by Randy Alcorn
Clarence nodded. “So do I. But I still think it’s essential we stand against abortion. It’s not the babies’ fault if white Christians haven’t been consistent on justice issues.”
“Okay, I’m trackin’ with you,” Clancy said. “But I admit I get concerned when I see flag-waving Christians whose faith in America is inseparable from their faith in God. Patriotism is fine as far as it goes, but our true citizenship is in heaven. I say, don’t settle for Washington when God has called you to set your eyes on Zion. Between us, I get real discouraged by white churches sometimes. Remember a few months ago when one of the largest evangelical churches had that big ‘slave auction’ to raise money for a building? They couldn’t understand why these oversensitive African Americans got offended. Right—what’s next, they gonna do a good-natured takeoff on the Holocaust and expect Jews not to be offended?
“Got a letter from a Christian organization last week. It was all bad-mouthin’ the ACLU, like everything they’ve ever done is from the pit of hell. Well, I disagree with plenty of the stuff they’re doin’ now, but if it wasn’t for the ACLU taking up our cause, black folk would still be using separate restrooms. I wish these Christian groups wouldn’t paint with such a broad brush and act like the ACLU never did anything good. The truth is, lots of white pastors wimped out on slavery and segregation and civil rights, and lots of black pastors are wimping out on Farrakhan and premarital sex and personal responsibility. Maybe both have wimped out on abortion.”
Pastor Clancy looked at Clarence and took a deep breath. “Well, enough on all that. We could talk till the cows come home, and I’d like to some day. So, tell me, how’s that Bible study goin’?”
“Fine,” Clarence said with a tinge of guilt.
“Heard you missed the last few weeks.”
Clarence sat back stiffly. “You hear a lot.”
“I’m a shepherd—that’s my job.” He looked Clarence in the eyes and said matter-of-factly, “Go to that Bible study. You need it.”
Clarence squeezed tight on the chair’s arms. “You going to send the deacons after me if I don’t?”
Clancy laughed. “Maybe. But in your case I might have to send a few backups.” He paused. “All right, you’re wondering why I called you in. It’s about Raymond Taylor’s mama, Andrea. She’s a good woman, been part of this church since she came up from L.A. She’s really broken about her son’s death. But she’s even more broken about his life. She’s ashamed her son got hold of your Tyrone. She’s ashamed to face you about that. But I think you need to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“Well, for both of your sakes. Also, because she may know some things.”
“Some things about what?” Clarence hoped it related to the dudes at Taco Bell.
“Some things that may help you,” Cairo Clancy said. “I can’t say for sure. If you reach out to her, she may choose to tell you. If not, you can just help out a woman in need. And helpin’ someone who needs it is never a waste of time for a true Christian, now is it?”
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Ollie said, sitting across the table at Baskm-Robbins. “Which do you want first?”
“The good news,” Clarence said with imitation perkiness.
“We traced the license. Got a positive ID.”
“Great. Who?”
“That’s the bad news. The license belongs to a seventy-five-year-old couple in Woodburn.”
“What?”
“Yeah. And either they were masters of disguise or it wasn’t them Herb saw at the Taco Bell.”
“Very funny. I don’t get it.”
“Stolen plate. Taken some time after 6:00 P.M. September 2. The old folks didn’t notice until the next morning.”
“Great. What now?”
Clarence watched Ollie work over a double scoop Jamoca Almond Fudge.
“Okay,” Ollie said, wiping his face, “you’ve got two guys nobody knows sitting behind Taco Bell in a car with a license plate stolen from Woodburn, maybe three hours earlier.”
“Woodburn’s what, an hour round trip from Portland? You’d think they’d steal it from some place closer.”
“Depends on where they came from, doesn’t it?” Ollie said. “I’ve got another piece of news for you. That stolen plate was found a few days later—on the side of 1-5 near a rest stop twenty miles south of Salem. The perps knew that even if somebody jotted down the license, we couldn’t track them. They probably removed the stolen plates before they left Portland, then tossed them after going by Salem.”
“But these guys weren’t Hispanics, and nobody saw them at the murder scene, light? I still don’t get how it fits with the guys Mookie saw. And this means the info Herb gave us is worthless. We can’t trace them. They could be anywhere.”
“Not worthless. See, now we know where they collected and disposed of the stolen plates. Let’s put it together. You’ve got two guys, hardened gangsters but not local, because nobody’s ever seen their tricked out car and they don’t know the difference between Jackson and Jack. Let’s assume Woodburn was on their way to town. That means they came from south of Portland. They cover their plates, which means they’re going to pull off some job and if there’s any witnesses, they don’t want their car identified. They’re not the only Lexus out there, even with fancy wheels, so as long as they’ve got the stolen plate they’re safe, provided they remove it soon after the crime. Okay, they’re sitting behind Taco Bell, less than a mile from your sister’s. Probably just waiting for it to get later, less people on the street. They’re not on drugs, if Herb was right, which could mean they’re staying sharp for a hit. Say they do the hit, then they take off south, at least twenty miles south of Salem, presumably on their way home. So you tell me—where’s home?”
“I don’t know—someplace south of Salem.”
“Well, how many black gangs would there be in central and southern Oregon?”
Clarence laughed. “Other than some students at OSU in Corvallis or U of O in Eugene, I can’t think of any place south of Salem where there’s enough young black men to form a gang even if they wanted to.”
“Exactly. So what does that tell you?”
“California?”
“Sure. That’s where 1-5 south takes you. You come up north, do a job, head back home.”
“Since when do California bangers drive up to Portland to do hits?”
“Since maybe the guy behind the hit has gang connections in California,” Ollie said, “and doesn’t want word to get out on Portland streets.”
“So what hope is there of ever finding these guys?” Clarence asked.
“First, I’m going to run checks on traffic tickets issued on 1-5 to California plates within twenty-four hours of the murder.”
“Traffic tickets?”
“Sure,” Ollie said. “You have a car like that, you don’t stay behind trucks and Hyundais in the slow lane. If they’re bangers, you can count on them breaking the law. It’s just a question of whether they got caught. I-5’s long enough that maybe they did. Then I’ve filed a description of the car and passengers with NCIC—National Crime Information Computer. It’s run by the FBI. I could only note them as ‘subjects of interest.’ Don’t have enough yet to call them suspects. Like you say, our only definitive suspects are two Latinos. But the NCIC should get printed out in police stations, along with a ton of other stuff that sometimes gets looked at and sometimes doesn’t. Hopefully some cop will see it and contact us.”
“Read about Eustace Clarence,” Keisha teased.
Clarence also wanted to know more about the boy turned dragon. He read to the kids how Eustace tried repeatedly to peel his dragon skin off, never getting anywhere. He was still a dragon. Then Aslan, the lion who had died for Edmund’s sins and come back again, told the boy he would have to let him tear the skin off with his claws. Eustace was terrified:
“The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin
off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off.
“Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off and there it was lying on the grass. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me— I didn’t like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I’d no skin on—and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone.”
“Asian is not a tame lion,” the book said again. Clarence thought about his own anger, cynicism, and disillusionment. He wondered if he should ask the Lion to remove the dragon skin. No. Putting himself in someone else’s hands was too much of a leap. Especially the hands of the Lion who’d allowed so much suffering, who’d taken Dani and Felicia from him.
“No calls on the Lexus yet,” Ollie said to Clarence, “but I heard from a SWAT cop in LAPD. He happened to come across my old bulletin about the HK53. Told me an interesting story. In April a SWAT officer got killed in a shoot-out with a gang. This guy was in a penmeter position. When the smoke finally cleared, they found the dead officer. His weapon had been stolen.”
“An HK53?” Clarence asked.
“Exactly. I’m betting that’s our weapon. If it is, whoever did the hit either comes from an L.A. gang or has connections there that got him the gun.”
“If they’re from L.A.,” Clarence said, “that fits your theory with the guys in the Lexus. Fits the license plates and explains not knowing Portland streets.”
“Right. It also explains the frangibles. The cop that called me had the full SWAT report in front of him. It was a high-risk residential area, so they were using frangibles in their HK. The downed cop presumably had some left in his magazine. I would have thought some gangbanger would have shot those rounds off by now, but I guess if they were smart, they’d hide the weapon and not use it while it was still so hot. Nothing’s hotter than a dead cop’s gun. Now, once they get up to Portland, it’s their big chance to use their prize. They’d never figure it’d be traced back to L.A. because they didn’t know they’re dealing with Lone Ranger Ollie Chandler and his faithful companion Tonto Abernathy. Plus, there’s one other thing that convinces me this is our weapon.”
“What?”
“Remember how McCamman couldn’t understand why Mrs. Burns didn’t see muzzle flashes? Well, this L.A. SWAT guy told me their cops use a special HK flash-hider attachment as a tactical move so they don’t get blinded or draw attention for return fire.”
“So the HK53 taken from this cop had a flash-hider?”
“Exactly. Okay, what have we got?” Ollie stood up and paced. “We’ve got two L.A. gangsters who were hired to come in to Portland, do a gangland hit, and hightail it back to L.A. That would explain why there’s no word out on the street. The local gangsters honestly don’t know who did it.”
“But there’s lots of Hispanic gangs in L.A., so that could connect with the guys Mookie saw.”
“Except the gang that shot the cop and took the HK, they weren’t Hispanics. In fact, they weren’t Bloods either. They were Five Nine Hoover Crips.”
“I’m grateful for this body, but I still don’t really understand it,” Dani said. “I had thought that in heaven we’d be spirits without bodies.”
Torel looked at her as if this were ludicrous. “How could that be? Have you not read that Elyon created a body, then breathed into it a spirit, and only when there was both body and spirit was there a living human being? To be human is to be both spirit and body. To cease to be either is to cease to be human. That is why Jesus spoke of Lazarus and the rich man as both having bodies in heaven and in hell, immediately after their deaths. Elyon’s book speaks of people in heaven before the resurrection wearing robes—robes are worn only on bodies, are they not?”
“I never thought of having a body before our resurrection bodies.”
“Think of your present body as the artist’s preliminary sketch out of which will later flow the masterpiece. On earth you did not long to be unclothed from your body, but to be reclothed in a superior body. Christ’s resurrection body is the prototype of your own. He walked and talked and ate and was grasped and held by his disciples.”
“Strange. Somehow I thought of the body as the soul’s prison.”
“This is the teaching of human philosophers, not Elyon. The soul without the body is not free to participate in the glories of the material worlds Elyon creates. That is why I must take on a body both here and in the dark world. But to take it on and shed it is very different than being one with it. That is why your ability to fully participate in the material world far exceeds mine. It is not disembodied spirits but fully human beings who will come from the east and west and sit at a table and eat with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Until your resurrection body, this one will be sufficient for you.”
“The food here is so varied and delicious and colorful and flavorful. It’s as if the number of flavors has multiplied as much as the number of colors. I desire the food, I savor the smell, I relish the texture, and delight in the taste.”
“Yes.” The angel looked pleased. “The great banquet feast could not be more spiritual, nor could it be more physical. The two are not at odds. You are free to enjoy what you used to need—food and work and rest and exercise. Your longings on earth were the hunger pangs that prepared you to forever enjoy the feasts and delights of heaven. Your resurrection body will allow you to fully participate in it, more than even this present body. You do not become inhuman in heaven. Rather, you become fully human—all that Elyon intended from the beginning that you should be.”
Ollie sat across the table from Clarence, more preoccupied than usual. “My lieutenant says there’s some pressure being put on us to back off on the investigation of your sister’s murder.”
“Pressure from where?”
“Try the chief of police.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s not pressure from him, it’s pressure on him. Your publisher could be in on it, I don’t know. Somebody with some leverage.”
“I can’t believe they’d put on pressure to close a case.”
“Believe it. Of course, you can bet they’ve done it in a way they can deny later. They probably said something like, There are dozens of other unsolved murders that deserve attention, and this one seems to have gotten a disproportionate amount. Plus, it’s creating some racial tension with the cops and the Latino community, then there’s this crazy journalist who commits this hate crime against two model citizens.’ Something like that. By the way those guys you assaulted never filed charges, and I hear they’re not even interested in suing you—bet every lawyer in town’s called them too. You’re one lucky guy.”
“Why don’t I feel lucky?”
Ollie shrugged. “I figure the fact that someone wants us to back off shows we’re getting somewhere. That we’re on to something.”
“Are you going to back off?”
“You kiddin’ me? The chief resented the pressure. The captain told the lieutenant, and he told me, ‘Don’t overdo it, but give the case whatever it deserves.’ Truth is, someone suggesting we back off on a case is like saying, ‘Sic ’em,’ to a dog. I’ve really got my sniffer goin’ now. They say a detective has to listen like a blind man and watch like a deaf man.”
“That’s profound,” Clarence said.
“Yeah.” Ollie tore a big bite out of his hot dog, leaving a smudge of mustard on his lower lip. “I’m a class act. Sometimes I even surprise myself.”
“Can I ask you something, Ollie? It’s something I’ve been wanting to ask for a long time.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“What did you think of the O. J. Simpson case?”
Ollie shot Clarence a surprised where-did-that-come-from look. He shrugged his side-of-beef shoulders. “Why do I have the feeling I’m walk
ing into a field of Claymore mines? Okay, I’ve got two legs, I can afford to lose one. Well, since I used to work for LAPD and I’m a homicide detective, I had people ask me after the verdict, ‘Does that mean they’re going to reopen the investigation?’ I just told them, ‘You don’t reopen a case that’s been solved.’”
“You were that certain?”
“Well, after the verdict when Simpson announced he would find the person who’d done the killings, I thought, that should be easy enough. Just find the guy with the same kind of hair, same footprint, who drives a white Bronco and left a trail of blood from the crime scene that had DNA identical to yours. Let’s see, there’s maybe thirty people in the world with close enough DNA for a possible match. When you eliminate the ones living in Tibet and Madagascar or who hang their laundry on the Great Wall of China and find the one that was in L.A. the night of the murders, you’ve got him. He wants to find the killer? Hey, it’s a short walk to the bathroom mirror.”
“Ollie, if you think O. J. did it, don’t hesitate to come right out and say it. Seriously, though, what was your take on the racial issues in the trial?”
Ollie shrugged. “My belief is that people don’t care about the color of the person who kills them, any more than they care about the color of the person who keeps them from being killed. When it comes to life and death, color takes a backseat.”
