A small woman in a white dress approached behind the dark screen door. She opened it to see Carver more clearly, and revealed herself to his gaze. She was pretty but with coarse features softened by dyed blond hair piled high on her head and combed in wild little wisps around her ears-the cotton-candy blond Desoto had described. Beneath the white dress, her figure was beginning to thicken with middle age. He guessed she was in her late forties.
“Belinda Lee Freel?” he asked.
“I am.”
“My name’s Fred Carver. I dropped by the Clear Connection to talk with your husband and they told me he could be found here.”
She smiled. “Well, this is where he lives.” She had a hint of southern accent.
“Then he’s home?”
“I surely didn’t say that. Just why do you want to talk to him, Mr. Carver?”
“It has to do with the Women’s Light bombing in Del Moray.”
Her darkly made up eyes narrowed. “Would you be another reporter?”
“No, I wouldn’t be,” Carver said honestly.
“Police?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“A woman I-a woman carrying our child was injured in the bombing.”
She let the screen door shut and backed away a few steps, retreating into shadow. “Are you dangerous, Mr. Carver?” she asked in a tone she might have used to inquire about the weather.
“No. Not to you or your husband, certainly. There are just some questions I need to have answered.”
“Are you attempting to prove Mr. Norton guilty?”
“I don’t think the authorities need me to do that, Mrs. Freel.”
“The authorities are in league with evil, standing in the way of God’s work.”
“Norton and the rest of the demonstrators were from Operation Alive. I understand your husband organized the demonstration that day.”
“My husband has a mandate from God, Mr. Carver. I do think I fear you. I fear for him.”
A larger form took shape beyond her, behind the screen. “I don’t believe we have anything to fear from Mr. Carver,” a resonant male voice said.
“He’s an agent of the devil,” Belinda Lee said.
“I hardly know the devil,” Carver lied.
“I am Reverend Freel,” the male voice said. “Meet me around back of the house, Mr. Carver, in the garden. We can have that talk you want. Perhaps I can help you in some way.” He sounded as if he sincerely wanted to help, just like Jurgen Hoyt.
The door behind the screen door closed.
Carver left the porch and limped along a stepping-stone walk that led alongside the house and to the backyard. An iridescent green hummingbird hung suspended on the bright blur of its wings before a red feeder mounted on a pole, then whirred away in an abrupt, flat trajectory like a jade bullet. Butterflies flitted about in the flowers bordering the walk.
It was a surprisingly large backyard, and private. The grass smelled as if it had recently been mowed. A tall stockade fence followed the property line except for a space in back that allowed a view of trees and a small lake. Gardenia bushes grew along the fence on both sides of the yard. In a corner formed by the fence in the back of the yard were two concrete benches in the shade of a tree.
“Mr. Carver, how nice to meet you.”
Freel had come out a back door and was standing beside Carver. He was a tall man of about fifty, with black hair going gray at the temples. He had a chiseled face and large, bulbous forehead. His eyes were gray, friendly but calculating, and remotely amused. There was a curved scar near the right corner of his thin lips. Carver had seen scars like that left by broken bottles used as weapons. Freel was wearing gray slacks that draped like expensive cloth, a white shirt with a button-down collar, no tie. On his feet were gleaming black loafers with pointed toes.
“Do come sit,” he invited, leading the way to the benches beneath the tree. “I could have Belinda bring us some lemonade,” he said over his shoulder. “My wife has received a spate of threatening letters from pro-choice activists lately, so you can understand her suspiciousness.”
Carver declined the offer of lemonade.
Freel sat down on one of the benches and rested his hands on his knees. He looked inquisitively at Carver, who sat opposite him on the other bench. He wasn’t at all what Carver had expected. This man was genial and a little rough around the edges, though that might have been a pose. He did have a confidence man’s air of total trustworthiness, too good to be true except for those who were yearning for someone or something to believe.
“I heard what you said about your wife losing your child in the explosion,” he said. “You have my sympathy, Mr. Carver.”
“Not my wife. My child, though.”
“Horrible,” Reverend Freel said, either about Beth’s marital status or about the death of the unborn. “But wasn’t she going there to . . . ?”
“She was going inside to cancel her appointment,” Carver said. “We were planning to have the child.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carver. Violence has a way of begetting violence.”
Obviously Freel was referring to the violence done to the unborn inside the clinic. “I’m told Adam Norton is a member of your congregation as well as of Operation Alive.”
“Most Operation Alive members are also members of the congregation.”
“Do you believe Norton is guilty?”
Freel rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t anticipate the judicial system, Mr. Carver.”
“Why is Operation Alive’s attorney defending Norton?”
“Adam Norton is one of my flock who’s in dire trouble. Wouldn’t you agree he needs the best legal counsel?”
“Yes, but aren’t you afraid the presence of Jefferson Brama in the case will make it seem all the more likely that Operation Alive was behind the bombing?”
“It might well look that way, Mr. Carver. But Adam Norton acted alone when and if he planted that bomb.” Freel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your friend who lost the child, does she need help?”
“What kind of help?”
“The sort of help the church can provide. Do you yourself need spiritual guidance and comfort, Mr. Carver?”
Carver smiled sadly. “Probably we all do. Did Adam Norton give you any indication at all that he was fanatical enough to plant a bomb?”
“He seemed dedicated, Mr. Carver. Fanatical? I’m not sure. There’s a certain line between fanaticism and dedication not so easy to discern. Reasonable people might differ as to whether someone’s crossed that line. Was Martin Luther a fanatic?”
“I expect so,” Carver said.
“Then maybe Adam Norton is. He believes in the sanctity of unborn life, and he acted on that belief. Improperly, I certainly agree. And if guilty, he should pay the penalty. But before judging Adam Norton outside of court, Mr. Carver, or judging Operation Alive, consider the life that was lost inside that clinic on a daily basis.”
“You can’t stop that from happening,” Carver said. “The other side is as determined as you and Norton and Martin Luther. And the law is with them.”
“The law of man doesn’t mean much in this instance except as an inconvenience.”
“It means the abortionists are acting legally and you’re criminals,” Carver pointed out.
“Civil disobedience can be a citizen’s responsibility, Mr. Carver.”
“Is that in the Bible?”
“Oh, of course. I’m speaking of Jesus. But it’s not only in the Bible. Thoreau-”
“Thoreau never set off a bomb,” Carver interrupted.
“Nor did Jesus. That I would not condone.”
“Would you condemn it?”
“Certainly.”
“Publicly?”
“I’ve stated publicly that I do not condone it. Bombs are not a part of Operation Alive.”
“Norton had books on bomb making in his home,” Carver said. “The police found blasting caps in his car. Did he mention anything about this to you, talk at all about bombs, before he used one on Women’s Light?”
“We didn’t discuss bombs, only the strategy for that day’s demonstration in Del Moray.”
“Were you in Del Moray at the time of the bombing?”