Leaving the World (60 page)

I parked in the capacious car park – its ability to handle a large number of vehicles an indication of either Coursen’s success as a pastor or a very false sense of optimism. There was a large new Land Rover Discovery parked to the side of the church. I sensed it must be Coursen’s as he advertised it with a vanity license plate on which were embossed two words: ‘
Preacher Man
’. The front doors of the church were open. I wandered inside. The vestibule had more blown-up life-sized photographs of the sort of happy parishioners who looked like they also modeled part-time for the Land’s End catalog. There were slogans on all of them: ‘
Divine Love Conquers All!
’ . . .‘
At Townsend Assemblies We Are All One!
’ . . . and finally, just one word: ‘
Praise!
’ There were also donation boxes, above which were further slogans: ‘
It Feels Great to Tithe!
’ and ‘
He is Always There for You!
’ I had never visited any Eastern European countries during the era of Communism – I was far too young – but I imagined this was a miniature version of the exhortations that were plastered in all public places, reminding the subservient citizenry that ‘
the Five Year Program is the Only Way Forward
’.

I doubted, however, if any Eastern European apparatchik dressed liked Larry Coursen. He must have heard me come in, as he emerged from the main body of the church into the vestibule. He was wearing a chocolate-brown cardigan, a purple shirt with a clerical collar, slightly flared blue jeans and (just to remind everyone we were in Alberta) highly polished black cowboy boots. He was in his early forties, with thick blond hair somewhat coiffed and – as I had noted on the television – very white teeth. His voice was sonorous, calming.

‘Nancy, what a pleasure . . .’ he said, extending his hand.

‘I appreciate your time, Reverend.’

‘
Larry
, please.’

‘OK, Larry . . .’

‘And you’re with the
Vancouver Sun
?’

‘That’s right.’

‘A fine newspaper. You from BC yourself?’

‘No, back East.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Ontario.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Dundas,’ I said, pulling a name out of a hat, as I had read a recent newspaper story about a well-known Canadian rock singer turned ace photographer who grew up in Dundas.

‘Dundas! No kidding. I did some of my early pastoral work in Dundas!’

‘Do you know the Assemblies church on King and Sydenham Streets . . . ?’ he continued.

‘Of course I know it. Passed it many times.’

‘Right near the local branch of the Bay.’

‘That’s it. It’s a rather modern building . . .’

‘All Assemblies churches are. We are a rather new faith in Canada. Come on in – I’ll show you where we worship.’

As he held open the door into the church I felt a wave of fear.
How insane to choose a small town as your false place of residence. Why didn’t you say Toronto or Montreal – a big city where anonymity rules?

But, at least, he seemed to have bought it . . .

The main body of the church itself looked like it had been styled after a sports stadium, albeit on a smaller scale, with banked seating all padded in white Naugahyde and a pulpit on a thrust stage. It was surrounded by spotlights. There was a garish white organ with gold-painted pipes and a choir loft which appeared to have room for one hundred voices.

‘It’s very impressive,’ I said. ‘And it also looks like it’s tailor made for televangelism.’

My tone was neutral, not sneering. But Coursen smiled tightly, trying to weigh what I meant by that.

‘If you mean by “televangelism”, spreading the Gospel through electronic means, then yes – it is something towards which we as a church are definitely aiming. Of course, we are a small town in Canada. But you know Oral Roberts began his ministry in a small church in Tulsa, Oklahoma – and look how his “vision” expanded into his own nationally broadcast program and his very own university. Now do understand: my ambitions are not
personal
ones. Rather they are
communal
– in that Townsend Assemblies of God is a very close community with great spiritual aspirations when it comes to spreading the Good News that is the Gospel of Jesus Christ.’

‘How many do you have in your congregation?’

‘Well over two hundred very dedicated souls – which may not seem like a grand figure, but is still, if I may say so, impressive for a town of five thousand. You show me another church in Townsend that has five percent of the population.’

He motioned for me to sit down on one of the Naugahyde benches. He positioned himself relatively close to me.

‘Might I ask your faith affiliation?’ he said.

‘I don’t have one.’

‘I see. And why is that?’

‘I’m not a believer, I suppose.’

He nodded and gave me the sort of smile that was somewhere between avuncular and sympathetic.

‘For many people faith is the hardest thing in the world. “The Great Leap” and all that. But it is also the greatest gift you can receive. With it comes Life Ever After and a wonderful community of souls to support you while on Earth.’

I took out my pen and notepad.

‘Is that a hint I should get off this subject?’ he asked.

‘I just don’t want to take up too much of your time.’

‘Very good response,’ he said, ‘even if it evades the subject. Were you raised in any faith, Nancy?’

‘My dad was nothing, my mom a Unitarian – which, I suppose, from where you sit, is the equivalent of nothing.’

‘Well, Unitarians don’t really believe in Divine Revelation, or the Paradise to Come, or even the Prevalence of Miracles . . . so, quite honestly, it’s hard to know what Unitarians get from their religion.’

‘It’s a faith not based on certainty, but on doubt.’

‘Can faith and doubt be neighbors?’

‘Aren’t they
always
neighbors? You can’t have faith without doubt.’

‘Well, I would argue otherwise. Faith negates doubt. Faith provides you with the sustenance needed to face life’s challenges. Faith provides definitive answers to the biggest questions facing us. And don’t you think there is a huge amount of comfort to be gleaned from that?’

‘If you need definitive answers, yes.’

‘We all need definitive answers,’ he said.

‘That’s your point of view, not mine.’

‘So you can live with ongoing doubt, no matter how painful that doubt might prove to be?’

‘Perhaps it would be more painful to profess faith when you have none.’

A small smile from Larry Coursen. He was enjoying this banter, especially as he could see it was making me uncomfortable.

‘We all have faith, Nancy. And we all have the power within us to remake ourselves anew. It’s simply a matter of giving yourself over to the Greatest Gift we can receive while we are alive.’

‘Did Brenda MacIntyre remake herself anew?’

Another smile from the Reverend.

‘Yes, Brenda herself had a magnificent transformation. When she first came to me she was a woman in crisis. Angry, hostile, alcohol-dependent, enraged at the world . . .’

‘Violent?’ I asked.

‘I think she would be the first to admit she was raised in a violent family, that she married a violent man, and therefore was well acquainted with violent behavior.’

‘But was she herself violent?’

‘Describe what you mean by “violent”.’

‘Physically attacking her children . . .’

‘I’m sure she smacked her children when they were naughty. But attacking George? I think you have it backwards. It was he who attacked her repeatedly.’

‘Even though several people I interviewed informed me that George MacIntyre told them he’d been violently attacked by your parishioner?’

His lips tightened as I said the words ‘your parishioner’. He didn’t like that expression at all.

‘And who might these people be?’ he asked.

‘I can’t reveal sources.’

‘Well, I can
definitively
reveal the fact that I know Brenda MacIntyre’s soul – because, in the course of accepting Jesus as Her Lord and Savior, she revealed unto me all her sins . . . sins that have now been washed clean. And I can
definitively
state that she was never violent towards her violent and tragic husband.’

‘Was Ivy MacIntyre also washed clean of her sins?’ I asked.

‘Ivy was in the process of accepting the gift of redemption when she disappeared.’

‘By which you mean . . . ?’

‘Brenda had brought her to church several times. She was beginning to make friends with parishioners of her own age. She had seen me on several occasions, during which we had several long private talks.’

‘And these talks concerned . . . ?’

‘The trouble in her life. Her acceptance of sin as a way of living. Her weakness when it came to boys and drugs.’

‘She’d already lost her virginity at thirteen?’

‘I never said that.’

‘Then what did you mean by “trouble with boys”?’

‘Just that. She had trouble with boys.’

‘And as regards drugs . . . ?’

‘She admitted to me that she had smoked pot.’

‘That’s not wholly unusual for many thirteen-year-olds.’

‘Are you saying you approve of the idea of teenagers smoking pot?’

‘No, what I’m saying is: it’s not a shocking revelation that a thirteen-year-old girl had tried it.’

‘Did you try it when you were thirteen?’

‘No – I was sixteen.’

‘Did you like it enough to continue smoking it?’

‘Actually, no.’

‘Well, Ivy did like it . . .’

‘Then I stand corrected.’

‘I suppose you do,’ he said.

‘So Ivy had yet to be “saved”?’

‘I am sure that, if she were to leave this life now, she would be with God in Heaven. Because right before she disappeared she did accept Jesus as Her Lord and Savior.’

‘You didn’t say that before.’

‘You didn’t ask me that before.’

‘I’m asking it now.’

‘Yes, in one of our last private talks, she finally did become born again.’

‘Which means she’s in paradise now.’

‘She’s not dead,’ he said.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I can’t be sure. I simply have
faith
that she is alive.’

‘In most cases of disappearance, if the child isn’t found within forty-eight hours, it’s foul play . . . and the person who has abducted the child usually resorts to homicide.’

‘There are two things different about this case. The first is that Ivy is not a child, she’s an adolescent. And adolescents – if they disappear – often end up on the street somewhere . . .’

‘Like Hildy Krebs and Mimi Pullinger?’

‘Exactly.’

‘You know they are on the street?’

‘I have to surmise that they have drifted into a bad life.’

‘But if Ivy had been saved before she disappeared, why then did she end up on the street?’

‘If she is, in fact, on the street. People backslide, Nancy. They give in to their most base instincts and make mistakes.’

‘Do you think George MacIntyre actually harmed his daughter?’

‘The evidence points to his guilt. Just as there was a history of physical abuse by him in the MacIntyre household.’

‘All perpetrated by George MacIntyre?’

‘That’s what I was led to believe.’

‘But never by Brenda MacIntyre?’

‘You evidently have your suspicions that Brenda was not telling the truth.’

‘Yes – I do have my suspicions.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because of things that people have told me.’

‘Such as . . . ?’

‘Such as the fact that she assaulted George on several occasions, that she was violent with Ivy, that—’

‘All lies,’ he said, his voice quiet but definitive.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I am very good at sniffing out lies . . . and liars.’

‘Is your nose that infallible?’

‘I am not the Pope,’ he said. ‘But I do understand the complexities of human nature. Just as I know when someone is not telling the truth . . . or is telling me they are something they are not.’

He looked at me directly as he said this – and that’s when I realized he had me figured out.

‘But getting back to George MacIntyre . . .’ I said.

‘No, let’s get back to King and Sydenham Streets in Dundas,’ he said. ‘I mentioned that’s where the Assemblies of God church was in Dundas. You said: “Of course I know it. Passed it many times.” The fact is, the Assemblies of God church is not on King and Sydenham. Just as there is no branch of the Bay in the town.’

‘I was just playing along,’ I said, knowing that I sounded completely unconvincing.

‘Just as you were “playing along” about being a reporter on the
Vancouver Sun
?’

He favored me with a big smile and continued talking.

‘There is no Nancy Lloyd on the
Vancouver Sun
. I know this because when you called me I called the newspaper. Given the big media attention surrounding this case it’s best to check out everyone’s bona fides. Yours turned out to be false ones. Which, in turn, makes me wonder: Who you are and why are you so interested in this case?’

I stood up.

‘I apologize for deceiving you.’

‘You still haven’t answered my questions.’

‘Who I am doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, but it does matter. Because it’s clear to me that, though you might not be certifiably disturbed, you are nonetheless a woman in a very troubled place in her life.
Very troubled indeed
 . . . to the point where I might even call you damaged. That’s why I agreed to see you, even though I knew you were lying to me . . . because I wanted to see who exactly was this damaged person and why was she so
involved
in Ivy MacIntyre’s disappearance?’