John Gilstrap - Damage Control

If God didn’t understand, well, Dom would have to take that up with Him later.

“We’re getting close,” the agent asked. “Do you have any questions?”

“I don’t think so,” Dom said. “I just hope that I don’t screw it up.”

“If you play it like we discussed, things should go just fine,” the agent said. “But if things go terribly wrong, we’ll be close by.”

Dom gave a tired smile. If things went terribly wrong, close wouldn’t be close enough.

The Georgens’ house looked like so many other houses in Scottsdale. Where there should have been bushes, there were cacti instead; where there should have been grass, there was white gravel. Even with the sun gone, the air was oppressively hot-103 degrees, according to the thermometer in the dash of the car that delivered him. That should be a noontime temperature, not a nighttime one.

Judging from the number and brightness of the security lights, the Georgens were a paranoid lot. Once Dom stepped from the street to the walkway that led to their front door, every corner of the single-story Spanish-style ranch erupted in the light of double floods. The suddenness of it startled the crap out of him.

“Are you okay?” Venice asked in his left ear, startling him.

“I’m fine,” he said. Apparently, he’d yelled out, though he didn’t remember doing so. “Security lights.”

“You’ll do fine, Father,” she said. “But you need to relax. I can hear your breathing. I’ve got tape rolling here in case you need it, and I’ve got the panic number preprogrammed into the phone. If anything starts to sound wrong, I’ll call in the cavalry.”

“I understand,” he said.

“And you need to quit talking to me. It’ll look like you’re talking to yourself. Worse, it’ll get people thinking that you’re wearing a wire.”

Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing. He had two of them, actually. One was disguised as a pen in his pocket, and the other was the audio feed that Venice was running via the bud in his ear.

Venice was right, though. He needed to get control of his fear if he was going to pull off this ruse. The plan was to make an end run around the Constitution of the United States by performing a warrantless search. It would be illegal for the FBI to record the conversation that he was about to have, but in Arizona, it was legal for private citizens to surreptitiously record conversations so long as one of the parties knew that it was happening. A thus-legally obtained recording of damning evidence, once turned over to the FBI, then becomes actionable. Dom supposed that this sort of manipulation occurred all the time, but deception had never been his long suit.

And the outright lies that lay in his immediate future made his mouth go dry.

He forced himself not to slow as he approached the front door and rang the bell. Following the instructions he’d been given, Dom stepped back from the door to allow himself to be seen, Roman collar and all.

Lights came on inside, and he saw movement beyond the beveled glass that doubled for a center panel as the occupants moved cautiously toward the door. Visitors at this hour were unnerving for anyone. For that visitor to be a priest had to add an even more drastic spin.

The bevels bent all the images looking in, and he could imagine it did the same for someone looking out. A man’s face appeared in the glass, a hand cupped to the side of his right eye. Dom recognized it as belonging to Eric Georgen, Bill Georgen’s father.

“It’s a priest,” the man said. He turned two dead bolts and pulled the door open a crack. He wore a blue terry cloth bathrobe, and perhaps nothing else.

“I’m sorry to be calling so late at night,” Dom said. He kept his hands in front of him, fingers lightly interlaced, as if in casual prayer. “Are you Mr. Georgen?”

The man’s confusion morphed to a scowl. “Who are you?”

“I am Father Daniel LaFrada,” Dom said, invoking the name of a seminary friend who had passed away a few months ago. “I need to speak with you if you have a few moments.”

“I’m not Catholic,” Georgen said.

“It’s about your son, sir,” Dom said. “Bill.”

A woman materialized out of nowhere to join the man. This was Tammy Georgen, Bill’s mother, and she wore a bathrobe over a nightgown. “Is Billy all right?” she asked. Judging from her perfectly coiffed big hair, she hadn’t yet lain her head on a pillow. “Is he hurt?”

The question meant that the boy wasn’t home, and that brought a sense of relief. “We need to talk,” Dom said.

“Is he hurt?” Georgen asked, building on his wife’s budding panic.

Dom kept his face noncommittal. “May I come in, please?”

Husband and wife searched each other for an objection, and then stepped aside to let him in. The house wasn’t large, but it was well-appointed. Lots of polished hardwoods, granite, and original oil paintings. Dom led the way to what he supposed they called their family room, where a beamed cathedral ceiling towered over a leather conversation group that was designed to give maximum viewing efficiency for the enormous flat-screen television that was mounted over the wood-burning fireplace.

“Please answer our question, Father,” Georgen said, pulling up the rear of the small parade that landed on opposite ends of the curved sofa.

“For now, the answer is yes. Bill is fine.”

“What do you mean, for now?” Tammy was wrapped tighter than a watch spring.

Dom took his time, both for dramatic effect and to gather his thoughts. “The way it was put to me, Mrs. Georgen, was, What goes around, comes around. ”

Tammy recoiled while Georgen blanched. “What does that mean?” Tammy asked. She looked to her husband. “Eric?”

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Georgen said, but everything about his demeanor screamed that he was lying.

Dom turned to Tammy. “Have you seen or spoken to Rachel Wagner recently?”

“Tristan’s mom? No, why? What does she have to do with Billy?”

Georgen squirmed.

“Tristan and Bill were supposed to go on a missionary trip together, weren’t they?”

“No,” Tammy said. “Well, yes and then no. Eric decided that Mexico was too dangerous a place to go right now. You know, with the drug violence and all. We told the church that he wouldn’t be going. I don’t understand what any of this has to do with you.”

Dom shifted his gaze to the husband. “How about you, Eric? Do you see any connection here?” Agent Boersky had made it abundantly clear that the words needed to come directly from Georgen in order for them to be useful in court.

“Of course not. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tammy saw it, too. “Eric, what’s going on here?”

“The Wagners know, Eric,” Dom lied. “They know the details, and they’ve vowed to make it right.”

Tammy reached for her husband’s hand, but he flinched and pulled it away. “What’s Father talking about?”

Georgen shot to his feet and towered over Dom. “Get out of my house,” he said.

“I don’t think I will,” Dom replied. “The name Abrams mean anything to you, Mr. Georgen?”

Even more color drained from the man’s face.

“You know that they’re all dead, don’t you?” Dom said.

“Who’s dead?” Tammy said. “Oh, my God, Father, what is going on?”

Georgen sat heavily onto the sofa. “That’s not possible. They swore.”

Tammy brought both hands to her mouth as realization dawned that something truly awful was unfolding in front of her. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my God, Eric, what have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything,” he snapped.

“Tell Tammy the real reason why you pulled Bill off of that trip to Mexico.”