Heat (10 page)

K
urt Ruger picked up Melvin Schooner at the motel and drove him toward the mountain. Schooner, he thought, looked nervous, but that was understandable. Everybody was a little nervous around Jack Gene Coldwater.

“Why does he want to see me?” Schooner asked, dabbing at his forehead with a shirtsleeve.

“I think he just wants to say hello, Mel. He knew you were home visiting your mother, of course.”

“It's about the money, isn't it?”

“Don't worry about it, Mel. Jack Gene's not mad at you.” He turned at the church and started up the mountain.

“He just doesn't understand the cash flow,” Schooner said. “We've spent the past two years updating our word processing product and that cost us a bundle. You can't imagine how much cash is soaked up by three or four hundred programmers sitting there, day after day, writing code.”

“Jack Gene will understand,” Ruger replied soothingly. “If there's anything he understands, it's cash flow.”

“Yeah,” Schooner said disconsolately.

The road steepened, and they climbed past houses tucked back into the trees, houses occupied by the elite of the church. Near the top of the mountain Ruger turned into a driveway, then stopped in front of a small television camera and waited until he was recognized and the wrought-iron gates were electronically opened.

“We're going to his house?” Schooner asked, sounding almost alarmed.

“Yes. He wanted to see you here.”

“I've never been to his house. Jesus Christ.”

“Just about,” Ruger replied.

 

Jack Gene Coldwater received them in the garden, which was English in style, planted with many flowers and perennials. This time of year, Ruger noted, the place was still green, even though the flowers were not in bloom and patches of snow appeared here and there on the grass. Two of Coldwater's wives were gardening, working away, crouched or kneeling, doing their master's work.

“Have a seat here,” Ruger said, indicating a stone bench. The two men sat on the cold granite and pulled their coats closer around them. They had only a moment to wait before Jack Gene himself appeared from around a corner of the garden path, striding toward them, his breath coming in clouds of mist. Ruger and Schooner stood to meet him. He shook both their hands and sat down on one end of the bench, placing Schooner between Ruger and himself.

“Mel, how are you?” Coldwater asked.

“I'm just fine, sir,” Schooner said, like a schoolboy called into the principal's office.

“I'm glad to hear it. How's the work coming on the new release of the WordPlay software?”

“We're just finishing up the beta testing; I'm planning to release the first of the year.”

“Good, good. I know what a drain on resources such a huge project can be.”

“Yes, sir, it certainly has been a drain.”

“What sort of acceptance of the new version do you anticipate?”

“Well, the feedback from the beta testing has just been phenomenal. My marketing people think we will ship two million copies the first forty-five days; most of them upgrades, of course.”

“Sounds as though I should buy some more Schooner stock,” Coldwater said, rewarding Schooner with a broad smile.

“Oh, God,” Schooner moaned, “let's not get into any insider-trading problems with the SEC. I'm already worried about the antitrust division of the Justice Department; they're breathing down our necks on the acquisition.”

“Don't worry, Mel, I'll be discreet; I'll buy through third parties, and I'll spread the buys around—some in Texas, some in New York, some in California.”

“I'd appreciate that, sir,” Schooner said, sounding relieved.

Coldwater gazed off into the distance. The view was spectacular from so high up, and he seemed to drink it in for a full minute of silence. Then he spoke. “Mel, I'm concerned about your spiritual state.”

Schooner looked alarmed. “Oh, sir, I'm certainly working to keep straight.”

“I know you are, Mel; you always have.” He turned and looked at Schooner. “It's what I've come to expect from you,” he said slowly.

Perspiration appeared on Schooner's forehead. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“But I want to see a manifestation of your spiritual state,” Coldwater said, keeping his eyes on Schooner's.
“I want more than words; God wants material evidence of your continuing commitment to the church.” He paused. “So do I.”

“Sir, right now ten million dollars is difficult,” Schooner said, his voice trembling.

“Ten million?” Coldwater asked, his eyes widening slightly. “Is that what Kurt has asked you for?”

“Yes, sir; that was the figure he mentioned.”

“I think, say, five million dollars would satisfactorily demonstrate your faith,” Coldwater said.

Schooner seemed almost to swoon with relief. “Oh, I can manage that, sir. I'll have it in the church account by Monday.”

“In my own account,” Coldwater said. “The Cayman Islands account.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

“You said you'd ship two million copies of the new WordPlay the first forty-five days?”

“That's what we anticipate, sir.”

“Good. You can send the other five million the middle of February, to the church account.”

Schooner gulped. “I should be able to do that by then, sir.”

“You won't disappoint me?” Coldwater asked, placing a fatherly hand on the younger man's shoulder.

“Oh, no sir,” Schooner blurted. “Of course not.”

Coldwater clapped Schooner sharply on the back. “Good man! Your church can always depend on you!”

“Thank you, sir,” Schooner said, managing a smile.

“You have a very fine soul,” Coldwater said, his gaze boring into Schooner. “Go with God.” He stood up and walked back up the garden path.

Schooner and Ruger stood as he left.

“Mel, would you mind waiting in the car for a moment?” Ruger asked.

“Sure,” Schooner replied, and turned back toward the house.

Ruger walked up the path and rounded a curve. Coldwater was standing beside an iron deer, gazing out over the view.

“Jack Gene?”

Coldwater turned and looked at Ruger.

“There's something I thought you'd want to know.”

“What is it?”

“Herman Muller has made Jesse Barron the assistant manager at Wood Products.”

“
What?
”

“I know, it's entirely unexpected.”

“Barron hasn't been there eight weeks yet, has he?”

“Just about that.”

“Herman has never let anybody help him manage that place.”

“It occurred to me that it might be some sort of defensive move.”

“That's possible, I suppose. We haven't entirely coopted Barron, yet. Maybe Herman thinks of him as an ally against us.”

“I think that must be it.”

Coldwater turned and looked out over the mountains again. “Still, eight weeks on the job, starting on the hopper like everybody else. That's
very
impressive.”

“I suppose it is,” Ruger replied.

“Kurt, I think it's about time I met Jesse Barron.”

“I'll see to it, Jack Gene.”

“Let's keep it subtle; I just want to get the feel of him.”

“Consider it done.”

Coldwater's attention seemed to drift back to the landscape. “Thank you, Kurt.”

Ruger backed away, then went to join Schooner.

J
esse stood by the truck and looked at the First Church of St. Clair. It was medium-sized, as churches go, prosperous looking, a Greek facade topped by a soaring steeple. The building sat on a broad lawn, now covered by snow, at the base of the mountain that loomed over the town. It was a respectable-looking church, Jesse thought.

Jenny took Carey to church faithfully, every Sunday morning, but she had never asked Jesse to come. Then, that morning, she had snuggled up to him in bed, pressed her naked breasts against his back and said, “There's a communal Thanksgiving dinner at the church today. Carey and I would like you to come.”

“I'd like that,” he had responded, relieved that she had finally given him an excuse to see the congregation up close.

Jenny led him into the auditorium, and Jesse was stopped in his tracks at the sight of the place. It was not very different from the more prosperous churches where his father had preached, with one exception: at the rear of the church, looming over the choir loft, was
a large stained-glass window depicting Jesus Christ, who was holding in his hand, not a dove, but a pair of lightning bolts. Jesse's attention was drawn to the face; something about it was odd. As Jesse followed Jenny down a side aisle, the face seemed to change slightly, until another face was revealed. It recalled the optician's billboard in
The Great Gatsby
; the eyes seemed to follow him as the face changed.

He followed Jenny down a flight of stairs, and they emerged into a large basement room with a table that stretched nearly the length of the church. There was a great bustle as women set the table and streamed from the kitchen with platters of food, while others stood to one side of the room with their children. Carey ran over to a small group and greeted two other little girls.

On the other side of the table, standing in threes and fours, the men waited, chatting idly and watching the progress of food from the kitchen.

Jenny tugged at his sleeve. “Why don't you go over there and introduce yourself to some of the men?” she asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, she followed Carey to the clutch of women.

Feeling abandoned, Jesse walked around the long table and approached the men. He was relieved to see somebody he knew.

“Hey there, Jesse,” Pat Casey said, extending his hand. “Let me introduce you to some fellows. This is Luther Williams, that's Paul Carter, and over there is Hank Twomy.”

Jesse shook their hands and sensed a reserve among the men. They had stopped talking as he approached.

“I'm glad to see you here,” Casey said. “We should have gotten you to church a long time ago.”

“Thanks, Pat; I'm glad to be here.”

“Congratulations on your promotion. You're moving right up at Wood Products.”

“Thanks,” Jesse said quietly.

“Herman Muller must think highly of you.”

Jesse shrugged. “I'm glad to make a little more money. I appreciate you sending me down there. I don't know where I'd be if you hadn't been nice enough to do that.”

“Glad to be of help, and I'm glad to see you settling into our town so well. It's starting to seem like you've always been here.”

“It seems like that to me, too,” Jesse replied, truthfully. “If you'd have told me three months ago that I'd be where I am now, I'd have thought you were crazy.” That was the truth, too. In fact, he had expected to be dead by this time.

There was the sound of movement in the crowd and Jesse turned to see Jenny beckoning to him from the table. He went forward with the other men and took a seat opposite her and Carey, all the men on his side and all the women and children on the other. Then, as if at some secret signal, the room fell suddenly quiet, and Jesse followed Jenny's gaze to the head of the table. There stood a tall man dressed in white trousers and a white silk shirt, open at the throat. His skin was bronzed and his long hair was entirely white, and Jesse thought he looked like nothing less than an apparition. His face was just recognizable as that of the young man in uniform that Jesse had seen in the photograph at his briefing in Atlanta; moreover it was recognizable as the face that had alternated with the face of Jesus in the stained-glass window upstairs.

The sound of a door slamming caused Jesse to look toward Coldwater's right. There, staggering drunk and making his way toward the minister, was Phil Partain. The two men seated nearest Coldwater, one of them Kurt Ruger, jumped up and intercepted Partain, steered him from the room. The minister seemed not to notice.

Jack Gene Coldwater raised his hands wide and his voice was like the rumble of thunder. “We thank our God for this day; for the lives we lead together; for the love we share; and, most of all, for the purity of the consecrated blood that flows in our veins.”

Jesse suddenly realized that his was the only face turned toward the speaker. Every other head was bowed, yet he was unable to wrest his gaze from Coldwater.

“We thank our God for the new world that awaits us, just beyond our sight; for his choosing of us from all the people of the earth, to do his final will; for the lightning from heaven that awaits our enemies. We thank our God for this food, this plenty afforded to those who follow his new word. Amen.”

“Amen!” the group said in chorus, startling Jesse.

He leaned across the table toward Jenny. “Who is that?” he asked.

“That's our pastor, Jack Gene Coldwater,” she replied, then began to eat. She didn't seem anxious to continue about Coldwater, so Jesse began to eat, too.

Pat Casey spoke up from beside him. “He is a very remarkable man, Jesse. You will get to know that.”

 

The dinner was over, and people were making their goodbyes as the dishes were taken away. Jesse stood with Jenny and Carey, ready to leave, but Jenny seemed to be waiting for something. Shortly, Pat Casey tapped Jesse on the shoulder from behind.

He turned to see the police chief standing with Jack Gene Coldwater, who was gazing expectantly at Jesse.

“Jack Gene, I want to introduce you to Jesse Barron, a new member of our community. Jesse, this is Jack Gene Coldwater, our pastor.”

Jesse's hand was enveloped in Coldwater's, which was large and surprisingly soft.

“Jesse,” Coldwater said, “I want to welcome you to our church. This is the first of many visits, I hope.” He did not let go of Jesse's hand.

Jesse stood, fixed in Coldwater's gaze, suddenly seized with the feeling that the man could see inside him, see who he really was and why he was there. “Thank you, pastor,” he managed to say. “It was a very fine dinner.”

“Those who dine at my table never want for anything,” Coldwater replied. “Anything,” he repeated.

Jesse didn't know how to respond to that, so he said nothing.

Coldwater continued to clasp Jesse's hand. “Come and see me Monday, after work,” he said. He gave Jesse's hand a final shake, then turned and walked away without acknowledging Jenny or Carey.

“Come around to the station when you get off,” Casey said. “I'll take you up there to see him.”

“All right,” Jesse replied. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

“Let's go home,” Jenny said, taking his arm.

On the drive home she said nothing.

“You're very quiet,” he said. “For you, I mean.”

She smiled up at him. “I'm just full,” she said. “Eating that much always makes me sleepy.”

“I'd better get you home to bed,” he said.

“I guess you'd better,” she said, then winked at him.

Jesse drove home, looking forward to bed, looking forward to the weekend off and looking forward to his appointed meeting with Jack Gene Coldwater.