Grass Roots

by Stuart Woods

  Will smiled slightly, and nodded.

  “During this campaign,” Dr. Don continued, “Will Lee has often complained that I keep bringing religion into my politics.” He smiled broadly. “Well, friends, I have been bringing my religion into everything I do for so long that I cannot and will not keep my faith out of anything.”

  There was warm applause, and Calhoun basked in it for a moment.

  “Mr. Lee has not been quite so willing to share his own faith with the people whose support he asks, and I have so often taken him to task for it that he has complained of not having a pulpit from which to do so. And that is why, today, with your indulgence, I have offered him this pulpit, so that he may tell the world what he believes.” Calhoun turned toward Will and offered his hand, and when Will took it, he was propelled into the pulpit.

  Will laid his grandfather’s Bible on the podium, placed his watch next to it, and smiled at the congregation. “Good morning,” he said. To his surprise, they answered him.

  “Good morning,” they said in unison, all three thousand of them.

  “I would like to express my gratitude to Don Calhoun, as he likes to be known these days, for the opportunity to address you and all those who are watching and listening from their homes this morning.

  “I bring you greetings from the members of the First Baptist Church of Delano, my home church. And if my Meriwether County ancestors—a long line of Baptist preachers, lay preachers, and public servants—are looking down on us today, I am sure they send you their greetings, too.

  “I have been asked, this morning, to tell you what I believe. I believe, above anything else, in a just God. I believe that at the end of our lives, or perhaps before, each of us will be dealt with justly.

  “I believe, as you do, that the Holy Bible is God’s law. But I believe that God’s law may also be written in other books—in the Talmud, in the Koran, and in others. I believe that God’s law is also written in the stars, and in the stones of the earth, and in the hearts of men.

  “I believe that God gave each of us a mind, and that he expects us to use it. When I was growing up as a Baptist I was taught that each human being has a right to interpret the Scriptures according to his own conscience, but that he could expect to be judged on his interpretation.

  “I believe that God expects us to question each of the teachings of the Bible, and to decide for ourselves how they apply to us. And that, perhaps, is where we differ, for if I am to believe your former pastor, you are all fundamentalists, bound to take every word of the Bible literally, without question.

  “That is a position that puzzles me, especially when I look around and see that so many of those who describe themselves as fundamentalists are very selective about which passages of the Bible they take literally. The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ And yet large numbers of fundamentalists profess their strong support for capital punishment. Even more puzzling is that when a man takes literally the Bible’s injunction not to kill he is often called godless; or a pacifist; or a coward; or, sometimes, a liberal. God help the political candidate who takes that injunction literally.

  “I find it difficult to reconcile the fundamentalist’s support of capital punishment with his opposition to abortion. Can it be true, as someone has said, that the fundamentalist’s concern for human life ‘begins with conception and ends with birth’?

  “It puzzles me why so many people who stoutly profess their unerring Christianity adopt political and economic views that seem so often at odds with the teachings of Jesus Christ. Christianity is a religion of love, of sharing, of concern for one’s neighbors; and yet so many of the politicians who have the support of fundamentalists preach a philosophy of greed and vote against any program designed to help human beings. Christianity damns pride and reveres meekness; and yet these same politicians thump their breasts and boast of their patriotism and question that of anyone who points out that patriotism is more than empty pledges and the waving of flags. This puzzles me.

  “Fundamentalism of any kind worries me. The Ayatollah Khomeini is a religious fundamentalist; the most ardent Communist is a political fundamentalist; Soviet generals are military fundamentalists, and we have a few in this country, too. I am always worried by any man who knows he has the absolute, unchangeable truth grasped tightly in his hands, and, because others disagree with him, they must be wrong.

  “A little over two hundred years ago, our founding fathers conceived a political system that would guarantee the free exchange of ideas, one that almost demanded dissent from its constituents. And that system was secular, an invention of man. Should we accept anything less from a religious faith?”

  Will glanced at a man standing next to a television camera. He was making a winding motion with his hand; wind it up, he was saying. Will stole a look at his watch. He was already past his time allowance, but he was not through; he did not want Calhoun to follow him with time for a rebuttal.

  “I know that my time is short,” he said, “and I want to close with a passage from the New Testament. The best Christian I ever knew was my step-grandfather, my widowed grandmother’s second husband, who was a real grandfather to me. He was a quiet man, shy, reticent, and yet he did more Christian good in his community than anybody I knew. When he died, we found among his possessions a letter outlining how his funeral should be conducted, and it included his instruction that the only Scripture to be read at the service was the sixth chapter of Matthew, the first six verses.”

  Will opened the old Bible to the marked passage and looked around the gaudy auditorium. “He specified that the first verse be read from the translation of the New English Bible, the rest from the King James Version; that is how I shall read it to you. These are the words of Jesus Christ.” He read first from a sheet of paper.

  “Be careful not to make a show of your religion before men; if you do, no reward awaits you in your Father’s house in heaven.”

  Then he read from the old Bible.

  “Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.

  “But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth:

  “That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.”

  Now Will slowed his delivery for emphasis.

  “And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.

  “But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.”

  The television floor manager was going berserk with his sign language. Will closed his Bible. “The last thing my grandfather said to me before he died was, ‘Will, when you see a fellow coming, telling you what a good Christian he is, you keep your hand on your wallet.’

  “Thank you for your attention.” Will stepped back from the pulpit, glancing at his watch. Right on time. The audience regarded him with an intense, curious silence, as if they were not sure what he had said to them.

  Calhoun came charging toward the pulpit, but the floor manager waved him back, desperately cuing the choir, who stood and burst into song.

  The television lights went off. Will was shown out by a side door.

  31

  Keane answered the phone.

  “It’s your favorite federal fairy,” a voice said. “Nothing I’d rather do than talk to a federal fairy,” Keane replied, grinning.

  “You know that guy Lee, who’s running for the Senate?”

  “The glider pilot? Yeah.”

  “I thought you might like to know that he made Perkerson as the guy who sabotaged his airplane.”

  “No shit! I’ll bet
it’s got something to do with Dr. Don, hasn’t it? Calhoun and Willingham are in bed together, and Willingham knows Perkerson.”

  “I wouldn’t say that out loud, if I were you.”

  “Come on, you guys must’ve known that for a long time.”

  “Listen, Calhoun and Willingham have got political clout. We have to tread lightly there. I doubt we’ll ever lay a glove on Calhoun, but if we can tie Perkerson to Willingham, we’ll nail Willingham.”

  I can do that, Keane thought. “You have nothing on Willingham now?”

  “We know that he’s the leader of this bunch—the Archon, they call him; Suzy Adams got that out of Perkerson, but Suzy’s dead, and we can’t prove it. Willingham’s too careful.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “You know as much as I do now. We think Perkerson might have another run at Lee. The Omni Hotel is going to be lousy with our people and Atlanta PD tonight. Perkerson is now a federal fugitive because of the airplane tampering.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a look around the Omni myself,” Keane said.

  *

  Will met Kate Rule at the door of the suite and hustled her into the bedroom. There was a long embrace, and when they broke, Kate asked, “Who are all those people in the living room?”

  He sat her down on a bed. “Some of them are my campaign people; you’ll meet them in a minute. The others are FBI men and cops.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t want you to get upset about this, but on Friday, somebody sabotaged my airplane, and I had to make a forced landing. They know who the guy is, and he seems to be linked up with some far-right-wing outfit. They also think he might try again.”

  “Sounds like it’s going to be a swell evening.”

  “Don’t worry, there are cops all over the place; they know what he looks like, and he’ll never get into the hotel.”

  “I wish you’d told me. I would have brought a gun.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t tell you.”

  “I saw your sermon on TV Sunday. Don’s show is seen in Washington, too. I stood up and cheered. I really did.”

  Will grinned. “Thanks. I got a lot off my chest in that pulpit. I figured that nothing I said to Calhoun’s followers was going to make a dent, so I decided to direct my remarks to anybody watching who was not a follower. We tried to boost that part of the audience with some of our advertising, but we have no way of knowing how many we attracted. The press was good, though.”

  Will paused and took a deep breath. “Listen, there are some things I’ve got to tell you, and I know this isn’t a very good time or place to do it, but I don’t have a choice.”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “You look guilty.”

  He nodded. “I have a confession, I’m afraid.”

  “All right,” she sighed, “get it off your chest.”

  Will gulped. “During all those months that we were apart, I wasn’t as chaste as you were.”

  There was a flicker of hurt in her face. “Was it somebody important?” she asked softly. Her eyes were suddenly moist.

  “No. She was never important for a moment. It was nothing more than a roll in the hay.”

  She sighed. “All right, I can handle that. Maybe I even asked for it, a little bit.”

  “There’s more,” he said. “It’s why I asked you not to read an Atlanta paper on the way down here.”

  “Jesus Christ!” she said, exasperated. “All right, I’m braced.”

  “The girl was a witness in the murder trial; she was the girlfriend of my client.” He held up a hand. “But not on the day this happened.” He recounted the incident, leaving out a great deal of detail.

  “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter who she was, as long as it wasn’t important, and as long as I never get a chance to lay my hands on her.”

  “You won’t, not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “I’m acquainted with the sort of people who could arrange a hit, you know.”

  “I know. Now, let me tell you the rest. My client was convicted—you know that.”

  “Yes, you told me. You sounded awfully happy about it.”

  “Well, yesterday, he filed an appeal. The grounds of his appeal are that he didn’t get a fair trial, because he wasn’t properly represented, because his lawyer wanted his girlfriend and wanted him to get convicted.”

  “I love it,” she said. “I could get a novel out of this story.”

  “Please,” he whimpered, “I’ve been punished enough.”

  “So the whole world knows about your little roll in the hay with … what’s her name?”

  “Charlene. Yes, the whole world knows, or at least the whole state. Charlene went on the six-o’clock news last night and explained it to them.”

  Kate’s face fell. “Jesus, what is that going to do to you in the election?”

  Will laughed. “Oddly enough, my people think it may not hurt—in fact, they think it might even help. You see, something like eight percent of the people polled who said they were going to vote for Calhoun said they were voting for him only because they thought I was gay.”

  “And now you’re a stud, right?”

  “Well, to some people, anyway.”

  “How have you handled this with the press?”

  “What could I do? I had a press conference last night and told all. I said we were both unmarried, consenting adults, and our sex lives were nobody’s business but ours.”

  “Have you been disbarred yet?”

  “Nope. I released Charlene’s pre-trial deposition and suggested that it be compared with her actual testimony.”

  “When caught, tell the truth. I like it.”

  Will looked embarrassed. “Will you ever be able to forgive me for all this?”

  She took his face in her hands and smiled. “Listen, the entertainment value alone makes up for most of it.”

  He kissed her. “Now come on and meet my people.”

  He led her into the living room. “Kate, this is Tom Black and Kitty Conroy, who have done all the work in this campaign. Tom and Kitty, Katharine Rule, known as Kate.”

  Everybody shook hands.

  Tom looked at Kate, then at Will. “Is there something you haven’t told us?”

  “Well, yeah,” Will said. “Kate and I are getting married next week.”

  “Now you tell me,” Tom said.

  “Yeah,” Kitty chipped in, “couldn’t you have mentioned this a couple of weeks ago, when it might have gotten you elected?”

  *

  Two floors down, Harold Perkerson gave a prostitute two hundred dollars and dismissed her. He walked to the window, parted the curtains slightly, and had a look at the mezzanine level. Staffers were setting up TV sets and moving furniture around. Caterers were bringing in boxes.

  Almost four. Two hours until Lee’s appearance at six o’clock. Perkerson switched on the TV and looked for a movie. He was bored.

  *

  Mickey Keane arrived at the Omni and got out of his car. Immediately, he could see that the hotel was sealed. He could waste time walking around to the other entrances, but this was big-time stuff, bordering on what they would do for a visiting President. Perkerson would never get into the hotel today.

  He spoke to a couple of cops he knew who were watching the elevators, passed the time for a minute. What the hell, he thought. He’d have a look around the hotel.

  *

  Willingham picked up the phone. He recognized the voice immediately as one of his sources.

  “You’ve got a problem,” the man said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You know the ex-cop that your friend helped have an automobile accident?”

  “Yes, he’s in an irreversible coma, I hear.”

  “Wrong. I heard in the office today that he’s out there walking around.”

  Willingham sat up. “What?”

  “He wasn’t even hurt badly. The coma was a cover.”

  Willingham tried to think w
hat this meant.

  “He followed you for days,” the man said. “He can tie you to Perkerson.”

  “Thank you,” Willingham said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “They know about Perkerson’s sabotaging the airplane, too, and they’re expecting another attempt on Lee. But don’t worry, the hotel is crawling with cops; there’s no way your man can get in without being seen. Or if there is, you’d better call him off; if he succeeds, they’ll come after you on a conspiracy charge.”

  Willingham hung up the phone. He sat frozen for several minutes; then he picked up the phone again.

  “Omni Hotel.”

  “Mr. Howard James, please.”

  “Ringing.”

  “Yes?” Perkerson said.

  “Harry?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Are you in position?”

  “Yessir. It’s perfect.”

  “What room are you in?”

  “Room 518. Don’t worry, sir. I’ll carry out your irrevocable order. And I won’t be taken alive.”

  “Thank you, Harry. Good luck.”

  Willingham hung up. That miserable little cop was still alive. A man he had never even seen could tie him to Perkerson, and Perkerson could not be called off. Jesus God!

  Willingham went to his arms locker and looked at the array of weapons there. This would be close work, with soft-nosed ammunition. He chose a .25-caliber automatic, easily concealed, and a matching silencer.

  “Now, where did I put my car keys?” he asked himself absently.

  *

  It was five-forty P.M., and Mickey Keane was tired. He slumped into a large sofa in the Omni lobby. He had shown Perkerson’s photograph to a couple of people, but apparently, the FBI had already shown it to every employee in the hotel, with no success. Somebody sat down on the other end of the sofa.

  “Hey, Mickey,” she said.

  Keane turned and looked at her. “Hey, Margie, how’s tricks? I haven’t seen you since I worked vice.”