Blue pointed through the trees in the direction of Steve’s farm and said, “Father Phillip should know that there’s no reason his Saint Gilpin’s church should be using the ill-gotten gains of pirates for its buildings. He should not be misleading those homeless people who are weak in the knowledge of the Lord.”
“All them evil women too,” said the fat woman.
“Yes, the pirates led sinful lives,” Blue continued. “No place for them or their memory in a family place like River Sunday. This madness, this descent into the world of Satan, must stop.”
The Captain asked, “So you don’t think the treasure, if any exists, should be dug up at all?”
“It should remain where it is, deep in the bowels of the earth as close as possible to Hell and dark where it belongs, and not brought into Godliness and the brightness of sunlight,” said the preacher, his voice rising in fervor.
“I don’t know how many will agree with you on that, Reverend,” said John.
Blue looked at them with disdain and brushed by, walking ahead through the beach gate across the dig and on to the gate of the fenced area. As he passed by Jesse to get to the road, he stopped, letting the woman go on ahead, and called back to John, “Look out there at the boats. Our people are watching you.” He pointed to several rowboats like his that were spaced among the larger motor crafts. The boats had members of the Reverend’s church aboard, the women noticeable for their old fashioned clothes and the men for their upright military bearing. In each a United States flag was prominent in the bow and in some cases the flag was as big or bigger than the rowboat itself.
“You want everyone to put down his tools, cover up the ground again and go home?” said John.
“Stay home too,” called the woman from her position ahead of the preacher.
“Good luck to you, Reverend. You’ll understand if we don’t follow your wishes,” John said. “By the way, this is private property. Please tell your followers that this is posted land.”
The Reverend did not look back. John went out to the gate and watched the preacher go across the field, blessing the workers as he went along. He saw Guthrie come out of Steve’s house and stand for a few moments on the porch. Then the robed preacher held his arms up in greeting to Blue. John wondered how the homeless preacher would get along with the lock and key fundamentalist. As he watched them hug, he figured that so far Blue was saying what he needed to get some converts.
At that moment, with a cracking of gravel of the side of the road, the Chief’s sedan came up beside John. The policeman walked over to John.
“You keeping your head down?” asked the Chief.
“I got a big knife that says he’ll regret coming around me,” John said, without emotion.
The Chief looked at him for a few moments, his eyes taking in John’s lean muscles, the hard stare that had come into the young lawyer’s eyes, then said, “I believe you know how to use it too, boy.” Then he continued, “Well, try this one on. That girl you talked to, the daughter of the pawnbroker? She’s disappeared. Her roommates say she left the apartment last night by herself and never came back. They said she never does that, has her johns come to the place.”
John looked at his watch, “That would be almost twenty-four hours. Maybe she got into a bad date.”
The Chief shook his head. “Like I said, she doesn’t do the street. The roommates would have known if she had trouble.”
“What do you think, Chief?”
“I think someone saw her talking to you. Maybe her pimp did. State police are looking for that guy, a man named Taint. He’s not on the street either, been gone for a few days, out of sight.”
Chapter 11
Sunday, July 14 9AM
On the morning of the seventh day, the river in front of the priest’s property was crowded with anchored small boats, some still arriving. John remarked to the Captain that a person could cross the river by climbing from boat to boat and have a good chance of never getting wet.
Some of these were media boats with antennas aboard to beam back news as it happened, their personnel including Peterson and some of the other better known television personalities. They would beach their boats from time to time but on the other side of Andy’s home or beyond the Tolman farm and then walk back up the road. The media found no one to talk with at Tolman’s, nothing but a closed board gate, and John and his team did not grant interviews. They contented themselves with videos of wilderness protected by briars and vines and a long steel link fence. Most of the reporters spent endless film on interviews with the homeless, getting opinions on poverty matters and politics as well as dreams of what they would do with riches if they dug up the money.
Demonstrators mixed with the others both on land and sea. Some people were in smaller crafts such as kayaks and rowboats and ganged together in rafts where they held up placards and other type signs advertising their displeasure at the pollution of the river, the current state of American foreign policy or rights of women and other minorities. Reverend Blue’s fans were on the water of course with their American flags. John expected but saw nothing so far complaining about the treatment of Native American sites.
The hole at Father Tom’s site was beginning to take on the appearance of a vertical mine shaft. Mouse said that the structure was slightly different from those he had built for wells in that it was built into the side of the mound.
The shaft itself had been topped with a crude pulley system mounted on two struts, which allowed material and workers to be raised and lowered into the hole. Mouse said it would do until they got deeper. Then he had another idea. The structure of the walls going down had been designed by Mouse to hold back any water seepage as well as give strength against a cave-in. He had found large pieces of corrugated steel and secured them to match the outlines of the hole. Three were joined and overlapped every five feet of depth as the hole progressed. At the same time wooden braces were constructed so that each new five-foot section of the walls was not only fitted with the corrugated steel but also braced into place. By now the hole depth was approaching fifteen feet, close to sea level, that is, the water level of the river, and Mouse had overbuilt everything, wanting to make sure that ground water seeping through from the river would not create enough force to cave in the hole.
Andy said, with excitement in her voice, “You won’t believe what’s out on the highway in front of here. Come on and take a look, John.”
When he followed her to the gate area, he looked out carefully from the edge of the wilderness, keeping himself and Andy still hidden in the brush. In front of them was a newly arrived throng of visitors, numbering hundreds of people. Gaily colored buses, arriving one after the other, many with signs of the Easter Sunlight movement, kept unloading more. Men, women, and children, some of them dressed in not much more than rags, others better clothed but still shabby, held meager belongings over their shoulders in plastic garbage bags as they stood about Steve’s field, some of them close to the fence around Father Tom’s swamp.
“The Chesapeake Bay Bridge had to stop traffic one way to let them come along, an unbroken line of them back over the bridge and then down to River Sunday,” she said. “It’s being covered on television.”
“Must be several thousand people,” John said.
“Guthrie brought them here. That’s what the reporters on television are saying. It’s a group meeting of the homeless.”
“He’s using the gold rush draw,” Andy said. “The more the merrier I’m sure Guthrie thinks. The gold draws them and he gets a large crowd for his plea for help to the homeless. It’s like the rumor of gold is providing an advertising for the plight of these people and Guthrie is taking advantage of the attention. I bet he doesn’t care whether gold is found or not.”
“Mouse told me that a Native American hatchet was found near Steve’s house. I suspect that added some inspiration,” said John.
“I know that that fellow Peterson interviewed a Nanticoke tribal descendant he found livi
ng in Saranac Lake, New York. He said he’d have to come to Maryland and look at the hatchet.”
John laughed, with a little sarcasm, “I’m sure he will report that the tomahawk belonged for sure to his great great great grandfather.”
Father Phillip was across the road speaking and ministering to the many homeless who were trying to camp there, in various types of tents and hovels. Many went right from the transportation to begin digging. Their work was in no way professional and appeared to be little more than ditch digging in many directions.
The new visitors had joined the former homeless and some stood along the road with signs professing their homeless status and asking for handouts. Cars from River Sunday moved among the buses and stopped to give money or food amid rounds of applause from the assemblage of ragged people. A long line of people dressed in colorful but ragged attire stretched across the file from the food tables on the porch of Steve’s home.
Andy said, “It’s like the Gold Rush in California. All of them think each has a chance to get some of the gold.”
John winked and said, “Just like us.”
He heard microphones being tested. It was Sunday and sermons were commencing across the road. From time to time Reverend Blue spoke from his tent advertising his series of talks to begin later in the morning and reminding the horde that coffee was available. John watched as visitors to the tent went in and got coffee then exited back to the diggings.
Father Phillips stood at his microphone on Steve’s porch, speaking of Guthrie’s worthiness. Beside the priest stood selected homeless, dressed in ill-fitting filthy clothes. One, a man in what might have been his twenties, had a young face with round baby cheeks. He was alternately rolling and unrolling dirty white shirt sleeves to display scars on his arms from drug needles. The smell of unwashed bodies drifted across the road in the summer heat.
Guthrie Smith shook hands with Father Phillip and moved in front to speak, his robe showing clearly its white Christian crucifix in its field of blue. He began, his voice melodious and entrancing with its subtle but forceful rhythm.
“Look around you, my brothers and sisters in need, and see if the politicians have come here to help you.” In unison, the members of his audience moved their heads from side to side, murmuring, “We don’t see. We don’t see,” over and over.
“Again, I say, look around you my brothers and sisters and see if the state and town officials have come here today.” Again the men and women shook their heads emitting the same monotone.
“Do you see Senators and Congressmen?”
“No,” came the chant.
“Let me say that we came to each church in turn, the Catholic being the biggest we approached, in time of our need and these church promised to help us with all their power. We gave our faith, our belief that they would do so. Yet we continue to hear that not enough money is available to go around. I say there is plenty of money to go around but that they have to stop building fancy cathedrals and churches.”
The people shifted their feet stamping from side to side as they moved their heads in eager agreement, as if their energy was being replenished by this man’s words.
“Jesus worshiped in the outside,” he said.
Amid the noise and shouts, a large black limousine pulled up in front of Steve’s farm. Guthrie stopped speaking and the homeless people nearest the car crowded around. A young woman got out. She was dressed in a conservative white pantsuit, her hair cut short and her eyes covered with dark glasses against the hot sun. She went around the car and opened the back door.
A black suited man with a white collar got out. John recognized the small gold-rimmed glasses of Monsignor Carter.
Carter walked through the assembled homeless greeting some by name, nodding to others. He went up to Father Phillip and Guthrie Smith and the three traded hugs, which from the distance seemed to indicate the men were old friends.
Then John saw the churchman come back through the crowd and cross the road leaving Father Phillip behind with Smith. The young priest stood motionless, staring after the man. Guthrie began his lecture again, calling on churches to give more to the homeless amid redoubled shouts and whistles from the crowd. The limousine meanwhile backed out of the field and pulled into a space near the entrance to Father Sweeney’s site.
When Carter got to Father Tom’s fence, the Chesapeake barked, the first time John had seen any action out of the old dog. Carter looked around, appeared uncomfortable in the heat and then said to Jesse at the gate, “I’m looking for John Neale.”
John walked out of the brush and introduced himself. They shook hands and he introduced Andy.
“I’ll get right to my business, Mister Neale. I’d like you to know that usually the church fills the role of executor of our priests.”
“He specifically named me,” said John.
“You could say that all our priest’s property is the property of Mother Church,” Carter said, staring into John’s eyes.
John stared back, just as forcefully and said, “I could say that but I won’t. You see, Father Tom specifically left his property in my charge.”
Carter broke the stare and looked around. “I see the fences. Do they protect something?”
“They protect Father Sweeney’s property. Just like you put locks on your churches,” John replied.
“I gather you have been listening to Guthrie Smith and his lectures.”
“A little. I noticed that you seem to be friends, Monsignor,” said John.
“Yes.”
“Tell me, Monsignor, how are these homeless folks different than the Prodigal son?” asked John. “I thought he was welcomed and given fine clothes and food.”
Carter smiled, “Jesus was so right but not so practical. We have to run His church for the greater good. The Bible also says that the poor will always be with us.”
He paused then said, “Come out to my limousine, Mister Neale. It’s air conditioned and we can talk privately, just you and I.”
The large black car with its tinted windows was idling near the side of the road. As they approached the young woman got out.
The monsignor waved to her and said, “I’ll be meeting inside the car so I’ll need you to wait outside.”
She nodded and held the door as John and Carter climbed in. John noticed how well tailored the priest’s garments were. John also recognized the expensive brand of his men’s cologne. Then the woman closed the door, stepped back from the car and waited in the sunlight. The car’s interior was cool and its soft leather seats luxurious. John sat back beside the monsignor.
As he studied the man, wizened in his elegant church garb, he thought about how different the Monsignor and Father Phillip were as churchmen. Father Phillip was a challenger to this man, a young priest whose future was undoubtedly insecure because he likely was fighting the dogma held firmly by the older man his superior. Phillip appeared to think that humanity was more important than divinity in the search for the proper way to best serve Jesus. Ironically, John thought, all this argument was done in the name of an ancient and homeless holy man one of whose greatest triumphs was tearing down a temple. An old fashioned cathedral.
“I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me,” the churchman said.
“I don’t know what I can tell you. We haven’t found anything yet,” John answered.
“I’m sure that the Lord will provide whatever is there to be found,” he said with a smile. The smile reminded John of the kind of humor that a used car salesman used when he insisted that some car would serve the prospective buyer well, but probably didn’t mean a word of what he was saying. His thoughts drifted to the vision of the banker who had told his foster father that nothing more could be done to save his family farm. Not much changed over the decades, he thought.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
Carter reached forward to a small compartment at the side of the car and pulled out a cold soft drink. He popped the can top and held it toward John. John sh
ook his head and the priest held the can to his own lips and drank heavily.
“You know that our cathedral was destroyed by an explosion.”
“Gas line explosion, right?” said John.
“That may not be all the story.”
“What do you mean?” asked John.
“We think that the explosion may not have been accidental.”
“I heard that,” said John. “The police. What do they think?”
“The police don’t know.” The monsignor pointed to the crowd of homeless across the road. “Have you seen the website of these people?”
“You think they did it?”
“If they did, the question is how do we stop them from doing it again?” said Carter.
“I see.”
“We decided to build anew but with more security.”
“More locks,” John remarked.
“Yes.” The churchman went on, “Which brings me to why I came to see you.” He looked into John’s eyes as he spoke. “We think we know where Father Sweeney was sending his money.”
“How do you know about this?”
“We do know that a great sum of money was coming to the cathedral fund. It came in through our collection boxes in simple untraceable envelopes filled with old twenty dollar bills. We found it after Sunday Mass in one of our churches in Baltimore, a different church each time. We began scouring the parishes for the envelopes. Each was always marked for the cathedral fund. It was regular and so we began to plan on it and continued to get the new foundations completed. It stopped coming at the same time that Father Thomas Sweeney died. Therefore we think it may have had something to do with him.”
He continued, “If we do not have this money we will be forced to cancel the cathedral restoration. These donations have, quite simply, made the difference in these days of tight funding for building construction.”
“You didn’t try to follow the money trail back to Father Sweeney while it was coming in?”
“It would not have been easy but then again, that’s not the way we do things. We were happy to get it. We didn’t want to destroy the source. Sometimes our funding comes from the very penitent, those who would otherwise not want their identity known.”
Gold (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 4) Page 12
