She stared, uncomprehending, until she doped it out. “Mailey saw us and knew. You didn’t have to speak the words.”

I nodded. Belafonte slipped quietly from the Rover. I waited until she was safely in her car then headed toward Viv’s for another solo night, she back on night shift. Over the months we’d been a couple I’d come to understand that a major component of our relationship was we both dealt with horror, she in the emergency room, me on the streets, and when the stack of misery grew too high to bear alone, we could talk to one another, lay our burdens down, so to speak.

I unburdened alone at Viv’s as best I could, which meant setting my briefcase and files in the closet where it couldn’t urge me to continue the day, mixing a bourbon and soda, and sitting in her back yard beneath the swaying palms.

My cell phone rang and when I saw it was my brother, I shook my head. “I still can’t do anything about the ruckus down your block, so don’t ask.”

“I’m actually starting to enjoy the show, Carson. Buses of sad-eyed pilgrims basking in the fading aura of a dying saint. It’s medieval, Chaucerian. I’ve even noted a couple of pilgrims that I knew, a surprise.”

“Who’s that?”

“You’ve heard of Eliot Winkler? Vanessa Winkler?”

“The former … some sort of wealthy magnate?”

“Winkler wrings every cent out of his businesses. Not afraid to fire the deadwood or negotiate down a pension. I’m not big on buy-and-hold, Carson, but I have longer-term positions in several Winkler companies … nice dividends, constant steady growth.”

“You know him personally?” I asked. “This Winkler?”

“Goodness no. I’ve seen him on financial shows and in Forbes and Fortune.”

“And the lady?”

“Vanessa, Winkler’s younger sister and a major stockholder in the enterprises.”

“Why would Winkler visit Schrum, do you think?”

“He’s become quite the religious fellow, I’ve heard. Opens every business meeting with a prayer. Some companies give out hams as Christmas bonuses. Winkler passes out autographed bibles – his signature, not God’s.”

“And Winkler’s in Key West because …”

“Schrum’s a religious major-domo. I expect Winkler’s saddened by the impending demise of the great Holy Man, perhaps come to gnash his teeth and rend his garments. And maybe get in a few bonus points with the Almighty.”

“Money and God … the themes seem contradictory.”

A chuckle. “The Winklers of the world are egomaniacs, Brother, picturing themselves as the anointed servants of God … risen above the rabble on a staircase of gold, chosen for mighty tasks. They are rich because they have been Friended by God.”

“And the poor?”

“Are philosophical and theological annoyances. I don’t give a whit about Winkler’s dogma, Carson. I want him to make money because it makes me money.”

“You’ve been out in the crowds, haven’t you?”

“My own little pilgrimage. It seems the house behind the Schrum death-watch palace is the province of busy worker bees and the gun-totin’ security types. Perhaps they’re there to keep Schrum from drowning in flowers. He’s quite the bonanza for local florists, trucks arriving every half-hour or so laden with more posies. If Schrum is dying, that is.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The reports make mention of Schrum’s bedridden status. I’m sending you an email as I speak. It’ll be there anon.”

I sighed and headed to Viv’s office, her desk and computer, lecturing as I went. “Listen, Jeremy, you shouldn’t be milling around. Let the old guy teeter off the mortal coil without you.” I sat and opened an email to see a grainy photograph of a face peering out through a draped window. I scrolled downward to see a half-dozen other such shots.

“Who’s the window-peeper?” I asked.

“The bed-ridden Amos Schrum had a miracle, Carson. He has risen. Not to Heaven, but to his window. I’m four hundred feet away and on eye level, so I can see his pensive face with my trusty Celestron. There’s a balcony outside the window, so the teeming rabble below can’t easily watch him watching them. He’s at the window quite a bit.”

“Schrum’s watching the people who’ve come to see him – so what?”

“I did a touch of research on Saint Schrumly of Key West. This guy’s spent his whole life basking in adulation, Carson. Give him a crowd or a camera and he’s fulfilled, the center of attention.”

“Am I missing a point?”

“Schrum can obviously stand on his own. He’s got a balcony to step out on, he’s got a crowd ready to cheer and hallelujah. Why is he hiding behind the curtain?”

“Maybe he thinks he’s the Wizard of Oz. Or maybe he’s too sick to speak.”

“Methinks a miracle is about to bloom.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let me take you to the thrilling yesteryears of the Reverend Amos Schrum – seven, to be precise. He died back then, too. Or almost, that is … a very close call. Except Schrum was back on his feet in no time and proclaiming he’d been the recipient of a healing miracle. Naturally, this increased his already-high standing among the faithful, always buoyed by divine interventions. More cynical types noted that before his illness Schrum had overextended himself to upsize his network and the creditors were ready to call in the notes.”

“Money came pouring in.”

“A pasty-faced and tremble-voiced Schrum did on-air entreaties from his bed, urging people to donate to continue his work after his death. Three weeks later Schrum was in fine fettle, having had his miracle … or perhaps a pair of them, since the creditors were suddenly paid in full. Water into wine, death into dollars.”

17

Roland Uttleman parked at the house behind the Schrum residence and strode through the yards, entering the home. He nodded at Andy Delmont, now sitting in an alcove beside the kitchen and staring out the window. Uttleman forced a smile to his face.

“How’s our friend, Andy?”

“I think he’s sleeping, Dr Uttleman.”

“I’ll go and give him a check-up.” Uttleman started away.

“Doctor?” Delmont called. Uttleman turned.

“What is it, Andy?”

Delmont looked side to side to make sure they were alone. “You know I’ve been with the Reverend a long time …”

“Amos discovered you when you sang at one of his traveling revivals, correct?”

“My family sang, all seven of us – Mama, Daddy, me, my sister, two brothers and a cousin. We’d been on the church circuit near a dozen years, bringing the songs of the Lord to people needing to hear them. Reverend Schrum was preaching at a big revival up by Hattiesburg, Mississippi. His singers were coming in from Jacksonville, but their bus broke down. We was playing at a church nearby and got called to fill in. We got there to see twenty thousand people in a stadium and we’d never sang to more’n a couple hundred. It was like God had lifted us up and shown us how things could be.”

“And that’s when it all started for you? Your career?”

“The Reverend, bless his soul, asked me to stay on with his choir. Wasn’t long later he made me part of the network. The day I met Reverend Schrum was the greatest day of my life, letting me serve the Lord and His holy messenger here on earth.”

“And the rest of your family?”

“They went their own ways.”

“How long, Andy … since the Reverend plucked you from the crowd?”

“I was eighteen, Doctor, fourteen years ago. I owe everything to Reverend Schrum. He’s made my life a blessing.”

“You’ve paid him back by becoming one of the bright lights of the network, Andy. Now I’ve got to go and check on—”

“I know Reverend Schrum sometimes uses liquor,” Delmont said.

Uttleman froze. “What?”

“I don’t think anything of it, Doctor. Ain’t none of us perfect but God and Jesus. And the bigger a man is in the eyes of God, the bigger the tribulations Satan throws at him. Satan needs to bring him down so he can steal the souls that Reverend Schrum wins.”