Grass Roots (36 page)

Calhoun gripped the sides of the pulpit and took in his audience with one lingering sweep of the cathedral.

“My friends,” he began, in a deceptively soft voice that ricocheted around the stone walls, “the task falls to me today to tell you not what Jim Winslow meant to his family and friends—that has already been beautifully done this morning. I have been asked to tell you what he meant to his party, his state, and his country—and I have been asked to be brief. That is difficult, when a man’s life has meant so much, but I will try.”

Calhoun shifted his weight and subtly intensified his voice.

“Jim Winslow recognized better than most people the trouble our country is in today, after a succession of too many godless leaders, too many battles fought and lost, too many innocent children’s lives snuffed out in the abortion mills that disgrace our nation, too many inroads made by the Communists and the liberals and the so-called secular humanists, too many children’s prayers banned in our schools, while murderers and rapists and drug dealers are set loose upon our society by weak laws and liberal judges.” Calhoun paused.

God, what a sentence! Will thought. He noticed the Bishop squirming in his seat.

“And,” Calhoun continued, “if Jim Winslow had lived, he would have done something about it in the United States Senate!”

From somewhere in the back of the cathedral, a few people began to applaud, but were quickly shushed by others. The Bishop looked miserable.

Calhoun looked down at the pulpit until order had been restored, then went on.

“And so it is left for those of us who remain on this earth to pick up that fallen torch and carry it on to glory! And so it is left for us to take Jim Winslow’s fight to every corner of this state! And so it is left for us to lead America into the light of a new day-under God!”

Calhoun bowed his head for a moment of silence, then stepped backward and returned to his seat.

The boys’ choir burst into an anthem, and the pallbearers began carrying the coffin down the aisle and out of the church to the waiting hearse, followed by the Winslow family and Governor MacK Dean. From the front of the cathedral, legislators streamed down the aisle until the building was empty. By the time Will and Billy were outside, the hearse and the family had departed for the cemetery and a private graveside service.

“I’ve never heard anything like that in my life,” Billy said.

“Neither has anybody else,” Will replied.

A television crew materialized before them, and a reporter pointed a microphone at Billy.

“Governor Lee, what did you think of today’s service?”

“I thought the Episcopal service was a fine tribute to a good man, but I must say, I thought Mr. Calhoun’s eulogy sounded more like a political oration, maybe even a campaign speech. You have to wonder if there’s something he isn’t telling us just yet.”

The reporter turned to Will.

“Will Lee, you’re the Democratic nominee for the Senate, do you think Doctor Don is going to be your Republican opponent?”

“That’s a matter for the Republican State Executive Committee, and I’m sure they’ll wait a decent time before choosing a nominee. After all, today is hardly a day for politics,” Will said, not too piously, he hoped.

They excused themselves and walked toward the car.

“This is going to be one hell of a campaign,” Billy said.

“I’m not sure I envy you the experience.”

“I’m not sure I do, either,” Will replied.

mickey Keane entered a steakhouse on Peach tree Road and found his lunch date waiting for him.

“Hey, Dave,” he said, sticking out a hand.

Homicide Detective Dave Haynes shook hands.

“How y’doin’, Mickey?”

They got a table near the bar.

“I’m doin’ good,” Keane said.

“How you liking the work?” Haynes asked.

“Better than you might think. Pearl’s a decent guy. I’ve worked for a lot worse.”

“Why, I hope you aren’t referring to our beloved captain,” Haynes said.

“Nah,” Keane replied.

“I never refer to him at all.”

“How are you spending your time?”

“Running leads.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the ads. Bet you’re getting a lot of trash.”

“Yeah, I guess I am. That was predictable. So what’s going on down there?”

Haynes looked around and lowered his voice.

“Funny stuff,” he said.

“Oh, nothing too funny, everything within bounds, just a teeny bit funny now and then.”

“So, tell me something funny.”

“Jim Winslow had a heart attack jogging,” Haynes said.

Keane stopped eating his salad.

“What’s funny about that?” he asked, playing the straight man.

“Guys drop dead jogging all the time, guys in perfect health and great shape.”

“Yeah, but those guys turn out to have clogged-up veins.

Winslow’s veins were clean as a whistle.”

“So what does the medical examiner say?”

“He says some jargon that means every now and then a guy pops off because of some sort of freak electrical thing with the heart.”

“Why would a person think different, then?”

“Nothing big. Just too many little things.”

“Like?”

“Like, Winslow goes jogging every morning of his life at dawn, winter and summer. He’s well known for it. Now, if you were going to hit Winslow, when would you do it?

I’ll tell you; at dawn, when the paper boy has already been, and nobody else is up and about yet.”

“Tell me more.”

“Okay, there’s two guys find him. One is a neighbor, has to make an early plane at Hartsfield. But when this guy comes around the bend, there’s another guy there, with his ear to Winslow’s chest.”

“The jogger. A natural-enough thing to do. I’ve done it myself.”

“Okay, sure, but the jogger is wearing a hood and dark glasses. It’s a warm, humid morning. And then the jogger takes off in the neighbor’s car, calls an ambulance, and disappears.”

“So he doesn’t want to get involved. It happens.”

“I canvassed the neighborhood myself. The jogger doesn’t live there.

Nobody around there jogs at dawn but Winslow. Joggers don’t go to other people’s neighbor hoods to jog. They do it around home.”

“Did the neighbor give you a description of the other jogger?”

“Not much. He thinks, tall; the guy had a mustache.

That’s about it; the guy was covered from head to toe in gray sweat clothes. Remember the hood and the dark glasses?”

“What was on the 911 tape?”

“The minimum. Man down, the address, ambulance.

He hung up before the operator could get anything else.

His accent is Southern, country Southern, but he enunciates clearly, like he’s been practicing a long time.”

“Like Southerners in the army, career guys, learn to do?”

“Like that.”

Keane looked at Haynes with mock solemnity.

“Course, you know, this is the wildest kind of supposition.”

“Funny, that’s what our beloved captain said.” Haynes put down his fork.

“Oh, hell, I know it’s not enough to go on. I know it’s a political hot potato, that the department doesn’t want stories in the paper like this without some hard facts. But it ought to be enough for something more than a routine autopsy, for a top-notch forensic pathologist to be brought in. I mean, our loveable old ME ain’t no hotshot.”

“That would prick up the ears of the press,” Keane said.

“Yeah, I know, I’m just burned. It’s not the first time I’ve been warned off something because it’s too much trouble for everybody. Hell, I know a little about the allocation of resources and all that. But it burns me, anyway.”

Haynes looked at Keane, who didn’t appear to be listening, then followed his gaze to the television set over the bar. The noon news was on, and a group of men stood surrounding a lectern, from where the Reverend Don Beverly Calhoun was speaking.

“There he is again,” Keane said.

“Oh, yeah, they picked him for the Republican nominee.

I heard about it in the car on the way over here.”

“Yeah,” Keane said, and repeated, “there he is again.”

“He’s always on TV about something or other,” Haynes said.

“That’s not what I mean,” Keane replied.

“It’s just that for the past few months, every time I get interested in something, he’s around. His people had been picketing Manny Pearl’s bookstore right before Ferkerson tried to wax Manny; then there were some of his people at the abortion clinic that day, demonstrating, when the doctor and his nurse caught it; and now you’re telling me that Jim Winslow just maybe got hit, and here’s Doctor Don again, popping up right on cue.”

“Why, Mickey.” Haynes grinned.

“That’s the wildest kind of supposition.”

“Ain’t it?” Keane laughed.

“But I’ll tell you some thing, Dave: I sure hate coincidences.”

“I know what you mean,” Haynes said, wiping his face and tossing his napkin onto his plate.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Keane, I’m going to get just as far away as I can from you and your farfetched ideas.” He rose, and as he walked past Keane, he clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good luck, Mickey,” he said.

“We won’t be talking again.” mickey Keane stood in the back of a crowded anteroom of the Holy Hill Pentecostal Baptist Church and exchanged waves and greetings with members of the press he knew from around town. Nobody asked him why he was there, and that was okay with him.

Keane looked up as the group of men entered through a side door and took seats on the platform at the front of the room. They stood in a group for a moment to allow the photographers to get their flash shots done. Keane took note of an impressive-looking man standing next to the Reverend Don Beverly Calhoun. He was tall and lean and of erect bearing, with thick, close-cropped gray hair and dark eyebrows. A handsome man, who had “military” written all over him.

“Who’s the guy next to Calhoun?” he asked a reporter from the Constitution leaning against the wall next to him.

“That’s Colonel J. E. B. Stuart Willingham,” the reporter said! “formerly of the U.S. Marines. Old Jeb, as his friends call him, was supposed to be a shoo-in for commandant of the Marine Corps, until he got in a little trouble in Vietnam, something about too many casualties in his unit for the ground gained, suicide missions, that sort of thing. There were some closed congressional hearings on it, and Willingham was reassigned stateside. He retired not long afterward.

Since then he’s run something called Americans for a Strong Defense, some sort of right-wing lobbying organization. He’s—”

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

The booming voice brought instant silence to the room of television and print reporters. Floodlights came on, illuminating the group on the platform.

The commanding figure looked around the room, blessing the group with a small smile.

“My name is Willingham,” he continued.

“I am chairman of the board of deacons of the Holy Hill Pentecostal Baptist Church, and it is with considerable regret that I must announce that, this morning, our board accepted the resignation of the Reverend Doctor Don Beverly Calhoun as pastor of our church, rector of Faith University, and chief executive officer of Faith Cable Television, Incorporated.” He paused for effect, then continued.

“Our regret, however, is lessened by the knowledge that, as a candidate for the United States Senate, Doctor Calhoun will be making an even greater contribution to his state and country, and we feel we must share the talents of this fine man with our fellow Americans.

“But our loss is also our gain, for we now have had the pleasure of appointing to succeed his father the Reverend Ralph Beverly Calhoun, who, until now, has been Doctor Calhoun’s right-hand man in the church and its related activities.” Willingham turned, and a thin blond figure rose and gave a little wave to the crowd. The Reverend Ralph Beverly Calhoun was a younger, skinnier version of his father, with the same capped teeth and the added attraction of an angry red pimple decorating his left cheek.

“And now,” Willingham continued, “it is my pleasure to introduce to you the Reverend Doctor Don Beverly Calhoun.”

Calhoun, a flatteringly cut blue suit covering his paunch, and a bright red necktie lighting his way, approached the podium.

“Good morning to you all,” he boomed cheerfully.

“I would like you all to know that this is my last public appearance as the Reverend Doctor Don Beverly Calhoun. From this day forward, I am just plain Don Calhoun, Republican candidate for the United States Senate from Georgia.” He paused, as if anticipating applause, which did not come, then rushed ahead.

“As of today, I am severing the ties that for so many years have bound me to the Holy Hill Church, Faith University, and Faith Cable Television. I will preach my farewell sermon this Sunday”—he turned and looked at his son, who grinned back at him—”at the kind invitation of the new pastor of our church, the Reverend Ralph Beverly Calhoun.

All of this means, of course, that all business and financial relationships with these organizations will end. I will no longer be paid a salary, nor enjoy any other benefits from this connection. Now I am prepared to take questions from the press.” He pointed to a young woman who immediately stood in the front row.

“Jane?”

“Doctor Don, does this mean—”

“Please, Jane,” Calhoun interrupted, “I have never liked that particular sobriquet, and it is particularly inappropriate from this time forward. Just call me Don.”

“Uh, Mr. Calhoun,” the young woman continued, “does this mean that you will no longer have the use of the five-million-dollar business jet in which you have been traveling for the past few years?”

“Jane, as you know, that aircraft is owned by an independently run corporation which has, at times, leased its use to Faith Cable Television, Incorporated. Should I require the use of the aircraft during the coming days, my campaign will, of course, come to appropriate terms with the corporation and pay, in full, for the aircraft.”

“What will the hourly charge for the airplane be to your campaign, Mr. Calhoun?” the young woman asked.

“Uh, we have not yet worked that out, but you may be sure it will be fair.” Calhoun pointed to another reporter.