kids around?” he asked.

  “Yes, my daughters are in the living room,” I said. “As a matter of fact, if you’ll just let me slide by you, I need to check on them.”

  I dipped my head as I passed, a small gesture of deference as one large man invaded the personal space of another.

  The girls were still tangled in a mess of clothing, though now it was more parallel play, with each lost in their own imaginary realm.

  I wanted to get this over with. Maybe if I took the initiative, I could spare myself the lecture. Look, I know why you’re here. Let me explain . . .

  “It would be better if we could talk somewhere they couldn’t hear us,” he said.

  “Well, then I’m afraid you’re just going to have to keep your voice down, Detective Khalilu, because I have to keep at least half an eye on them,” I said, ever the good dad. “Our youngest is only eighteen months. They get into trouble fast at that age.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s keep this chill, then. I just wanted to have a little talk about the argument you and your wife had this morning.”

  “What?” I said, unsure of what he was even talking about.

  Then I remembered our minor spat—could you even call it that?—about me not telling her the girls had spent the previous afternoon with Kara Grichtmeier.

  “Things get a little out of hand?” he pressed. “Hey, I get it, man. Me and my lady, sometimes we go at it and it’s like, whoo, bombs going off.”

  “There were no bombs. We had a . . . a short conversation, and that was it.”

  “Uh-huh. Look, I know how it is, man. Especially when you marry a strong, intelligent woman. Because they start twisting things, and twisting things, and suddenly you don’t even know which way is up, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Actually, no, I—”

  “And sometimes it’s like, man, you just want to remind them who’s boss, you know? Like, you’re not going to hit her, because that’s not right. But you want it to stop so you—”

  He made a guttural noise. Then he reached out with both hands and pantomimed strangling something.

  “Something like that, am I right?” he continued. “What were you guys fighting about? Money? I don’t know about you, but my lady, man, she spends it as fast as I can make it.”

  “No. We weren’t . . . I swear, we didn’t have any kind of argument.”

  He raised both eyebrows. “You sure? Okay, maybe not an argument. Just a discussion that got a little hot?”

  “No, nothing like that. We talked briefly while the girls were eating their breakfast, but I was just . . . answering a question she had. I think the only time we touched at all was when she kissed me on the cheek at the end of it. That was it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  And then he floored me with: “Because we received a call that you choked your wife this morning.”

  “You . . . that’s . . . that’s not true. Who told you that?”

  I could hear my own voice climbing through the octaves on its way to shrill.

  “So you deny that you choked her?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I’m denying it. I didn’t do it. I would never hurt her.”

  “Uh-huh. So you’re saying you didn’t put your hands on her. Maybe just a little—”

  And, again, he made his hands into a circle, then gave them a shake for emphasis.

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Because you should know, we take this sort of thing very seriously,” Detective Khalilu said. “Attempted strangulation is a significant predictor of future violence. They’ve done studies. People who have been choked by their partner are ten times more likely to be murdered by that person later.”

  I had been keeping eye contact with the detective the entire time, but as soon as he mentioned murder, I lost it. There’s a legal concept called mens rea. It’s an essential part of most prosecutions: proving criminals know their actions are wrong—a classic example being the bank robber who wears a mask.

  Mens rea literally translates as “guilty mind.” And even though I hadn’t done anything to my wife, I had mens rea all the same, because of what Rogers had told me I needed to do.

  And on some level I must have been contem
plating actually doing it.

  Detective Khalilu seemed to be able to smell the guilt on me.

  “Look, I didn’t do anything like that,” I said. “Who made this call? It wasn’t Jenny.”

  It couldn’t have been, right? Why would Jenny invent something like this?

  “I can’t tell you. And, frankly, it’s beside the point. The point is not how we know; it’s that we know.”

  He was looming over me, closing the gap between us in a way that made me feel like I was wearing his deodorant.

  “But it’s not true,” I said. “Ask my wife.”

  “I did.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That’s between me and your wife.”

  “Well, I’m sure she told you I didn’t touch her. I mean, did you look at her? There were no marks or bruises.”

  “There often aren’t with strangulation. A lot of perpetrators choose it for that exact reason, because it doesn’t necessarily leave marks.”

  “But I’m not a perpetrator of anything. I would never hurt her.”

  “Right, right, of course,” he said. “Then here’s what you need to know at this point. We’ve opened a case file on you. Whether we decide to charge you or not, there’s now a record of this, you understand? And if something else happens, we’re not going to look at it like some onetime thing. It would be part of a pattern.”

  The words were landing like punches. Case file . . . record . . . pattern.

  “And we’ve told your wife that if she has any concerns about your behavior—any concerns whatsoever—she can reach out to us.”

  He then turned back to good-cop mode and described the “resources” with which he could connect me. Anger management. Domestic violence counseling. All voluntary. No admission of wrongdoing.

  I didn’t bother interrupting him with more denials. He wasn’t going to believe me anyway.

  “And in the meantime,” he finished, “I’m going to be keeping my eye on you, you understand?”