by J. A. Kerley
“He’s adamant about not completing 1025-M, Hayes.”
“The damn thing is halfway there. Why kill the project now?”
“The size of it, maybe. The need for secrecy. That and the whole idea is just so …” Uttleman threw out his hands. “Maybe Amos figures he finally got in over his head.”
“I give it three days. He’ll have an epiphany … and then a Heaven-sent recovery.” Johnson grinned and winked. “Just like before.”
Uttleman walked to the window. “Something’s different, Hayes. I haven’t mentioned it, figuring it’d go away, but it started after the heart attack, the operation, got worse after the promise to Eliot. It’s like Amos has become, I don’t know … reflective.”
“The Reverend’s getting old, Roland. It’s natural to reflect on his life.”
“He’s only seventy-six, and his mind is sharp as a tack. There’s something else at work. It could even be …” Uttleman paused, as if fearful of using a taboo term.
“What?”
“Guilt.”
Johnson’s face darkened and he selected his words like a surgeon choosing the perfect scalpel. “And why do you think such moments of, uh, reflection might make Amos morose, Roland?”
Uttleman answered by peering over the tops of his glasses.
Johnson sighed and shook his head. “He’s had these little depressions before, Roland. The mind of a man as, uh, pious as Amos will at times gravitate to …” Johnson again struggled for words. “To moments when his feet were in the clay.”
“It’s worse this time. He’s drinking more. When he drinks too much he loses, uh, his perspective.”
“What’s Amos doing now?”
“Being a pain in the ass. When I left a half-hour ago he had the door closed and locked, no one allowed in but Andy.”
Johnson rolled his eyes. “The cowboy man-child. What’s he do in there?”
“Sings hymns. Prays. Babbles. Amos finds it soothing.”
Johnson thought for a few seconds. “Maybe we can have an event that will make our reflective and, uh, sick old friend feel better about himself.”
“What?”
“Give me time to think.”
16
The door of the Mailey household opened, Mailey holding the child. Belafonte and I stood motionless on the stoop, side by side, the angels of death. Our faces told the truth before our voices could.
“NO!” Mailey wailed as her knees buckled.
Belafonte grabbed the child as I jumped to Jeri Mailey’s side, holding her up and moving her to the couch. As if knowing, the child began crying.
I’d made such terrible visits many times before, but Belafonte had not. She rose to the moment, her composure solid as she offered a comfort I could not, perhaps because she was a woman. We stayed until a neighbor arrived, a kindly and older woman who helped Jeri Mailey to her bed and sat beside her, Bobby in her arms.
Belafonte and I crept softly away. “Is that the worst?” she said, sitting beside me in the car, meaning the worst aspect of police work.
I blew out a breath, felt my hands shaking. I’d been in gun battles with crazed felons, my hands as steady as an anvil, but relaying the news of death went somewhere deeper.
“The absolute bottom,” I said. “I wouldn’t fault you if you want to take the rest of the day off.”
“I need to find the monster doing this.”
Belafonte and I returned to the street, dark above, the stars blotted out by the flashing lights of used-car lots and strip joints and fast-food outlets. The pressing task was to connect the deaths of Kylie Sandoval and Teresa Mailey. Both were prostitutes, both had been killed in Miami. That’s all we had, so we needed to dig deep into their pasts. When I told Belafonte we were paying a second visit to Shizzle Diamond, né T’Shawn Matthews, her nose wrinkled, but she said nothing.
We went to his current turf, the bar-filled block near Liberty City. Matthews was in a sky-blue suit and leaning against the nose of his ride, a Jeep Cherokee with spinners and a custom paint-job, a cobalt metalflake that looked three inches deep. Behind him a bar window blazed with neon logos of beer brands. We pulled to the curb and walked up, me in the lead, Belafonte two steps behind, the nose still wrinkled.
“How you doin’, T’Shawn?” I said.
He decided to play it cool, staring through the opaque shades. “Yo … You peoples owe me for a hat.”
Belafonte stepped forward. “Be glad you still have a head to put one on, Mr Matthews. We need to talk more about Kylie.”
“I tol’ you all I know. She showed up, I gave her a place to stay and put some food in her mouth. That’s it.”
“We need you to put more effort into your recollections, Mr Matthews. It’s very important.”
He peered above the shades at Belafonte, then turned the gaze to me. “Where’d you find this one? A high-yellow that talks straight outta that Down-town Abbey.” He winked in her direction. “You can come over and change my sheets anytime, baby.”
Out of nowhere, BAM! Belafonte’s got the folding nightstick open and wreaking havoc on the Cherokee’s hood. BAM BAM BAM … loud as gunshots.
“My fuckin’ paint!” Matthews shrieked. He started toward Belafonte with malice-laden eyes, but she spun and whipped the tip of the baton about ten centimeters in front of the wide-open orbs.
He stepped back, hands in the air. “All right. Shee-it. Just stop fuckin’ drummin’ on my lacquer, right?”
A small crowd started gathering, mostly drunks who’d seen the show from the bars. Belafonte narrowed her eyes and tapped the baton into her palm. “Beat it, arseholes,” she said, giving them flint eyes. They turned away like reprimanded children. Matthews patted the hood of his ride, looking about to cry.
“It’s like a fuckin’ hailstorm hit it.”
“It’s just one panel,” I commiserated, adding, “But you have others.”
“What the fuck you want to know?”
“Kylie ever mention knowing a Teresa Mailey?” I asked.
“Yeah. One day I axed her to tell me everybody she ever knew. I think May-lee was like five hundred on the list.”
Belafonte said nothing, leaning to run a finger over an unmarked panel on the pimpmobile. Matthews sighed. “No. I ain’t never heard the name before. Why?”
I thought a moment and ran to the car. “Where he goin’?” I heard Matthews ask Belafonte.
“Put a cork in it,” was her response. I rifled through my briefcase for photographs of Kylie Sandoval, both in her charred wrappings and on the table in the morgue.
“I never showed you what happened to Kylie,” I said, handing him the shots. “Take a look.”
I saw the eyes widen, the hard, dry swallow. “Muuuuthafuck,” he whispered, turning away.
“We have two girls killed the same way. And probably more to come. You get that, T’Shawn? We need your help. Did Kylie have any enemies … or mention any weird trade?”
“Naw, man …” Matthews said quietly, the attitude gone. “Kylie usually worked the street. If anyone got freaky, she’d yell and I was there to chill the fucker out.”
“She talk much about the past?”
The lips pursed as he thought. “Mos’ girls open up with me about past shit, like they need to tell. Kylie kept her past tight, like she’d been born the week I found her.”
I recalled Jeri Mailey’s comment about Teresa seeming to have been in Central Florida at one point in her journey from hookerdom to salvation.
“Did Kylie ever mention being in Central Florida?” I asked.
Matthews frowned. “Where’s that?”
“The center of the damned state, T’Shawn: Ocala, Orlando, Lakeland … hell, throw in Melbourne and Tampa.”
His high brow creased in thought. “Where that Disneyland at?”
“Disney World. It’s in Orlando.”
“I think she mighta worked there a while.”
“How so?”
“One day I was feeling like some fun an
d told my ladies maybe we should head up to Disney-town and I’d pay for everyone to ride on Mickey Mouse or whatever the fuck you do there. They was all yellin’ like ‘Thank you, Shizzle, we love you’ an’ all that – all ’cept Kylie. She was shakin’ her head. I said, ‘What’s wit’ you, girl? Doan you wanna see Donald Duck?’” The forehead creased again.
“Keep going,” I said.
“I’m fuckin’ thinkin’ … uh, she said something like she’d seen enough theme parks to last a lifetime. I said, ‘What? You work up there?’ She nodded yes and started laughing … real weird laughing, too, like she was choking.” He shrugged. “That was about all we ever talked about her past an’ shit.”
“How was Disney World?” I asked. “You and the, uh, ladies enjoy it?”
He yawned, patted his mouth. “I fell outta the mood. We never went.”
It was suddenly half past nine. Neither of us wanted to stop, but neither of us had the energy to keep going. “We got to bag it,” I said. “I’m running on one calorie and two neurons.”
I put the Rover in gear as Belafonte stared into a street crowded with traffic, bars, cheap food joints, men looking for women, women looking for men …
“He’s out there,” she said softly. “On the prowl.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ll get him tomorrow.”
We drove in silence to Belafonte’s car and I assigned her the morning task of checking with Disney World to confirm Kylie Sandoval’s employment She started to step from the Rover, paused, turned back.
“Today … telling someone a loved one is dead. Do you have to do that often?”
“Seventeen times in my career. Today was actually a better one.”
She stared, uncomprehending, until she doped it out. “Mailey saw us and knew. You didn’t have to speak the words.”
I nodded. Belafonte slipped quietly from the Rover. I waited until she was safely in her car then headed toward Viv’s for another solo night, she back on night shift. Over the months we’d been a couple I’d come to understand that a major component of our relationship was we both dealt with horror, she in the emergency room, me on the streets, and when the stack of misery grew too high to bear alone, we could talk to one another, lay our burdens down, so to speak.
I unburdened alone at Viv’s as best I could, which meant setting my briefcase and files in the closet where it couldn’t urge me to continue the day, mixing a bourbon and soda, and sitting in her back yard beneath the swaying palms.
My cell phone rang and when I saw it was my brother, I shook my head. “I still can’t do anything about the ruckus down your block, so don’t ask.”
“I’m actually starting to enjoy the show, Carson. Buses of sad-eyed pilgrims basking in the fading aura of a dying saint. It’s medieval, Chaucerian. I’ve even noted a couple of pilgrims that I knew, a surprise.”
“Who’s that?”
“You’ve heard of Eliot Winkler? Vanessa Winkler?”
“The former … some sort of wealthy magnate?”
“Winkler wrings every cent out of his businesses. Not afraid to fire the deadwood or negotiate down a pension. I’m not big on buy-and-hold, Carson, but I have longer-term positions in several Winkler companies … nice dividends, constant steady growth.”
“You know him personally?” I asked. “This Winkler?”
“Goodness no. I’ve seen him on financial shows and in Forbes and Fortune.”
“And the lady?”
“Vanessa, Winkler’s younger sister and a major stockholder in the enterprises.”
“Why would Winkler visit Schrum, do you think?”
“He’s become quite the religious fellow, I’ve heard. Opens every business meeting with a prayer. Some companies give out hams as Christmas bonuses. Winkler passes out autographed bibles – his signature, not God’s.”
“And Winkler’s in Key West because …”
“Schrum’s a religious major-domo. I expect Winkler’s saddened by the impending demise of the great Holy Man, perhaps come to gnash his teeth and rend his garments. And maybe get in a few bonus points with the Almighty.”
“Money and God … the themes seem contradictory.”
A chuckle. “The Winklers of the world are egomaniacs, Brother, picturing themselves as the anointed servants of God … risen above the rabble on a staircase of gold, chosen for mighty tasks. They are rich because they have been Friended by God.”
“And the poor?”
“Are philosophical and theological annoyances. I don’t give a whit about Winkler’s dogma, Carson. I want him to make money because it makes me money.”
“You’ve been out in the crowds, haven’t you?”
“My own little pilgrimage. It seems the house behind the Schrum death-watch palace is the province of busy worker bees and the gun-totin’ security types. Perhaps they’re there to keep Schrum from drowning in flowers. He’s quite the bonanza for local florists, trucks arriving every half-hour or so laden with more posies. If Schrum is dying, that is.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The reports make mention of Schrum’s bedridden status. I’m sending you an email as I speak. It’ll be there anon.”
I sighed and headed to Viv’s office, her desk and computer, lecturing as I went. “Listen, Jeremy, you shouldn’t be milling around. Let the old guy teeter off the mortal coil without you.” I sat and opened an email to see a grainy photograph of a face peering out through a draped window. I scrolled downward to see a half-dozen other such shots.
“Who’s the window-peeper?” I asked.
“The bed-ridden Amos Schrum had a miracle, Carson. He has risen. Not to Heaven, but to his window. I’m four hundred feet away and on eye level, so I can see his pensive face with my trusty Celestron. There’s a balcony outside the window, so the teeming rabble below can’t easily watch him watching them. He’s at the window quite a bit.”
“Schrum’s watching the people who’ve come to see him – so what?”
“I did a touch of research on Saint Schrumly of Key West. This guy’s spent his whole life basking in adulation, Carson. Give him a crowd or a camera and he’s fulfilled, the center of attention.”
“Am I missing a point?”
“Schrum can obviously stand on his own. He’s got a balcony to step out on, he’s got a crowd ready to cheer and hallelujah. Why is he hiding behind the curtain?”
“Maybe he thinks he’s the Wizard of Oz. Or maybe he’s too sick to speak.”
“Methinks a miracle is about to bloom.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let me take you to the thrilling yesteryears of the Reverend Amos Schrum – seven, to be precise. He died back then, too. Or almost, that is … a very close call. Except Schrum was back on his feet in no time and proclaiming he’d been the recipient of a healing miracle. Naturally, this increased his already-high standing among the faithful, always buoyed by divine interventions. More cynical types noted that before his illness Schrum had overextended himself to upsize his network and the creditors were ready to call in the notes.”
“Money came pouring in.”
“A pasty-faced and tremble-voiced Schrum did on-air entreaties from his bed, urging people to donate to continue his work after his death. Three weeks later Schrum was in fine fettle, having had his miracle … or perhaps a pair of them, since the creditors were suddenly paid in full. Water into wine, death into dollars.”
17
Roland Uttleman parked at the house behind the Schrum residence and strode through the yards, entering the home. He nodded at Andy Delmont, now sitting in an alcove beside the kitchen and staring out the window. Uttleman forced a smile to his face.
“How’s our friend, Andy?”
“I think he’s sleeping, Dr Uttleman.”
“I’ll go and give him a check-up.” Uttleman started away.
“Doctor?” Delmont called. Uttleman turned.
“What is it, Andy?”
Delmont looked side t
o side to make sure they were alone. “You know I’ve been with the Reverend a long time …”
“Amos discovered you when you sang at one of his traveling revivals, correct?”
“My family sang, all seven of us – Mama, Daddy, me, my sister, two brothers and a cousin. We’d been on the church circuit near a dozen years, bringing the songs of the Lord to people needing to hear them. Reverend Schrum was preaching at a big revival up by Hattiesburg, Mississippi. His singers were coming in from Jacksonville, but their bus broke down. We was playing at a church nearby and got called to fill in. We got there to see twenty thousand people in a stadium and we’d never sang to more’n a couple hundred. It was like God had lifted us up and shown us how things could be.”
“And that’s when it all started for you? Your career?”
“The Reverend, bless his soul, asked me to stay on with his choir. Wasn’t long later he made me part of the network. The day I met Reverend Schrum was the greatest day of my life, letting me serve the Lord and His holy messenger here on earth.”
“And the rest of your family?”
“They went their own ways.”
“How long, Andy … since the Reverend plucked you from the crowd?”
“I was eighteen, Doctor, fourteen years ago. I owe everything to Reverend Schrum. He’s made my life a blessing.”
“You’ve paid him back by becoming one of the bright lights of the network, Andy. Now I’ve got to go and check on—”
“I know Reverend Schrum sometimes uses liquor,” Delmont said.
Uttleman froze. “What?”
“I don’t think anything of it, Doctor. Ain’t none of us perfect but God and Jesus. And the bigger a man is in the eyes of God, the bigger the tribulations Satan throws at him. Satan needs to bring him down so he can steal the souls that Reverend Schrum wins.”
The kid was as simple as a rock, Uttleman thought, but a true believer. He affected his most sincere look and put a hand on the singer’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be back at the studio in Jacksonville, son? Getting ready for a performance?”
