“Of course not. If he can spare the time.”
“I think he can. Most of the thugs he’s working on don’t come out until after dark. Kind of like vampires.”
Ben spotted Mike approaching from the riverbank. “Where have you been?”
“Just out for a bit of exercise,” Mike said, “and to commune with nature. You know, doing the Thoreau bit.”
“Natch. Got Portia working yet?”
Mike sullenly grabbed the doughnut bag. “No comment.” He took two doughnuts, one for each hand, and alternated bites from each.
“Find out anything about the infant?” Ben asked. It sickened him just to raise the topic.
“Um-hm,” Mike answered, wiping the powdered sugar from his mouth. “Baby girl. Newborn.”
“Anyone claimed her?”
“Not yet. And no one knows who she is, or how she got there.”
“Including the Truongs,” Ben said. “I’ve talked to them.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“Granted. But I believe them. After all, they got themselves to safety. It wouldn’t have been that hard to carry a six-pound baby with them. If they’d known she was there.”
“This is one strange case, Ben. Hell of a way to spend a vacation.” He shoved the rest of both doughnuts into his mouth.
Ben agreed. “Normal cases start to unravel as you acquire more information. The more we learn about this case, though, the more tangled it becomes.”
A car drove up the dirt road beside the campsite, then honked twice.
“Sounds like my ride,” Ben said. “See you later. I’m off to church.”
“Church?” Mike almost choked on his doughnuts. “You?”
“Well, of course. It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
“And,” Jones added with a wink, “he’s taking Belinda.”
“Is that a fact? How romantic.”
“See you goons later.” Ben stood, then hesitated a moment. “So long, Christina. We’ll continue this discussion later, okay?”
Christina looked up, but didn’t say a word.
36.
BELINDA PULLED HER JEEP Cherokee into the space cleared away for parking in front of the Aryan Christian Church. It was an old-fashioned wooden church building with a tall steeple and an iron bell. A smaller separate structure—a garage, probably—was in the back. Attached to the church was a smaller house—preacher’s quarters, Ben guessed. And beside the quarters was a wire-enclosed kennel with five barking bird dogs inside.
“Looks like the preacher is a hunting man,” Ben commented.
“Not surprising,” Belinda replied. “Men in these parts take their hunting very seriously. When deer season is on, you can’t find a blue-collar worker for a hundred miles around.”
“They hunt deer with dogs?”
“No. The preacher must go after ducks. Or maybe raccoons.” She turned off the ignition, then turned to face Ben. “Are you sure we should be doing this?”
“Hey, I was invited.”
“I wasn’t. When they see me, they’ll pitch a fit.”
“I need your help, Belinda. You have far more background and experience with ASP than I do.”
“Granted. Maybe neither of us should go in there.”
Ben touched Belinda’s shoulder. “I have an obligation to defend my client to the best of my ability. The trial starts Monday afternoon. I can’t let pass an opportunity to talk to people who may well have been responsible for the crime my client is accused of committing.”
“I suppose you’re right. I just—” She looked down at his hand on her shoulder, then placed her hand over his. “When you ran into the flames the other night to save that woman, I—I was so scared. I didn’t know whether you’d ever come out again. I—”
She moved closer to him. “I know we’ve had our differences, Ben. But I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Her lips moved toward his. The kiss was at first tentative, then assured and lingering. Their bodies pressed close against each other.
“We’ll never get into that church at this rate,” Ben said. “Let’s postpone this to a later date and a more private environment.” Reluctantly, he pulled away from her. “Don’t worry about me, Belinda. I’ll be fine.”
“Still—take care.”
They jumped out of her Jeep and walked toward the church. “It’s hard to believe this place is less than a hundred yards from Coi Than Tien,” Belinda said. “Spooky coincidence.”
“Hardly a coincidence. More likely it’s an ASP intimidation tactic.”
As Belinda passed by the kennel two of the largest of the bird dogs leaped up on the wire fence and barked loudly.
“Animal magnetism,” Ben commented.
“Ha-ha.” She watched them carefully. “Those poor dogs look underfed.”
“They probably are. Some people do that, you know. To make them mean and eager to attack. I’ve handled several cases for an animal-rights group in Tulsa. I could tell you stories that would break your heart.”
“You don’t suppose those dogs can escape, do you?”
Ben examined the sturdy wire fence and gate. “Not unless someone slips them some wire cutters. The gate appears to be electric. There’s probably a control switch inside.”
They walked up the front steps of the church and entered. The interior was plain and largely unornamented; a far cry from the Episcopal church Ben grew up in. He saw a panel with lighted buttons on one wall—probably controlled the kennel.
The services had already started. Ben and Belinda slid into a pew in the back.
The first part of the service was much like any other fundamentalist Christian service Ben had ever attended. The congregation sang “Rock of Ages” and “Amazing Grace”; they recited the Lord’s Prayer. The preacher, a man called Brother Curtis, was wearing a full-length black robe and appeared to be packing a gun underneath. Other than that, it was church as usual.
It was only when the sermon started that Ben observed major differences. Brother Curtis’s message was a call to arms, but not to Christianity—at least not as Ben had ever heard it explained before. Curtis defined Armageddon in terms of an imminent worldwide race war that only the Anglo-Saxon race would survive; apparently this was part of the Aryan Christian Church’s official doctrine. It seemed the Second Coming was a Caucasians-only affair.
“This government shall perish in flames,” Curtis intoned. “It has betrayed the faith of those who created it. It is controlled by the Jews, the blacks, the Hispanics, the Asians”—a loud murmur of assent—“the Communists, the Catholics, and all those peoples whose avowed goal is the destruction of America as we know it.”
His proclamation was followed by a chorus of amens and praise Gods.
“The Jews are not the chosen. It is we, the Aryan people, who are the chosen race.” Another loud chorus of approval. “The inferior races are the descendants of Satan. They are devils.” He prolonged the final s to a hissing noise. “They have stolen our birthright. But the time has come to take it back.”
He pounded on the podium. “We must fight those who would deprive us of our rightful heritage. We must fight the infidels who tarnish our land. We must fight the demon warriors who stand in our way. We must fight the demon lawyers who pervert our righteous cause.”
Ben looked absently over his shoulder. Demon lawyers? Where?
“We must fight and fight and fight, until no obstacle remains between us and the one true church, the New Nation. An all-white nation, founded with our sweat, our toil, and our blood!”
Amidst the chorus of cheers and hallelujahs, Ben whispered to Belinda, “I can’t stand much more of this.”
“This?” She shrugged. “This is mild. You should hear them when they really get revved up.”
Ben grimaced. He already hated everything these people stood for, but if possible, he hated them even worse now for this act of sacrilege. What could be worse than prostituting the church to serve your own self-centered hate-filled goals?
Brother Curtis called for another hymn, this one out of a mimeographed pamphlet. Ben read the words as the congregation sang the dirgelike tune:
White and proud,
That’s what I am,
Storming the streets,
Getting rid of the trash.
What’s wrong with knowing your race is strong?
Aryan people unite against:
Drugs, race mixing, and crime.
Brothers and sisters, stand by my side,
Join the fight for what’s right.
Ben read in the notes beneath the lyrics that the song had been written by a twelve-year-old girl.
He threw down the pamphlet and settled back into his pew. He only hoped that when he finally got the chance to talk to some of these people, he would be able to carry on a civil conversation.