But here in Georgia, Tommy wasn’t an option. So Richard had chosen a woman with whom, as they say on the soaps, he had a history. Not a sexual history in the narrow, Clintonian definition of the phrase, but certainly a history of intimacy: youthful, uninhibited physical exploration.
Coming here seemed the right choice. It felt natural to reach out to someone he’d known, someone who’d known him. A minister. And yet, now that he had time to decelerate and reflect, was there some other motive driving his choice? Something recondite, something he wasn’t willing to acknowledge? An unarticulated desire, perhaps, to blow on the embers of an old flame? Foolish. She’d be married, have children, be living her own life.
Perhaps he was propelled by mere curiosity to see how she’d weathered the years, what her journey had been like, what kind of woman she’d turned out to be. Or maybe—and now he had to admit he was cutting closer to the marrow—he was simply trying to escape the specter of what had been his greatest love and greatest failure: Karen.
He shut off the engine and got out of the car.
Ambivalence about entering the church suddenly swarmed over him. Could he be putting Marty at risk? Could von Stade be following him? Would it be better for him to leave? One woman, Mrs. Scarelli, had already disappeared. And another, Anneliese, had been murdered. Von Stade claimed no part in Mrs. Scarelli’s disappearance, but what about Anneliese’s demise? On the other hand, what did it matter, why believe anything von Stade said?
While he mulled the possibilities, he leaned against the top of his Mini, scanning the parking lot and adjacent road for any threats, for any vehicles that seemed to be tracking him. The parking lot contained only a handful of cars, and they’d been there when he’d arrived. Traffic on the road was sparse. None of it turned into the church lot.
Richard maintained his vigil for a full fifteen minutes, listening to the lazy concert of the cicadas and allowing the humid Georgia heat to soak into his body. He made a slow 360-degree pivot and surveyed the area around him. No human movement appeared.
He got back into his car and circled the church, making a careful reconnaissance of the other parking lots. Empty. Satisfied he was alone, he returned to the front lot, parked and exited the Mini.
He entered the church. Cool quietness filled its interior. Light filtered through elevated stained glass windows into a spacious vestibule and danced across its floor in a patchwork of soft hues. Signs at an information desk directed visitors to the sanctuary, choir room, library, offices, classrooms, meeting rooms and a prayer room. Another sign, hand lettered, sat on the desk. Gone to lunch. Be back at 1. Darcy. Darcy, Richard assumed, was the receptionist.
He walked down a hallway toward the offices. He came to a plaque with Marty’s name on it. An arrow underneath her name pointed to a connecting hallway. At the far end of that hallway, a cleaning lady, her back to him and on her hands and knees, scrubbed the floor. She wore a stained, gray sweat suit, raggedy walking shoes and a tattered baseball hat that looked as if it might have tangled with a document shredder. He tried to make his footfalls audible so as not to startle the woman.
She turned and looked up as he approached. He wondered if she spoke English. “Is Minister De la Serna in?” he asked, clearly enunciating his words.
“Yes.” Her face, dark brown and round, suggested a Mexican or Central American heritage. Strands of black hair snaked out from beneath the baseball hat and clung to her damp forehead.
“It’s nothing important, and I’m not a church member, but I thought... well, I’d just like to talk with her for a bit if she has time.”
The cleaning lady stood and gestured toward the minister’s office. “Have a seat, please. I’ll go get her.” With her foot she pushed a bucket of dirty water against the wall and tossed a cleaning rag into it. She turned into a nearby doorway and disappeared.
Richard entered the office and lowered himself into a comfortable but well-used leather chair. Cracks and abrasions, like the skin of an old dueling meister, crisscrossed its arms and cushions. Richard’s fingers feathered the roughness of the leather as he surveyed the dimly-lit room. A slow eddy of dust motes drifted through a single shaft of sunlight that brightened the office’s interior. Ramparts of cluttered bookcases stood against its walls. What limited wall space there was was obscured by photographs, framed documents and religious paintings. One photo in particular caught his eye. He stood and walked over to it. It appeared to have been shot along a fishing stream somewhere in the Mountain West; the background suggested Montana or Wyoming. A group of young men, a young woman and an older woman, all wearing broad smiles and lots of L. L. Bean, held up a string of rainbow trout. He was sure the younger woman was Marty. He leaned closer to the picture, trying to see her face more clearly.
“So now I’m a fisher of men,” a voice behind him said. A voice that years ago had whispered things in his ear a minister might rather forget; words of passion within the confines of an old Chevy whose windows became translucent with the condensation of heavy breathing on winter nights. He turned.
“The picture was shot on the Madison in Montana... quite a few years ago,” the owner of the voice said, her words becoming hesitant as she stared at Richard. “Mom, me and my brothers—do I know you?” She squinted at him over the top of half-glasses perched on her nose.
“Yes,” he said, “you know me.”
She smiled at him, though more with her eyes—soft, blue, large—than with her mouth. They were eyes that had once gazed at him with adolescent adoration. Now though, they were searching and a bit circumspect. And certainly more mature.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No,” he said, “I am. I’m being unfair. Richard. Richard Wainwright.”
“Oh, my goodness. Rich.” She gasped and raised her hand to her mouth. “The pony tail, the glasses...”
He removed the tiny rectangular spectacles he always wore, more for effect than necessity, and slipped them into the pocket of his suit jacket. He extended his hand toward her.
She ignored the proffered greeting and instead stepped forward to hug him. “Out of the blue,” she said. “I’m speechless.”
“You never were before.”
She stepped back and looked him up and down. “Over twenty years. You look great. Some sort of an executive, I gather?” She fingered his jacket.
“Retired. Well, un-retired. That’s why I’m in Atlanta.”
“I suwanee,” she said, fanning herself with her hand as though she were about to faint, a playful gesture. She stopped and pointed at the leather chair. “Please,” she said.
As she seated herself behind her desk, Richard examined her more closely. Shoulder-length wheat-colored hair laced with silver framed a face unblemished and amber, a complexion suggesting unbridled vibrancy. Tiny wrinkles, signs of character more than age, crinkled the edges of her eyes. Attractive, he thought, not drop-dead beautiful, but good looking. She obviously had taken care of herself. Then again, maybe it was just good genes or good luck.
“I apologize,” he said, “I should have called. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just good to see you. I’m thrilled, really. Life can be dull without surprises.”
Yea, verily, he thought. He pointed at a framed certificate on the wall. “Speaking of surprises. A minister?”
“Wake Forest Divinity School. 1989. I guess after we drifted apart my life became meaningless and hollow. I found fulfillment in religion. I considered becoming a nun for awhile.”
He stared at her, stunned, unwilling to believe their relationship had been that powerful, their split that traumatic.
She giggled. “Had ya there for a moment, didn’t I?”
He expelled a long breath.
“It was a calling, a true calling. I love my work. And you? Has life been good?”
<
br /> He hesitated before answering. “Ups and downs,” he said.
She picked up on the delayed response. She leaned forward, elbows on her desk and hands folded together beneath her chin, and studied him. It was an easy, natural appraisal, not so much an examination as an attempt to make a connection.
“You didn’t come here on a whim,” she said, and waited.
“No...” He wanted to excuse himself, to leave; what he wished to discuss suddenly seemed too private, too... male.
“You can talk to me,” she said, “I’m a good listener, a willing listener. What you say in here, stays in here. Like a lawyer-client, doctor-patient relationship.” She sat back in her chair, a swivel model that squeaked in protest.
“I don’t know.”
She nodded toward the photograph he’d studied earlier. “I can do guy talk, if that’s what you’re worried about. Five brothers. I thought I was one of them for my first seven years. And I had a boyfriend at North Carolina State...” A rosy tint colored her neck, then rose to her cheeks, a tide, perhaps, of guilty recollections.
He remembered, too. Breathless explorations of each other’s body. Maybe not the sort of thing to be recalled in a church. He smiled, hoping it didn’t register as a leer.
She smiled back, a disarming offering of bronze lips and aquamarine eyes. “So, my point is, you aren’t going to say anything that will shock me. I think I’ve heard it all, or at least most of it. And besides, I won’t be sitting in judgment of you. I’ll be offering a friendly ear.” Her chair squealed again, a piercing little cry, as she shifted slightly. “Give me a chance.”
“Your chair needs some oil.”
“Yes. I was hoping it wasn’t me.” She laughed softly, easily.
“You’re a ways from that, I think.”
“You’re evading.” She flicked her head to one side, a gesture he remembered from college. “Look, if you want, I can get one of our other ministers for you. You know, wears pants, spits, watches football.”
He laughed. He’d been finessed, he realized, put at ease. But her technique had worked. “No,” he said. “As I remember, you were into football. Didn’t spit, but football... yeah.”
“Go Wolfpack,” she said. “In case you’ve forgotten, we held hands at the games. And you’re wrong about spitting. My oldest brother taught me how to do that. Probably why I had trouble getting dates in high school. Tell me why you’re here.”
“Starts on a golf course in Sunriver, Oregon,” he said.
Thirty minutes later he finished. Marty sat with her eyes closed and hands locked behind her head. Contemplating his story, Richard hoped, and not catching a power nap. He waited for her to speak.
She opened her eyes after a minute or two and placed her hands on the desk. “I can’t help you with the mystery aspect of what you’ve told me,” she said, “but I can reaffirm the morality of your actions. And I’m deeply sorry about Ms. Mierczak. Maybe, as you said, you suffered a lapse in good judgment when you accepted her invitation, but I think that was just a natural male reaction on your part. I do remember a little about that.” She colored slightly again, then continued. “Reflexively, you delivered yourself into temptation. Then, against all odds, walked away from it. Most men wouldn’t have. I commend your decision.”
“You seem willing to accept my story at face value,” he said, “accept that I’m not a killer.” He studied her face for a reaction that might suggest otherwise.
“Someone who just committed murder isn’t going to walk into a church and volunteer that he didn’t, then support it with a detailed story about a sexual dalliance, chateaubriand and a carving knife. More importantly, I know you.”
“What bothers me,” he said, “is that there’s an obverse side to this moral coin. If I’d stayed with Anneliese, she might still be alive.”
“Or you both might be dead. You made the right choices. What happened after you left was none of your doing. Someone else made that decision. I know what you’re feeling, what the irony of the situation is. Hindsight is always 20/20. But the real world, the one in which we live and make choices, is distorted by astigmatism. So we do our best. And that’s what you did.” A soft rapping on the door frame interrupted their discussion. Marty looked up.
A dark-haired woman with over-sized glasses and a small, pouty mouth stuck her head in the door. “I’m back from lunch, Reverend. Can I get you anything?”
“No, Darcy, thank you,” Marty said. She looked at Richard. “May I offer you something? A Coke? Iced tea? Glass of water?”
“Nothing. I’ve got to be going.”
Marty held up her hand, a signal for him to remain. “I think we’re all set, Darcy. Thanks.”
“Reverend?” Darcy said.
“Yes?”
“The cleaning lady left a bucket in the hallway. Do you want me to put it away?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After Darcy left, Marty said, “She’s afraid I’ll start scrubbing floors if I find a bucket and rag out there. I’ve been known to pitch in when the cleaning crew gets behind. Some people don’t like seeing me on my hands and knees. They say it’s not befitting a church leader.”
“Is it?”
“Jesus washed His disciples’ feet. The least I can do is wash a few floors.”
“Well then, I don’t want to keep you any longer,” Richard said, “I’m sure you’ve got floors to clean or sermons to write.” He started to rise.
“No,” she said, “we aren’t finished.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s something you haven’t told me. I’m good at reading people. I see something in your eyes. Sorrow, loss, hollowness. Tell me.”
He looked away, then at the picture of Marty and her family on the Madison. It reminded him of the Deschutes. He turned back to Marty. “We built a home in Sunriver—”
“We?”
“Karen and me. Karen, my wife. We were going to retire there, our high-desert mecca. But while I was still working she was diagnosed with breast cancer, an aggressive, unstoppable strain. She fought, and fought, and fought...” His voice trailed off. His eyes welled. “I quit work to be with her, but all I could do was stand by and watch. Hold her hand. Utter meaningless words like some village idiot. When it came to the most important thing in my life, I was powerless. Impotent. Helpless. A clown in big floppy shoes and a rubber-ball nose. I betrayed her.” He snapped the words out in an eruption of frustration and anger.
Marty stood and walked to him. She hugged him, then kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so very sorry,” she whispered. She knelt beside him and took his hand. “Don’t beat yourself up,” she said. “You gave her the most important thing your ever could: your presence when she needed it most. All she wanted was your love and comfort, to ease her transition. She didn’t expect you to save her, only to be with her when she walked through the Valley.” She gave his hand a firm squeeze and stood up.
He stared straight ahead. “I went back to work after she died, but my heart wasn’t in it any longer. After about a year, I bailed out and moved to Sunriver. But it was a hollow pilgrimage. Stupid. The place became more of a hermitage than a home.” He turned to look at Marty. “I can’t let go of her.”
“I won’t tell you time heals. It doesn’t. But it does soothe the pain. And you don’t have to let go of her, not ever. But you do have to let go of your guilt. That’s what’s shackling you. Not Karen.”
“I know. But it’s... hard.”
“Of course it is. You invested your life in her. You don’t easily give up something like that. And you don’t have to. But you do have to back off from it. Acknowledge it, but don’t embrace it. Don’t let your love for Karen crush you to death. I didn’t know her, but I do know she wouldn’t want that.”
/> He nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I need to be going.” He stood and walked toward the door.
“I’ll walk with you.”
They reached the vestibule. At the front door, Marty stopped and stared out into the parking lot. “Will you be back?” she asked.
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not. It was nice to see you again. Besides, I want to make sure you’re okay. This business you’re mixed up in, it sounds dangerous.” She turned to look at him. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the police?”
“They came to me, remember? I’m a potential murder suspect, not a citizen in trouble.”
“Well, my door’s always open.”
“You’ve got a church to run and a family to take care of—” He stopped abruptly and spread his hands, as if seeking forgiveness. “I didn’t even ask about that, did I? So focused on my own damn problems.”
“Married to the church, I guess,” she said, dismissing his tacit apology. Their gazes met.
He couldn’t be sure, but he felt she’d answered a question both asked and unasked.
She opened the door for him. “Be careful,” she said and rested her hand on his shoulder.
He allowed the touch to linger for a moment, then stepped into the incandescent afternoon. A blast-front of heat washed over him as he scanned the parking lot again for any sign of von Stade or anyone else who didn’t appear to belong. Nothing.
He entered his car, turned on the engine and hiked the air conditioning to maximum cool. He waited for awhile, surveying the parking lot through the hot, glassine shimmer rising from its surface. Finally, convinced he’d not placed Marty in any danger, he left.
Chapter Fourteen
DRUID HILLS, ATLANTA
THURSDAY, AUGUST 22
“Not a damn thing, not a goddamn thing. You’d think after forty-eight hours we would’ve turned up something. We’ve got a dozen agents assigned to a task force. But we haven’t been able to ferret out an eyewitness who saw anything unusual last Thursday, haven’t found any physical evidence how Ebola might have been let loose, haven’t even been able to come up with an informant.”
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