Godless (33 page)

Tyler woke
to a smell he barely recognized. He glanced at the clock: eight a.m., too early to rise on a Saturday morning. But the aroma of sizzling bacon teased his appetite and his curiosity. Renee had expunged all fat and flavor from his diet shortly after the honeymoon. Why, all of a sudden, had she decided to fry up a skillet of breakfast heaven?

“Hey you,” he yawned after finding his way to the kitchen.

“Hey back at ya,” she said with a wink.

“What's this?”

“Oh, just a little surprise.”

Tyler had been a detective long enough to recognize a decoy when he saw one. Renee had something up her sleeve. Under normal circumstances he would have resisted the temptation to take the bait. But Renee, unlike the criminal class, knew his greatest weakness.

“Smells terrific!” he said while taking a chair at the kitchen table. Renee's parents, Gerry and Katherine, were already seated, casually sipping their usual grapefruit juice. The two had become another part of the marriage package. With no place else to go they had ended up moving in with their daughter and her reluctant boyfriend turned devoted husband. They were, at times, a pain in the neck. But they were Renee's family.
His
family. And the inconvenience of their presence came with a sense of satisfaction he had never known before asking for her hand.

Renee used a fork to remove a piece of bacon from the pan. Tyler frowned at the sight of a turkey strip. He had expected the good stuff.

“Smitty called,” said Renee casually.

He couldn't remember the last time the assistant chief had called on a weekend. “What'd he say?”

“Wanted to know if you had seen the weekend journal this morning.” She delivered a piece of dry toast and bacon to Tyler's plate. “Here you go,” she said while kissing his cheek. “Enjoy!”

He offered an appreciative grin while nibbling. “I'll take a look,” he said. “Seen the tablet?”

“Next to your plate.”

But it wasn't.

“Daddy!” scolded Renee. “I put that there for Tyler to read the news, not for you to play Pac-Man.”

“Tetris!” he insisted before sliding the device toward his son-in-law. “Pac-Man was for kids.”

Renee rolled her eyes while Tyler tapped the screen twice. A headline appeared.

He glanced at the byline. It read “Julia Davidson Simmons.”

“She did it!” Tyler said.

“Did what?” asked Renee.

He held a “wait one second” gesture toward his wife while scanning the article. It included nearly every important detail.

The unsolved mystery of Judge Santiago's assassination.

The anonymous confession from a transition industry worker.

A string of “volunteers” at odds with Saratoga Foundation chairman Evan Dimitri.

Large donations to Josh Franklin's campaign in conjunction with efforts to expand Youth Initiative policies.

A series of allegations against Franklin that, of course, he denied.

“She doesn't say anything about Matthew Adams,” Tyler mumbled to himself.

“What's that?” asked Renee, who, it seemed, hadn't really been listening.

“The suspect I tracked down last year, the one who wrote those letters to the judge; she doesn't mention his name.” He thought for a moment. “No, I suppose she wouldn't. Revealing an anonymous source would destroy her credibility as a journalist.”

“More bacon?” asked his wife, oblivious to the conversation her husband was having with himself.

“No, thank you,” he said, waving off the offer.

Gerry nodded eagerly while lifting his plate.

“What did Smitty say, exactly?”

“Like I said, he asked whether you had seen the weekend journal.”

“Anything else?”

“Don't think so.”

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said before moving toward the bedroom to make a call.

“Oh, no you don't,” Renee insisted. She patted the chair in a summoning motion. “I have another little surprise for you.” She paused. “Well, a big surprise actually.”

As he suspected, the bacon had been a ploy. He obediently positioned his body back at the kitchen table while his mind scripted the conversation with his boss.

Dimitri will have seen the article by now. He might already be on a private jet leaving
the country. Or hunting down Matthew Adams.

“I said, close your eyes!” sang Renee.

He did.

“Now give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“You'll see.” He sensed his wife holding her breath while placing a tiny object in his palm.

He opened his eyes and glanced at the gift. A white thermometer-like device displayed two solid lines.

“Does this mean…?” he began.

She continued holding her breath while her head nodded at a feverish pace.

“So we're gonna have a baby?”

She exhaled. “Can you believe it?”

“But they said our chances were—”

She finished his sentence. “—terrible! I know.”

A year earlier Tyler would have been mortified at the news. That's when he was trying to figure out how to escape yet another clingy girlfriend. The thought of becoming a father would have been the only thing unpleasant enough to scare him away from sex. But now, thanks to Smitty, he had a whole new perspective on marriage and kids. A whole new purpose to his once-empty life.

“I didn't think we could do this!” Tyler said into her moist, forty-year-old eyes. “I mean, our age.”

“You mean my age,” she corrected.

“Well, yeah, they said—”

“I guess God had other plans,” she cut him off before pressing her lips against his.

Exactly what Smitty would say, thought Tyler.

“Congratulations, my boy!” said Gerry while Katherine pressed both hands excitedly over her own mouth.

“OK,” said Renee. “Now you can go call Smitty.” A sly smile.

“You already told him about this, didn't you?”

A hesitation. “He made me tell.”

“How did he make you tell?”

“When I answered the phone he asked how I was doing,” she confessed, sheepishly biting the tip of her index finger.

Tyler sighed while kissing her cheek. “I bet he's almost as excited as me.”

“Almost,” she giggled while patting his bottom. “Now go on…Daddy!”

They spent the first few minutes of the call celebrating the news.

Tyler thanked Smitty for the influence he had been in his life, especially when it came to his marriage to Renee and his emerging faith.

“I lay this at your feet, too, you know,” he said accusingly.

“Lay what at my feet?”

“This silly grin on my face,” Tyler replied. “You remember. Last year at this time I would have thought my life was over if you told me I was about to become a father. Now it feels like my life has finally begun!”

“I hear you, my friend. Wait till you have a second. It just gets better.”

“We'll see about that,” said Tyler doubtfully. At fifty, even one child was more than he'd expected. Two was probably more than he should hope for.

A brief silence offered an opportunity to ease into the purpose behind Tyler's call.

“What should we do about Dimitri?”

“Nothing.”

“But he—”

“It's out of our hands, Tyler. The Feds own the case from now on. I suspect they were at Dimitri's door with an arrest warrant before he had his first cup of coffee this morning.”

Tyler felt a wave of relief. A dissonant chord that had kept him on edge for a year had finally resolved. But he also felt a twinge of disappointment. He had imagined himself making his first big arrest since rejoining the force. Still, he was grateful that, thanks to his partner turned boss and mentor, he was back in the game at all.

“But there
is
still the matter of this anonymous source,” said Smitty. “Are you thinking Matthew Adams?”

“I am, sir,” said Tyler, removing his friend hat to assume the role of subordinate. “Julia Simmons said she and the pastor got a bad feeling, like he might be preparing to harm himself. Or possibly someone else.”

“Listen, Tyler, I hate to mess up such an exciting day for you and Renee, but I wonder if you might pull out the old file and see whether you can piece together a possible next step for Mr. Adams.”

“No need to apologize, sir. I was thinking the same thing myself. I'll get right on it.”

They ended the call.

Tyler walked back toward the kitchen. Renee stood facing the sink, still aglow over the big news. He approached, wrapping his arms around her from behind and resting the palm of one hand on her abdomen. She leaned into his presence to accept a kiss on her neck. Then he rubbed the protective cocoon, home to his forming little boy or girl, while whispering into her ear, “I love you, Mrs. Cain.”

Matthew approached
the front of the classroom, where he placed one hand on the lectern, followed by the other. He relished the sense of dignified authority the pose evoked. Then he scanned the sea of vacant seats and naked desks he had often occupied while a student at the University of Colorado. His mind returned to lectures he had heard in this very room, delivered by his once-beloved professor, mentor, and, he had thought, friend.

It was Dr. Vincent who had enticed Matthew toward Manichean philosophy: Spirit good. Body bad.

It was Dr. Vincent who had encouraged Matthew's dream of earning a college degree, entering graduate school, and, eventually, becoming a professor himself. The same dream his mother had died to finance.

And it was Dr. Vincent, he now realized, who had caused much of the trouble. Not because he had identified Matthew as a potential assassin. That, he now understood, had been an unfortunate misunderstanding. Nor because of his absence during Matthew's dark days. College professors can't interrupt their writing sabbaticals every time a depressed former student requests a meeting.

The real reason Dr. Vincent was to blame had nothing to do with what had happened in the past twelve months. It was something he had said the year before.

“Remember, Mr. Adams, there's no such thing as a mortal sin. Just hard choices.”

Fourteen words that had strengthened Matthew's hesitant resolve. Fourteen words that had changed everything.

They had convinced Matthew that Father Tomberlin was wrong to call volunteering a mortal sin.

They had convinced him that his mother's estate should fund a son's dream rather than sustain a decaying body.

And they had replaced Matthew's childhood dogma with a new, enlightened path. A path now strewn with five lifeless faces Matthew couldn't forget, haunting his sleep and fortifying his shame.

Matthew heard the heavy clank of an opening and closing door echo down the hall, followed by the click of shoes. He bent down to conceal himself behind the lectern. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. The steps were moving away from rather than toward his hideout.

He felt like a criminal on the run. A feeling he despised. A feeling he would end.

Matthew walked toward Dr. Vincent's desk, where he had placed two envelopes. Which to leave? The first contained a letter of thanks for all the professor had done to form his evolving beliefs. It represented Matthew's love for the world of academic scholarship. He had once aspired to an intellectual stature that, he had believed, might free him from the common duties of an ordinary life.

Clearing coffee mugs replaced by grading thesis papers.

Struggling to pay the rent replaced by proposals to obtain a grant.

Calming Mom's forgetful nerves replaced by receiving a department chairmanship.

The second envelope represented Matthew's angst. It held a note blaming Thomas Vincent for a descent into darkness the man's lectures, writings, and chats had propelled. Despite years of mental gymnastics, Matthew felt the gravitational weight of a reality his mutinous spirit had been trying to flee. A truth expressed in creeds he had recited as a boy yet rejected as a man.

There is a God. So all things are
not
permissible.

He held one envelope in each hand like a scale tilting between options. His former professor might have embodied Matthew's aspirations. But Father Tomberlin had been right. Just like Reverend Grandpa and, more recently, Pastor Ware.

They believed that every human being carried dignity as one made in the image of God. People are
not
debits.

They believed that God himself had taken on human flesh. The body is
not
bad.

They believed Christ had come to redeem what had been lost and restore what had been damaged. That he had come to conquer death,
not
embrace it.

Dueling envelopes awaited the decision.
What do you believe
?

He couldn't answer. He only knew what he had done.

Matthew placed the letter of blame on Dr. Vincent's desk while tossing the other in a nearby trash basket.

He slipped out of the classroom unseen before exiting the mostly vacant building. He took the long path to his car in order to take one last glimpse at his old place of employment, Campus Grinds. He peered discreetly through the window to see his former shift manager, Sarah, chatting with the only customer. She looked even lovelier than he remembered, her soft features defying rumors of a dreadful world. Then she turned. Matthew caught his breath. Pregnant? He smiled at the thought of Sarah becoming a mom. She'd be terrific, a nurturing presence throughout life for some lucky boy or girl. The kind his own mother had been before she left. Before he had insisted she go.

Five minutes later Matthew sat in the quiet solitude of his car trying to summon courage for what he was about to do.

No more hiding, he told himself.

No more guilt or shame or fear.

And, he could only hope, no more nightmares.

He looked at the passenger seat. It held the at-home transition kit originally intended for Congressman Tolbert's father. He paused while reaching for the object, the angry face of the elderly man invading his memory.

“Leave her alone!” he had shouted while swinging an old boot in Matthew's direction. That's when he had realized the Tolberts weren't doddering old debits eager to end their misery by supporting their son's cause. They had been targets, human beings he would have murdered had it not been for the old man's chivalrous courage.

Matthew thought of his first client, Brianna Jackson. She, too, had resisted his aid. She, too, had had a look of angry fear in her eyes.

“What have I done?” he whispered.

He lifted the lid. A small envelope printed with an elegant font greeted his eyes. “A Message from NEXT Transition Services.” He broke the seal to read the note inside.

Matthew froze. A surge of fear invaded the moment as the echo of laughter, the same sadistic, ravenous cackle that had haunted his dreams, overtook the silence. He dropped the page like a hot coal. But the laughter reverberated louder still, as if approaching from a shadowy darkness below.

He tried to open the car door. The handle was stuck.

He looked desperately out the windows, forward, right, and left. Then he peered through the rearview mirror. What had he expected to see, perhaps a crazed specter eager to pounce?

The laughter increased until it felt like a scream penetrating every fiber of Matthew's quivering form.

He tried whispering a prayer. But the impulse made him angry. Had he already descended too far? “When we reject the good that God is,” Pastor Alex had warned, “all that remains is the evil he isn't.”

Matthew looked at the box. It contained the same supplies he had used on three prior occasions. It seemed to be offering itself as an escape. From what? Insanity? Worse?

The noise rose louder still.

“Please, God!” Matthew shouted, pressing both fists over tightly clenched eyes. “Make it go away. Make it go away!”

Nothing happened. Matthew reached for the kit still resting on the seat beside him. A needle and vial of PotassiPass awaited its next willing volunteer.

Its next desperate soul.