Dominion (93 page)

They sat and talked while Ollie savored his coffee. “Okay, Clarence, so you’re done with your coffee. You toss the coffee cup over there,” he pointed to the waste-basket built in under the counter, “or leave it on the table or what?”

“I toss it. Well,
usually
I toss it. Except when I’m in a hurry. Then I take off before I’ve finished. Carry it with me. Yeah, that’s right, on Wednesday I knew I had to get home and shower to make it to Bible study. So I had to rush. I still had probably a third of a cup of mocha left. After hard exercise, I need the full amount of sugar to ward off an insulin reaction, so I took it with me.”

“On your bike?”

“Sure. I just ride one-handed. No problem as long as the cup’s not too full.”

“So what did you do with the cup?”

“Tossed it when I was done, I guess.”

“Don’t guess. Tossed it where? On the side of the trail?”

“I don’t litter.” Clarence sounded as if he’d been accused of armed robbery.

“Sorry, for a moment I forgot I was dealing with Captain Responsible. It won’t happen again. So, what did you do with the cup?”

“I must have dumped it in one of the trash cans on the trail,” Clarence said. “Yeah, right, I took my last sip then crumpled it up. I think it was just after I tied in to the trail at Main Street Park. So it was probably the first wastebasket I got to on the trail.”

Ollie asked Jessica for a phone book. He looked in the blue pages, pulled his cellular phone out of his suit pocket, and dialed.

“Hello, this is Detective Ollie Chandler, Portland Police. I need to talk to someone, maybe in your parks or sanitation department, whoever would know about waste disposal pickups on the Springwater Corridor Trail. Gresham Parks and Recreation? Yeah, sounds like she may be the one. Sure, I’ll hold.”

Ollie took his last swig of coffee and eyed the pastries up on the counter. “Detective Ollie Chandler here. I’m investigating a case and need some information. Can you tell me when the waste is collected from the trash bins on the Springwater Trail? No kidding? Great. Yeah, that’s good news. Thanks.”

Ollie put up his right thumb. “Waste is collected on Tuesdays, every week through October, but every other week starting in November. Tomorrow’s the day. You’re in luck. I’ve got an extra pair of gloves in the car. And I’ve got a job that’s right up a journalist’s alley—sorting garbage.”

Dani gazed at the Carpenter, seated at the right hand of the throne. He looked and listened attentively as a woman finished reading the Scriptures. She read the last words and looked toward him, then bowed her knees. He smiled approvingly. Now an old man—or was it a young boy; he seemed both at once—walked forward and began reading the words where she’d left off.

As he began to read, behind him Dani saw a panorama of injustice upon earth. People enslaved and unjustly imprisoned, churches attacked by governments and burned by bigots, schools told God’s Word could not be read or posted there. Children abused, wives beaten, men cheated of their wages, people robbed of their rights, their freedom, and their lives. Dani realized the injustices she saw, now going on in the Shadowlands, were the backdrop to the words about to be read by the boy-man. Dani looked at the throne, gazed into the kind eyes of the Lamb of God, and saw him nod to the reader, who began to speak the eternal words, as scene after scene of horrible injustice flashed behind him from places where most imagined no one saw nor cared.

“I saw heaven standing open, and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and makes war. His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God. The armies of heaven were following him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean. Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. ‘He will rule them with an iron scepter.’ He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS.”

Dani looked at the throne again, trembling as she saw the fiery eyes of the Carpenter. He looked no longer a Lamb, but a Lion, roaring and prowling, ready to make prey of the arrogant and unjust. Those same warm and approving eyes she’d seen so often burned with a fire fueled by unspeakable holiness and immeasurable power. The man read another passage.

See, the LORD is coming with fire, and his chariots are like a whirlwind; he will bring down his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire. For with fire and with his sword the LORD will execute judgment upon all men, and many will be those slain by the LORD.

She could feel the hot anger in the Lion, sense the smoldering wrath waiting to be unleashed. For a moment it terrified her. She had to remind herself she was no longer the object of his wrath, that the Lion had become Lamb and paid an eternal price to deliver her from the inferno of his holiness.

Still, even as she saw the Lion’s intensity, she sensed his patience. Every moment that he held back his wrath was a gift of opportunity to those in the dark world to fall in repentance before him. And in the midst of the scenes of oppression and injustice from the Shadowlands, she saw this very thing—not only the persecuted turning to him and crying out to their Redeemer, but now and again the persecutors turning from their evil and throwing themselves upon his forgiving grace. The wrath in the Lion’s eyes held steady, but he restrained his urge to make all things right once and for all. He determined to give those in the Shadowlands just a little more time—a window of opportunity in which they could bow their knees to the King of the universe, from whose judgment there can be no appeal.

After putting on their gloves and dumping out the garbage on the side of the trail, Ollie found a green and white cup from Coffee’s On.

“Don’t think that’s mine. I always crumple them up,” Clarence said.

Ollie looked at it closely. “Plus, I don’t think you were wearing lipstick that day, were you?” Ollie pointed to the quarter moon red mark. “Besides, this isn’t your color.”

They continued to search. Clarence pointed to another green and white cup, this one wadded up. Ollie picked it up carefully, opened it just enough to peek inside, smiled his approval, and lifted it into a big plastic evidence bag. He sealed the bag and marked it with a heavy black pen. “In five or six days we should know something,” he said.

“Ollie, this is Ray Eagle, calling from Sacramento.”

“Yeah, Ray, what’s up?”

“How’s this? I’ve got a phone call made on Harper’s private line to Los Angeles at 3:41 P.M. August 29—eleven minutes after he got the fax. It’s just a one minute call. To the home of Rafer Thomas.”

“Bingo,” Ollie said. “Our license plate man. He’s the contact. Thomas must have gotten the message to the perps to call Harper. I don’t suppose they called him back collect?”

“Nope. Nothing on the phone records. I’m working on Harper. He was involved in L.A. politics big time before going to Portland. He was a key player in organizing a couple of gang summits there. And the politician he worked for in LA. hired gangbangers to hand out political literature. Sound familiar? Once you hire known criminals to do one thing, why not another?”

Clarence sat reading the
Trib
this quiet Saturday morning. He heard his father rustling in his bedroom.

Spike the bulldog came up, Charlie Chaplain style, nuzzling Clarence’s feet as if it was the world’s greatest privilege. A slipper and faded green tennis ball propped open his gargoyle mouth, the ball stretching his upper lip to its limits. His tail rotated like a helicopter blade.

Clarence smiled. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I, boy?” The hound scrunched up close, eyes soulful.

Until they’d gotten Spike a few years ago, Clarence hadn’t been around dogs since the hounds in Mississippi. They’d had a cat for a while at Cabrini Green, but it ended up serving as target practice for local hoodlums. He mysteriously disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Daddy’d said, “He’s Jimmy Hoffa’s cat now.”

Clarence held Spike’s face squarely toward his own, as if the dog might understand better if he gave him a clear shot at lipreading. “Hate to tell you, boy” Clarence said, “but Mama asked me to give you some ear medicine.” He took the little tube off the table, held it in his hand, and watched the dog’s eyes get even bigger and his big overhanging lip quiver. With a flair for the dramatic, he fell on his side, submitting himself to the treatment.

“You don’t like this, do you, boy? Well, sometimes what doesn’t feel good is still best. Your master knows what he’s doing. Trust me on this. You’ll get your reward. The pizza bones are waiting.”

Spike dutifully submitted to the unpleasant and incomprehensible treatment. Soon it was over. Even as he shook his ears at the discomfort, he raced ahead of Clarence to the refrigerator, eager for the payoff.