The Righteous Men (2006) (51 page)

‘But in the last hours of the Day of Atonement, the child my wife is
carrying was the only one left. All the other righteous men had been killed—’

‘But now that moment has passed — and the world is still standing.
Which means there are thirty-six in the world once more. A new group of
tzaddikim
.
Any one of them could be the candidate.’ Rabbi Mandelbaum gazed deeply
into Will’s eyes. ‘Any one of them.’

‘You see,’ said Beth, drawing her husband away, ‘we don’t
have to dwell on all that. There are other things to think about.’ She
had been urging Will not to focus on the distant future but on the immediate
past — specifically his father. For she knew that Will would be experiencing
a triple trauma.

First, he had to cope with the shock of what he had done.

Whatever Freud said about CEdipal fantasies, to kill one’s own father
was to shake the psyche to its foundations. Beth warned her husband that he
would need years to absorb what he had been through. Second, she said, he was
experiencing a son’s grief. No matter how insane the circumstances, Will
had lost a parent and he needed to acknowledge that. But third, and perhaps
hardest, he had to mourn the father he thought he had known. That man would
have been lost even if William Monroe Sr had lived.

For that man had been a fiction. To the world he had presented a front
— the secular judge, the ultimate man of reason — so that no one
would ever suspect him of his true beliefs or real intentions. It was a
sustained lie, one that was doubtless plotted years in advance. It had cost him
dearly, almost certainly denying him the seat on the Supreme Court he coveted
so badly. Or, Will thought now, maybe that ambition too was a fraud. Probably
such earthly goals meant nothing to his father. He dreamed, it seemed, only of
heaven.

In the days that followed that night in Crown Heights, there was a series of
arrests across the globe; missionaries and church activists charged from Darfur
to Bangkok — all with connections back to the Church of the Reborn Jesus.
The suspect in the Howard Macrae case turned out to be a local pastor who had
known the victim for years. In Darwin, Australia the chaplain of a hospice was
charged with murdering an aboriginal care assistant. In South Africa, police arrested
a former glamour model who had joined the sect once she left the industry: she
had killed an AIDS researcher she had picked up on the beach.

It turned out that only a relatively small group around the man the
newspapers now referred to as the Apostle knew of his plot against the
righteous men. The movement’s new leadership announced that the doctrine
of replacement theology would be ‘under review’, and that they
hoped all their members would soon come into line with the ‘majority of
the modern Christian family who have only respect and reverence for the
validity of Judaism as a path to God’.

Townsend McDougal issued a statement, declaring that he had cut his links
with the Church of the Reborn Jesus nearly a quarter of a century earlier
— and that he had no idea that Monroe Sr had maintained his secret
involvement. He sent Will a note, with condolences, an apology for the
suspension — ‘a hasty decision’ — and a promise that
his desk was waiting for him whenever he was ready.

Will looked at the piles of paper in front of him, still unsorted. The light
was flashing on his phone: two messages.

‘Hi, Will, it’s Tova. Looking forward to tonight. Tell me if there’s
anything you want me to bring.’

He had forgotten; TC was coming over for dinner. Beth had it all mapped out:
she had invited some gorgeous, single doctor from the hospital and two other
decoy singles. Will had opposed the move: far too blatant, he had said.

He wondered how TC would handle such a set-up. Her life had changed as much
as his that week. She had been the first person, after the police, to come to
the house in the minutes after Yom Kippur was over. She had been calling and
texting Will frantically and when she got no response, she had headed straight
for Crown Heights. She followed the flashing lights. Later she told Will: ‘I
know you were determined to get your wife to meet me, but there must have been
an easier way than that.’

Will had told her to go home and get some rest, but she said no. ‘There
are some things I need to do here,’ she said, as they hugged goodbye on
the street corner. ‘Some people I need to see.’ Surrounded by
police and flashing red lights, Will wished her luck.

‘Oh and Will?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I ask you to do something for me? I’ve been thinking.

I’m not really Tova Chaya any more. And TC doesn’t really sound
like me either. Too much like a disguise. So. Will you call me Tova?’

Six months ago.

‘OK, people, listen up.’ It was Harden, snapping the newsroom to
attention and Will out of his daydream. ‘It’s time to boot out of
the door one of our number, so please gather round in loving memory of Terence
Walton!’

Soon thirty or so people were huddled around the Metro desk as Harden
offered a galloped tour of Walton’s career on the
Times
.

‘Well, you gotta hand it to this guy for sheer versatility.

He’s done just about every job on this paper: police reporter, City
Hall reporter, business desk, National editor, Delhi correspondent — you
name it, Walton’s done it. Would you believe that for two years, this guy
edited the puzzle section at the back of the magazine? Even wrote the goddamned
crossword clues. Well, now he has decided that he has had enough of our fair
city and is going to share his talents with the good people of India. He’s
off to train journalists there so that they can pick up all his bad habits. But
we’re grateful to him and so, let’s all raise a paper plate laden
with cheap cake and say, To Terry!’

‘To Terry!’ they chorused, followed rapidly by the demand for a
speech. Walton obliged with a roll call of former colleagues, many long since
gone and unknown to Will, and a few barbed jokes at the management’s
expense. Finally, he began to wrap it up.

‘Well, if my Yale education taught me anything, it’s better a
short address than a long lecture. And, as the good book says, “brothers,
time is short”. I fly to Delhi this very night.

So I’ll conclude. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege …’

The room broke into warm applause; even Amy Woodstein allowed herself a
little cheer — though maybe that was just relief to see Walton gone. Will
tucked into his cake, shook hands and wished his desk-neighbour all the best.

Maybe it was the reference to Yale that did it, but five minutes later Will
was seized by a thought. He sat back at the computer, still nibbling at the
icing on the carrot cake.

He typed in Church of the Reborn Jesus, scrolled and clicked until he found
the talkboard with the picture showing the Rev Jim Johnson and his acolytes.

Now Will’s eye went straight to his father. So serious, even then.
Will’s eye shot across to Townsend McDougal and then, methodically,
started at the right of the back row. Face, face, face …

He increased the magnification on the image. There he was, in the middle
row, four away from McDougal. With long, hippy hair he was almost
unrecognizable: Will had certainly glided right past him the first time he had
looked.

But the supercilious smile was unchanged: Terence Walton.

Suddenly a shiver ran across Will’s shoulders. He could hear Walton’s
voice from just a few moments ago:
As the good book says, ‘brothers,
time is short’
. He knew it was familiar: it was the message the
texter had sent when Will was in jail, from Paul’s letter to the
Corinthians.

Will sat back in his seat, a wry smile breaking on his lips.

What had Harden said? Walton had done every job on the paper, including a
stint editing the puzzle section: he even wrote crossword clues.

I’ll be damned,’ said Will out loud. It was him.’

A founder member of the Church of the Reborn Jesus with a knack for riddles:
suddenly Will had no doubt.
Don’t stop
; the ten proverbs;
Just
men we are, our number few
. Walton knew it all and wanted to pass it on. He
must have been scared. Too scared to tip anybody off directly. If the Apostle or
his heavies had discovered his betrayal, they would not have hesitated to kill
him. No wonder he had had to resort to code.

But why Will? Why had he picked him to receive all those clues? He must have
seen Will’s stories in the paper and realized he was onto the killing of
the righteous men.
Don’t stop
. It did not refer to finding Beth;
it referred to the story of the
lamad vav
. Don’t stop at Macrae
and Baxter:
more’s to come
. No wonder he had stolen Will’s
notebook: he wanted to know what Will knew. He might even have been keeping it
safe.

Then a doubt surfaced. If Walton was the informant, a mole inside his father’s
circle, why had he taunted Will after the Macrae story? Surely he should have
encouraged him?

And then Will remembered their conversation after his story had hit the front
page. He had bullied him about beginner’s luck: Very hard to pull off
that trick twice, he had said. And yet that was exactly what Will had done, by
recounting the life and death of Pat Baxter. Walton had all but drawn a map
— and Will had followed it.

Once he saw the Baxter piece, Walton must have realized Will was the man to
expose the Church of the Reborn Jesus. To expose his own father. Or had Walton’s
plan been hatched even earlier; had he even engineered the Baxter story? What had
Harden said when he despatched Will out west?
I scraped the bottom of the
barrel and offered them Walton, who was all set to go, but now, at the eleventh
hour, he’s cried off with some lame-assed excuse
. Was it even
possible? Had Walton ducked the assignment, knowing that Will would go instead
— and walk right into the Baxter story? And that flyer for the Church of the
Reborn Jesus, mysteriously lying on Will’s desk. Had Walton put it there?

Will would ask him direct, right now. He swivelled around to see the next
desk even clearer than usual. Will called to Amy. ‘Hey, where’s
Terry?’

‘He’s already gone. Straight to the airport apparently.’

It was too late. Will slumped back into his seat, deflated.

He would have liked to thank Walton and to ask him a hundred questions. Now
he would never have the chance.

‘Shame, I wanted to say goodbye properly.’

‘Didn’t he leave you a gift? He gave me a book,’ she said,
holding it up. ‘
The Juggler: How to Balance Work and Family
.
Thanks a lot, Terry.’

Will had not spotted it until then: a neatly-wrapped box, balanced on the
partition between their desks.

He brought it down and tore off the paper, to reveal a brown carton, no more
than six inches square. He opened the lid: bubble wrap. Underneath, Will pulled
out what seemed to be a desk-toy, perhaps a gyroscope. It was only once he got
it fully out of the box that Will understood what Walton had given him.

It was a model of Atlas, the statue outside Rockefeller Center. A man
carrying the universe on his shoulders, holding up the world. There was a note:

An ancient Jewish teaching holds that to save a life is to save the whole
world. I know you did one; you may even have done both. Good luck, T.

Will put it down on his desk, next to the Saddam Hussein snowdome he had
stolen from Walton and never returned.

It was not yet on the Woodstein scale, but Will was developing his own,
personalized corner of office real estate. Pride of place went to a framed
photograph of Beth, now showing the full curve of pregnancy. Next to it was a
picture of Will and his mother. And next to that was an empty space, ready for
a picture of the boy he already loved.

Any book, I have discovered, is a collaborative effort
and this one is no exception. I owe thanks to a variety of people who guided me
through what was a new and complex process.

First thanks must go to the Hassidic community of Crown Heights, Brooklyn.
The late Gershon Jacobson and his wife Sylvia welcomed me into their home
during a reporting assignment in 1991 — and made me welcome again nearly
fifteen years later. Their guidance, along with the warmth and wisdom of their
sons Rabbi Simon and Rabbi Yosef Yitzhok, was vital. Along with Rabbi Gershon
Overlander of London, they ushered me into what was an entirely new world
— one I continue to admire greatly. I am also indebted to Dr Tali Loewenthal,
who acted as tutor on some of the finer points of Jewish and Hassidic doctrine.
It goes without saying that any errors on this score are mine alone.

I owe a debt, too, to the staff of The
New York Times
who showed me
some of the workings of that great newspaper.

Warren Hoge was especially generous, enlisting the essential help of Bill
Keller and Craig Whitney as well as the editors of the Metro and Foreign
sections. Lest there be any confusion, The
New York Times
of the
Righteous Men is a work of the imagination.

Specific guidance came from Alex Bellos and Hilary Cottam on life in a Latin
American slum, Peter Wilson on Australia and Stephen Bates on the Church. The
Yiddish appears courtesy of the redoubtable Anna Tzelniker. Lee de-Beer
literally walked the streets of New York on my behalf, tracing some of the more
awkward steps of Will Monroe and his pursuers.

Eleanor Yadin and her team at the New York Public Library could not have
been more helpful. Sharyn Stein proved a crucial source on both the law and
police procedure of New York.

Tom Cordiner and Steven Thurgood allowed me to dip into their enormous
expertise on computing and technology.

Monique El-Faizy deserves special thanks for advising on matters New York,
spotting details both large and small. Kate Cooper at Curtis Brown proved a
zealous advocate of the book — and a perceptive reader. Chris Maslanka
showed why he is the king of the puzzlemasters, coming up with one ingenious riddle
after another to confound Will and TC. I am in awe of his skill.