Prayer (21 page)

“I expect you know that the word ‘rabbi’ is generally applied to those who become masters or teachers of the Torah—the name given by Jews to the five books of Moses that begin the Hebrew Bible. When people realized what a wise man Jesus was, they started calling him rabbi, too. Now, like I said, Rabbi Kaduri was the wisest man I ever met. He taught me all kinds of things. Some of those things—hidden things that people like him have known about for thousands of years—I promised him not to talk about. And I have to respect that promise. But one thing he did give me permission to talk about was a vision he’d had. And you can imagine how excited his followers were when he announced that the person he’d met in this vision was none other than the Messiah, because, of course, the Jews have been waiting for the Messiah since before when. And they got even more excited when the rabbi announced that the Messiah was coming soon. He also told them that he knew this person was the Messiah because, in the vision, Rabbi Kaduri was given a message. In Hebrew that message went like this:
Yarim ha’am veyokhiakh shedvaro vetorato omdim
. Now, in English that means that he will lift his people and prove that his word and law are valid.

“Now I’ve thought about this a great deal and it strikes me that this is exactly what the Messiah would say. And here’s another fascinating thing: Rabbi Kaduri wrote down the name of the Messiah and promised that after his death the identity of the Messiah would be revealed. This is exactly what happened. He wrote the name down on a piece of paper and put it in a sealed envelope and gave this to one of his followers who opened it after the rabbi’s death. And d’you know something? It turned out that the name that the wisest, oldest, and best-respected rabbi in Israel had revealed to all his followers was the very same name that Christians have known about for more almost two thousand years. Jesus. That’s right. Hallelujah and amen.

“Now, as you can imagine, that gave a lot of the rabbi’s followers a real big problem. No one likes to admit that they made a mistake. And not just any mistake. Imagine it: The rabbi’s revelation meant that they’d rejected their own Messiah, that they’d handed him over to the Romans to be crucified, like it says in the gospels. So what were the followers of Rabbi Kaduri to do in the light of this revelation? Well, I’m sad to say that a lot of them chose to suppress the old rabbi’s posthumous message. But of course, the truth will out. Like I say, I think that’s one of the reasons that Rabbi Kaduri told me about the details of his vision: because he guessed that maybe some of his own followers would try to keep things quiet and because he knew that I’d tell you people about it. And he was right. The name of the Messiah is Jesus, friends, and he’s coming very soon. And when he does, there’s going to be a great reckoning. In the Gospel according to St. Matthew it says, ‘Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. I baptize you with water for repentance but one who is more powerful than I am is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals, he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.’

“I tell you, brothers and sisters, that it’s already started, too—this great reckoning that the Bible speaks of. Things are happening in Israel right now—things that were foretold in the Bible—that prove this to be the case. Political events and historical forces that herald the last days before he comes again. His enemies are already in disarray. The day of judgment is at hand when the unrighteous will be condemned as it says in the Book of Revelation. Hallelujah.”

I glanced at my immediate neighbors as they muttered “Amen” or “God be praised”; I didn’t find them laughable or contemptible because they were ecstatic about something in which I no longer believed myself, but I did pity them. You can bet when people start talking about enlightenment and messiahs that the rock on which their truth is founded can be carried on the back of a mayfly.

I stifled a yawn, wondering how much more of Pastor Van Der Velden’s bullshit I could take without heading for the men’s room; possibly there was someone outside—one of the greeters, perhaps—who might tell me something more about poor Gaynor Allitt. I was about to risk making an early exit when I caught a glimpse of someone who looked a lot like Ruth and, for a moment, I reflected that I would certainly have preferred a vision of my wife to one of God or Jesus; frankly, I wouldn’t have known what to say to anyone or anything more divine than my own wife. But it
was
Ruth; and now that I was certain of it, I realized I had no idea what I was going to say to her when—as seemed likely—we spoke; naturally, she would assume I had followed her here and be none too pleased about that. And I hardly wanted to tell her I was there on Bureau business; not that she would have believed that for a minute. Equally, there was a strong possibility that she would ignore me altogether and that by speaking to her I would cause an ugly or embarrassing scene. None of this was especially troubling to me, however, compared with the fact that Danny was nowhere to be seen and the apparent significance of the man Ruth was standing next to. He was tall and handsome, and wearing a blue suit that was a bit too large for him in the way that the largest size in the shop is too large for anything other than a four-hundred-pound gorilla or Goliath’s younger brother. He looked like a football player, or a bodybuilder, or perhaps a small building. From time to time, Ruth would glance up at him—he was six and a half feet if he was an inch—as though in search of his approbation, and he would glance back at her and give it with a broad smile. In that respect, at least, they were like any of at least a thousand other couples in that church; just seeing them made me feel like a fish out of water.

Finally Van Der Velden finished speaking. We had yet more prayers and then a hymn before the show was over and people turned toward the aisles and started to head for the exits. That was when Ruth saw me and her face could not have looked less pleased if the outsize boyfriend had trodden on her toe. Pain quickly gave way to irritation as I pushed through the crowd to reach her.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s not what you think. I didn’t follow you. I had no idea you’d be here. Really, I give you my word on that.”

“Listen, buddy,” said the giant. “Don’t make trouble, okay?” He put his King Kong hand on Ruth’s shoulder—a proprietary gesture I didn’t much care for.

“Really, I’m not here to make any trouble, I’m just trying to speak to my wife, that’s all. I don’t know what she’s told you about me, but all you need to do is give me a minute here. All right?”

The big man glanced at Ruth, who nodded back at him. “It’s okay, Hogan,” she said.

“Hogan?” I repeated, in spite of myself.

“I’ll see you back at the car, okay? I can handle this.”

Reluctantly, Hogan walked away, leaving me alone with Ruth and her killing look.

“Where’s Danny? Please tell me how he is.”

“You’re not here on official business,” she said.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I don’t believe you, Gil. I’m not listening to your nonsense. It’s obvious that you must have followed me here.”

“Ruth, honestly, my finding you here is just a coincidence. But now that we’re both here, can’t we just talk for a moment? Please. Did he get any of the presents I sent him?”

“He got them, Gil.”

“Did he like the Xbox game?”

“It was a little old for him, Gil.”

“All kids like the games that are too old for them, honey. That’s just how it is. You just have to go with that.”

“So tell me: What’s the official business that brings you all the way down to Clear Lake?”

“One of the church members here—Gaynor Allitt—is dead. She committed suicide this morning. I came here to speak to someone and see if anyone can explain why she might have done it. You see she was the sub in an—”

But another man—fiftyish, with a broken nose and a pimp mustache—had heard what I said and butted in.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing some of what you were saying just now. Did you say Gaynor Allitt is dead?”

“Yes, sir. I did. And she is. Did you know her?”

“Yes, I knew her. My name is Frank Fitzgerald.”

“Mr. Fitzgerald, my name is Gil Martins and I’m a Special Agent with the FBI. If you might give me a moment here—”

“Yes. Yes, I will. In fact, you wait right there, Agent Martins, and I’ll be right back.”

Fitzgerald went away urgently. My eyes followed him long enough to notice that under his coat he was wearing a radio on his hip; it looked more likely than a gun.

“You see,” I told Ruth. “He believes me even if you don’t.”

Ruth shot me a disbelieving look, as if she hoped that the earth would swallow me up forever.

“Where’s Danny now?” I asked again, looking around. “Did you bring him with you today? I’d like to see him.”

“He’s not here. He’s back home. When all this is sorted, Gil, I expect you can, but until then, I don’t want him disturbed. This has been quite upsetting enough for him already.”

“Well, we can agree on that much at least.” I glanced around as people continued to file out of the church. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

“That’s two things we can agree on.”

“You know, this church, it’s a long way from Corsicana, Ruth.”

“I’m not living there.”

“Oh? Where are you living?”

Ruth looked surprised at that. “At my house on Driscoll Street, of course. Where else?”

Now it was my turn to look surprised. “Is that where Danny is now?”

She nodded. “Gil, you left a message to say you’d moved out, so I took you at your word.”

“Even by your standards, that’s fast work.”

She looked away; it was easier on her eyes than looking at me and my grief.

“Well, who’s taking care of him?”

“He’s spending the day at Robbie Murphy’s house. He’s the boy across the road.”

“I remember. He’s the one Danny hit, right?”

“That was just boys being boys. Really, they’re the best of friends. I’m surprised you even remember that.”

“Of course I remember. I still love you both, Ruth. And I want you back. More than anything in the world I’d like things to be just the way they were before. That means no more atheism, no more Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens, no more stupid irreligious remarks. You have my word on that. I’ll even come back to Lakewood with you.” I shook my head. “Things just got on top of me for a while. You know? Pressure. It got to my head, I think. But I’m all right now.”

Ruth looked pained; she was good at that; Ingrid Bergman in
Joan of Arc
; but all the pain in her voice was directed my way. It couldn’t have hurt more if she’d used a razor on my ears.

“I believe you, Gil. But we both know you don’t believe in God. Don’t you see? You’d be living a lie and so would I. How long could we keep the lid on all that? Three months? Six? No, it couldn’t ever work. Besides, I don’t go to Lakewood anymore. This is my church now.”

“Ruth, you can’t be serious. These people—they’re even bigger cranks than the ones at Lakewood. You’re an intelligent woman, Ruth. A lawyer. You’re supposed to be hard-headed about these things. Do you really want our son growing up in an environment like this? For Christ’s sake, Ruth—”

“It’s for Christ’s sake that I’m here, Gil. It’s a pity you can’t see that.”

“Don’t do this to me, Ruth. Don’t do this to our boy, please. A boy needs to have his father around. Just like a father needs to see his son growing up. You’re taking all of that away from me. And for what? Because I’m a sinner? Because I’m the chaff that needs to be thrown into the unquenchable fire? Please, Ruth. You may not realize it now, but I promise you’ll regret this. One day you’ll wake up and realize what was lost.”

Frank Fitzgerald appeared at my side again. “Pastor Van Der Velden would like to speak with you, Agent Martins,” he said.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

I turned to look at the man beside me. Now that I saw him close up again—close enough to smell his breath and see into his eyes—I saw the steadiness and experience in the man, and how deliberate he was, and I knew instinctively that the radio on his hip was a gun after all. Did he wear it for his own protection or the pastor’s?

“Right now he’s busy meeting some of the many people who’ve come along here this evening.” Fitzgerald glanced over one of my shoulders and then the other, as if trying to see if he could pick out a partner I might have brought with me. “But he’s invited you to wait in his private office for a while. Until the last of his parishioners has gone. Would you do that, please?”

Parishioners. I liked that. It made the setup at the Izrael Church sound almost benign, like garden parties and picnics and pink paper packages tied up with fucking string.

“Sure, I can do that,” I said. “No problem.”

I glanced back to where Ruth had been standing, but she’d already taken advantage of this momentary distraction and had disappeared into the crowd.

Fitzgerald must have noticed the disappointment on my face because he touched my arm in a gesture of contrition; at least I think that’s what it was; his grip was as firm as the cinch on a rodeo rider’s saddle. He didn’t let go of my arm until I started to follow him.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“To Gaynor. You did say she committed suicide, didn’t you?”

“No disrespect, sir, but perhaps it would be better if my explanation could wait until we’re in the pastor’s office. What happened today was traumatic, to say the least, and I’d rather not go through it all more than once. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course. Then you were with her.”

“More or less.”

“I shall certainly miss her,” he said. “She was a long-standing and much-loved member of this church. And a steadfast Christian.”

“I wouldn’t know about anything like that,” I said.

F
rank Fitzgerald walked me through an important-looking door at the top of a flight of stairs; it looked important because it was large and curved like an enormous wooden shield. He left me alone in a high, circular library that was floored in marble and probably designed by an extraterrestrial being with a fetish for brushed aluminum. In the center of the floor, underneath a glass ceiling, was a semicircular desk, and ranged around the room were a series of glass cases containing old illuminated Bibles of the kind that a whole monastery of scribes must have worked on for a lifetime of rainy Sundays. I looked at one of these and told myself that the word of God was a lot more believable when it was written in Latin. Probably the old Roman Catholic Church had been right about that: the minute you allowed people to read the Bible in their native language you were opening the door to interpretation, debate, challenges to doctrine, heresy, and, finally, atheism. There’s nothing like reading the Bible to put you off the whole idea of God and religion.

“That’s an interesting one you’re looking at.”

It was Nelson Van Der Velden and he was alone. He came and stood next to me in an invisible cloud of aftershave and sanctimony. He was taller than I had supposed, with good, clear skin and hard blue eyes. Immediately, I had the strong impression I’d seen him some place before, but where?

“That particular Bible was commissioned by the first king of Jerusalem, Baldwin I, in 1100 A.D., to celebrate the establishment of his new kingdom. What makes it especially interesting from a theological point of view is that it’s only the Old Testament, which has led some to speculate that the monks who illustrated it were also members of the Knights Templar and Manicheans—which is to say that they believed in the dual nature of God and not at all in the divinity of Jesus Christ. Personally, I just think they ran out of time and money—possibly both. But praise the Lord, it is wonderful, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is.” I owned some pretty rare DC comic books myself, but I saw no reason for us to get off to a bad start by telling him that.

“Nelson Van Der Velden,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Special Agent Gil Martins.” I shook his hand and handed him my business card.

He glanced at it and frowned. “Didn’t the little roundel used to be embossed in gold?”

“We’ve had to make some budgetary cuts,” I said.

“Pity. Gold looks so much better.”

“I guess those medieval monks thought so, too.” I nodded at the Bible I’d been looking at.

“The use of gold was intended to represent the multiple grace of heavenly wisdom. But gold served a higher spiritual purpose, too. It was meant as an act of praise, to exalt the text. Along the way, of course, it did also demonstrate how powerful the owner was.”

“I expect J. Edgar Hoover had something similar in mind,” I said, and showed him my gold shield. “It’s not made of real gold, of course. I wish it was. I’d have hawked it and bought a fake.”

Van Der Velden smiled patiently. “Frank tells me that a member of our church has committed suicide.”

“Gaynor Allitt,” I said. “She jumped from the top of the Hyatt Regency in Houston just a few hours ago.”

“Oh my goodness, that’s awful.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Were you there?”

I nodded.

“How ghastly for you. How ghastly for you both.” He shook his head. “Gaynor Allitt.”

“Did you know her?”

“I’m trying to fit a face to the name. That’s not always easy with a membership as large as ours.”

“How many is that?”

“Eleven thousand.”

“I go to Lakewood, so I know what you mean. There’s almost eighteen thousand there.”

“Oh, man, that’s a good church,” said Van Der Velden. “And Osteen’s one great preacher. The best. He has a real gift.”

I nodded. “Do you remember her now? Gaynor Allitt? Tall, red hair, late thirties.”

He winced. “No. I’m sorry, Agent Martins. Under the circumstances, I wish I could. I feel kind of bad that I can’t.”

“I gained the impression from Mr. Fitzgerald that she’d been coming here for a while. In fact, he described her as a much-loved member of this church.”

“Well, if Frank said that, then I’m sure she was. As our membership secretary, he has a lot more to do with the grassroots membership of the Izrael Church than I do.” Van Der Velden shrugged. “Me, I’m just the front man. Tell me, Agent Martins, have you any idea why she did it?”

“It’s early days, sir. I’m working on a number of possibilities.”

“Look, would you mind if I said a short prayer for her?”

The pastor bowed his head and closed his eyes, which gave me an opportunity to study him more closely.

“Almighty Father, eternal God, hear our prayers for your daughter Gaynor Allitt, whom you have called from this life to yourself. Grant her happiness and peace. Let her pass in safety through the gates of death and live forever with all your saints in the light you promised to Abraham and all his descendants in faith. And on that great day of resurrection and reward we know is coming soon, God, raise Gaynor up with all your saints. Pardon her sins and give her eternal life in your heavenly kingdom. We ask this through Christ our Lord, amen.”

“Amen,” I said. That was for appearance’s sake only. I hardly wanted the pastor thinking of me as badly as my own wife did, not while I hoped to get some information about Gaynor Allitt.

The pastor opened his eyes and then nodded in a way that made you think he really had been speaking to God. He was one of those rare ministers of the church who possess that gift and who made it so much easier for you to believe because he believed with such irresistible force; and when he smiled, it was like he was smiling because he’d felt the power of God’s love and forgiveness. I almost envied him the apparent strength of his faith and, by extension, I felt a little twinge of shame and regret as I recalled my earlier cynical assessment of his character and calling. The man was more sincere than I had imagined.

“What can I do to help you, Agent Martins?”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Fitzgerald again, if I may, since—by his own account—he knew her better than you. Having said that, it’s incumbent on me to explain just how the Bureau comes to be involved in this case.”

“Yes, I must admit, I was wondering that myself.” He pointed at a long curving sofa that completed the circle begun by his desk. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable and tell me all about it and then I’ll have Frank answer your questions?”

I told Van Der Velden how I’d been investigating the sudden deaths of Clifford Richardson, Peter Ekman, Willard Davidoff, and Philip Osborne; and how Gaynor Allitt had confessed to killing Osborne with prayer.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Did you just tell me that she said she’d killed someone with prayer?”

“That’s right.”

“Prayer to whom, exactly?”

“To God.” I shrugged. “At first we were inclined to treat her as a harmless crank. We get a lot of that kind of thing in law enforcement. But clearly she believed what she told us. And in all other respects she was rational. Which is why, when we released her from custody this morning, we decided to keep her under surveillance. You see, it was also clear that she was very afraid of someone. God, perhaps. I don’t know. Anyway, that might be why she killed herself.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Van Der Velden. He was picking his words with care now. “She actually said that she had prayed for the death of this man, Philip Osborne. I assume you mean the journalist and writer.”

I nodded.

“Did she explain why she had it in for him?”

“Because he was ungodly. I guess you could say because he was one of the unrighteous you mentioned in your sermon. Those who are condemned like it says in the Book of Revelation.”

“But you don’t actually believe that Mr. Osborne was killed by prayer?”

“No. This is just a trail of smoke and we’re looking to see if there’s a real fire underneath it. We thought it might be possible that there was some connection between Osborne’s death and those three others I mentioned. That someone might have been involved in a more practical way. I know it sounds as if we’re grasping at straws. But Gaynor Allitt did seem to know a lot more about Philip Osborne’s death than had been in the newspapers.”

“Did she leave a note?”

“Nope.”

“Did she mention this church?”

“No. Actually she was keen to leave your church out of things. I only found out about you because this address is listed as a favorite destination on her car’s satellite navigation system.”

“You were at the service,” said Van Der Velden, “so I hope you’ll forgive me if I remind you that we pray
for
people at the Izrael Church of Good Men and Good Women, not against them. We’re an evangelical church, Agent Martins. We believe in the same kind of things they do over at Lakewood.”

“That was certainly my impression, sir.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. You know, prayer is absolutely fundamental to the Christian. There’s a poem by an Anglican clergyman named R.S. Thomas that I kind of admire. It’s called ‘Folk Tale,’ and one of its lines reads: ‘Prayers like gravel flung at the sky’s window, hoping to attract the loved one’s attention.’ Which puts it very well, I think. God knows everything already. He probably knows what I’m going to pray about before the words are out of my heart. You hope he’ll listen—that maybe you can change his mind about something. Once in a while, I figure, he hears my prayer and maybe answers it, too. That’s my faith. But most of the time I figure he knows what’s right for me and doesn’t pay any attention to my prayers. Most of the time, I think, I’m just flinging gravel at God’s window. I guess what I’m saying is this, Agent Martins: It’s hard to imagine anyone using prayer as a lethal weapon. It would be more than a little impertinent for us to believe that we could call on God like those Old Testament prophets and bring destruction on our enemies. You see what I’m talking about? I don’t doubt the power of God is more lethal than any man-made weapon, but I do doubt that it’s a power that anyone but someone like Moses or Joshua is equipped for or, more accurately, is granted the right to handle. I also have to wonder what kind of God would answer such a prayer as the one Gaynor Allitt claimed to have made. If I might quote another English poet, C. S. Lewis? ‘May it be the real I who speaks. May it be the real Thou that I speak to.’ Frankly, I’m not at all sure who might answer the kind of prayer Gaynor Allitt claimed she made. But I’m absolutely sure it couldn’t have been our father in heaven.”

The pastor went to fetch Frank Fitzgerald. He was gone awhile.

For a moment or two, I glanced over the magazines on his coffee table; these were more inclined to the intellectual than the spiritual:
Forbes
,
The New Yorker
,
Scientific American
. Then I amused myself by looking at all the books on his shelves. Some of them appeared to be in Hebrew, which convinced me that, unless they were merely for show, Nelson Van Der Velden really had studied scripture in Israel, and not just Christian scripture but Jewish scripture, too. As well as books, there were several framed photographs on the shelves. In one or two of them Van Der Velden was pictured alongside a very old Jewish rabbi, and when the pastor finally returned with Frank Fitzgerald, I asked if the old man was the same Rabbi Kaduri he had mentioned in his sermon.

“Yes. That was taken in Jerusalem not long before Kaduri died. A very remarkable man.”

“Would I be right in thinking that you know a lot about Judaism?”

“My doctorate from the University of California at Berkeley is in comparative religion,” said Van Der Velden, with no small pride. “I wrote my thesis on Judaism and the Kabbalah. Why?”

I took out my phone and found the photographs I’d taken of Gaynor Allitt’s prayer closet.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what this is, would you? In particular, the design on the curtain?”

Van Der Velden looked at my pictures and frowned. “It looks kind of like a
parochet
,” he said. “That’s a curtain that covers the door to the
aron kodesh
in a synagogue—which is a cabinet where they keep the Torah scrolls. Only this particular curtain appears to be upside down. The design you see is a
menorah—the seven-branched candlestick that’s been a symbol of Judaism since ancient times. Either the person who hung this curtain is ignorant of the design or . . .”

I waited. “Or what?”

“Or it might indicate someone who wished to be blasphemous—in the same way you might hang a crucifix upside down if you were, let’s say, satanically inclined.”

“The curtain was on the door of a closet where Gaynor Allitt seems to have hidden herself away when she was praying.”

Fitzgerald came over and looked at the pictures on my phone. “Never seen anything like that before, Pastor.”

“You say she prayed in there, Agent Martins?”

“That’s right.”

“It does seem kind of obsessive,” he said. “And I speak as someone who prays a great deal. What do you think, Frank? Is this the Gaynor Allitt you knew?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Look, she was strong in her faith. They say faith can move mountains. Well, maybe it can, but I think you’d have to be a little crazy to try.” He shrugged. “Gaynor was committed, even devout, but she never struck me as mad enough to go around praying for folks to be dead.”