Lightning

36

Back at his office, Carver turned up the air-conditioning, then called Desoto in Orlando and told him about his conversation with Jefferson Brama.

“The man has a point,” Desoto said. “Operation Alive has Brama on retainer, and if you go around slandering Freel, you might find yourself slapped with a defamation of character suit. A con man with a congregation can’t have a devil like you threatening the bottom line.”

“You’re suggesting I should ignore his secret meeting with Adelle Grimm at a motel outside of town?”

“Maybe it was innocent.”

“You know better. How many reasons are there for a widow to meet her late husband’s possible killer?”

“I wouldn’t hazard to guess,” Desoto said, “and neither should you. Listen, amigo, I’m a sympathetic ear, but you should stop talking about this until maybe someday in court. I’ve come around to your way of thinking that Freel and Operation Alive planned the Women’s Light bombing and Norton was acting as their agent. The Coast Medical Services bombing, with clues left all over the place that it was the work of the same bomber, doesn’t mean to me that Norton’s innocent and both bombings were the work of somebody other than Operation Alive. That’s like when Hitler burned down the Bundesbank and blamed his enemies.”

“Wasn’t it the Reichstag Building Hitler burned down?”

“Whichever it was, it only worked for a while. And Hitler eventually wound up being the one who got burned.”

Desoto was quiet for a moment while Carver considered this shorthand interpretation of history. Spanish guitar played softly in the background like Muzak.

“I wonder if Dr. Grimm knew about his wife sneaking around behind his back with somebody like Freel,” Desoto said.

“I doubt it. People like Grimm are dedicated and pretty much blind to what’s going on in their personal lives.” Carver thought about Leona Benedict climbing into the taxi that would take her away from her life of pressure and fear. She had decided she’d had enough, and her choice had become simple. Cab fare was cheaper than the price of marriage to a man with a mission. Adelle Grimm had endured the same ugliness and threats, existed under the same kind of terrible and destructive pressure.

“Perhaps Dr. Grimm stopped paying attention to his wife in the essential ways,” Desoto said.

Carver knew he didn’t mean sex alone.

“There are rumors here in Orlando,” Desoto said, “that Belinda Lee Freel has the same sort of problem with her husband. His cause has consumed him and left nothing for her.”

“Except money,” Carver said.

“It’s not a question of either-or, my friend. She and the good reverend have shared more than the same toothbrush through the years. Belinda Lee’s name is on most of the corporate papers. The Freels’ business interests are entwined in ways that will guarantee her at least half their worldly goods. And if she gets a good divorce lawyer, Reverend Freel might walk out of court with only otherworldly goods.”

“That means if Freel killed Dr. Grimm, maybe Belinda Lee is next.”

“God would frown,” Desoto said.

“Possibly somewhere along the line Freel changed gods, and now he worships money. The dead presidents on money never frown.”

“But those presidents are stern. Money can be a harsh god, amigo. And unlike the other God, it’s unforgiving.”

“Wicker says Freel’s alibi for the time of the bombing is tight.”

“It is. I double-checked it personally. He was chairing a church council meeting at the Clear Connection at the time the Women’s Light Clinic blew up. At least that’s the story of the other six council members who attended.”

“You sound dubious.”

“Freel might be a confidence man,” Desoto said, “but his followers are fanatics. They’d lie for him if he asked. To them, the pro-life movement is a holy crusade. They’d be lying so he could commit murder to save lives. He’d lie so he could commit murder to have Adelle Grimm and his unsullied reputation and all of his money. Both gods would approve.”

Carver wasn’t as sure as Desoto that Freel was completely a confidence man. He remembered the note in Freel’s voice and the pure bright light in his eyes. Might he not worship two gods and still be a true believer? The loudest singers in the church choir on Sundays sometimes manipulated stock or juggled the books through the rest of the week.

“Why would Freel have to be in Del Moray to plant the bomb himself?” Carver asked. “Why wouldn’t he simply use Norton?”

“He couldn’t be sure that way, because Norton wouldn’t know the real purpose of the bomb. Even though Freel planned the bombing for when Grimm was in the clinic, he had to know the bomb would be close enough to his victim to prove fatal when it went off. My guess is he planted it in the clinic well before the demonstration and set it off unseen from nearby, or activated the timer for when he knew Grimm would be conducting an abortion, leaving himself plenty of time to get clear of the area. Norton was a bomb nut and made such an obvious patsy, he might have even given Freel the idea.”

“Have you offered your theory to the FBI?” Carver asked.

“Sure. They didn’t buy into it. They still like Norton because they’ve got him, and with plenty of evidence. As they see it, Operation Alive is involved only because it unknowingly-or at least unprovably-provided motivation. Suggesting a conspiracy and a different actual suspect makes the investigation messy. The feebs like to get in and out in a hurry without losing any skin.” Desoto paused. Carver heard him draw a deep breath on the other end of the line. “There is one bit of information on our friend Ezekiel Masterson, by the way. You know a woman named Mildred Otten?”

“I’ve talked to her,” Carver said. “She has a bitter and biblical view of the world.”

“We’ve talked to her, too. It turns out Ezekiel is her son from her first of many marriages. Not that she knows where he is. Not that she’d tell us anyway. She says they’re estranged and the only time she sees him is at services at the Clear Connection, and he hasn’t attended for weeks.”

Mildred’s son. Carver thought about it. “I guess it figures. Spouting scripture might be an inherited trait.”

“It seems so in some families, especially these days and with families involved with the good Reverend Freel.”

There was a flurry of unintelligible voices on the other end of the connection. Voices speaking in English, though, and not coming from Desoto’s stereo.

“Crime marches on,” Desoto said into the phone, “and it just marched into my office. I’ve gotta go to work here.”

“So you’re saying Freel’s alibi only looks good?” Carver said. He valued Desoto’s judgment on such things and wanted to be sure of what he thought.

“Freel is a guy who’s claimed out-of-body experiences,” Desoto said. “He can go anywhere he wants anytime, and with an alibi. Believe me, he could have been in Del Moray the morning the Women’s Light Clinic went up. And in solid enough form to have detonated a bomb.”

Desoto hung up to join in battle with the forces of crime before Carver could thank him.

Carver let the receiver clatter back into its cradle, then sat back and looked at the closed office drapes, glowing with light and heat filtering through them to make the air-conditioning work its hardest. Natural heat was always in a battle with artificial cold in Florida. It was unrelenting and implacable. It knew that eventually it would win.

People like Martin Freel felt that way, too, whatever their delusion. Sooner or later they would win, if not in this world, in the next. Carver himself was usually reassured in time of doubt by the knowledge that he could outlast if not outsmart any adversary. When the people hanging by their fingertips finally let go, he’d still be there hanging by his fingernails. He would do what was necessary for as long as necessary. He knew that about himself. It was his religion.

Now he was beginning to recognize the same characteristic in Freel. And maybe Freel, with his religion underpinning his self-righteousness and will, was even more obstinate and persevering than Carver. More obsessive.

Carver didn’t like to think of himself as obsessive; he preferred to be regarded as dedicated rather than obsessive. But he knew that in different fashions, he and Freel might have the same relationship with truth, might carry the same burden.

So there the two of them were.

Obsessive.