CHAPTER 9


The founding church of the Reorganized Church of the Redemption was on the former site of an animal park and theme village off Route 114 in Middleton. There were about fifteen acres with a green, and a plain white church at one end. Several bungalows lined each side of the green and behind them some small outbuildings, and then gardens. The whole thing looked like a cut-rate version of Old Sturbridge Village.

I pulled in onto the gravel drive that circled the green and drove up and parked beside the church. It looked like any New England village church. In the gardens behind the bungalows a number of people were working.

I walked up the front steps of the church and into the foyer. A sign said OFFICE, and an arrow pointed left. I went left. There was a set of stairs and another arrow. I followed the arrow down and in the basement of the church found a collection of office cubicles separated by frosted glass partitions. There was air-conditioning and fluorescent light and the sound of typewriters. A young woman at the reception desk said, "May I help you."

She had a frizzy perm and some makeup. She wore a white blouse with a round collar and an olive skirt.

"Is there someone who normally talks to people with questions," I said.

"Questions about the church, sir?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Owens is our director of community relations," she said.

"May I speak with him," I said.

"Certainly, sir. Would you have a seat. I'll see if Mr. Owens is free."

I sat and she stood, and walked down the corridor. She was wearing high-heeled shoes with no backs and her tan legs were bare. Not bad hips for a religious zealot. Susan had told me that those kind of shoes were called fuckme shoes. "On the assumption that you didn't want to order them in quite that way to a saleslady at Filene's," I had said, "what else would you call them?" Susan had said that she'd simply have to find some and point. She'd never heard them called anything else. Probably called hold-my-hand shoes here.

The receptionist returned and smiled and said Mr. Owens would see me. I followed her down the hall and she ushered me into one of the cubicles. There was a gray metal desk and two gray metal chairs and a file cabinet and a picture of a man, probably Bullard Winston, on the wall. Owens stood and put out his hand.

"Bob Owens," he said.

Owens was tall and trim with sandy hair and some freckles. His hands had large knuckles and they cracked slightly when we shook hands. He had on a seersucker suit and a white shirt and a light yellow tie.

I sat in one of the metal chairs and said, "I am looking for a young woman named Sherry Spellman." I took my license out and handed it across to him. He looked at it, smiled, handed it back.

"Not a flattering likeness," he said.

"It didn't have much of a start," I said. He nodded.

"Sherry is with us," he said.

"Here?" I said.

Owens smiled. "She is with us," he said.

"I'd like to speak with her if I may."

"I'm sorry, sir, that isn't possible," Owens said.

"Why not?"

"She has sought refuge with us. We cannot very well violate her refuge at the first request."

"She's here voluntarily?"

Owens put his head back and smiled and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "My God, yes. How else would she be here? This is a Christian church."

"Her friend says she was taken forcibly. That's why he hired me."

Owens didn't smile. "That is absurd," he said. "Who is this friend?"

I shook my head. "No need for you to know," I said.

"The charge may well be actionable," Owens said. His face was severe, and with his freckles he looked like an angry child.

"Simple charge to disprove," I said. "Let me talk with her."

"No. I cannot. She has a right to sanctuary. She has a right to come here and be undisturbed."

"I appreciate that. On the other hand, you can probably appreciate why I can't just take your word for it."

"I'm afraid you'll have to."

"There are several ways to do this. But the easiest would be to talk with your boss. May I see him?"

"Mr. Spenser," Owens said. "This is harassment, and it is intolerable. Sherry Spellman is here of her own volition, she is well and happy and does not wish to be bothered. That is the end of it. You'll have to leave."

"Another way would be I could call the cops," I said.

Owens pushed a button on his multibutton telephone and in ten seconds the frizzyhaired receptionist stuck her head in the door.

"Ask Corey to send a couple of men down here, please, Miss Chase."

"Yes, sir," Miss Chase said, and pulled her head out and closed the door.

"Or I could get up and go out and begin to look through the buildings," I said. "See if she is here."

"I have requested two church deacons to come by and escort you from church property, Mr. Spenser: I'm sorry to be so brusque, but we do not turn the other cheek here. And we do not accept intimidation. And we believe in direct, immediate, and vigorous action when necessary."

There was a knock and Owens nodded and two large young men came in wearing white short-sleeve shirts and chino pants. They were both obvious body builders. One had a crew cut, the other was balding, though he was still in his twenties, and combed the sparse brown hair over the bald parts. Vanity even here.

I said to Owens, "I will need to see Sherry Spellman and talk with her. And I will. But busting up your deacons this morning doesn't seem like the way to go about it." I stood up. "I'll be in touch," I said. No one spoke. I walked past the deacons and out of the church. They followed and stood on the church steps and watched me as I drove away.

Загрузка...