My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  Alicia Erikson was not what I expected. I guess I didn’t really know what I had expected. When the plump, frowning woman without a trace of makeup came to the door wearing a tattered housecoat and her abundant red hair tied up in what seemed like a thousand curlers said, “May I help you, Father?” I momentarily lost my train of thought. She looked a good ten or twelve years older than Walt had. “Could I come in, Mrs. Erikson? I need to talk to you.”

  Her ruddy complexion blanched to pale, highlighting hundreds of freckles. I saw instant apprehension in the green eyes that had been rubbed red. “It’s Walt, isn’t it? What’s happened?” Her voice was on the verge of breaking, but she opened the door for me. I walked in, determined to keep my own inner feelings tucked away out of sight. As soon as we were in the middle of the small, neatly furnished living room, I reached for her hand. She didn’t resist. I looked into her eyes and smiled. “Nothing’s happened as far as I know. Maybe you’d better sit down, Alicia.”

  I shouldn’t have said that, I knew. She bit her lip, and new moisture began forming in the corners of both eyes. As she sank down onto the sofa, clutching the robe around her like a shield, I decided there was going to be no easy way to do what I had to do. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible, with the least amount of confusion. “I’m not a real priest, Alicia,” I said, casually removing my wallet, which had Agent Barnes’ ID in its first plastic pocket and which I showed her. “My name is Barnes. FBI, and I really need to get into Walt’s personal computer. There’s a certain file we have to examine. Could you please—?”

  “Do you know where Walt is?” she broke in. “Is he all right?”

  I kept the benign smile on my face as I lied. “I’m sure he is. His whereabouts and activities are not in my specific department, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but it really is important for me to look at that file.”

  “I can’t help you,” she said, chewing on her lip again. “I mean, I don’t know how. I don’t know his password.”

  “I do, Mom.” I had temporarily forgotten the child, who had stood silently behind me. At that moment I remembered how precocious Walt had said she was.

  “You do?” I said, squatting so that I could talk to her without looking down at her. She seemed totally unafraid of me. Not in the least intimidated by my looks or what she’d heard me tell her mother.

  “Sure,” she proudly announced. “It’th ‘Ethvilthivle’.”

  Her mother was just as perplexed as I was. “It’s what?”

  “Ethvilthivle. Eth-e-v-i-l-eth-i-v-l-e,” she spelled. “It’th a really cool pathword. Don’t you get it? Elvith livth, thpelled backwardth.”

  Alica Erikson, long used to her daughter’s snaggle-thoothed lisp, helped me out, the birth of a smile creeping around her lips. “Elvis lives. Spelled backwards.” She reached for the girl and hugged her. “You’re something else, Jody, you know that?”

  This was the first time I’d heard the child’s name. “Smartest one I’ve ever met,” I said. What grade are you in? First? Second?”

  Jody’s face formed into a little pout. “No, thir. Mom thays I’m at fifth grade level in everything but math, and I’m in fourth grade with that.”

  I glanced back at Alicia, who quickly explained. “We do home schooling. I was a high school teacher until a few years ago. Walt and I can’t afford a private school and we didn’t think there was a public school that could keep up with her.”

  Before I could respond to that, Jody grabbed my hand. “Come on, I’ll do it for you.” Like she had a Saint Bernard on a leash, she pulled me back into a cluttered room that must have been Walt’s den. Jody plopped herself down in front of the large monitor, stuck the tip of her tongue through the space left by her missing front teeth, and began expertly touching keys. It took me only a moment to realize she had opened Walt’s hidden files. “Whath the name of it?”

  “I’m not sure. Try ‘Willard’. W-i-l-l—”

  “I can thpell it,” she said, not without a trace of irritation. Her slender fingers flew. “Nothing here under Willard.”

  I grunted. “Okay, try ‘Judge’.”

  Same result, same answer.

  “How about ‘Snow White’.”

  “Nothing. Thorry.”

  “How about ‘Jeb’.”

  Three fast clicks. “Got it!” she yelled. “Take a look.”

  I leaned over her shoulder, staring at the names, feeling my own heart rate increase. “Can you print that out for me?”

  “Uh-huh. How many copieth?”

  “Just one.”

  Another click or two and the printer obediently disgorged the two sheets, which she handed to me with yet another charming grin. “Any more?”

  I patted her on top of her head. “Try Hettie.”

  “Hettie with a ‘y’ or with ‘i-e’?”

  “ ‘I-e’, I think.”

  This time there was only a single page. I folded them all and stuffed them in Ralph’s coat pocket. “You did good, Jody. Real good. Now, you have to do something very, very important for your country.”

  “What?”

  “Copy all that stuff onto a disc and hide it somewhere really safe. Then delete those files.”

  This time Jody frowned. Glanced past me at her mother. “Mom?”

  Alicia sighed. “Better do as he asks, honey.”

  Reluctantly, Jody turned back to her task. The whole process took her less than a minute! She handed her mother the disc, then touched a few more keys. The screen went blank. She turned around to face me. “Gone. All gone. daddy’th gonna kill me.”

  I put on another happy face. Touched her shoulder. “Your Daddy’s going to be very proud of you. So am I. You have really helped us a lot. Can I come back and see you again sometime? Maybe you can give me a couple of lessons on that thing.”

  “Sure. Why do you have to dreth up like a prietht?”

  I shot her mother a quick wink. “Maybe your Mom can explain what National Security is, and what cover means. Bright as you are, we may need your help again sometime, okay?”

  “Okay. Will you thee my daddy?”

  “I don’t think so. Not right away. Like I told your mom, mine is a different department. Other agents will keep you informed, I’m sure.” Saying those words, I felt my stomach going queasy, and couldn’t wait to get out of Alicia Erikson’s house. I kept seeing Walt Erikson’s open eyes, the small hole between them, and his talented hands—

  I drove at least ten blocks before I pounded the steering wheel and vented in language that was most unbecoming for a priest. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a playground, strangely deserted. I parked Ralph’s car and walked to a bench facing the swings and monkey bars, reached for the papers in my pocket, then changed my mind. My emotions were so high I knew it would be useless to try to make any attempt at studying them, or trying to concentrate on my mental rip sheet. Nightmarish faces of the dead kept appearing on all the playground equipment. Walt. Cecil. Jean Tyndall. Pete Suggs. Cal. Cal? No, not Cal. Please, God, not Cal.

  Once again, fury burned out logic. Coherent thought. Plans of what to do next. I closed my eyes. Deep breathing. Tried to relax enough to think clearly. It was no use. All the faces melded into the sweet, thin face of a seven year-old little girl who would never again lay eyes on the father she so worshipped. I don’t know whether I cried real tears then or not. Something, something deep inside me pushed me up off the bench. Back to the car. Some unconscious force turned the key. Some other hands guided the car back to Chelsea. St. Andrews. Parked. The automaton that now resided inside Ralph Curtis’ clothes shuffled into the church. A voice not my own called out for Father Tim Flaherty. “Father? Are you here?”

  But it was Jeb Willard who found him. In the same confessional booth where he’d shown me Mac’s note. I found him sitting in his own blood, his throat cut from ear to ear. I managed to turn around quickly enough so that this time I didn’t add any erupting contents of my stomach to the
red-black, sticky pool on the floor between Tim’s feet.

  I didn’t see it, naturally, the tiny room was too dark, but I knew it was there, probably on the wall, and written in a Wom’s blood.

  HEMIOLA

  Chapter 16

  The change in my psyche was immediate, and my brain never worked faster. The first physical thing I did was to gently close the door to the confessional, crouch, turn, and look around, holding my breath and wishing I had a weapon. Could the slimy bastard still be here? Waiting? No. Not likely. Tim Flaherty would never have told Hemiola anything, even on pain of horrible death. I can’t say how I knew that, but I did. My next thought was that if I was going to be able to deal with this devil, I’d have to be just as cold blooded and clever as he was. Even more so.

  I also knew it would be a bad idea to call Captain Kemp, even anonymously. Some unlucky parishioner would find the body eventually, probably within the next couple of hours. Something compelled me to reopen the confessional door and take another look at Father Tim. He looked even smaller in death. I closed my eyes momentarily, noting the sickening smell of hours-old blood. Still I didn’t feel nauseous. What I felt was nothing human. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Well, Lord, this time you’re going to have to share some of it. I closed the door again, this time remembering to wipe the handle with Ralph’s handkerchief.

  In the time it took me to steadily walk out of St. Michaels back to Ralph’s car, all emotion, humanity, and decency had totally drained from my body and soul. My breathing was normal. My pulse, too. What was left of Jeb Willard was a working mind that was cool and clear as bottled water. The rest of me was beyond feeling anything at all, and I knew that for my survival, let alone getting the answers I needed, this was a good thing.

  Priorities. The next thing my brain told my body to do was to somehow remove Liz, Monsignor Ralph, and the residents of the convent from harm’s way. Enough innocent people had died. Too many. Without hurrying, or driving carelessly, I drove back to the Mother House and made straight for Sister Agnes’ austere office. Reading my face, she raised her eyes in question.

  My voice was flat. Calm. “Sister Agnes, everyone here is in great danger. We must all leave. Now.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Where is Father Flaherty?”

  “He’s dead. Murdered. Some time this morning. Listen to me, please. There isn’t much time. The man who killed Father Tim is responsible for dozens of gruesome murders. Any creature capable of slaughtering a priest in his own church wouldn’t think twice of massacring everyone here just to get at Liz and me. We all have to get away. Right now! What kind of transportation does the convent have?”

  Whatever shock the good Mother Superior felt, she didn’t show it. What she did show was uncommon intelligence and the ability to act in emergencies. “We have a small bus, but it’s large enough for all of us. We use it for trips to retreats and other church functions, except none of us can drive it.”

  “I can. Where is it?”

  “Parked in the garage, next to the tool shed.”

  “Does it have gas in it?”

  “Yes, my son. We keep it full, just in case we’re called out to—”

  “I’m sorry, Sister Agnes. No time. Call everyone down, tell them all to drop whatever they’re doing and meet me out back. Monsignor Ralph, too. Don’t waste a second.”

  She didn’t, and I ran down the corridor and through the rear door of the convent, not even breathing hard. I flung the double doors of the garage open and climbed into the old vehicle which looked like a clone of the white-painted activities bus our high school teams used for out-of-town games, only now the lettering painted on its side read: Our Lady of Perpetual Help, not Tryon’s Cove Cougars.

  We desperately need your help now, Precious Lady.

  The keys were already in the ignition, and the old crate started on the first try. Thank you! By the time I eased it out of the garage, the first of the fifteen nuns were already lining up, Liz among them. Silently, without panic, they all boarded, Liz giving me a wide-eyed look of questioning fear. “Later,” I said, noticing Ralph emerging from the convent door, looking like my twin. “No time now. Take a seat with the others.”

  She brushed past me as Ralph climbed in, Sister Agnes right behind him. “We’re all here, Mister Willard.”

  Monsignor Ralph took the front seat to my right. I put the bus in gear and started down the circular driveway, praying that its heater worked. As soon as I reached the main road, looked both ways, and pulled out onto it, he said, “Sister Agnes told me. It’s— It’s unbelievable.” In his next breath he wanted to know where we were going.

  I downshifted. “You’re going to Dulles. The rest of us are going north. Best you don’t know exactly where. Do you have any money?”

  “Money? Um, not much. Maybe seventy, eighty dollars.”

  I nodded. Concentrated on my driving, knowing Sister Agnes was quietly passing from seat to seat, explaining the hard facts. Only the droning engine and the tires on the highway made any other audible sounds. A kind of eerie music. Like a perverted, monotonous Gregorian descant. Not much of a Requiem Mass for a Catholic Wom.

  It took me two hours to drive to Dulles. I brazenly parked behind a shuttle bus directly in front of the United Terminal, took out Ralph’s wallet, and after removing Barnes’ ID, handed it to him. “Listen closely, and don’t argue. There’s over a thousand dollars of my own money in there. Don’t use your credit cards. Use what cash you need to catch the first plane out of here. Far as possible. Maybe San Francisco. Whatever you do, don’t go to your family, and don’t contact them. When you get situated, maybe at the Y, wait a few days, and then call Ernie Latham at the Post. Got that?”

  “Ernie Latham at the Post. Got it.”

  “Right. Don’t mention me, or anything that’s happened here. Just tell him your name and where you are. Tell no one else. Your very life depends on it. Now hurry.” I glanced backwards. Gave him my best smile. “They’ll be all right, I promise.”

  He smiled once back at me, then was gone. I hoped he’d be okay. In the left rear view mirror, I noticed a scowling airport cop coming towards the bus, so I wasted no time pulling out, heading for I-95…south.

  It was time for me to go home.

  All along the Bible Belt from Virginia to Mississippi, every small southern town has one, and Tryon’s Cove is no exception. Yet, ghetto seems too strong a word to describe those areas, which often contain as much as a third of the town’s population: Communities within communities, where generations of black families have clustered since the Civil War; first on an outer boundary, often quite literally “across the tracks” and usually by a wide ditch if not directly on the banks of a flowing stream or river, much like their pre-slavery ancestors had. They lived in shacks, cheap frame houses, and abandoned boxcars that had seen little or no physical improvement since reconstruction. In Tryon’s Cove, the seat of Tuscarora County, that neighborhood was called Oldfield. In almost two hundred years’ time, the rest of Tryon’s Cove had grown around and beyond Oldfield, reluctantly enclosing, incorporating, and then ignoring it as though it was an odorous black lake, to be avoided, if possible, like some rat infested swamp.

  During the post-WWII decades, several paved streets, indoor plumbing, electricity, even an occasional telephone, and other modest signs of the twentieth century had gradually seeped, like osmosis, into that isolated neighborhood, although not at the same speed of the birth rate. The only latter day phenomenon to keep pace with the white sections of Tryon’s Cove were proportionate numbers of sprouting television aerials.

  And steepled churches.

  It was to the oldest of those I was headed. Simon Peter’s church.

  Dr. Simon Peter Williams tended his flock at the Mt. Zion Baptist Church with the same kind of organizational leadership, zeal, and style Ghengis Kahn had led his heathen hordes. At six-four, maybe three hundred and twenty or so pounds, and with a voice that could carry over two counties, Reverend Wil
liams’ church never had any internal mutinies and seldom any arguments. When he said something was bad, it was bad, brother. Or vice versa. Amen! Every single member knew he had conveniently, perhaps shrewdly, prefixed “Simon” along with an added “r” to his given name, and he was no more a Doctor of Divinity than I was a Catholic priest, but his huge heart was of fourteen carat gold, and he and his wife, Lollie were among Cal’s oldest friends. Mine, too, for that matter. Both had known me since I’d been a baby. Lollie had been our housekeeper after my mother’s death, and in lieu of babysitting, had often taken me along to her church when her private work schedule conflicted with something Simon Peter needed done.

  As a kid, and even when I was much older, I was always in awe of the sheer size of Mt. Zion’s. Twice as large as any Caucasian church in Tryon’s Cove, it had been rebuilt at least three times over the last hundred years, and now covered most of the entire block of 200 Pine Street. Down in the labyrinth of its enormous basement, the Boy and Girl Scout troop headquarters Mt. Zion’s sponsored, along with the offices of its two Little League baseball teams, had been moved to separate buildings. The vacated space, next to the remodeled, expanded kitchens, was converted into two dozen tiny, furnished apartments for the black unwed mothers of Tuscarora County. Nowadays, they were almost always full. That particular project had been started years ago by Lollie—with Simon Peter’s tacit approval—when two of their own daughters had needed such assistance. Simon Peter and Lollie had never been blessed with a boy child (a vexing cross that Simon bore stoically) and, of their seven girls, two of the first three, Pearl and Opal, had become pregnant before they were out of high school. The oldest, Amethyst, had married a young evangelist, and the youngest, Topaz, was a deputy sheriff who worked at the county jail. The others helped Lollie run the Mt. Zion Haven for Unwed Mothers.

  I parked the bus in the church parking lot, turned off the lights and looked at the watch Monsignor Ralph had loaned me. Ten forty-five. I turned to face the women, all who had been truly magnificent on the long bus trip. I had only needed to make two gas-pit stops, and none of the nuns had complained a bit about where those stops had been. I had the sudden thought just at that moment, that Sister Agnes and Dr. Simon Peter Williams had a lot in common besides their faith. “You’ve all been terrific. I need you to be patient just a little while longer. I’m going inside, and it may take a while before I get back. Will you be okay?”