For a long breathless moment, I sat back and drank in her beauty like wine. Forget the bra, she was the miracle, and in no time I was intoxicated.
She leaned forward, reached back, unhooked her bra, tossing it in the front seat where it landed on the steering wheel.
“Bon appétit,” she said, then, cupping her hand behind my head, brought me to her breast.
When we had finished the appetizer, she said, “I brought you something.”
“That wasn’t it?” I asked. “Because I was thinking you could just give me that again.”
“I will,” she said. “Again and again and again. As often as you like. I’m the gift that keeps on giving.”
I smiled. “You are a—” I started, but stopped as my cell phone rang.
“Hello,” I said, my voice still hoarse with passion.
“Chaplain Jordan,” the unmistakably smooth voice of Bobby Earl Caldwell said.
For a long moment after I hung up, I sat there in stunned silence.
“What is it?” Susan asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Bobby Earl Caldwell wants to see me,” I said.
“What for?”
“Apparently to offer me a job.”
“Threatening you hasn’t worked,” she said, “so now he’s gonna try bribery?”
CHAPTER 45
Bobby Earl’s 19th Century plantation home was smaller than a Hollywood sound stage—if you didn’t count the garage—and as gaudy and distasteful as a televangelist’s studio set.
“I believe God’s children should have the best,” he said, leading me through large, lavishly decorated rooms with ornately hand-painted ceilings and faux marble fireplaces toward his back porch.
“Obviously,” I said, “but did you ask God how she felt about it?”
Ignoring me, he said, “I think our prosperity is directly related to our spirituality.”
The dingy little trailer I called home flashed in my mind, and I thought, you might be right, but then I pictured Mother Teresa, and thought, then again maybe not.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“That God wants what’s best for us,” I said. “Not necessarily for us to have the best.”
He nodded and looked as if he were intently considering what I had just said. “I like that,” he said. “But couldn’t that be the same thing?”
“Not often,” I said.
Taking the day off without explaining why, I had left early, driven fast, and arrived by midmorning.
Beyond his oversized pool, the sun-dappled back yard, which was canopied by enormous oaks, led down to a bayou whose mossshrouded cypress trees reminded me of home.
“You’re really a man of God,” he said. “I can tell. And you have a great reputation. Very well respected in Potter County.”
“Depends on who you talk to,” I said.
He smiled. “Ah,” he said, “but beware if all men speak well of you.”
I didn’t say anything. And he didn’t either for a minute. Then, “I wish chaplains made more money. Y’all deserve it. Do such important work.”
When I didn’t respond, he said, “You do. Don’t be ashamed of what you do.”
“I’m not,” I said. “If I were, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Right,” he said. “Integrity. That’s the reason I wanted to talk to you. I’d like for someone with your integrity, deep spirituality, and obvious knowledge of prison chaplaincy to oversee the outreach prison ministry of BECM.”
“BECM?” I asked.
“Bobby Earl Caldwell Ministries,” he said, as if I should’ve known. “We send in tapes and books to most of the major institutions. We conduct crusades and healing services, but I want us to do more. And I want you to help.”
I shook my head.
“You wouldn’t have to move here,” he said. “Could if you wanted to. Think about how much more good you could do. You’d be reaching so many more souls. You’d have enormous resources at your disposal. You’d be making six times what you make now. And you’d get to work with me.”
I smiled.
“Thanks,” I said. “But, no thanks.”
He was genuinely shocked. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Think about the opportunity I’m offering you. Think of what it could mean for your ministry.”
“I’m not a prison chaplain at PCI because I don’t have other options,” I said.
“I can’t tell you how much I respect that,” he said, nodding to himself, then looking off in the distance.
A white egret at the bank of the bayou stood perfectly still as a sun-baked man with long hair beneath a soiled baseball cap and a Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt glided by in a flat-bottomed boat.
“You’re right,” Bobby Earl said. “You don’t need to be anywhere other than right where you are. And they’re blessed to have you.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I know,” he said in a sudden burst of enlightenment. “How about letting me retain you as a consultant? You could sit on our board. Help us make decisions about our prison ministry. That way you could continue doing what God has called you to do, help us, and supplement your income as well.”
“I just can’t,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Think about it for a while,” he said. “The offer stands open. Just pray about it. You can get back with me any time. You could be instrumental in helping so many inmates.”
“Was there a chaplain who was instrumental in your life?”
“Actually there was. That’s why I believe in what we’re doing in prisons. My chaplain was truly a man of God.”
I nodded, and then we were quiet for a moment.
I had waited to bring up Nicole until now to see if he would. He hadn’t, so I did. “How are you and your wife doing?” I asked.
“Huh?” he asked, as if somewhere else, his forehead furrowing in incomprehension.
“Since Nicole died,” I said. “How are you?”
“Oh,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I accept it as the will of God. I know she’s better off—a lot better off than us, right? But Bunny’s still all broken up about it. She believes in heaven and all, but she still misses her a lot. I do, too. She was such a special child.”
“Yes, she was,” I said. “We’d like to hold a memorial service at the chapel for her. She meant so much to all the men, all of us.”
“That’s a very lovely thought,” he said. “I appreciate that.”
“We’d like for you and Mrs. Caldwell to be there.”
“Oh, we couldn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry, but we’re way too busy and it’d just be too painful.”
“Perhaps you’ll feel differently when the time comes. I hope so,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure out what happened that night. I was wondering if I could ask you and Mrs. Caldwell some questions?”
“I’d be happy to answer them,” he said. “But Bunny’s not home right now. And I wouldn’t subject her to that even if she were.”
“I understand,” I said. “When you finished preaching and Bunny came back out to sing, was that planned?”
“Whatta you mean?”
“Does she normally come back out and sing at the end?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, nodding his head.
“Does Nicole usually sing with her?”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I was surprised she didn’t that night. That’s why I went into your office while Bunny was singing. You know, to check on her.”
“But while Bunny was still singing, you went back out to begin your altar call,” I said, “so for at least ten minutes she was alone in there.”
“That must be when it happened,” he said, shaking his head.
“How was she when you went in to check on her?”
“I don’t know. She was in the small bathroom in your office. I didn’t even see her. I just assumed that’s why she wasn’t with her mother. When I asked Bunny later, she said that Nicole’s stomach had been bothering her.”
> “So you never saw her after she left the stage the first time?” I asked.
“No,” he said softly, looking down, “I didn’t. I wish I had. Wish I could’ve taken her in my arms just one more time before she woke up in the arms of Jesus.”
“Did you talk to her?” I asked. “Through the door.”
He shook his head. “The fan in there was so loud,” he said. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to hear her, so I just waited for her to come out, but eventually I had to go back out.”
“It would really help if I could talk to your wife.”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “She’s a very fragile woman. It’s too soon.”
“Do you know who Nicole’s parents are?” I asked.
He studied me for a very long time, then said, “Before Bunny and I were saved, we were sinners living in the world, committing sins of the flesh. Bunny is Nicole’s mother.… But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “And her father?”
“To be honest,” he said, “we don’t know. And I almost feel it’s better that way. I became her father. And loved her as much as any father ever loved his child.”
It was only through years of discipline and training that I kept from laughing at that.
“How long have you known?” I asked.
“About Bunny?” he asked. “She was pregnant when I married her. It was a test from God. I passed. I accepted her, the way Hosea did Gomer, the way God did Israel, his beloved, even when she played the harlot.”
“Is there a possibility that Nicole’s biological father could’ve been at the service that night?” I asked.
He tried to act surprised, but didn’t pull it off well. “Like I said, we don’t know who he is.”
“But he might’ve been?”
“It’s possible,” he conceded. Then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting and then a prayer luncheon to speak at.”
“Just a few more questions, please,” I said. “What exactly does DeAndré Stone do for you?”
“Provides security for and assists Bunny,” he said. “He’s part of our Freeing the Captives program. Sometimes a judge will actually send a troubled young man to us rather than putting him in prison. I have several men on parole and probation working for me—I want prison outreach to be the center of my ministry. God’s given me a heart for them—I am them.”
“Did you know there are a lot of rumors of criminal activity in your organization?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “You know how people envy and talk about successful people—especially ministers. Besides, as I said, I employ a lot of ex-offenders and parolees. Not all of them are saved. We’re working with them, but they’re still fallen human beings. I’m sure some of them are still in the life. But it really surprises me that you listen to rumors.”
“Did you know that DeAndré was at the prison this past Monday night?”
“What?” he asked in what appeared to be genuine shock. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I said. “He attacked Nicole’s father and later, after the Larry King show, me and my wife.”
“Did he say why?”
He had flinched when I said ‘Nicole’s father,’ but quickly recovered and apparently wasn’t going to pursue it.
“I figured he was doing it for you,” I said.
“Me?” he asked in even greater shock and I was convinced it was authentic. “Why would I—I invited you here to offer you a position on my staff. I really respect you… but even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have anybody attack anybody—I can’t believe you could think such a thing about me.”
Standing, Bobby Earl led me back through the opulent mansion that made me think of a thriving Victorian whorehouse more than anything else.
“He works for you,” I said. “It’s not as if I made an enormous leap.”
“He works for my wife,” he said, “but not any longer—if you’re certain he did these things.”
“I’m certain,” I said. “Did you know that NOPD has an ongoing investigation into you and your organization?”
“I knew the IRS did,” he said. “They hound every major ministry in the country. Are the police helping them?”
Either he was truly out of touch with what was going on in his organization or Bobby Earl Caldwell was a tremendous loss to stage and screen.
I shook my head. “They’re looking into allegations of abuse, extortion, and homicide.”
“Homicide?”
“Yeah.”
“No wonder you don’t want to join my staff,” he said. “But I can assure you there’s some kind of mistake and I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I’ve noticed that a lot of inmates donate significant amounts of money to your ministry,” I said. “Why—”
“Chaplain,” he said in a voice that sounded scolding. “You know good and well most inmates don’t have much money. It is true that some of them make small contributions, but I can assure you that they don’t even cover our expenses when we conduct a crusade.”
“The really large amounts go to a post office box here in—”
“I don’t have a post office box,” he said. “All our mail is delivered directly to the headquarters.”
“Well, I’m telling you an awful lot of money payable to you is leaving our prison addressed to you at a post office box over here.”
He hesitated a moment, his eyes moving around as he thought about it. “I have a very large organization,” he said. “I guess some of our departments may have post office boxes to keep things separate. I’ll check into it. I will, but right now I’ve got to go.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Please consider coming to Nicole’s service,” I said. “I’m sure the media would like to get a statement from you about it.”
“The media’s gonna be there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, as if I knew, “I think Larry King may even do a follow up show afterwards.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “And you please consider my offer. I can assure you the rumors you’ve heard are not true. You’ll get three times what you’re making now just to attend a few meetings a year and answer the occasional question about prison ministry from time to time. Plus, I’ll give you a signing bonus of say, a hundred K.”
“No,” I said, as he ushered me out the door, “I’m not worth that kind of money.”
“Maybe not, but what you know is,” he said, just before closing the door, and I left wondering if what he thought I knew had anything at all to do with prison ministry.
CHAPTER 46
That evening, with the sun beginning its descent behind St. Louis Cathedral, I bought a bag of beignets and a large coffee at the Café du Monde, crossed Decatur to Jackson Square, and found an empty bench on which to enjoy them.
Slowly, the sounds of jazz bands were dying out, the street artists, mimes, and magicians being replaced by fortunetellers, tarot readers, and guides for vampire, ghost, and graveyard tours.
The breeze blowing off the Mississippi filled the air with a briny pungency and humidity that mixed with the cooking food and confections of the Quarter, riding on its currents the soft, sad sounds of a lone saxophone coming from Pirates Alley.
With the crowds and noises of the day gone, I had hoped to think about the case, integrating what I knew with what I had learned since arriving in New Orleans, but it was not to be.
Both the bag and the beignets were filled with powdered sugar that stuck to my fingers and face, a light dusting of which was accumulating on my clothes. I was trying to wipe it off when Bunny Caldwell walked up.
“I heard you and Bobby Earl talking at the house,” she said.
She was wearing dark shades and a hat that hid much of her face, her nervous moves and paranoid glances highlighting the fact that they were intended as a disguise.
“How?” I asked.
She looked confused.
“That was a crack
about its size,” I said. “Have a seat.”
Glancing around furtively, she sat down next to me without trying to avoid the powdered sugar covering the bench.
“Bobby Earl grew up poor,” she said.
“Well, he’s making up for it now.”
She smiled. “Trying.”
“Except you can’t,” I said.
“You can’t make up for anything you didn’t get in childhood, can you?”
“Sounds like maybe you’ve been trying, too,” I said.
She nodded. “Yeah,” she said, more to herself than to me, and I knew some of what I had heard about her was true.
Across the way, a homeless man rose from where he had been sleeping on the grass, walked over to the fountain, and began washing his face and hands.
Figuring there was a reason she had sought me out, I didn’t prod, but instead waited for her to tell me in her own time what she had to say.
“There’s a few things I want you to know about Bobby Earl,” she said.
“Okay.”
“He’s not like me,” she said. “When he gave his life to the Lord, he did it all the way. He really is a new creature in Christ. I’ve never seen someone change so completely. I mean, yeah, he spends too much money and he’s still a kid in many ways, but he really is one of the good guys now.”
The woman sitting next to me was different from the one I had met in the institution just two weeks ago, as if in addition to aging her, grief had stripped her of all illusions. She was now disillusioned in the most positive, if painful, sense of the word.
“He judges people—especially inmates—by what happened to him,” she continued. “If they say they’ve changed, he believes they have.”
“And the ones who work for him…”
“Haven’t,” she said. “For the most part anyway. Not like him. Some, not at all. His transformation and love blinds him. He can’t see what’s going on around him—and that includes the things I do.”
She didn’t elaborate and I didn’t press her.
The three towers of the cathedral and the cross on the center one were now silhouettes backlit by the soft orange gleam behind them, as all around us candles on the tables of palm readers blinked on like the first stars of twilight.
Blood of the Lamb (a John Jordan Mystery) Page 21
