In place of a steeple was a huge white cross, thrust up above the church’s entrance so that from a distance, with sun rays glinting off its surface, it had the look of a brand burned into the smoky blue sky. It was the cross that had drawn him here. That, and the fact that he’d noticed the church on his earlier explorations: it was by far the most prominent of the three in Beulah. He had to have someone to question, and the last thing he wanted was a repeat of the emotional scene at the library. Who calmer than a clergyman? Who knew more about what went on in a small town?
He parked in front of the church. There was no one in sight, although he could see a small Jeep wagon parked in the carport adjacent to the parsonage; the only sounds were the distant ones of traffic and someone using an electric saw. The church’s double doors were unlocked. He hesitated before he entered. He was not a religious man, at least not in the sense of embracing formal religion, and the few times he’d been inside a place of worship he’d felt uncomfortable.
Single room, long and narrow, with a high cross-beamed ceiling and stained-glass windows shadowed by the branches of the cottonwoods. Two dozen rows of pews and a plain altar with a bronze crucifix mounted on the wall behind it. Hardwood floors worn smooth in places and scarred in others by the feet of two or three generations of worshipers. The hot, dry silence had an empty quality. In the wall to the right of the altar was a closed door that would lead to the sacristy. He walked down there and knocked on it. No answer.
Outside again, he started toward the parsonage. More of the graveyard grew visible as he went, and in the same moment he saw movement and heard a sound over that way. Somebody — a young woman wearing jeans and a straw hat — was kneeling on parched ground at the rear of the church, her back to him. He hesitated, then changed direction and approached her.
The cemetery had an austere look in keeping with the desert surroundings: not much in the way of grass or other ground cover, most of the markers of wood and, with one exception, all small and simple. The exception was a plot closer to the back wall, near where the woman knelt; it was presided over by a six-foot, white marble angel, wings spread, its surfaces dulled and pocked by windblown sand, poised atop a four-foot block of black granite. The monument was so out of place here it was almost a grotesquerie. Even from a distance Messenger could read the name etched on a bronze plate set into the granite: ROEBUCK.
The young woman was working at a much smaller grave site a few yards from the Roebuck plot, one marked only by a newish wooden cross. Spread out beside her were gardening tools, a nursery planter containing a white-flowered shrub. She was hacking at the dry earth with a trowel, making a hole for the shrub. She must have been there, quiet, when he drove up.
Intent on what she was doing, she didn’t hear him. When he stepped around in front of her and said, “Excuse me,” her reaction was sudden and defensive; she reared up jerkily and drew the trowel back as if to fend off an attack. Messenger backed up a step. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Messenger. I’m looking for the pastor here.”
“Messenger?”
“Yes. Jim Messenger.”
She was tense for another few seconds, staring up at him with her free hand shading her eyes. Then all at once she relaxed; she laid the trowel down and got loosely and jerkily to her feet. Skittish, he thought. High-strung. She was two or three years past her twentieth birthday, slim except for wide hips, very brown. Wisps of hair visible under the brim of her hat were a lustrous blue-black. Indian or Mexican blood. The high, broad cheekbones and dark eyes indicated it, too.
“My father,” she said.
“... I’m sorry?”
“The pastor. He’s my father. Reverend Walter Hoxie.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m Maria Hoxie.” She didn’t offer her hand. “He’s not here right now; he went to do some shopping. He should be back pretty soon.”
“I’ll wait, if that’s all right.”
“Better not wait in the sun without a hat.”
He nodded. “Hot out here even with a hat.”
“Yes, but I’m used to it.”
“Are you the caretaker here?”
“Caretaker? No. Well, sometimes. I can’t stand it looking so bare and colorless. It should have flowers, plants.”
“So you’ve started planting them.”
“When I don’t have anything else to do. You’re a stranger in town, a tourist. Right?”
“A stranger, yes. A tourist more or less.”
“Are you going to gamble at the Wild Horse Casino?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. I don’t like gambling, I think it’s sinful. John T. laughs at me but it’s what I think.”
“John T.?”
“John T. Roebuck. He manages the casino. Do you think gambling is sinful?”
“I don’t have much of an opinion either way.”
“My father preaches against it sometimes.” She paused. “Sunday services start at nine o’clock.”
“I doubt I’ll be here on Sunday.”
“You have some business with him? My father?”
“Well, a few questions I’d like answered.”
“What questions?”
“About someone who used to live in Beulah.”
“Who? Maybe I can tell you what you want to know.”
She probably could, but her youth and the way her mind seemed to jump from one subject to another made him reluctant to confide in her.
“Thanks, but I’d better wait and talk to your father.”
“All right.”
Messenger’s gaze strayed to the marble angel atop its four-foot block of granite. “The Roebucks must be important people in this community.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The size of the monument there.”
“The Roebucks aren’t important, even though John T. thinks they are. Nobody’s important except God. Excuse me, okay? I want to finish planting this before it gets too hot. The other one I put here died.”
“Too much sun and not enough water?”
“It just died,” she said.
Messenger said he would wait out front and left her on her knees again, scratching at the hole in the sandy soil with her trowel. He sat in the shadow of one of the cottonwoods, his back against the bole, looking out over the town and the desert beyond. It was a short wait. Inside of five minutes the whine of a car engine cut through the stillness; an old, sun-faded station wagon appeared on the access road, swung over into the carport next to the Jeep wagon.
Pint-sized stick figure; that was his first impression of the man who got out of the station wagon and came forward to meet him. Not much more than five feet tall, so thin his shadow was like a child’s line drawing. The cords and bones in his neck and arms protruded in sharp relief; his Adam’s apple was the size of a walnut. Thin, graying hair — he looked to be in his fifties — was combed crosshatch-fashion across a liver-spotted skull. Maria hadn’t gotten her Indian or Mexican blood from him, or her dark good looks. In fact, it seemed improbable that his genes could have helped create her at all. Stepfather or adoptive father was more likely.
“Hello, there,” he said cheerfully, smiling. His voice was the only big thing about him: an oddly rich and resonant baritone. “Waiting for me?
“Yes, if you’re Reverend Hoxie.”
“In the flesh, what there is of it.” He chuckled at his little joke. “And you’re—?”
“Messenger. Jim Messenger.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Messenger?”
“Well, it’s a personal matter. Some things I’d like to know.”