by James Dobson
Tyler gave a curious glance.
“Don’t ask,” she said preemptively. “Let’s just say that if you told me a few years ago I would end up married to a man like Troy Simmons, I would have said you were crazy.”
“A hard marriage?” he heard himself ask. The same question he posed to potential clients. “Sorry,” he added quickly. “None of my business.”
She smiled at his embarrassment. “I guess every marriage is hard sometimes.”
Tyler’s phone vibrated, a welcome interruption. He glanced at the message.
FROM RENEE: CALL ME RIGHT AWAY
He begged Julia’s pardon and tapped the RETURN CALL icon.
“Hi,” he said with professional distance. “What’s up?”
“‘Hi’? ‘What’s up’?” Renee scolded. “Not ‘Hi babe’ or ‘How are you?’”
“I’m in a meeting.”
“Oh, sorry,” she replied, a touch of warmth returning to her voice. “My tracker app says you’re at Bear Rock Café. I’m just around the corner. I thought we might meet up for lunch. What time will you be done?”
“Can’t do it,” he said abruptly. Why not? “I’m, uh, booked up the rest of the day. I think I found an important lead in the new case.”
“The case you won’t tell me about?” she asked suspiciously.
He sensed hurt and paranoia overtaking the conversation. “I told you, I can’t reveal—”
“I know what you told me,” she interrupted. “Not much. That’s what you told me. For all I know the case is a cover for a secret rendezvous with another woman.”
Was she teasing or accusing? He looked at Julia nervously. Their lunch was completely innocent. It was about the case. He wasn’t cheating on Renee. Granted, Julia was the kind of sharp, confident woman he found irresistibly attractive. And yes, he had wondered whether a marriage that was “hard sometimes” might mean she was open to advances. But he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Can we discuss this later?” he asked, aware of Julia’s failed attempt to ignore the conversation.
“I’d rather not wait…” she said. Then the call ended.
“Renee?” he asked into the phone. No response. Had they lost a signal? Or had she hung up angry? Was she on her way over right now?
“Everything OK?” Julia asked as he returned the device to his pocket.
“Fine. Fine,” he said while motioning toward the waitress, who took their orders and retrieved their menus. That’s when Tyler got down to business.
“I read your story on the Santos case,” he began. “I found it while doing research for a client.”
“You mentioned that in your message. May I ask what type of client?”
He hesitated. But she needed the detail. “A federal official.” He offered no title or name. But she was smart enough to connect the dots herself. “Confidentially, someone has been writing letters. It appears they’re worried about the NEXT appeal decision. Now they’re making threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
“We can’t be certain,” he replied. “But I fear the worst.”
“I see,” she said with alarm. “How can I help?”
“I met with Jeremy Santos the other day,” he began. “I figured him to be a prime suspect. You know, eager to get at the money tied up by the appeal.”
Julia took a sip of water, her eyes offering a knowing smile. “And?”
“Dead end. That kid’s no threat.”
She nodded in agreement. “I felt bad for him. Very sad situation.”
The sentiment offered a window into a tender side of the hard-hitting journalist. Tyler admired the sweet sympathy in her eyes.
The restaurant door opened. Tyler yanked his gaze away from Julia, expecting to see Renee charging in their direction. To his relief he saw an elderly couple shuffling toward the hostess desk.
“How’s he doing?” Julia asked.
“The kid? Oh, he seems to be surviving. Just.” He took a sip of water. “Anyway, I was hoping you could suggest other suspects. Did you come across anyone associated with the Santos story eager for NEXT to lose their appeal? Maybe a religious zealot trying to bring down a big transition provider? Or some other family with a wrongful death case waiting in the wings?”
Julia sat back to consider the question. She seemed to reach for details long forgotten. “Holly?” she asked herself. “No, not Holly. Hannah.”
“Hannah who?”
“I’ll need to find her last name. She’s the transition specialist who was injured during the incident.”
“I see,” he said, jotting down the name while stealing another glance at the door. “Mad about the injury?”
“Not about the injury,” Julia explained. “About the industry.”
“But you said she works for NEXT.”
“Worked for NEXT. She quit after the Santos deaths. A month later she contacted Jeremy and encouraged him to sue.”
“Really?” Tyler said. “What’s her piece of the pie?”
“None. At least that’s what she told me.”
“Then why tell Jeremy to sue?”
“She said she wanted to see more restrictions placed on the practice because it’s easier to schedule a transition than to book a flight.”
Tyler recalled the video images he had seen in Jeremy’s apartment, including the lifeless stare of Antonio Santos’s cold cadaver. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for Hannah or any other person to bear such sights as a routine part of the job.
“She called them sheep,” Julia added.
“Called who sheep?”
“Transition volunteers. She said they aren’t heroes but sheep going to the slaughter.”
“How’s that?”
“You should ask her yourself. I can find her contact information if you’d like.”
Tyler knew he could just as easily find the information in the case file. But he preferred the opportunity for further correspondence. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”
“I didn’t get the impression Hannah was the type to do anything violent or rash,” Julia added. “But she did mention struggling with depression. You never know.”
“Right,” Tyler responded.
The door opened again, this time with aggression. Tyler’s head jerked. Another false alarm.
“You seem a bit jumpy. Is everything OK?”
“I’m good,” he said apologetically, offering no explanation.
The food arrived. Tyler watched Julia as she bit into a potato chip. Not a baked veggie crisp as Renee would have forced him to order, but a greasy one with ruffles. He smiled in her direction. “You like potato chips?”
“Who doesn’t?”
The perfect woman, he thought.
They both ate a few mouthfuls while Julia tried to recall other potential suspects. None came to mind.
“That’s OK,” Tyler said. “Give it more thought over the next few days. I’ll start with Hannah. She sounds like a promising lead.”
The phone vibrated again. Another call from Renee. The location tracker told him she was not in pursuit, but had driven home, probably in a huff. He ignored the call, then looked back toward his lovely lunch partner.
“So,” he said, feeling more at ease. “What are you writing?” He had never really cared about journalism, but Julia seemed a good reason to start.
She swallowed down a bite of chicken salad sandwich. “I just got the green light from RAP for a series of features. Stories about dark zones and bright spots.”
“The power grid?”
She laughed. “No. Economic regions. Dark zones follow general trends of financial decline. Bright spots show signs of growth. I plan to paint real-life portraits that embody the larger trends.”
Tyler sensed an opportunity. “I don’t traffic many light spots.”
“Bright spots,” she corrected with a charming grin.
“Right. Bright spots. But if dilapidated buildings and crack houses are any indication, I can
probably introduce you to a few of my clients living in dark spots.”
“Dark zones.”
“Right.”
“What kind of clients?” she asked.
He had made a misstep. Working with a federal official sounded impressive. Spying on cheating lovers sounded pathetic. Was pathetic.
“I can’t reveal specifics for obvious reasons,” he recovered, “but I serve a niche in the private investigation field that keeps me in touch with the lower classes.”
Julia scrunched her nose at the slight.
“I mean, dark zone residents,” he corrected himself.
“Well, I have a few bright spot families lined up already,” she said. “They seem open to talking. But I’ll have a harder time finding willing victims on the other end of the spectrum.”
“Like?”
“Like people living in areas with higher concentrations of transitions.”
Surprised, Tyler asked, “Don’t you mean lower concentrations of transitions?”
“No, higher.”
“But I always thought the point was to transition wealth to younger families.”
“So they say.” She paused. “Which reminds me. I’ll also need households with few or no kids.”
“Why’s that?”
“Something about the combination of low fertility and high transitions correlates to economic decline.”
“Hmm.”
“Childless adults who’ve transitioned their parents would be the ideal interviews. Do you know any?”
Tyler tried reconciling the question with reality. Or, rather, with the reality he had always assumed.
“I know,” Julia said to his bewildered stare. “It sounds counterintuitive. But the numbers don’t lie. Trust me, my husband is an expert on this stuff.”
Tyler frowned at the mention of a husband. Then he silently rebuked his imagination for entertaining possibilities.
“I can send you a list of dark zone streets and zip codes. Maybe you could look it over to see if you know anyone who’d be willing to chat. That would really help me out.”
Her voice carried an appreciative detachment that made him feel like a guy hearing “We can still be friends.”
“Sure thing,” he agreed with a sigh. “I’ll do what I can.”
The phone vibrated: Renee calling, probably semi-distraught and eager to apologize for the earlier tiff. Tyler smiled at his girlfriend’s predictable pattern.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I need to take this call.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Matthew sighed as he scraped half of Reverend Grandpa’s lunch into the garbage can. It was something he had done a thousand times before while caring for his mom. He tried to recall when she’d begun leaving more food on her plate than she ate. Was it about the same time she’d started forgetting to take her medications? Or when the spark of determined strength in her eyes had surrendered to befuddled fear? Either way, he recognized diminished appetite as a sign of something wrong. Disease? Depression? No. Decay.
His client, like his mother, must be crying out for help. Why else would he specifically request a bean-and-cheese burrito for lunch and then shove it aside after a few pitiful bites? Why else would he keep himself cooped up in his bedroom like a man condemned to solitary confinement? During the five days Matthew had lived with Reverend Grandpa he had seen only one brief sign of passion: the covert scheming with his grandson. Even that, come to think of it, had sounded more like an effort to convince himself than an effort to cheer up Peter. Did Reverend Grandpa really intend to stick around for a long time?
Matthew finished the cleanup process and mentally checked off the third of five daily chores. Then he walked toward the laundry room, where a clump of damp towels awaited transfer from the washer to the dryer. He halted, trying to recall what the old man had told the boy. Your mommy and I discussed the money already. I’m gonna live right here, real close, for at least six months.
Of course!
Abandoning his to-do list, Matthew gave himself a much more important assignment.
* * *
“Free to thrive?” Reverend Grandpa said with a snigger. “Is that what they taught you up there in Boulder?”
Matthew couldn’t quite read whether his client was intrigued or incensed.
The old man put both hands on his left leg brace, the first of three sequenced steps before standing. Matthew instinctively moved toward him, then remembered the rule: Only assist when asked. Afraid of another rebuke, Matthew reminded himself that his client was not, in Reverend Grandpa’s words, “some helpless invalid!”
“Actually,” Matthew answered, “the wording came from a column written by my girlfriend’s sister.” Mostly true. Maria Davidson might not yet qualify as his official girlfriend. But Julia was her sister.
“Oh, I see,” Reverend Grandpa mocked. “So you got this entire cockamamy philosophy from a blogger?”
“Not the philosophy,” Matthew corrected. “Just the free to thrive part.”
The old man placed his right hand on the arm of his chair while the other reached toward the top of his leg brace. Step two of three. Then he paused to look up, unimpressed, toward Matthew’s face.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And the rest?”
Matthew wanted to mention the mountain of ancient sources, academic articles, and recent books he knew existed that would substantiate his philosophy. But in the moment only one touchstone of credibility came to mind.
“I’ve been studying under the chair of religious studies at the university. His name is Thomas Vincent.” Matthew let the name linger in the air, waiting for his client to recognize the renowned scholar.
No raised eyebrow. No reaction at all.
“Dr. Thomas Vincent, PhD,” Matthew added.
“Never heard of him.”
Reverend Grandpa appeared distracted by the small icon affixed to the top of his leg brace. Despite repeated pressing, the hydraulic lift moaned without movement.
“Probably a low battery,” Matthew said. “I better add recharging your brace to my daily routine.”
“You do that,” the man barked, reluctantly waving Matthew in his direction. “Don’t just stand there like a worthless college boy. Help me up.”
He bent down to receive Reverend Grandpa’s weight.
Look who’s calling me worthless, he thought while loaning the man his own limbs.
Five minutes and thirty-seven laborious steps later Reverend Grandpa settled into the front room recliner, inhaling rapidly through a suddenly stingy oxygen tube.
“You good?” Matthew asked.
A single nod.
Both men sat quietly until the deprived lungs were replenished.
“There.” Reverend Grandpa sighed with some comfort. “So, what was it we were talking about?”
“Manichaeism,” Matthew resumed. “Saint Augustine embraced it before he submitted to church dogma. I’m surprised you didn’t study it in seminary.”
A hint of vague familiarity appeared on the minister’s face. “Fourth-century Augustine?”
“That’s right,” Matthew said eagerly. “You’ve heard of him?”
A laugh. “Of course I’ve heard of him. Bishop of Hippo. Wrote Confessions.”
The title didn’t ring a bell. “Confessions?”
“You know, his testimony.”
“Testimony?”
“Good gravy, boy!” Reverend Grandpa exploded. “You haven’t spent much time in church, have you?”
“Plenty. I went to parochial school.”
The old man waved off the comment. “I’m not talking about catechism classes.” His speech took on a melodic rhythm. “I’m talking about Bible-preaching, song-singing, amen-shoutin’ church where people give a testimony of how God saved ’em from hell and damnation by his grace-givin’ love!”
Matthew met the statement with a puzzled stare. Was he serious? Or was this another effort to pull the college boy’s leg?
A smile on the minis
ter’s face told him it was both. “You’d need to be my age or older to remember what church was like back in the day.”
“In what day?”
“Sunday!” he said as if delivering a punch line, laughing weakly. “At least, Sunday where I grew up.”
Matthew watched his client’s eyes enjoying a moment of reminiscence. They suggested deep bonds to a world quite different from the one Matthew inhabited. A universe far away, he assumed, from the one Reverend Grandpa’s daughter had chosen.
“Did you raise Marissa in that kind of church?”
“I tried,” he said dimly, placing his hand reverently on a book sitting beside him on the end table. It was the same vintage Bible Matthew had perused on the night he arrived at the house. “But times change, my boy. Times definitely change.”
Matthew sensed the dismal cloud reclaiming Reverend Grandpa’s disposition. He remembered his mission.
“So, Manicheans taught that the spiritual realm is good and the material world evil.”
The comment seemed to pull Reverend Grandpa out of his descent. “And the incarnation?” he asked perceptively.
“A great question,” Matthew said. “Church dogma says Jesus was God, a spirit, who became a man by taking on a material body.”
“Amen!”
Matthew froze at the abrupt interruption.
“Sorry, old habit. It means I agree.”
“OK. Well, anyway, some of his followers also created the myth of Jesus’s bodily resurrection. The Manicheans, by contrast, understood that Jesus’s resurrection was spiritual, not physical.”
“They understood that, did they?”
“They did. And they saw Jesus as one who helped show us the way to God.”
“Oh really. How?” Reverend Grandpa sounded as if he were humoring a child rather than engaging a foe.
“How what?”
“How’d he show us the way to God?”
“By transcending the prison of an evil, smelly, decaying body.”
“So you think he died to escape stubbed toes and mosquito bites for some out-of-body existence?”
“Exactly.”
“God didn’t become flesh?”
“Didn’t need to. Nor would it make sense. A perfect spirit wouldn’t contaminate himself with an evil, material body.”
