One of the ongoing stories Adam was tracking was that of their mutual father, the Rev. After a pleasing flurry of activity surrounding his embezzlements from the Church of PetrOleum and the tragic discovery that the Rev’s first wife, Fenella, was buried in the rock garden, and then the scandalous publication of the tell-all memoir by his second wife, Trudy, the whole affair had fizzled out.
There was a trial, yes, but the evidence had been inconclusive, or so the jury had decided. Trudy had taken the proceeds from her memoir and gone on vacation to a Caribbean island with – some said – a Tex-Mex lawn-maintenance expert, and had been found washing about in the surf after an impetuous naked moonlight swim. Such dangerous things, undertows, said the local police. She must have been dragged down, and hit her head on a rock. Her companion, whoever he was, had vanished. Understandable, since he might have been blamed; though a whisper was going around that he might also have been paid.
So Trudy was not able to give evidence at the trial, and, without that, what could be proven about anything? The skeleton of Fenella had lain so long in the ground: anyone at all might have put it there. Anonymous men, immigrants as a rule, were always walking around with shovels in the more affluent areas of cities, ready to bang trusting, innocent, horticulturally minded ladies on the head, stuff gardening gloves into their mouths, ravish them in the potting shed despite their muffled screams, and plant hens and chicks on top of them, not to mention lamb’s ears and snow-in-summer and other drought-resistant succulents. It was a well-known hazard for female homeowners who took an interest in landscaping.
As for his sizable embezzlements, which were beyond a doubt, the Rev had gone the tried and true route: a public confession of temptation, followed by an account of his sinfulness in failing to resist it, then by a further account of the discovery of that sinfulness, which had been a bitter herb, but through his humiliation had saved him from himself. This was topped up with a grovelling, tearful request for forgiveness from both God and man, in particular from the members of the Church of PetrOleum. Bingo, he was absolved, washed clean of stains, and ready for a new start. For who could find it in his heart to withhold forgiveness from a fellow human being who was so obviously contrite?
“He’s on the loose,” said Adam. “Exonerated, reinstated. His OilCorps associates got him off.”
“Fucker,” said Zeb. “Make that plural.”
“He’ll be wanting to hunt us down, and now he’ll be able to access the cash to do it,” said Adam. “His OilCorps friends will supply it. So be alert.”
“Right,” said Zeb. “The world needs more lerts.” It was an old joke of his. It used to make Adam laugh, or rather smile, but he didn’t smile that time.
One evening, when Zeb was loitering around the Scales bar in his Smokey the Bear shades and black suit and snake lapel pin, wearing his non-smile, non-frown, and listening to the chatter from the fauxgold tooth in his mouth, he heard something from one of the guys at the front door that made him stand up a little straighter.
It wasn’t a Painballer warning this time. On the contrary.
“Top of the pyramid, four of them, coming in,” said the voice. “Three OilCorps, one Church of PetrOleum. That preacher who was on the news.”
Zeb felt the adrenalin shooting through his veins. It had to be the Rev. Would the twisted, kiddie-bashing, wife-murdering sadist recognize him or not? He checked the location of every potential missile within reach, in case there might be a need for one. If there was a cry of “Seize that man” or any similar melodrama, he’d hurl a few cut-glass decanters and run like shit. His muscles were so taut they were twanging.
Here they came now, in a festive mood, judging from the japes and laughter and the modified backslaps – more like tentative pats – that were the main phrases of the quasi-brotherly body language permitted at the top levels of the Corps. They were on their way to champagne and tidbits, and everything that went with them. Tips would be lavish, supposing they could all get it up. Why be rich if you can’t flaunt it by bestowing patronizing sums of dosh on those who aid you in your quest for self-aggrandizement?