In the foyer, she used the keypad to set the security system’s perimeter alarm and turned off the chandelier and stepped to one of the tall, narrow windows that flanked the front door.
The street and lawn and phoenix palms enrobed in shadows, the curve of driveway trimmed by low lamps and hemmed with scallops of light like a radiant silken garment, the portico subtly though dramatically illuminated, everything as hushed and still as in a painting, an air of expectation over all…
Carrying the tote, Jane doused the main-floor lights behind her as she returned to the theater lobby in the basement.
Petra Quist had come awake. In her restraints, she was as fetching as any object of desire in any bondage freak’s best dream—though not a fraction as sweet as any of the offerings in the nearby candy-counter display case.
As though her situation did not concern her, she wore attitude like a porcupine’s quills. “You’re good as dead, you piece of shit.”
“Yeah, well,” Jane said, “we’re all as good as dead. Some of us just go sooner than others.”
She moved a small padded bench away from a wall and positioned it in front of Petra and sat on it.
“Bad as I’m hurting,” Petra said, “Simon’s gonna hurt you ten times worse.”
“Did I hurt you? Really? Where did I?”
“Go screw yourself.”
“That’s not advice I’d give you until there’s been some time for the bruising to diminish.”
Petra spit at her but missed. Viscous saliva quivered on the bench upholstery. “You think you’re really something, you know, but you’re not.”
“I’m something. You’re something. We’re all something. Though we can’t always be sure what.”
They stared at each other in silence for maybe half a minute.
Then Jane said, “How much do you hate Simon?”
“You’re so full of crap. I don’t hate him.”
“Of course you do.”
“He’s good to me. He gives me everything.”
“So how much do you hate him?”
“Why would I hate him?”
Jane said, “Why wouldn’t you?”
33
Although it had been wreathed in brightness on the QuickMart video, the church now stands dark from foundation to bell tower to spire. Not a single vehicle remains in the parking lot.
Some lights glow in the rectory next door, however, and a hooded porch lamp hangs over a plaque that welcomes visitors.
MISSION OF LIGHT CHURCH
“I am come that they might have life,
and that they might have it more abundantly.”
RECTORY
REV. GORDON M. GORDON
As Carter Jergen rings the doorbell, Radley Dubose says, “There better not be any damn sanctuary going on here. These Shukla brats have jerked us around long enough. Anyway, they can’t get sanctuary in this place. There’s nothing Hindu about this joint.”
“They aren’t Hindu,” Jergen reminds him.
“Their parents were.”
“Your parents were something, too.”
“My mother was an Adventist for a while.”
“And look at you.”
“Yeah, but Hindu’s different. It sticks.”
“It doesn’t stick.”
“It sticks,” Dubose insisted.
“Let’s just be cool with this guy,” Jergen says. “Ministers, they’re trained to make nice. This can be smooth and quick.”
Dubose stands in silence, like the stone representation of some Norse god of storms that might abruptly come alive and emblazon the night with thunderbolts.
“Smooth and quick,” Jergen repeats. “Everybody making nice.”
A man in his fifties answers the door. He wears suit pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a loosened necktie. His full head of graying hair is well styled, and he sports a deep tan that, at this time of year, must have come from a machine. His smile is the kind that has closed a thousand deals.
The guy looks less like a man of the cloth than like a real-estate salesman, but Jergen nevertheless asks, “Reverend Gordon?”
“At your service. What may I do for you?”
Jergen and Dubose go into their spiel—a matter of national security, fugitives suspected of terrorist connections, time is of the essence—and present their credentials.
The reverend’s smile phases to a solemn expression. He ushers them into the quiet house and along a hallway and into a parlor, his bearing as somber as it might be when someone arrives with news of a parishioner’s untimely death.
Gordon M. Gordon perches on the edge of a brown tufted-leather armchair, while Jergen and Dubose sit forward on a sofa, as if all of them might at any moment drop to their knees.
On the table beside the armchair stands a glass containing what appears to be whisky and ice. On a footstool, a hardcover book lies open, facedown, not a theology text, not a volume of inspirational essays, but a John Grisham thriller.
Reverend Gordon sees Jergen notice the drink and the novel. “For some time now, I’ve been afflicted with insomnia. Well, since Marjorie passed away two years ago. That’s my wife, as fine a woman as ever lived. Married thirty years. A glass of spirits and a good tale are the only things that relax me enough that I can sleep.”
“Well, sir,” Jergen says, “neither Scotch in moderation nor any amount of Grisham is a vice. I’m sorry to hear about your wife. Thirty years is a long blessing, though.”
“It is,” the reverend agrees. “It’s a long blessing.”
“I was going to ask if Mrs. Gordon might be off to bed, because what we’ve come to discuss isn’t for everyone to hear.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Jergen. The children are gone. I’m alone except for Mr. Grisham and a sip of Scotland’s finest.”
A tad too brusquely, Dubose says, “There was a well-attended event at the church earlier this evening. What was that about?”
“The first Easter-season play. A silly one, pure fun, for the children. Nearer the Sunday, we’ll have a serious Passion play.”
Jergen holds out his smartphone, on which he has summoned a photo of the Shukla twins. “By any chance, sir, did you see these two at the performance?”
Leaning further forward on the armchair, Gordon squints at the phone. He smiles and nods. “Yes, a handsome couple. Quite striking. I didn’t see them until more than halfway through the evening, as they were getting up to visit the restrooms. I didn’t know them, but I assumed they were guests of one parishioner or another.”
In a moment of well-rehearsed cop theater, Carter Jergen gives his partner a dour and meaningful look, and Dubose returns it. When they are sure the reverend sees The Look and is intrigued, a little alarmed, they turn to their host, frowning. Jergen says, “Reverend, it’s important to think about your answer and be sure it’s accurate. Did you see these two leave the church after the performance?”
“No. I realized later that I never learned who they were with or if they might be interested in joining the Mission of Light.”
“So they could still be in there?”
The minister may understand the meaning of life, but Jergen’s simple question apparently mystifies him. “In the church? Why would they be in the church?”
“Seeking sanctuary,” says Dubose.
“Hiding out,” Jergen clarifies.
As if he briefly forgot what they’d said on his doorstep that gained them entry, Gordon opens his eyes wide and furrows his brow. “Oh my. Fugitives with suspected terrorist ties?”
Dubose says, “Do you lock the church at night?”
“Yes. The church, the attached chancellery and event building. It’s necessary these days. There was a time, in my youth, when the front doors of churches were open twenty-four hours a day. But these days, open doors invite vandalism, even desecration.”
“We need to search the place.” Dubose sounds impatient, but he’s mostly acting as if he agrees with Jergen that this will go smooth and quick if only they just give Gordon the chance to be as nice as his bible tells him to be. “We need the keys.”
“Just us?” Gordon asks. “Shouldn’t we involve the police?”
“Local police don’t have national security clearance,” Jergen says. “Neither do you. Agent Dubose and I will conduct the search.”
“What—the two of you alone? Isn’t that dangerous?”