Eli (41 page)

Resentment grew as Julia watched the tear disappear. This woman was wiping away her last hope. But, exercising that iron will of hers, she remained silent. Grieving, aching, wanting the nurse to stop, she said nothing.

The nurse finished and turned back to Julia. “I am sorry,”

she repeated softly.

Julia glanced away, not wanting the moisture in her own eyes to be seen. Her father’s body gave another rattling, nerve-wracking gasp and another long exhale.

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“It shouldn’t be much longer,” the nurse quietly said. “Not much longer at all.”

Julia nodded.

v

“Connie!” Someone was banging on the motel door. “Connie, open up!”

Face buried in his pillow, Conrad exerted all of his effort to lift his head high enough to catch a glimpse of the radio alarm: 7:12 A.M.

More pounding. “Connie!” It was Suzanne.

As consciousness filtered in, so did memories of the past two days—Friday’s lynching and inconsolable grief, followed by Saturday’s absolute hopelessness.

“Connie, open up!”

He pulled aside the covers and cried out in pain. Two ribs had been bruised and one cracked during the beating he’d received Friday. But with determination, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed to the threadbare carpeting.

More pounding. “Connie!”

Something had to be wrong. Maybe the arrests they’d feared and talked about yesterday were finally happening.

After all, if Eli was considered guilty of the bombing, didn’t that make them all accessories? If Eli was arrested, wasn’t it logical for their arrests to be next?

“Connie!’

He rose and limped to the door, running his hand through hair that stuck out in all directions. He fumbled with the chain lock, slid it aside, and opened the door. The morning sun glared behind Suzanne so brilliantly that he winced.

“He’s gone!” she cried.

“Who’s gone?”

“Eli!”

“What are you talking—”

“I just heard it on the news. There was some sort of breakin at the morgue. They took him, Connie.” She sniffed loudly, fighting back the tears. “They stole his body!”

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The information was like cold water in his face. “Are you sure?”

She nodded and swallowed. “It’s not enough that they kill him, now they steal his body!”

Conrad’s mind spun, trying to understand, trying to devise a strategy. “All right,” he finally said. “Let me get some clothes on and we’ll head down there.” He reentered the room, painfully slipped into some pants and a shirt, then stumbled back out into the sunlight. Three others had also emerged from their rooms—Jake, Maggie, and Trevor, who was in his car motioning for them to hurry and climb in.

With some difficulty Conrad crawled into the backseat; Suzanne and Maggie climbed in on either side of him. The door barely shut before Trevor ground the car into gear and it lurched forward.

Despite the sense of urgency, few words were spoken. The dull numbness from the past two days remained. Up front, Jake produced a map from the glove compartment. He gave short, terse directions. The rest of the car remained silent.

This latest news was just one more weight added to their overwhelming burden of grief. Grief in losing a great friend.

Grief in seeing evil triumph over good. And, on a more selfish note, grief in realizing how much of their life had been wasted for nothing. Nothing except humiliation, ridicule, and now a complete lack of purpose. What do you do when your God has been killed?

And if they weren’t consumed by the grief, there was their sense of personal failure. True, they may not have been the ones to lynch Eli, but that didn’t stop them from feeling responsible. Over and over again, Conrad wondered if he should have done more, been more persistent, stood firmer, refused to desert him at the park. And yet, what he felt was nothing compared to what he was sure Jake was going through.

The big man sat in the front seat, sullen. And devastated.

Since denying Eli at the courthouse, no one had seen or talked to him in nearly twenty-four hours . . . until he had showed up at the motel last night—drunk, face swollen from hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 321

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crying, clothes and hair a mess. Whatever torture he’d been through must have been excruciating. And it had not left him unchanged. In many ways he was a different man. Silent, full of remorse, and broken. Very, very broken.

Conrad felt Suzanne shudder and knew that she was crying again. Was there no end to the indignity, to the suffering?

As he looked out the window into the early morning, his mind drifted back to Friday afternoon—and to the thoughts he’d reflected on ever since the killing. He couldn’t share those thoughts with the others, not yet, but that union he understood to have happened, that bringing together of justice and mercy, was still very much on his mind.

In the old world, the one before the accident, when he heard of Christ dying for his sins, he simply chalked it up to being part of his culture—a lathering televangelist, a dangling necklace, a peeling fresco. But what he’d seen was the slaughter of a real human being, a loving, giving person, the greatest person he’d ever met. The slaughter of a love that had looked him directly in the eyes and said, “I’m doing this for you—it’s all for you.”

The memory still gave him chills.

Trevor pulled the car onto Cumberland Avenue and after about a mile took a left. As he did, Conrad began to experience that sensation again—the one of Julia being present.

Suzanne sat at his left, and he could have sworn Julia was sitting at his right. The feeling was so strong that he actually caught himself stealing a peek over at Maggie, just to make sure. But of course it was Maggie. There was no Julia. How could there be?

Trevor turned left again at the 1400 block and a moment later, they saw it. Although it was 7:30 on a Sunday morning, the place was bustling. Yellow police tape had been stretched from one corner of a two-story brick building out to the nearest parking meter, where it ran along the other meters until it reached the opposite corner and stretched back to the building. It blocked off not only the entrance but the entire front sidewalk. It didn’t, however, discourage the media from setting hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 322

322 up. One or two reporters had already begun filming their stories from the edge of the tape.

And there, in the midst of it all, stood McFarland, scout-ing with his cameraman for the best place to make his report.

As they slowed, Conrad leaned past Maggie and rolled down the window. “Gerry?” he called. “Gerry!”

McFarland turned and spotted him. “Hey, Connie!” He motioned for him to join them. “You won’t believe this.”

“Stop the car,” Conrad ordered.

Trevor obeyed.

Maggie opened the door and stepped out, allowing Conrad to do the same. But his feet had barely hit the pavement before an officer banged on the hood of the car, motioning for Trevor to move on.

“They’re with me,” McFarland called out.

“I don’t care who they’re with, they’re not stopping here.

There’s parking over the next block.”

“He’s media.” McFarland jabbed a thumb at Conrad.

“Move it!” the officer barked.

A baffled Maggie looked unsure whether to get in or stay out.

“I said move it!”

Reluctantly, she ducked back into the car. Conrad leaned down and shouted into the window. “I’ll meet you across the street. Just give me a couple minutes.”

Trevor nodded and the Toyota lurched forward.

“Find out what you can!” Suzanne called as they pulled off.

Conrad gave a nod and immediately heard McFarland say,

“So, your boy keeps making the news even when he’s dead.”

Conrad turned. He was cool and matter-of-fact. “You knew about the lynching, didn’t you?”

McFarland blinked at his candor.

Conrad repeated himself, this time feeling his anger rise.

“You knew they were going to kill him, didn’t you?”

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The big fellow shook his head. “No,” he said almost sadly.

“I did not know that. I knew about the deal with Keith Anderson, I knew the arrest was coming. But the lynching, I hadn’t a clue.”

Conrad stared a moment, unsure whether to believe him.

Not that it made much difference.

“Take a look at this, Connie.” McFarland turned and started toward the building. “You won’t believe it.” With some effort the big man ducked under the police tape. Conrad followed. They crossed the sidewalk and climbed the six steps to the entrance. When they arrived at the open double doors, McFarland came to a stop.

“When the police got here, these doors were just like you see them now. Both standing wide open. And the funny thing is, there are no marks showing forced entry.”

“What about other doors?” Conrad asked. “The back?

Maybe a window?”

McFarland shook his head. “Nothing.” He motioned for Conrad to follow, and they entered the building. “Because of your man’s disturbing habit of raising folks from the dead, and those nasty rumors that he would do the same for himself, they posted not one but two guards over at that desk the last couple nights.” He motioned toward a mahogany recep-tionist counter to their left.

“And what did they see?” Conrad asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

McFarland cleared his throat. “They said they were asleep.”

Conrad threw him a look. “Both of them?”

“That’s what they say.”

“While on duty?”

“That’s the story.”

“And they’re saying it publicly?”

McFarland looked at him a moment, then answered. “They are now.” He motioned for Conrad to follow. “Come on.”

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Beyond the mahogany counter were a handful of windowed offices, each with yellowed venetian blinds. To the right was an old elevator and a set of stairs. They headed right and took the stairs down into the basement. Conrad felt the air cool as they descended. When they hit the landing and turned, he saw glass doors leading to a moderate-sized room.

Though the walls, ceiling, and tile were dingy, the doors were much newer. Through them he saw two officers and a pho-tographer drinking coffee and talking.

McFarland pushed open the doors and they entered. The place looked like some sort of laboratory. Each wall had a counter and at least one stainless-steel sink and set of faucets.

In the center sat an old-fashioned operating table, complete with a surgical lamp hovering above it. To their right was the only wall without a counter. It contained what looked like a half-dozen stainless-steel freezer doors—each four feet high and two and a half feet wide. Nothing unusual for a morgue.

However, the second door from the left was slightly different.

It had been blown off its hinges and lay on the floor below.

And the brushed, stainless-steel surface around the opening had been melted to a smooth glass finish. It was as if some great energy had erupted from inside the vault. An energy so intense that it had melted the surrounding steel.

At the moment a lab technician was kneeling beside the opening, carefully scraping samples. Directly behind her, against the far wall, rested a steel table that had obviously been rolled out from inside the vault.

“What happened?” Conrad asked.

“You tell me,” McFarland said. “That was the freezer his body was in. And that”—he motioned to the table—“was the gurney it was on.”

Conrad started toward the freezer, but McFarland held out his hand. “I wouldn’t get too close if I were you. We’re not sure what happened in there.”

Conrad nodded, then turned back to the table. At one end sat a neatly folded sheet. It was a blotchy beige and brown, hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 325

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its edges slightly singed. “Where’d that come from?” he asked.

“It covered the body.”

Conrad stared silently, trying to piece it together.

“Any ideas?” McFarland asked.

He shook his head. “You?”

The big man sighed. “The official theory is somebody broke into the building and stole the body.”

“That’s absurd,” Conrad scoffed. “You said yourself there was no forced entry. And both guards falling asleep, then openly admitting it? Come on, who are you kidding? And this

. . .” He motioned toward the destroyed freezer compartment.

“I don’t know what happened here, but it sure doesn’t look like someone just rolled out the body and took it.”

McFarland nodded. “And that half-baked cloth over there.

To take the time to neatly fold it before leaving?” He shook his head. “I know what you’re saying, but what other story—”

“Connie.”

Conrad turned to see Suzanne barging through the glass doors, an officer catching up from behind, grabbing her arm.

“Ma’am, I told you this is a restricted—”

“I saw him!” she shouted breathlessly.

Conrad’s mouth dropped. “What?”

The officer tightened his grip and began pulling. “You’re going to have to come with—”

“Eli!” she cried. “I saw Eli!”

v

Julia continued to watch her father. The episode with the tear had been nearly thirty minutes ago—already a distant memory. Now her mind reeled again with the words her mother had spoken earlier.
“He stumbled, Jules. We all stumble.”
And the realization still left her stunned. All this time, all of these years she’d thought he’d purposely let go, that he’d purposely hurt her. But that wasn’t true at all. He’d tried to save her, but he had failed. It was as simple as that.

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“You’re only as good as your word.”

It had been his life’s motto. And hers. The truth he had taught her to live by. But maybe, just maybe it wasn’t the entire truth. Maybe there was more.

“The trick is being able to forgive ourselves and get back
up.”

Maybe failure is to be expected. Not condoned, but considered part of the process. The human process. She scowled hard at the body, trying to understand. That’s not to say we don’t strive to be good, that we don’t strain with every fiber of our body to do right. But when we fail, when we stumble and fall, we don’t lie there in defeat. And we don’t despise others who have also fallen.