Covenant (31 page)

            A white Honda Pilot was parked in the driveway. 

            “Looks like someone’s home,” he said.  He slowed to a stop and parked alongside the curb in front of the house.     

            Lisa turned to him.  “How do you want to do this?”

            Although the record on Omega Search had included a telephone number, they hadn’t called ahead.  They doubted that Marrow, if she were inclined to speak at all about her daughter, would have done so over the phone with a stranger.

            “Let’s play it straight,” he said. 

            “And tell her we’re on the run from a group of church assassins?  She might think we’re nuts.  I would.”

            “Or she might believe us.” 

            Carrying the Bible that Bob had given him, he climbed out of the car.  They took a flagstone walkway to the front door. 

            Two ornately carved stone angels stood opposite each other on the veranda steps, faces tilted to heaven.  A virtual greenhouse of potted plants and flowers thrived on the pine-floored porch, suffusing the air with a medley of scents, and a wicker bistro set sat amidst the greenery, a circle of tea candles on the table.

            The weathered door was burnished oak, featuring a stained glass window at the top that depicted a winged angel in flight.  A peephole was set at eye level.

            Before he pressed the doorbell, a chorus of high-pitched barking erupted.  After he pushed the bell, the dogs’ barking got even louder.

            “Two dogs,” Lisa said, recalling the obituary.        

            As they waited, he suddenly had the distinct sense that someone was on the other side of the door, examining them through the lens.

            He wasn’t confident they would pass a visual inspection.  Although they had changed into fresh clothes—he wore a polo shirt and jeans, Lisa wore jeans and a blouse—with their reddened eyes and fatigue-lined faces, they had the look of a couple of drifters living on the edge.

            “Miss Susan Marrow?” he called out, lips close to the door.  “My name is Anthony Thorne, and this is my wife, Lisa.  We’d like to speak to you about your daughter, Kelley.”

            He held up the Bible to the peephole.

            “Someone named Bob gave this Bible to me, and your daughter’s name is written in it.”

            A few seconds later, the dogs quieted.  The door opened. 

            A petite blonde with delicate features stood on the threshold.  She wore a white blouse half-covered by a denim gardening apron smudged with soil, jeans, and sneakers.  A silver cross hung around her neck.

            She had striking green eyes.  With them, she closely appraised both him and Lisa.    

            Behind her, an identical pair of Pomeranians sat obediently on their haunches, watching them with interest.

            “I’m Susie Marrow,” she finally said.  She had a melodic voice and a syrupy Georgia accent.  “What can I do for you folks?”

            “Bob gave me this.”  Anthony handed her the Bible.  “Check out the front page.”

            “It’s a very long story,” Lisa said.  “Rather incredible, too.”

            Susie opened the book and read the inscription on the front page.  She frowned, gave the book back to Anthony.

            “Come on in, please,” she said.  “Don’t mind the dogs.  They’re friendly.”

            The dogs sniffing at their heels, they followed her down a hallway with a hardwood floor.  Photos crowded the walls.  He noticed several pictures of a pretty girl who had inherited her mother’s blonde hair and green eyes: one shot showed her astride a dark mare, in full equestrian gear; another was a recent-looking graduation portrait; others were taken when she was a much younger child.  She was smiling in almost every picture, a fun-loving child whose life had been cut far too short.

            Anthony’s curiosity about the cause of her death sharpened.   

            Susie led them into a small but fastidiously neat living room furnished with cloth armchairs and matching sofa, a glass coffee table, more photos, and lots of live plants.  The walls were the color of eggnog, edged with ornate crown molding.  A large window framed by sage-green curtains overlooked a vibrant flower garden in the back yard.

            Strains of music drifted to them from another room in the house.  It sounded like big band, swing era stuff, music for dancing and good times.

            Because her daughter had died three months ago, Anthony had expected a bereaved woman, someone still in the throes of grief and reluctant to accept visitors, with a home and yard in disarray.  But Susie Marrow seemed to be in high spirits, and her home was in excellent condition.  He wondered what helped her get by.

            Susie untied her apron from around her waist.  “I was working in my garden, but please, make yourselves comfortable.  Can I get y’all some iced tea?  I brewed a fresh pitcher this morning.”

            “Sweet tea?” Anthony asked.

            “Of course.  This is Georgia, honey.”

            “We’d love some, thanks,” Lisa said.

            When Susie left the room, both dogs trailing her, they sat together on the sofa.  Anthony looked around, hoping that something would jar loose a revelation, a clue.

            “Nice house,” Lisa said after a few minutes had passed.  She clasped her hands in her lap, crossed her legs.  “Very cozy.”

            “I wonder where she keeps the gun she’s required to have by law,” he said.  “Hopefully not in the kitchen.”

            “Stop it.”  She gently punched his arm.  “She seems really sweet.  I wonder what we said that made her invite us in?”

            “I think Bob’s name was the magic word.”  He indicated a photo on a side table that had caught his eye.  It was a shot of Bob—sans horn-rimmed glasses—Kelley, a dark-haired teenage boy a few years older than the girl, and their mother, at an outdoor celebration of some kind.  “The old guy in the picture is Bob.”

            “That’s him?”  She stared at the photo.

            “You seem surprised.  Like you thought he was a figment of my imagination.”

            “It’s not that.  I had a different image of him in my mind, I guess.  I was thinking he’d look like some kind of super spy.  He looks like a grandfather.”

            “That’s ‘cause he is.” Susie returned with a silver tray that held a glass pitcher of iced tea and three tall glasses.  She placed the tray on the cocktail table and poured tea.  “He’s my daddy.  Kelley’s grandpa.”

            “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Anthony and Lisa said, almost simultaneously.          

            Anthony caught a flash of grief in the woman’s gaze that was so searing that he had to look away. 

            “My baby’s in a better place now,” she said softly.

            Anthony wanted to ask how Kelley had died, but a direct question would have seemed rude.  Instead, he took a sip of the sweet tea, which was delicious, and told Susie so.      

            “I second that,” Lisa said, raising her glass.  Then, in a somber tone:  “Thirteen years old.  So young.  She’s with the Lord indeed.”

            “I believe that with all my soul,” Susie said.  She sat on an armchair across from them, sipped her tea.  The Pomeranians flanked her legs protectively.  “There are some folks who’d say God sent her to a much different place if they found out what happened . . . but that’s the beauty of our country.  We’re free to believe whatever we like.”

Not if Bishop Prince gets his way
, Anthony thought.

            “Kelley loved to sing in the church choir, I read,” Lisa said.  “Which church do you attend?”

            “I used to attend New Kingdom, in Austell.  We all did.”

            “You, your children, and Bob,” Anthony said. 

            “Bob.”  She smiled wistfully.  “Only people in the family call Daddy that name.  He must really trust you.”

            He let the remark pass.  If Bob trusted him so much, why hadn’t he given him all his damning evidence against New Kingdom from the beginning and spared him all this trouble?

            “How long did you attend New Kingdom?” Lisa asked.

            “Nine years,” she said precisely.  “I know that ‘cause the kids and I started going to the church after my husband died—he was a firefighter here in Kennesaw.  Died rescuing a child from an apartment blaze.”  She sighed and swirled her glass absently, clinking together the ice cubes.  “My husband and baby are together now in heaven, waiting on me and my son to join them one day.”  

            In spite of the multiple tragedies that had struck her, she spoke of her family’s final reunion in heaven with complete conviction.  He wondered about that.  When he thought of his own parents, he didn’t envision a heavenly gathering with them someday, though he had once entertained such fantasies.  

            He thought of just . . . nothing.  And at certain times, as it did then, it left him feeling cold and empty, as if nothing really mattered at all.

57

            “Daddy invited me to bring the kids to the church,” Susie continued.  “He’d been working at New Kingdom for a while by then.  Growing up, I’d never much been into church.  But after my husband died, I needed to believe there was something more than living and dying.”

            “And you found it there?” Anthony asked.

            “Let me tell you, honey—the minute I set foot in that sanctuary and said I was a visitor, I was just overwhelmed with attention.  Folks ‘bout fell over themselves to introduce themselves to me and my kids.  Everyone was so darn nice, so eager to be a friend and make sure I knew that yeah, there was a whole lot more to life, and I could find it right there with them.  Next thing I knew, I’d joined up, and I was going to in-home Bible study and reporting to a servant leader.”

            “What’s a servant leader?” Lisa asked.

            “Sort of like a coach or a mentor, I guess you’d say.  Your servant leader heads up your Bible study group and checks in with you a lot, prays with you, makes sure you’re growing in your faith and being accountable to the Lord and the church—not being a backslider, as they like to say.”

            “Sliding back to your old life,” Anthony said.

            “Back to your sinful ways, uh-huh.  And some of everything is considered sin.  Like missing Sunday service or Bible study.  Doubting what you’re being taught.  Not paying your tithes.  Questioning the Prophet’s authority or ideas.”  

            “Bishop Prince, you mean,” Anthony said.

            “We were supposed to call him the Prophet.”  Crimson burned her cheeks.  “What a joke.”

            “But you liked him at one time, or else you wouldn’t have joined,” Lisa said.   

            “Liked him?”  Susie laughed bitterly.  “I used to believe everything the Prophet—excuse me,
Bishop Prince
—taught.  From God’s mouth, to his ear, is how he said he ‘received’ his sermons.  He had an anointing on him like I’ve never seen, or so I’d thought.  It was something to see.”

            “I’ve seen him in action on TV,” Lisa said.  “He’s quite charismatic.” 

            “We devoted our lives to the church, and we were happy to do it,” Susie said.  “Soon as we got settled in good with the church, we got busy doing Kingdom building.”

            “Kingdom building?” Anthony asked. 

            “Each and every servant doing his or her part to make the world a better place,” Susie said.  “A
cleaner
place.  Spiritually cleaner, I mean.  The secular world celebrates sex outside of marriage, gratuitous violence in entertainment, air-headed celebrities, morally bankrupt values.  Everyone knows it, everyone complains about it, but no one does anything.  Well, Kingdom building is all about doing something concrete, making your contribution.”

            “What would you do?” Lisa asked.

            “I work for the county as an acquisitions librarian,” she said.  “That means I have a lot of say over the books we purchase for our collection.  I would campaign against acquiring any books that were morally questionable—like your books, Mr. Thorne.  That violent, vigilante fiction you write?”  Disgust twisted her face.  “Hmph.  Let me tell you, I made sure that it wasn’t on the shelves of
my
library, no matter how much the patrons fussed about it.”

            Anthony looked at Lisa, and the shock on her face mirrored his own.  This woman knew exactly who he was.  

            Perhaps that was another reason why she had invited them inside her home.

            “Shouldn’t a library patron have the right to decide what he or she wants to read?” Anthony asked.  “What you’re describing is a form of censorship.”

            Susie laughed hoarsely.  “ ‘Course it is.  That’s what Kingdom building was all about.  Limiting choices and restricting freedoms.  ‘Giving people what they need,’ as Bishop Prince calls it—which isn’t the same thing as giving them what they want.”

            “Giving them material approved by the church, in other words,” Lisa said. 

            “I was awfully misguided, but I didn’t see it that way at the time,” Susie said.  “Outside of my work at the library, I was in a church group, too.  Mothers Against Violence In Entertainment—MAVIE.  MAVIE would send protest letters to television networks, record companies, book publishers, video game creators, film studios.  A couple of years back, we organized a demonstration on the set of a big-budget action movie filming right here in Atlanta.  Let me tell you, we splattered ourselves with red dye, carried around fake severed body parts, really whooped it up, put on a good ole’ show.”

            “I remember that,” Anthony said.  “It made the news.”

            “Uh-huh.  National news, too.  Those Hollywood folks were so mortified they left town with their tails between their legs and filmed their trash in Canada instead.  I thought that was a shining moment for the Lord.”