Timmy murmured, “Right.”
“The reason I’m so sure Barry’s family had nothing to do with it is this: I’m reasonably certain I now know who they are.”
His eyes had closed, but now they fluttered. “Oh really? Who are they?”
I told Timmy about Barry being taken to the psych unit in Pittsfield, where he was on a suicide watch.
“Oh no,” he said and grew alert.
I told him about Barry’s mother phoning him at the jail and informing him that the family was on their way to Pittsfield. I said Barry’s mother also asked a corrections officer about the Sturdivant funeral, which was scheduled for Monday at ten.
I said, “What awful people have made it a practice to turn up at gay people’s funerals all over the country?” Timmy was awake now. “What large extended family and their religious followers go to gay funerals and wave signs that say God Hates Fags and Homos Will Burn in Hell?”
Timmy said, “No.”
“I think so.”
“Barry is a – what? Grandson of Reverend Felson?”
“Barry’s from the Midwest. Reverend Fred Felson operates out of a Baptist church in Topeka. Bud Radziwill told Ramona Furst that Barry and Bud met in the Emerald City, meaning
Barry probably followed the Yellow Brick Road – as you yourself sagely speculated – out of whatever hellish situation he came from. That’d be Kansas. Barry told me he didn’t think his family had anything to do with Jim Sturdivant’s death because they don’t have to kill people with weapons, that they have their own means for murder. That sounds like the Felson family, the people who picketed Matthew Shepherd’s funeral and screamed that he had it coming.”
Timmy was sitting up now. “And Reverend Felson is on his way to Pittsfield?”
“I think so.”
“God, that makes it more urgent than ever that we get Barry out of jail and safely away from both Thorne Cornwallis and away from his family!”
I said, “I know.”
Chapter Twenty-four
I set Timmy’s alarm for eight and fell into a deep sleep that was interrupted by the alarm’s bleat before I could get any terrifying dreams revved up. Timmy woke up apparently refreshed and headed for the sink and mirror. Raised Catholic, he observed a Muslim-like ritual of step-by-step ablutions involving several gallons of water, numerous potions, and a carton of appliances he carried with him whenever he left the house overnight. I had thought this might be a habit he’d picked up during his Peace Corps years in a predominantly Muslim section of India, but Timmy’s sister Maureen once told me that he had always been what she called a “bathroom hog.” I said something about it early in our relationship, and he replied, “You might try freshening up a little more extensively yourself once in a while.” And that was it for that subject.
While Timmy abluted, I made some calls. I remembered from news stories that Reverend Felson’s church in Topeka was the Southboro Baptist Church, so I retrieved the church’s number from Verizon and dialed it. It was just after seven Sunday morning in Kansas, and a female voice answered the phone. When I asked to speak to Reverend Felson, I was told he was out of town for several days, and did I wish to speak to the assistant pastor? I said no and asked if the reverend was headed for Massachusetts. “Yes, the pastor is descending into the belly of the beast, and we must all pray for him,” the lady said. I told her I was actually calling from Satan’s lower intestine and wished her a good day.
I called Ramona Furst, who said, “Bill Moore will be back in town later this morning, and he wants to see you.”
“Finally. So what’s Bill’s report?”
“He just said he’d talk to you and will phone you when he gets to Great Barrington. He sounded upset, and he’s very concerned about Barry. I’m going to try to get him into Two Jones to see Barry this afternoon.”
“He didn’t say what he came up with in Washington? Supposedly Moore was going to gather information that was so crucial that it was okay for him to disappear for over forty-eight hours. That’s what he told Bud Radziwill.”
“No, he sounded totally frustrated with whatever he ran into down in DC.”
I said, “Maybe the guy is some kind of pariah at the FBI, or wherever it was he worked. Maybe there was something he did that was especially controversial or politically embarrassing to the Bushes, and nobody dares speak with him.”
“Or maybe,” Furst said, “whatever Bill dug up is not exculpatory for Barry. That, we don’t need.”
I told her what I had deduced about Barry’s horrendous family, the Felsons.
Furst said, “Dear God.”
“Exactly.”
“And you think it’s Reverend Felson who’s on his way here to reclaim Barry?”
“I do.”
“We have to save him!”
“We will. One way or another. I have some preliminary thoughts about that.”
“Are you safe yourself? From the thugs?”
“I’m okay,” I said, “as long as they think I’m off the case. Has Radziwill turned up? Or Jean Watrous? They must have heard from Barry that Reverend Felson is headed this way, and that’s why they ran for their lives.”
“I’ve had no word from either of them. Don, if Barry is really a Felson, I wonder what Bud is?”
“Think Texas,” I said. “That’s his accent, no?”
“Actually,” Furst said, “Bud sounds more like a guy I know in Pittsfield, a painter from the Southwest, who talks the same way. But there are differences between his and a Texas accent. Bud’s is softer and sweeter than Texas, with its y’alls all the time. I’d say Bud – no Kennedy cousin, for sure – is not so much Texas as Oklahoma.”
I went quickly through my News of the Week brain Google, and that’s when something else clicked. I said, “I’ll ask Bud if he’s from Oklahoma when I see him, as soon as this is all over. Which is going to be quite soon.”
“For Barry’s sake, and yours, and Timmy’s, it had better be over soon.”
“Noted.”
I reached Joe Toomey’s voicemail and gave him a crisp summary of recent events. I was planning on asking for his help soon, and it was important that he be kept up to date. I considered trying to reach Thorne Cornwallis. But he plainly was a man who would have to be handed the truth on a silver platter – and then maybe have his face shoved in it – and that was impossible until I knew why the mob had so badly wanted Jim Sturdivant dead.
After I showered, Timmy and I availed ourselves of the “continental” breakfast in the motel lobby – the “continent” must have been Trans-Fatia – and picked up the Sunday papers at a nearby convenience store. The Berkshire Eagle again led with the Sturdivant murder. The story had no new actual information, though that was not a hindrance to the paper’s covering much of its front page with photos of smiling Jim Sturdivant and glowering Thorne Cornwallis and a wordy recap of the bloody crime.
Timmy chose to stay at the hotel and make his way through the Sunday Times while I visited Steven Gaudios. During the drive down to Sheffield, I tried Bill Moore’s cell phone again, and this time he answered.
“Let’s have lunch,” Moore said. “Didn’t Ramona tell you I was on my way back?”
“She did. So are you going to show up for lunch this time, or will you do your vanishing act again? I’ve had enough of that.”
“No, you can depend on me this time, Strachey. I mean, up to a point. The thing is, I didn’t find out what I thought I would find out, I’m sorry to say.”