Close to the Broken Hearted (22 page)

She had me there. My mother had drilled it into my head that you're only as good as your word. I consoled myself with the fact that she'd at least cut the job off at the end of summer.

With a hung head, I slunk back into the kitchen, leaving the smell of fresh nail polish and the sound of canned laughter from the television set in the living room behind me.

T
he next day, Chris was holding out a report in his hand as Leah took her seat at her desk. “Ask and thou shalt receive,” he said.

She looked at him. “Eli?”

He nodded. “Yup.”

“Anythin' incriminatin'?”

He gave a little shrug. “I dunno. It just came in 'bout ten minutes ago. I skimmed it. Nothin' stood out at me as bein' particularly nasty. Other than shootin' a three-year-old, but we already knew 'bout that one.”

Leah scanned the first page of the report. There were notes from all Eli's parole board hearings. They spilled on to the second and third sheets. “No wonder he got out early,” she said. “He was like teacher's pet in prison. I've never seen such nice things said about anyone in one of these things.”

Chris had his elbow on his desk with his hand supporting his head. “Maybe our preacher man really done gone an' changed his ways.”

Leah flickered her eyes at him above the page she was reading. “Nobody's this nice in prison. Eli was up to somethin'. That's what it tells me.”

“Why, Detective Teal, ain't we a mite cynical?”

“No, I'd say I'm a mite realistic. This ain't my first bull ride.” She quoted from the page: “ ‘A strong influence on his peer group with an attitude that's a welcome diversion from the normal dreary and contemptuous one that seems to infiltrate this establishment.' ” She laughed. “Of course they're dreary and contemptuous! They're in goddamn prison! What the hell do they expect?”

“Apparently, what they like is someone who is a welcome diversion from that,” Chris said. “Someone like Eli Brown.”

“I've been to his house. The man was pretty contemptuous to me.”

“Actually, he wasn't far off of contemptuous with me, either. Hmm.”

“I think we definitely have a suspect,” Leah said. She turned the stapled page over and found a page full of basic background information, including priors, education, family records, basic stuff.

She quickly looked it over. Other than the murder of Caleb Carson, it contained nothing unusual, but then she hadn't expected it to. She already knew Eli Brown had no prior run-ins with the law, and the rest of the information was basically useless to her.

Then something caught her eye.

“Whoa, Nelly,” she said. “I think we just got ourselves a
Bingo!
”

Chris pulled his chair in close and looked at the page from the side. “What's that?”

“Look under family records,” she said. “Check out the name of his deceased wife.”

Chris found the part on the page she was referring to and gave a low whistle. “Well, I'll be damned.”

There it was, typed right there in black and white:

“I think we just found our link between Sylvie and Eli Brown,” Leah said. “I mean other than through little Caleb.”

It took one call to the Alvin public records office to find out that Argo Atkinson was the father of Catherine Atkinson and another call to the Mobile public records office to discover that he was alive and well and living up in Tuscaloosa.

“So, Eli Brown's father-in-law purchased the property as quickly as he could snatch it up after Tom Carson hanged himself,” Leah said to Chris after putting down the phone. “It all seems a little too convenient to me.”

“Definitely something fishy goin' on.”

“I think the reason we haven't seen no development on it is on account of Eli's been in prison up until now. I think he plans to go ahead with that little ‘project' of his.”

“Could be.”

“And you said his grandson was down from Alabaster? I bet that ain't no coincidence either. Did he seem like the business type to you?”

“Hard to tell. He was just wearin' a T-shirt and jeans, but he could be. Probably just got out of college or might still be in college, I dunno.”

“I bet he's here to help Eli throw this thing together.”

There was a silent spell between them. Outside the window, two yellowhammers dipped in and out of sight.

“Still doesn't tell us why this would amount to Sylvie bein' harassed,” Leah finally said.

“That's what I was thinkin'.”

“Unless . . .”

“What?”

“Unless they was worried she still had claim to the land.”

“That would be impossible. You said the bank put it up for auction. And that was eight
years
ago,” Chris said.

“Maybe Eli thinks different.”

“Still, what's the point in harassin' her?”

Leah thought this over and shrugged. “Well, if he could get her to the point that she went off the deep end and actually became hospitalized she'd be much less of a threat to anyone. You gotta reckon, if what we's sayin's true, she's gonna have some kinda reaction when he starts buildin' on her daddy's plot of land.”

“You reckon?”

“I reckon so. She hates Eli Brown more than anyone. And she probably has every right in the world to.”

“So . . . ,” Chris said. “What do we do next?”

“That's a good question.” Leah drummed her fingers on the desk. Outside a monarch butterfly fluttered among the tops of the hydrangea bushes that barely came up to the bottom of the window. “I suppose we have another talk with our favorite old preacher.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. You or me?”

She smiled with a bit of a wicked grin. “Oh, you ain't gettin' this one.”

M
e and Dewey rode our bikes down Hunter Road and over to Church Street where the Full Gospel Church was. Full Gospel was Alvin's black church, and we'd been there before. I knew Reverend Starks quite well and he always seemed happy to see us when me and Dewey dropped by. Today being a Thursday, I didn't know whether or not he'd be around. Church services were normally held on Wednesdays and Sundays, but I thought Reverend Starks lived in the church so I suspected we might catch him there if we were lucky.

My mother had told me she had asked Sylvie Carson to come to church with us next time we went on account of all the troubles she'd been going through lately. My mother thought it might bring her some comfort. Well, last time I was at Full Gospel, it was during the end of one of their services, and there was so much singing and happiness I couldn't imagine a place more comfortable than that. Certainly not Clover Creek First Baptist where we usually went. I had nothing against Reverend Matthew, but his sermons could put a gerbil with a sugar rush to sleep.

So, even though it was a black church, I was going to ask Reverend Starks if it was okay for us to come. Especially given what my great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy did for him and his people.

I hadn't mentioned any of this to my mother yet. I figured I'd wait and see if I could get permission from Reverend Starks first and then surprise her with it. This didn't seem like the sort of surprise that I'd get reprimanded for. Although, when I thought it through now, I realized if I included the part about my ancestry it was going to cause some complications to the story.

The church was an old wooden building painted white and had square stained-glass windows. It looked similar to Clover Creek First Baptist where we normally went, only Full Gospel was an older building and wasn't taken care of as well as Clover Creek. I don't think it was because anyone purposely neglected it, I think it was more on account of they didn't have the money to paint it as often or to put in as many gardens around it, and stuff like that. The paint on the boards was starting to come off. It definitely could use a new coat.

The church door was closed as me and Dewey rode our bikes into the churchyard and up to the entrance.

“So what do we do?” Dewey asked. “Knock? Or just see if it's unlocked and go inside?”

“I dunno,” I said. I had no idea of the etiquette of what to do at church when it wasn't in service. “I suppose knocking can't hurt.”

We set our bikes down on the ground and, with swords at our sides, climbed the steps to the church doors and knocked on them. Because they were made of thick, heavy wood, our knocks were not very loud.

We waited for a while, but nobody answered.

“I don't think he heard us. Try the door,” Dewey said.

“You try it,” I said.

Slowly, he reached out his hand and grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing happened. I saw him let out a breath he'd been holding. “They're locked.” He sounded relieved.

We tried knocking again, but again our knocks weren't very loud and again nobody came.

“We could try kicking it,” Dewey suggested.

I stared at him. “We ain't gonna boot the church door.”

“Why not?”

“It's a place of God, Dewey.”

“Oh.”

He didn't mention kicking it again, so I suppose that was explanation enough.

We stood there another minute until finally I came up with an idea. “You know, if Reverend Starks lives here, he doesn't live in the actual main part of the church. I mean, where would he sleep? In the pews? I bet there's another door in the back. One that goes into the part he lives in.”

“That makes sense,” Dewey said.

We walked around the church to where four large willows grew, their long branches draping like huge umbrellas with tiny flowers that shook gently in the breeze. One of the willows was close enough that it touched the side of the church.

I'd never noticed before, but the church was actually shaped in an ell. You couldn't really tell from the other side, but another building came off the main one. This building didn't have the stained-glass windows or any of the decorative religious look that the other did. It was just a normal houselike building, with small windows and a small porch. It was white, like the rest of the church, only the trim back here was all done in forest green. If this was where Reverend Starks lived, he had a very small house.

We walked up the two steps to the porch and knocked on the door. This time our knocks sounded like real knocks.

“Coming!” a deep voice called out from somewhere on the other side of the door.

“I hope it's him,” Dewey said nervously.

“Who else could it be?” I asked.

A half moment later, Reverend Starks answered the door. Only, he wasn't dressed the way I was accustomed to seeing him. He was dressed like a normal person in dark green pants and a striped shirt. I nearly didn't recognize him until he smiled and I saw his gold-capped tooth. Then I knew it was him. There was no mistaking Reverend Starks's smile or that tooth.

“Abe! What a delightful surprise!” He took my hand in both of his and shook it. “And Dewey . . . right?”

“Yes, sir!” Dewey said, shaking his hand, too.

“What brings you boys round these parts? Been a while since I've seen you.”

“I wanted to talk to you 'bout somethin',” I said.

“And he wants to ask you somethin', too,” Dewey added.

I glared at him.

“Is that right?” Reverend Starks said. His voice was deep and full. “Well, why don't y'all come inside?” He looked around the yard. The sun glittered off his eyeglasses. “Nice to see the rain's stopped again.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Let's hope we get back to that sunny spell we had a week ago,” the reverend said. “I was quite enjoyin' that.”

“So was we,” Dewey said.

Reverend Starks led us through a small kitchen that was very neat and tidy, down a narrow hallway, and into a small parlor that contained a little divan with a floral pattern and two chairs, both upholstered in burgundy, situated around a low cherry table.

“Go ahead, sit wherever you like,” Reverend Starks said.

Dewey and I sat beside each other on the divan. “Can I get you boys anything?” the reverend asked from the entranceway into the parlor.

“I'll have some sweet tea,” Dewey said.

I glared at him again.

“What 'bout you, Abe?”

“I guess,” I said. “Since you're gettin' some anyway.”

Reverend Starks went back to the kitchen.

“Why are you askin' him for stuff?” I whispered harshly to Dewey.

“Because he offered.”

“He was just bein' polite.”

“I really want some tea.”

“He didn't
really
want to get you some.”

“Actually, I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to get it,” the reverend said, coming back into the room with two glasses of tea. Each had a slice of lemon floating in it. He set them on the table in front of us.

“Thanks,” we both said, almost in unison.

Reverend Starks took a seat in the burgundy chair closest to me. “So, what is it exactly you wished to speak with me 'bout, Abe?”

I hesitated. Now that I was here, I wasn't sure how to begin.

“Well . . .” I stumbled. “I . . . um . . .”

“Abe's grandfather from way back freed a bunch of black slaves and he wants to tell you 'bout it,” Dewey said after taking a gulp of tea. Then he quickly followed with, “This tea's really good. You make it yourself?”

The reverend laughed. “Yes, I did. So, what's this about your grandfather?”

“Well,” I started again after glaring at Dewey for the third time, “my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a Confederate soldier who I suppose was actually
against
slavery. And one day after the Union navy took over a port up in Georgia, he marched into a plantation with just two pistols and, after winning a gunfight against six men who I reckon must've owned the plantation, he walked out with a hundred and ten slaves that he'd set free. He brought them to a fort that the Union navy had moved on and defeated and the Yanks made him an honorary Union soldier and even gave him a medal.”

Reverend Starks sat back in his chair and interlaced his fingers. “How do you know all this?”

“I went to the records office here in Alvin and they connected me with this historian woman from Chickasaw who got information on my family history for me.”

“Well now,” the reverend said. “That's pretty interestin'. Sounds like you've got some pretty great blood in you.”

I smiled. I knew, of all people, Reverend Starks would be impressed. “I reckon he was a hero,” I said.

“Sounds like a hero to me.” The reverend glanced down at the sword at my waist. “Is that what you're tryin' to become carryin' that sword?”

I felt my cheeks redden with embarrassment. “Oh. These are just pretend.”

“I see.”

Dewey was looking around the room. “How come you ain't got no TV?”

I couldn't believe how rude he was being.

Reverend Starks laughed. “Because the Lord keeps me busy enough without me needin' no television, that's for sure.”

“I think it's weird not having a TV,” Dewey said.

“Dewey!” I said, through gritted teeth.

The reverend leaned forward. “Abe, there was something you wanted to ask me?”

“Yeah. I was wonderin' . . . I mean, I know your church is for black folks and all . . . but—”

“Full Gospel is for everyone, Abe,” he said, cutting me off.

I brightened. “So then it might be okay if some white folks attended? Just one time?”

“Abe, as I said, all folk are welcome in this house of the Lord. And not just one time but any time and all times. Why are you askin' me this?”

“On account of I wanted to know if it would be all right—that is, if my mom agrees—if we could come along one day to your services.”

“I would absolutely love it if you did!” The reverend slapped his knees.

I hesitated. “Would it be okay if we brought Miss Sylvie? She's this girl—well, she's sort of a lady, I guess. She's older than me—my mom works with her and she's got quite a few problems and my mom promised to take her to church next time we went cuz her spirits need upliftin'. And I think her spirits would get way more uplifted here than at Clover Creek First Baptist where we usually attend. Not that I don't appreciate Reverend Matthew . . . it's just that . . . well . . . anyway . . . so, would it be okay if she came along?”

Reverend Starks just looked at me a long minute. “You're not listenin' to me, boy. All folks are welcome, all the time. You don't need to ask permission. And it sounds like she needs the Lord's help as much as anyone, maybe even more so. And I reckon my congregation would just love to see some new faces.” The reverend's face lit up with a creased smile.

I didn't rightly know what my mother would say about attending church at Full Gospel, but I knew I was going to ask her first chance I got. From what I knew about God, He viewed all people the same, black or white. It was my mother who had spent a good deal of time teaching me that, so she should not be disagreeable to the idea. I didn't mind church at Clover Creek where we regularly attended (not that we attended quite so regularly), but I thought we could use a change for once. And I definitely thought bringing Miss Sylvie along was a good idea given all she was going through.

I told Reverend Starks I would do my best to see him next Sunday.

“That would be grand, Abe.” He held out his hand for me to shake it. His brown fingers were huge with pink fingertips. They wrapped right around mine as we shook.

“Oh, and I want to say sorry,” I said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For the swords. I forgot we was wearin' them.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“On account of I doubt Jesus would be very appreciative of swords, especially in the house of the Lord.”

“Well, this isn't the church, this is my house. And Jesus doesn't have a problem with swords, Abe. In Matthew 10:34, Jesus says, ‘Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.' ”

I couldn't
believe
he knew all this stuff by heart.

“So Jesus wanted people to fight?” Dewey asked. I was kind of wondering the same thing.

“Jesus was a warrior,” Reverend Starks answered. “The word of God is represented by a sword. If we take two passages a little further on, it might make more sense to you. Matthew 10:38 and 10:39 where Jesus says, ‘And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worth of me. He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.' ”

“I still don't get it,” Dewey said. “And how come you don't have a cross on any of your walls?”

I could not believe how rude he was being.

“We don't need crosses to be reminded of Jesus, Dewey. Remembering the Word is enough.” He shifted in his chair. “And I
do
have a cross. A very simple one. It hangs in my bedroom.”

“And you have a cross in your church,” Dewey said. “Two of 'em. They're small ones, though. Compared to Clover Creek, at least.”

“Dewey!” I hissed. He was completely out of line.

“What? I'm just tryin' to figure things out.”

“Dewey,” Reverend Starks said, “big crosses isn't what the Lord Jesus is about. This—” He tapped his chest where his heart was. “
This
is what the Lord Jesus is all about. Keeping Him in your heart and keeping your faith strong.”

“So is
that
why He's sayin' we should follow him with our own cross or else we will lose our life or whatever it was you said?”