by Curt Weeden
Four Putt threw back a confused stare. “Twyla Tharp? She picks a Broadway choreographer for her alias?”
“Not an alias. She changed her name a few years ago,” I explained. “She’s a dancer.”
Four Putt slapped his head with one of his large, hairy mitts. “What she is—is a prostitute.”
“Who’s looking to make a career change.”
“Jeez, this could really do it to me. A damn streetwalker of all things.”
“I feel your pain. And since we’re talking about people of ill repute, there’s a lawyer who’ll be checking in tomorrow.”
“So what?”
“Give him a room as far away as possible from wherever you’re stashing Twyla.”
“Oh, my God,” Four Putt whispered. “What’s going on?”
“So far, nothing. And I need your help to make sure things stay that way.”
Chapter 10
Yigal Rosenblatt showed up at the Gateway around noon, looking more disheveled than ever. The first words out of his mouth told me that the long drive from Orlando to New Brunswick had done nothing to dampen his caffeinated personality.
“Here they are—I have them here,” Yigal announced between bounces. He held up a legal-sized manila envelope and tore it open. Three scraps of metal each about the size of a silver dollar fell onto a coffee table—one of the newer furnishings in the Gateway’s common room. All three metal pieces were painted blue on one side.
“You’re positive these came from the burned-out car?”
“That’s where they came from. Had them cut out of the door.”
“Your partner’s brother-in-law—”
“Morty Margolis.”
“We can rely on him?” I deliberately let my skepticism eke out.
“Called him yesterday. Says he’ll do what he can.”
I gave Yigal as earnest a look as was feasible. “Look, I don’t know whether these paint chips and the paint samples we scraped off the stanchion in Orlando add up to evidence or just two handfuls of junk. But what I do know is that your partner’s brother-in-law is the man we’ll be relying on to give us the answer.”
“That’s what he’ll do.”
“Remember—whatever Margolis finds or doesn’t find could either set Zeus free or put him in the electric chair.”
“Maybe I could say hello to Twyla,” Yigal suggested. “Before I go to Weehawken to see Morty Margolis.”
A one-track mind knows no detour.
“Business first.” My cell phone saved Yigal from a protracted sermon.
“This is Abraham Arcontius.” Silverstein’s assistant had a voice that matched his reptilian look. Sound hissed through his distended throat like steam from a vent.
“Something I can do for you?”
“We understand you’ll be attending the Quia Vita meeting tonight.”
It took me two seconds to figure out how Silverstein and company knew I would be at the Grand Hyatt. Doug Kool.
“That’s the plan,” I admitted.
“We want a full report tomorrow.”
“No one said anything about daily briefings.”
“Please be at Mr. Silverstein’s estate tomorrow, Mr. Bullock.”
“With all due respect, I’m not on call. If you want to schedule a meeting, that’s fine. But I need more lead time if you expect me to show up.”
“Perhaps you don’t quite get what’s going on here,” Arcontius said.
“Educate me.”
“We’re giving you a chance to show us what you’re really up to.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That’s something we can discuss tomorrow.”
My dislike for Arcontius was growing like a cancer. “Look, I had a couple of checks stuffed into my pocket as payment for feeding your boss information. I wasn’t comfortable taking the money in the first place and now I’m thirty seconds away from mailing them back.”
Arcontius wasn’t rattled. “The money is incidental. There are bigger issues on the table.”
“The only issue I’m aware of is a man who might be getting the shaft in Florida.”
“If that’s the case, you’ll be here tomorrow, and you’ll tell us whatever you learn at the meeting tonight.”
“Us?”
“A collective us. The Silverstein team is extensive.”
In my line of work, it’s not uncommon to run into disagreeable, distrustful, and dislikeable people. Arcontius bundled up all these undesirable qualities into one slimy package. He used Silverstein’s power base to pump up his own importance. When I didn’t roll over on command, the man wasn’t happy.
“Anything that happens tonight can be summed up in a phone call,” I said. “I don’t expect to walk away with any big news. Remind Silverstein I’m starting at the low end of a learning curve. The reason I’m going to the Quia Vita meeting is to get a better handle on the organization. End of story.”
“Mr. Bullock, I don’t think I’m making myself clear. We want you at the Silverstein estate tomorrow. A phone call won’t do it. There are things we need to discuss face-to-face. Don’t push aside a chance to play by our rules. Because if you do, you’ll deeply regret it.”
“Define ‘deeply regret.’ ”
“Occasio aegre offertur, facile amittitur.”
“What?”
“It’s a Latin saying. It means: ‘Opportunity is offered with difficulty but lost with ease.’ I know you’ll show up tomorrow.”
The Grand Hyatt has a lot in common with Yigal Rosenblatt. With over 1,300 guest rooms and 55,000 feet of “function space,” the place is in a perpetual state of hyperactivity. When Doc Waters and I walked into the lobby around six p.m., it was 100 percent bedlam.
We checked the hotel TV monitors for meeting information but there was nothing posted for Quia Vita. Doug Kool had instructed me to go to the front desk and ask for an account manager named Jane. She would meet us in the lobby.
After a five-minute wait, a middle-aged woman appeared with an outstretched hand pointed at Doc’s stomach. “Mr. Bullock?”
I took the mistake as a compliment. I had dressed the professor in a blue suit left over from an Episcopal Church rummage sale and a white shirt a size too small for Doc. With the conservative tie pulled from a box of clothing donated by Goodwill, Doc came across sort of corporate.
“Ah, if only I were.” Doc sounded as suave as he looked. “My name is Professor Waters and it is a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Jane loved every word. “Dr. Kool told me you were interested in booking a meeting with us in a month or two.”
This was the cover Doug had told me to use. Doc and I were looking for meeting space for a fictional religious higher-education association. Jane had been told we were deeply committed pro-lifers who knew about Quia Vita but didn’t have the kind of bank accounts that would get us an invite to one of the group’s monthly sessions. In consideration for the business Doug brought to the Hyatt, Jane agreed to provide back row seats for his two friends.
“I’m so pleased you could be here tonight,” she gushed. “The room configuration you’re interested in is exactly the setup we use for Ms. Russet.”
“Judith Russet?”
“Oh, yes. She’s truly a hero, isn’t she? I’m so privileged to be in her service.”
Doc lifted his thick white eyebrows. “How wonderful that you’re a member.”
“A member of Quia Vita, of course. But not the Order of Visio Dei—the group that’s meeting here tonight. As I’m sure you know, it’s a membership category open only to those who have both the resources and the will to share God’s vision in a very special way.”
“We have the will, but we’re short when it comes to the money,” I said sadly.
Jane looked to the floor. “I do have a confession to make. I didn’t tell Ms. Russet that you were financially unqualified.”
“Oh?”
“I hope you don’t mind. I’m in charge of put
ting together the attendee roster for each meeting—I do that on my own time, of course. As a Quia Vita volunteer.”
“Of course,” said Doc.
“I thought it would be easier all around just to include your names as potential Visio Dei members. It would be awkward if Ms. Russet were to find out that you don’t meet the monetary threshold for membership. Could I impose upon you to—”
“We’re so honored you’d even think to put us on the invitation list,” Doc interrupted. “We’d never put you in a compromising position, Jane.” He grinned at her conspiratorially.
“You’re very kind—both of you.”
“It’s you who’s so kind, Jane,” Doc said. “Tell me, how is it that you became involved with Quia Vita?”
My early warning light switched on.
“It was God’s calling,” Jane rolled out a pat answer to a question she had probably been asked innumerable times. “I believe so strongly in the sanctity of life.”
“Ah, yes, I understand.” Doc brought his hand to his chin the way only academics are able to do. “And I imagine you find comfort and guidance in the Bible for your beliefs,”
“I do, Dr. Waters. I certainly do.”
“Doc—” I tried to interrupt.
The professor pretended I didn’t exist. “How mysterious it is that the Bible never mentions abortion, don’t you think, Jane?”
“Well, I—”
“Sometimes I wonder if Aristotle were right. I’m sure you recollect his theory.”
Jane’s plaster smile cracked. “Well, I—”
“Granted, Aristotle was a little pagan in his approach. But think about how much less conflict we’d have if everyone agreed with him. That a male fetus doesn’t take on a soul until forty days after conception. Or that a woman has no soul until after ninety days of gestation.”
“Oh, well . . . I can’t . . . well, I mean, I just don’t believe . . .”
I barged in before Doc could continue. “The professor can sometimes play devil’s advocate.”
Plugging the devil into my comment didn’t sit well with Jane. An uncontrollable shudder rattled her Hyatt nametag.
“I suppose it’s my way of testing just how firm one is when it comes to his or her pro-life position,” Doc explained. “This is not a movement that should be corrupted by those who aren’t knowledgeable about all aspects of the abortion issue. Wouldn’t you say so, Jane?”
“Well, I . . . It’s just that I believe God switches on the soul once a person is conceived.”
“Ah, if we could only locate, feel, smell, touch, weigh, or measure a soul. We could then be certain. But it’s the uncertainty of it all. Perhaps that’s why for much of its history, Christianity thought ensoulment didn’t happen during the ninety days after conception and religious leaders were more tolerant of abortion.”
Jane looked appalled. “That can’t be—”
“Of course there are others who think that the soul doesn’t show up until we have at least some sense of awareness. Do you know what the first sign of awareness is?”
“Well, no, I—”
“Pain. And a fetus is not developed enough to feel pain until around one hundred twenty days after conception.”
“Oh, no, Professor Waters,” Jane pushed back. “That can’t be. The Silent Scream shows a baby in terrible pain. And it was only twelve weeks old.”
I watched Doc’s face redden. According to the professor, the antiabortion movie, Silent Scream, set the high bar in raping science.
“We must be so careful of our credibility,” said Doc. He was straining to control himself. “A fetus simply cannot register pain at twelve weeks.”
“But the baby was frantic just before it was aborted.”
“A reflex response, my dear, that has to do with the movement of the uterus. Do you recall the late Dr. Carl Sagan?”
The woman nodded.
“He said we really don’t become persons until we can think, and that doesn’t happen until the cerebral cortex starts functioning. It takes six months in the womb before the cortex gets fired up. So during the first two trimesters of pregnancy, Dr. Sagan—the good Lord rest his soul—would tell you the fetus is not really a person.”
Jane gasped.
“Such a difficult issue,” Doc muttered. “When does personhood begin? Who’s right and who’s wrong? Will we ever have a decisive answer?”
“I—” Jane worked hard to put a few words together. “It’s a matter of faith, Professor.”
“Yes. But it is also a matter of law and—if you happen to be a woman—often a matter of choice.”
If devil topped the list of the words Jane least wanted to hear, choice was a close second. “I don’t remember meeting any pro-lifer who talks the way you do,” she said.
“Professor Waters is an eminent scholar in the field,” I said, trying to do some quick repair work. “He forces us all to strengthen our arguments and moral commitments. Which is why he will truly make his mark on Quia Vita.”
“I shall make every effort to do so,” Doc promised.
Chapter 11
Judith Russet was a washboard of pasty white flab under a crown of gray hair cut so short that it resembled a bathing cap. A quick once-over and you might think Quia Vita’s executive director was soft as cotton candy.
As we were about to discover, not true.
According to plan, Doc and I were the last to be seated at Quia Vita’s Visio Dei meeting. Just before we had slipped into the back of the room, I let the professor have it for climbing all over Jane. Doc had given me a halfhearted reassurance that he’d behave and, with reservation, I decided not to put him on a train back to New Brunswick.
Judith Russet arrived two minutes late and began the meeting with an apology. A weather-delayed flight from Chicago.
“Life,” she opened, “is under attack.” A LCD projector blasted an eight-by-eight-foot screen with words that exploded like incendiary bombs: abortion, euthanasia, doctor-assisted suicide, reproductive and genetic technologies, cloning, infanticide, eugenics, population control.
“You—” Russet let the word hang in the air until she surveyed all fifty-plus attendees seated in the room. “You are here because you have been chosen to be life’s guardians. Nothing you ever do will be more important.”
For the next twenty minutes, Russet delivered a message that cut into the small group like a cleaver. Every sentence came out as a shriek. Doc was breathing hard and his face was flushed.
“Over one point three million children in the United States are killed by an abortionist each year. Most of these immoral procedures are not done in hospitals. They’re carried out in over four hundred death chambers ironically called health clinics.”
A split-screen video followed. On one side, a woman cried into the camera. On the other side, a slow zoom-in on a bottled fetus. “I went into the bathroom and passed the placenta,” the woman said between sobs. “When I looked in the toilet, I saw my baby—its perfectly formed hands, the little fingers—” Russet took over. “This is a woman who used to be pro-choice. A woman who chose to kill her baby seven weeks after becoming pregnant.”
Russet went on for another fifteen minutes mixing words with PowerPoint slides and two more video clips. Once the room had been properly worked over, she stepped in front of the podium.
“I’m here today speaking on behalf of millions of unborn children. I hope you can hear their voices. What they are asking you to do—what they’re begging you to do—is to enlist in the highest echelon of Quia Vita—the Order of Visio Dei. Why? Because when it comes to waging war against the unjust and immoral slaughter of children, we need Visio Dei if we have any hope of winning.”
Russet made a slow journey through the room.
“Let’s be clear about what’s going on. Abortion equates to premeditated murder. Most abortions carried out in the United States are a grotesque means of birth control—less than five percent are performed because the fetus is diagnosed as abnorma
l or because the mother’s health is at risk. And less than one percent of abortions are performed because of rape or incest. That means more than nine out of ten abortions are willful homicides that shouldn’t be classified as anything but murder in the first degree.”
Russet continued prowling. “Does it bother you?” The question was rhetorical but still got a lot of heads bobbing. “Just how troubled are you? Troubled enough so you feel it in the pit of your stomach? Troubled enough to want to cry for the four thousand babies who will be massacred in the U.S. today—or the one hundred twenty-six thousand children worldwide who in the next twenty-four hours will be cut out of the womb and tossed away like garbage?”
Russet inched her way toward the back of the room, pausing to make eye contact with each guest. When she reached our table, Doc caught her stare and his face instantly twisted into a look of disgust. The rotund woman was caught short by the expression and briefly stumbled over her next line. When Russet shifted her attention to me, she got back on track although I could sense her confusion.
“I want to tell you something,” she said, heading back to the podium. “Quia Vita and everything our organization stands for may soon come under attack like never before. Over the next few weeks and months, you may be hearing new arguments that will be shoved in your face—arguments abortionists will undoubtedly use to justify their butchery.”
A murmur worked its way through the room. Whatever the new arguments might be, they stirred the crowd. I thought back to Arthur Silverstein’s comment that the Book of Nathan could shake Quia Vita’s core. Maybe Russet knew about the missing book—knew what it said about ensoulment. It was all conjecture on my part, but convinced me I needed to know a lot more about Russet and her organization.
“Visio Dei is reserved for those who are in a position to do more than just talk about stopping abortionists,” she said. “It is open to people like you who have the resources to fund the battle to protect the unborn. The question is—do you have the determination to use some of those resources to fight for life? Because if you do, then you’ll pledge yourself to Visio Dei. It won’t be cheap and it won’t be easy.”
