Т Паркер - The Last Good Guy

Penelope swung the Beetle wide into the big parking lot, keeping to the edge, as if for cover. She followed the curb past the central campus with its stately Canary Island palms and the classrooms and administration building, but stopped well short of the cathedral. Her lights went out and she waited, half hidden in the near dark, just as I had done at the 7-Eleven. Eight other vehicles in the lot.

People continued to leave the cathedral, all stopping to speak to Atlas. I recalled the Cathedral by the Sea calendar from the From the Lighthouse bulletin that I’d picked up on Sunday — Adult Bible Study: “By Jesus Chosen.” I glassed Penelope, black cowl unfurled high, face upturned and motionless.

Twenty minutes later, the Bible students had left. Pastor Atlas went back inside. The last of the cars trailed out of the lot toward King’s Road. Only the yellow Beetle remained, a muted swatch in the foggy half-dark.

Penelope got out, shut the door, and locked it with a fob. Zipped the fob into her purse as she headed up the sidewalk toward the church. Hugged herself again and leaned forward, as if into a headwind. Resolve over dread, force of will.

She climbed the steps and approached the open doors. Stopped at the threshold and said something. A moment later, Pastor Atlas came to the door and stopped. Ten feet apart.

In the night-vision green he spoke to her and she spoke back. No introductions that I could see. Something familiar in the exchange. A conversation resumed? She terse; he patient. Jab and feint, thrust and parry. Then an escalation, inaudible to me, but I could almost hear it in their postures — the accusatory aim of Penelope’s finger, the sad-faced appeasement from Reggie Atlas.

He looked past her, frowning. Then turned slightly and opened his hands in a welcoming manner, inviting her in. Penelope hunched in her black sweater, the white strap across her back. It looked like she was deciding whether to accept the invite.

With a suddenness that caught me by surprise, she yanked a silver cross from her purse and raised it at Atlas. Held it high. A vampire movie. Atlas looked disgusted, then flummoxed and hurt. He was mouthing a defense when she turned, ran to the steps, and started down. Fast and sure on her feet, white sneakers in descent, white purse swinging, and the silver cross still in hand.

Which was when a silver SNR Expedition pulled into the lot from King’s Road.

The driver cruised the perimeter, just as Penelope had done, heading for her car. About halfway there, he must have seen Penelope running, or the light on in the cathedral, or Pastor Atlas standing at the top of the steps. The Expedition cut across the vacant lot and swung to a stop in the handicapped parking as Penelope ran for her car and Atlas stopped halfway down the marble steps.

Adam Revell climbed out of the SUV, Atlas yelling at him, his words muffled by the heavy air. Penelope almost to her car, horn chirping and its lights flashing once. Revell caught between them, unsure what to do, looking at the fleeing woman, then to the pastor.

Atlas’s next words cut the night air: Get over here, you dumb sonofabitch!

Penelope’s car swerved sharply, then plowed for the exit, horses whining.

I broke brush to my truck, cranked it to life, and crunched backward through the scrub onto King’s Road. Threw her into drive, shot across the road, and tucked into the far shoulder. Plenty of room for Penelope to get by.

Headlights in the rearview.

She hauled butt back to the interstate, where she tossed the speed limit and passed the slower cars. Still signaled her changes. I followed her home, watched her pull into the garage. The door lowered and a moment later the front-yard security flood came on but the house stayed dark.

I studied the small green bungalow in the patch of light: fence and porch and the ragged central palm. The living room blinds opened, then closed again.

I tried to interpret the hexagrams. But sometimes you need a place to start.

Time for an audience with the riddle herself.

I called her and she picked up.

We sat in her small living room, the knockoff Tiffany lamp beside the sofa casting varied light through its stained-glass shade. Penelope took the plaid couch with the lamp next to it and I got a director’s chair.

She stared at me, lamplight and shadow on her face. “How long have you been following me?”

I explained my mission in San Clemente, Yash, cruising the streets — my last known address for Daley. My surprise at seeing Penelope there, interviewing the shopkeepers on Del Mar. My decision not to interfere. Following her first to the Cathedral by the Sea, then home.

“You think it’s okay, spying on your employer?”

“I had your back. You know Atlas, don’t you?”

She looked at me sharply, then away, sending her curls back with the shake of her head. “I already told you that. I met him in late August. When I was checking out his church. On behalf of Daley.”

“No,” I said. “You told me you met a youth minister who ‘came at’ Daley.”

“He did.”

“The youth minister is a woman.”

“Maybe my youth minister was her assistant.”

“Maybe he’s related to your ex-husband.”

“In what possible way?”

“As another character you’ve made up.”

Silence between us then. She turned to me with her knife thrower’s stare.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s try this again. Do you know Atlas, Penelope?”

“What did you see and hear tonight?”

“Short answer? Everything.”

“Hiding in the hills with some fancy military scope?”

“Zeiss night-vision binoculars. Good ones.”

“I will not take the name of the Lord in vain. Much as I’d like to right now.”

“Let it rip, Penelope. I do it all the time.”

“Then goddamn you.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I mean it, all right.”

But I saw the anger angling away from her. Before it had really even gotten started. Wasn’t sure what had come in to replace it. She gave me a long, empty look.

Then sighed and stood, walked to the window. Twisted a wand and let the floodlight in.

“I met Reggie Atlas twenty years ago. I was eight. Mobile, Alabama. He was a guest preacher at the Pentecostal and he visited our Sunday school. Led a prayer and talked to us about growing up in Jesus. Twice a year, he’d come guest-preach. The rest of the time he was touring in his van. He had named the van ‘Four Wheels for Jesus’ He ministered all over the South. He was starting to draw good crowds.”

She gave me a slack look, rare from her. The door-to-door search for Daley and the run-in with Atlas had taken something out.

“We got to be really good friends,” she said. “Wrote letters, and emails, and talked on the phone. Wrote Bible essays and poetry to each other. Lots of poems. We both loved dogs and horses. Talked about everything. His family and mine. Jesus and His plans for us. He came through Mobile six years running. Always led a Sunday-school prayer for us kids. The van became a bus. Always had a nicer bus. Bigger and fancier.”

She sat back down on the couch and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“One year, he let me see his new bus. Just me. We prayed and talked and read scripture, and he gave me a beautiful red rose and asked if I’d like to drink the blood of Jesus with him. And I said yes. I would have said yes to almost anything. I was fourteen. Brave. Foolish. And Reggie was the warmest, strongest, best-looking, funniest man I knew except for Jesus and Dad. I felt wild when I was around him. He said the pills would relax me. He said that we could never experience a love like ours again. That it was a gift from God to us. That the love I felt for him was real. The blood was sweet red fruit juice with a funny taste at the end. We talked and prayed. I got dizzy. He touched my face. Baptized me from a beautiful silver bowl. Led me to his bed. I went of my own free will. Shall I keep going, Roland? I know you get to the bottom of things. But how much truth is good for you?”