The Oldest Sin (8 page)

“Thanks,” said Sophie. “I’ll get back to you.”

Breezing down the hall toward the elevators, Bram leaned close to Sophie and whispered, “Say, honey, do you think your dad would reduce the price of this place if he knew it was cursed?”

She looked at him and rolled her eyes.

“No really. Maybe we should rethink our offer. What do you say we start by putting fifty cents on the table? We can always come up to seventy-five.”

An annoying buzz pulled Hugh back to consciousness. Dropping a heavy hand over the alarm, he nearly knocked the small clock radio onto the floor. He hated mornings. He never rose rested and refreshed, only resigned that another day had begun. As he turned over on his back, hoping for a few more minutes of peace, a shadow fell across his eyes. Sensing a threat, he sat bolt upright in bed and peered around the darkened bedroom. His father was creeping soundlessly toward the curtains. An instant later the bright morning sunlight struck him square in the face.

Adelle sat up, too, grabbing a blanket and drawing it up to her chin. “Howell! What’s going on?”

“A meeting! Now! This minute. My son and I need to talk.” He said the words hurriedly and with an urgency that bordered on the comic. He was completely dressed, wearing his fedora pulled rakishly over his forehead. The hat made him look as if he’d come straight out of a 1930s cops-and-robbers movie. This morning, however, something new had been added. A series of feathers — short, long, fluffy, multicolored, striped — had been tucked in all the way around the headband. Some looked as if they’d been found. Others could only have been bought.

Adelle and Hugh exchanged puzzled glances.

Just last week, Hugh had discovered his father outside his Glendale home, searching through the flower beds. When he’d asked him what he was doing, his father had replied that he was tracking birds. Now he understood why — at least, partially.

“Dad, you can’t just come into our bedroom like this.” He tried to keep his voice calm, though he was completely nonplussed.

“Keep it down,” whispered Howell, pressing a finger to his lips.

“As long as I live, I’ll never share a connecting suite with that man again,” said Adelle, grabbing her bathrobe and yanking it on. “You do something about him. Nobody else can.

Howell quickly made himself comfortable in one of the leather armchairs. “Order us some breakfast,” he said, watching her thin frame stomp out of the room.

“Order your own breakfast,” she said, slamming the door.

Smoothing the brim of his hat, Howell removed it and placed it carefully on top of the table next to him. Then, leveling his gaze, he said, “Because she’s a member of this family, I’ve made certain allowances for her over the years, but I will not stand for this blatant disrespect any longer. She’s
your
wife.
You
do something about it!”

Hugh swung his feet out of bed and stared at the floor. Sometimes he felt as if his head were in a vise. Howell was on one side, his wife, the church, his own desires — or even his own sense of right and wrong — on the other. Absently, he wondered just how long a man could be squeezed before he burst.

“Look at me when I speak to you, Hugh.”

Hugh’s head popped up. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. He was nearly sixty years old, yet something about the look in his father’s eyes always shrank his self-confidence to the size of a pea. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Good. Very good. Now. I just received information about a serious matter, something that needs our immediate attention.” He removed a pack of papers from his suit-coat pocket. “The report I’ve been waiting for was delivered to me a few minutes ago.”

“What report?” said Hugh, shuffling into the bathroom. Bracing his arms on the sink, he gazed up at his aging face, raking a hand through his gray hair. He didn’t look much like his dad. He knew that in some odd way, his father held him responsible for that. Fathers and sons should look alike. The spirit of the boy came from his father, or at least that’s what Howell Purdis taught. And the firstborn spirit was the strongest, the most holy. That’s why God used only firstborn males as ministers.

Hugh couldn’t help but think of his own son, a remarkable young man whom he loved inordinately. One day Joshua Purdis would lead the Church of the Firstborn. Hugh believed with all his heart that Joshua was the best of them all. If there was hope for the church, it rested with him. Joshua had none of Hugh’s weaknesses. He didn’t see the world in confusing, infinitely frustrating shades of gray. Perhaps, even more important, Joshua wasn’t always second-guessing himself, forever uncertain. “For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed,” whispered Hugh, quoting a favorite scripture. He had complete faith that one day that verse would be his epitaph.

“Quit mumbling to yourself and get out here,” called Howell. “I don’t have all day. We have to discuss this report, and we have to do it now.”

Hugh splashed some cold water into his face and then grabbed a towel. Returning to the bedroom, he said, “I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what report you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Nobody does — except the man I commissioned to write it. Do you remember Arthur Lebrasseur?”

“Sure. He worked in the Canadian office for several years. You ordered me to send him to St. Louis a couple of months ago to help Isaac Knox. You said it was about time Arthur got some firsthand field experience.”

“Exactly. Isaac’s been in St. Louis now, for what? Four years? In that time he’s developed a tiny congregation into the largest local church area in the country.”

“He’s done a wonderful job.”

“Has he?”

“Of course he has, Father.”

Howell nodded to the chair opposite him. “You’re supposed to be the man monitoring the local church areas for problems. I put you in charge of the field ministry because that position is vital. I needed a man I could trust.”

“And I’ve done my best. You know that.”

“I know nothing of the kind. And Isaac Knox is living proof!”

“Look,” said Hugh, sinking into the chair. “I told you from the first that I refused to use my authority within the church to conduct witch-hunts. It’s bad for morale.”

“Making sure the ministry remains doctrinally pure is not a witch-hunt. Now, I’ve heard rumblings about Isaac for nearly six months, but never from you. Why is that?”

“Rumblings about what?”

“Heresy!”

“Oh, Father, please. Isaac is one of our best ministers.”

“What have I always told you, Hugh? Satan is wily. He appears as the angel of light. Perhaps in this case, he’s even taken
you
in. I want you to look at the report Arthur Lebrasseur prepared for me. You may be surprised.”

Hugh had no stomach for this conversation right now, but sat back in his chair and slipped on his reading glasses. He took the report and began to read through it.

“I’ll tell you what it says,” said Howell, tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. “It says that Isaac Knox is a traitor. He’s turned his back on God’s truth and is preaching error!”

If did seem that Isaac was allowing his congregation a great deal of doctrinal license. Hugh was aware of some of the irregularities, but nothing like this. The first page of the report suggested that Isaac no longer insisted that his congregation adhere to the Levitical laws of clean and unclean meats. Also, he’d begun to look the other way while some of the membership openly celebrated birthdays. He even allowed women to come to church wearing makeup. On the second page, however, the situation deteriorated even further.

It appeared Knox had given up the preaching of God’s law and the imminent fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy, and instead gave sermons almost exclusively revolving around relationships, how to have a more productive, happier life/marriage/career, and better, more rewarding friendships. His sermons were upbeat. Inspirational. Peppered with quotes not only from the Bible, but from famous men and women. As Hugh turned to the third page he found himself staring at the words in utter disbelief. He looked up, seeing his father’s grim face.

“Read on,” said Howell. “It gets worse.”

According to the report, Knox had spoken privately with one of his deacons, telling the man that within the next month or two he was planning to announce to the entire congregation that they need no longer send their tithes and offerings to the headquarters church in Altadena. Instead, he would start collecting the money locally. In the next year the Church of the Firstborn in St. Louis would break ground on a new youth center. It was Knox’s dream to build a space that not only the young men and women of the church could use, but one that would become a resource for any young person in crisis, or in need of guidance.

Hugh adjusted his glasses, and then placed the report down flat on the table. He had no idea Isaac had gone this far. There was no doubt about it. This was a bombshell. No minister of God had ever defied Howell Purdis like this before. And yet, no pastor had ever achieved quite the following or the popularity within the church that Isaac Knox had. Everyone loved him. This was a touchy situation, requiring a great deal of thought before any action was attempted. “What are you going to do?” asked Hugh.

“Do? I’m going to fire him! Disfellowship him! Throw him to the dogs of eternal damnation!”

Even though it might seem crass, Hugh felt it was important to point out to his father some realities they might have overlooked. “But… he may take a great many of our membership, even our ministers, with him if he goes.”

Howell Purdis heaved himself up and stood looking down at his son, his face red with rage. “Not if I have anything to say about it!”

“But you may not. We have to
think
about this, Father. We can’t act rashly.”

Lately, Hugh found himself listening to his father’s conversations for the off notes, the clues that would tell him whether or not his dad was truly losing his grip on reality. From Hugh’s point of view, his father’s bizarre behavior could just as easily be explained as an explosive, idiosyncratic personality altered by age and the perception of absolute authority. In other words, he wasn’t crazy, he was just so old and powerful that he did what he pleased and didn’t give a rip what anyone thought about it.

“You’re a weak sister, Hugh. How a son of mine could have ended up with no backbone is beyond me. Thank the good Lord I’m still alive. I may be on my way out, but I’m not frightened of any man. Especially Isaac Knox. The work God began through me is my only concern. I made a mistake when I named you, Hugh
Abraham.
You’re not the father of nations. You’re the father of indecision. ‘A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.’ “

“But — you’re just going to walk up and fire him?” Hugh couldn’t even imagine it.

Grabbing his feathery fedora, Howell gave his son a disgusted look and then jammed the hat down on his head. “What I decide to do will be between me and the Lord. He will advise. He will lead me in the path I should go. I suggest you get down on your knees and ask for a little guidance yourself. As of this moment you are no longer in charge of the field ministry.”

Lavinia shut the door to her suite and then hurried down the hallway to the elevator. She’d spent the last half hour rushing through her morning coffee and jumping into her clothes, all in an effort to make it to a very important meeting. If everything went as planned, fifteen minutes from now, on a bench in front of the Mississippi River about two blocks away, she’d finally find the answers to a mystery that had haunted her for the better part of a year. Meeting away from the hotel was imperative. There were simply too many curious eyes around the Maxfield.

She’d been planning this particular meeting for months, going over in her mind all the questions she needed to ask. No matter what happened today, she was determined to discover the truth. Not that Lavinia didn’t already think she had the truth. What she didn’t have was proof.

After pushing the down button, she stood quietly readjusting her jewelry, gazing up at the light above the doors. She’d waited for the elevator last night for almost ten minutes. If it took that long this morning, she was in big trouble.

As she pushed the button several more times she felt someone move up next to her. Turning her head slowly to the side, she saw a paunchy, balding, middle-aged man standing very close to her, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Since he was fidgeting with his watch, she assumed he was also in a hurry. Normally, she wouldn’t have given his presence another thought, except that he was standing
so
close. She didn’t like to think she was a complete snob, but he wasn’t the kind of man who looked as if he should be staying at the Maxfield. He was wearing jeans and an old polyester shirt, the middle button missing. Lavinia always noticed details like that. It was the curse of her profession.

She inched away.

Clearing his throat nervously, the man leaned in front of her and tapped the button. “Damn these hotel elevators. You never have enough of ‘em. I got a friend who fixes elevators for a living. He says the old ones are the worst. They break down all the time.”