Last Writes (11 page)

Stedman’s eyes lit up with the fire of messianic zeal. “The Lord God spoke to me in a vision. When Kylie Powers was born, the Lord showed me a golden halo around her perfect little head. It was immediately clear to me that she was destined for something great. Her parents were serving in missionary work at one of our satellite offices at the time, but after that vision, I knew I had to send for them to return to the Ark right away, so that Kylie could be in the proper environment from the very beginning.”

Everyone they had met so far looked and sounded eminently normal, the surroundings were beautifully maintained, but Claudia found Harold Stedman’s tale of visions deeply disturbing. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in miracles, just not this one.

The sound of a gong interrupted the question Claudia was about to form: What exactly might a three-year-old be trained for? Everyone rose together as an elderly woman wearing a purple shift slid onto the bench of an old upright piano and played a few opening bars. The room became filled with voices raised in a hymn Claudia didn’t recognize. They finished with another prayer and the dining hall emptied within a few minutes.

Claudia and Harold Stedman returned to the office, leaving Kelly to charm Brother Norquist. “What is it that makes you think you’ve been infiltrated, Mr. Stedman?” Claudia asked, hoping Kelly could get some helpful information from the old man.

Stedman walked a little faster, his sandals kicking up dust on the gravel. “The government is always digging around. They’ve sent health inspectors here, openly harassing us. There’s nothing for them to find, but I know they continue to look.”

“You think the
government
has someone inside?”

“Who else?”

Claudia suppressed a smile.
Just because you’re paranoid it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
She didn’t pretend to have much faith in government, but she couldn’t imagine why they would send someone undercover in the Temple of Brighter Light. Unless, perhaps, they had reason to believe the group had a cache of weapons or something of that magnitude. It wouldn’t be the first time a fringe group had been investigated, especially since 9-11.

Stedman seemed disinclined to talk further and they walked on in silence. The vegetable garden was empty now, and Claudia felt glad for the women who had been working there. If there was any justice at the Ark, they were home, relaxing in a cool bath.

Rita the office assistant was there to meet them. Harold Stedman spoke kindly to her. “Rita, Sister Claudia and I will be in Brother Powers’s office. We’re not to be disturbed, please.” He took Claudia along a short hall and into Rodney Powers’s office, which was only slightly larger than an elevator car; scarcely enough room to walk around the desk that filled it. As he shut the door behind them Claudia felt the walls close in. She had a hard time picturing a two-year-old playing in here while her father tried to work.

A four-drawer metal filing cabinet rose behind the desk, and a head-high shelf that held a set of oversized three-ring binders made it feel even more cramped. On the wall to the left of the desk was a large framed photograph of sand and surf, with a poem Claudia had seen before: “Footprints in the Sand.” To the right was a wall calendar. The date of Kylie’s third birthday had been circled in red.

“I’ve got everything ready for you,” Stedman said. “I’ve always been fascinated by the written word. Earlier in my life I spent many a day in museums, studying ancient texts. I’ve even collected some antique writings. Perhaps while you’re here, I’ll show you a couple of items that might be of interest to you.”

“I’m certainly interested in ancient writings.”

Stedman looked pleased at her response. “We’ll see what can be arranged. But for now, to the business at hand.” He maneuvered behind the desk and opened a drawer, took out a thick manila envelope, and unsealed it. “We ask our applicants to write an essay about why they want to join the Temple of Brighter Light. What I would like you to do is review a few of these essays and tell me whether you believe they’re telling the truth or not. I’ll have more for you later.”

Claudia took the sheaf of papers he handed her. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Stedman, but I want to make sure you understand something: if the person didn’t experience guilt over what he or she wrote, it might not show up in their handwriting as a lie.”

“I do understand.” The piercing blue eyes met her gaze. “But if you find anything, anything at all, you will let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I have reason to believe there is some murmuring going on—dissent among some of the members, which is bad for the entire body. There are certain ones whose loyalty concerns me and I need to know whether I can trust them.”

“Murmuring? I suppose you mean someone making negative comments about TBL teachings.”

“We must be a unified body, and that means rooting out those who disrupt the peace of the organization.”

“What will happen to them if you find out that you’re right?”

“They’ll be excommunicated.”

“Meaning?”

Stedman slapped the envelope against his hand and his expression grew stern. “The first step is for the judicial commission to offer loving counsel. If they are found to be unrepentant evildoers who, by their actions or behavior, discredit the good that the Temple is doing, they will be cast out. No longer will we welcome them in our midst, nor will we say a greeting to them. If we see them on the street, we will cross to the other side. If they attempt to approach one of us, we will turn away.”

“But if they’ve given up everything to live at the Ark, or to be a TBL member . . .”

“It
is
sad, sister, but the Bible tells us that the wages of sin is death. Betrayal of the Lord God is deserving of spiritual death.”

Laying the envelope on the desk, he edged his way around Claudia, apologizing as he brushed against her, and opened the door. “I’ll be working upstairs in my office all this afternoon. Sister Rita can show you where I am if you need me for anything. I’d like you to return the handwriting samples to me before dinner this afternoon, whether you are finished with the work or not. If you aren’t finished, you can get them back from me tomorrow morning.”

After he left, closing the door behind him, Claudia contemplated what he’d said about excommunicating recalcitrant members. She imagined that for someone who had been thoroughly indoctrinated in TBL teachings, it might be a living hell to be cast out of the Ark. She already had an inkling that members were cut off from their former friends and family upon joining, which made their only support system the one within the confines of the Temple of Brighter Light. It seemed to her a cruel punishment.

She turned to the handwriting samples with even more mixed feelings than before. It had become clear to her that her reports could potentially assist in causing harm to their authors. Claudia was accustomed to testifying in trials, both civil and criminal. Sometimes she worked for the defendant, sometimes for the person suing them. In every case she recognized the burden imposed upon her. It was the nature of trial testimony that someone invariably got hurt. But somehow, this was different. She faced the task before her with the responsibility weighing heavier than usual.

Then it came to her that since she had the stunning good fortune to be working right in Rodney Powers’s office, there would be no better time to check out his files and look for clues to his whereabouts.

 

 

 

Seating herself behind Rodney’s desk in the stifling office, Claudia got out her notepad and pen and prepared to make notes. Normally, she would have waited to read the contents of the handwriting sample until after she had first formed an opinion about the writer. This time, however, since her task was to look for signs of lying, she would need to know what had been written. This part of her job came under the heading of forensic statement analysis rather than handwriting analysis, and would ensure that she didn’t overlook anything important.

She tipped the batch of papers out of the envelope. Ever-conscientious, she felt pressured to begin the work she was being paid for. But she also wanted to concentrate on the main task she had set herself: learn anything she could about Kylie Powers’s whereabouts.

At this point, she had no way of knowing whether her presence and Kelly’s would advance that aim. Nor did she know whether she would uncover evidence that Harold Stedman was looking for against his members, but at the very least, it gave her a legitimate reason for being at the Ark.

Using the manila envelope to fan herself, Claudia began her examination of the first handwriting sample. The handwriting was crammed full of strokes that should have been rounded but had been turned into angular forms; upper and lower loops squeezed tight, indicating an abnormally high state of tension. She looked for a name or other identifying information, but found none. Someone had redacted the personal information with a heavy felt pen. Handwriting could not conclusively reveal gender, but she made an educated guess that the author of the sample was probably male.

The essay rambled on for two pages about how, after twenty-five years, the writer no longer felt fulfilled by the dental career he had chosen. He was ready to sell his practice, turn over all his material goods to the Temple, and devote the rest of his life in service to the Lord. The degree of tension in the handwriting disturbed Claudia. From what was written, there was no obvious reason to believe he had been anything less than truthful in his statement, but her experience told her he was withholding something.

She made some notes, then set the sample aside and turned to the next one. Written in a simplified, super-efficient hand, there were no superfluous strokes to slow it down. The clarity and speed of the writing were hallmarks of a fast thinker who could be impatient with routine details, but who was an excellent problem solver when it came to complicated issues. Again, she could find no identifying information, and this sample contained no strong indicators either way for the writer’s gender. The person had written in a selfless way about the writing talents he or she might contribute to the Ark’s publications. No overt evidence of lies there.

The small office felt confined, airless. Claudia yawned and stretched her arms above her head, beginning to feel oxygen deprived. She reached for the next sample.

Written in block printing with bold, dark lines, the writing showed rapid rightward movement, revealing stamina and energy, a desire to get things moving. There was a masculine quality in the confident, strong strokes and the pressure was strong enough to leave slight indentations in the paper.

Rodney Powers’s handwriting had been block printed, she remembered, but from her recollection, the handwriting in the note Erin had showed them had a different type of rhythm and flow from this one. Too bad Erin had snatched the note back so fast. She would have to remember to ask Kelly whether she’d been able to retrieve it.

As she read through the essay, Claudia noticed a gap in the text that she thought might be significant: “My main reason for becoming part of the Temple of Brighter Light is the desire for greater spiritual guidance. I am deeply impressed by what I’ve learned . . .” The slightly wider space between “the” and “desire” indicated that the writer had taken a microsecond of extra thought—time to stop and think about what he or she was going to write, rather than letting it flow smoothly and naturally, which sometimes indicated a lie. Also, the personal pronoun
I
was slanted slightly to the left, while the balance of the writing slanted to the right. It was by no means conclusive, but Claudia made a note and set the sample to one side to look at again later.

The next essay was written in a school-model style. Her educated guess was that the writer was more than likely female, someone who had grown up with many rules to follow; someone who needed to be told what to do and when to do it. Adults who stuck with copybook school-model writing virtually always identified themselves as having attended a religious school.