The List (25 page)

The next day, Renny was in his office reviewing loan documents for a shopping center renovation when he received a call.

“Line three. Says it's important and won't give me a straight answer about who he is.”

Renny picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, Morris.”

“Hey, hey, hey, you are still smarter than the average bear.”

“Drop the Yogi Bear imitation. You do a better Fred Flintstone.”

“I disagree, but you can't hurt my feelings. Do you want to steal a pic-a-nik basket in about forty-five minutes?”

“Sure.”

“I've been researching the Swiss banking system night and day since last week. My consultation fee is going to be in the thousands, or I'll settle for a double order of onion rings at my namesake.”

“You're on.”

Renny arrived at the restaurant first. He cracked open a handful of peanuts and threw the shells in Morris's seat while waiting for his friend to arrive. Morris slid into the booth with a crunch.

“If we shared a real cell, I'd make you clean it twice a day,” Morris said as he knocked the shells onto the floor.

“If we shared a cell, I'd take the top bunk and hang my feet in front of your nose at least four hours a day. What can you tell me about the Swiss?”

“All business, I see. Well, as you know from the newspapers, Congress and some Jewish groups here and overseas are holding a mirror in front of Swiss financiers, and the reflection is not rosy cheeks and fair hair.”

“That's limited to the Holocaust issue, isn't it?”

“Mostly, but I would think they would be more willing to disclose information to family members following a death than ever before. They want to prove they are aboveboard when, in fact, they probably have a lot of loot stashed under the boards.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Here's where I earn my onion rings. We have a financial contact in Bern who advises us from time to time. I mentioned your situation to Mr. Thompson without telling him your name and asked him to help. He made a call and cleared the way for me to speak with Herr Born, an independent Swiss banking consultant. The Swiss man's English is perfect, and he said, ‘Perhaps I could be of assistance to your associate.' Here's his number.” Morris handed Renny a slip of paper. “It's worth a try.”

“Thanks. Tell Mr. Thompson thanks, too.”

He took a break from paperwork about four and called a travel agent for Jo's ticket. Logging on to his computer, he sent Jo an e-mail phrased like an old-time telegram.

Jo. Stop. Have ticket. Stop. Leave Lansing 11:00
A.M
. Arrive Charlotte via Detroit at 2:40
P.M
. Electronic ticket at USAirways counter. Stop. Renny. Stop. I mean, go. I mean, come.

Renny went in to work at 4:00
A.M
. Saturday morning and didn't leave until 5:00
P.M
. Mentally exhausted, he decided to go for a long run. With Brandy on a leash, he ran through the tree-lined neighborhoods of south Charlotte. As his feet hit the concrete sidewalk, inner tension oozed out like the sweat that soon soaked his shirt. It was an hour before he slowed and walked the final block home. He and Brandy panted in unison as they climbed the stairs to his apartment.

There was a message on his answering machine from Jo. After toweling off, he sat down with a quart of Gatorade and dialed her number.

Jo answered, “Hello.”

“I got your message. I was out for a run with my dog. What's up? Are you still coming?”

“Yes, it's not about that. I talked earlier today to Dr. Davidson about Bart Maxwell.”

“What did he say?”

“They did an autopsy. Bart died from a massive heart attack.”

“At his age?”

“Yes. Dr. Davidson and the pathologist who did the autopsy obtained copies of Bart's prior medical records. Other than occasional alcohol use, he had no significant risk factors for heart problems.”

“So what does that mean?”

“I don't know, but it's not typical. I may ask a doctor at the hospital some questions.”

“OK. We can talk about it when you get here.”

“By the way, I liked the e-mail. Creative and to the point for a lawyer.”

“I told you that I'm not wordy.”

Renny heard an unidentifiable sound on the other end of the line. “What was that?”

“A long-distance yawn. I've been up all night and all day and need to get to sleep.”

“Good night, then. See you Thursday.”

Renny spent the rest of the evening cleaning his apartment: putting things in order, discarding unneeded papers, mopping, vacuuming, dusting, organizing. It felt good. Brandy, never certain if the vacuum cleaner was friend or foe, barked anytime the noisy creature threatened to invade her space. By the time Renny finished, everything was neat and clean. Stepping back, he admired the shine on the white kitchen floor. He was ready in case
Southern Living
or Martha Stewart knocked on his door.

He awoke Sunday morning earlier than usual and brought the paper up from the driveway. There was the tiniest hint of autumn in the morning air, and he took a deep breath, enjoying the first sign of release from the oppressive summer heat. Prepared to settle in for a leisurely couple of hours, he poured a cup of coffee. Usually, Renny read the sports section first, but this morning he picked up the living section and for the first time noticed ads for churches. There were scores of them of every stripe and color—denominations and affiliations as unfamiliar to him as a list of European soccer teams.

He'd enjoyed the feel of his grandfather's church in Moncks Corner. Could he find someplace similar in Charlotte? How did one shop for a church? One ad caught his eye: St. Catherine's Episcopal, a ten-minute drive from the house. The church offered an “open worship” service at 10:00
A.M
. Why not? Closing the paper he decided to check it out. They were open; he was open. Finishing his coffee, he shaved and showered.

Renny didn't know if the church would be “open” to a visitor in casual clothes, so he put on a blue sports coat, gray slacks, and a blue-and-red striped tie, an adult version of the outfit he wore to church as a child.

St. Catherine's was on a major thoroughfare, and Renny passed a shopping center, three apartment developments, a golf course community, and an upscale collection of shops and boutiques before almost missing the small sign for the church. Set back from the roadway in a grove of newly planted Bradford pears and red maple trees, the modern white church was square with a sharp, slender steeple. No stained-glass windows, just long, clear casements extended from one end of the building to the other. He parked between a pair of shiny new minivans. From the looks of the other cars in the asphalt lot, it was an upper middle-class crowd. But what else was he expecting? It was, after all, an Episcopal church.

He joined a stream of people walking to the church entrance. Several families with freshly scrubbed children and a smattering of solos like himself squeezed through a narrow door into the foyer of the church at the same time. Almost every adult was carrying a Bible. Half the men wore ties; the rest were more casually dressed. A golf shirt wouldn't have caused a ripple.

Two men in clerical collars and robes greeted people as they came inside. This was different. Renny was used to the rector dutifully shaking hands with those in attendance on the way out, not welcoming people with a smile and friendly enthusiasm on the way in. Both men appeared to be in their thirties, and the taller of the two shook Renny's hand.

“Good morning. Welcome to St. Catherine's. I'm the rector, Paul Bushnell.”

“Renny Jacobson.”

“Have you been here before?”

“No, this is my first time.”

The priest waved over a short, medium-built, gray-haired man in his fifties.

“Jack, this is Renny Jacobson. Renny, meet Jack Berit.”

“We've met before,” Renny said, shaking Jack Berit's hand.

Berit gave him a puzzled look.

“I work for Barnette Heywood at Jackson, Robinson, and Temples. We met at the Foursquare Securities closing.”

“Of course.” Berit smiled. “Sorry, I didn't remember.”

“No problem.”

Berit gave Renny a program of the service. “Come into the sanctuary.”

Renny followed his host into a square room. There weren't any pews; about three hundred dark blue chairs arranged in a semicircle filled the airy room. The clear windows he'd seen from the parking area let in natural light, supplemented by four skylights set near the top of the four ceiling sections. Renny's eyes were drawn upward to the clear view of the sky above.

“Neat building,” he said.

“It is, isn't it? Everything is designed to communicate an open heaven.”

“A little different from my parents' church in Charleston.”

“Are you from Charleston?” Berit asked.

“Yes. All my life until I went to college.”

“My wife's family is from Charleston. Been there for generations. Here she is now.”

Mrs. Berit, a tall, attractive, middle-aged woman, tanned and gray like her husband, extended her hand. “Good morning, I'm Lois Berit.”

Renny took her hand. “Renny Jacobson.” Yes, Lois Berit and Thomas Layne had a definite family resemblance.

Renny started to sit toward the back of the sanctuary.

“Would you sit with us this morning?” Lois asked.

“Sure. I don't know anyone here.”

She led him halfway to the front and slipped into a row of chairs.

As soon as they sat down, Paul Bushnell came through a side door followed by a group of seven or eight men and women with musical instruments. The rector prayed, “We welcome you, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, in this place and in our hearts this day. Let us meet with you as you meet with us.”

Two women and a man in the group picked up microphones. Another man tuned an electric guitar while a third took his place behind a keyboard. A teenage boy positioned himself in back of a full set of drums and cymbals. Hearing a jingle, Renny looked to his left and saw Lois Berit retrieve a tambourine from beneath her seat. This was definitely going to be different.

One of the women at the microphones picked up a trumpet and blew a solitary note that grew in intensity until Renny felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Reaching a crescendo, she held the note to the last possible second, then released it into the stillness of the room. It sounded like a call to war. The band then began to play and sing, the congregation joining to words projected on a screen to the side of the chancel area. All the songs were new to Renny, as unfamiliar as a Latin Mass to a Southern Baptist, but for most of the congregation it was familiar territory, and they joined in with exuberance. They didn't just sing one song. Several fast songs followed without a break, and Lois Berit handled her tambourine with the skill of a gypsy dancer.

Then the pace slowed, and people throughout the room, their eyes closed, lifted their hands in the air or slipped from their seats and knelt in front of their chairs. During an instrumental interlude between congregational songs, one of the male singers started singing, and after a few lines, Renny realized it was a spontaneous song in which the man described a mountain he called the mountain of God. The characteristics of this place—its majestic beauty, panoramic vistas, the fellowship of those who climbed it—began to capture Renny's imagination and sparked an inward longing to go to the mountain, to see it, to feel it, to be with those who wanted to go higher. Glancing at Lois, he saw that her face was lined with two wet paths down her cheeks. When the final note faded, Renny looked at his watch. It was almost eleven o'clock.

Father Bushnell stood and faced the congregation. Without additional comment, he led them through traditional sections of the
Book of Common Prayer.

The familiar words had an extraordinary effect on Renny. He was amazed. Instead of mumbling phrases in a meaningless rote, the beauty and power of the words pierced his consciousness in a way he'd never experienced. The rector finished by praying: