Azrael

by William L. DeAndrea

  And that’s when it had hit him. Trotter had “dumped it back in their laps.” He had probably made a lot of Americans good and mad. Too goddam good and mad. And all Rines was worried about was a junior Special Agent saying “fucking” in public, if a bunch of zombies with headsets plugging their ears and their eyes glued to green scopes counted as public.

  “Don’t worry, Joe,” Trotter told him calmly. Even he had an earplug. “There won’t be a war.”

  “Maybe not. But the press has hold of this already—”

  “That’s why there won’t be a war. Listen to this.” He pulled the earplug from his ear, wiped it thoroughly on his pants, and handed it to Joe. Joe wasn’t crazy about the idea of a used earplug, but he decided Trotter looked clean enough, and stuck it in.

  He expected to hear terse voices speaking arcane codes in reassuring tones. What he got instead was the local all-news radio station. “... doubtful the KGB did in fact commission Smolinski’s death. The Soviet news agency, TASS, as well as official Polish government sources, say that Smolinski was executed by the CIA, who were afraid he was going to redefect. No U.S. Government source who would comment on the charges could be found. In Europe, American allies urged caution—”

  “Enough?” Trotter asked.

  Joe pulled the plug from his ear. “Sure,” he said. “You knew this was going to happen?”

  “As well as I know the sun will come up in the east tomorrow. It used to be you got a couple of days before the media tore the guts out of the American side of anything. Now you’ve got a grace period of maybe two hours. If that. I refer you to the Libya raids. The American planes hadn’t landed yet, and we were getting Russians on network shows telling us what bastards we were. And, my, wasn’t there a lot about Qaddafi’s daughter. I just thank God the public has enough brains to know that if we were as corrupt and evil as most of the media makes us out, bastards like Qaddafi would be dead and these high-priced reporters would be in jail.”

  “But in this case,” Albright pointed out, “they’re right. Sort of.”

  “No, they’re totally wrong. It was still the Russians who killed him. I just brought things out into starker relief. So they couldn’t ignore the truth completely and say Smolinski committed suicide in despair at the state of American culture or something. This way, at least, we’ve got one person—this Mrs. Szczeczko—who is sure the KGB did it, and a lot more people who think they might have, because the media had to spend an hour or so acting like they really believed it.”

  “It hardly seems fair. They make such a big thing out of being impartial.”

  “Come on, Joe. Did you ever meet a reporter who didn’t have his mind made up about any issue you could think of? Also, there’s more money in bad news. That’s what this is all about, Joe. Petra Hudson has kept the Hudson Group papers clear of the bandwagon. They’re a ‘conservative voice.’ The idea has to be for Borzov to swing them left at the right time.”

  “And this is the right time.”

  “Damn soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Something in the works. Something big.”

  “What could be bigger than this? I see figures that say the Hudson Group subsidiaries reach almost a hundred million people.”

  Trotter gave him a bland look. “Scary, isn’t it?”

  Joe never got the chance to answer. One of the technicians said, “Mr. Rines.” Joe had to admit he did not sound like a zombie. He sounded like a robot.

  “Put it on the monitor,” Rines said.

  “... at last ready to agree to perform your duty?” The voice on the monitor could have belonged to the technician’s brother.

  “Where—where is my daughter?”

  “Mrs. Hudson, you still have your son. For the time being. You personally have been spared because you can still fulfill your duty, but our patience is not inexhaustible.”

  “You son of a bitch! You’ve killed my daughter, do you think I care what you do to me?”

  “There is still your son.”

  Joe had to admire both their techniques. Joe knew (now) that Regina Hudson was tucked safely away in a hospital, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t, and the accusation was an attempt to get confirmation. The caller was pretty sure Regina was dead, but he was admitting nothing.

  “You have thirty seconds, Mrs. Hudson.”

  Rines said, “Can we trace this call?”

  Trotter’s face said why bother. “New York,” he suggested. “Washington. One of the embassies. They’re not going to make a call like this from anyplace the government can raid.”

  “New York or Washington look like good guesses, Mr. Rines,” one of the technicians said. He punched a few buttons. “South and east of here, at any rate. We’ll have it for you in a few minutes.”

  Petra Hudson was taking every one of her thirty seconds. Everybody in the truck waited with her. Finally, she said, “I’ll do what you say.”

  “Good, good,” Trotter said.

  The robot voice spoke from New York or Washington. “You will receive instructions.” There was a click, very loud, over the monitor, as the connection was broken. Joe thought he heard a sob from Mrs. Hudson before she hung up, but he wasn’t sure.

  Joe turned to Trotter. “Okay, I’m just a simple little FBI man from the backwoods of the Northwest, but I don’t see what’s good about it. She just said she’d do what they wanted, didn’t she?”

  “It’s why she said it, though. It means she’ll do what we want.”

  Joe thought it over for a second. “Not if anything happens to her son. You’d better keep an eye on Junior.”

  “We’re watching him,” Rines said. Joe thought, God, what a set of rabbit ears. “Junior,” Rines went on, “is being watched by six men. He’s safe as a church.”

  “I hope so,” Joe said.

  “In fact, he’s in a church.”

  Chapter Four

  “MR. NELSON?”

  Will Nelson gave the bolt one more turn with the big-bladed screwdriver, then slid out from under the pew. “Oh,” he said, “hello, Jimmy. I’m just tightening up the benches, you know, or they creak. I could barely hear my own sermon last Sunday.”

  Jimmy Hudson did not smile. “It—it looks like a big job.”

  “I don’t mind. Mike was going to help me. Do you know Mike? Helps out here part-time.”

  “I’ve seen him around.”

  “But he had a chance to go over to the lake and help some fellow get his boat in for the winter. Seems to me he’s about a month late, wouldn’t you think? The pay was half again what the church could afford to give him, so I told him to go ahead. Besides, it’s kind of fun sliding around on the marble floor. Undignified without a good excuse.”

  “I’d think it would be cold.”

  “Cold it is. Come on over to the house, I’ll make us some hot chocolate, and you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Jimmy looked miserable. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble. And I don’t want to take you away from your work.”

  Will put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Look. For one thing, it’s no trouble. I want some myself. For another thing, I’m done with this section. I’ll get to the rest some other time, or when Mike gets back. And, finally, the Scripture says, ‘Whenever two or more of you are gathered in My Name, there I am among you.’ It doesn’t say anything about pews, creaking or otherwise. People are the business I have to attend to first. I can tell by looking at you that you’ve got something on your mind that’s so heavy, it’s mashing you flat. Am I right?”

  “I wanted to get your advice,” Jimmy admitted cautiously.

  “Then come over to the kitchen and I’ll give you as much as you want.”

  The house was right next door. Will had always thought it was the kind of accommodation a congregation with their head on right provided for the preacher. Everything in it was well built and well cared for; none of it was fancy. Too many places tried to impress—the world? God?—tried to impress whoever with thei
r prosperity as indicated by the sumptuousness of the preacher’s house. Others seemed to get the idea that their minister should be a living symbol of the mortification of the flesh. The people of Kirkester realized that their spiritual leader was simply a human being with a job to do. Fanciness was unnecessary; poverty-for-show made the job harder. Will Nelson’s stay in Kirkester was going to be over soon—nothing definite, but he’d had a letter from Mr. Nethercott, the regular preacher, saying that his son was much improved, and that he might be able to start thinking about coming home in a month or so. Will would hate to leave. He liked to think he’d accomplished a lot here.

  Still, he knew it wouldn’t have been possible without the good work Mr. Nethercott had already done here. And he knew when he’d first come the work would only be temporary. But he’d always remember the town with affection.

  He took Jimmy’s jacket and hung it up in the hall closet, then led the way to the kitchen. He liked the kitchen, too. Big and homey, with a solid, black-enameled wooden table in the middle of it. He told Jimmy to sit, got cocoa powder and sugar and milk, measured, mixed, and put the pot on the stove over low heat.

  “My wife is doing her weekly visiting,” Will said. He stirred with a wooden spoon.

  “I’m sorry to miss her.”

  “She’ll be back soon.”

  Jimmy Hudson looked at his hands. Will decided to let him get to the topic in his own good time. In fact, he decided, it might be a good idea to give him a little while to think about it.

  “Jim,” he said. “Would you mind watching the pot for a few seconds?”

  “I wouldn’t mind, I just wouldn’t know what to do. The cook makes all the hot chocolate at my mother’s house.”

  “You’re a college boy, right? I think you can master it.” Jimmy came over and joined him at the stove; Will showed him. “See? Figure-eight, then around the edge, keep the spoon touching the bottom of the pan. If it starts to steam, give a yell.”

  Jimmy took over. Will watched him for five seconds, then said he was a natural, which elicited a smile from the young man. Will took the stairs two at a time, went to the bedroom and changed the jeans and plaid shirt he’d been working in for a pair of dark gray wool trousers, a black jacket, and his dog collar with a royal blue yoke. Then he looked in the mirror and thought about the demands of his ministry. He’d always known what his duty was, and now his duty was to take a risk, if it meant helping Jimmy Hudson.

  “Mr. Nelson!”

  “I’m coming.” When he got to the kitchen, he sniffed and smiled. “Smells good.” He got some marshmallows and put them in cups. He put the cups on the table, then poured.

  “Sit down, Jim,” he said. He slurped some chocolate and melted marshmallow off the top of his cup. “I had to put on my preacher suit in case anyone shows up.”

  “Are you expecting anyone?”

  “Not a soul. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Jimmy took a sip from his own cup. “Hot,” he said.

  “That’s the idea. Hot chocolate.”

  “You sound just like my father. I think. I don’t remember him really well, but I seem to recall his saying things like that. Or maybe it’s just that right now I feel like a kid.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” the Reverend Mr. Nelson wanted to know.

  “I don’t feel happy like a kid or innocent like a kid. I’m upset and afraid like a kid.”

  “And angry, too.”

  “Is it that obvious? At school, I have a reputation of being cool.”

  “It’s not that obvious, I just have a lot of experience.”

  “And I have a lot of anger. And hate.”

  “Hatred of whom?”

  “Allan Trotter. I don’t suppose it’s much of a surprise.”

  Will sipped his chocolate. “Why do you think you hate him?”

  “It’s not that I think it, Mr. Nelson. It’s a fact.”

  “This is where I’m supposed to tell you that hate is a serious business.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? That’s why I’ve come here!”

  Will smiled, just a little sadly. “They don’t hand out magic wands with this job, you know. But I’ll help you all I can.”

  “He killed Hannah,” Jimmy said.

  “Only if your sister is lying.”

  Jimmy’s voice was harsh. “For all I know he’s killed my sister, too!”

  “What do you mean, Jim? What happened to your sister?”

  “I don’t know. She’s disappeared. They both have.”

  “It could be something as innocent as an elopement.”

  “God forbid! And I’m not blaspheming when I say that.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I don’t think anything he does is innocent. I saw him looking at Hannah that night at dinner. He got her to sneak off the grounds, and he killed her.”

  “And left the body on his own front stairs? Besides, your sister says she was with him the whole time.”

  “Then he had her killed.”

  “Why, Jim?” Mr. Nelson asked softly. “And by whom?”

  “I don’t know why! It’s driving me crazy. I think this Trotter, or whoever he represents, is doing things to drive my mother insane. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened to her.”

  Will picked his words carefully. “She has seemed to become distracted over the last few months.”

  Jimmy looked ruefully at him. “Well, in the past few days, she’s seemed to become insane. Ever since Charles killed himself. She won’t come home from the office. She hardly eats at all.” He made a noise in his chest, something between a cough and a bark of bitter laughter. “Maybe,” he said, “that’s what’s happened to Regina. She couldn’t take it anymore, and she ran off. If she could only see what a wreck she’s made of Mother ...”

  “Should I see your mother?”

  “I don’t think she’d let you in.”

  “You could take me in.”

  “To the grounds, yes. I doubt she’d see you. I’m not even sure she’d see me. I mean, I’ve tried, but not too hard. All I’d be able to talk about is that murderous Trotter!”

  Will Nelson sighed. “As I said before, no magic wand. I can’t open you and take the anger and hate out, or the fear or confusion, either, if it comes to that. I suppose it does no good at all to point out that the police have investigated, ruled it an accidental death, and cleared Mr. Trotter.”

  “Not a bit of good. If he had an alibi, he also had an accomplice.”

  “Any candidates?”

  “How should I know? Maybe it’s that junk man everybody is making so much fuss over. The black man. Albright. He was trying to find Trotter the other night.”

  Will sighed again. There was nothing more he could say, except the classic, all-purpose clerical advice: Be strong and pray. It always sounded so trite, a fact Will found all the more maddening in the face of its proven efficacy. He himself was a living testament to the power of strength and prayer. When he had been troubled, he had striven to endure, and had asked the Lord for help. And he had endured, and he had found his way to this ministry. When he had been confused, the Lord had made things clear. Be strong and pray. Advice that could change a life, and so often it provoked only scorn, or anger.

  “Be strong and pray,” Will said.

  This time neither scorn nor anger but despair.

  “Don’t you think I try to be strong?” Jimmy Hudson cried. “I can’t sleep for fighting. I fight the urge to get up and find Trotter and kill him with my bare hands, and I fight the cowardice that says the only reason I don’t is that I know he could tear me apart without breaking a sweat. I fight the despair over my mother. I fight the voice that tells me Hannah might not ... be ... might be in ...”

  “In hell?” Mr. Nelson asked softly.

  Now James Hudson, Jr., did seem like a little kid. He put his face in his hands and sobbed. “Not for anything to do with her! That’s the worst of it. Just—just on a technicality!
She was an angel on earth, Mr. Nelson, but because of that man—”

  “Shh. Jimmy. Quiet. You don’t have to worry about it.”

  Jimmy looked up at him. Tear tracks glistened in the fluorescent light, but there was a wild, skeptical hope in his face.

  And that, Will thought, is the advantage of making tough decisions in advance. This was what he’d foreseen; if he’d put off his decision, he’d have to hesitate and make it now, and his words wouldn’t carry the authority and comfort the boy needed.

  “You wouldn’t have had to worry in any case, you know. The Lord gives us our parents; He doesn’t punish us because of whom He’s given us.”

  “But Hannah had been coming to me for instruction.”

  “What?”

  “She wanted it to be a surprise. She used to drive in from campus. I thought the whole business was a little frivolous, but she explained that it was a gift to you. The surprise, that is. The conversion was for herself. I baptized her.”

  “You did?”

  “It doesn’t become a man in my position to lie, Jim.”

  “But her parents ... you let her be buried.”

  “Her parents had to deal with losing her. Why burden them with something like this at the same time? The One Who counted already knew.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Frankly, because it never occurred to me you’d have any doubts that a young woman who, as you put it, was an angel on earth would have any trouble being one in heaven.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nelson.”

  “I should have told you.”

  “And I shouldn’t have doubted.”

  “You’re a little young yet to be perfect.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I guess. But nowhere near perfect.”

  “It takes time. Drink your chocolate. It ought to be cooler by now.”

  Jimmy drank his chocolate. Will made him promise to call again, as often as he liked, to phone any time of the day or night, if Jimmy needed him. He showed him out.