“No, sir, I guess I can’t.”
“I guess not. And do you know that he cut off my wife’s finger—in front of me, and our son, and his girlfriend—just for kicks? Just to give us a little taste of what he had in store for us?”
“I am aware of that,” he said. “And I certainly don’t condone it.”
“Don’t condone it?” I was practically roaring now. “Well, that’s mighty big of you, Agent Fielding, not to condone it.”
“Dr. Brockton? Sir? I need you to take a step back and calm down. I’m sorry if my choice of words offended you. No doubt about it, Satterfield’s done terrible things. But those things aren’t the issue right now. The issue right now is, he’s alleging crimes have been committed, by Captain Deck—”
“Give me a break,” I interrupted. “You’re going to take a convicted serial killer’s word over a police officer’s?”
“Let me finish,” he said. “He’s alleging crimes were committed by Captain Decker, and by you and your wife. Attempted murder by Captain Decker, and conspiracy to commit murder, by you and your wife.”
“My wife,” I spat, “is dying. And frankly, Agent Fielding, in light of that, I don’t give a good goddamn what Satterfield says. If you’ve got an ounce of decency in you, neither will you.”
Whatever response he had to that, I didn’t hear it. I had already hit “end.”
AFTER THE CALL ABOUT DECKER, I LEFT CAMPUS—AS if by leaving my office, I could leave my worries—and headed toward home. But as I turned west onto Kingston Pike—toward the mansions that signaled the boundary of Sequoyah Hills—I felt myself slowing, and then turning into the parking lot of Second Presbyterian Church. Our church: the church where Kathleen and I had worshipped for years, first as young marrieds, then as young parents, then as youth-group leaders for Jeff and his friends.
The church, a soaring neo-Gothic structure of tan sandstone, sat high on a green rise, looking timeless and serene. Blessedly, the sanctuary was both unlocked and empty, its stained-glass windows ablaze with afternoon light. Slipping into a pew near the back, I bowed my head and prayed—or tried to pray. But the words felt lost in space; they echoed in my heart as loudly as they might have echoed in the vault of the nave, had I shouted them at the top of my lungs.
Tucked into racks on the backs of the pews, alongside well-worn copies of the Presbyterian Hymnal, were copies of the Bible, not so worn. Slipping a Bible from the nearest rack, I flipped through it until I came to the Book of Job. I’d never actually read it, but I’d heard the story countless times over the years: Job was a good and pious man, brought to the breaking point by an onslaught of misfortunes. Through it all—tragedy upon tragedy, all of them undeserved—Job’s faith held firm, and in the end, God rewarded him. Maybe I could learn something from Job, I thought, as I began to read. Maybe Job could help me make sense of what was happening, or at least help me face it with faith and peace. Maybe Job could even teach me how to do the real trick: to snatch True Happiness from the bloody jaws of tragedy.
The story’s opening was much as I had expected: God praises Job’s piety to Satan, and Satan responds by taunting God—challenging God. “He’s rich and happy,” Satan sneers. “Of course he’s pious.” And so begins a contest, a wager, between God and Satan; a tug-of-war, with Job as the rope, tested by a torrent of tragedies. In the space of a single chapter, a series of messengers arrives, one on the heels of another, reciting loss upon loss—all Job’s possessions—7,000 sheep, 3,000 camels, 500 teams of oxen, 500 female donkeys—as well as the demise of all of his farmhands, shepherds, and servants.
But worse—far, far worse—is yet to come. Another messenger arrives immediately, informing Job that his seven sons and three daughters, feasting together in a son’s house, have all perished in a fierce, house-leveling windstorm. Like each of the prior bearers of bad tidings, this one concludes by saying, “And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.”