Prayer (29 page)

“Kind of discourteous, don’t you think—you dressed like that to come in here?” He turned and operated the elevator with a key. The doors opened immediately. “This is a church, mister, not a crack den.” He inserted the same key, and when the doors closed, he pressed the only button.

“Haven’t you heard, Frank? Religion is the opium of the people. Good for keeping people quiet.”

“So is television. You might just as well ask people to stop being human as hope they’ll ever give up the things that make them feel happy.”

“Religion sure didn’t make me happy.”

“And so now you’re what? An atheist?”

I nodded.

Fitzgerald snorted his contempt. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Just fine,” I lied.

Fitzgerald said something, but the sound of the doors opening again meant I didn’t hear it; either that or I wasn’t meant to hear it.

“You’ll have to leave the hog’s leg with me,” he said. “If you want to see the pastor.”

He ushered me to go ahead of him into Van Der Velden’s office.

“No can do,” I said. “This stays on my hip even when I’m in the shower. That’s just Bureau regulations.”

“The pastor’s got his own regulations, too,” said Fitzgerald. “This is where I come in.”

I might have ignored him except that there was a SIG Sauer automatic in his hand. It had a little American flag engraved on the side and it was pointed at me.

“Guns make him nervous,” he added.

“Maybe we have something in common after all,” I said. “Guns make me nervous, too. So why don’t you put that one down before you get yourself into trouble?”

“No, it’s you who’s in trouble, my friend. Mr. Brick Agent operating on his own. You’re not supposed to do that, are you? Just in case someone gets the drop on you like this?” He winced. “I know. You see, when I’m not here looking after the pastor, I work for the Department of Homeland Security. Coast Guard.”

“So you’re kind of like a bodyguard.”

“No, I am a bodyguard. About the only place I don’t watch out for him is when he’s preaching and when he’s playing tennis at the Houstonian Club.”

So that was where I’d seen Van Der Velden, at the Houstonian Club; and the reason I hadn’t recognized him before was that he’d been dressed in tennis whites.

“I’d do as he says if I were you,” said a voice.

I glanced around and saw Nelson Van Der Velden come into the enormous room.

“Mr. Fitzgerald can be a hard man to contradict. Especially with a weapon in his hand.”

“That’s not a very Christian outlook he’s got there,” I observed.

“On the contrary,” said Van Der Velden. “In the Book of Nehemiah it says of the Jews who were building the walls of Jerusalem, ‘Those which were building the wall, and those that did bear burdens, with those that loaded, every one with one of his hands wrought in the work, and with the other hand held a weapon.’”

“Well, gee, I guess that’s all right, then,” I said. “You know, if he takes his orders from you, then it could be said you’re going to be in the same shit he is.”

“Here,” he said, coming over to my back and calmly taking the Glock from my holster. “Let me help you with that.”

I might have stopped him but for the SIG that was still leveled at my head; and I didn’t doubt that Van Der Velden was right about Fitzgerald; he had the air of a man who knew how to use a firearm.

Van Der Velden lifted the automatic, dropped the nineteen-shot magazine into his hand, and began to shuck the shells into his desk drawer. Clearly, he knew what he was doing, too, but then, in Texas even babies can handle a firearm and sometimes do. When the magazine was empty, he slotted it back into the Glock and returned the gun to me.

“You know, I can’t remember if the Reverend Billy Graham employed a bodyguard, but I’m betting not,” I said.

“I’ve had death threats.”

“I’m beginning to understand why.”

“I really don’t think understanding is your strong suit, Agent Martins,” observed Van Der Velden. “Otherwise you’d hardly have turned up in my church looking like that. What’s the big idea? Were you trying to be offensive?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Are you wearing a wire, perhaps?” asked Van Der Velden. “Frank?”

I shook my head, but Fitzgerald went ahead and searched me for one all the same.

“He’s clean.”

Fitzgerald holstered his gun and, with much less grace, so did I.

Van Der Velden glanced at his bodyguard. “It’s all right, Frank. You can go. I don’t think Sergeant Sunday is going to try to arrest me now.”

He shrugged at me.

“That’s what it looks as though you were planning to do. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“If it is, then you’re resisting arrest, and you’re in a lot of trouble, Pastor. Wouldn’t
you
agree?”

“That’s the second time you’ve suggested that,” said Van Der Velden. “And it doesn’t sound any more plausible the second time.”

Fitzgerald nodded at his boss and left the room.

“You see, Agent Martins,” added the pastor, “right now, it’s your word against a man of God’s. A man of God who has some social standing in this state.” He smiled and sat down behind the desk. “Somehow I don’t think that your superiors are going to take kindly to your being here, dressed like gangbusters. After all, I’ve got about eight thousand witnesses to your insensitivity. That’s not the FBI way, is it? Not since Waco. And aren’t there some operational guidelines on how you people handle an investigation when a church is involved? I believe you’re obliged to seek the approval of your own legal counsel.”

“You’re very well informed, Pastor.”

“After our last meeting, I had my lawyer check up on exactly what you’re allowed to do.”

“I’ll bet you did. But since you bring them up, I’d only be in breach of those operational guidelines if I was investigating you undercover; and I’m hardly that, am I?”

“No, I agree. You could never be described as acting undercover.” He nodded. “Yes. Now I begin to understand your thinking, perhaps.”

“There’s that,” I said. “And the fact that maybe I wanted to get a reaction out of you, Van Der Velden.”

“Which begs the question, why? The last time you were here, I think I answered all of your questions about the unfortunate Miss Allitt very politely, did I not?”

“You were very polite,” I said. “Just not very truthful.”

“I don’t doubt that you have a good reason for saying that, Agent Martins.”

I tossed him the thumb drive on which Ken Paris had made a digital copy of Esther Begleiter’s recording.

“This is my good reason. A little home movie Gaynor Allitt made before she killed herself. I made you a copy of your very own.”

“I assume this movie has something to do with me,” said Van Der Velden.

I nodded.

“I also assume that you mean me to watch it now, is that right?”

“That’s right, Pastor.”

“And I will gladly do so, if only to humor you, sir; after that, I will even answer any tiresome questions you may have regarding this unfortunate woman and put your mind at rest regarding my relationship with her, following which we can perhaps both get back to our respective lives as quickly as possible. Is that satisfactory to you?”

“Entirely. You express it very clearly, Pastor.”

“That is my calling, Agent Martins. Just as it is yours to be a royal pain in the ass.” He held up the thumb drive. “I can just plug it in, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Computers are not my strong suit.”

Van Der Velden flicked the cordless mouse on his enormous desk and awakened the screen of his computer; then he leaned below the desktop to fit the thumb drive into a USB port.

“I’d have thought it would take some expertise to be able to send one of your prayer victims an anonymous self-destructing e-mail,” I said.

Van Der Velden ignored me for a moment. He moved the mouse on a mat that said
TAKE IT TO THE LORD IN PRAYER: BUT DON’T GET UPSET IF HE DOESN’T SAY YES
, clicked on the file containing Esther Begleiter’s video, placed a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his face, and leaned back in his expensive office chair.

“Is that what she alleges? Miss Allitt?”

I had to hand it to him. He looked as cool as if I had just accused him of arguing that the Earth is round.

“Watch the video.”

As the film began and Van Der Velden heard Esther describe him as an “arch practitioner of evil,” the pastor shot me a reproachful look that was about as fake as his alleged visions of the Messiah.

“I don’t mind listening to some criticism of myself and this church—we live in a democracy, after all—but I really don’t see why I should be abused while I’m doing so.”

“Just watch the video,” I said patiently.

Van Der Velden made a holy-looking steeple out of his fingers and tapped them together thoughtfully. Most of the time he paid the film close attention and, once, he even wrote something down. It was probably a note for his lawyer when he contacted the Bureau to complain about me, to tell Chuck that I was a disgrace to the Bureau and sacrilegious, too—that I deserved to be suspended or investigated myself. I was ready for that. I figured that my so-called mental condition—occasioned by too much overwork leading to the successful arrest of the HIDDEN group and the prevention of a terrorist atrocity on the streets of Houston—would probably be enough to get me off the hook with maybe not much more than a severe reprimand. Maybe.

What I wasn’t ready for was what happened next.

Please,
said Esther Begleiter, in her last words to camera,
stop them if you can. For me? But be careful, too. You have no idea of what you’re dealing with
.

Van Der Velden nodded as if in appreciation of what he had just sat through and then switched off his Windows Media Player. He was smiling a strange sort of smile.

“That’s for sure,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You undoubtedly will be, Agent Martins, before this week is out.”

I grinned. “This is the bit where you tell me that you’re going to report me to my superiors. Go right ahead, Van Der Velden. I’ll take my chances.”

Van Der Velden laughed. “I’m not talking about any earthly superior, Agent Martins. After watching Miss Allitt’s home movie, surely you must realize that.”

“Oh?” I smiled.

“I thought you believed in God.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You did. The last time we talked you said you worshipped over at Lakewood Church.”

“No, I said I went there. But I stopped worshipping there a long time ago.”

“Why? Because you ceased to believe in God?”

“Do you?”

“Do I believe in God? Hmm. What kind of God? The God of Jesus? Some bearded, grandfatherly figure who holds the whole world in the palm of his big hand like some heavenly Santa Claus? Slow to anger, abounding in love and compassion?” Van Der Velden smiled a wry sort of smile as if that image amused him and took off his glasses. “Or the God of Moses? I assume you must have read enough of the Old Testament to know what that particular God is like, Agent Martins. He’s a very different proposition. What does Deuteronomy say? For the Lord thy God is a consuming fire, even a jealous God. The kind of muscular God who hardens the pharaoh’s heart against allowing the Israelites to leave Egypt just so that he can destroy the whole Egyptian army—‘that the Egyptians may know that I am the Lord.’”

“I take it that’s the kind of God you believe in.”

“Oh, yes. And obviously so did Miss Allitt. Or Miss Begleiter, as I suppose I should now call her. She believed. She believed very much. She was certain that what we’re doing here is real. Or did you really think that there was some more scientific explanation for what happened to Mr. Osborne and those other godless men?”

“Isn’t there?”

“If there was, then surely the FBI would have found it. Instead, you’re here, sniffing around like a baffled dog without the slightest clue about what you’re up against. By the way, if I were you, I really wouldn’t go around saying he doesn’t exist. God doesn’t like that. It might be better for you if you stopped saying such misguided things.”

“Take my advice, Van Der Velden, and stick to Sunday sermons. The people you preach to are more gullible than I am.”

“You think I’m just another cracker-barrel evangelist, like your own pastor at Lakewood, Mr. Osteen. But you won’t think that when the angel of death comes for your soul tomorrow evening.” He bowed his head for a moment, pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. Then he said, “Amen.” After a deep exhalation, he opened his eyes again and nodded.

“Threatening a federal officer with death is a serious crime.” I smiled.

“Oh, it’s no threat. You will die as I said you will die. Tomorrow evening at midnight. If you’ve made any plans for Tuesday, I would change them now if I were you.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Normally, I allow the enemies of the Lord longer than twenty-four hours to get used to the idea. It amuses me to think of them trying to be rational in the face of something as extraordinary as God’s avenging angel. But I’ve decided to make an exception in your case. Whatever trouble you can stir up will be forgotten by your colleagues when your body is found. It goes without saying that I’ll have an unbeatable alibi. I’ll be leading a prayer meeting tomorrow evening in front of five hundred people. As a matter of fact, we’ll be praying about you.” He paused. “But I certainly wouldn’t take any comfort from that.”

“I’m to be killed by the Lord’s winnowing fork, is that it? That’s one exhibit I’d like to see in a court of law.”

Van Der Velden became less playful all of a sudden, tired of my incessant mockery; the perfect smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed malevolently.

“I’m sorry you remain so skeptical, Agent Martins,” he said. “But as the hours elapse between now and midnight tomorrow, I think you’ll find you will start to feel a lot less sanguine about any of this. In the beginning—which is any time from now on—you’ll experience psychological breakdown; your mind will be beset with doubt and uncertainty about the things lurking in the shadows that formerly you took for granted were not there; then you will feel horror as irrational fear grips your soul. Fear of the dark, a reluctance to switch out the light before you sleep. Whatever happened to common sense? Are you alone as you thought you were? What was that noise you heard? Why did that curtain move? Is there someone there? Could someone be downstairs?”