by Cal Moriarty
‘From Mr Angel?’
‘No, from that guy over there.’ Hobbs pointed over to where, behind a cordon, a huddle of what Marty assumed were local business owners watched anxiously as uniform, forensics and the fire guys went from store to store. Some of the locals were bleeding, their clothes ripped, faces and exposed bodies looking singed. Behind them a clutch of paramedics were dealing with them a few at a time. ‘He owns that deli a few stores down. Trevor Angel is here every day. Same time. Like clockwork. Owner says he loves those dogs, treats them as if they were his own, parks opposite in the free hour slots, grabs himself a coffee from the deli, then gets the dogs out of his car, walks them up the hill a few blocks to the small park and back down here again. Been doing that for years.’
‘Always at the same time?’
‘Always.’
‘What you thinking, Mart?’ said Al.
‘If Trevor Angel had any investments or was somehow connected to Gudsen or Lomax, or Houseman.’
‘Like through the dogs?’ said Al.
‘Their wealthy owners.’ Marty turned to Hobbs. ‘Go on.’
‘Near the usual hour, Angel comes back. Gets himself a smoothie.’
‘From the same place?’
‘Yeah. Starts putting the dogs in the back of the car to drive them back up to their houses. All totally as per. Then, boom! This is his car, right here. He has keys to most of the houses. Someone found them along the street, covered in blood. I gave them to the vet. Figured the owners would be directed there.’
Marty looked at the brown Cherokee, half its front blown off, all the windows blown out. ‘So, he was getting them in the jeep?’
‘Yeah. Home time.’
‘What was this doing here?’ Marty looked at the tow truck, pushed halfway into the road, the back of it askew, almost as mangled as Angel’s jeep.
‘That car, next to Angel’s, the Nissan, it was in the way of the road crew, they were getting it towed to the pound.’
‘The tow driver OK?’
‘Yeah, his door was open and he was behind it, outside, he had started to crank it up onto the truck, but had to stop, adjust something or other. His open door took the force of the blast, blew back on top of him, protected him from the fireball. All he’s got is suspected concussion. Apart from that and a few scratches, nothing.’
‘His lucky day,’ said Al.
‘Him and Angel went in the same ambulance. I sent Harris to the hospital with him.’
‘In case one of them’s the bomber?’ said Marty.
‘Well, that, and in case they aren’t and remember something.’
‘Good call, Hobbs.’
‘Thanks.’
Tex was right next to what was left of the Nissan.
‘The bomb was in this car.’
‘You sure it wasn’t in this one, Tex? In Angel’s?’
‘No way. The seat of the explosion was in the trunk of the Nissan. Hit the fuel tank. Boom. This is why this is all such a mess. I don’t think the actual bomb was even that big. The fuel tank’s done most of the damage, set off the recovery truck’s tank also. Fireball.’
‘Any chance of fingerprints?’
‘Never say never.’
‘You think this is another tilt, Tex?’
‘Could well be. Whole thing’s blown to crap, it’s going to take a while to track all of it down. Let alone find what’s left of the bomb.’
‘So you think maybe when the truck picked it up . . .’
‘Boom,’ said Al.
‘Boom. Yeah,’ said Tex, gloves on now, picking his way through the carnage.
‘Whose is it, the Nissan?’
‘We got the tag off the engine, Marty. We’re trying to trace the registered owner. A Mrs Eleanor Miller up in Dalewood County.’
‘Dalewood? That’s three hundred miles upstate.’
‘Carvell called the local guys up there. There’s no phone on record, they’re sending a cruiser out to go see her.’
‘Mrs Eleanor Miller hanging out with the wrong kind of people?’ said Al.
‘Maybe she is the wrong kind of people,’ said Marty.
‘According to the DMV, she’s eighty-four.’
‘She got any kids, grandkids . . . a father, even, that might be our guy?’
‘Not living with her, Al. Not according to the DMV,’ said Hobbs.
‘Stolen?’ said Al.
‘I wouldn’t take the odds on it not being,’ said Marty.
‘What is it with this case, Mart?’
‘It’s the devil’s work,’ said Hobbs.
‘Well, the son of a bitch devil is giving us a run for our money,’ said Al.
‘Maybe God forgot we’re the good guys?’ said Marty. ‘Or maybe he just doesn’t give a rat’s ass? Hobbs, you get Carvell to tell the Dalewood Sheriff if there’s no response from the house, to track down Mrs Miller as if his life depends on it. Let’s try and get ahead of the game here.’
‘If that’s possible at this stage,’ said Al.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘A couple of the other store owners, they said the Nissan’s been parked here at least a couple of days. A few others were saying maybe four days.’
‘The thirtieth? The first day of the bombings?’
‘That’s what they think.’
‘Any fix on a time?’
‘Morning, but they don’t know before or after breakfast. Well, the three of them can’t agree a time.’
‘Who are the witnesses?’
‘Two guys from the jeweler’s and one of those workmen. They’re doing emergency repairs on the sewers. People have been complaining water keeps backing up in them ever since they blasted a hole through the canyon for the freeway. They were working their way along the street the past couple of days, little tranches at a time. The road crew kept asking if anyone owned the car, but no one did. They needed it out of the way. They were going to bump it, but saw it had tickets. So, the foreman called the City pound.’
‘And they were only too happy to oblige?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Bet they’re regretting that decision,’ said Al.
‘No one saw anyone park it here?’
‘No. Sorry, it was mayhem. I just spoke to a small group.’
‘Grab some uniforms. Get them on it. Get them to report to Al. I want you and Carvell back on our AWOL investors.’
‘Talking of which,’ said Al. ‘Just in case there’s any investors amongst that bunch of wounded and the gawkers over there, I’ll check the IDs of all them and the store owners. Check them against the list of the disgruntled three thousand when I get back.’
‘Great idea,’ said Marty.
‘I’m full of them.’
‘Full of something, anyhow, Al . . . Find out if any of them been upstate, recently.’
‘Dalewood?’
‘You got it.’
Al moved away, reaching into his pocket for his notepad and pen. Hobbs moved with him.
Marty looked up and down the street. It was easy to see there were fancy houses nearby, the stores were all pretty upmarket: the deli, jeweler’s, a gift store, a ladies’ boutique, the gentleman’s outfitters, and a few buildings down, one store, its oddly out-of-place Dickensian bay windows partially blown out either side.
The workmen’s progress as they’d chased the sewer blockage was easy enough to trace, as they’d made such a bad job of resealing the road. Marty doubted Angel was the target. Bobbi Lomax fitted only because of Arnold, her slippery husband. Gudsen fitted because of the Faith’s ambitions for him – and because of his business relationship with Mr Slippery. No one could find Hartman. And the man accusing him, Houseman, was in a coma he might never wake up from. How the hell did Houseman fit? Through a miniature version of the New Testament? Marty could already hear the judge’s laughter if he tried to get warrants with that as the evidence for probable cause.
And Angel? Looked like he might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The tow truck probabl
y moved the tilt. But if the car had been parked there a few days, and someone had put a bomb in it – either before or after it was parked – who had they thought was going to drive it away and activate the tilt?
His feet on bumpy tarmac scars, Marty reached the point where the workmen had started digging. He was right in front of the Dickensian store. He noticed its sign, held by only one of its metal chains, hanging precariously over the street. Next to it dangled the store’s awning, ripped and battered by the blast and the icy winter breeze, its name rippling almost in defiance: Rooks Coins & Books.
24
January 3rd 1983
Abraham City
Squeezed into a small booth in the overcrowded diner, the four of them had feasted on pancakes – blueberry and maple syrup. Ransome’s treat. A rare occasion, so Clark had asked their server for an order of bacon strips served on top of his stack. Edie and Phyllis’s warnings of death by cholesterol just made the crispy rinds taste even sweeter. Clark had been so hungry. And now he really needed a drink. The clock on the wall said fourteen minutes before ten. He hadn’t meant to be this early. But Ransome insisted he take twenty minutes to cross the street from the diner opposite the Faith’s offices. Just in case. At least he wouldn’t be seen breaking a sweat. ‘Is that the men’s room along the hall, miss?’
‘Yes, Mr Houseman. Last door on your left.’
Clark nodded thank you to the young receptionist and moved along the corridor. It was a one-stall unit. Thankfully. He was the only one waiting in the lobby. So he should have it to himself for the duration. He locked the door behind him and moved toward the sink. He stared at his reflection. Told himself that today he had to be a better version of himself. Slicker, smoother, cleverer. Quicker on his feet than he had ever been before. Charm personified.
He was starting to sweat a little.
He threw water on his face and on his pulse points. Wrist and neck. Took a deep breath and reached inside his jacket pocket. He had found the almost impossibly slim flask in an antique store down in Scottsdale. Inside his suit jacket, his best, it was invisible. And now it was light, half empty. Clark had downed the other half right when they got to the diner. While the others waited in line for a seat, he had blamed nerves and nipped to the john. He couldn’t remember another time when he’d knocked back the booze before breakfast. Not even as a student.
He put the cold silver nozzle to his lips, flicked his head back and downed what Kenny had told him was the finest Russian vodka. It was certainly priced like it, but it didn’t taste too fine. It was what Clark needed to be: strong, potent, unstoppable. He would have preferred JD, but he couldn’t risk its cloying odor. His body absorbed the vodka’s essence as he leant up against the basin and stared at himself in the small square mirror.
Clark was a witness to history. His. Story. History. His story and that of Robert Bright. But if the meeting went smoothly, he would be history’s writer. Literally. A new history. A new story. Different to the one Robert Bright had spun for himself and so very different to the one the Faith wanted Bright to have. They had airbrushed his three wives from history. Unsure which one of them to select, they had deselected them all. Rebecca was the vessel through which Robert Bright’s visions from God had reached the world, she was his transcriber, for he was barely literate. Without her, Robert Bright’s visions and his channeling of the word of God would probably never have carried as far as today. But Rebecca, his bride, was fourteen, or younger. And, therefore, it was best not to mention her too often. Especially not in the late twentieth century. Hopefully, that way, she would be eroded by time, if not by fact. The Faith would focus on his story. His. Story. Robert Bright’s story. Not the real story. Clark would rewrite that story. Rewrite it until they no longer recognized it. Today would be the beginning of that. If he could just hold his nerve.
He ran the cold tap, picked up the soap, and turned it over and over in his hands until he couldn’t see it for suds. His right index finger ran over his left hand and with it he traced a soapy vortex on the mirror. He stared into the centre of it as its lines came together, pulling him inside it.
Testament of Faith.
The find of a lifetime.
Testament of Faith. Our Faith.
Our Faith.
He stared as the vortex began to drip down from the mirror and down the white tiles towards the sink.
Testament of Faith. Our Faith.
He felt himself going under. He quickly closed his eyes, shook his head, he didn’t want to be under, not today, not here. He just wanted to be inured to his own weakness. He wanted to be strong. And he really wanted to be unstoppable.
Clark’s pager buzzed on his waistband.
WE STILL ON FOR LATER?
Kenny.
How long had he been in here? If felt like hours. He couldn’t have missed the meeting. Shit. What the hell time was it? He’d left his watch on the den workbench. Clark checked the pager’s time. 9.56. Not even ten minutes. He wet a raft of toilet tissue, rubbed the mirror clean and then dry. He flicked open a box of tic-tacs and rattled out the last of its mints straight into his mouth. He threw the empty box in the trash, flushed the toilet he hadn’t used, started up the air-dryer, let it run over nothing for thirty seconds and then stepped back out into the hallway. The receptionist smiled when he came back into view.
Around the lobby were framed official portraits of each of the Twelve Disciples. He moved between them. Each accompanied by a short biography and a motto filched from the Faith Bible. He was meeting with Alan Laidlaw, motto: ‘That which does not kill you makes you stronger.’ Or irritated, thought Clark. Dennis Browne: ‘Before you sup from the bowl, ensure your neighbor is not hungry.’ Mr Browne looked like he’d supped from his bowl and everyone else’s. The last one on the end, Eric Jeffries: ‘Live with the Lord’s love in your heart. And you shall enter the Kingdom of Heaven.’
‘Mr Houseman?’ The receptionist was opening the door next to him. ‘They will see you now.’
They?
He thought his appointment was just with Alan Laidlaw. Wasn’t that what the secretary had said when she’d called him?
Alan Laidlaw came from a family who had converted in the early 1940s. Converted and donated a large part of their family’s ranching fortune to the Faith. Clark had heard it was $10 million. Back in ’48, that was quite the donation. Needless to say, a Laidlaw had featured in the Twelve Disciples since pretty soon after. Laidlaw was the eldest son of an eldest son. His father one of six boys who had seen action in Europe and Korea, none of whom had been killed, or even injured. Their parents’ gratitude for this miracle was reflected in the establishing of Abraham City’s first private college, reserved for members of the Faith. That was an additional $25 million, but it was rumored that they could more than afford it, for during the war the family had moved into the lucrative munitions market. Unlike farming, it was an industry not susceptible to the fickleness of the American weather, just to the fickle allegiances and dangerous ambitions of its politicians.
They.
The Order of the Twelve Disciples were ranged against the wall at a long, thin table directly facing the door and at their center was the Supreme Leader. It was Leonardo’s Last Supper. And Judas had just arrived. A fact he hoped they would always remain oblivious to. It was either go forward, now, right now, or back out the door. ‘Mr Clark Houseman,’ the receptionist announced. As she left, she closed the door behind her.
It was not possible to go back.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ No one got up to shake his hand. By way of greeting there was a low group murmur, ‘Good morning’, at the far end of the table, ‘Live with the Lord’s love in your heart’, still seated, opened his right arm, as if to guide Clark to the center of the room where sat a solitary chair.
Clark’s seat was some ten feet in front of the table, directly opposite the Supreme Leader, to whose right sat Alan Laidlaw. To his left: ‘Only the Lord knows what we do not know’. Arbuthnot. David Arbu
thnot. They each had a clutch of stapled papers in front of them, on the top of which Clark could clearly see was a Xerox copy of his version of the Testament of Faith.
‘Only the Lord knows what we do not know’ spoke first.
‘Thank you for coming today, Mr Houseman. And thank you also for offering us the Testament of Faith before approaching the open market with it. We are very grateful for your discretion and consideration in this matter.’
Murmurs of agreement.
‘Your father was Thomas Houseman, was he not?’ asked ‘What doesn’t kill you’.
‘Yes, Mr Laidlaw, he was.’
‘And your mother Helen Storey of Reno?’ Clark could tell the man could barely utter the word Reno, couldn’t brook what it stood for. It was only a very slight movement, but Laidlaw’s eyes wandered to Clark’s Bible, which sat on the table in front of him. Closed. As if to open it would somehow bring forth the shame of the past, bring it into this hallowed room. Multiple wives, underage brides, the murder of the Prophet, his missing will and the ensuing deadly power struggles as Rebecca’s son Jeremiah, barely sixteen, waged a war of succession against his eighteen-year-old half-brother Abraham. A struggle that raged from Reno to Abraham City and in every desert canyon that separated them. Hundreds of the Faith’s followers died violent deaths as the Faith was cleaved in two. Jeremiah’s followers, who described themselves as the Real Faith, signed a compact to stay in Reno, and the Faith, now headed by Abraham, remained in what soon became Abraham City.
Jeremiah and Rebecca had claimed that in the hours after he was mortally wounded Robert Bright had written a will, rumored to be signed in his blood, that anointed Jeremiah, his first son with Rebecca, as his successor and tasked him with carrying the Faith to the outside world. A task he was happy to fulfil. But Abraham had other plans. As the first-born son of Elizabeth, the first and conventionally legal wife, he believed himself to be his father’s true heir, despite the fact father and son were widely thought to loathe one another.
Clark figured that the Faith, still sore 150 years later about their tawdry, violent history, wouldn’t be opening the Pandora’s box of Bright’s Bible anytime soon. Even the word Reno could barely cross their lips. ‘My mother, Helen, was indeed from Reno, sir.’
