Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2)

by Miles A. Maxwell

  As he walked back up the hall to reception, pressure mounted behind his eyeballs.

  People put such faith in us, their ministers and priests, their imams and rabbis. “You know, Franklin! You believe!” As if we speak to God personally. Like God answers us in human voice!

  Silently he asked: What about me? Who talks to me?

  Patricia Marshal was out front. He was surprised to see her twin grade-school girls Patty and Robin with her so early. “None of us can sleep,” Patricia told him. Don Marshal was probably the person most responsible for Franklin being brought to Erie and hired by the church. He knew Don from their Army Ranger days. It was Don who’d given him the picture of the goat when he first got here.

  When they were all seated in his office, Franklin stuck to the book — as Ralph demanded. Praying. And in between reading lines of biblical encouragement, trying to offer the Bible’s promises, between cries of anguish, it all came out:

  Over the last five years Don created a company that built strollers for amusement parks, their wheels and other parts made by Taiwan firms, connections Don made in the service.

  After years of work, Don went to New York Monday to put the final touches on a public offering of his company’s stock. Patty hadn’t heard from Don since Monday afternoon.

  The girls were crying harder when they left his office, their mother too, than when they’d come in. Watching her lead the twins out the front door, Franklin wondered, What the hell am I doing?

  Out front, Harry was shaking in his cage worse than ever.

  “Do you know a good pet shop?” he asked Marj.

  “Erie Pets is good. They have low prices on dog food. I shop for Arnold there.”

  Arnold — her English bulldog. “Do they know anything about owls? Like what they usually eat? How to take care of one?”

  “I don’t know.” She moved her mouse. Clicked something on her screen. “I have the number right here.”

  Franklin went back to his office. Harry shaking? Church members crying? My own family shrinking? He gently clicked shut the polished brown door behind himself.

  His sacred cave.

  But his fortress felt less secure today, as if it had become a trap. There were times when even a minister needed someone human to talk to. Talking to other ministers was fine for some things.

  Then there were the other things. The ones he’d only felt comfortable talking about with Cyn.

  Twenty-five years ago, when their father and Franklin’s mother died in the mine accident, maybe because Harrison Reveal had been their father — his and Cyn’s, not Everon’s. There’d been that closeness between them.

  When Franklin’s only girlfriend deserted him, Cynthia had talked with him for hours. Her humor had let him see another side. Gotten him through.

  Cyn wasn’t just the link between me and Everon, maybe she was my link to the rest of the world too. Did Cyn ever believe in God as strongly as me? Perhaps not. But we shared our own kind of uncertainty. The things we each chose in our lives. Cynthia, a banker. Me in the military — then the seminary. Not like the certainty Everon always has about everything. Cyn was the normal side of my life.

  Even in death Franklin still loved Cyn in a way he had never been able to love Everon or anyone else. Not friends, certainly not Ralph Maples or any other minister. Only Cyn.

  Now there was only God.

  Franklin looked at his desk. The books on the shelves. The brass door handle he took his hand from. He drew that hand across his eyes, massaging his temples. His eyes caught on Cyn’s bank statements or whatever they were.

  And then he sagged.

  His knees went down. Down into the dark green carpeting. Great racking sobs moved through him. His head drooped slowly forward, until it too made an indent in the carpet. Crying softly, shoulders shaking.

  He lifted far enough to fold his long fingers together beneath his head. “Please God,” he whispered. “Please. Tell me what to do.”

  Words — the Book of Proverbs — flooded his brain: Hear, my son, and receive my words, and the years of your life shall be many . . . For by me your days shall be multiplied, and the years of your life shall be augmented.

  “Please, God,” he whispered, “why Cynthia? She knew these words. She feared you. She had faith in you — nearly as strong as mine — why were her years not multiplied? Why were her years cut short? Dear God,” he begged, “please tell me.”

  Again and again he asked, pleading, sobbing, tapping his forehead up and down against the top finger of his folded hands above the carpet. Over and over and over. “Please, God . . . Please —”

  And then other words came back to him. Words he’d tried to live by. His father’s words, said to him as a child. Words that in the last ten years had sometimes seemed impossible . . .

  Wisdom is the goal,

  Therefore get wisdom;

  And above all you possess,

  Value understanding . . .

  That damn Fourth Proverb —

  “God,” he whispered. “Please. My sister’s dead. What am I to understand? Please, help me to understand . . .”

  But there was no reply.

  The Plan

  Either his radio’s out, or something else is wrong. “Are you sure we can count on him, Nan?” Everon asked as they hurried out of Juniata’s radio room.

  Repairs over at Thomas Substation were moving swiftly. And as they stopped by the fence around Nicola, he could see Right’s prediction was on schedule. Less than eight hours to finish up. Nicola’s big transformer was in place. Eight more of Hunt’s linespeople had reported in to work, and unlike when Woody had been running things, none of them were being wasted.

  But Turban wasn’t answering radio calls. Enya’s radio system was working fine. Everon could reach everyone else. He sure wished he had Enya there keeping things together.

  “I’m depending an awful lot on Turban to get us a generator. If we choose the wrong set of lines to repair — it’s Enya who’ll pay.”

  “And everyone else in that hospital,” Nan nodded. “The people I know in Phoenix say he’s reliable. A bit outspoken politically but always gets the job done.”

  Everon knew how scarce generator engineers were. Especially now.

  People had said good things about Turban — real name Aja — though Nan had mentioned Turban’s troubles at the Palo Verde Nuclear Plant in Phoenix. The Sikh had steadfastly refused to wear a hard hat. With his hair topknot coiled above his head, the lavender cloth wrapped over that, Turban had felt he had plenty of protection from falling objects or hitting his head on something. A legal battle had been fought. Turban won.

  Would that same determination make him able to pull a whole gen plant together with just a few guys? Or would Turban turn out to be some kind of a nut?

  Not being able to reach the engineer worried Everon. He hated the inefficiency of having to do anything over again, and this time it was life and death. They couldn’t afford to waste the time.

  Enya couldn’t afford it.

  “Alright, Nan. You and Andréa go ahead with the plan. Keep me updated.”

  The women would just have to get along with each other. As much as he was counting on Turban, he would be depending on Nan and Andréa. And for whatever reason, the two women were treating each other like female cats in heat. Unfortunately the Russian HALO was too much helicopter for a single pilot to handle solo. And the plan absolutely required the monster.

  Much as he wanted to be flying the machine instead of Nan or Andréa, he had to find out what Turban was doing — right now. Besides, someone had to take Rani and Holmes over to check for damage to the lines between Mercer and Nicola. Everon couldn’t be everywhere.

  As Nan went back to preflight the HALO, Everon waited impatiently for his plant manager to finish explaining to Nicola’s newly expanded transformer team how to put things together even faster. Everon’s plan called for an exceptionally fast repair. He needed Right Dete
rs’ advice.

  Right came over. “What do you need, E?”

  Everon explained what he intended to do: They had to replace an entire high-tension line between Nicola and the river. Heavy aluminum and steel cable. Across twenty-two towers. And they had to do it in hours, not days.

  “What?” Right’s voice almost up in Lama’s range, hound-dog face even longer. “How much time does the hospital have?”

  “We’re doing it all today.”

  “Impossible,” Right said.

  “Look, I’ve got an idea. We get as many bucket trucks on this as possible, one or two of our people to supervise. Take the biggest reel truck in the yard . . .”

  Normally they would pull a lightweight leader — a thin cable — from the break at the Delaware River all the way back to Nicola. Then hook the big main line onto that and use a winch to pull it back the other way.

  There just wasn’t time.

  Everon had another idea. Something potentially dangerous if anyone made a mistake.

  Five minutes later, eyes big as moon pies, Right said, “That sounds pretty hairy, E.” He looked over at Woodie who had one elbow up, leaning against the new transformer in Nicola Yard. “I can’t leave.”

  “I know.”

  The transformer was two-thirds finished. That couldn’t be allowed to slow down either.

  “Who do we have?”

  Right took a long breath, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Put Ortega and Metalhead in the trucks, I think. They can handle the critical stuff. Both are quick. Both have good spatial awareness. They’ll be in the riskiest positions.

  “And I can give you six of the new people on my transformer team. Put Ortega in charge. You’re taking Rani and Holmes with you, so for the reel here, let’s put Hunt’s old linesmen Bryce on it.”

  “Is he precise enough? Dependable?”

  “I think he is. And he’s motivated. You heard the prison’s running out of fuel?”

  “I know.”

  “Well, apparently the first thing some murderer threatened to do when he escapes, is come after Bryce for testifying against him.”

  “Good motivation. Can you keep an eye on him?”

  “I can.”

  “Do it.”

  Nan and Andréa were going to use the largest helicopter ever built — the Russian HALO, capable of lifting even a tank — to skip the winch, skip the leader and just pull the main cable itself directly to the river.

  Everon’s plan meant Bryce would be stationed on the back of a flatbed truck, controlling a huge wooden spool’s speed, unrolling two-inch-thick cable like garden hose, up through the air, over the clamshell rollers one after another, as linespeople hung them from each tower. And the big HALO pulled — directly on the cable’s end.

  It would be much faster. But not without an element of risk and danger. There would be tons of cable and helicopter floating above Ortega, Metalhead and their line team. If Nan or Andréa slipped on the controls . . .

  Everon stepped up briefly into the silent, waiting HALO. By the windshield thermometer it was 26 degrees F. Still getting colder.

  Nan flipped several switches. Andréa adjusted the mixture and held the starter button on Turbine One. The huge engine rumbled. The HALO’s eight blades turned. Slowly they came up to speed. The sound was deafening.

  Everon jumped down from the cargo door. Snow whipped away around the huge machine. He backed out of the way, into a bitter cold windstorm. Held a long breath and a hand across his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes.

  The women lifted into the air.

  Everon helped Right and Bryce muscle the end of the heavy two-inch-thick cable into position. Right forced its end into a quick-release beneath the flying behemoth. Andréa brought Hunt’s monster higher then delicately angled it, crabbing sideways, dragging the heavy power cable over to the first tower.

  Metalhead was already waiting alongside the tower arm in a bucket a hundred feet above the ground. The gigantic rotor blew her short dark curls around the edge of her silver hard hat as she bopped in time with whatever it was she called music.

  “This one’s good!” she transmitted, referring to the long insulator that would later support the cable. She had the clamshell roller open and waiting. As the cable moved into position, Metalhead gave it a hearty shove and the clamshell snapped around it.

  She lowered herself smoothly down to her truck as Andréa crabbed the HALO onward for the next tower, dragging the cable to where Ortega waited.

  Everon, Holmes and Rani shook the snow out of their hair as they climbed into the much smaller MD-900.

  The moment they were airborne, Everon got on the radio. Trying to reach Turban again.

  Blood Relative — Mrs. Astor

  After a while Franklin got himself up off the floor and tried the Long Island phone number from Cyn’s papers again. He didn’t really expect anything, but this time he was rewarded with a fast busy. He’d try later.

  He greeted Mrs. Eleanor Astor, a large, expensively dressed, matronly woman in her seventies. A conservative woman who’d given the church a tremendous amount of money. He was surprised she wouldn’t ask for Ralph.

  That People magazine thing. Has to be.

  The weeping woman whose hand Franklin took recalled little of the neck-stretched, tightly girdled, thick-perfumed prim reservation he’d known in the past. Her heavy frame was bent, the flesh of her face and neck were loose. He barely recognized her.

  “Thank you for seeing me so early, Reverend. My sister . . . I don’t know what to do —” The blurry eyes seemed unaware of their surroundings. “I was on the telephone with her two nights ago! She lives on the Upper East Side —”

  As he led her gently back toward his office, all Franklin could picture of New York’s Upper East Side was Cyn’s building among the flames — the explosions, the sewage, the rubble strewn around hundreds of fly-covered corpses —

  “We were talking on the telephone at eight o’clock when the line went dead. I tried to call her back —” She was wildly distraught, so worried, so sad. “It didn’t even ring —”

  Mrs. Astor froze up suddenly, halfway down the hall. She bent over as if suffering a severe abdominal attack, tears streaming down her cheeks. Unable to move. “They . . . say . . . there is —” she sobbed, “ — they say there is nothing left of her building,” choking the words out. “I know . . . I can feel it . . . she’s gone!”

  “Shall we pray for her?” Franklin asked.

  “Please!” she cried.

  Right in the hallway he began to pray. In soothing tones he led her toward his office and prayed: for God’s plan. For a better life, a better place for her sister.

  It wasn’t helping. Mrs. Astor was falling apart. Bawling, make up running down her heavy flaccid cheeks. She looked to him desperately. “What kind of person could have done this to us?”

  He didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t even really believe the things he was saying. Are Cynthia and Steve in a better place? Hell, they’re in the ground in Spring Valley! Their daughter’s orphaned! He was such a hypocrite, trying to follow Ralph’s instruction. Maples didn’t want him using linguistics, not anything like hypnosis to help Mrs. Astor. “Faith and prayer are the answer,” Ralph had ordered.

  Isn’t it faith causing her to feel worse with every word?

  As he moved her through his office door, softly closing it behind her, he asked himself: Faith? Because-I-said-so? Because-it-says-so-here-in-this-book?

  Faith, the absence of . . . of knowledge, isn’t it? How can one lose an absence? How can one lose a void? Can one lose one’s ignorance, dishonesty or laziness? The ability not to think? Look at her, dammit! Her pain is overwhelming! You thank God for all the good things, a voice said inside. Never do you blame God for any of the bad.

  Forget what Ralph said, this is destroying her!

  And then it came to him. The Jesus Prayer! Use its ambiguity to begin the emotional healing she needs!


  Franklin settled Mrs. Astor comfortably in one of the guest chairs. Took the other next to her himself. He mirrored her position. Breathing when she breathed, blinking when she blinked.

  And then from memory, John 17, he began to pray:

  “ . . . THESE words said Jesus,

  who then lifted up his eyes to heaven, and said,

  Father, the hour has come . . .”

  Mrs. Astor bowed her head. Her tearful eyes closed.

  “ . . . And this is life eternal,

  that they may know thee to be the only true God,

  and him whom thou hast sent, Jesus Christ . . .”

  Franklin spoke deeper. Mrs. Astor went comfortable. So . . . relaxed, her trance deepening with each phrase . . .

  “For I have given unto them the

  words which thou gave me;

  and they have received them,

  and have known surely that I came out from thee,

  and have believed that thou hast sent me . . .”

  I . . . them . . . thou . . . me . . . they . . . them . . . I! Said the right way, its pronoun ambiguity overwhelming . . . from the corner of Franklin’s eye, he watched her go somnambulistic . . .

  “And all mine are thine, and thine

  are mine; and I am glorified in them . . .”

  Mrs. Astor’s breathing dropped . . . w . . . a . . . y . . . DOWN . . .

  The approach would never have worked without Franklin’s intuitive phrasing. His soft confident monotone. A certainty based on years of experiment and failure since the days of his childhood. He adjusted his position and tempo, matching her attitude . . . the slowing rise . . . and fall . . . of her chest, the changing states he could feel Eleanor Astor projecting, and he moved toward the things that were hurting her.

  Her sister! Blood relative! Mark 5 came softly out of him:

  “And a . . . certain woman . . .

  had an issue of blood twelve years.