Last Writes (7 page)

“Thank you so much for giving me a few moments of your time,” he said pleasantly. “Did you enjoy the program?”

“Your sermon was truly impressive, Mr. Stedman,” Claudia said, meaning it. “You had the audience eating out of your hand—excuse the cliché.”

He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “There are so many seekers, the responsibility can sometimes be staggering. But, of course, our Heavenly Father always provides the strength to do what needs to be done.”

Kelly reached out a hand and pressed it to his lapel. “Oh, you’ve got what it takes.” Then she hardened her voice. “But did you have to humiliate those people that way?”

Claudia wanted to tell her to shut up. Alienating Harold Stedman by criticizing his methods wasn’t going to help them in their quest to find Kylie Powers. She wasn’t surprised when the look Stedman gave Kelly held a mild rebuke. “Humiliation is in the eye of the beholder, sister. Only those with a conscience can be humiliated, and having a conscience is a Godly virtue.”

Kelly gave him a playful smile. “Shoot, you’d get
my
attention by just threatening to tell my weight out loud.”

Claudia noted with interest that Stedman was not responding to Kelly the way most men did when she flirted with them. Instead, he chose to let her comment go and invited them to sit with him. Once they were settled, he turned his attention to Claudia.

“There was a reason why I wanted to speak with you. The fact is, something you said was overheard, and I . . . well, it got me curious enough to invite you back here.”

Claudia racked her brains, trying to remember whether she and Kelly had discussed Kylie or Erin since they had arrived. She didn’t think so. Besides, how could she have been overheard? She had spoken only in an undertone.

Kelly abandoned her flirtation and returned to lawyer mode, saying out loud what Claudia was thinking: “Do you have hidden microphones, Mr. Stedman? Where are they, under the seats?”

Stedman spread his hands as if to say
you got me
. “I apologize. Unfortunately, we’ve had a number of problems over the years from certain elements that would dearly love to see the Temple squashed out of existence. Our little group has been active for more than fifty years, but there are some people who insist on thinking that we’re up to something nefarious. They try continually to infiltrate and get the goods on us. Of course, there are no goods to get, but we do have to be careful. You understand, don’t you?”

Kelly refused to be distracted. “I assume you’ve heard of invasion of privacy?”

Stedman turned his keen blue eyes on her. From where Claudia sat, they seemed able to penetrate like a laser, through skin and bone to the heart and its motivation.

“I completely understand your concerns, sister,” he said. “But as you may know, in a public forum such as this evening’s, privacy is not protected.”

Kelly lifted her chin, preparing to argue. “That’s debatable. It’s clearly illegal to surreptitiously eavesdrop on someone’s private conversation.”

“That may be true when they have an expectation of privacy.” The lines around Stedman’s eyes creased as he broke into a smile. “You’ll have to trust me on this, my dear. I’ve discussed the matter at length with our attorneys and they assure me there’s no such expectation in a public place when someone sitting two feet away might overhear you.”

“But surreptitious microphones in a public place—”

When Kelly got on her high horse it wasn’t easy to get her to dismount. Claudia broke in before a serious debate about privacy law took them completely off the track. “Why don’t you tell us what it was that you overheard, Mr. Stedman, that made you want to talk to us?”

Harold Stedman nodded. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped under his bearded chin. Claudia noticed that he wore no ring, and she remembered Erin telling them that his wife had died.

“I believe you said something about one of the confessions being untruthful,” Stedman said. “You seemed very sure. Something about the
handwriting. . . .”

“She’s one of the world’s foremost handwriting experts,” Kelly offered.

Stedman’s dark brows lifted, looking like two dark boomerangs above his eyes. He turned an appraising glance on Claudia. She didn’t bother with false modesty. Stedman said, “Is that so? Then please tell me what is it about handwriting that would indicate that someone is being untruthful?”

“If the person feels guilty about what they’re writing, there are often markers that might show a handwriting analyst where he’s lying.”

“I see.” His full lips pursed again as he seemed to consider what to do with this information. He sat back on his folding chair and smoothed his tie with the flat of his hand. “Interesting.”

Claudia wanted to know what was going on behind those eyes, but they seemed impenetrable. “What is it that interests you about it?” she asked.

He leaned forward. “May we speak confidentially?”

“You mean without hidden microphones recording our conversations?” Kelly put in.

Claudia nudged her foot under the table. “Please tell us; I’d like to know.”

Harold Stedman hesitated, glancing around as if concerned that someone might be listening in right now. Satisfying himself that no one was within earshot, he said, “I have reason to think that outsiders may have infiltrated our home base—we call it the Ark. If I were to show you some handwritten documents, would you be able to tell me if they were lying about their motives for joining us?”

Now it was Claudia’s turn to hesitate, not at all sure that she wanted to involve herself with him. “It might be possible. As I said, it depends on whether the writer feels any guilt about what they’re writing. For example, if someone were a sociopath, that would mean by definition that they have no conscience, so their handwriting would probably look more or less normal. It’s important to understand that handwriting shows
potential
, but there’s no way to predict whether the writer will ever act on that potential. That would depend on a lot of other factors all coming together at the right time. There simply are no guarantees.”

“I understand. But from what you’ve said, it sounds to me as if this could be helpful for my needs. I would be interested in hiring you.”

Claudia felt a tingle of surprise. She had not expected an offer of a work assignment to come out of attending the Temple of Brighter Light rally. They couldn’t have planned it better if they’d tried. Working for Harold Stedman might open a way to get some insider information about Rodney Powers.

“Write something,” Kelly urged Stedman. “Let Claudia see
your
handwriting. She can tell you about yourself. That way you’ll know whether she’s any good at it.”

Excellent idea. Most of the time, Claudia refused to do on-the-spot analysis and Kelly knew it. But obtaining a sample of Stedman’s handwriting would help her gauge whether she could trust
him
to tell the truth. She glanced over at him, waiting to see whether he would refuse, but he was nodding, giving no indication that he was afraid she might see something he wanted to hide.

“Fine, fine. Have you got something to write on?”

Claudia rooted around in her purse and produced a pen and spiral notebook. Opening to a blank page, she pushed it across the table. “Just a sentence or two and a signature will do for now. It doesn’t matter what you write about.”

Stedman sat very still for about thirty seconds, holding the pen in his left hand, hovering above the notebook as he thought about it. Then he began to write, swiftly covering the small page with small, oddly uneven writing.

As she watched, Claudia began to wonder whether he suffered from some physiological ailment that was affecting the writing rhythm. Handwriting sometimes revealed the location of illnesses in the body, though not specific diagnoses. The jerky quality of the writing trail suggested to her that he might have a neurological problem.

When he handed her the paper she scanned the writing he had produced, curious to see how her personal perceptions of him stacked up against what his handwriting might reveal about his personality. She did not need to read the text of what he had written in order to form an opinion. The way he had arranged the writing on the paper, the letter forms he had chosen, and the writing movement were the important keys: Thready writing, indefinite, barely legible letterforms. A tall personal pronoun
I
, wide loops on the letter
d
. She felt the back of the paper. No pen pressure to speak of. Combined with the thready forms, the lack of pressure told her that the TBL guru was operating at a level of emotional tension that was higher than was good for him.

Claudia wondered how he would react if he knew that Rodney Powers, who wanted to be a TBL elder, had bolted with his daughter, leaving his young wife desperate to find their child. In light of the emotional fragility she saw in Stedman’s writing, Erin probably had the right idea about not informing him about what was going on. She glanced up from the notebook.

He was watching her, his chin resting on his fists again, waiting with anticipation for what she had to say. She chose her words with care.

“Your mind moves so fast that you can hardly form whole thoughts. It’s more like you soak up information rather than think things through logically. It’s not easy for you to trust on an emotional level, but you have a very well-honed ability to
know
what somebody is going to say or do, almost before they say or do it. Being able to tune in to people that way gives you a big advantage.” She considered him, hoping he wasn’t tuning in to
her.
Hidden microphones were one thing; mind reading took invasion of privacy to another level.

He withheld comment as she continued. “Your handwriting suggests to me that you’re currently functioning under a tremendous amount of emotional strain. Maybe that’s why you tend to skim the surface of emotion, and don’t allow anything to touch you too deeply, because . . .”
Because you’re afraid it could send you over the edge. Because you’re paranoid.
“Because you feel as if you have so much on your shoulders, you may wonder if you can take on any more. Yet, at the same time, it’s as if there were no barriers between you and the environment. You leave yourself wide open to everything.” She stopped again to gauge his reaction.

Harold Stedman looked thoughtful. He nodded. “That’s quite astonishing. Are you sure you got all that out of my handwriting?”

“As I see you now, and as you were on the podium, you don’t project an image of being stressed to the max. So, where else would I have gotten it?
I
don’t have a hidden microphone.” She couldn’t resist that jab. Looking back at what he had written, Claudia let herself read the words now.

Claudia thought about the confessions they had viewed earlier in the evening. What would Brother Harold have written if he had been tasked with that assignment?

“You’re quite right about me reacting quickly,” he said. “And I’m going to prove it. I would like you to come and spend some time at the Ark. I want you to examine some handwritten statements and tell me what you think about the people who wrote them—whether what they wrote is the truth, whether they’re loyal, and so on. I want to know whether they’re being honest about what motivated them to join us.”

Claudia’s mind raced. If Rodney had indeed confided in James Miller, being on site at the Ark could provide opportunities that they otherwise wouldn’t have to question him on the whereabouts of Erin’s husband. It was the only lead they had and they needed to move fast. She glanced at Kelly, whose expression told her she was thinking the same thing.

As if he thought she was taking too long to answer, Stedman added, “I know it’s a long way from here, so you’re welcome to stay over for as long as it takes for you to do these analyses.”

“I’d love to come too,” Kelly chimed in. “I thought what you were talking about tonight was fascinating.”

Stedman considered her for a moment. “Aren’t you afraid of being humiliated?”

Kelly leaned into his space and gazed into his eyes. “It’s true, I didn’t like that part of the program so much. But what you said about the earth being destroyed got me thinking about the future and I want to learn more about how I can get saved. I don’t want to die in the end of times.”

That seemed to convince him. He beamed at her, nodding with approval. “That can definitely be worked out. You can both come right away, tonight, and we’ll get started first thing tomorrow.”

“If we’re spending a couple of days, we’ll have to get some clothes,” Claudia said, refusing to be bulldozed into the arrangement by Stedman’s need to be in control. “I’ll also want to pick up some equipment for the work you want me to do. We can drive out in the morning and be there by noon.”

For a moment, Harold Stedman looked nonplussed. “What kind of equipment could a handwriting analyst need?”

“Magnifying glass, measuring tools, things like that. I’ll also need to print out a copy of my standard retainer agreement and ask you to sign it. Since we’re staying over, I’ll be charging my day rate.”

When she him told her rate he looked taken aback, but he merely said, “All right, tomorrow then.”

Claudia said, “As it happens, I’m scheduled to give a lecture later in the week at UC Riverside. If the work you have for me lasts that long, I can conceivably leave from your location on Thursday evening and return there afterward.”

“That’s fine,” Stedman said. “The university is only about thirty miles from us, which is a lot closer than it would be for you to return here to the Valley.”