Turn or Burn (22 page)

Besides, a visit to see the preacher, Wendy Harrill, was long overdue. Apparently, judging by how much I’d seen her on the news lately, she loved media attention just as much as she loved Jesus Christ. We had watched quite a bit of the local and national news that morning, and Wendy had been talking specifically about the letter the Soldiers of the Second Coming had penned claiming responsibility for Dr. Kramer’s death. She had gone on and on about how the pursuit of
Transhumanism
—the idea of using technology to transform the human condition—was leading us into a time that we could not control, that we were flirting with powers we did not understand. She made it quite clear, though, that she did not condone any violent acts, such as the murder of Dr. Kramer, and that the Soldiers of the Second Coming was a radical and unwelcome group amongst other Christians.

I couldn’t find any news about what had happened on Whidbey Island the day before. No report of the men I’d killed. No news, period. We could only assume that Jameson and his men had cleaned it up quietly. And taken the Range Rover.

With both of us carless, we took a cab to the church. I asked the driver to wait for us across the street, and we walked up to the front door. It was locked, so we went around to one of the smaller buildings. A flower delivery guy was just coming out, and he held the door for us.

There was a welcome area with a long hallway leading to what looked like offices. A picture of Jesus hung on the wall. The flowers the man had delivered were on a tall table in the corner. They were white lilies. Madonna lilies. I knew because my mother used to grow them. The woman behind the desk was munching on a biscuit as she said, “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“I think so. My name’s Salvi and this is Chess.” I paused for effect, making sure Francesca heard my amazing jest, but I didn’t look over. “We’re thinking about joining the church but wanted to see if we could meet with Mrs. Harrill before we went any further.”

The woman smiled. “Sure. We can set up an appointment for later in the week.”

“Does she have any time today? We’re only in town for a few hours. We live down in Portland for the time being…moving up here in about a month. Finding a church is important to us so we’re scouting them out now.”

“I understand completely. You two married?”

I did my best blush. “Not married…we’re engaged.” I squeezed Francesca’s hand, and she dug her fingernails into my skin.

“Well, congratulations. You guys are such a cute couple.” She didn’t look down to see if Francesca was wearing a ring. Even if she had, it was Seattle. People are into bucking trends like wearing diamonds.

I threw my arm around my “fiancée.” “Don’t we look great together? Her parents
love
me.”

“I’m sure. Let me see what I can do.”

“Thanks so much. We don’t need a lot of time, just need to make sure we’re the right fit.”

As the woman checked Wendy Harrill’s schedule, I snuck a peak at Francesca. She was eyeing me like she wanted to kick me. I gave her a wink.

“Tell you what,” the lady came back. “Wendy isn’t in yet, but she should be here in the next thirty minutes. If you could wait a little while, I’ll see if she could see you briefly.”

“We’d be happy to wait.” I held back the urge to ask her some questions. I didn’t want to make her suspicious of my intentions, and I had a pretty good feeling that Wendy Harrill would have all the answers we needed. “We’ll walk across the street and get some coffee. Be back in just a little while.”

A Tully’s Coffee was across the street—a somewhat less corporate establishment than the coffee house I will not name—and we headed that way. I let the cab driver, a thirty-something Ethiopian man, know it would be a little while longer, and he didn’t seem to mind. He was taking in the Steve Job’s biography on tape. Besides, he was racking up a nice fare, one I wasn’t looking forward to paying.

The traffic was heavy as we crossed at the intersection. Nothing triggers me more than traffic and crowds. Lots of people in one place. I hate it. I hate the people, the congestion. All the mediocrity out there, marching in line to eat their shitty fast food and buy crap from Wal-Mart that they don’t need just because it’s cheap. Sheep. Damn sheep everywhere!

I don’t even know why this stuff bothers me. It’s not that I’m above mediocrity. Hell, I’d love to be called mediocre, average…
normal
. But somehow so much of America bothers me. That’s what happened after my last couple years in the desert. Whenever I’d return, I’d nearly lose my mind over the littlest of things.

Lines, the homeless, fat people, loud people, annoying people, angry people, happy people, people who didn’t do what they said they were going to do, patronizing sons of bitches, loud noises, stoplights, politicians, spam mail, bad service at restaurants or wherever, having to fill up my gas tank when it wasn’t convenient…even bottled water. If you’re near a tap, drink the damn tap water. Quit filling up freaking landfills with useless stuff. Not that I was some tree hugger. I hated them, too.

They were all things that
didn’t matter
—that I’d been dealing with all my life—but now they bothered me in a way that no civilian could ever understand. I thought I’d ridded myself of these little stresses, but they were coming back in full-force with every passing hour. I needed to be back on the vineyard, stat. I’d already exposed myself enough to Francesca, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

“So what was that you said to the cab driver when we got in?” Francesca asked.

“You mean
Selam Dehna Neh
?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s ‘hello, how are you.’ Or something like that, in Amharic.”

“Very impressive.”

“A good Ethiopian friend of mine taught me a couple things,” I said.

After slinging yet another cup of caffeine down my gullet, feeding my growing rage, we walked back to the church. Wendy Harrill was just inside the door, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the rack in the corner. She was about to meet the not-so-nice Harper Knox, but I was intent on suppressing that for as long as possible.

“Here they are,” the secretary said to Wendy, a smile in her voice.

The top two buttons of her shirt were undone, and a sliver of a gold necklace traced down her chest and disappeared in between her breasts, which I tried not to look at as I started to walk toward her with my hand extended. She smiled and came toward me. I summed it up in my mind. Wendy Harrill was a master of looking hot yet sternly conservative and religious, almost papal (though these people weren’t Catholics), at the same time.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” she said. She was so captivating she almost made me want to explore Christianity for a minute. Then I remembered that my life was shit, and I was going to die and there wasn’t much to look forward to until the coffin closed, and I quickly dropped my need for religion.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said with great enthusiasm, the thespian in me shining.

“Please come with me. We can go into my office.”

“Thanks for making time for us.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure. I had a few free minutes this morning.”

“You do seem busy. We’ve seen you all over the news.”

“Oh, yes. Lots of work to be done right now.”

We followed her back outside and she led us to the main building. She bowed at the altar as she entered. Francesca and I did as well. I felt like I’d take anyone’s help at that point. Take away the massive cross out front, and the church could have just as easily been confused for a medical clinic or an attorney’s office. The pews were designed so that the congregation sat in a half-circle facing the altar, as opposed to the usual straight rows in the church that my folks dragged me to. The design almost suggested a more liberal view of the Lord, but from what I’d seen of Wendy on the tube, that was far from the truth.

Wendy took a seat in the front pew and motioned for us to join her. We all sat looking at the altar, which was a table holding a four-foot tall golden cross, surrounded by an arrangement of flowers that my mother would have called “darling” or “exquisite.” She did flowers back at our little Episcopal Church in Benton City.

I sat between the two women. Wendy was almost uncomfortably close. She twisted toward me and put an arm up on the back of the pew.

“This is my office,” she said with a smile, beginning to work the magic that had no doubt won her a congregation of the devout.

She started her spiel and it was more like a performance than a discussion. It disgusted me. “I understand you live in Portland and are moving here,” she said. “So you’re searching for a place to worship. I used to live in Portland. I’m an Oregon Duck through and through.”

I nodded excitedly, showing a lot of teeth, thinking how my last nerve was fraying quickly.

“Let me tell you a little bit about what we do, what we believe. I’ve been here for fifteen years and—”

Boring!
It was my turn. “Before you go on, let me interrupt you.” My words almost startled her. “I think I can sum up why we’re here pretty quickly.”

“By all means.”

“A friend sent us here.”

“Who would that be?”

I looked her in the eyes. “Jameson Taylor.”

All I was hoping for was some sort of recognition, so I could push her if she tried to lie. What I got was one seriously terrified look. It only lasted a second before she composed herself, but it was clear it was way too early in the morning for her to have been prepared for such a perfect blindside.

I decided to continue. “Now, let’s not waste anyone’s time with you trying to deny that you know him. I know you do. He told me,” I lied. “We’re not here to get you in trouble. We’re here for some information.”

She started to stand. “Look, unless you’re the cops, I have nothing to say to you. I’ve already told them what I know.”

I grabbed her arm. “Please sit back down.”

She wasn’t very quick to move so I pulled her down. Gently, of course. She didn’t like it, and I could see some fear creep into her.

I got very close to her, still gripping her arm. “I don’t think you’re involved with what’s going on here in this city, but I think you might have some information. No, I’m not a cop. Nor is my partner here. We lost a friend a few days ago because of this, and we’re trying to find some answers. You are our only hope right now. I apologize for grabbing you, but we can’t walk out of here without the truth. I’ll do whatever it takes, if you know what I mean. Don’t make me be that guy. So you can tell us what you know about Jameson Taylor and this group he’s running with, and we’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see us again, or you can try some kind of dance, and I’ll have to include you as one of
them
. And by that, I mean my enemy. I can be ruthless to my enemies, as you can imagine.”

A tear fell from her eye, and she wiped it with her free hand.

“Don’t be scared,” I said, “but I’m glad I got your attention. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to find some bad guys. What do you think? You feel like talking?”

She nodded.

Of course I had no intentions of hurting her. I was simply doing what needed to be done.

“Thank you,” I said. Then I did something really out of character. I reached up and wiped a second tear from her eye. Harper Knox, the King of Compassion.

“Tell me about Jameson.”

I had just crumbled this poor woman. She took a breath and then leaned over with her elbows on her thighs. “I’ve already told the cops all of this.”

“That’s fine. I have an inherent distrust in our justice system. In short, I feel confident that I can get more done than they can. So please…”

“Jameson started coming here about a year ago and got very involved. Quickly. Within six months, he was the head of our vestry.”

“What’s the word:
vestry
?” Francesca asked.

“It’s the administrative committee. They do the stuff that lies on the more political side of our church. He became more controlling than I liked, and extremely radical, and I asked him to leave. Simple as that.”

Francesca continued. “How did he become a problem specifically?”

“Well, it seemed he wanted my job. He was trying to undermine me. Change the way I do things.”

“Like what?”

“He didn’t think homosexuals should have any roles of authority in our church. He wanted a man that had been with us for five years to stop teaching Bible Study.”

“You didn’t agree?”

“Not in the slightest. We are not on this earth to judge. I also got the feeling he didn’t think that, as a woman, I should have any authority, either.”

We heard a door open and looked back at the entrance. A janitor was coming in, pushing a mop. I turned back around and asked a question of my own. “Where can we find him now?”

“The cops asked the same question. I have no idea. I made him leave and he hasn’t been back.”

“Don’t lie to me, Wendy,” I said. “You don’t want to do that. There has to be something you can remember. Some way to find him.”

She sat up. “I’m not lying.” She glanced at the janitor, who was working his way through the pews. “I’m not lying,” she said again. “I have the address he put on file with us. I gave that to the cops, too. That’s all I have.”

“Do you know anything about his personal life? Did you meet his wife?”

“No. I never met her. He said he was trying to bring her in, but she wasn’t ready yet.”

“What does that mean? ‘Wasn’t ready?’”

“That’s just what he said.”

“Was anyone else close to him here? Anyone we could talk to?”