Leary aimed the flashlight at himself. The light turned his flesh pale red and cast shadows upward on his face. Weird guy, thought Nick. Figured Leary had spent more days frying on LSD than he had spent on the job as a homicide detective.
“Where I’m standing right now is called the Giggle Crack,” said Leary. He aimed the light down on the shiny black rocks. “See the crack, where the water comes in and flows out? In daylight it’s really quite beautiful. People like to see if they can get in, feel the tide swell around them. But there’s a sharp edge they don’t see and it snags their ankles and the water beats them terribly against the sharp rocks. The Giggle Crack has killed three people. Every ten years it claims a new victim. There it is again-the temptation of experience.”
“Someone raped and strangled Janelle,” said Nick. “It wasn’t temptation that did that.”
Leary shined the flashlight on Nick’s face, then tilted it back at himself. “Is this more to you than a case, Mr. Becker?”
“I knew her when she was a little girl,” said Nick. “She used to sing and dance.”
“I’m sure she was perfect in every way,” said Leary. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Goodbye. There’s a trail to your right that leads up the bluff. It’s easy to follow. There are feral cats in the brush. Their eyes glow faint yellow in the dark. They’ll lead your way. Good night, gentlemen.”
Fowler handed Nick a piece of paper. “My alibis. Check ’em all you want.”
They drifted away. Nick could see Leary’s white clothes slowly vanish.
Nick and Lobdell climbed up the trail on the bluff, yellow cat eyes paired in the brush around them.
24
DAVID WALKED THE NEW CHAPEL that morning with young Darren Whitbrend. David leaned slightly forward, half a step ahead of his prospective partner, hands locked behind the small of his back. He was finding it very difficult to shake the words that brother Andy had written about brother Nick in this morning’s Journal. Max, their father, had called David just after 6 A.M., perplexed and fretful at the hostility between his sons.
“Is televangelism a word?” asked David.
“I heard it somewhere, sir,” said Whitbrend. “And thought it was perfect.”
“Barbara tells me you’re a televangelism guru,” said David.
“Guru was her word, sir,” said Whitbrend with a smile. Whitbrend was fair-complected and white-haired. Eyes small and quick. Round spectacles. He had a trim, wiry frame and a blunt face.
“I think televangelism is the future of ministry,” said Whitbrend. “I think there will be a day, in my lifetime, when churches become the studios for Christianity. Faith will surge across the airwaves. Entire networks will be dedicated to God’s word. Empires built with satellites and antennas and closed-circuit broadcasts and pay-as-you-view events. A television set in every room and in every vehicle and in every public space. Screens so small they can fit in your pocket. Screens so big they’re placed on the sides of buildings. A staggering apparatus for transmitting faith and making money for God’s purpose.”
David sighed and shook his head slightly.
“Is that distasteful to you, Reverend?”
“Grim shit,” David said.
“Why?”
Whitbrend was direct and comfortable with words. David wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“Like I said on the phone,” said David. “I love my congregation. I don’t want to lose them.”
“With respect, sir, if you don’t televise, you’ll surely lose them.”
“Preach to millions? How can one man minister to millions? I can hardly keep Mrs. Hartley’s allergic papillon straight from Mrs. Harley’s allergic grandson.”
Whitbrend smiled. It was somehow transparent and conspiratorial at the same time. It forced David to figure out which and he didn’t appreciate the extra work. He noted that one of Whitbrend’s neat front teeth was capped and slightly whiter than the others.
“Well, sir. As you and Mrs. Becker and I understand, one man can’t do everything. We see that it will take two. Two. You and whoever you choose for the astonishing journey you are making.”
David eyed the young minister. Whitbrend’s résumé had billed him as a “nondenominational, faith-based evangelist in the tradition of Billy Graham.” He was twenty-two. But it was difficult to see the spark in him. Billy Graham could light up like a Texas bonfire. You could feel the heat. Whitbrend, however, seemed only intelligent. And probably tenacious. David pictured him behind the pulpit here in the Grove Drive-In Church of God, unknowingly leading the congregation-his congregation-into bored resentment. Faith was joy. God was joy. Jesus was joy. Whitbrend was a Lutheran-trained mutineer without pizzazz.
Outside they toured the playground and storage buildings, the classrooms and the extra drive-in stalls. David felt like a homeowner entertaining buyers he didn’t want to sell to. They stood approximately two hundred feet back from the full-screen Raising of Lazarus, the optimal distance for taking it all in. The speaker-studded expanse of sky blue asphalt stretched all around them.
“This is all well and good,” said Whitbrend. “But your congregation deserves more. You want to inspire awe.”
David suspected he’d entirely misread Whitbrend. “This inspires me every morning when I see it,” he said.
“With what? Not awe.”
David thought for a moment. “Satisfaction. Every Saturday when the deacons and I run the street sweepers over it and dose it with Orange Sunshine. And the nice chapel we were just inside? And the painting up there? And the playground for the kids? This is a good thing, Whitbrend. I’m surprised you can’t see that.”
“I see it, sir,” Whitbrend answered quietly. His face colored. “And I agree with everything you just said. But it’s quaint. You need majesty around you. Majesty a camera can capture and transmit. You need to broadcast your message from a place that looks like heaven. Sir, I understand that you are at a crossroads. You have a wonderful ministry here. But it’s growing and you need a partner. My belief is that the only way to keep the traditional congregation is through television. That was my thesis at the seminary. I’ve given it some thought. May I entertain you with my vision of the Grove of God?”
“Go for it,” said David.
“Keep The Raising of Lazarus,” said the young minister. “Erect three more screens at cardinal points, like they used to have here, and commission equally impressive Christian paintings for them. These will serve as your franchise images. They will draw the curious to your services. Guided tours will be free. Postcards and T-shirts based on the paintings will be in demand. More importantly, the paintings will become the visual introduction to the televised ‘Grove of God’ worship hour, produced and distributed by the Grove of God in Orange.”
“This is the Grove Drive-In Church of God,” said David.
“Get rid of all of the drive-in stuff,” said Whitbrend. “It’s space-consuming, air-polluting, and it already-honestly-feels dated and overstated. Like the giant rotating donuts and the huge plaster hot dogs you see in L.A.”
“Drive-in worship is the soul of my congregation.”
“Was,” said Whitbrend. “Bob Schuller started like this, then went on to much bigger and better things.”
David waved aside thoughts of Bob Schuller. “The cars fill our lot every Sunday.”
“But believe me,” said Whitbrend, “if they think that worshiping in their cars is convenient, they’re going to love watching your sermons on television, at home, still in their jammies, with cereal and a cup of coffee.”
David pictured it. Family on the couch. Socks and slippers up on the coffee table. Milk dribbling on flannel. Kids with stuffed animals or plastic machine guns. Burps and farts and comments during his message. Not much different from inside the cars here on Sunday mornings, if you were honest about it.