“You’ve met Special Agent Wicker?”
“Sure. He was in here the day after the clinic bombing, asking the same questions you just asked.”
“Has the FBI talked to Freel?”
“Probably.”
The guitar music from the radio faded and a soft, syncopated drumbeat began. A woman began singing something mournful in Spanish. Or maybe it sounded mournful because it was in Spanish. Carver picked up the folder and stood up from his chair.
Desoto stood also. “Take good care of Beth.”
His concern struck Carver as odd. Desoto had had reservations about Beth because of her marriage to the late Roberto Gomez, one of the bad guys. A cop thing. But he also had sensitive antennae when it came to women; he must know what it meant to her to have lost a child she’d agonized over and decided to bear.
“The FBI’s got a watch on her at the cottage,” Carver said. “And we’ve got a guard dog.”
“Dog? That doesn’t sound like you, owning a dog. Her dog?”
“It’s working out that way,” Carver said.
“What kind of dog?”
“German shepherd, more or less.”
“Big dog?”
“Big.”
“They’re a breed known to turn on their masters,” cautioned Desoto, who knew nothing about dogs and was in fact a little afraid of them.
“Not Al. I don’t think.”
Desoto looked at him curiously and started chewing the inside of his cheek again.
Carver thanked him for his help and moved toward the door.
“Take care of yourself, too,” Desoto said as Carver left.
22
The Church of the Clear Connection looked as if it had at one time been a discount store. It was a long, low cinderblock building, painted white, with wide windows that had been installed so close together that steel frames rather than cinderblock separated them. What had probably once been a flat roof was now on a shallow pitch with what appeared to be chains of adjoining skylights. Soaring from the center of the roof was a white metal cross that for some reason reminded Carver of a TV aerial. That might have been the idea. Communication was communication.
The grounds around the Clear Connection, probably once a parking lot, were immaculate-grass as smooth and closely mowed as golf greens, palm trees of uniform size lining the wide stone walk to the building’s entrance, colorful flower beds so symmetrically arranged that the blossoms appeared almost artificial. In the center of a round flower bed bordered by low-lying yews was a fountain that made Carver look twice. Looming from the center of a shallow pond was a tall, sculpted crucifix, and from the stone hands of Jesus nailed to the cross flowed water to cause ripples in the pond as it fell and was recirculated by an electric pump to rise in dancing little spurts around the edges of the pond. Colored lights were arranged around the pond to illuminate the spectacle at night. Carver wished he could see that.
He pushed through the tall glass doors into the Clear Connection and was immediately struck by the pure white light that infused the building. What little wall space there was had been painted pristine white, and gray carpeting with a white fleck pattern ran down the two main center aisles toward a bleached-wood pulpit. The pews were also bleached wood, of a lighter shade than the pulpit. Behind the pulpit was a crucifix that at first appeared to have been carved from ice but was actually glass. It picked up the colors of the flowers arranged on either side of the pulpit and seemed to glow with crystalline life. Despite all of the glass and sunlight, the church was cool almost to the point of being cold. The air-conditioning system made a low hum that would be inaudible when there were people here and a sermon was being directed from the pulpit. To the right of the glass crucifix was a wide alcove and a small door that led farther back into the building.
“Hello?” Carver called. His voice seemed to be fragmented and muted by the light, sent in all directions but not very far.
After a few minutes, the door in the alcove opened and a man about sixty with a flowing mane of white hair stepped out and smiled at Carver. He was wearing a cream-colored suit, white shirt, and blue tie and was slightly stooped as he walked up one of the center aisles to where Carver stood at the rear of the church.
As he drew nearer, he got older. Loose flesh hung at the sides of his jaw, and his kindly eyes were faded and surrounded by a web of fine creases in his tanned flesh. Carver changed his estimation of the man’s age to at least seventy. “Can I help you?” His voice was soft and sincere, as if Carver had come in for solace and he was eager to comply.
“I’m looking for Reverend Freel.”
The man’s gaze went to Carver’s cane. “Have you been injured?”
“Long ago.”
“Perhaps we can help you here.”
“No,” Carver said. “Doctors have told me this is permanent.”
The man smiled. It was an incredibly kind and wise smile. “We don’t do faith healing here, sir. I meant perhaps we could help you with your acceptance and your faith.”
“Maybe some day,” Carver said, making it sound sincere. “Is Reverend Freel available?”
“I’m Jergun Hoyt. Perhaps-”
“I’m afraid only Reverend Freel will do,” Carver interrupted.
“And you are?”
“My name is Fred Carver. I’d like to talk to the reverend about a private matter.”
Jergun Hoyt studied him with his faded, kindly blue eyes made to seem wiser by the crow’s-feet at their corners. “Reverend Freel isn’t in today, Mr. Carver. If you could leave a message-”
“Where might I find him?”
The crow’s-feet extended and deepened as Jergun Hoyt smiled wider. “Oh, I’m afraid he’s unavailable. You must understand that many people walk in here and request an audience with him. Though he’d love to, he simply can’t comply with them all. That’s why if you were to leave a message, or phone for an appointment, it might be better for you.”
“What exactly is your position with the church, Mr. Hoyt?”
“I’m the reverend’s assistant. During services I lead the choir, and I tend to the church in Reverend Freel’s absence.”
“A sort of sinecure?”
Hoyt smiled tolerantly. “A sinecure is paid much to do little, Mr. Carver. I take care of quite a bit of the church’s business, much of it of a financial nature, and my work is strictly voluntary. I retired to Florida five years ago after a long career in the banking industry.”
Carver considered asking for Freel’s home address just to see if Hoyt would refuse, then decided against it. Hoyt might alert Freel, and Carver had the address in the file Desoto had given him anyway.
“I’ll take your advice and phone later,” Carver said and thanked Hoyt for his time.
Hoyt stood, stooped and still smiling, watching as Carver limped from the church. Carver thought that if it were possible to smile your way into heaven, Jurgen Hoyt would be high among the angels.
Surprisingly, Reverend Freel’s house was rather modest, secluded behind a stone wall and lush foliage but with a shallow front yard. There was an unlocked gate, which Carver opened, at the mouth of the driveway.
Leaving the Olds parked in the street, he walked up the driveway to the house and onto the front porch. At least Freel didn’t use his congregation’s donations to treat himself to a high lifestyle. Unless he had other property in other cities under other names, not to mention investment portfolios. For some people, life was a game with mirrors.
The house itself was a white clapboard structure, well kept up, with dark blue trim and an aluminum screen door. A radio or TV was on inside; Carver thought it was probably a TV soap opera but couldn’t be sure. When he pressed the doorbell button, the incomprehensible dialogue between a man and woman abruptly stopped.