Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

He'd paid the check, feeling somewhat guilty about using church funds for alcohol, then continued north, farther into the Village along a route that took him through a place called Washington Square. This appeared at first to be a miniature Sodom in its own right but when he plunged into the heart of the chaotic park the reverend found that the only sins were youngsters playing loud music and people drinking beer and wine out of containers in paper bags. Although he believed in a moral system that sent certain transgressors straight to hell (like noisy homosexual prostitutes who wouldn't let you get to sleep), the spiritual offenses he found here weren't the sort that'd guarantee a one-way ticket to the big furnace.

But partway through the park he began to grow uneasy. He thought again of the man who'd been spying on him, the one in overalls with the toolkit by the hotel.

The reverend was sure he'd seen him a second time in a store-window reflection not long after he'd left the hotel. The same sense of being watched came over him now. He turned fast and looked back. Well, no workmen. But he did catch sight of a trim man in a dark sports coat watching him. The man looked away casually and veered off toward a public rest room. Paranoia?

Had to be. The man didn't look anything like the worker. But as the reverend left the square, walking north along Fifth Avenue, dodging the hundreds of strollers on the sidewalk, he sensed again that he was being followed. Another glance behind him. This time he saw a blond man, wearing thick glasses and dressed in a brown sports coat and T-shirt, looking his way. Reverend Swensen also noticed that he was crossing to the same side of the street that he'd just crossed to.

But now he was sure he was paranoid. Three different men couldn't've been following him. Relax , he thought and continued north on Fifth Avenue toward the Neighborhood School, the street dense with people enjoying the beautiful spring evening.

Reverend Swensen arrived at the Neighborhood School at exactly 7 P. M., a half hour before the doors would open. He set down his briefcase and crossed his arms. Then he decided that, no, he should keep a hold on the attaché case and picked it up again. He lounged against a wrought-iron fence surrounding a garden next to the school, glancing uneasily in the direction he'd come.

No, no one. No workmen with toolkits. No men in sports coats. He was -

"Excuse me, Father?"

Startled, he turned quickly and found himself looking at a big, swarthy man with a two-day growth of beard.

"Uhm, yes?"

"You here for the recital?" The man nodded toward the Neighborhood School.

"That's right," he answered, trying to keep his voice from quavering with uneasiness.

"What time's it start?"

"Eight. The doors open at seven-thirty."

"Thank you, Father."

"Not a problem."

The man smiled and walked away in the direction of the school. Reverend Swensen resumed his vigil, nervously squeezing the handle of his attaché case. A look at his watch. It read 7:15.

Then, finally, after an interminable five minutes, he saw what he'd been waiting for, what he'd traveled all these many miles for: the black Lincoln Town Car with the official government license plates. It eased to a stop a block from the Neighborhood School. The minister squinted in the dusk as he read the plate number. It was the right vehicle… Thank you, Lord.

Two young men in dark suits got out the front. They looked up and down the sidewalk – including a glance at him – and were apparently satisfied that the street was safe.

One of them bent down and spoke through the open rear window.

The reverend knew whom he was speaking to: Assistant District Attorney Charles Grady, the man prosecuting the case against Andrew Constable. Grady was here with his wife for the recital that their daughter was participating in. It was the prosecutor, in fact, who was at the heart of his mission to Sodom this weekend.

Like Paul, the Reverend Swensen had entered the world of the nonbelievers to show them the error of their ways and to bring them truth. He intended to do so in a somewhat more decisive way than the apostle, though: by murdering Charles Grady with the heavy pistol now resting in his briefcase, which he clutched to his chest as if it were the ark of the covenant itself.

Sizing up the scene in front of him.

Carefully noting angles, escape routes, how many passersby were on the sidewalk, the amount of traffic on Fifth Avenue. He couldn't afford to fail. There was a lot riding on his success; he had a personal stake in making sure Charles Grady died.

Around midnight last Tuesday Jeddy Barnes, a local militiaman, had suddenly appeared at the door of the double-wide that served as Reverend Swensen's home and church. Barnes had reportedly been hiding out in a camper deep in the woods around Canton Falls after the state police raids against Andrew Constable's Patriot Assembly a few months ago.

"Make me some coffee," Barnes had commanded, looking over the terrified reverend with his fierce fanatic's eyes.

Amid the staccato tap of rain on the metal roof, Barnes, a tough, scary loner with a gray crew cut and gaunt face, had leaned forward and said, "I need you to do something for me, Ralph."

"What's that?"

Barnes had stretched his feet out and looked at the plywood altar Reverend Swensen had made himself, thick with sloppy varnish. "There's a man out to get us. Persecuting us. He's one of them."

Swensen knew that by "them" Barries was referring to an ill-defined alliance of federal and state government, the media, non-Christians, members of any organized political party and intellectuals – for starters. ("Us" meant everybody who wasn't in any of above categories, provided they were white.) The reverend wasn't quite as fanatical as Barnes and his tough militia buddies – who scared the soul out of him – but he certainly believed there was some truth to what they preached.

"We need to stop him."

"Who is it?"

"A prosecutor in New York City."

"Oh, the one going after Andrew?"

"That's him. Charles Grady."

"What'm I supposed to do?" Reverend Swensen had asked, envisioning a letter-writing campaign or a fiery sermon.

"Kill him," Barnes had said simply.

"What?"

"I want you to go to New York and kill him."

"Oh, Lord. Well, I can't do that." Trying to put on a firm front although his hands were shaking so bad he spilled his coffee on a hymnal. "For one thing, what good'll it do? It won't help Andrew any. Hell, they'll know he was behind it and they'll make it even harder – "

"Constable's not part of this. He's out of the equation. There're bigger issues here. We need to make a statement. You know, do what all those assholes in Washington 're always saying in their press conferences. 'Send a message.'"

"Well, just forget it, Jeddy. I can't do it. It's crazy."

"Oh, I think you can."

"But I'm a minister."

"You hunt every Sunday – that's murder, if you want to look at it one way. And you were in Nam. You got scalps – if your stories're true."

"That was thirty years ago." Whispering desperately, avoiding both the man's eyes and the admission that, no, the war stories weren't true. "I'm not killing anybody."

"I'll bet Clara Sampson'd like you to." Stony silence for a moment. "Chickens're coming back to roost, Ralph."

Lord, Lord, Lord…

Last year Jeddy Barnes had stopped Wayne Sampson from going to the police after the dairy farmer had found the minister with Sampson's thirteen-year-old daughter in the playground he'd built behind the church. It occurred to him now that Barnes had played mediator solely to get some leverage on him. "Please, look -"