Dead Center (10 page)

• • • • •

L
AURIE LEANS OVER
at five-thirty in the morning. “I have to leave for work,” she says.

“What are you, a night watchwoman?”

“No, I like to get in early and make sure organized crime doesn’t take over Findlay.”

“I was hoping you could stay a little longer,” I say.

She leans over and kisses me. “Like until when?”

“Next August.”

I obviously overreached, because she’s out of bed within three minutes. After her shower, while she’s getting dressed, she asks, “So what’s on tap today in the legal world?”

“Well, I can’t speak for the whole day, but this morning I’m meeting with a guy named Stephen Drummond.”

She does a mini–double take in surprise. “Really?”

“Yup. By the way,” I say, “did you talk to Elizabeth Barlow’s ex-boyfriend?”

She shakes her head. “Jeremy tried to implicate him, without knowing his name. But nobody in that town will even confirm there is such a person.”

Laurie leaves, and I shower and take Tara for our walk. I’m not big on introspection, and I really need to focus on the case, but I still can’t help thinking about the situation with Laurie. Things are good now, and we still love each other, but this case is going to come to an end. I’m going to go back home, and she’s going to stay here.

If I were smart, I’d stop seeing her right now and focus only on the case. Maybe that way it would hurt less when we separate again. But I’m not smart, and I can feel myself heading toward the edge of the cliff. Unfortunately, I’ve been over that cliff, so I know what a long drop it is to the bottom.

When Tara and I get back to the house, Calvin is there waiting for us, an envelope in hand. “I got something for you to read, city boy,” he says, holding up the envelope.

The pages inside turn out to be copies of the newspaper articles written by a man named Henry Gerard, identified as a former resident of the town of Center City. Mr. Gerard’s job was “servant of the Keeper,” which put him in the employ of the church. Based on the uniform he wears in a picture accompanying one of the articles, the uniformed man who questioned me when I was in Center City was also a servant of the Keeper.

Gerard became disenchanted with the Centurion religion, for reasons left unexplained by the articles. His writing them seems almost an act of revenge, trying to hurt his former church by exposing its secrets.

Those secrets, if these articles are to be believed, are bizarre. The Centurions believe that God speaks to them through an enormous wheel housed in the town hall, with symbols on it that the Keeper deciphers and interprets. The wheel is literally spun, once a week, and where it lands determines what the Keeper ultimately says.

All major decisions in Center City are made through the spinning of this wheel. People’s occupations, their mates, all of their significant life choices, are determined by the Keeper’s interpretations of the wheel. It has been this way for almost a hundred and fifty years, as generation after generation in Center City has willingly made the choice to give up its right to make choices.

If Liz Barlow had an ex-boyfriend, as Jeremy claims, then he was likely matched up with her by their religion, by the spinning of the wheel. For her to have broken off their relationship and pursued Jeremy instead would have been a blasphemy, according to the world Gerard describes. The pressure to go back to him would have been overwhelming, which no doubt explains Liz’s ultimate rejection of Jeremy.

I have no time to discuss the implications of the articles with Calvin, since I’m in danger of being late for my meeting with Stephen Drummond. I manage to arrive at his office just at ten o’clock. He is in the two-story building next to the town hall, and I pull into the small parking lot behind the building. Two men, each one at least six two, two hundred and twenty pounds, are standing in front of me by the time I get out of the car. Their uniforms identify them to me as servants of the Keeper. The Keeper must have more servants than Thomas Jefferson.

“You’re here to see Mr. Drummond,” one of them says.

“Right.”

“Follow us, please.”

They proceed to lead me, in a weird procession, into the building and to the receptionist’s desk. “Thanks,” I say, “I shudder to think what could have happened if I tried to make it here on my own.”

If there was a joke there, they don’t get it, and they melt away, leaving me with the receptionist. “Mr. Drummond will see you now. Down that hall and to the right.”

I follow her directions, passing an office that the sign says contains the town clerk, and another woman is at the end of the hall waiting for me. It seems like the entire town has mobilized to get me to this meeting. “Right in here,” she says.

I enter the office, and a man I presume to be Stephen Drummond rises from his desk to greet me. He is in his early sixties and wears a conservative three-piece suit. Compared to the mode of dress I’ve seen so far in these small towns, he would look less out of place if he were wearing a space suit.

He extends his hand, and I shake it. “Mr. Carpenter, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” I say, charming as always. The line between me and Cary Grant gets thinner every day.

“Please sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

“No thank you,” I say, but I sit in the offered chair. On his desk is a family photo of him, a woman I assume to be his wife, and a man in his early twenties. The young man is dressed in the garb of a servant of the Keeper, and since the resemblance is apparent, I assume he is Drummond’s son. They are all standing in front of a small airplane, the kind with propellers. The kind you couldn’t get me to fly in at gunpoint.

“You fly?” I ask.

He smiles. “As a passenger only. My son is the pilot in the family. There is a small airfield just outside of town.”

I nod, having seen the airport on my drive to Findlay. “I’ve often thought about taking flying lessons,” I say truthfully. “The only problem is that I’m afraid of heights, machines, high speeds, parachutes, and dying.”

“Then you’re probably not a great candidate for it,” he says.

I nod but don’t say anything. It’s his turn to make small talk, and he obliges. “You’re far from home,” he observes.

“I am,” I say. “But I take it you’re not?”

“You take it correctly. I’ve lived here in Center City all my life. Except for the four years I spent at Dartmouth and the three at Harvard Law.”

It took him only seven sentences to get in the fact that he went to Harvard Law. That’s pretty quick. I decide it wouldn’t be productive to ask him if the spinning wheel made him pick Harvard over Yale. But what the hell is a Harvard Law grad doing here? “What is a Harvard Law grad doing here?” I ask, leaving out the “hell” in deference to his religion.

“Mr. Carpenter, my belief is that we are sitting on the most blessed ground on our planet. Why would I rather be somewhere else?” He says this in a tone so smug it’s as if he expects me to say, “Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Is there anyone in this town who is not a member of the Centurion religion?” I ask.

“No.”

“Would anyone else be welcome?”

“No, they would not. Mr. Carpenter, are you writing a dissertation on my religion, or are you here to promote the interests of your client?”

“Sorry, I’m just a curious guy. Did you know the victims?”

He smiles. “Certainly. I know everyone in this town. This is a very friendly community.”

“With no crime,” I point out.

“Virtually none.”

“How would you suggest I get all these friendly people in this friendly community to talk to me?”

“I would doubt that they would want to,” he says. “Everyone loved Elizabeth and Sheryl very much.”

“Many of them talked to the police,” I point out.

He nods. “I’m sure it was with some reluctance. We like to keep to ourselves, but we recognize our obligations to follow the laws of the imperfect nation that contains us.”

“But if you suggested that they talk to me… in the pursuit of justice for the victims…”

“I’ll inform the families of your interest. That’s all.”

This guy is bugging me, and not because he is evasive and uncooperative. It’s because he seems to consider me of no consequence. This is particularly annoying, since when I die, I want my headstone to read, “Here lies Andy Carpenter. He was of considerable consequence.”

“Look, I have no interest in causing problems for you or your community,” I say, “but as I’m sure they mentioned at Harvard, I must vigorously defend my client by all legal means available to me.”

He barely deigns to shrug, so I continue. “And within this town there is information about the victims that is relevant, one way or the other, to this case. I can’t just say, ‘Well, these are religious people, so I’ll leave them alone.’ ”

“You are getting to a point?” he asks.

“Yes. There is substantial national interest in this case. The media will descend on Findlay for this trial. If I tell them that the real truth is buried here, in Center City, your parishioners will spend all their time dodging TV cameras. There will be so many people here you’ll have casinos springing up.”

“Mr. Carpenter, our people have been here for one hundred seventy-one years. Our society has remained pure and untouched, despite the efforts of many outsiders to pollute it. We are capable of handling threats far greater than yours, I assure you.”

“Your streets are public streets,” I say.

“Inhabited by private people,” he counters. “And my job is to protect that privacy, by every legal means available to me. And I will do so aggressively, every chance I get.” He stands up, almost as sure a sign as taking out car keys that a meeting is over. “As I said, I will inform the families of your desire to talk to them. If they should choose to do so, they or I will contact you.”

I leave, and as I exit the building, two servants of the Keeper are standing there, watching my every move. I’ve seen one of them before, but not the other, bringing the total to four who have monitored my movements in my two brief visits here. The new servant is the largest one yet.

I’m pissed off by my meeting, so to annoy them, and perhaps to learn something, I stop before I get to my car and look around at the street, which is mostly deserted. “Can we help you, sir?” the larger one asks.

“I’m just trying to get my bearings,” I say. “I know Space Mountain is over there, so where would Pirates of the Caribbean be?”

“Sir?”

I shrug. “Never mind… it’s probably a really long line anyway. I’ll check out the Haunted House.” I start to walk down the street, looking around as if I’m taking in the sights of the town.

I glance over a couple of times at the servants, who seem unsure what to do. Soon two others approach me from the other direction. I wave toward them, continuing my walk, which has reached the outskirts of the town center, which is the beginning of the residential homes. Not surprisingly, they don’t wave back.

I’m getting a little nervous, but I’m comforted a little by the fact that it’s broad daylight out. I see a street sign marking the street that I know to be the one on which Elizabeth Barlow lived. There are a few residents around, and I call out to one of the women. “Excuse me, can you tell me which is the Barlow home?”

The woman doesn’t answer me, instead looking away, though she doesn’t seem to be particularly fearful or nervous. I see a little boy, no more than seven years old, driving a toy fire truck.

“Are you going to be a fireman when you grow up?” I ask, with one eye on the approaching servants.

The boy shakes his head. “Nope, I’m going to work in the bank.”

It seems a strange response, so I ask, “You’re going to be a banker?”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

I wonder if the wheel dictated the boy’s career choice, but I keep walking, turning a corner and seeing that two more servants are waiting for me up ahead. Turning the corner was not the smartest idea, since I now find myself in front of a vacant lot with no residents around and servants closing in from the front and back. I feel a flash of panic; my annoyance at Drummond has caused me to push this too far.

Suddenly, a car pulls up and comes to a quick stop before me. It is driven by still another servant, who gets out of the car and walks slowly over to me. I recognize him instantly from the picture as Drummond’s son; he has Drummond’s height but is in better physical shape.

I turn and see that another man has gotten out of the passenger seat and is walking over to me. Actually, he strides over, exuding a sense of superiority that is immediately apparent. He wears a robe, almost looking like a judge, except that the robe is blue, perhaps a shade lighter than navy. He is considerably smaller than all of his servants, yet he is clearly in command.

“Mr. Carpenter,” he says. It’s a statement, perhaps a greeting.

“Keeper Wallace,” I say.

“Yes. What exactly are you doing here?”

I smile through my nervousness. “Just checking out the town. It’s quite lovely.”

“I’m afraid you must leave now.”

“Why is that?”

“We are a peaceful community, and your intentions seem to be disruptive. We have little tolerance for that.” There is an extraordinary air about this man, which I think is a reflection of total security and confidence. He believes that nothing can hurt him, and he projects a serenity, even as he threatens me.

“My intention is to find out who killed two of your citizens.”

“Do not provoke more violence in the process.”

This certainly sounds like a threat, and I certainly don’t want to test whether or not it is an empty one. I also don’t want to appear to be a coward, even though that’s pretty much what I am. All I can think to do is turn and walk the two blocks back to my car and drive off, so that’s what I do, watched by my security detail every step of the way.

I head back to Findlay, which compared to Center City feels like Midtown Manhattan. The experience of being in Center City this time has left me shaken and concerned; there are things to be discovered there, but I’m at a loss how to do so.

When I get back to the house, Calvin is standing out front, petting Tara. I get out of the car and walk over to them; something about this scene worries me. “What’s going on?” I ask.