The inspector’s cellphone chirped, and he slammed it against his thick ear. I headed back into the house. Blair was talking to Thelma Waters at the kitchen table. I took the spot against the counter beside the coffee pot. Thelma was telling him she had no idea who could have brought such evil filth into this holy home. Blair had gotten to the kiddy-porn question. No surprise in her denial. She was the church’s most devout lemming, and the idea that Sandy Gardner shared his party favours with her was unlikely. Her devotion to him meant some serious soul-searching ahead. Guess I wouldn’t be the only one.
Thelma was wringing all the air out of a napkin on the table in front of her. Her ankles kept shifting under her chair, crossing first with the left in front, then the right. Any cop could read the body language she was projecting. Left in front for lies, right for evasive answers. If Blair wanted any truth, he was going to have to find her a third leg. I caught his eye then looked toward the door. He nodded, and I headed out to wait for him.
I walked into a day tilting to hot and humid. The rich sweet smell of cedar filled the air. I looked down at the flower beds along the front of the house. Small red chunks of bark topped the beds. A decorative way to keep the weeds down. Smelled good, too.
I glanced at my car and saw Bobby stewing in the front seat. Probably didn’t smell so sweet in there. I wasn’t sure why he’d gotten back into a hot car. Maybe one of the officers on the scene told him to. I stretched, pushing my hands into my lower back before moving over to let him out. He’d suffered enough. I looked at the command centre near the tennis courts. My brother Greg was standing beside it, talking with a couple of uniforms. I figured the chief was gone. I could take Bobby over there for another chat. I needed to know if he’d seen any signs of abuse between Gardner and Sam. Bobby was still a better bet as a suspect. I couldn’t see Sam hurting anyone. What passed for his angry outburst at me seemed to deflate him. But if Sam was abused, Bobby might know.
I opened the door and he rose from the car in a fluid motion, staring at me as he rocked his head from side to side. I could hear his neck crack and pop as ropy muscles bulged and dropped with each shift. Sweat plastered his shirt to his chest where the pecs were dancing, too. Big boy, our Bobby. He eye-fucked me yard style, said nothing. Good that he still had the technique, might need it again.
“You know, Bobby, I’m disappointed. I thought we were coming to an agreement.” I spread my legs a little. Tilting my own head to loosen things up.
“That so?” He kept his temper in check, but I could feel the heat coming from him, and it wasn’t from the time spent in the car.
“Yeah. I mean you want me to tread lightly around the reputation of your church, and I want you to be upfront. Told you I’d do what I could to keep the kiddy-porn mess contained. So why the fuck didn’t you tell me your beloved preacher was abusing his kid?”
“Cam, why do you treat me like something I am not? I have found my salvation. I’ve been praying for you here. Satan is at work. I can feel him, and you must try to fight him. He is real, Cam, not just something you slap on your back to ride a motorcycle. He is right there in your eyes.” The change was a physical thing; the God-fearing Bible-thumper replaced the con in a heartbeat. He eased back and leaned against the car. His anger gone.
I could feel mine grow. My temples ached. I didn’t want Bobby cool. I wanted him fiery. I wanted him to push. More than anything, I wanted to push back. It might have been the guilt over missing Sam’s plea a year ago, maybe the bruised ego over letting the kid get the better of me today. Either way, a little dust-up might set me straight, and I knew Bobby was good to go. I felt it when he stepped out of the car. I moved in closer, and then spun as I felt a hand grab my shoulder. Greg stepped back quickly. The shift in Bobby’s body language wasn’t about the Bible. It was for my brother. He saw Greg coming. Man, I couldn’t get ahead of the curve on this thing.
“Sorry, Cam. Did I startle you?” Greg looked at Bobby and back at me.
“Yeah, I guess so, Greg.” I kneaded the arch of my back a little more. It didn’t help. “Listen, I have a few questions for Bobby here. Can we chat in a minute?”
“Sure. I just wanted to tell you both about the TV cameras at the edge of the driveway. They seem to be shooting anything that moves here.” He was saving me some grief.
“Thanks, Greg. Appreciate the heads-up.” I hoped he could see the gratitude in my eyes. Popping Bobby would have felt great until it hit the TV news. I turned back to him.
“Let’s take this inside the bus, Bobby.”
I glanced toward the driveway and the Waverley Road. Those familiar circles of glass were tracking my every move. Guess the word was out. The dead guy in the dump was a solid-gold hit in the newsroom. Top of the clock, every hour.
We got about halfway to the bus before Inspector MacIntosh caught up with me again. He nodded at Bobby.
“Detective Constable, where are you going?”
“Into the bus, Inspector. We have cameras out here now, and I don’t want them to see me questioning Bobby. Don’t want them to start reporting that we have a suspect.”
“Well, it’s a little late for that. If you take him into the bus, they will. Let’s do our questioning downtown, shall we? I’ll take him with me. We’ve got other detectives assembling now, and I’ll have a couple of them do the questioning.”
“But won’t that make him look more like a suspect?”
“No, I’ll tell the reporters he’s one of our witnesses.” He started to lead Bobby away.
No cop in the world identifies a witness while a killer is still at large. He’d be putting a target on Bobby’s head. I knew what was really at play. Bobby looked like a thug. The cameras were going to make love to him. The inspector wanted to get on TV leading a thug from the scene whether Bobby did anything or not. Fuck me. I should have stayed in bed.
The sun still shone, the birds sang, and the smell of early summer was still intoxicating. But there had to be at least one dark cloud up there, hanging over my head. I could not catch a break. Inspector MacIntosh slowed his car near the cameras as he headed out. Telling them about his witness, no doubt. Well, Bobby, if you’re not guilty you’d better start sweating now. I had to stay away from Samuel until we heard from his mother in Africa and she lawyered him up. With those two off limits, I thought maybe I’d go get a haircut or mow my lawn.
“Hey,” Greg said, as he walked over to me from the front of the house.
“Hey. Thanks for that heads-up with the media,” I said, nodding to the end of the driveway. They were still there, leaning over the yellow tape, looking for an exclusive.
“Looked like maybe you were about to slip back into your old ways there, slugger. Didn’t think you wanted to make a comeback on the evening news.”
“No, my cage-fighting days are over, Greg. Just had to let Bobby know who was in charge.”
“Oh, but Cam, you’re not,” he said as his right hand moved to the spot above the crucifix. I smiled and raised my hands in surrender.
“Can we keep God out of this for just a minute, Greg? Got beat up pretty bad by the Bible over there.” I nodded back to the car.
“Yes. I suppose so. Bobby has an amazing recall for the Word, doesn’t he? Certainly better than mine.”
“He does at that, although I can’t speak to his accuracy. Let’s grab a seat away from the cameras.”
We walked around the side of the house. A stone patio curved away from the foundation, filling the space between the tennis courts and the lake. I should have tried to duck Inspector MacIntosh on this side. It was nicer here. A wrought-iron railing surrounded a fire pit in the middle of the patio. A couple of tables, a grill, and a few Adirondack chairs circled the pit. How many barbecues did Gardner need? The God gig must be T-bones and beer every day, at least on the evangelical side. I knew Greg lived in a small room in the rectory beside the basilica downtown, and
I wondered if he was second-guessing his choice of church. Maybe it was a family trait, although Gunner was sure where he wanted to be. We sat in the wooden chairs. We could second-guess together.
“Nice spot.”
“Yes, I’ve been to a couple of church barbecues here. It’s even nicer at night,” he said, as we both looked past the fire pit to the lake beyond.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I wanted to ask you this last year when you had me check on security here.”
“What?” Greg leaned forward in his chair. His look was earnest, probably the kind he gave parishioners when he wanted them to know he cared. It was a good look. We looked a lot alike; maybe I could learn it.
“Well, Sandy Gardner was a Bible-thumping TV star who reached out into the purses and wallets of the world. Where do you fit in his evangelical collection scheme?”
“That’s unfair, Cam.” He leaned back, the pleasant look gone. “It’s true he pushed hard for donations, but look at the work his church accomplished. Look at the orphans who now have homes.”
“I’ve seen his work close up, and I’m looking at the home those donations built,” I said. “Let’s just agree to disagree on whether it was greed or God at work. I still can’t figure you in the mix. How often did you come here and why?”
“Fairly often, I suppose. At least once a month. We both belong to the—belonged to, I guess it is now—the Halifax Ecumenical Council. He was busier than me, so I’d come here to meet with him.” A sadness crept into his voice as he moved to the past tense. “I know I got to see a side of Sandy Gardner you may never grow to believe in. I know it was real.” He ran a hand through that thick unruly mop, and before I realized it, I was stroking the curls on my head. I liked the look of Greg’s hair and decided to let mine grow until I got busted by a white shirt. I gave Greg my best earnest look.
“Well, I’m sorry you lost a friend, Greg.” Sandy Gardner may well have been an evil man who needed killing, but I could feel my brother’s loss.
“Thanks, Cam. I guess that’s why I spoke out of turn earlier. But I know you have to do what is right. I do worry about how this may change how people feel about him. He built his church into a world force for good from a Bible group that met in his basement fifteen years ago. Did you know that? Amazing, really.”
“I know the legend of Sandy Gardner. What I need to know is the man. It’s clear he was not what we all thought.”
“How bad is it?”
“Kiddy porn for sure. Looks like he might have been abusing Samuel, as well.”
He looked away. I hated to dump it on him, but I needed his help. Kicking the crap out of his image of Gardner would help. It’s possible he’d seen signs and dismissed them.
“That is bad. Worse than I could have thought. Poor Samuel. I should go to him,” he said.
“Sure, in a minute. First tell me about Sam. That whole speaking-in-tongues thing. Is that an act or is he crazy?” What I really wanted to ask was: Is he crazy enough to kill his father?
“That’s not a fair question, Cam. It is not an act, and he is not crazy. Many people become so overwhelmed by the power of the Holy Spirit that they enter a trance-like state. Faith, real faith, is a life-changing thing.”
“That ever happen during one of your Masses?” I asked.
“No, but the Catholic Mass is more structured, restrictive maybe, than an evangelical service. Pastor Gardner and many evangelicals encourage their followers to give in to the power they feel. It is quite common to hear entire congregations speak in tongues at a service like that.”
Sounded more like mob mentality than miracle to me, but I wasn’t looking for a theological lecture from my brother, so I kept that thought to myself.
“I really should go to him, Cam,” he said.
“Thelma is with him. Just give me one more second. I need you to think, Greg, think hard. Is there anyone in his church who could have found out about these things and reacted this way?” I was thinking of Bobby, and he knew it.
“I will think, Cam, but I have to tell you, everyone I’ve met at the Church of Salvation is an inspiration. That includes Bobby. Their faith is strong, and their belief in the teachings of Jesus would rival the strongest Catholic.”
“Fine, but think, and call me if the slightest inkling crosses your mind. It may be nothing, and that’s fine, but feel free to waste my time with it.” Time I had. There was no one left to interview except members of the youth group, and they were unlikely candidates. “Let’s go in. You can sit with Samuel. I need to bring Blair up to speed.”
“One thing first.” He placed a hand on my arm. I relaxed back into the chair.
“I did a lot of thinking during my Camino.”
“Hard not to, I imagine.”
“Well, it’s the point of the journey, so yes, it’s hard not to.”
“And.”
“After the first week, all I thought about was you and Gunner. Well, the three of us, actually.” I waited. I didn’t know much about El Camino de Santiago. Greg walked eight hundred kilometres from France into Spain. If his exhaustion on the pilgrimage led him to believe he could convert us, I figured he must have suffered sunstroke. I definitely wanted to be there when he explained it to Gunner. I went to Greg’s Masses occasionally, but that was just to support him.
“I thought you were supposed to think about Jesus, not the three of us.”
“You can’t force the Camino. If you let it guide you, though, release yourself to it, Saint James will step in and lead your thoughts.”
“And this saint had you thinking about us?”
He reached to his chest and stroked the crucifix again.
“He did, yes. We don’t see enough of each other. Not the way brothers should.”
“Look, Greg, this sounds like it is going to be a longer conversation than I can afford right now. I’d love to hear more about it, but I’m on a pretty big case.” It was a lie. I didn’t want to hear more no matter how much time I had. He’d forgive me for the lie. It was his job.
“Of course you can hear more, Cam, that’s all I’m asking.” He smiled, a grin really. He had me with my own words. “I spoke with Gunner yesterday. I am doing the blessing in Peggys Cove this year, and he has agreed to ride out to our mother’s grave for a visit afterward. We want you on the run and with us at the grave. We can talk and bond a little there.” The grin again.
I couldn’t believe it. He’d sandbagged me. Did I leave my street smarts home? Did I even have any? Everybody was kicking the shit out of me today. Even a priest.
“If I can, I will, but like I said, it’s a big case.”
“That’s all I ask. I’m going back to be with Samuel now,” he said.
I watched as he stood and wondered why he cared so much about me, and now Gunner, and what he had in mind for that ride. The annual blessing of fallen bikers is a Stallion-sponsored ride. Mostly a PR stunt. I couldn’t believe Gunner had agreed to leave it and go to our mother’s grave. Greg must have found him when he was heavy into the Jack. Sandbagged him, too. Well, no way I’d have time, and Gunner would forget he’d agreed to anything. Sorry, Greg.
He smiled down at me and rubbed his right thumb against his shirt, feeling the tiny crucifix below. The move took me back to another brother. One I’d lost in a shithole called the Place of the King. It was in the Paktia province in Afghanistan. Greg walked away. I felt a dryness in my throat. I began to think of Master Corporal Ronald—don’t call me Ron—Gosse.
March 2006, mountain range, Paktia Province, Afghanistan
Every time I killed someone, Ronald said a prayer. It spooked me, but I didn’t tell him that. When a brass shell popped from the side of my rifle, he pulled the gold crucifix from under his ghillie. He’d ask the Lord to let His perpetual light shine on my latest kill, as I pushed my eye to the scope and looked across the valley for the
next guy.
“You ever think about trying a Muslim prayer?” I asked. “They might appreciate it more.” I moved the scope slowly into the dust cloud kicked up by the 50’s recoil. I could taste it on my lips, a dry, almost sweet taste. Afghan death.
“It’s not a prayer if I don’t believe in it. Just words, brother.” Ronald’s eyes were back on the spotting scope now. He’d find me someone else to kill.
Ronald was the brother I should have had. He was a perfect combination of Gunner and Greg, a fight-to-the-death soldier with a faith that was a physical thing. We chewed that dust together for six months. I’d die for him. He’d do the same for me.
“You think they pray for us when they get a kill?” I rubbed my sleeve across my lips and shifted the heavy TAC-50 slightly on its bipod, kept scanning.
“I asked the Imam. He says the Quran forbids it. We are not believers, so they can’t pray for us.”
Ronald: Christian, but not stupid about it. Spent his free time with the Imam back at the airfield where we bunked. He needed to understand Islam. I didn’t. One reason none of the other snipers wanted to work with the Master Corporal: he liked preaching about Christ or explaining Islam. That can rattle guys who kill for a living.
Me they avoided because of Gunner and the outlaw club we belonged to back in the world. Gunner can be an asshole about the outlaw thing. He killed too fast, even for Trashcanistan. He pounded guys on our side senseless. Perfect war machine, Gunner. He was one of the door-kicking urban assaulters, of course. Guys in the sniper teams are quieter, more philosophical, about killing. They decided my past meant I wasn’t sniper material. Fuck ’em.
“Got one.” Ronald shifted his weight, pressed his hips into the ground, as he worked the dials on the scope. “Okay, let’s do this guy and then find us a new house.”
He fed me the wind and elevation adjustments. The guy was just over two thousand metres out. The TAC was good to 1,800, but at this altitude two clicks was more than doable. I filled the scope with him, saw the long barrel of his rifle. He was sprawled on his chest at the base of a jagged boulder on the opposite side of the Shahi-Kot. Couldn’t see a spotter. Sometimes those Taliban shooters worked alone, seriously badass. He moved, got on his own scope, settling for a shot. Some poor Marine on the valley floor just walked into the space where life and death are measured in the speed of a trigger finger. Whose was quicker, the Taliban shooter’s or mine?
Disposable Souls Page 9
