The Book of Murdock (13 page)
Read The Book of Murdock Online
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
The First Unitarian
Church of Owen was filled nearly to capacity that first Sunday, but having made few contacts during my brief time in town, I put it down less to personal impression than to plain curiosity. A medicine show or a company of dwarves would have filled the place as efficiently.
Church of Owen was filled nearly to capacity that first Sunday, but having made few contacts during my brief time in town, I put it down less to personal impression than to plain curiosity. A medicine show or a company of dwarves would have filled the place as efficiently.
I'd committed a professional blunder early, when Mrs. McIlvaine hastened in at my first pull on the bell rope, flung down her broom, and seized the rope from my hands. No one had told me bell ringing was one of her duties, and from the alien serenity in her expression while she tugged away I concluded it was her favorite. She said not a word to me the rest of the day; which when you factored in how few she measured out all told made for a profound silence.
Almost all the pews were filled when Richard and Colleen Freemason arrived and walked all the way up the aisle without stopping to a space in front that had been conspicuously left vacant. He wore a black morning coat with piped
lapels over a gray double-breasted waistcoat and gray trousers without a crease to indicate that it had ever spent time on a shelf with the ready-mades, she an unadorned velour dress with her hair gathered beneath a tricorne hat angled slightly with a small feather. The dress looked black until she crossed through a sunbeam slanting in through a window, when it proved to be a very dark maroon. Freemason shook the odd hand, scarcely slowing his pace. Standing at the pulpit, I took mental note of the hands he didn't shake because they weren't offered, and the faces that went with them; they were stony as a rule and turned straight ahead as he passed. In this way I managed to catalogue those acquaintances connected with or sympathetic to the cattle trade. Colleen kept her gaze forward. I remembered what the clerk in the Wells, Fargo office had said about her aloof reputation. That friendly fellow sat near the center of a pew halfway down, next to a woman close to his age whose expression was as grim as those of Freemason's enemies. I'd seen that same look on many female faces over the years when Colleen was present. The women were always respectable in appearance and nearly always less attractive.
lapels over a gray double-breasted waistcoat and gray trousers without a crease to indicate that it had ever spent time on a shelf with the ready-mades, she an unadorned velour dress with her hair gathered beneath a tricorne hat angled slightly with a small feather. The dress looked black until she crossed through a sunbeam slanting in through a window, when it proved to be a very dark maroon. Freemason shook the odd hand, scarcely slowing his pace. Standing at the pulpit, I took mental note of the hands he didn't shake because they weren't offered, and the faces that went with them; they were stony as a rule and turned straight ahead as he passed. In this way I managed to catalogue those acquaintances connected with or sympathetic to the cattle trade. Colleen kept her gaze forward. I remembered what the clerk in the Wells, Fargo office had said about her aloof reputation. That friendly fellow sat near the center of a pew halfway down, next to a woman close to his age whose expression was as grim as those of Freemason's enemies. I'd seen that same look on many female faces over the years when Colleen was present. The women were always respectable in appearance and nearly always less attractive.
When the couple was seated, Freemason with his banker's tile in his lap, I ventured a look from my notes and met Colleen's eyes, blue and cool and casually friendly, fully in keeping with the wife of a church director who wished the new pastor well on his first day. To this day she remains the best poker player I ever met, and I've played with Luke Short and Arnold Rothstein.
I broke contact to put my pages in order. I was as nervous as a cat. Everything Eldred Griffin had told me about
when and where to pause, how often to look up, and where to look fled from memory. Speaking in an empty church to a stern taskmaster of a tutor had been unsettling; pretending wisdom of things spiritual before a packed house put bats in my stomach, and the certain knowledge that at least one of my listeners knew me for a fraud made my throat dry as Texas. I took too hearty a drink from the tumbler of water Mrs. McIlvaine had set out for me on the shelf beneath the lectern and had to fight back an explosive cough, which I covered by clearing my throat noisily into a fist. This was worse than facing a pistol in a hostile hand, because I knew what to do if mine misfired. There was nothing to duck behind that would spare me from scorn and only ignominious retreat through the side door for escape. I thought of Judge Blackthorne in his pew in the Presbyterian Church in Helena and wondered if he paused in his devotions to consider my situation and allow himself a smile with his cumbersome teeth.
when and where to pause, how often to look up, and where to look fled from memory. Speaking in an empty church to a stern taskmaster of a tutor had been unsettling; pretending wisdom of things spiritual before a packed house put bats in my stomach, and the certain knowledge that at least one of my listeners knew me for a fraud made my throat dry as Texas. I took too hearty a drink from the tumbler of water Mrs. McIlvaine had set out for me on the shelf beneath the lectern and had to fight back an explosive cough, which I covered by clearing my throat noisily into a fist. This was worse than facing a pistol in a hostile hand, because I knew what to do if mine misfired. There was nothing to duck behind that would spare me from scorn and only ignominious retreat through the side door for escape. I thought of Judge Blackthorne in his pew in the Presbyterian Church in Helena and wondered if he paused in his devotions to consider my situation and allow himself a smile with his cumbersome teeth.
I was wearing the fine shirt Esther Griffin had stitched for me with her husband's cutthroat collar, and had spent the previous evening brushing my coat and trousers and blacking my town shoes, which pinched and made me yearn for my good broken-in boots, but which at least distracted my attention from the terror of the moment. With unsteady fingers I opened my hymnal, as worn and grubby as any that had been placed in the racks, held it flat atop my notes, took a deep breath, and led the parishioners in a hymn. I've a strong voice and had been told I could sing without embarrassing myself unduly, but I was grateful for the baritones in the gallery that drowned out the wobble.
The hymn had a calming influence, as of course it was
intended to; by the time the last stanza finished in the rafters I felt a little less like bolting. Someone coughed in the silence. I took that as my downstroke and began my sermon.
intended to; by the time the last stanza finished in the rafters I felt a little less like bolting. Someone coughed in the silence. I took that as my downstroke and began my sermon.
I'd moved the hymnal to the shelf beside the tumbler and brought up the Bible I'd carried from Montana Territory, opening it to the passage I'd marked with a strip I'd torn from the old newspaper lining the drawer in the parsonage. I wet my throat againâa small sip this timeâand read:
“âNow there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.
“âAnd the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.
“âAnd the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil?
“âThen Satan answered the Lord, and said, Doth Job fear God for nought?
“âHast not thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land.
“âBut put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face.
“âAnd the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand.'”
Hereupon I closed the book with as much reverberation as I could muster, wishing it were as substantial as the one in
Griffin's study, which boomed like a rebel four-pounder when he slammed it shut. I was, however, aware of a sudden awakening in my audience; I'd been correct in guessing that the succession of lay readers who'd been putting them to sleep with rote had not deigned to depart from the text, and from the reaction I made bold to ponder whether the Reverend Rose had been in the practice of delivering sermons from his own hand. What I did wasn't heresy, not yet, but I felt an edge of uncertainty in the air, heavily tinged as it was with furniture oil and Sunday-suit mothballs, and uncertainty was something I knew a thing or two about.
Griffin's study, which boomed like a rebel four-pounder when he slammed it shut. I was, however, aware of a sudden awakening in my audience; I'd been correct in guessing that the succession of lay readers who'd been putting them to sleep with rote had not deigned to depart from the text, and from the reaction I made bold to ponder whether the Reverend Rose had been in the practice of delivering sermons from his own hand. What I did wasn't heresy, not yet, but I felt an edge of uncertainty in the air, heavily tinged as it was with furniture oil and Sunday-suit mothballs, and uncertainty was something I knew a thing or two about.
“My friends,” I said, “you know this story: In his desperation to turn Job against God and prove his point, Satan rustled his sheep and oxen, dropped a house on his seven sons and three daughters, and afflicted him with boils. Job was no more than mortal, complaining bitterly of his losses and his miseries, which he professed he had done nothing to bring upon him. But he maintained his faith in his Lord even when his wife counseled him to curse God and die, and so the Lord restored his chattel twofold, granted him seven new sons and three new daughters, and gave him twice his threescore and ten in years as a reward for his unshakeable faith while Satan crept away beaten, with his forked tail tucked between his legs.”
To illustrate this image, which does not appear in the Book of Job, I walked two fingers across the top of the pulpit, staggering a little. Amusement rippled through the crowd. I let it die down, then continued.
“Some would say that God was flattering Himself when He declared that justice had been rendered unto His servant,
that seven new sons and seven new daughters did not replace the lives of the first seven sons and three daughters, and that doubling the span of Job's days denied him reunion with those he had lost at the end of his threescore and ten. They're right, of course.”
that seven new sons and seven new daughters did not replace the lives of the first seven sons and three daughters, and that doubling the span of Job's days denied him reunion with those he had lost at the end of his threescore and ten. They're right, of course.”
That drew a gasp and a murmur, but I was concentrating on Colleen, who met my gaze with polite interest, nothing more. It was as if we hadn't discussed the subject only the day before yesterday.
I said, “One sheep looks pretty much like another, and an ox is just a steer broken to harness. Even Charles Goodnight would be hard pressed to distinguish between two longhorns standing side by side.” More chuckles. Goodnight had brought prosperity to the region when he established his ranch near Palo Duro Canyon, and was a popular subject locally. “Children are another matter. Nothing but the resurrection of Job's original sons and daughters would serve as adequate compensation for his sufferings.
“God knew this. He wept for Job's great loss, and rendered unto him the only justice available; for there can be but one mortal resurrection in the Holy Book, and that must be performed by His son.”
I rearranged my pages, pretending to read them. I'd committed the text solidly to memory. I looked up and smiled. “Owen has been kind to this pilgrim, cleansing him and giving him bread and protecting his small heap of belongings, refusing to accept anything in return. Nowhere have I seen greater evidence of faith in God. I'm told that before I came, this country had been afflicted with range wars and highwaymen, stricken by murderers and forsaken by
those who were pledged to keep it from evil. Yet you welcomed a stranger not with suspicion or malice, but with love. And so Satan has lost again, and must go to and fro in the earth in search of some other victim to prove his false theory; for the Book of Owen is a work still in progress.”
those who were pledged to keep it from evil. Yet you welcomed a stranger not with suspicion or malice, but with love. And so Satan has lost again, and must go to and fro in the earth in search of some other victim to prove his false theory; for the Book of Owen is a work still in progress.”
There was no applause, naturally, but when I called for another hymn, the house responded with energy, basses booming, sopranos trilling, and the inevitable tone-deaf howls enthusiastic. It wasn't exactly the equivalent of a standing ovation, but I had the impression I'd passed my first test. I added points by bringing the services to a close after reading the community announcements I'd been given and reciting the forty-first psalm.
I took my place beside the door to the street as the parishioners filed out, shaking hands with the men and bowing to the women. My notices were mostly positive, although one red-faced fellow who'd slept through most of the morning, stirring just long enough to hear me refer to myself as a pilgrim, expressed the opinion that I should have withheld Plymouth Rock until Thanksgiving. An old woman in rusty weeds told me she wished her husband had lived to hear me speak, and spent five minutes cataloguing his trials while others grew impatient and left the line behind her.
Richard Freemason took my hand in his iron grip; either he was accustomed to dealing with politicians or Captain Jordan had been mistaken when he'd called him a gentleman rancher. Poking letters into pigeonholes is poor exercise for the hands.
“I felt I'd made a good choice in you when we met,” he said. “It's a pleasure to have that feeling confirmed.”
“Thank you, sir. I had misgivings about the references to sheep and cattle.”
“Those wars are finished, and subtlety is lost on Texas. You should publish.”
“I wouldn't presume.”
“Nonsense. I have some acquaintances in publishing, who may have some contacts with the ecclesiastical press. I'll give you a recommendation.”
I thanked him, and found his wife's gloved hand in mine. “Wherever did you find your inspiration?” Her smile carried no trace of mockery.
“I found it in a charming new acquaintance, Mrs. Freemason,” I said. If she wanted to broach the subject in the presence of her husband, I wouldn't back away. “I came with a bundle of sermons, but none was appropriate to our discussion. I promised you a sermon in return for your gracious hospitality, you may remember.”
Freemason said, “The story of Job is one of Colleen's bugbears. I'd no idea you two had dissected theology at the house.”
“Brother Bernard is very approachable, dear. I won't say he's converted me to the God of the Old Testament, but he makes an excellent case for the defense. One might think he knew his way around the halls of justice.” She'd made a bargain not to expose me. Nothing had been said about torture.
I put a smile on my face I hoped was modest. “My father was a deacon. One of his happiest entertainments was to engage me in religious discourse from the time I was old enough to read scripture.”
“My father was a butcher in Manchester,” Freemason
said. “I can't recall a single intelligent conversation I ever had with him. Tell me, Brother, with which church was your father affiliated?”
said. “I can't recall a single intelligent conversation I ever had with him. Tell me, Brother, with which church was your father affiliated?”
I'd made a mistake in volunteering a detail from Sebastian's manufactured past. Now I hesitated to provide specific information that could be exploded by a simple inquiry.
Colleen, of all people, came to my rescue. She placed a hand on his arm. “Dear, we mustn't monopolize the brother. Others are waiting to speak with him.”
“Of course. Mrs. Freemason and I would be honored to have you in for dinner. Will you be free this afternoon?”
“I'm honored to accept.” There was nothing for it but to open myself to further inquisition. Inventing an excuse wasn't an option. I've always found it difficult to tell a white lie while I was living a direct falsehood.
“Splendid! Two o'clock.”
Colleen's smile was angelic. That was when she was at her most diabolical. She gave me a nod and left on her husband's arm.
By the time the church doors closed I had three more invitations to dine that week. Returning to the parsonage, I locked the door, opened my valise, took out the bottle of Old Forester I'd brought from Helena, and helped myself to a secular swig.
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