They were on patrol, heading east on Clements Street through the center of the residential neighborhood, Wade at the wheel, putting off the inevitable.
It was a hot, humid night, the air as still and about as breathable as stone. Charlotte had the window rolled down, the movement of the car creating a breeze, but it didn’t bring much relief.
She could hear a voice crackling on a loudspeaker, though they couldn’t make out the words.
“What is that?” Charlotte asked.
Wade smiled, steering the car down an alley. “That’d be Mrs. Copeland.”
The patrol headlights illuminated Terrill Curtis, his back to Mrs. Copeland’s fence, confronting two men who were holding up an emaciated woman between them. The way the woman and two men were swaying, either they were drunk or high or there was a major earthquake going on under their feet.
In the backyard behind Terrill, Dorothy Copeland stood in a yellow floral housedress, one hand on her hip, the other holding a bullhorn in front of her mouth and aiming it like a gun at the alley.
“Go away, you filthy whore,” Dorothy’s voice boomed. “And take your garbage with you.”
Charlotte grinned at Wade. “She loves that bullhorn.”
Wade stopped the car and got out, stepping up to Terrill, who immediately backed up, holding his hands up in surrender.
“What’s going on, Mr. Curtis?”
“Nothing,” he said, practically whining. “I’m not doing nothing and I’m making sure they don’t, either.”
Terrill motioned to the threesome, who swayed to and fro, stupid grins on their faces.
“We’re just having a stroll,” one guy said. He had greasy hair, rheumy eyes, and a cold sore on his lip the size of the cigarette he was smoking.
“We’re having a party,” the woman said. She wore a tank top that hung loosely from her bony shoulders, denim shorts the size of panties, and high?heel shoes.
“Looks very festive,” Wade said, then turned back to Terrill. “What’s the problem?”
“You are,” Terrill said. “If they take a whiz on the flowers, it’s me you’re gonna piss on.”
“True,” Wade said.
“It is?” Charlotte asked.
Wade ignored her and addressed the threesome. “Maybe you should take your party elsewhere.”
“Sure,” the woman said. “Want a blow job?”
“No, thanks,” Wade said.
The three stumbled off, Charlotte watching them warily.
“They’re high,” she said.
“Very,” Wade said.
“Shouldn’t we arrest them?”
“They aren’t causing any harm.”
“They are publicly intoxicated,” she said. “They could be a danger to themselves and to others.”
“That’s true,” he said. “But I’ll take the chance.”
Dorothy approached the fence and held the bullhorn at her side.
“Thank you, officers. But that really wasn’t necessary,” she said, casting a smile at Terrill. “Mr. Curtis has been doing an excellent job protecting my garden. We both have.”
She hefted the bullhorn to indicate how she was doing her part.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Wade said.
“Do you like pecan pie?” Dorothy asked Terrill.
“I like all pie,” Terrill said.
“Come inside, I’ve got a slice for you,” she said.
Terrill was stunned. “You do?”
“But you’ll have to take off your shoes and wash your hands,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Terrill said.
Dorothy turned to the officers. “You two are welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, but it will have to be another time, Mrs. Copeland. I need to pay a call on someone tonight.”
Dorothy opened the padlock on the gate and let Terrill into her garden. “I’ll have banana cream tomorrow.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wade said.
He and Charlotte got back into the car.
“You might as well return those lights you bought her,” Charlotte said. “She’s never going to give that bullhorn back to you.”
“I’ll get by,” he said, and they drove off.
Chapter twenty-five
The cots were out and Mission Possible had a full house, a captive audience for Friar Ted, who sat on a folding chair reading aloud from the Bible. No one appeared to be listening. They were talking among themselves and, in some cases, to themselves, but Ted didn’t seem to mind. The preacher closed the book when he saw Wade and Charlotte approaching.
“Your audience isn’t paying much attention,” Wade said.
“But I’m sure they hear me,” Ted said, rising to meet his guests. “God’s word has a way of sinking in, even for those who think they are deaf to it. I’m living proof of that.”
“I admire you for trying,” Charlotte said.
“It can’t do any harm,” Ted said. “But I’m afraid I haven’t had any luck with those photos.”
“That’s OK,” Wade said. “That’s not why I’m here. I ran into a guy today who had the Twenty?third Psalm tattooed on his arm and I thought of you.”
“ Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no eviclass="underline" for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me,” Ted recited from memory.
“ Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” Wade continued. “ Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”
Ted smiled. “I’m pleased that you know it so well, and I’m sure that particular passage gives you great comfort while you’re doing your job, especially here. But I don’t see what made you think of me.”
“Well, you’ve been providing meals, shelter, and comfort to street people here for two years,” Wade said, “trying to show them that accepting God is the only way to be truly safe and content.”
“I wish more people heard his word as clearly as you have,” Ted said.
“I know you do,” Wade said. “And it must be so frustrating to you when they don’t.”
“I can’t open their hearts and minds to God. They have to do that for themselves.”
“The psalm also made me think of the murders of those women that began two years ago,” Wade said. “The victims were all shot with the same gun and covered with a blanket or a piece of cardboard.”
“One small act of decency,” Ted said.
“Or shame,” Charlotte said.
“But here’s the odd thing,” Wade said. “They all had traces of olive oil on their heads. The kind of oil you use when giving last rites.”
“Not me,” Ted said. “I preach God’s word, but I’m not a priest.”
“But you anointed them anyway,” Wade said, taking a step toward Ted, invading his personal space, “because there wouldn’t have been much point in killing them without making that last effort at their salvation.”
Charlotte turned and looked at Wade in astonishment.
Ted’s jaw tightened, as if he’d just been given a Botox injection in his cheeks, and he held the Bible to his chest.
“You’re accusing me of the worst imaginable sin,” Ted said.
“Yes, I am,” Wade said, and he’d been dreading it since he woke up that afternoon. “If you want to be forgiven for it, you’ll confess.”
“You aren’t a priest either,” Ted said.
Wade tried to stare him into doing the right thing, but Ted held his gaze.
Charlotte stepped up beside Wade and pointed to the men on the cots. “Everyone ignored you when you read from the Bible. Do you know why, Ted?”
“Because they are faithless and craven,” he said.
“Because you can’t save them, or anyone else, when you’ve deprived yourself of God’s grace,” Charlotte said. “You’re carrying a horrible sin. They can sense it. That’s why they don’t hear you; that’s why they don’t believe. Anything you do here is meaningless and ineffective without his forgiveness. You know it’s true.”
Ted’s shoulders sagged and he lowered his head in shame.
“Where’s the gun, Ted?” Wade asked softly.
Ted swallowed hard. “In my room in the back, under the mattress.”
Wade nodded to Charlotte, who went off to get the gun. He took out his handcuffs.