Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  “Yeah, they can. That’s why I always stop for a mocha. That keeps my blood sugar up and—”

  “What did you say? A mocha? What mocha?”

  “At Coffee’s On—espresso place on Eastman. Oops. Guess I didn’t mention that, did I? I always swing up there before I head back toward Main Street Park. It’s so routine I don’t even think about it.”

  “Oops? I ask you to tell me everything you do, list everything you ingested, and you leave out a stop and a beverage consumption, and all you can say is oops?”

  “Okay, sorry. Don’t get cranky on me. So, what do we do now?”

  Ollie smiled. “We go get a mocha.”

  They pedaled the remaining quarter of a mile to Clarence’s car, strapped on the bikes, and headed to Coffee’s On. They pulled up to a space right in front of the door.

  “Where do you park your bike?” Ollie asked.

  “Right here.” He pointed to a wooden bench anchored into the concrete. “I lock it up. Used to be you didn’t have to lock things up in Gresham. Times have changed.”

  “All right. Now do exactly what you did Wednesday.”

  “That’s easy. It’s always the same. I walk in and order a double caramel mocha.” Clarence opened the door and stood behind the six people in line.

  “Double shot of coffee plus a flavor?” Ollie thought about it. “That might be strong enough to cover the taste of a knock-out chemical. Go ahead and order.”

  “You want anything?”

  “When we’re done,” Ollie said, the consummate professional.

  “Double caramel mocha,” Clarence said to the smiling girl whose name tag read Jessica. She obviously recognized him. “Usually just see you on Wednesdays, don’t we?” she asked.

  Clarence smiled and nodded, relieved she hadn’t been reading the newspaper or watching the news. He did feel the stares of several others sitting around the tables. He paid for his mocha and took a seat, Ollie following him every step.

  “Is this exactly where you sat?” Ollie asked.

  “No. It was busy. All the tables were full. I sat over there at the counter, by the window.”

  “Then sit there now.” Clarence did. “Okay,” Ollie said, “so you just drink your mocha?”

  “And read the newspaper. After I go to the restroom.”

  “What?”

  “The restroom’s back there.” Clarence pointed to the far end of the coffee shop. “I always drink a lot of water before I bike. Don’t want to get dehydrated.”

  Ollie looked at him skeptically.

  “What? It’s no longer a crime for a black man to use the restroom, remember?”

  “You’re saying you go to the bathroom after you buy your coffee?”

  “The coffee’s hot. I like to give it a couple minutes to cool down.”

  “You’re telling me you just leave it out here on a table?”

  “Yeah, with a newspaper so nobody takes my spot.”

  “Lid on or off?”

  “Off, so it cools faster.”

  “How long are you in the bathroom?”

  “I don’t know. Not long.”

  “Go to the bathroom. Take the usual amount of time.”

  Clarence rolled his eyes self-consciously and headed to the back. Ollie clicked on the lap timer on his wristwatch. He clicked it off when Clarence reappeared.

  “Three and a half minutes,” Ollie said. “Do you always take that long?”

  “I guess so. Didn’t seem long to me.”

  “While you were in the bathroom,” Ollie said, “I could have put strychnine in this thing, changed my mind, dumped it, ordered a new one, sat it back down, and filled it with rat poison. And still have time to read the sports page.”

  “You really think somebody tampered with it?”

  “If it wasn’t an insulin reaction, it was a chemical, right? We checked your water bottle, we tested your insulin. Clean. This was the last place you drank anything, right? Unless you’ve also forgotten to tell me you make another stop for a Chablis. Anybody who follows you just a few times sees this incredible routine. Precisely the same. Every Wednesday you come out and park your car in that same place and go for your bike ride and even lie down and rest in the same place? How hard would it be to follow you on a bike, see exactly where you go, and make a plan?”

  “Isn’t this a bit elaborate? And all pretty iffy too? What if someone had seen me on the bench? If it hadn’t rained, they probably would have.”

  “Ever hear of a weather forecast? Criminals can watch them too. ‘It’s going to rain tomorrow, so nobody’s going to be out on that trail—hey, what do you say we drug the big guy at the espresso bar where he leaves his drink out for anybody to contaminate it?’ You’re usually at the Trib surrounded by people or at home with your family, right? If they tailed you, they probably saw this as their best chance. The only time you’re off the beaten path, away from people long enough where you could be put out for hours and not have an alibi. And even if their plan didn’t work, they could just sit on it and do it again another day.”

  Clarence finally took a drink of his mocha. He looked surprised. “It’s really sweet.”

  “That’s because I mixed in three packets of sugar.”

  “Why’d you do that? It’s plenty sweet as it is.”

  “To see if anybody noticed. Nobody did, of course. I put in sugar, but I could have just as easily put in crushed up sleeping pills, poison, you name it.”

  Ollie went up to the side of the front counter, showed Jessica his ID, and asked her if she’d noticed anyone hanging around Clarence’s coffee the other day. She hadn’t. It was a long shot.

  “Look, Jessica,” Ollie said, “could you give me a triple mocha with a double shot of almond and a single shot of coconut?” Clarence raised his eyebrows. “It’s a suped-up Almond Joy. I usually get two shots of coconut, but I’m on a diet. Come to think of it though, I’ve been riding a bike. Jessica? Make that two shots of coconut, would you?”

  They sat and talked while Ollie savored his coffee. “Okay, Clarence, so you’re done with your coffee. You toss the coffee cup over there,” he pointed to the waste-basket built in under the counter, “or leave it on the table or what?”

  “I toss it. Well, usually I toss it. Except when I’m in a hurry. Then I take off before I’ve finished. Carry it with me. Yeah, that’s right, on Wednesday I knew I had to get home and shower to make it to Bible study. So I had to rush. I still had probably a third of a cup of mocha left. After hard exercise, I need the full amount of sugar to ward off an insulin reaction, so I took it with me.”

  “On your bike?”

  “Sure. I just ride one-handed. No problem as long as the cup’s not too full.”

  “So what did you do with the cup?”

  “Tossed it when I was done, I guess.”

  “Don’t guess. Tossed it where? On the side of the trail?”

  “I don’t litter.” Clarence sounded as if he’d been accused of armed robbery.

  “Sorry, for a moment I forgot I was dealing with Captain Responsible. It won’t happen again. So, what did you do with the cup?”

  “I must have dumped it in one of the trash cans on the trail,” Clarence said. “Yeah, right, I took my last sip then crumpled it up. I think it was just after I tied in to the trail at Main Street Park. So it was probably the first wastebasket I got to on the trail.”

  Ollie asked Jessica for a phone book. He looked in the blue pages, pulled his cellular phone out of his suit pocket, and dialed.

  “Hello, this is Detective Ollie Chandler, Portland Police. I need to talk to someone, maybe in your parks or sanitation department, whoever would know about waste disposal pickups on the Springwater Corridor Trail. Gresham Parks and Recreation? Yeah, sounds like she may be the one. Sure, I’ll hold.”

  Ollie took his last swig of coffee and eyed the pastries up on the counter. “Detective Ollie Chandler here. I’m investigating a case and need some information. Can you tell me when the w
aste is collected from the trash bins on the Springwater Trail? No kidding? Great. Yeah, that’s good news. Thanks.”

  Ollie put up his right thumb. “Waste is collected on Tuesdays, every week through October, but every other week starting in November. Tomorrow’s the day. You’re in luck. I’ve got an extra pair of gloves in the car. And I’ve got a job that’s right up a journalist’s alley—sorting garbage.”

  Dani gazed at the Carpenter, seated at the right hand of the throne. He looked and listened attentively as a woman finished reading the Scriptures. She read the last words and looked toward him, then bowed her knees. He smiled approvingly. Now an old man—or was it a young boy; he seemed both at once—walked forward and began reading the words where she’d left off.

  As he began to read, behind him Dani saw a panorama of injustice upon earth. People enslaved and unjustly imprisoned, churches attacked by governments and burned by bigots, schools told God’s Word could not be read or posted there. Children abused, wives beaten, men cheated of their wages, people robbed of their rights, their freedom, and their lives. Dani realized the injustices she saw, now going on in the Shadowlands, were the backdrop to the words about to be read by the boy-man. Dani looked at the throne, gazed into the kind eyes of the Lamb of God, and saw him nod to the reader, who began to speak the eternal words, as scene after scene of horrible injustice flashed behind him from places where most imagined no one saw nor cared.

  “I saw heaven standing open, and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and makes war. His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God. The armies of heaven were following him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean. Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. ‘He will rule them with an iron scepter.’ He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS.”

  Dani looked at the throne again, trembling as she saw the fiery eyes of the Carpenter. He looked no longer a Lamb, but a Lion, roaring and prowling, ready to make prey of the arrogant and unjust. Those same warm and approving eyes she’d seen so often burned with a fire fueled by unspeakable holiness and immeasurable power. The man read another passage.

  See, the LORD is coming with fire, and his chariots are like a whirlwind; he will bring down his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire. For with fire and with his sword the LORD will execute judgment upon all men, and many will be those slain by the LORD.

  She could feel the hot anger in the Lion, sense the smoldering wrath waiting to be unleashed. For a moment it terrified her. She had to remind herself she was no longer the object of his wrath, that the Lion had become Lamb and paid an eternal price to deliver her from the inferno of his holiness.

  Still, even as she saw the Lion’s intensity, she sensed his patience. Every moment that he held back his wrath was a gift of opportunity to those in the dark world to fall in repentance before him. And in the midst of the scenes of oppression and injustice from the Shadowlands, she saw this very thing—not only the persecuted turning to him and crying out to their Redeemer, but now and again the persecutors turning from their evil and throwing themselves upon his forgiving grace. The wrath in the Lion’s eyes held steady, but he restrained his urge to make all things right once and for all. He determined to give those in the Shadowlands just a little more time—a window of opportunity in which they could bow their knees to the King of the universe, from whose judgment there can be no appeal.

  After putting on their gloves and dumping out the garbage on the side of the trail, Ollie found a green and white cup from Coffee’s On.

  “Don’t think that’s mine. I always crumple them up,” Clarence said.

  Ollie looked at it closely. “Plus, I don’t think you were wearing lipstick that day, were you?” Ollie pointed to the quarter moon red mark. “Besides, this isn’t your color.”

  They continued to search. Clarence pointed to another green and white cup, this one wadded up. Ollie picked it up carefully, opened it just enough to peek inside, smiled his approval, and lifted it into a big plastic evidence bag. He sealed the bag and marked it with a heavy black pen. “In five or six days we should know something,” he said.

  “Ollie, this is Ray Eagle, calling from Sacramento.”

  “Yeah, Ray, what’s up?”

  “How’s this? I’ve got a phone call made on Harper’s private line to Los Angeles at 3:41 P.M. August 29—eleven minutes after he got the fax. It’s just a one minute call. To the home of Rafer Thomas.”

  “Bingo,” Ollie said. “Our license plate man. He’s the contact. Thomas must have gotten the message to the perps to call Harper. I don’t suppose they called him back collect?”

  “Nope. Nothing on the phone records. I’m working on Harper. He was involved in L.A. politics big time before going to Portland. He was a key player in organizing a couple of gang summits there. And the politician he worked for in LA. hired gangbangers to hand out political literature. Sound familiar? Once you hire known criminals to do one thing, why not another?”

  Clarence sat reading the Trib this quiet Saturday morning. He heard his father rustling in his bedroom.

  Spike the bulldog came up, Charlie Chaplain style, nuzzling Clarence’s feet as if it was the world’s greatest privilege. A slipper and faded green tennis ball propped open his gargoyle mouth, the ball stretching his upper lip to its limits. His tail rotated like a helicopter blade.

  Clarence smiled. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I, boy?” The hound scrunched up close, eyes soulful.

  Until they’d gotten Spike a few years ago, Clarence hadn’t been around dogs since the hounds in Mississippi. They’d had a cat for a while at Cabrini Green, but it ended up serving as target practice for local hoodlums. He mysteriously disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Daddy’d said, “He’s Jimmy Hoffa’s cat now.”

  Clarence held Spike’s face squarely toward his own, as if the dog might understand better if he gave him a clear shot at lipreading. “Hate to tell you, boy” Clarence said, “but Mama asked me to give you some ear medicine.” He took the little tube off the table, held it in his hand, and watched the dog’s eyes get even bigger and his big overhanging lip quiver. With a flair for the dramatic, he fell on his side, submitting himself to the treatment.

  “You don’t like this, do you, boy? Well, sometimes what doesn’t feel good is still best. Your master knows what he’s doing. Trust me on this. You’ll get your reward. The pizza bones are waiting.”

  Spike dutifully submitted to the unpleasant and incomprehensible treatment. Soon it was over. Even as he shook his ears at the discomfort, he raced ahead of Clarence to the refrigerator, eager for the payoff.

  “Got the tests back from the lab,” Ollie said to Clarence Monday morning. “It was your cup, all right. A couple of fingerprints, yours. There were a few drops of fluid inside plus a crystallized residue. It was heroin. As in double mocha, double heroin.”

  “Heroin?”

  “Yeah. The good thing is, heroin isn’t that popular these days. Cocaine’s taken over. So a heroin purchase could be easier to track. Gracie told the cops you gave her heroin, so it was a solid setup if they drug-tested you. My first thought was tar.”

  “Tar?”

  “It’s heroin that looks like little brown tar droppings. It’s brown because it’s been cut, you know, diluted with chocolate or coffee grounds. Blends right in with a mocha. It would have to dissolve, though, so we’re not talking real tar. But the guys who cut it to tar start with raw heroin, the pure stuff. It’s powder, super strong. Every once in a while some gets out before it’s been cut, and three or four addicts die the same day before somebody figures it out. I’ve got a guy I think might be able to help us. Want to get in
on it?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Ollie. How about two o’clock?”

  Ollie drove Clarence down a southeast Portland residential street. He went up to the door and knocked. The dark brown man who answered the door looked to be fifty.

  “Clarence, this is Pepe.” The men shook hands, Clarence noticing the needle tracks on his arms. “Pepe got addicted to heroin when he was injured in Nam, and he’s been on it ever since.” Ollie’s directness didn’t seem to offend him. “Pepe, how much heroin would it take to knock a man Clarence’s size out for four hours?”

  “Depends on how pure.”

  “The purest stuff you can buy on the street.”

  “You can get forty or fifty percent pure, China white, they call it. Regular user?”

  “Never,” Clarence said.

  “First time, on China white? A thirty-cent bag would kill him. Even a twenty might kill him.”

  Clarence looked confused. “Cent means dollar,” Ollie said. “A twenty-cent bag costs twenty dollars.” Now Pepe looked confused, as if he could hardly believe someone could be that ignorant.

  “Put him out four hours?” Pepe asked. “Okay, ten or fifteen cents of China white.”

  “How much would that be?”

  “Maybe a fifth of a gram.”

  “Show us how much.”

  Pepe reached for the cupboard and grabbed a sack of mashed potato flakes.

  “This isn’t the real stuff, is it, Pepe?” Ollie asked.

  Pepe laughed. “No.” He took a spoon, turned it upside down, and used the back of the handle to measure a very small amount of the flakes.

  “This much would put him out.”

  Clarence could hardly believe it. It was less than half a little packet of sugar.

  “Even after you woke up, this would bring on the nods,” Pepe said.

  “Yeah, I was nodding all right,” Clarence said. “Light-headed, groggy, sleepy”

  “Dizzy?” Pepe asked. “Turned green? Diarrhea? Vomiting?”