A Sounding Brass (28 page)

* * *

THE INISH COUNTY
lockup in Pitchford, where the OCTF operative had escorted Luke Fisher, had old-fashioned views about incarceration. The
doors were made of multiple layers of alloy steel and bulletproof glass, and they clashed closed behind Ray with the kind
of sound that would echo in a felon’s dreams for years.

At least, Ray hoped so.

Maybe Fisher was even in the cell Phinehas had occupied before they’d transported him to the state pen. In any case, as the
only jail facility in the county where Fisher had committed his felonies, it was familiar territory to Ray.

The interview room was dim and quiet. Even though they would be videotaped, Ray took his personal tape recorder out of his
backpack and put it on the table, as was his habit. Then he leaned back in the metal folding chair, glanced at the clock,
which said nine
P.M.
, and took a sip of his vending-machine coffee while he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long before Fisher was escorted in by a uniformed officer. He wore wrinkled khaki pants and a shirt
whose right sleeve had been torn away at the shoulder. Sweat had made rings under his arms, and his hair, which Ray had never
seen other than fashionably styled, was oily and raked straight back from his forehead.

Fisher collapsed into the chair and extended both hands. “Ray, thank God you’re here. I don’t know what kind of mix-up this
is, but I’ve told them I’ve done nothing wrong until I’m blue in the face, and it hasn’t done a bit of good. How soon can
you get me out of here?”

Ray glanced at the outstretched hands, then reached past them and turned on the tape recorder. “You don’t mind if this is
running while we talk, do you?”

“Of course not. This is only a formality, right? They don’t seem to understand I’ve got a show to do, people whose salvation
may hang on a word in season. But then, cops are notorious for being ungodly. You should have seen the one that dragged me
in here. Built like a gorilla, complete with do-rag and greasy leather vest.”

Ray pressed his lips together and reminded himself that every word out of the guy’s mouth (a) was a lie, (b) had an ulterior
motive, and (c) was all of the above. Well, except for his very accurate description of OCTF Investigator Paul Kowalski, who
could bench press three-fifty without even breathing hard and did tend to favor cotton scarves under his motorcycle helmet.

No, Luke Fisher was like a chameleon, changing to suit his environment. He’d say what he thought Ray wanted to hear, whether
it happened to be the truth or not, if it would get him his way. For a sociopath like Fisher, his own way was all that mattered.

He was about to find out that the rest of the world might not agree.

“Tell me what’s been happening, Luke,” he suggested in a tone that could be sympathetic or completely expressionless, depending
on how desperate—or delusional—you were.

“Well, to start with, if you’re back in these parts, you must have heard about the Claire debacle. How she’s been diverting
the gifts from KGHM’s programs into dummy accounts of her own instead of to the worship center where they belong.” Luke spread
his hands wide. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out. I trusted her. Gave her a job. Treated her like my sister in Christ—and
what did I get in return? Stabbed in the back. And my injury was the smallest. She might as well have crucified Christ all
over again. She’s betrayed all the Elect and every listener who ever cast his two mites into the treasury for the glory of
God.”

“Sounds pretty serious,” he said.

“It is serious. As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to recommend to the leadership that she be Silenced or even cast Out.
We can’t allow a viper like that in our bosom. And for sure she’s out of a job. Willetts has probably already fired her.”

“I don’t know about that. Someone told me they’d heard her on KGHM today. It sounds like she’s taken over your show.”

Dead silence fell in the room as Fisher goggled at him. Under the fluorescent lighting, his skin paled to a shade somewhere
between white and green. “What did you say?” The sound was leached out of his melodious voice by shock—or maybe rage.

Ray shrugged. “Just what I heard.”

“But she was arrested! I saw them take her away myself!”

“Apparently a little misdirection of the truth occurred.”

“Misdirection! Miscarriage of justice, you mean. This is an outrage.” He sat back in his chair, as if the moral indignation
was too much to bear.

“Yeah, it was pretty outrageous,” Ray said mildly, “especially when it turns out her story is exactly the same as yours, only
without the preaching. Apparently everything you accused her of was true—she did take in large amounts of money and deposit
them without a countersignature. She did write checks to these bogus ministries and send them off, again without a countersignature.
But she mentioned a few additional facts that you forgot to tell the Hamilton Falls PD.”

“Mentioned—or made up?”

“Well, that remains to be determined in court. She said that all the checks she sent away were at your direction, to charities
you specified, and to addresses you gave her.”

“All lies.”

“If it’s a lie, then why did you travel up to Idaho to empty the post office box there? A box number that, again, you specified
for her?”

Fisher looked at him as if he were crazy. “I didn’t. I’ve been in Spokane, having the station’s mobile unit outfitted, as
I told Claire before I left. If she says anything different, she’s lying.”

“I suppose the postmaster in Miller’s Ferry was lying, too, then, when I showed him your picture and asked if you’d been there.
He recognized you right away. And the teller at the bank where you tried to cash the check—she was probably lying about the
fuss you kicked up, too, was she?”

“All right, all right, so I took the van for a test drive and went to see my friend in Miller’s Ferry. He’s the pastor at
a church there. There’s no crime in that.”

“There’s no pastor there named Richard Myers, either. But that’s not surprising, is it, Ricky?”

Fisher looked behind him, as if expecting to see the other person whom Ray was addressing.

“Your real name is Richard Brandon Myers,” Ray said. “You were born in West Hollywood on April 13, 1974. In Seattle you went
under the name of Brandon Boanerges, and in Hamilton Falls you took the name Luke Fisher. I have people in each location who
will testify to this, so don’t even try to deny it.”

Fisher stared at him, and Ray could practically see the wheels spinning in his mind as he tried to come up with a plausible
story that would fit, get turned inside out, and be fashioned into something that would help him weasel out of this fix.

But Ray had made sure the facts were watertight. Fisher wasn’t going to get out of this one.

“It’s really true, isn’t it?” Fisher said, shaking his head sadly. “The armies of Satan don’t want God’s work to succeed,
so they come in droves to fight against it. The Elect will vouch for me. Owen Blanchard is a good man. He’ll testify in my
behalf.”

“That probably depends on whether he gets his house out of hock or not.”

“Why would he want to do that? The worship center is too important to the economy in Hamilton Falls.”

“There isn’t going to be any worship center. No loan, no land, no center. No listener donations, either. I’d be careful about
showing my face around Hamilton Falls right now if I were you.”

Fisher’s face crumpled in an expression that was part disgust, part contempt. Then it smoothed out and the smile returned.
“They’re my community. They’ll back me up.”

“You didn’t really grow up Elect, did you, Luke?” Ray said quietly. “I did some checking around. Your home church was Second
Congregational in West Hollywood. Mrs. Paulson still remembers you.”

“I came to the Elect after that.”

“Sure, you did. Right around the time you came to Hamilton Falls.”

“Hey, God works in the Elect as well as any other group.”

“You mean, you could work on them better than you could on most groups. There they were, leaderless and vulnerable, their
belief in themselves a little shaky. Perfect pickings for a . . . leader like you.”

“It was easy, too.” Fisher leaned forward eagerly, his need for admiration clearly outpacing his good sense. “I did some asking
around about their customs and stuff, and the rest I pulled out of Owen Blanchard. That guy is desperate for someone to talk
to, what with his wife in prison and all.”

“So, you let him talk. And built yourself a whole history out of what he said, huh?”

Fisher shrugged modestly, evidently pleased that Ray appeared to understand him so well. “They wanted a celebrity. I gave
them one. They wanted a leader. I gave them that, too. Hey, they were happy. They got what they wanted. No crime in that.”

“Too bad you didn’t leave it at that.”

“If that snide comment was about the money, they gave it freely and willingly. I read their prayers, I played what they wanted.
They got their money’s worth. A laborer is worthy of his hire, you know?”

“I don’t think a laborer is worth a hundred thousand bucks, a swamp, and a couple of mortgages.”

Fisher grinned the charming grin that had always annoyed Ray. “Like I said, they gave it willingly. I hardly had to say a
thing.”

“It’s not the giving we have an issue with. It’s the taking afterward. Not to mention mail fraud, exceeding treasury limits
with a bank transaction, and larceny. Did I mention that the Feds are in line to talk to you after I’m done?”

Like a salmon running with a hook and desperate to get away from the line that dogged him, Fisher juked in another direction
and took off.

“Speaking of giving willingly, I see you fell for her, too,” he said with a man-to-man grin. “She took you in and hosed you,
just like she did to me. I’d pity you if I didn’t feel so sympathetic.”

The sociopath is a glib liar.
Ray’s psychology tape replayed in his memory.
He can create and believe a complex structure of lies, to the point where he can pass a lie-detector test. He will change
his story in response to the interviewer’s reactions, whether the details are true or not. In fact, he doesn’t even care if
they are true. He only wants to manipulate.

“Who would that be, Luke?” Ray asked. He was beginning to get a little tired of this. “Teresa White, your girlfriend in Hollywood?
Barbara Corelli, the lady you were romancing in Seattle? Or the bank teller in Miller’s Ferry? You’ve used so many women in
your career that you’re going to have to be a little more specific for me.”

“You know who I mean. Claire Montoya.”

Ray said nothing, just frowned slightly, as if inviting Fisher to go on.

“She’s so pretty that you’d never believe the kind of mind she has. Take it from me, you don’t want to know.”

“Probably not.”

“She’s like this—this pit you fall into and before you know it, you’re doing whatever she wants. Of course, the bait is pretty
good. She has a beautiful body and she knows how to use it.”

Ray clamped his teeth together so hard he thought he’d bend his fillings.
He only wants to manipulate.

“Take it from me, Ray. I got in deeper with her than I ever thought possible. You’ve heard the expression
whitewashed sepulcher
? Well, that defines her perfectly. Gorgeous on the outside and filthy inside. Why, what she knows about sexual positions
alone would turn your—”

“This interview is terminated at twenty-one forty-five hours on Saturday night, the thirtieth of September,” Ray told the
tape recorder. His skin was cold with disgust, but his hand was absolutely steady as he reached over, turned off the recorder,
and slid it into his backpack. With a nod at the uniform standing by the door, he slung the backpack over his shoulder as
Fisher was hauled to his feet and re-cuffed in preparation for his walk back to his cell.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Ray,” Luke called as Ray reached the door. “If you go anywhere near Claire Montoya, she’ll bite
you like a spider.”

But the clang of the steel door crashing shut between them was the only reply Ray bothered to make.

C
LAIRE HAD NEVER
smelled anything as sweet as the scent of lake weed and sand at the tail end of the day. She and Ray strolled down the beach
past the concession stand, closed now for the season, late Sunday afternoon with no particular direction in mind. Claire dragged
in breath after breath of freedom.

“Have I told you lately how glad I am that you ever came to this town?” she asked him.

“Only about twenty times. I’m beginning to think my only attractions are my badge and my ability to get charges dropped.”

She laughed, and when he took her hand, she didn’t pull away or change the subject or run, all of which she might have done
before they’d both been through the fiery trials of this week.

“Both very admirable qualities in a man, I think.” They walked a few steps in companionable silence, and then she said, “But
then, you have a lot of those.”

“What, admirable qualities?”

“Yes. Not to mention a nice truck.”

“Uh-huh. Trust a woman to get right down to brass tacks. But you forgot the most important one of all.”

“What’s that? No criminal record?”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “How about the ability to pray? Or admit a need for God? How about those?”

A rush of hope and love silenced her for a moment. “You’re right. Those are the most important qualities I could find in a
man.”

“I’m tired of this silence inside myself, Claire. When you prayed on the phone last night, I heard this voice inside me telling
me this was right. Prayer was right.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I learn by hearing. Maybe if I’m going
to be a Christian, I should spend a little time listening to what God has to tell me, huh?”

Her throat ached with joy and the need to sing out in praises to God. “I think that would be a great place to start,” she
said instead, her voice as soft as his. “For both of us.”