A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  The Reverend Takahashi accompanies me to my car. Not that I need the escort, but he’s easy on the eyes. His face is briefly troubled, a frown marring his movie star looks. Then he shakes his head as though to cast off unpleasant thoughts, and smiles down at me.

  “I meant it when I welcomed you to town, Audrey. I’m sorry if this has been a less than auspicious beginning. Please come by Riverside Christian this Sunday. I promise the leadership will be there as scheduled.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Takahashi, but I’m not actually the religious type.”

  “I hope I didn’t put you off earlier. I didn’t mean to criticize the Church of the Spirit. Or, I guess I did —” he flashes his smile again, this time with a bit of charming self-deprecation — and continues. “But I shouldn’t have done it at such a time, when Victoria wasn’t there to answer for herself.” He looks back toward the building. “I’m actually amazed at what she’s been able to accomplish. This is my first time here, and I’m honestly surprised to see how much support she has. The programs available. It’s like a real church.”

  “What is it that bothers you, Mr. Takahashi?” I'm curious about his reaction, and about the missing pastor herself. To tell the truth, I’m feeling more lucid than I have in days, back to my old inquisitive detective persona. Who needs meds? Especially since I haven’t had any more hallucinations.

  “Please, call me Seth. Or Reverend Seth, if you want to be formal.”

  “What bothers you about the church then, Reverend?” Using his first name feels too casual and intimate, and I have the copper’s habit of addressing people respectfully. It’s always better to start on that footing — it’s too hard to go back.

  He runs a hand through his hair, a self-tousling maneuver that makes him look like a manga character. We’ve reached my car and he leans against it. His breath steams in the chill night air.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it on the surface. I’m sure Victoria is sincere — in fact, I know she is. Her mission is to — and these are her words — ‘open the way to the Spirit for everyone’.”

  “That sounds very democratic.”

  “It is. And I don’t deny that the Holy Spirit is available to everyone. But she goes further, insisting that the Spirit uses a person’s creative impulse to communicate, and that the best way to access the word of God is to paint pictures, or do sculpture, or produce some kind of art that the Spirit can deliver a message through.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  “It starts a dangerous precedent. It gives people tacit permission to become messengers of God themselves.”

  “Aren’t you one? A ‘messenger of God’?” For some reason I feel defensive of Pastor Harkness, and want to needle the Reverend out of his self-complacency. Illogical, I know.

  “Yes, but —” He presses his hands to the sides of his head in mock frustration, a gesture that makes him seem boyish and appealing. I’m guessing there are many young women, and even not so young, in his congregation.

  “But?”

  “There’s a lot of unstable individuals out there, and many are attracted to religion. It doesn’t take much to encourage a delusional person to believe that he’s the pipeline to God, and whatever prejudices and hatreds he feels are mandated by divine decree. Pastor Harkness is encouraging that kind of independent theology.” He shakes his head again, and laughs. “You’re a good listener. I didn’t intend to give you a lecture on worship methodologies. If I haven’t frightened you off or bored you to death, please do feel free to come to one of our services. Everyone needs fellowship.”

  With another nod and a smile, he sets off down the line of cars, and I am left with his final remark ringing hollowly in my ears. He’s got some Jekyll and Hydishness going on; but without his presence, the evening becomes cold and empty, and my Garboesque desire for solitude is mixed with a puppyish longing for companionship.

  Yeah, that’s how they getcha.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MY COT FEELS warm and cozy under my unzipped sleeping bag. In Denver, I had gotten so used to traffic and sirens and all the city sounds that they no longer registered. Here in Astoria, a lonely car going by on Marine Drive at the base of the hill is intrusive. The distant barking of a dog penetrates the gentle fog that fills my mind, followed by a snatch of conversation as people walk by on the street. The silence has its own kind of presence.

  It’s Friday, the last day of the work week. If I had a work week. I should be worried about that but right now I just want to be swaddled in the quiet and sleep. But try as I might, I can’t shake the anxiety that has plagued me since my vision on the beach, and the unaccountable absence of Pastor Harkness. Maybe it's my detective’s paranoia, always anticipating the worst possible outcome, that makes me suspect something has happened to Victoria Harkness; that she isn’t coming back to her church.

  Or maybe it’s the vision of her death.

  But. I don’t believe in any kind of foretelling or divination. There’s some rational explanation. Just because I can’t think of one doesn’t mean it’s not there.

  I’ve worked with too many obstinate prosecutors to make assumptions without evidence. But I’ve also been a detective too long to ignore my own hunches. A pastor wouldn’t leave her flock for no reason, without letting someone know she’d been delayed and wouldn’t be able to conduct the service.

  And speaking of anomalies, I’ve never seen another preacher at a church service that isn’t his own. Takahashi doesn’t seem like a rabble-rouser, but he’d definitely been on the honk, criticizing Harkness’s belief system. Although, to be fair, I have seen direct evidence of what he’s worried about: delusional people using God as a scapegoat or an excuse for their own bad behavior. Still, without having heard Pastor Harkness speak, I can’t know what exactly she advocates. The promotion of art as a voice for the Holy Spirit seems innocuous in a New-Agey sort of way.

  I roll over on my side. Sleep remains elusive and anxiety begins to wrap me in its tentacles. I can’t help but think about my recent hallucination, and images from the vision rise in my mind. Once again, I hear footsteps behind me, feel the steel grip of hands on my shoulders and the pain of a blow, the sharp impact of a rock on my skull as I hit the sand, the cold water rushing in, and then blackness…

  …I awake in a hospital bed with a saline drip, arms and legs restrained with nylon straps. I struggle against the bonds and an oxygen mask over my face. I’m suffocating. An alarm goes off somewhere. People rush in. Someone presses me down and someone else fills my drip with a sedative that spirals me back down into darkness.

  I sit up straight, gasping. The sleeping bag falls away. Tendrils of cool air make their way under the sheet, chilling my skin. A line of moonlight leaks through the metal blinds and slices across the slanted ceiling. The feeling of lingering helplessness, the terror of being confined, sticks to me like a spider’s web. I rub my face and rake my fingers through my hair. I haven’t dreamed of the hospital before, and much of my time there is hazy. But this seems more like a memory than a nightmare. I rub the scar on my chest. It still hurts, deep down.

  Terrific. Just when I think I’ve successfully eluded the past, it comes right back to haunt me.

  That evening I'm at loose ends, so I go back to the Portway. It’s a Friday night, so the tavern is full, the tables occupied and noisy with the sound of laughter and clanking cutlery. I take a seat at the end of the bar. Claire is pulling pints and mixing drinks and dispensing menus like an octopus. She barely spares me a nod. I linger over my halibut and chips and a pint of Alaska Amber, waiting until she has a moment, savoring the mixed aromas of burgers and French fries and fish that waft from the kitchen whenever a server strides forth with a tray of steaming plates.

  When Claire finally finishes pouring, she comes down to where I sit and leans heavily on the bartop, fanning herself with a damp towel.

  “Busy night?” I suggest. Queen of the obvious, that’s me.

  “Bit more than usual. Nice to see you here
again.”

  “It’s close to where I live, plus you have decent food and beer. I’m not working yet, so good cheap eats are priority one.”

  She nods, and a smile flickers across her face. “Best burgers in town,” she says mechanically, but then adds, “Looking for work? Maybe I can help you. I hear a lot about what’s going on, what businesses are doing well. And I know a bunch of people. I could at least point you in a direction. What did you do in Colorado?”

  I tense. This question always comes up — it’s a standard get-acquainted line that everyone asks. I should have rehearsed my answer, but I didn’t. Another indication of how far I’ve fallen off my game. It’s too bad, because I like Claire. I’ve never been ashamed of my career choice, but I also won’t blame her if she changes her tune.

  “I used to be a cop. A homicide detective with the Denver P.D.” I wait for the inevitable recoil. Or the other extreme, the fascinated eyes, the request for anecdotes.

  But Claire does neither. She looks at me speculatively, continuing to wipe the already clean bartop. “You said, ‘used to be.’ Does that mean you’re not a cop anymore?”

  “Not at the moment.” I take a long malty swallow of my beer. “Maybe not ever again.”

  “Burned out?”

  “You could say that.”

  Maybe I don’t want to leave the conversation on that pity-me note, or give her the wrong impression, that my leaving is some political statement. In any case, what I say next is almost as big a surprise to me as it is to her. “I’m going to be a private investigator. Just have to complete the process.”

  “A private eye? That sounds interesting.”

  I nod like I know what I’m talking about. “I’ve got all the qualifications. Lots of experience as a police detective. Solving murders, robberies, missing persons. The works.”

  Claire nods, looking thoughtful, and moves down the bar to greet some new customers, and I enjoy my meal in peace. It had been easier than I’d hoped. She hadn’t asked any awkward questions, and I hadn’t had to lie.

  Except for making up the whole P. I. thing.

  What’s to make up? I do have all the experience I need.

  Yay, digging up dirt on people’s spouses. Chasing down deadbeats. Sounds like a party.

  I can work for private individuals. Lawyers.

  There’s something to look forward to.

  I succeed in shutting down that persistent inner voice and work on cleaning up my remaining French fries and draining the last dregs of beer from the glass.

  When Claire finishes with her orders, she comes back. “I think things happen for a reason. Do you believe that?”

  “Sometimes.” Uh-oh. Was I going to get a dose of New Age philosophy?

  She leans forward and speaks in an undertone. “Would you consider looking for a missing person? It’s not a real case, not yet.”

  “You mean Pastor Harkness?”

  “Yes. I’m worried about her. Daniel — my husband — says it’s unreasonable to call the cops. She was an adult, free to go off on her own if she wants to. And it’s true she’s only been gone for a day. But I can tell you, she would never leave the church. It was — is — her calling. Her sacred role. Something is wrong. I know it. And I can check with Daniel about paying you something. Maybe we can draw on the church’s general operating fund.” The entry bell rings as a group of three men walk in, fresh off a fishing boat by the state and smell of their clothes.

  “Hey Claire, set us up with a round of Buds, will you?” one calls as the three sit down.

  “Back in second,” she says, as she hurries to the taps.

  A job, even before I’d hung out my shingle. Well, why not? It’s probably nothing, like most MisPers cases. It feels a little squirrelly to be going in under the radar of the local detectives, but they most likely wouldn’t be making much of an effort anyway. I recall my encounter at the police station, Candide’s suspicion and Olafson’s disdain, and enjoy the thought of putting a dent in their smugness by taking a case away from them. Because a little revenge is balm for the soul.

  Not to mention a little money in the pocket. And independence from the Man.

  Plus, something to focus on besides my own head trip.

  When Claire comes back, wiping her hands, I pay my bill and agree to work for the Church of the Spirit. We set an appointment to meet tomorrow morning so she can give me more information about the missing pastor.

  When I get back to my little yellow house, I unfold my laptop on the card table and bring up the Church of the Spirit website. When I’d been poking around before my visit, I’d noticed an archive of past services, and a link to a radio show Harkness had been featured on. Now I click on the link, turn up the volume, and walk over to stand by the windows. Lights from small fishing boats sprinkle the river, crisscrossing the channel. Something must be out there in droves, tempting the locals to cast their lines and dip their nets.

  The sound of the broadcast begins to percolate into my awareness. It’s an interview from a weekly program called ‘Matters of Faith.’ The moderator explains that every week he talks to local religious leaders about their churches. His voice is pleasantly gravelly, and the interview begins with a flourish of organ music.

  Moderator: Today we welcome a preacher who’s relatively new to the faith community, Pastor Victoria Harkness of the Church of the Spirit. Welcome, Pastor.

  VH: Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be on your show.

  Victoria’s voice is a rich contralto. I can imagine her filling her sanctuary with a heartfelt service, the tone of voice as much of an attraction as the content of her message. Outside, the sunset has thinned to a ribbon of orange above the long narrow strip of the Clatsop Spit that splits the river from the sea.

  M: Let’s dive right in. I understand the Church of the Spirit is non-denominational, is that correct?

  VH: Yes. We utilize the Bible in our teachings, but I encourage my congregants to branch out and seek inspiration directly from the Holy Spirit through their own creative works.

  M: Interesting. What exactly do you mean by that?

  VH: God — or Goddess, or the Great Mystery, however you prefer to think of them, in whatever tradition — is always named as the Creator. In fact, that’s how I always refer to the Deity myself. How better to reach a depth of understanding and spirituality than by engaging in the very activity that characterizes the divine?

  Ye gods, I think.

  M: So you encourage your followers to emulate the Creator?

  VH: Well, on a lesser scale, of course. (Laughs). Through whatever artistic medium people are inspired to use — painting, writing, sculpture. Even gardening. My services are characterized by prayers to the Spirit to inspire us with their message, to infuse our works with divine energy and intention and meaning. And I give people the opportunity to offer their works to the Creator by bringing them to the altar. We then display them in the sanctuary and fellowship hall.

  M: Your message is certainly unique. I don’t think I’ve heard of anything quite like this.

  VH: (laughs). ‘There is nothing new under the sun.’ Ecclesiastes.

  I snort out loud. Ain’t that the truth. Besides death and taxes, the other given is the banality and pervasiveness of crime.

  M: Moving on, let’s take some callers with questions. First on the line is the Reverend Takahashi from the Riverside Christian Church in Astoria. Reverend, you’re on.

  My ears prick up. So he’s had contact with the pastor before. Interesting.

  RT: Your sentiments are laudable and heartfelt, Ms. Harkness, but I’m afraid you’re misguided. The Holy Spirit isn’t the muse. It gives counsel and wisdom, but not art lessons. Your views are not supported by scripture.

  VH: On the contrary, First Corinthians, chapter twelve, says true followers will receive messages and miraculous abilities. Who is to say what those abilities might be?

  RT: The gifts are listed out: wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing — nowhere does it talk abo
ut painting.

  VH: Many of the gifts are those of communication: as you said, words of wisdom, words of knowledge, the ability to speak or understand diverse languages. Art is just another language, another means of communication and expression. I see no contradiction, only endless possibilities. Are you, Reverend Takahashi, qualified to dictate the choices and gifts of the divine?

  And the point goes to Harkness, notes my inner scorekeeper.

  RT: The job of the Holy Spirit is primarily to seal a soul to God, and to communicate God’s messages to a believer. It’s about faith, not works and self-glorification.

  VH: Of course not. But according to First Corinthians, chapter two, no one knows the wisdom of the Creator except the Spirit; it is the Spirit that provides the direct conduit for that wisdom. And how better to express the thoughts of the Creator except through artistic creation? You know yourself how open to misinterpretation words can be. Any good lawyer can tell you that.”

  The moderator laughs, and I think, she’s won him over at least. But Takahashi goes on doggedly.

  RT: The only job of the Spirit is to convict a soul to God and the gospel. You make it sound as though it’s a personal genie, something outside of the Christian tradition.

  VH: On the contrary, I seek to put the spirituality back into religion. I ask for offerings that come from the soul, not from the wallet. The true fruit of the Creator has nothing to do with little green pieces of paper. In the words of the prophet Joel, ‘God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams.’ And I say to everyone who might be listening: follow your dreams that the Spirit has bestowed on you, wherever they may lead. Never apologize for the visions that inspire you; instead, allow them to be your guideposts. Follow the Spirit for they will bring you home.

  I feel a rippling chill, a high alert like the distant ringing of a bell. The moderator is speaking but I’m no longer listening. I’d been caught up in the argument, the point and counterpoint of theological logic which I’m admittedly not qualified to judge. Yet now, here was Harkness validating dreams and visions; deliberately seeking out the impossible, the irrational, the spiritual rather than the coldly logical. It felt as though she were shining a light on my own experience.