New Jersey came next, and he started with a Dr. A. Howard Turner in Rutherford. He ran quickly through the names, becoming ever more certain the whole thing was a waste until one name jumped out—Rev. Howard Turner in Lambertville. He sat with his hand poised over the keyboard, certain he was grasping at straws,
but he thought about Prescott Biddle’s fundamentalism.
“Hey!” he shouted.
“Be there in a minute,” Maggie called from the bathroom.
While he waited he finished New Jersey then went through New York. No other name struck him. A second later, Maggie hurried into the room.
“Find something?”
Brent glanced over his shoulder and took in the bath towel knotted over her breasts that covered her to mid-thigh. The air was suddenly heavy with the scent of soap and shampoo and clean female flesh.
“What have you got?” she prodded.
He tried to focus, but the towel intruded. One gentle tug would pull it loose. Finally, he swung around and put his arms around her waist.
“What the hell are you doing?” She stiff-armed him, pushing him away. “I’m putting everything on the line for you, but my ass isn’t part of the package!”
“You never heard of a special favor for a condemned man?”
“Turn around!” she snapped in her best cop voice.
He nodded contritely and spun back to the monitor, but he felt a sudden lift. In spite of her reaction, he’d caught the hint of a smile in her eyes. “This Howard Turner is a reverend,” he said. “It’s not much, but it could be a connection.”
Behind him, Maggie moved closer and rested her hand on his shoulder. “What’s the name of Biddle’s church?”
“The New Jerusalem Fellowship.”
“Check for a web page.”
Brent googled and found the church’s home page. Beneath the title it read, “Where God’s Word is Literal Truth.” Down one side was a Church Locator. He typed Lambertville, NJ, in the box. A second later, the computer listed the address and phone number of the local New Jerusalem Fellowship Church. It said the pastor’s name was Howard Turner.
Brent felt a thrill shoot up his spine. For the first time since the FBI agents had appeared in his office, he felt he was onto something real.
Maggie’s fingers tightened on his shoulders as she bent over to read the screen. Brent didn’t move. He let the heat of her touch wash through him. It calmed him and warmed his bones as though he was a traveler who’d been lost a long time and was finally home again. She finally pulled her hand away and pointed to the service schedule on the screen. There was evening church that night.
“I’ll get dressed,” she said. “We can be there by dark.”
An hour later they were in Maggie’s Toyota, nearing the outskirts of Lambertville. The last daylight was fading, the sky quickly going gray, but even so, the area’s beauty was evident. The countryside was surprisingly bucolic, the roads having narrowed from four lanes to two, the subdivisions and strip malls that pocketed areas around Morristown or Sommerville replaced by graceful farmhouses set on undulating acreage. Young corn was ankle high in the fields, and cows and sheep stood along roadside fences placidly chewing the rich grass.
The traffic in town meandered, drivers slowing to gaze at the ancient fieldstone houses with their swaybacked roofs and well-tended gardens. The place was a tourist magnet, with prosperous looking hotels, guesthouses, and restaurants along the main streets. It seemed too secular a place for something like the New Jerusalem Fellowship Church, Brent thought, but clearly looks were deceiving.
They stopped at a gas station and got directions then headed west out of town on a back road. The church was fairly new, a nondescript clapboard building with none of the grace of the two-hundred-plus-year-old buildings that dominated the town. Lights burned inside, and a number of cars sat in the gravel parking area. Maggie pulled into the lot and parked.
She reached into the backseat, took a small pair of binoculars from a canvas bag, and handed them to Brent. “I’ll go to the door and act like I’m lost. You stay out of sight and check the people inside.”
“What do we do if it’s him?”
“Nothing. If we don’t make him suspicious, he’s got no reason to run.”
Brent was afraid suddenly. Turner might be his only link to the truth. What if he got away somehow? He took a deep breath and nodded, knowing he had to trust her instincts. “I guess you know best.”
“I’m a cop.”
“And you’re smart.”
“Well, I am a woman.”
In spite of his anxiety, he smiled, realizing how good it felt to be with her again.
A pickup truck was parked directly in front of the church door, and he climbed quietly into its bed and moved to where he could kneel on a hay bale and steady the binoculars on the cab roof. Maggie went up the steps to the front door then turned and looked at him and held up one thumb, her gesture indicating he was out of sight. After another second, she opened the door. She waited like that, seeming bewildered, holding the door wide. Brent could see a number of people in the pews on either side. One by one heads began to turn as parishioners looked back.
“Excuse me!” Maggie said to no one in particular, her voice carrying faintly to where Brent knelt. “Is this St. John the Evangelist?”
Brent saw one man shake his head.
“I didn’t think so!” Maggie grabbed a handful of hair, as though she was some kind of ditz. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but somebody told me St. John the Evangelist was out of town. Is it in town?” Several parishioners nodded.
“Come on, come on,” Brent muttered, a cold sweat breaking out from his armpits as he scanned the strange faces with growing desperation.
“I’m so sorry,” Maggie persisted, even as the heads started to swing back to the front of the church. “But I’m kind of lost.” Someone seemed to be trying to wave her forward, but she seemed too embarrassed to go any further, too confused to leave.
A second later Brent felt his breath catch as Spencer McDonald—at least the man he knew as Spencer McDonald—walked down the aisle wearing a black clergyman’s shirt and white collar. He led Maggie out onto the porch and let the door swing shut behind them. His voice was a low rumble as he gave her directions back to town.
Just before she turned to leave, Maggie asked, “May I ask your name, sir. I want to tell my friends about the nice man who helped me.”
“Reverend Turner.”
Brent stayed out of sight in the back of the truck. After a few seconds, the church doors opened and closed again. Finally, he heard Maggie’s footsteps coming toward him.
“Well?” Maggie asked when she came abreast of the pickup.
He nodded. “It’s him!” he whispered.
THIRTY-NINE
LONG ISLAND, JUNE 30
ABU SAYEED GLANCED AT HIS watch, spoke a silent prayer to Allah, and then nodded to Mohammed. It was time. They had gone over his instructions yet again. Mohammed’s job was to erase their tracks, but if he was stopped and could not escape, he was to kill himself and the woman. It would be a necessary loss so the plan could still go forward. The American President’s visit was two days away, but Abu Sayeed had no interest. His attack was scheduled for tomorrow.
They stood in the open door of the cottage. The night was moonless. Mohammed licked his lips, and Abu Sayeed noted a trickle of sweat at his hairline. Not good, he thought. Mohammed checked the silenced Marakov 9mm pistol he wore strapped across his chest, gave it a tug to make sure it was secure, and then Abu Sayeed handed him the Heckler & Koch submachine gun. Mohammed nodded once then set off through the trees.