by Gregg Loomis
"That mean you won't find the other guy?" Paige wanted to know.
"Means we'll have to work harder. He stole it to snatch your boy there; he'll dump it. We lucky, he'll leave a fingerprint, sumpin' that'll ID him. You got enny questions, think of sumpin' helpful, call the nummer on that card."
At that moment Marcie appeared. She saw the detective and approached the group and introduced herself. Paige maintained a stony silence.
"I just got a call from my editor," Marcie explained. "Exactly what happened? I understand there was an attempted abduction."
Wynn-Three brightened. "Marwie!"
Paige restrained her son, scowling at the reporter.
Morse shook his head and mumbled something about the accessibility of police band radios. "A white male allegedly attempted to force a child into an allegedly stolen vehicle. Ms. Fuchs here managed to prevent it. You can git th' details from my report when I file it."
"That'll be two or three days," Marcie protested. "We need the story while it's still news."
Morse grinned, someone used to dealing with the press. "I done tolt you what we know. Further 'vestigation be in the report."
Frustrated, Marcie turned to Paige. "Someone tried to take Wynn-Three? Who?"
"My guess? Someone who read that article you wrote."
It was clear Paige was going to be less than helpful. Marcie turned to Gurt. "You're the one prevented a kidnapping?"
Gurt was accustomed to questions from the media and knew that answers were frequently misquoted to produce drama rather than news. "It will be in the detective's report."
In desperation, Marcie walked over to the group where Candy/Sandy was standing. "You saw what happened?"
The woman nodded hesitantly.
Taking a final glance at Paige and Gurt, Marcie produced a tape recorder and led the woman out of earshot.
"Bitch!" Paige muttered.
Morse grinned. "She no different 'n the rest of 'em. I learned the hard way, you talk to them folk, you doin' nothin' but makin' trouble for yo'sef. Perp's lawyer use whatever they say you said t' give you a hard time at trial." He watched the arrival of a van with a TV station's logo on it, one Paige recognized from the front yard just days before. "Here come the rest of 'em. Me or sumbody be in touch."
Paige, Gurt, Manfred, and Wynn-Three stood in a small cluster as both police cars drove away.
Paige couldn't think of anything meaningful to say except, "Gurt, how can I thank you? You risked your life for my son."
A flicker of a smile played across Gurt's face. "Not as much risk as you think."
"Oh?"
"You keep knife close to your body." She indicated. "Not hold it out where your wrist can get broken." She glanced at her watch. "Come, Manfred. Time to go home."
As Paige watched Gurt walk away, she thought of a lot of other questions, none of which she would have ever expected she would want to ask another woman, let alone her next-door neighbor.
CHAPTER 32
480 Lafayette Drive
That Evening
PAIGE WAS SURPRISED WHEN WYNTON WALKED in the door before seven. "You're on trial and you're home early?"
"Daddy home early," Wynn-Three echoed.
The first words he had spoken since leaving the park.
Wynton lifted his son above his head without the usual squeals of joy. "What's the matter, you not glad to see your old man?"
"You won't believe what happened this afternoon. I meant to call you."
Wynton headed for the kitchen, his voice trailing behind him. "Good thing you didn't. I'm afraid my personal life is interfering with work too much as it is."
Paige started to say something and stopped at the sound of the refrigerator door opening. Interfering too much in whose life? She had been the one to deal with Dr. Weiner, hear that her son had been abused. It had been her, not Wynton, who been there when Wynn-Three had come back from that hypnotist in a near-vegetative state. She had witnessed the attempted kidnapping.
Their lives had entered the Twilight Zone and Wynton was complaining of interference with his personal life?
If there had been an ashtray available she would have thrown it at him as he returned from the kitchen, ice cubes tinkling in a glass.
"Your personal life?" she almost screamed.
With the insensitivity only a man could demonstrate, he went to the bar, poured himself a generous helping of scotch, and sat in his favorite chair. "My personal life, yeah. See, we had this juror . . ." He looked at her quizzically. "Is there something wrong?"
She could feel those fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms again. "Wrong? Not really," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "Just that somebody tried to kidnap Wynn-Three today. Of course, I knew you were on trial and couldn't be bothered."
The glass made an abrupt stop just short of his mouth. "Kidnapped? Today? You sure you're not overreacting?"
She would not lose her temper. She would not upset Wynn-Three by yelling. She would tell him what had happened. She would do so calmly and completely.
And if he was still worried about whatever effect his personal life might be having on his job, she just might kill him.
Right here. Right now.
Calmly and completely.
"Kidnapped, for fuckingchristsake! Do you understand the word 'kidnapped'?"
Okay, so it was a decibel or so above what she had in mind.
"Bad man hurt my arm," Wynn-Three chimed in.
Paige had her husband's attention now.
Wynton was totally bewildered. "Kidnapped? Who? I mean, is Wynn-Three all right?"
This time Paige was more successful in maintaining a conversational tone. "All right? Sure. Only terrified out of his wits in addition to the other problems he has. Arm bruised badly enough I had to put an ice pack on it, but okay? You bet. Hope your trial went well today."
"Instead of seeing how sarcastic you can be, why don't you tell me what happened?"
She took a breath and nodded in silent acknowledgment that he was right. She then described what happened in the park.
When she had finished, her eyes glistened from reliving the panic she had experienced.
Wynton got out of his chair to put his arms around her and she began to sob gently. "I hate to be such a baby, but that bastard almost had Wynn-Three in that van. I was too far away to help. If it hadn't been for Gurt . . ."
"You've every right to be upset," he soothed, running a hand up and down her back. "Anyone in their right mind would be." He pushed back holding her at arms' length. "Did the police detective . . ."
"Morse. I have his card here somewhere," she sniffled.
"Morse. Did he have any idea who these people, the guy who got caught and the driver, might be?"
She shook her head as she used a hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "No, but I intend to keep in touch till he does. For all we know, they might try again."
"From what you just told me, I doubt the one our neighbor handled is going to be trying anything soon." He glanced around the room. "Speaking of our neighbor . . ." He went to a cabinet and produced a bottle of champagne. "I think we owe them a visit, at least a courtesy call to thank Gurt for what she did."
Paige was headed back toward their bedroom. "Good idea. Let me freshen up a bit. Maybe you should give them a call."
Wynton looked out of a window. "The lights are on. We'll only stay a second or so."
"Go?" Wynn-Three asked. "We go?"
Minutes later, Wynton, Paige, and Wynn-Three were walking up to the front door.
"Looks like they have company," Paige observed, pointing to a battered Toyota at the curb. "We really should call first."
Wynton took the lead. "We can just hand them the champers. Come on."
Lang opened the door before the sound of the doorbell's ring had faded. He wore a white-starched shirt stuffed into jeans. Wynton guessed he had just gotten in from work. Somewhere deeper in the house, a dog barked.
Wynton extended
the bottle. "Don't want to interrupt, but I was afraid you might think we were ungrateful for what Gurt did this afternoon."
Lang opened the door wider. "Nonsense! C'mon in."
They followed Lang back to what Wynton surmised was the den. Dark paneling showed around the edges of floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to overflowing. Wynton noted contemporary works mixed with leather-bound classics, fiction, histories, philosophy, and some with which he was unfamiliar. Impressionist seascapes hung from the remaining wall space. A built-in bar occupied a corner next to floor-to-ceiling mahogany French doors leading into the back yard. Across the room, logs crackled warmly in a fireplace encased by a carved marble mantle. A mound of fur Wynton gathered was the family dog had already gone back to sleep judging by gentle snores. Muted colors of two Kerman carpets softened hardwood flooring. Sitting in the middle of one of the rugs was a black man in jeans and a tweed jacket, playing some sort of card game with Manfred.
"Er, you sure we're not interrupting?"
The man started to stand and Wynton saw the clerical collar and rosary. Wynton had no idea Lang and Gurt were Catholics. In fact, he'd never thought of it.
Lang indicated. "Father Francis Narumba. He comes by once in a while ostensibly to let Manfred stomp him in a slap-jack tournament. His real motives are to try to convert us heathens and make sure I don't keep an excess of single malt scotch on hand." Lang raised a hand to shield his lips but spoke loudly enough for the priest to hear. "At the moment, he's batting five hundred."
"Superstitione tollenda religio non tollitur," Francis said.
"Say again?" Wynton asked.
"Latin," Gurt explained, emerging from the back of the house with a tray in hand, "they both studied it in school and read and speak it. Now the only use for it is each other."
Lang helped himself to something that looked like a small pastry from the tray. "A quote from Cicero that Edmund Burke translated as 'Religion, not atheism, is the remedy for superstition.' But there are those who would call religion a superstition."
Francis sighed theatrically. "Only the apostate."
Wynton smiled at the priest's lugubrious expression, realizing that the barbs being exchanged were friendly. "Without taking a stand on that issue, I wanted to thank Gurt for this afternoon. It seemed appropriate to bring a small gift."
He extended the champagne bottle.
Lang took it. "You really didn't have to . . . but I'm glad you did. Thanks."
Paige spoke for the first time. "I'll never be able to thank her enough."
Gurt took the bottle. "Many thank yous. I will on ice put it."
Lang noticed Paige trying not to stare at Father Narumba. "Francis and I've been friends for years. He's the only person I know that can put up with my poor Latin. Latrante uno, latrat statim et alter canis."
"When one dog barks, so does another," Francis chuckled.
"It would be polite to speak English," Gurt commented archly.
"Uncle Fancy always speaks Latin," Manfred added.
Wynn-Three was inspecting the tray Gurt had set down. A look from his mother warned him off. "It'll spoil your dinner."
"No it won't, Mommy."
Gurt winked at Paige as she handed a small pastry to Wynn-Three. "He has right: it will not."
One bite and Wynn-Three's face contorted into something close to being ill. He swallowed hard and put the remains back on the tray. "Ugh!"
"Chicken livers en croute," Gurt explained.
"We really don't intend to stay," Paige offered, changing the subject. "Just wanted to thank you again."
"Now that you've done that, why not make yourselves comfortable?" Lang asked. "No point in letting the papist here drink all the scotch."
Paige sat nervously on the edge of the couch. "Well, perhaps for a little while."
"Thank you," she added as Gurt handed her a frosty glass of white wine. "Just a sip or two."
Francis was looking closely at Wynn-Three. "Gurt was telling us about what happened today. He's the young man in the Sunday paper, right, the one supposedly who had a prior life?"
"Do you believe in reincarnation?" Paige asked before she had considered the words. She winced, remembering the man was a priest. "I mean . . ."
Francis picked up a glass, noting it contained mostly ice and water. "No need to apologize. The Church does not. Period."
"But you?" Lang asked, smiling.
Francis stepped over to the bar and helped himself. "Fuge quaetere . . ."
"Francis!" Gurt warned. "English, please."
"Sorry, I forgot," he mumbled without a great deal of remorse. He took his time filling his glass. "You want the short or the long version?"
The dog got up, shook, looked around the room. Apparently deciding the guests were of no interest, he collapsed back onto his spot in front of the fire.
"I'd be interested in whatever you had to say on the subject." Wynton sat beside Paige. "A religious point of view."
Francis tinkled more ice cubes into his glass, taking an experimental sip. "There was a poll a couple of years back. Over fifty-six million American church members said they believed in some sort of reincarnation or successive lives of souls. That included a number of Catholics."
"And you?" Paige asked.
The priest seemed satisfied with his refreshed drink. "I believe souls are separate from God and can become one with God only through Grace, not by other means such as reincarnation."
"This is the standard Judaic-Christian belief?" Wynton asked.
"It's gobbledygook," Lang offered.
Francis ignored him. "It is but hasn't always been."
"They are just going to talk," Manfred announced to Wynn-Three with a touch of peevishness his card game had been interrupted.
"Why don't you take Wynn-Three to your room and there play?" Gurt suggested.
Remembering her earlier suspicions, Paige started to protest. But how do you say something like that to the woman who saved your son's life? Reluctantly, she watched the two boys leave the room. The dog was instantly on his feet, following Manfred.
Lang noted Paige's apprehension, mistaking it. "Dog's name is Grumps. Don't ask me why. My nephew named him before, before he met with a fatal accident. Grumps loves kids. Wynn-Three is perfectly safe with him."
"I'm sorry about your nephew," Paige said, thankful Lang had not surmised the real object of her discomfort.
"You were saying?" Wynton prodded Francis.
"Belief in reincarnation has been both in and out of Christianity and related religions. For instance, some Polish Hasidic Jews of the eighteenth century believed. Even today, one of the Hasidic bedtime prayers asks forgiveness for 'anyone who has angered or vexed me . . . in this life or any other.' God told the prophet Jeremiah that he knew him before he was conceived. The Druse sect of Islam in Lebanon also believes in a form of reincarnation."
Francis got up again, this time went to one of the bookcases and removed a Bible. "Surprising I would find the Book in this household of heretics."
"We try to keep open minds," Lang smiled.
Francis thumbed the pages. "Yes, here it is: Jeremiah 1:5. Then there are the twins, Jacob and Esau, grandsons of Abraham. Genesis has God telling Rebekah while she was pregnant that one son would serve the other." More page turning, "Yeah, 25:23. There are those who believe that God favored one unborn over another because of another incarnation. That led to the question of whether God is unjust or whether the boys deserved what they got based on a previous life. St. Paul dodged the issue in Romans 9:11–14. St. Augustine came up with the concept of Original Sin, the idea man is inherently in a state of sin because his original ancestor, Adam, sinned."
"One of the Church's more dreary dogmas," Lang observed.
Gurt shot him a disapproving glance.
"Is reincarnation in the New Testament, too?" Paige asked.
Francis went to the bar again, this time for more scotch for his drink.
"Theology can be thirsty work," Lang com
mented, ignoring Gurt.
Francis sat back down and took an appreciative taste. "Reincarnation in the New Testament? That argument has been made, certainly. According to Matthew, Mark, and Luke, there was speculation that Jesus was the reincarnation of one of the prophets. Jesus himself tells us in Matthew 11:14 that John the Baptist was Elijah returned. Then there's the story, John 9:1–7, I think, that tells of a man blind from birth. The disciples debated whether the affliction was visited upon him because of transgressions of the parents or his own sins, sins committed before his birth.
"Reincarnation kept popping up in Christianity. In fact, it was one of the tenets of the Cathars, a Christian sect that was the object of the, what, Fourth Crusade in the early thirteenth century?"
"But," Paige asked, "exactly what do people who accept reincarnation believe?"
Francis shrugged. "They believe as many different things as Christians. The Cathars believed man was reincarnated to give souls the opportunity to become perfect and thereby obtain reunion with God. Classical Hindu—and the Buddhism that sprang from it—believe we live sequential lives so we may atone for past misdeeds. Once a life is lived that makes up for past behavior, the karma balanced as the Eastern mystics would say, then man transcends mortal form."
He looked around apologetically. "At least, that's it in an ecclesiastical nutshell."
There was a moment of silence before Paige spoke, a hint of indignation in her voice. "Are you telling me my three-year-old is actually on the earth to square things up for what someone else may have done in the distant past?"
Francis eyed her with amusement. "I'm telling you no such thing; I'm merely relating my understanding of a widespread, if misguided, belief. He is as eligible for God's grace as anyone else in the one life he has to live."
Lang was making himself a drink. He turned to Wynton who shook his head, no. "I knew it: here comes the commercial, a word from his sponsor."
Paige set her wineglass down on a coffee table and looked at her watch although it was clear this was an afterthought. She stood. "Well, I'm certainly better informed than when we arrived. It's past time to feed Wynn-Three and I'll never get him to bed."
