A Specter of Justice (11 page)

Brooks then wove the text into a sermon of how evil will recognize good first and then try to hide its true intentions. Satan is the master of lies, not fighting God's will but perverting it. And sometimes the innocent may not realize they are pawns of evil until it is too late. Until they have destroyed a family or hurled themselves from a high place and destroyed themselves.

Nakayla and I looked at each other. The not-so-subtle reference to Molly and Lenore and their ghost roles could have only been clearer if he mentioned them by name.

After the sermon, a young man and woman sang a duet while ushers passed offering plates along the rows. I dropped a twenty onto a mound of cash. Then the ushers returned to the aisles, this time carrying wireless hand microphones.

Brooks walked to the center of the stage. “And now we will spend a few minutes sharing our joys and concerns so that as a community of faith we can pray for each other during the coming week. Simply raise your hand and the usher nearest you will provide the microphone.”

For a few seconds, no one moved. Then a few hands went up. An elderly lady asked for prayers for her unsaved loved ones. A young man told how God had gotten him a new job. A couple stood together, holding hands, and announced they were expecting their first child. Each statement of joy or concern was answered with a smattering of Amens. I was struck by the diversity of the speakers—black, white, Latino, young, old.

Nakayla's comment about Brooks tapping a need appeared to cross all demographic lines except one. I remembered the cars and pickups in the parking lot all had years and miles on them. Many with bald tires and rusted fenders appeared older than the church building. In a world measuring status by things possessed, these people lived on the margins. Gathered here, they found acceptance. I suspected it was equal parts faith and fellowship. A sanctuary, in multiple meanings of the word, and a social encounter for those whose only access to a country club would be through an entrance marked Employees Only.

A shadow fell over me. I looked up to see the old man from the headset table. He had a microphone in his right hand while waving his left over his head.

“Yes,” Brooks said. “All the way in the back.”

The septuagenarian spoke into the mike. “We have a visitor who'd like to share something.” Then he stuck the mike in my face.

It pointed to my head like a gun. I wanted to bite the liver-spotted hand wrapped around it. People turned in their seats to stare at me.

“Don't be shy, my friend,” Brooks prodded. “You are among family.”

Nakayla leaned forward and snatched the mike away. She stood and every eye followed her rise.

“I just wanted to say that I will pray that all of us here will do what the Lord requires of us—to seek justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God.”

Heads nodded and a unified “Amen” filled the air. The congregation turned back to Brooks.

“Words of the prophet Micah,” the preacher said. “An excellent prayer that I commend to be the close of every prayer we offer this coming week.” He took a few steps closer to the edge of the stage. “Thank you. And welcome, Nakayla Robertson and Sam Blackman.”

Heads snapped around, astonishment on faces, and none more so than mine.

The rest of the service passed in a blur of songs and hallelujahs. There was a tap on my shoulder and I looked up to see the old man who had ambushed me.

“Pastor Horace would like ya to see him for a few minutes if ya got the time.”

I wanted to say, “Sorry, Nakayla has to get back to her coven,” but instead I said, “Sure. Mind telling me how he knew we were here?”

“Junior told him through that intercom in his ear.”

“Junior who?”

“Junior Atwood. Cletus' younger brother and Clyde's uncle. Junior told me you wanted to say something in the service. That's why I brought ya the mike.” He smiled at Nakayla. “Nice prayer, little lady.”

“And is Junior the one who also told you Pastor Horace wants to see us?”

“Yep. That Junior knows his sound stuff. Pastor Horace has a separate channel so he can speak just to Junior. Ya know, tell him if the level's too loud, or he's going to change the order of the service. Junior learned about all that technical machinery in the Army. He was a lifer, and now he runs our A/V equipment, plus we're buying our own radio station.”

The old man led us up the side aisle against the flow of exiting church members. We were like salmon swimming upstream. Some people still smiled at us; others gave curious stares. None were outright hostile.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Ya can call me Wheezer. Rhymes with geezer. My given name is Wally Feezor, but it got collapsed to one word years ago.”

I should introduce Wally Feezor, aka Wheezer, to Cheryl Lee, aka Shirley, and they could start a collapsed name club.

“You been a member long?” I asked.

“Yep. Since that first night Pastor Horace showed up with his tent in Asheville. My dear wife, Libby, God rest her soul, dragged me to see him. And God used him to cast out my demon.”

“Your demon?”

“I was a bad drunk. About to lose my wife and kids because the alcohol was working on me from the inside, where nobody could see and only I could hear its constant calling. God spoke and touched me there that night. Couldn't have done it by myself, as sure as I'm talking to ya.”

We reached the left of the stage and Wheezer pushed open a door. We walked down a hallway, just the three of us, and then the old man suddenly stopped. “I never hit Libby, but I was afraid the drink would push me into something I'd never do sober.” He lowered his voice to a warbley whisper. “I know that's what happened to Clyde Atwood. His momma tried to get him to church. So did his wife, Heather. But the demon had him.” Wheezer started walking again. “Now what's done is done.”

We turned a corner and I saw Horace Brooks talking to the couple who had sung the duet.

“Wait here by this door,” Wheezer said. “It's the pastor's office. While you're talking to him, I'll bring your umbrellas and lay them along the edge of the hall. Nice to meet ya.” He hurried away as fast as his old legs could carry him.

“You think we've been summoned to the principal's office?” Nakayla asked.

“I don't know. But if Brooks starts throwing Bible verses at us, I'm counting on you to defend me.”

Brooks turned and swung his arm in an arc toward his office door. “Please go in. I appreciate your giving me a few minutes of your time.”

We stepped inside. The office furniture was utilitarian: a tidy desk, three chairs around a coffee table, and a filing cabinet. Two of the four walls were covered by bookshelves holding what appeared to be Bibles, Bible commentaries, encyclopedias, and thick books by Bonhoeffer, Barth, and a few other familiar names in a host of tomes I suspected to be heavy-duty theological reading. The only window looked over a children's playground where rain bounced off the slide and swing seats.

On the walls with the window and the door were framed photographs of church activities. Kids were leading worship services and working in community food pantries. Adults were on field trips to nursing homes or tutoring kids in what looked like after-school programs. I saw no pictures of Brooks and no college or university degrees. Maybe he was self-educated or maybe he attached no importance to whatever formal training he might have received. But his library was far more extensive than what I expected.

“Have a seat,” he said.

We sat. For a moment, we looked at him and he looked at us. He seemed older than he appeared in the news clip. Maybe it was that the harsh, head-on lights of the cameras had obliterated the furrows in his forehead and flattened the bags under his eyes. I searched for traces of makeup, the sign that his TV image held priority. He just looked like an ordinary guy in his mid-fifties who would disappear at a conference of bankers, insurance brokers, or lawyers. The man sitting across from me wasn't the man I'd expected, based on the TV and newspaper quotes.

Brooks crossed his legs and relaxed. “First, let me say you are welcome here. I'm going to take it at face value that you joined us for sincere worship and that you do seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.”

I felt a tinge of color burn my cheeks. I'd come to judge him but he'd skillfully thrown the spotlight back on me.

I leaned forward and tried to match the intensity of his gaze. “Yes, I seek those things, but to speak truthfully, I came to take your measure.” The phrase sounded nice and Biblical.

Brooks' dark eyes widened. “My measure? Why?”

“Two women are dead. Two women who were working to raise money for those orphaned twins. You were quoted as saying some things that I…” I looked at Nakayla…“that we took as inflammatory. If they were murdered because of their efforts for the Atwood boys, then your demonizing them and their actions might have led one of your flock astray big-time.”

Brooks said nothing. He seemed to be pondering the possibility I'd thrown at him. He looked at Nakayla. “Do you feel this way?”

“You called them Satan worshipers,” she said.

He raised his right hand like swearing an oath. “I didn't. Nelda Atwood made that statement and I disavowed it.”

“When?” Nakayla asked.

“Friday night. The TV reporter tried to bait me for a response. Of course, that never made the air.”

“What about your quote that Helen Wilson has that hotshot attorney Hewitt Donaldson but the Atwoods have Jesus?” I asked.

Brooks sighed. “Yes. I said it and I'd say it again. If you're speaking truthfully, would you say Donaldson isn't a hotshot?”

I thought about Hewitt's hubris and bigger than life style. His courtroom dramatics and calculated traps and strategies. I thought about his Jaguar and the license plate NOT-GIL-T.

“Hewitt has a persona that he uses for the benefit of his clients, many of whom have nowhere else to turn.”

“Yes. The persona of a hotshot. I get it. But the Atwoods have their faith that the right thing will be done. And the rest of my sentence was left on the cutting room floor. I said that the Atwoods have Jesus and their faith will carry them through. I spoke those words for their benefit to try and keep them from lashing out or making unfortunate accusations like the Satan worshipers one.”

“And why did you call out our names to the whole congregation?”

“Junior told me you were going to speak and should he keep the mike off.”

“How did he even know we were there?”

“I guess he either saw you or Cletus told him. I told Junior if you wanted to speak, you should speak.”

“I didn't want to speak. Wheezer just stuck the mike in my face.”

Brooks uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “What?”

“We never asked to speak.”

The preacher shook his head. “I guess someone hoped to embarrass you.” He nodded to Nakayla. “But you gave such a good prayer request, I wanted to publicly acknowledge you and defuse any unwarranted tension your visit might have created.” Brooks looked at me. “Public embarrassment is a long way from murder, Mr. Blackman. And like all of us, Helen Wilson is a long way from being a saint.”

“What's that suppose to mean?” I asked.

“Just that she never approved of her daughter's marriage to Clyde and worked every way to undercut it.”

“Clyde was abusive. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I know. And I was trying to work with him. But I'm telling you what I heard directly from Heather Atwood's lips as she sat in the chair you're sitting in.” He glanced around his office. “This isn't a confessional and she's no longer alive, so I feel a duty to ask you to look at the whole picture here. Helen Wilson is the one showing no interest in shared custody. Helen Wilson is the one who might be poisoning the twins' attitude to the Atwoods because she was doing the same thing to their relationship with Clyde. That's not me speaking, that's Heather.

“But, after Clyde shot the deputy, and I do believe it was accidental, Heather returned to her mother's house, the home she'd tried to escape by marrying Clyde right out of high school. To seek justice means for me that everyone receives a fair hearing regardless of whether they're well off or have the slickest lawyer in town.”

His eyes glistened as he struggled to keep some emotion in check. “The deaths of Clyde and Heather and of Molly Staton and Lenore Carpenter are truly tragic. But I don't believe any actions or words by me or anyone in my congregation are to blame.”

He stood. “That's all I can tell you.”

Nakayla and I rose.

“Thank you for your time,” I said.

He walked behind his desk, opened a drawer and retrieved a business card. “Take this and call me if there's anything I can do to help.”

I dropped the card in my coat pocket.

Brooks shook my hand and then clutched Nakayla's with both of his. “One favor for you to consider. Share your prayer request with Mr. Donaldson to seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly,” he smiled and dropped his hands, “with anyone.” Then his face turned grave. “Because if we don't humble ourselves, God will do it for us.”

We picked up our beer umbrellas from the hall and left.

When we were in the CR-V, Nakayla asked, “What now?”

“We look more closely at Helen Wilson. And I want you to find out all you can about Horace Brooks. Hewitt might be slick, but Brooks could be in a league all his own.”

I pulled out my phone before buckling my seatbelt and checked for messages. I'd turned it off completely so that even the vibrate mode wouldn't make a sound in the sanctuary. As it powered up, chimes announced two messages.

“Who is it?” Nakayla asked.

“One's from Newly's cell. The other number's familiar but I can't place it.”