John Lutz - Lightning

“It is. I double-checked it personally. He was chairing a church council meeting at the Clear Connection at the time the Women’s Light Clinic blew up. At least that’s the story of the other six council members who attended.”

“You sound dubious.”

“Freel might be a confidence man,” Desoto said, “but his followers are fanatics. They’d lie for him if he asked. To them, the pro-life movement is a holy crusade. They’d be lying so he could commit murder to save lives. He’d lie so he could commit murder to have Adelle Grimm and his unsullied reputation and all of his money. Both gods would approve.”

Carver wasn’t as sure as Desoto that Freel was completely a confidence man. He remembered the note in Freel’s voice and the pure bright light in his eyes. Might he not worship two gods and still be a true believer? The loudest singers in the church choir on Sundays sometimes manipulated stock or juggled the books through the rest of the week.

“Why would Freel have to be in Del Moray to plant the bomb himself?” Carver asked. “Why wouldn’t he simply use Norton?”

“He couldn’t be sure that way, because Norton wouldn’t know the real purpose of the bomb. Even though Freel planned the bombing for when Grimm was in the clinic, he had to know the bomb would be close enough to his victim to prove fatal when it went off. My guess is he planted it in the clinic well before the demonstration and set it off unseen from nearby, or activated the timer for when he knew Grimm would be conducting an abortion, leaving himself plenty of time to get clear of the area. Norton was a bomb nut and made such an obvious patsy, he might have even given Freel the idea.”

“Have you offered your theory to the FBI?” Carver asked.

“Sure. They didn’t buy into it. They still like Norton because they’ve got him, and with plenty of evidence. As they see it, Operation Alive is involved only because it unknowingly-or at least unprovably-provided motivation. Suggesting a conspiracy and a different actual suspect makes the investigation messy. The feebs like to get in and out in a hurry without losing any skin.” Desoto paused. Carver heard him draw a deep breath on the other end of the line. “There is one bit of information on our friend Ezekiel Masterson, by the way. You know a woman named Mildred Otten?”

“I’ve talked to her,” Carver said. “She has a bitter and biblical view of the world.”

“We’ve talked to her, too. It turns out Ezekiel is her son from her first of many marriages. Not that she knows where he is. Not that she’d tell us anyway. She says they’re estranged and the only time she sees him is at services at the Clear Connection, and he hasn’t attended for weeks.”

Mildred’s son. Carver thought about it. “I guess it figures. Spouting scripture might be an inherited trait.”

“It seems so in some families, especially these days and with families involved with the good Reverend Freel.”

There was a flurry of unintelligible voices on the other end of the connection. Voices speaking in English, though, and not coming from Desoto’s stereo.

“Crime marches on,” Desoto said into the phone, “and it just marched into my office. I’ve gotta go to work here.”

“So you’re saying Freel’s alibi only looks good?” Carver said. He valued Desoto’s judgment on such things and wanted to be sure of what he thought.

“Freel is a guy who’s claimed out-of-body experiences,” Desoto said. “He can go anywhere he wants anytime, and with an alibi. Believe me, he could have been in Del Moray the morning the Women’s Light Clinic went up. And in solid enough form to have detonated a bomb.”

Desoto hung up to join in battle with the forces of crime before Carver could thank him.

Carver let the receiver clatter back into its cradle, then sat back and looked at the closed office drapes, glowing with light and heat filtering through them to make the air-conditioning work its hardest. Natural heat was always in a battle with artificial cold in Florida. It was unrelenting and implacable. It knew that eventually it would win.

People like Martin Freel felt that way, too, whatever their delusion. Sooner or later they would win, if not in this world, in the next. Carver himself was usually reassured in time of doubt by the knowledge that he could outlast if not outsmart any adversary. When the people hanging by their fingertips finally let go, he’d still be there hanging by his finger nails. He would do what was necessary for as long as necessary. He knew that about himself. It was his religion.

Now he was beginning to recognize the same characteristic in Freel. And maybe Freel, with his religion underpinning his self-righteousness and will, was even more obstinate and persevering than Carver. More obsessive.

Carver didn’t like to think of himself as obsessive; he preferred to be regarded as dedicated rather than obsessive. But he knew that in different fashions, he and Freel might have the same relationship with truth, might carry the same burden.

So there the two of them were.

Obsessive.

After lunch,Carver drove into Orlando. He parked near the reverend’s house on Selma Road for a while but saw no one arrive or leave.

Starting the engine and running the air conditioner from time to time wasn’t enough to make the car’s interior bearable. The sun glared through the windows and radiated with thermonuclear might through the canvas top, and everything metal became hot enough to fry food on.

Finally Carver gave up and drove to the urban oasis of a shopping mall, where he had a Diet Pepsi and sat on a bench and cooled off, watching the roaming consumers: retirees in walking shoes, simultaneously exercising and escaping the heat; idle teenagers seeking each other’s support and trying not to “fall into the Gap”; expensively dressed plastic-possessed women from East Del Moray, cruising the more exclusive shops. Malls were as American as Sunday barbecues and Charles Keating.

It was late afternoon, and a few degrees cooler, when he staked out the Clear Connection. He sat in the Olds, watching sunlight glint off the wide areas of glass and make the building seem a delicate crystal creation meant to be a temporary thing of beauty, as ephemeral as life itself. Excessive, for sure, but he had to admit it was appropriate architecture for a church.

Within an hour, Freel’s sky blue Cadillac pulled from the front drive and jounced over the slight incline to the street. Freel was alone in the car and appeared to be smiling.

Carver started the Olds and followed, staying well back, occasionally even using parallel streets as a precaution against being seen. Freel would have talked with Jefferson Brama by now and would be on his guard.

They drove out the Orange Blossom Trail until Carver noticed a parked police car and a crowd of people carrying signs. They were dressed casually to withstand the heat and seemed to be milling in a general circular motion. The Caddy braked, veering right, and parked behind the police cruiser. Carver made a left turn into a restaurant parking lot and found a slot where he could see what was going on across the street without being noticed.

The crowd was picketing a low white building with a door simply stenciled TRAIL CLINIC in blue block letters. White wooden crosses as well as signs were being carried, and Carver recognized some of the pickets. There was the skinny guy with the bullhorn who’d been yelling outside the Benedicts’ house, shirtless and wearing baggy plaid shorts. He was dancing around and yelling through the bullhorn now, whipping up the demonstrators for Freel, but Carver couldn’t understand what he was saying. Cars driving by were slowing, their drivers swiveling their heads to read the pickets’ signs and see what was going on. A few of the drivers honked their horns, either in derision or support. One man shouted something and made an obscene gesture as he drove past.