‘So what happens if you go to hell? Don’t you still feel the burn?’ Claudia asked. She didn’t feel the burn, but she felt the tension in the car. She and Whit hadn’t talked since she’d seen Faith at Whit’s place. Whit had seemed tired when she picked him up at the courthouse. He updated her about his talk with Junior Deloache and Anson Todd. Another angle for her to present to Delford, although she fretted her boss would welcome news of Pete’s friendship with hoods no more than theories of murder. ‘Do you think he’s this corny on purpose?’
‘Absolutely. It’s sort of like asking if pro wrestlers consider themselves athletes,’ Whit said. ‘Do you remember Jabez Jones from school?’
‘Vaguely. Geeky, glasses, the kind of preacher’s kid you felt bad for because you just knew he never got to have one lick of fun,’ Claudia said.
‘I remember seeing him wrestling on TV. Joltin’ Jabez Jones. I nearly didn’t recognize him. Especially in gold tights.’
‘God knows my father considers pro wrestling a religion.’
‘God doesn’t have much to do with his appeal,’ Whit said. ‘He’s just like those TV specials on pets that attack or cops’ greatest chases or us all watching a president get caught with his pants down. Everything is entertainment now. He’s just making local evangelism another genre.’
They turned into an asphalt parking lot. Jabez’s compound was the original odd folly of a Fort Worth oil baron who had built a television studio outside Port Leo, part of an ill-conceived plan for a fishing network. The few shows he produced bombed and the compound stayed shuttered for a few years until Jabez Jones defected from the pro wrestling ring to start his church and show. Holy Cross-Training. It had found a shaky home on stations serving rural markets with low-powered religious programming.
The squat cabins were painted a glossy white. A game of women’s volleyball, played in modest shorts and T-shirts adorned with gold crosses, was under way in a sand pit. A couple of men stood by, watching, attempting unsuccessfully to look pious while ogling the bouncing breasts.
‘He’s Hugh Hefner with a Bible,’ Whit said.
Whit and Claudia were barely out of the car when the welcoming committee arrived. She was six feet tall, well muscled, and wore her platinum-blond hair closely cropped. She wore a tight white T-shirt with a gold cross emblazoned on the chest and cargo pants bulky enough to conceal an armory. Whit remembered what Ernesto had told him about one of Pete’s visitors: like a man with titties. It was a crude, unkind, but effective description.
‘Hi. I’m Judge Whit Mosley and this is Detective Claudia Salazar from the Port Leo police. We have an appointment with Jabez,’ Whit said.
‘Regarding?’
‘He wanted to share some information with us regarding a case,’ Claudia said.
‘Follow me. But if he’s not done with his taping, you’ll just have to wait.’
Claudia and Whit followed the Amazon along a crushed-oyster-shell path that led down from the main complex toward a finger of the bay.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Whit said.
‘Mary Magdalene.’
Whit shot Claudia a look. If Mary Magdalene was this tough, Whit thought, God only knew how butch Esther and Ruth were. Eve could probably kick major ass, too.
‘This is an impressive setup.’ Claudia gave Whit a frown that said. Don’t you dare laugh,
Mary Magdalene nodded. ‘Oh, yes, the Lord has smiled on Jabez.’
‘He’s smiling on that volleyball court,’ Whit said.
‘Jabez says exercise is a way of paying homage to what the Lord has created, in making man and woman. Building muscles is worship.’ She flexed her own thickened arms.
‘I’ve always believed our bodies are temples,’ Whit offered. Mary Magdalene gave him a quick scrutiny, then apparently dismissed his temple as one devoted to a lesser god.
The volleyball bounced into the grass near them. One of the comely disciples chased it. She scooped the ball up, and Whit thought: Do I know her? But the young woman turned and sashayed back to the game.
‘Jabez doesn’t have much trouble getting a date, does he?’ Whit observed in what he considered to be a completely friendly tone. Claudia withered him with a glare.
‘Jabez doesn’t date,’ Mary Magdalene spat out the last word. ‘He doesn’t care a whit for the temptations of this physical world.’ Her voice hardened. ‘The temptations of the flesh are the seed of all evil.’
Whit surveyed the immaculately kept buildings, the sand-rumped girls playing volleyball, the new Cadillac parked right by the administration building door with JABEZ on the plate. ‘He’s a real Francis of Assisi,’ Whit said to Claudia, his voice lowered.
‘Sissy?’ Mary Magdalene had misheard.
‘No, sassy,’ Whit answered. ‘He sasses that old devil, don’t he?’
Mary Magdalene raised one platinum eyebrow. ‘Jabez could kick the devil’s ass, and don’t you forget it.’
Whit and Claudia reflected on this platitude in silence. Claudia pinched Whit on the meaty part of his arm to ensure he wouldn’t comment.
Mary Magdalene escorted them to a small stretch of beach full of cameras, portable sound booms, and spandex-clad missionaries. Sparkling white sand, cleaner-looking than the grayish beige grit on most Texas beaches, had been spread over the native soil.
Whit and Claudia stood back to watch the spectacle. Jabez Jones, well over six feet tall, two hundred thirty pounds of muscle with less body fat than a moth, lay on his side, scissoring his tree-trunk legs into the air, counting off reps while providing a little insight into the Book of Luke. Behind him two women (one svelte, one heavy for the dieting viewers to bond with) and a less beefy man mirrored his exercises, all beaming like angels.
‘Now, hold the lift until the Scripture is done,’ Jabez boomed. ‘“I tell thee, thou shalt not depart thence till thou hast paid the very… last… mite.”… There! Amen! Bless us all, did you feel the Holy Spirit invigorating your limbs? I know I did. I’m just coursing with the Holy Spirit right now. You keep doing those leg lifts and the devil himself won’t be able to catch you. Now let’s start our cool-down, and our Scripture for that is one of the more relaxing Psalms, a personal favorite of mine, number sixty-one.’
Whit resisted the urge to lead a cheer.
Cool-down completed, Jabez jumped to his feet, did a hand clap, reminded viewers about his I -888 number and Web site to place requests with Jabez’s Prayer Workout Chain or to order his fitness-theology tapes. ‘Remember, your donations make all the difference in fighting flab… and sin! Praise God! Call now!’
God – who, in Whit’s mind, represented the infinite beauty of the universe – as a weight-loss shuckster.
Finally a nasal-voiced director called, ‘That’s a wrap. Beautiful, Jabez.’ Jabez gave a weary sigh and wiped the sand off his oiled legs. The crew began their cleanup.
‘I’m curious, Mary Magdalene,’ Whit said. ‘Where does all the money come from to pay for this wonderful spread? Jabez’s wrestling career must’ve been lucrative in that worldly goods way.’
‘The Lord provides,’ Mary Magdalene intoned.
‘The Lord must provide on a real regular basis,’ Whit said. Claudia shot him a look: Quit antagonizing this woman. Whit moved to the left a couple of feet to avoid another pinch.
Jabez Jones trotted over, smiling. ‘Hello, Detective Salazar. Judge Mosley. Bless you.’
‘Hello, Reverend.’ Claudia nodded. ‘We had an appointment?’
‘Of course. Thank you for escorting them here, Mary. We can talk here along the beach, it’s quiet and peaceful.’ He gestured with his oak-tree arm down a stretch of beach away from the camera crew.
‘Jabez?’ Mary Magdalene clearly didn’t want to leave his presence. ‘I can stay-’
‘Go. It’s fine,’ Jabez said.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Mary Magdalene said, ‘I have the Lord’s work to do.’ She uttered this with a mysterious air, as though this activity involved Navy SEALs, Russian microfilm, and Jimmy Hoffa.
They followed Jabez. The morning had turned shiny, the sky cloudless. A wheel of gulls cawed above their heads, swerved as one, and dived for food in the lapping surf. Shriveled husks of two dead Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish lay on the sand.
‘Mary Magdalene seems real sweet,’ Whit said.
‘She’s very devoted. I rescued Mary Magdalene from the streets of Houston. She was homeless, hopeless, strung out on dope, not strong. I made her strong,’ Jabez said.
‘You and Jesus,’ Whit said.
‘Absolutely,’ Jabez agreed, as though he and the Lord made an awesome tag team. ‘So, Whit. You’re a JP now. How very… rewarding for you.’
‘I like it,’ Whit said.
‘I surely hope you’re reelected,’ Jabez said. ‘I mean, running that restaurant and that delivery service just didn’t seem to be your calling.’ The comment was topped with such a dollop of theocratic sugar that it might not be an insult. Jabez smiled in the light of his expensive muscles and his expensive compound and his expensive television crew.
‘Gosh, Jabez, thanks. And I pray on a near-constant basis that you get picked up by a TV station that actually serves a metropolitan area.’
Jabez’s smile never dimmed, but one of the balloon-shaped muscles in his arm tensed. The preacher turned to Claudia. ‘I called because I thought I might be able to help you with your inquiries.’
‘We understand you’d been to see Pete recently.’
‘Yes. I offered him spiritual counsel. He and I have known each other for a long time. He was going through some difficult times.’ He paused and dropped his little bomb. ‘He wanted custody of his son.’
‘That we knew,’ Whit said.
Jabez crossed his bulky arms. Small gold crosses were tattooed on his knuckles. ‘Oh. Well, perhaps I’m not being helpful. The Hubbles were, of course, opposed to him filing. Trying to settle with him. I guess you knew that as well.’
Whit and Claudia exchanged a quick glance. The Hubbles had consistently claimed no knowledge of Pete wanting custody. If Jabez was being truthful, then they were lying.
‘What did he have on them that would have made them even negotiate with him? You only go out-of-court if you’re not sure you can win, and Faith and Lucinda should have been as sure as saints,’ Whit said. ‘What leverage did Pete have?’
Jabez shook his head. ‘Don’t know… Your Honor. Pete kept that private.’ But there was a flicker of an amused smile behind his solemnity, and Whit wondered.
‘I understand you and he fought. Argued,’ Whit said.
‘Ah. Velvet?’
‘Yes.’
‘She misunderstood. Pete wanted me to be a character witness for him. I was willing, because I do think everyone can change, and Pete seemed sincere in wanting to improve his lot. But I told him he would need to accept God in his life, and he got mad at me then. There were no other arguments.’
‘So did Pete discuss any other aspects of his life with you?’ Claudia asked.
A pained look crossed Jabez’s gladiator-handsome face. ‘When I was in wrestling… well, some of my colleagues were attracted to women of dubious morality. Some of them worked in adult films, and I heard, through them, about Pete. I actually saw him at a dinner party a few years ago, hosted by a wrestling promoter. He looked terrible. He asked me not to tell anyone back here about his… career. I’ve kept my word. Gossip is the devil’s venom poured in an ear. So do you suspect the Hubbles.?’
So much for the evils of gossip, Whit thought.
‘We have no suspects at the moment. We’re not even sure it’s a homicide,’ Claudia said. ‘Judge Mosley will be conducting the inquest in the next couple of days.’
‘Would suicide surprise you?’ Whit asked.
‘I don’t quite understand why he would come home and work on getting close to his son, then kill himself.’
Whit changed topics. ‘Did he mention that he was working on a film?’
Jabez’s mouth gave a cautious twitch. ‘I prayed he would not resume his career.’
‘No. A documentary about his brother Corey. He says on a tape we found that you refused to cooperate with him.’
The mouth twitched again and a muscle flexed under the cross-laden T-shirt. ‘That’s not so. I just couldn’t be of much help to him. He had called me… when he came back to town. That’s how we got to talking. He did ask me to tell him about the day Corey vanished.’
‘And you said what?’ Claudia asked.
Jabez paled under the store-bought tan. ‘Well, I was one of the last to see Corey before he was reported missing. Pete asked me to restate what I remembered. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to him.’ He stared out at the flat plane of the bay, stretching away like green glass.
‘You and Corey strike me as unlikely friends,’ Whit said.
Jabez shrugged. ‘I wanted to help Corey. He was in trouble at school, at home, and sinking further. I thought I could help him reshape his life.’
‘So he was like a project,’ Whit said. ‘You could get your Samaritan merit badge by turning him around.’
‘That’s a crude way to put it, but yes. If I didn’t think God could turn around lives, I would never bother with a ministry.’
‘And Corey was willing to be preached at?’
‘You have an admirable ability for oversimplification, Whit,’ Jabez said. ‘It must serve you well in traffic court. No, he wasn’t willing to be preached at. But he was willing to have a friend he could talk to, who didn’t smoke dope, who didn’t want to drag him down. I was a refuge.’
‘You were a goody-goody. He was a punk. I’m frankly surprised Corey Hubble would give you the time of day,’ Whit said.
‘You just never know about people, do you?’ Jabez said.
‘So what happened the day Corey vanished?’ Claudia interrupted.
‘Corey had planned to spend the night with me. We were going to watch movies at my house. I’d gotten a tape of Godspell, thought he might like the music and it’d give me a way to witness to him. He called and canceled at the last minute, saying he was sick. I never heard from or saw him again.’
‘Did Pete share any theories about Corey with you?’ Claudia asked. ‘Any information he had found about his brother?’
Jabez Jones considered for a moment, and the pause reminded Whit of a talented preacher waiting for the congregation to lean forward, eager for the next word. ‘It makes no sense to me. Pete mentioned a possibility that Corey was still alive. And in some kind of trouble.’