Prayer

by Philip Kerr

  If all of that wasn’t enough, the diocesan house seemed restless; now and then even the bedroom walls and the floor seemed to shift a little as if the house were trying and failing to get comfortable with me in it. As with the previous night, the place felt about as homey as an almost empty Transylvanian hotel. There was trapped air in the pipes, too, which meant that from time to time the place let out a curious sigh that was kind of unnerving and meant that my dreams, when they came, were not pleasant ones but rather a vivid, if not to say fantastic, outlet for my overactive imagination.

  I don’t know why, but I dreamed of the Dykebar Hospital for the incurably insane back in Scotland, and my poor mad uncle Bill, who was still confined within its stern gray walls. And I seemed to understand what perhaps I had always really known, which was that the violent but entirely silent argument he was always having with the invisible man apparently standing next to him was actually his trying to tell someone—anyone—something important. Something important about me. And now that he had told me, he seemed finally to become calm. Very much at peace now, he put his hand on my face and nodded kindly.

  “I couldn’t have loved you more if you’d been my own son,” he said. “That’s why I was so fucking angry. It was because no one would fucking listen to what I was trying to tell them. About you, Gil. About you.”

  I wish I could remember what it was Bill told me in my dream. But when the alarm clock by my bed went off, I sat up suddenly, covered in sweat, and left almost every memory of what had been said between us on the pillow behind me.

  EIGHTEEN

  There was a flower on Gisela’s desk: one big seductive calla lily in a slender gray glass vase that looked like a golf bag with just one club. But she wasn’t looking at her single lily; she was looking unflinchingly at me, as if I, too, were some curious botanical object to be studied with care.

  As I told her about Gaynor Allitt and the Izrael Church, she glanced down the list of names I’d found and heard me out with a perceptible reluctance so that even before I had finished talking I knew my arguments hadn’t persuaded her.

  “Gil, you did a hell of a good job last Friday,” she said. “The way you cottoned on to that attack drone they found in the nature reserve so quickly. The Switchblade. That was a very good call. With all of the evidence we have against Major Johnny Sack Brown, I’d be surprised if the DA doesn’t go after the death penalty.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel very good.”

  “Well, it should. If it hadn’t been for you, there might have been a lot of dead Jews in this city and the press would be trying to hang the Bureau’s ass out to dry. It was a good job. The mayor and the governor called Chuck to congratulate us. And Chuck called me and said to pass on his own appreciation.”

  “I guess it was too much trouble to tell me himself.”

  “He might have done that but for a couple of recent complaints he’s had about you.”

  Gisela was nothing if not frank; I’ll give her that.

  I nodded. “I might have guessed. Gary Greene and that dumb fuck, Doug Corbin.”

  “I know, I know. I told Chuck what I thought about Corbin, too. Greene, well, that’s something else again. Why shouldn’t you be friends with a bishop? It’s not like he’s the head of a Mafia family, for Christ’s sake.”

  “The way Greene was talking, I dunno. Time will tell.”

  “Look, Gil. Shit happens in this job. But on the plus side Harlan’s really impressed with that crazy theory you came up with on his serial killer.” She sighed and then raised a sad smile on her face. “Maybe that’s what makes me think this latest idea of yours about Gaynor Allitt and Nelson Van Der Velden might just be a crazy theory too far.”

  “I don’t really see the connection,” I said.

  “No, and that might be the problem.” She paused. “You told Harlan that you thought the serial killer might be on the side of the angels, didn’t you? That he actually thinks he might be doing God’s work? Gathering good people to the Lord, that kind of thing.”

  “It was just an idea.”

  “And now you’ve got another idea about how people from this church down in Clear Lake City might be killing those they perceive to be God’s enemies, yes?”

  “So you were listening.”

  “Isn’t it possible that you’ve become a little bit preoccupied with God and the church?”

  “Half the terrorism in this country is done in the name of God, or Jesus, or the prophet Muhammad. Don’t tell me, Gisela, tell them. I work in Domestic Terrorism, so if I seem just a tad obsessed with God, maybe it’s because so many of our customers are, too.”

  “There are some crazy people out there, Gil, I’m not denying that for a moment. Which makes it all the more essential that in the Bureau we stay sane.”

  “Amen to that,” I said; but by now I was beginning to smell a rat and the rat was wearing my aftershave.

  “Are you still having nightmares?”

  “So what if I am? It helps keep your eye on the ball if you know that the guy who threw it has a fucking grenade in his pocket. Where’s this going, Gisela? Yesterday Greene almost accused me of being a jacko and an informer for the Roman Catholic Church and now you’re saying what?”

  “Look, Gil. I’m not a shrink, but it seems to me that a lot of what you said just now—about Nelson Van Der Velden—follows on from your wife’s leaving home because you stopped believing in God and going to church. Aren’t you becoming a little bit obsessed with trying to prove that God’s the bastard, here?”

  “I don’t see how, since I no longer believe he exists.”

  “Either way, there’s no way we can go to the Chief Division Counsel and make a case for investigating Van Der Velden’s church.”

  “Why the hell not? You saw the list—”

  “This is why not.”

  She handed me that morning’s Houston Chronicle. On the front of the City & State section, underneath a picture of the governor leading another “day of prayer” in Reliant Stadium, was a picture of a beaming Nelson Van Der Velden at the Texas Children’s Hospital on Fannin Street meeting some kids who were suffering from cancer; the headline made plain Gisela’s reluctance to go after the pastor as I’d urged us to do: “Clear Lake City Pastor Raises $1 Million for Sick Kids.”

  “Oh,” I said quietly.

  “Can you imagine what would happen if the newspapers found out we were investigating him? Chuck would feed me my own ears but only after he’d torn them off the side of my head.” She paused for a moment and then winced before adding, “And then it would all come out. Everything. By which I mean your other obsessive behavior. After that, we’d both be in the shit. Me for not picking up on it before and you for—well—your obsessive behavior.”

  I frowned. “What the hell are you talking about, Gisela? What obsessive behavior?”

  “Oh, come on, Gil. You must have noticed it yourself.”

  “Noticed what?”

  Gisela looked momentarily at a loss. “You really haven’t noticed? No one else has mentioned this to you before?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know about obsessive. I’ve always been a bit particular about my stuff. Is that what you mean?”

  “Well, yes. You are. And it is. Only it seems to be getting worse. When it was just a case of your sharpening a few fucking pencils every morning and lining them up on your desk like your own private army, that was all right, I guess. But lately it’s a lot more than that. The compulsive handwashing and sanitizing, the way you always clean the steering wheel in your car with a box of wet wipes you keep in the glove compartment, your addiction to rearranging hotel rooms, the way you tidy stuff up, the way you count out loud while you’re taking a leak—at least that’s what some of the guys say—the way you won’t choose something on a menu if it’s an odd number, that one I’ve seen myself. You’re like the little triangular point on t
he toilet paper in a hotel bathroom, Agent Martins. I could go on, with more examples, I mean. But it seems to me that your little fetish has worsened since your private life imploded. It’s as if you’re trying to compensate for all your current emotional disorder by making everything else obsessively neat and tidy. That’s what I think.”

  “It’s not a crime to keep my desk tidy, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “And maybe it helps to be a little obsessive in this job. Did you think about that, Gisela? Maybe it pays to look for a little bit of order in the chaos.”

  “Sure, I thought about it. You’re my best field agent, Gil. People like you. They respect you. But one or two people have mentioned it, that’s all.”

  “Like who?”

  “It doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is that I’m your boss, and as a result, I’m responsible for your welfare and maybe, just maybe, you could think about getting some professional help, that’s all. Before a small problem becomes something more serious.”

  “Professional help? You mean see the Head Fed?”

  “Well, yes, I think you should go and see him and tell him straight out that you have OCD.”

  “OCD? What are you talking about? I don’t have OCD.”

  “Gil Martins, listen to me. You have OCD. I know other people who’ve had OCD. You’re just like them. And it’s getting worse because you’ve been working too hard, which, of course, is a corollary of not wanting to go home. You need to see Dr. Sussman and calmly discuss all this with him. And until then, you should take some leave. I talked it over with Chuck just a few minutes ago and he’s agreed that you need to take time off. We both think that four weeks would be best. Did you know that it’s been six months since you took any time off?”

  “Jesus, Gisela, what the hell am I supposed to do for four weeks?”

  “You could try taking a rest. Look, it’ll be okay. Helen will look after your caseload while you’re gone.”

  “Gisela, if I’d been on vacation last Thursday night, there might be a hundred dead people in a synagogue on North Braeswood Boulevard. You said so yourself.”

  “Yes, I did. But this is important, too. This is your mental health we’re talking about, Gil. You’re one of the best agents in this field office, and because we can’t afford to lose you, we need you to take a rest.”

  I tried to swallow what I was feeling.

  “Are you okay?” Gisela asked.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Good.” She paused. “So. You should go home.”

  But I wasn’t okay, not by a long shot. I thought of home for a moment; and then I thought of the dump in Galveston where I was now living; and when I glanced back at Nelson Van Der Velden’s handsome face in the Chronicle, it seemed like he was laughing at me. You can’t argue with a man who helps kids with cancer. Not in Texas. Not anywhere. And how much did you have to make before you could afford to give away a million dollars?

  In truth, I’d always known I had a little bit of a problem with arranging stuff and shit like that, and when it was just keeping things tidy and in their correct place, it had seemed just about manageable, although to be fair to her, it used to drive Ruth mad; but Gisela was right. Maybe it had gotten a little out of hand of late. Of course, that didn’t make me feel any better about what had happened in Gisela’s office; in fact, I felt as low as I’d felt since Ruth had walked out on me. Maybe lower. I suppose you might say I needed the Bureau the way Ruth needed the church.

  I called the College of Natural Sciences at the University of Texas in Austin and asked to speak to Dr. Espinosa. It was one of the last things I intended doing before going home as ordered. I just wanted to check that she was okay. The college secretary told me that Dr. Espinosa didn’t take telephone calls on campus and refused to give me her e-mail—not even when I told her I was from the FBI.

  “Perhaps I could have her call you back later through the FBI switchboard, Agent Martins? As a way of making sure of your bona fides?”

  “No, that won’t do. I’m going to be out of the office for a while.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to put your questions for the doctor in writing.”

  “Ma’am, I’m calling from the FBI, not Reader’s Digest. And it is kind of urgent.”

  “I understand that, sir. Nevertheless, that is the only way you’re going to be in communication with Dr. Espinosa. I’m afraid she has very strict rules about who can be in contact with her. Might I ask what it’s regarding?”

  “It’s regarding some threats to her person that she may or may not have received.”

  “I see,” said the secretary. “There is one other way you could speak to her.”

  “And that is?”

  “If it is urgent, like you say, you could always come and meet with her in person. If it’s a matter affecting her personal safety, I’m sure she could make time for someone from the FBI.”

  “When did you have in mind?”

  “This afternoon. Say around four o’clock? I happen to know she’ll have some free time around then.”

  “I don’t know.” I paused. “That’s quite a drive.” I glanced at my watch. It was eleven o’clock. Austin was a three-hour drive west of Houston along the 10 and the 290. I could easily make it there and still have time for lunch en route. And what else did I have to do?

  “All right, yes. I’ll be there.”

  I left a note for Helen explaining that I was driving to Austin and why, but that after this I was going on forced leave and that she should call me on my cell if she had any operational questions because I couldn’t remember my number in Galveston; then I put some stuff I might need into a bag, went down to the parking lot, and collected my car. I put the bag inside and retrieved a bottle of scotch; after what had happened in the office, I felt justified in having a little sharpener for the journey. But just the one. Despite what Helen Monaco thought, I wasn’t yet an alcoholic. I just needed a better reason not to drink than any I’d had so far. Besides, drinking is an excellent way of controlling OCD. It’s difficult to care very much about your funny little habits when you’re half cut by lunchtime but I’d hardly wanted to tell Gisela that. Being an agent with OCD is one thing; being a drunk with a badge is probably something worse.

  Licking around the inside of my mouth for a last taste of the scotch, I lit a cigarette and set off for Austin.

  It’s an easy drive to the state capital. You’re still in Houston and its apparently endless low-rising suburbs until you cross the Brazos, the longest river in Texas. After the Brazos, the country is flat farmland all the way and it’s easy to get a little sleepy with the road always lying straight in front of you right up to the horizon, like a loose gray thread in a big counterpane of white cloud and blue sky. Austin itself is spread out in order to preserve the Capitol View Corridor, which is meant to ensure that you can see the state capitol building from anywhere in the city. These days, with all the high-rise condominiums, Austin’s downtown area is looking more and more like Houston’s or Dallas’s; but while the Austonian tower was easily taller, it was the university’s Spanish-looking tower that was without question the most notable—not to say notorious—tower in all Texas.

  As I parked my car near the main university building, I regarded the temple top of the university tower with forensic interest, trying to calculate with a marksman’s eye an approximate height and distance; and for a moment, I came to a halt with my gaze fixed on the tower clock, imagining what it must have been like to have been standing exactly where I was on August 1, 1966. I think everyone visiting the university probably does the same thing. We do it for the same reason that makes us all instinctively glance above when we drive up Dealey Plaza past the Texas School Book Depository in Dallas. It is human to be fascinated by such things. To have been in the cross-hairs of some madman’s high-powered rifle sight—what does that feel like?
It’s an act of prurient imagination that feeds our appetite for contemplating the arbitrary impermanence of human life, not to mention the unspeakable human brutality that sometimes occasions it. No doubt the people up on the tower’s observation deck were imagining much the same thing as I was. We were all traveling back in time to when Charles Whitman had barricaded the tower’s observation deck; and then, with two rifles and a shotgun, had shot and killed fifteen people.

  Compared to the criminal investigation that had prompted me to drive one hundred and sixty miles from Houston, Whitman’s crime seemed all too real and I briefly reproached myself for the frivolity of my present inquiry. Surely Gisela was right; I had to be obsessed with proving religious believers were criminals if I’d driven all the way to Austin to chase a goose as wild as this one. Maybe I did need help. But then I remembered the sight of a broken Gaynor Allitt fallen from a similarly tall building and carried on with my fool’s errand. But it can be a mistake to underestimate the tenacity of a really determined fool.

  Or for that matter, the tenacity of a really bad architect. In the main university building they directed me a short way north of the sniper tower to the Norman Hackerman Building on East Twenty-fourth Street. This was a very modern building, but in a way that reminded me so strongly of an architect’s maquette that I half expected to see it surrounded by scale-model trees made of foam rubber and some Lego people.

  They were expecting me at the reception desk; a security tag was already completed in my name, and as soon as I had flashed my ID—this caused much excitement—I was permitted through the turnstile and then into an elevator.