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VII

(Near Falls City, same night)

The sun had long surrendered to obscurity beyond the western rim… in its absence, the man, of slight build, seemed almost
malnourished – insignificant – especially at that moment of his
solitude. He was in his early to mid-30’s, his hair short, dirty-blond and
still disheveled, though it was too dark to see the pale-green color
of his eyes warily searching his surroundings as he drove off the
main road up a dirt track to the crest of a cliff in an
uninhabited rural area above the Missouri River.

He turned off the headlights and engine, sitting and peering about.

It hadn’t rained in three days, though the air was heavy with a cool but not cold, clinging wetness, a swarthy shroud of shadows taunting him with silence, the stars far above feeling like millions of
unwavering eyes undressing his soul.

He sat for a few minutes until venturing his door open. Even that
felt ominous, and he didn’t get out for several more seconds – a fury
of impotency then compelling him to loudly shut the door with a force
threatening to rupture festering wounds of shame.

He grimaced, taking out a pack of Parliaments, unsteadily shaking one into his hand. He rummaged through a small reservoir of
change in his jeans pocket until he found his lighter. He hesitated
in using it, as if in the immensity of nature around him, a petty
illumination would expose him to a coiled, lurking menace.

He took a lengthy pull on his cigarette, trying to relish its biting flavor, disappointed that nicotine did nothing to counter his
uneasiness.

Another inhalation of smoke – and he heard the hoot of an owl from
the top of the nearest tree.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ the man snarled under his breath, enraged when
the creature continued its husky serenade.

He continued cursing the owl until his attention was subtlely arrested by
the quiet sound of another engine coming up the track.

The man tensed, with cigarette suspended midair in his hand as a
gray Hummer drove up and stopped twenty-some feet to the right of his
green ‘99 Mustang.

He turned as if mesmerized, the Hummer’s tinted windows seeming
to drag the darkness into a deeper shade while a late-middle-aged man
got out with a briefcase and walked around the other man’s car to
stand about twenty feet in front of him.

There was an contemptuous undertone in the voice: ‘How’s life been
in southern Missouri, Evans – hanging pretty good?’ asked The Wrath
of the Lord.

Adam Evans’ eyes hurled darts of suspicion from under narrow eyebrows until he harshly, loudly whispered, ‘Let’s get this over with. Give me what I came for.’

‘A greedy little bastard, huh?’ The Wrath chortled, tossing the briefcase across the distance. ‘There’s $10,000, fag-cunt.’

Evans bristled at the epithets but didn’t say anything as he picked up and opened the briefcase. He riffled through its contents.

‘Hell, it’s a wonder you had the balls to do your job, because I can
tell you don’t have what it takes to make a move on me even if all of
the money wasn’t there! – which it is,’ The Wrath said. ‘Satisfied,
you pussy-assed fairy?’

Evans answered by closing the briefcase just before a silencer-
muffled .38 Special came out of The Wrath’s waistband under his
jacket, to spit a bullet through the other man’s aorta an inch below
the heart.

Embers of sadistic satisfaction smoldered in The Wrath’s eyes while he
strode over to Evan’s car and opened its driver’s door, then pried
the briefcase-handle out of a death-closed hand. He slumped Evans’ body
over the front seat of the Mustang and took it out of gear, leaving
its door open as he went behind the vehicle and gently helped it over
the cliff. He smirked while listening to the Mustang’s watery demise – while also out of gear, the Hummer next had slowly started rolling
down the slight incline of the cliff’s brow by the time he’d gone
behind it to push.

‘Goodbye, dear car. You’ve served me well, and thank the Father in Heaven I’m rich enough to buy another ten of you, though goodbye just the same,’ The Wrath smoothly said.

Within seconds came a crunch of the wheeled monolith against
the river’s ledge below, next, the splash of it teetering into twenty-
five feet of a chilly, liquid-murky welcome.

The Wrath looked up, deciding that the moon approved of all his labor
as he went over to retrieve the briefcase and walked down the slope
to a white ‘89 Chevette he’d previously hidden in a natural blind of
underbrush and trees roughly five-hundred yards from where Evans had
last been alive.

To avoid being recognized and leaving a paper trail of evidence by
using his Hummer or rental cars, travel between towns and the blind
had required a few hours of his disgruntled hitch-hiking. Until three
nights earlier when he’d hot-wired it in the small morning hours,
however, the Chevette had been stored in an unlocked garage belonging
to a ninety-year-old Nebraska City widow who hadn’t driven it since
her husband’s death four years after its purchase.

The car was unremarkable, suiting The Wrath’s purposes, while its
theft had been followed by an exchange of license plates with those
from a car parked along a street across town from the widow’s home.

Now, The Wrath was smiling as he drove out of the trees.

He looked at the dashboard clock and saw that he’d accomplished a
solid night’s work in only fifteen minutes.

‘Life is good, that faggot got what he deserved,’ – and he grinned
more broadly at his reflection in the rearview mirror while he turned
on the headlights glaring along the road going west.

It was gratifying to hear the Chevette’s engine running smoothly,
quietly, perhaps as though impregnating the metal womb of its
mechanisms with a secret unseeing in the velvet-black of night….

… The Wrath of the Lord sat comfortably, smugly behind the wheel.

___***___

VIII

(Ankara, same night)

Heaven was lightly washing earth with its libation. And it seemed to Tony as if there was a lingering, like an aroma as he and Henry watched the older man’s lover out of sight beyond the mundane mill of people on Gulhanase’s patio, a sensation quickly dispelled by Tony’s mind returning to the present and he said, ‘How about I order us more tea? It might help keep your mind off… well, you know…’

It was a little before Henry answered, ‘Yes, that might be a good idea,’ – and he sighed.

‘Onur’ll be back,’ Tony consoled.

‘I know. It’s just that I’m sometimes quite sentimental. ‘

‘To hell with today’s trendy existentialism, nihilism or whatever. You have the right to be sentimental, though would tea and kushburnu make you feel more or less that way?’ – Tony’s face was lively with mischief.

Henry pointedly fixed him with his eyes: ‘Sentimentality needs balance with the salt of reason, Anthony, particularly since we haven’t even finished our last cups of tea.’

‘Well, okay, but the first one finished gets to give our next order,’ Tony grinned, the only answer to that being Henry’s look of bemusement while he more slowly finished his drink.

‘Not fast enough on the trigger, my man,’ Tony said.

Henry suppressed a smile as he caught the eye of and made a gesture at Vehbi who, guessing what he wanted, soon arrived table-side with two cups of tea.

‘Damn, how’d you make the him appear without a word?’ Tony exclaimed, ‘A magic carpet or magic having something to do with that?’ – and he pointed.

‘The kushburnu? Yes, quite,’ Henry calmly replied, pouring the pink powder into their drink before he lit another cigar for his friend then one for himself.

Tony took a draw of his: ‘This trio of flavors is quite seductive: Menthol cigar smoke, tea and kushburnu, to say nothing of all that before and after beer. Better get on with your story before the combination loses it’s charm, Henry.’

‘Ah, yes, and this part of the tale illuminated by the brightest candle of all on the menorah, especially because of what Paul said about his Jesus as a High Priest,’ the older man breathed.

‘Was he, a high priest? – I don’t clearly remember,’ Tony said.

‘Oh, yes, but in an esoteric way best understood in contrast to the analytical philosophy on the rise in the Mediterranean world and the attitude of many religious thinkers toward women during that period – both likely because of societies becoming increasingly patriarchal, and the masculinizing affects of centuries-long alphabet-use instead of more pictorial writing’…

… ‘what on earth did alphabets have to do with Jesus becoming a High Priest?’ Tony interrupted, looking puzzled.

‘I’ll get to that,’ Henry said. ‘First, let’s take birds as an example. The ancient Egyptians didn’t need analysis to understand that certain hieroglyphs meant birds because of a physical resemblance between the two. That favored feminine intuition that was fractured by alphabet-use. After all, the letters in ‘bird’ have no resemblance whatsoever to actual birds. And understanding the less-direct relationships of meaning in alphabet-written words forces readers into more analytical thinking, as well as the objectifying creation of mental pictures in order to know what words mean. That brings about a subconscious illusion of abstract concepts as objects of control, an illusion lending itself to masculine attitudes of acquisition and competition. It was as though the feminine instincts involved with understanding hieroglyphs was crucified by the nature of alphabet-usage. ‘

‘Organized religion suffered a similar transformation. Like the intuitive connection of hieroglyphs and their meaning, it was easy for ancient pagans to imagine their deities and celebrate their mysteries, partly because gods and goddesses were immemorial and not of a historical nature. However, the Hebrews wanted a superior god in that regard. And the southern Bible writers presented Jehovah as existing in historical time to make him seem more concrete. That resulted in a strange inversion. Despite his purported reality, he was worshiped as with no bodily sense, although the Hebrews believed that no one could look upon his face and yet live, even if he didn’t have a face. Beyond that, all sensuality was lost in his holiness, and the best way to understand but not picture him was a dependence on dogma. It’s no surprise that God’s law was to be written on the heart like the alphabetic characters allegedly used to inscribe the Ten Commandments on a tablet of stone.’

‘And I think there’s a correlation between all of that and, for one thing, time on a microscopic scale which we conceive of as something we can use, save, lose and even kill, or destroy, like an object,’ Henry went on.

‘I’d never thought of that. So-o-o, you’re saying there’s a connection between long use of alphabets, the way we think about time and god wearing the pants in the family?’ Tony asked.

‘ ‘Wearing the pants’? Anthony! Perhaps the alchemical properties of kushburnu are twisting your mind!’ Henry retorted…

‘… but just a minute, alphabets aren’t all bad, right?’ Tony said.

‘Of course not. Modern technology wouldn’t be possible if so many languages hadn’t been encapsulated in the relatively few symbols of true alphabets. But everything positive comes with something negative. Too, a sense of capturing, owning and using things was given some ancient people by alphabets, and a study of ancient mythology shows a startling increase in misogyny and violence in nearly every society that started using alphabets instead of more pictorial writing.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Yes, and think of those connections you just mentioned as a disconnect in actuality. You see, religious thinkers of Bible times – men, that is – made a distinction between spirit and soul by associating an intellectual, analytical capacity of the mind with the spirit, and the emotions with the soul. Only the spirit, or mind, was worthy of life beyond death, and they believed women were too emotional to achieve higher spirituality. Those ideas further demonstrated a clear disconnect between spirit, soul and physicality, causing a shame for the body and sex. Women not surprisingly got the short end of things. Certain Dead Sea Scrolls make it plain that some religionists even believed that men were defiled by sex with women – why the Catholic Church fell short when trying to replace the goddess with Mother Mary. They denied her feminine completion as if she wasn’t even worthy of conceiving in the normal way, particularly since The Holy Ghost was a spirit above defilement when he supposedly impregnated her. Interestingly, that apparently meant the birth of the Gospel Jesus was a lesbian affair since The Holy Ghost, the glory of God himself, was a feminine entity according to Judaic thought.’

‘Guess his birth really was a miracle!’ Tony exclaimed. ‘But should I be howling a requiem for the goddess?’

‘Not yet. Goddess-worship among the Jews was alive and well, even in Yeshua’s time though that’s hard to tell from The New Testament and the last books of the old one. According to its mythology, the good southern kings of The Old Testament wasted a godless amount of time trying to rip goddess-worship out of the very soil. The aboriginal Jehovah, however, simply was the primary god among an array of others, both male and female, beyond which, rabbinic thought gave Jehovah a female consort,’ Henry explained.

‘So, kind of like you mentioned, you could say Jehovah’s better half was crucified a long time before Jesus?’ Tony said.

‘Well, yes, though St. Paul’s deviously clever teachings later set the altar stone for even more crucifixion. Similar to his southern Bible-writing predecessors, he not only wanted a man-god superior to the pagan deities, but superior to Jehovah himself. He had his Jesus living, dying – and resurrecting – in historical time in order to make him seem real, too. Metaphorically, however, the matter was a replay of how alphabet-use stripped hieroglyphic writing of physicality as Paul’s Jesus also was, especially since the Pauline epistles provided no biography for him. The canonical Gospel writers later tried to fill the void, though we still don’t know what Jesus looked like, who really sired him and where he was born. There’s no mention of him as a father, as well, and only hints that he was married,’ Henry said.

‘But why would they leave all those gaps?’ Tony inquired.

‘Whether or not they realized it, a lack of biographical information was responsible for something even more devious, partly due to Paul saying that ‘Jesus is our way, truth and life’. But note the possessive; it was only a matter of time until ‘our’ became ‘mine’. In fact, many of today’s evangelicals believe they ‘possess the spirit of Jesus’, and one of my friends, a personal-god-believer, refers to Jesus as ‘an objective incarnation’ of God.’

‘Fascinating, and a contradiction, it strikes me,’ Tony said.

‘Exactly, making monotheism a laugh. Including abstract ideas like time, owning anything personal is pointless unless possessions are used any way the possessor likes. In a similar way, individual manipulation of Jesus-beliefs began taking place once Jesus was conceptually ordained as a spiritual object of personal possession. For example, one Christian might use his God-beliefs to insist that Jesus doesn’t condemn wine-drinking, while another Christian does the opposite. Both Jesuses, or gods, can’t be the same, Anthony – even though Jesus will always be created and re-created in the image of individual needs. So, while Christians naturally will always insist they’re monotheists worshiping the same god, there in truth are as many Jesuses – and always personal – as there are objectifying definitions of him. Still, Christianity doesn’t admit its sin, in terms of an old rabbi once saying that ‘any attempt to define’, or ultimately and inevitably manipulate ‘God is an act of idolatry’. Another thing: believers aren’t interested in a second-rate god anymore than sports fans are in their favorite teams – with all that highlighting why beliefs and doctrines tend to be so hard. Believers bow before graven and objectifying images of personal saviors mentally sculpted according to their individual wants. And the result has been two-thousand years of clashes causing untold pain and millions of deaths,’ Henry continued explaining.

‘Okay, let me take a stab at re-defining all of this,’ Tony grinned.

‘Please,’ Henry offered.

‘Huh-m-m-m, let’s see: – In contrast to the more direct comprehension provided by hieroglyphic writing, objectification of Jesus according to personal needs is analogous to alphabets breaking down the nature of things into individual units of analysis, causing fragmentation and disassociation, ‘ Tony said.

‘Oh, Anthony, I couldn’t have said it better myself!’ Henry expostulated.

‘Thanks!’

‘You’re welcome, and of course, possessions need protection by walls of some sort, which are at risk of creating disassociation. I feel quite certain that a self-indulgent attitude about tangible things and possession of a personal god are some reasons there’s so much alienation and violence in America. Partly due to a religious process of objectification, we too often are no longer complete humans, just objects, mere things, Anthony.’

‘You might be right,’ Tony agreed. ‘Going back a little, though, I’m still not sure why Paul and the Gospel writers left Jesus in such a biographical limbo.’

‘Individual interpretations or definitions of him would be harder if he’d been portrayed within an accurate context of history, Judaism, tradition and culture, especially as a husband with children,’ – and Henry then smiled: ‘I’ve always defined god as a paradox, myself, and the matter is a paradox. Christians demand a historical Jesus to make him real, yet he’d be much more difficult to define and re-define if their scripture portrayed him as real’…

‘… so, Jesus not being fixed in an accurate biographical framework makes it easier for Christians to use him any way they want?’

‘Precisely. By contrast, can you imagine Native Americans believing they could possess and manipulate The Great Spirit?’

‘No, now that I think about it.’

‘That’s because The Great Spirit isn’t individually objectified as a personal possession and a real-time entity. However, Paul offering Jesus as a personal savior was his master-stroke of irresistible appeal to so many of his converts who were poor, uneducated and desperately looking for escape from their savagely mean and painful lives. The sacrifice in exchange for that has been more of even greater suffering, especially since Christian belief is partly based upon an act of violence.’

‘Such as what?’ Tony inquired.

‘The crucifixion, not surprisingly, since a higher degree of masculine tolerance for physical pain and suffering became a powerful paradigm of Christianity. It’s as if it takes a real man to truly love God, and partly why orthodox Christianity rejects the Gnostic Gospels,’ Henry continued.

‘For any reason in particular?’

In his element more than ever, now, Henry gleefully handed Tony another cigar, lighting it and a second one for himself: ‘To begin with, keep in mind that the Gnostic Gospel authors had to keep some things discreet because they were at risk of persecution, as well as were trying to hold their own against the male-oriented thrust of Pauline Christianity. But have you ever wondered why so much art portrays the Apostle John as young, beardless and feminine, with long hair?’

‘The pleasure’s never been mine,’ Tony answered.

‘All right, then, consider the Gnostic Yeshua saying, ‘I am mother, I am whore’,’ Henry went on.

‘Ah, methinks the goddess is looking over my shoulder!’ Tony came back, with mirth curving his lips.

‘Yes,’ Henry said, ‘And through a bridal veil of perfume’…

___***___

‘… well, now, the only problem I can see with that is the divine aroma maybe having to compete with cigar smoke of a menthol persuasion,’ Tony said, ‘But please invoke the goddess, by all means.’

‘That I will, by first mentioning that the standard Gospels originally never said Mary Magdalene was a prostitute. Have you ever considered why she later was demonized as such?’ Henry inquired

‘Really – the Gospel originals never said that?’

‘No, while there was a reason the idea eventually grew feet. Oddly, that idea is connected to the story in The Gospel According to John about her anointing Yeshua with oil of spikenard during the wedding feast at Lazurus' house in Bethany. The disciples criticized her for spending money on oil which could’ve been given to the poor while suggesting she couldn’t afford something that expensive as a common whore.’

‘Naturally, certain other things I’ll mention are a resurrection from clues disguised in plain sight – for one, The Song of Solomon which wasn’t authored by Solomon because it was written sometime after the good king Josiah. But it talks about a particular tradition for the Judahite monarchy’…

‘… like what?’

‘That royal brides anointed their husbands as Mary Magadalene did Yeshua during the banquet at Lazarus’s house.’

‘Interesting, but the disciples criticized her for spending money to anoint her own husband? Kind of chintzy, wouldn’t you say?’ Tony remarked.

‘To put it mildly, in my opinion,’ Henry said. ‘In truth, Mary Magdalene was from a well-placed family, though she later was revised as a whore – well, more telling in contradiction to that is The Secret Gospel of Mark. A fragment of it is perserved in a letter written by the second-century Church Father, Clement of Alexandria, and it says:

“They came to Bethany. There was one woman there whose brother had died. She came and prostrated herself before Jesus and spoke to him, “Son of David, pity me!” But the disciples rebuked her. And Jesus becoming angered”…’

… ‘why was he so mad?’ Tony broke in.

‘Not mad, angry, Anthony!’ Henry gently rebuked.

‘Ok-a-a-ay, ok-a-a-a-y, angry, but why?’

‘Because tradition didn’t allow wives to leave the house without their husbands’ permission when wives were in mourning for deceased relatives,’ Henry replied.

‘So, it’s a good thing Mary broke tradition or we might not know that Jesus wasn’t late to the chapel?’ Tony said.

‘My, my, Anthony, I guess I should be glad you’re such a frisky disciple! – perhaps your way into the kingdom of heaven!’ Henry exclaimed.

‘Really?’

‘Perhaps, but returning to the Secret Gospel, it continues:

‘ “And becoming angry, Jesus went with her to the garden where the tomb was. And immediately a great cry was heard from the tomb, and Jesus, going toward it rolled away the stone from the entrance to the tomb. And going in immediately where the young man was, he stretched out a hand and raised him up, holding his hand. Then, the man looked at him and loved him and he began to call him to his side, that he might be with him. And going from the tomb, they went to the house of the young man. For he was rich. And after six days, Jesus instructed him. And when it was late, the young man went to him. He had put a linen around his naked body, and he remained with him through that night. For Jesus taught him the mystery of the kingdom of God”.

‘I think you can see that a few things are immediately striking, Anthony’…

… ‘wait, it sounds like that guy was Lazarus, but not dead,’ Tony interrupted.

‘Indeed, and came to be known as John The Beloved Disciple. Something else interesting is the quick mention of love, and not out of gratitude for Yeshua raising him from a death that never existed in the first place,’ Henry continued.

‘So, there was a snake in the grass somewhere, Henry?’

‘A metaphorical one at least: Clement had written to ‘a Theodore’ embroiled in a dispute with a group of heterodox Christians, the Carpocrations. Carpocrates – ‘the snake’ – was their leader. They believed in reincarnation and that progressing from one life to another required engaging in all possible forms of sexuality. Carpocrates obtained Mark’s writings which he turned into a spurious gospel using Jesus to justify his group’s practices. Otherwise, Clement wouldn’t have so vigorously denied the homosexuality involved with John The Beloved learning the mystery of the kingdom,’ Henry said, with his friend then giving him an astounded look of dawning awareness: ‘Just what is it you’re telling me, Henry?’

‘That Jesus, or Yeshua, did indeed become the High Priest of a bisexual community worshiping the goddess.’

‘You’re serious? – no wonder Mark’s Gospel had to go underground for centuries!’

‘And not only because of bisexual goddess-worship, but because Yeshua didn’t have a resurrection if he didn’t resurrect John. Obviously, Mary Magdalene sitting in mourning was symbolical or Yeshua would’ve have sent her back into the house instead of taking her to the garden. You see, The Beloved Disciple was undergoing a ritual of initiation representing death and rebirth in a garden tomb with the stone over its door not fitting too tightly to let air in.’

‘Aside from the Carpocrations, that sounds similar to other religious ideas of the time,’ Tony said.

‘Yes, and resulting in more irony. Paul wanted to create a better god than the ones of neighboring nations, yet needed familiarity to ensure the widest possible appeal for his teachings. He did that by using precepts taken from sixteen pagan religions,’ Henry continued.

‘More propaganda,’ Tony asserted.

‘Exactly.’

‘But what was it with the emphasis on the goddess by Yeshua and his cohorts? They’d have worshiped a male god, too, wouldn’t they?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘Of course. The feminine emphasis was a nod to ancient practice whereby women were considered to be goddesses as fountains of life because they gave birth – beyond which Yeshua and Mary Magdalene’s community was reacting to the sexist attitudes of their time. Throughout Hebraic history, in fact, there’d always been a segment of society that’d tried to bring a gender-balance about, particularly because the Mediterranean world suffered so many centuries of male-inflicted grief. The Yeshuan community also was trying to counteract the orthodox loathing for the human body by celebrating it as not in opposition to, but as an aid to spirituality’…

… ‘and how do you celebrate the body, Henry?’ Tony broke in.

‘With tea, kushburnu and menthol cigars – and a little beer,’ his friend quipped.

‘Great idea!’

‘But do you know what the cherubim were, resting atop the Ark of the Covenant in the holiest sanctuary of Herod’s temple?’

‘No,’ Tony replied.

‘They were gold figurines of a nude man and woman entwined in an matrimonial embrace, interestingly an inspiration for pilgrims to have sex orgies when they saw the cherubim during annual festivals’.. ..

‘… you’re pulling my leg!’ Tony interrupted.

‘Come, Anthony!’ Henry chided.

‘Well, great jumping Jehoshephat, you expect me to imagine the Jews of New Testament times having orgies, Henry?’ Tony expostulated in reply.

‘You’re not to be entirely blamed. Josephus and Pliny both saw the cherubim but were too embarrassed by their sexual connotation to mention them in their historical works. But those orgies’ symbolism was what’s important. That was to show Jehovah and his female consort how to have sex, to achieve a perfect union of male and female,’ Henry went on. ‘And a lot of male religionists were lost to that sense of balance, like the Gnostic Peter with his attitude toward Mary Magdalene. Not only was she The Apostle to the Apostles, but a High Priestess and sacred prostitute, or devotee of the female deity as was common with goddess-worship. Of course, the members of hers and Yeshua’s community didn’t engage in sexuality, including rape and child molestation, for the mere gratification of lust. You might say they followed cherubimic-tradition, with bisexuality symbolizing equality and a perfect union between men and women further transcending mere gender. That in turn symbolized a perfect union with the divine spirit, or the god-goddess. That’s one mystery The Beloved Disciple learned when he spent the night with Yeshua wearing only a linen sheet to cover his nakedness.’

‘Okay, and I can see where the orthodox version of Christiany went, in terms of Paul leading it off-course,’ Tony said.

‘Yes. He originally had a fascination with Yeshua despite a struggle with the flesh, a shame to which he eventually succumbed and began persecuting the Marian-Yeshuan community. Of course, Yeshua wasn’t crucified, and we have no idea what happened to him, Mary Magdalene or their offspring. In fact, one of the early Church Fathers wrote that Yeshua lived to the age of ninety. But it could be that he was forced into hiding to the point of Paul and others believing he was dead.’

‘Nonetheless, some medical experts have suggested that Paul suffered from epilepsy or a similar disorder. His condition very well could’ve created a vision of Yeshua so real that Paul was convinced he’d come back from death, with Paul then inventing a religion based on him as the Christ,’ Henry said.

‘But Yeshua’s community was still around, maybe in hiding?’ Tony asked.

‘Oh, in one form or another, beyond the time of Jerusalem’s destruction. Before I go on, though, let me say that the Gnostic Gospel writers need for discretion is clear because of Yeshua saying ‘he could lead Mary into the kingdom if he could make her male’. That seems in contradiction of what I’ve told you about her community, but something understandable in context of the Gnostics’ reluctance to objectify Yeshua in writing to begin with. The final result, though, was their relenting in the second century when competing with Pauline Christianity and feeling compelled to make some concessions to male sexism in order to survive. Yeshua, in fact, purportedly said that Mary was worthy of the mysteries provided she understood them in a masculine, analytical and therefore ’spiritual’ way’.

‘In fact, she was a full-blooded woman and representative of the goddess although some scholars contend it was meant only as a metaphor when the Gnostic Gospels said that Yeshua ‘kissed her on the lips’. It wasn’t. Yeshua and Mary Magdalene were husband -and -wife-members of a community wherein kissing would’ve been very normal. In fact, Yeshua had two lovers: Mary Magdalene as his wife, and can you guess who the other was, Anthony?’ Henry challenged the young scholar.

‘Well, huh-m-m-m, John The Beloved?’ Tony ventured.

‘Correct. And similar to the story about John at the Last Supper, a tradition is played-out here in Turkey of heterosexual men inclining their heads on each others chests. Before I forget, though, early Christians would’ve noticed had John’s canonical Gospel not mentioned Mary Magdalene anointing Yeshua because of an oral tradition about her marriage that’d been passed down within living memory. Too, while it’s been lost to history in writing, an oral tradition about John as Yeshua’s lover survived, the reason art portrays him in the way I described earlier. And I think you’d agreed that much of The Grail Legends are a sanitized remnant of goddess-worship, Anthony.’

‘Can’t argue with that, something I’ll talk about in my dissertation, ‘ Tony agreed. ‘But what did you earlier start to say about John?’

Henry thought for a moment: ‘Oh, that he and Yeshua had moved beyond having sex long before the time of John lying on Yeshua’s breast during the last supper.’

‘Why?’

‘Because fulfilling Yeshua’s and Mary Magdalene’s teachings achieved spiritual love transcending the body while making sex unnecessary, ‘ – and Henry paused when he saw a look he’d seen before but didn’t at the moment recognize as it suddenly crossed his friend’s face.

‘What is it, Anthony?’ he asked.

It was several seconds before Tony replied, ‘In other words, you’re saying a spiritual romance like between you and Onur, the love of Yeshua and his Beloved?’

It was Henry’s turn to be smitten by heightened awareness, a humbled tone of vulnerability filling his voice as he said, ‘Yes,’…

… ‘and why that girl said you’ve seen the face of God in your love for Onur?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

Tony looked off in the distance, his eyes misty with wonder when at last he turned them upon Henry again: ‘That truly is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Yes… yes, it is,’ Henry said…

… and the present seemed to vanish as the two men surrendered to a loss of words where nothing mattered but that which was welling upward from deep within, as though borne on triumphant wings of the Shekina hovering above the cherubim still adorning the Ark of the Covenant…

… and still it softly rained in Ankara.

___***___

Silence lay rife with thought, sensation; impish squalls of wind kicked the sky’s offering into demonic cavorting flurries…

… and the latter of import neither to Henry nor Tony finally leaning back in his seat: ‘Damn, I hate to ruin the moment, but is all of what you told me the reason somebody was following you? Henry? Henry, are you with me?’

Several seconds passed; the older man slowly drew both hands across his eyes and said, ‘Oh – what was that?’

‘Like I said, I don’t want to spoil the moment, but is what you told me the reason somebody was following you?’

Henry shook his head and squared his shoulders: ‘That’s the most reasonable assumption I have.’

‘But you don’t know who?’

‘No, but I have an idea of where to start.’

‘How’s that?’ Tony inquired.

‘Because my friend, Paul Van Buren in Falls City, owns a publishing business, print-shop and store where he sells books that don’t adhere to the mainstream of Christianity. He’s agreed to publish a book of my family’s records and what I’ve outlined for you about the Mervovingins, Mary Magdalene and Yeshua. I finished a rough draft of it I burned onto CD’s and Paul uploaded them to the computer in his office before I came over here.’

‘But he hasn’t turned on you, has he?’ Tony asked.

‘Paul? – oh, not at all. The problem seemed to start with a man suddenly appearing at his business place and asking for work as a night-time janitor, claiming to have a part-time job during the day. Paul’s a trusting sort, and said the man seemed down on his luck, and hired him without inquiry into his background,’ Henry said.

‘Did Van Buren give you his name?’

‘Yes, though I can’t remember if his first one was Adam or his last one Adams. But I do know that he only worked one night. The CD’s were gone and the computer files of my book had been deleted by the next morning,’ Henry explained.

‘Was Adams a hacker? How’d he get into Paul’s computer without his User ID and password?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘Paul had both written on a piece of paper taped to the drawer-underside of the desk in his office. He said the drawer had obviously been rummaged through because he found the piece of paper lying loose in it the next morning,’ Henry said.

‘I see – too bad Paul wasn’t more careful with that information. But does he know why Adams would steal that stuff and delete those files?’

‘My book was the only reason we could think of… while Paul did think Adams was in league with someone else.’

‘Why?’

‘He didn’t explain.’

‘Does he know who?’ Tony said.

‘Yes, but not told me. It’s my impression he prefers not to talk about whomever.’

‘You don’t know why?’

‘No,’ Henry said.

‘Oka-a-y, and I can understand stealing the CD’s because Adams and the person he was working with probably wanted to see what was on them. But why delete the computer files?”

‘Maybe because they thought that file deletion would hinder publication of my book,’ Henry answered.

‘Maybe, but did Paul file a complaint with the police?’

‘One that didn’t bring any results,’ Henry confirmed.

‘The police didn’t follow up on a theft complaint?’

‘No, they didn’t, and Paul seemed reluctant to talk about that, too.’

‘That’s strange. Do you think he was protecting somebody?’

‘That’d be out of character for him.’

‘Huh-m-m-m, okay, did Adams give him an address and phone number?’

‘Paul inquired at the real estate company owning the apartment with the address Adams gave him and it was bogus, just like his telephone number was,’ Henry said.

‘Aha, the plot thickens! But you have back-ups of your book, don’t you?’

‘Of course, print-outs of the rough draft I left in the bank safe deposit boxes and files of the final draft on my laptop, here,’ – and Henry pointed at it in its case leaning against the table leg.

‘You have your laptop with you?’

‘Oh, yes, and that’s another reason I came to Turkey, to finish my book,’ Henry said.

‘When were the discs taken and the files of the original draft deleted?’

‘Four or five weeks before I left Falls City.’

‘Then, taking that as the origin-time for your being stalked, how was Adams or his co-conspirator well-acquainted enough with your daily routine to follow you?’ Tony asked.

‘I won’t give you any further names for everyone’s protection, and will refer to my pursuer as X for the sake of convenience. But his knowing my movements would’ve been easy because a friend of mine was feeling down, wanting company after his divorce, and I stayed with him at his house in Falls City until he went across-country to take a job two days before I left town. All X would’ve had to do is watch the print-shop and follow me to my friend’s house’…

‘… where he kept a base of operation to track you?’ Tony suggested.

‘That’s my guess,’ Henry said.

‘Did you ever get a look at him?’

‘He stayed too far back when always following me after dark.’

‘By car or on foot or both?’ Tony asked.

‘Some of both, mostly by car.’

‘What kind?’

‘All I can say is that it seemed of a dark color and big,’ Henry said.

‘Huh-m-m-m, did you ever tell the police about him?’ Tony asked.

‘What was I to say except that someone was following me probably because I’d written only the rough draft of a book that might’ve upset him?’ Henry said. ‘The police wouldn’t have done anything unless he actually tried to kill or hurt me.’

‘Likely true. So-o-o, how did you get out of Falls City without X knowing it?’

‘First, I paid my hired hands more than well enough to compensate them for not working on my farms until further notice. I also told them not to go near either of them, and I destroyed every shred of anything pointing to anyone who knows me in case X breaks into my houses looking for information – also had my regular phone service discontinued. Other than you, only one person knows my whereabouts and keeps in regular touch with me only by cell phone, though this person is unaware of why I’m in Turkey.’

‘Paul doesn’t know?’

‘I told him I’d be dropping out of sight – but not where – to have time to myself so I could finish the book’s final draft.’

‘And he’s not questioned where you are?’

‘Paul’s not the intrusive type, Anthony,’ Henry said.

‘What about dad? Does he know where you are?’

‘I recognize all the phone numbers he uses and never answer when he calls,’ Henry mischievously smiled.

‘You dirty, little rat!’ Tony shot back, ‘But no matter, just how was it you got out of Falls City without X knowing about it?’

‘Like I said, he followed me in the dark hours only, and we left town at seven in the morning when another friend drove me to the airport.’

‘Putting it another way, you snuck out of town at a time of day when X wasn’t watching your first friend’s house?’

‘That appears to have been the case.’

‘And you’re sure that he or any of his lapdogs didn’t follow you here to Ankara?’ Tony asked.

‘Oh, I kept a wary look-out with my chin over both shoulders at the same time until my neck developed severe cramps, which is when I realized that was paranoid, ridiculous and that I’m alone on this side of the Great Pond,’ Henry said.

‘At least you took serious precautions. ‘

‘Instinct told me to,’ Henry responded.

‘By the way, how’s the neck?’ Tony chuckled.

‘Fine; is there more of this interrogation? ‘ – Henry tried looking severe.

Tony thought for a moment: ‘Okay, X had a four -or -five-week window of opportunity. Why didn’t he hurt or kill you before you left the country, or at least try to?’

‘Probably because he wanted to induce fear in me and give me a taste of hell before he executed the coup de grace by sending me there for real,’ Henry responded, ‘which wouldn’t work because hell is human-created in the image of fear for those needing a god of fear’…

‘… and maybe X feared you’d freeze hell over?’ Tony said.

‘Oh, Anthony, are you saying I have a cold heart?’ Henry retorted.

‘Come to think of it, why haven’t you ever gotten married, Henry?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘It wasn’t because I’m cold-hearted, young man; many a lady’s savored my flame. But, you know, I have bohemian inclinations,’ the older man said before his eyes retreated into another time.

His voice softened when he next looked at Tony: ‘Then… well… no matter how long it’s survived and how many triumphs it’s enjoyed, one family should have to endure only so much pain and suffering. And maybe my family’s should end with me… when… the time comes.’

‘Onur will be here to carry your memory on,’ Tony said.

Henry’s eyes moistened: ‘Thanks for saying that, my friend.’

‘You’re welcome, though what do you want from me for your book?’

‘Anthony, I’ve not mentioned anything about wanting your help! – but will admit it to that, primarily in terms of you correcting errors in parts of the work that should follow standard history – that is, if you would. But lest I forget to ask, when are you returning to the States? I don’t remember what it says on the ticket I bought you,’ Henry asked.

‘Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘And you’re going to Falls City?’

‘I’ll drive down from Omaha in a rental car, should arrive no later than ten o’clock tomorrow night, I’d say,’ Tony replied.

‘Okay, give me a call when you get there. Onur and I are flying out of here at six tomorrow morning. And I have a meeting tomorrow night to discuss publication of my book with Paul in Falls City. Then, day after tomorrow, Onur and I will start traveling anywhere he wants for three months,’ Henry said.

‘Lucky devil!’ – Tony pouted his lips.

‘Oh, Anthony, I came close enough as it was to spoiling you when you were a child!’ Henry expostulated.

‘Really? – oh, before I forget, how do I get into the bank safe deposit boxes? I suggest you e-mail me a file of your book and the digital passcodes for the boxes right away because your mind will probably get wobbly if Onur returns before you get that information into my hands. Remember my e-mail address?’ Tony inquired.

‘I don’t have to. I do know how to use Yahoo Address Books, dear boy,’ Henry said, picking up the laptop case and removing his PC from it.

He booted it up while watched by Tony, who in a bit, said, ‘Chop-chop, I see Onur coming through the patio gate,’ – and Henry looked up at his lover approaching with two large duffel bags slung over his shoulders.

‘These are a trouble,’ Onur breathed.

‘Heavy, huh?’ Tony asked.

‘Yes, very,’ – and Onur lowered the bags to floor, then leaned down for kisses on his cheeks from Henry asking, ‘How are you; ready to go?’

‘Yes, finally.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight, though,’ Onur went on.

‘Excited? – can’t blame you. Sit down for one last beer; I’ll buy. Some fermented essence of the grain will help you sleep,’ Tony said.

‘Thanks,’ Onur said, taking a seat.

Doyush happened to be looking Tony’s way while crossing the patio, turning back to attend to the young American waving at him.

‘How do I say?’… and Tony looked at Onur for help.

‘Do you want beer, too?’ Onur asked.

‘Yeah, I’ll take one for the road, hoping that it won’t get into a gastrointestinal argument with kushburnu and tea,’ Tony replied.

‘And you, Henry?’ Onur inquired.

‘Considering how much I’ve already drunk, I’ll probably get arrested on our plane, tomorrow, for transporting an explosive device otherwise known as my bladder,’ Henry quipped.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand,’ Onur said.

‘That’s okay, but no thanks. I don’t need anymore beer,’ Henry informed him.

‘Okay. Iki buyuk bira lutfen alabilir miyiz?’ (can we please get two large beers)?’ Onur told the waiter.

‘Tamam,’ – and Doyush left the table with the empty tea cups.

Wanting to fix it in memory, Tony took a lingering look around the patio with a sense of finality until Henry disrupted his mood: ‘There, I’ve sent you two files of my manuscript and the passcodes for the safe deposit boxes in two e-mails. That should keep you from losing them, shouldn’t it, Anthony?’

‘I’d say so,’ Tony answered as Doyush set two glasses of beer on the table.

‘Teshkkuler (thanks),’ Onur said

‘Rica ederim (you’re welcome),’ Doyush murmured.

Henry stowed his laptop away: ‘It’s getting late and time to wrap things up, here. Onur will stay at my place tonight to save time for our early departure.’

‘Okay, let’s blow this pop stand,’ Tony responded, then polishing-off his beverage in a three monumental gulps.

‘Bir saniya (one second),’ Onur said, guessing the meaning of Tony’s colloquialism before finishing his beer. ‘Now I’m ready.’

‘All right,’ – and Henry insisted on paying for everything. ‘Are you walking or taking a taxi to the Sheraton, Anthony?’

‘I’ll probably walk, at least part of the way since it’s almost quit raining,’ Tony answered as the three men stepped out onto the sidewalk.

‘My city is Izmir in the west of Turkey on the Aegean Sea, and I love rain,’ Onur remarked.

‘I live in Los Angeles where it hardly rains any more than it does in Oklahoma where I grew up. But I love rain, too, when it falls,’ Tony said, while Henry gestured a passing taxi to a stop at the curb, opening its rear passenger’s door and giving the cabbie his address.

‘I’ll be driving from the Omaha to Falls City, tomorrow night, and I’ll see you then. But it was nice meeting you,’ – and Tony shook Onur’s hand.

‘Me, too,’ Onur said, sliding to the far end of the taxi’s backseat after the driver had stowed his luggage bags in the trunk.

‘Be careful,’ Tony then warned as he turned to embrace Henry.

‘I will, but you be careful, too,’ Henry replied, ‘We don’t know what we have out there. And thanks for listening, Anthony,’

‘No problem. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,’ Tony said.

‘Indeed. Goodnight,’ – and Henry got in the taxi, with Tony waving at him closing his door and placing his left arm around Onur’s shoulder while looking back as the taxi left the curb in the sky-anointed satin, of Ankara’s nocturnal veil…

___***___

… with Tony vaguely sensing a deep hunger within as he watched their departure, sighing when the taxi rounded a corner two or three blocks away: ‘Damn, I wish they weren’t gone!’

Now that the cab was out of sight, however, he stood in a swirl of thoughts, emotions, until he began walking while scarcely realizing it or knowing if toward his hotel.

The fine splatter of moisture from above and around him was inconsequential: He felt much as he had during childhood while listening to his dad telling him skillfully refurbished tales of legend, his mind now filled with nostalgia, yet a new, quietly enlivening rawness as he thought over what he’d heard from late afternoon and beyond.

With greater awareness, he’d have noticed the number of people still in the street, one of them – a white-haired man in passing – reaching to steady Tony starting to trip over an unevenness in the sidewalk, pulling back when he saw that the American was safe and preoccupied.

Tony didn’t see him – perhaps another ten minutes brought him around a curve, into view of Kocatepe Jami (mosque) blazing in spotlights on its plaza. His focus shifted, Tony paused in its captivating aura until he compelled himself to continue walking.

He saw a bar on his left.

‘I don’t need any more to drink, but,’… he told himself while feeling drawn toward the comforting look within.

He entered, taking a stool at the counter.

‘Iy’akshamlar. Ne ichmek istiyorsun (good evening, what would you like to drink)?’ asked the middle-aged bartender.

Guessing what he meant but having forgotten how to answer in Turkish, Tony looked around.

A beautiful woman sat on the stool three from his.

‘Excuse me, ma’am, do you speak English?’

‘Why, yes, I do. How may I help you?’

‘I’d like a glass of beer, if you could order for me, please, a large glass.’

‘What beer?’

At first confused, Tony then realized what she was asking: ‘Efes is fine.’

‘Tolga, bu adami bir buyuk bardayi Efesi birasi (Tolga, a large glass of Efes beer for this man),’ the woman said.

‘Would you like one, too?’ Tony inquired.

‘How kind. Yes, I would. Tolga, Tolga, iki buyuk bira,’ the woman altered her order.

‘Efes me (Efes beer)?’ Tolga wanted to know.

‘Evet.’

‘Tamam,’ the bartender said.

‘Nice weather, isn’t it? I like rain,’ Tony remarked, as he took in the pearl-drop face of the woman appearing to be in her mid-twenties.

‘I like rain, too. I’m from Samsun in north Turkey beside the Black Sea where there is much rain,’ she replied.

‘That must be nice – not much rain where I’m from.’

‘Where is that?’ the woman asked.

Tony hesitated, then: ‘Do you mind if I sit next to you?’

‘Of course not,’ – and the woman patted the seat beside her.

Tony removed his lightly-rain-moistened jacket, dropping it over the back of the indicated stool and extending his hand: ‘I’m Tony. It’s nice to meet you.’

‘I’m Arzu and pleased to meet you,’ the woman said. ‘Arzu means ‘desire’ in Turkish, if you’re interested in knowing that.’

‘I am, and your name’s almost as lovely as you,’ Tony ventured, while a smile touched with anguish shadowed Arzu’s face as she said, ‘What a charming tongue! There was a time in Turkey when prostitutes were the only women drinking alone at bars. So, that isn’t something you’d say to a prostitute, is it, Tony?’

‘Not at all – but why do you mention prostitutes? ‘ he asked, while he could see that her eyes were troubled.

‘Maybe… because… I feel like one… but you talk different than English-speaking Turks. Are you British?’

‘I’m from the United States.’

‘Interesting. Usually, no Americans want to come to Turkey though all Turks always want to go to America, because Turks live so much in movies from your country,’ Arzu said.

‘American movies aren’t necessarily the truth about life in America, which can be very difficult,’ Tony said.

‘I know… and what do you think about Bush’s war in Iraq?’

‘It’s horrible,’ Tony replied.

‘It is. Bush is ’sapuk’,’ Arzu said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means perverted.’

‘Oh, yeah, a perfect word for him!’ Tony exclaimed.

‘Why don’t other Americans understand that?’ Arzu asked.

‘Because Bush is abusive and used 9/11 to frighten them into letting him start a war as an excuse to establish a facist government.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Arzu said, before taking a swallow of beer. ‘Are you married, Tony?’

‘No.’

‘What’s your job?’

‘At the moment, I’m finishing my Phd. thesis on Medieval history at the University of California at Los Angeles,’ Tony said. ‘And you?’

‘I’m a graduate law teacher while I’m taking a degree in international finance.’

‘That must be a difficult area of study.’

‘Yes, because we have to learn about the money laws of so many nations. Is history difficult?’

‘Well, our professors make us memorize lots of dates. Fortunately, I find history interesting and that gives me a reason to learn.’

‘It’s good you like your field of study. I’m not always sure I do,’ Arzu admitted, giving the American a smile tinged with regret.

‘Yeah, but the important thing is to finish your education so you can get a good job,’ Tony replied.

‘That’s true.’

‘Where, I mean, what university are you attending?’ Tony asked.

‘Bilkent, Bilkent Univeristy here in Ankara on a hill far away from Kizilay (Ankara’s downtown area).’

‘That’s interesting. I just met a guy who’s majoring in Ottoman literature there,’ Tony said.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Onur.’

‘Oh, there are lots of Onurs in Turkey, so many everywhere,’ – and Arzu made a sweeping gesture, ‘It’s a very famous name…’

‘… do you mean popular?’ Tony inquired.

‘Popular, that’s it. But why are you in Ankara, Tony?’

‘Conducting business with a friend of mine while I’m on a little vacation.’

‘I see. Do you like Turkey?’

‘I’ve only been here for one day though it seems nice, you know, the people are friendly… but can I ask what you think of your culture, Arzu?’ Tony said.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know, just curious, I guess.’

‘Okay. Well, there are good things about it, as you said. But there also are problems. Lots of Turks say that’s because we’re a poor country. But catch us with our eyes open while we are asleep and in our dreams we’ll let secrets escape, that we are lazy, that we don’t obey rules and cheat. The rector of one of our biggest universities copied his doctor’s dissertation from other sources, and still he is rector. Nobody cares that the thoughts in his dissertation aren’t his. We, too, pay the government one-hundered liras every year for car inspections, except there are no inspections because the inspectors tell us only to put our lights on, only our lights. And then there are many bad accidents because our cars aren’t safe. Hundreds and hundreds of businesses in Turkey are cheating, not paying taxes, though we allow the government to blackmail us about our cars… oh, I could go on and on about this, Tony.’

‘All of that makes me sad to hear,’ he said.

‘Me, too. But so many Turks don’t care, until I don’t know what to do. Someday, our problems will catch us like a dog catches his tail,’ Arzu continued.

‘That’s probably true, especially when it comes to how your country will compete in the modern world,’ Tony agreed.

‘Compete? Baah! I don’t want to talk about this anymore!’ – and Arzu wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘What country does your friend come from, Tony?’

‘The United States.’

‘Another American,?’

‘Yeah,’ Tony said.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Henry.’

‘Henry, did you say?’ Arzu queried.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘What’s his surname?’

‘Konkel.’

‘Henry Konkel! I know him!’ Arzu exclaimed. ‘He dances for a blues group in the under-floor of Gulhanase Cafe – right?’

‘Yes, the underground floor.’

‘Of course, for the blue dog band at Gulhanase’…

‘… actually, they call themselves Hound Dog Blue.’

‘Oh, sorry; I said the wrong name.’

‘No problem. How did you meet Henry, while you were dancing with him?’ Tony asked.

‘No, just watching. I’m not a good dancer,’ Arzu replied. ‘Henry has his own way, but he’s a very good dancer. Have you seen him ?’

‘Dance? – no, I haven’t.’

‘Really?’

‘I’ve never been in the right situation to watch him, though I’m sure he’s very good. He’s good at everything he does,’ Tony said.

‘I can tell. Is he married?”

‘Henry? – no, and has no plans of that,’ Tony said before pausing, then, ‘Is… there some reason you want to know, Arzu?’

She lowered her eyes: ‘Henry feels other people’s pain,’ – and she took a desperate large gulp of beer: ‘This evening, my boyfriend told me he… was… cheating on me with another man.’

‘What?’ Tony exclaimed.

Arzu turned her eyes toward him: ‘Yes, that he was having an affair with another man, and I just wanted to die. But while I was crying and almost suffocating with shame, I happened to think of Henry and knew he was the only person I could talk to. Somehow, I sat at my computer and sent him a message about how I had the window open and a knife lying on my bed while I waited for the courage to kill myself. But you know, Tony, I said to my boyfriend the most brutal words that can be spoken.’

‘What was that?’ Tony inquired.

‘I love you.’

‘Oh, Arzu!’…

‘… if only my boyfriend had listened!’ – and she clenched her hand around her napkin. ‘Henry heard, though, sent a comforting message right away and I’m alive but… ‘

‘… I’m so sorry!’ Tony breathed. ‘Why on god’s earth would your boyfriend say he’s cheating on you with another guy?’

‘Maybe he’s a little crazy?’

‘He’d have to be – a lot!’

‘Perhaps, yes. But maybe he doesn’t like me anymore,’ – Arzu wiped her eyes.

‘That’d mean he’s really crazy!’ Tony impassioned.

‘You think so? – because would you throw me away like trash in the street if you were my boyfriend, Tony?’

‘No, Arzu,’ he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘And I hope you don’t mind me saying that your boyfriend is a donkey’s ass.’

‘Yes, I like that name for him! Baah, he is ‘oruspu’, just ‘oruspu!’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Whore.’

‘I like that name even better!’ Tony laughed.

‘Thank you!’ Arzu smiled.

She and Tony took another swallow of their drink before her eyes narrowed: ‘Has a girl ever left you?’

‘Actually, my last girlfriend and I broke up almost a year ago because we weren’t compatible,’ he said.

‘Compatible?’

‘That means we didn’t think or feel the same way about much of anything.’

‘Do you still see her?’

‘Sometimes, on campus, though we don’t talk,’ Tony said.

‘That’s sad. You aren’t handsome, Tony, but you’re a kind man, I can feel. So, keep hope. Jump in the river and swim to the sea where there are thousands of girl-fishes smiling and waving for you to come,’ Arzu went on.

‘Girl-fishes! I like that! But you must swim out to the ocean and find a boy-fish, too, not a donkey’s ass! Besides, fish are better-looking, ‘ Tony said.

‘Fish are better-looking than donkeys’ asses?’

‘Definitely, ‘ Tony went on, and for a brief span, the two were silent, until he said, ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘But of course.’

‘Why did you come here, to this bar?’

‘Well, my flat is close by here. After I received his message from Henry, I sat looking out the window I’d wanted to use to kill myself, just looking at the rain and thinking, about many things. After maybe three hours, I heard a song. I recognized it, performed by that group – what’s its name?’

‘Hound Dog Blue?’

‘Yes. Have you ever heard, ‘I Gotta’ Woman’?’

‘I’m not sure, maybe.’

‘I’ve watched Henry dancing to that song so many times. And I started crying again when I left my flat and began walking toward the music. I thought, was hoping that he was dancing and Hound Dog Blue performing somewhere in my neighborhood. After a little, I realized the music was coming from here. I came in and Tolga said he was playing a Hound Dog Blues CD that the singer gave him. I suppose I was a nuisance, even if Tolga was polite when I asked him to play all of the CD two times, and I’ve been sitting here, drinking, getting a little intoxicated… and, now, you’re here.’

‘I’m glad I am,’ Tony replied before checking the time with his cell phone. ‘I really hate to say this, but should we go? It’s very late,’ – and he took his wallet out of his pocket.

‘To your hotel rooom?’ – Arzu eyes twinkled.

‘Remember, you’re not a whore even if your whore of a boyfriend made you feel like one.’

‘Yes, and whores don’t buy drinks for their men,’ Arzu replied.

‘But does Turkish tradition allow you to go with me to the Sheraton?’ – his eyes were twinkling as well.

‘Oh, silly boy! I’m twenty-five, a big woman!’…

‘… you mean a big girl?’

‘Yes. Tolga, ichin bira kach para (how much for the beer) ?’

‘On lira (ten lira).

‘Tamam,’ – and Arzu drew ten-lira and five-lira bills out of her purse, handing them to the bartender. ‘Bu tum al (take all of it).’

‘Teshekkuler (thanks),’ Tolga said.

‘Rica edirim ve iyi gejeler (you’re welcome, and good night).’

‘Iyi gejeler,’ Tolga replied, watching Arzu and Tony putting on their jackets before leaving.

‘It’s not raining hard. Shall we walk for a while?’ the American asked, as they went outside.

‘That would be nice,’ Arzu answered.

‘Okay, but do you notice that the rain isn’t making you feel wet? – apparently a characteristic of it in Ankara,’ Tony continued.

‘You’ve been here for only one day and already you know so much about Ankara, except how to go to your hotel,’ she said, leading him to the right, toward the glowing mosque.

‘You think so?’ Tony queried.

‘Yes… well, maybe,’ – there again was mischief in her eyes.

They kept walking for some time without saying anything, and Arzu’s hand at last crept into his. They smiled at each other in the light of a street lamp and continued walking.

After some minutes, Tony groaned, ‘My hotel is so far away. I’d hail a taxi if there was one anywhere in sight.’

‘Patience. One will be along any minute. In fact, there’s one now,’ Arzu said, pointing, then waving at a Yellow Cab splattering down the slight incline of the narrow, water-gleaming, trash-littered street before making a U-turn in the next intersection and pulling up beside them.

Tony went around to the rear driver’s door while Arzu opened the right one and got in the backseat: ‘Sheraton Otel, lutfen.’

‘Tamam,’ the driver responded, and Tony could hear its tires splashing out of a small stream gushing down the gutter as the taxi jarred away from the curb to jauntily thrust its way up the street.

Tony retook Arzu’s hand. Briefly, it appeared she was tempted to kiss him before a dejected look of remembering occupied her face, and she turned to peer through minute moisture washing across her window.

She sat for several minutes, sighing when next she looked at Tony and tightened her grip around his hand.

All that otherwise needed expression seemed spoken by the cab’s swerve and dash, down through the curves of Tunus and beyond to the hotel.

‘Kaach tane (how much)?’ Arzu asked, as the vehicle jolted to a halt in front of it.

The driver turned, raking bright eyes over his passengers: ‘On beysh lira (fifteen lira).’

‘You can’t pay for the taxi, too!’ Tony protested, reaching for his wallet again.

‘Come, now! I’ve never been, how do you say? – yes, a piece of ass for money, though I don’t think they pay for taxi’s either!’ she merrily laughed.

‘Arzu!’ Tony expostulated.

‘Sh-h-h-h!’ – and she slapped his thigh with her left hand while giving seventeen lira to the cabbie with her right one.

‘You lovely couple,’ he said in lilting English, ‘Good night.’

‘Thanks, and a good night to you, too,’ Tony replied, following Arzu out of the cab leaving with a purring snarl of its tailpipe.

‘You really are something, young lady!’ Tony then exclaimed, looking into her upturned face, ‘Let’s get inside.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ – and she soon was watching him push the elevator button for the fourth floor.

They arrived at his room, with him flipping the light switch on as they stepped inside.

With their jackets stowed in the closet, the two of them looked silently at one another until Tony breathed, ‘God, you’re so!…’

‘… would you like a bottle of wine? You can pay,’ Arzu calmly interrupted.

‘What?… oh, sure. I know the people at the front desk speak English, but I’ll let them decide what to serve us, anyway. I’m sure it’ll be good,’ – and Tony dialed the house phone.

‘Please, sit,’ he then said, gesturing toward the sofa and taking the place next to her.

Hesitant silence followed before Tony asked, ‘Do you have classes tomorrow?’

‘Not until two.’

‘That’s… good. You can get some sleep before then.’ Tony said and cleared his throat: ‘Why did you say that about about a piece of ass in the taxi?’

Arzu straightened and gently tossed her hair back: ‘It’s just that sometimes I like to talk like Americans. Did you mind, Tony?’ – and she gently squeezed his hand.

‘No, just surprised.’

‘Yes, I suppose so… but… surprises can be nice, and talking like that can be fun,’ she continued.

‘Yeah, I liked it, the funniest thing you’ve said all night!’ Tony smiled.

‘I’m glad,’ she said, and a knock came on the door.

Tony stood to open it for the waiter pushing in a cart carrying two goblets and a large wine bottle in an ice bucket.

‘Merhaba. Hoshgeldiniz (Hello, welcome),’ he said, opening the bottle and filling the glasses he handed the couple.

‘Afyet olsun,’ – and the young man left the room.

‘What did he say?’ Tony inquired.

‘Afyet olsun is the same as bon apetit in French,’ Arzu answered, raising her glass…

… and their toast was emblazoned in their eyes as they touched glasses together.

They drank in silence until Tony slowly placed his left hand behind her head and his lips against hers yielding with hunger.

They kissed again, then stood, their clothes rustling to the floor.

Heat stabbed through the young American as his eyes greedily fed on the loveliness of her nakedness: Her firm, slightly more than medium-sized breasts, her belly and the sweetly lewd swell of her mon veneris.

‘Don’t worry, I’m taking contraceptives, ‘ she whispered.

Silently, lustfully enraptured, Tony laid her back in bed and slowly lowered himself upon her.

Their flesh melded together; she moaned and he groaned as his mouth and tongue insistently traveled over her face, down her nose and neck to her breasts which he nibbled as she gasped, her bottom beginning to rise and fall when he moved lower to lengthily feast upon her loins.

Tony finally mounted her; they feverishly coupled while indulging the gloriously bestial anthem of ageless joy while his lips again flailed against Arzu’s and over her face once more.

Perhaps for twenty minutes, their joining lasted, before Arzu cried out, ‘Yes, yes !’ and he released himself with a prolonged grunt and another groan.

Eyes dazed with happiness, he looked into hers for some moments before he withdrew to lie beside her – a soundless threnody of satiation spinning itself between them until Arzu stirred and said, ‘Thanks, that was good, Tony.’

‘Better than your whore of a boyfriend?’ he teased.

‘Please don’t… oh, to hell with him; yes, it was.’

‘I’m glad – do you want more wine?’

‘Okay, sure, please.’

‘Raise your head, babe,’ – and she did.

He fluffed-up their pillows, then padded over to the wine cart. He refilled their goblets, returned to bed and kissed her before handing Arzu her glass.

They sipped, with heads touching while reclining against their pillows, until she slowly turned: ‘When… are you… returning to America, Tony?’

He hesitated: ‘Tomorrow morning – more business to carry out with Henry in Falls City, Nebraska. He bought my airline ticket… I have to go.’

‘I see,’ Arzu breathed.

They drank another glass of wine.

She then stood and walked around the bed.

‘Where are you going, Arzu?’

‘I may be a big girl, but it’s very late and I have a roommate. She’ll ask questions I won’t want to answer if I don’t go now.’

Tony didn’t speak as he watched her taking a notepad and pen out of her purse.

‘Can I have your e-mail address and the number of your mobile phone?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ – and he recited them for her.

She began writing again, tearing a page out of the notepad and placing it under his phone he’d laid on the lamp stand.

‘Here are my e-mail address and phone number,’ – and a wistful smile came into her eyes: ‘I’m sure you know how to use them, Tony.’

‘You bet,’ he throatily replied.

After using the bathroom, Arzu dressed and put on her jacket and Tony felt restrained to the bed by some damnably unseen force as she started toward the door.

‘Arzu’….

‘Yes?’ – and she turned.

‘It might not be until Thanksgiving break from school, maybe Christmas vacation. But I’m coming back, I promise.’

‘I know,’ she gently said, then blew him a kiss and walked out the door.

Tony watched it closing behind her, beginning to ache with almost feeling her feet vanishing down the hall – and he drained the wine bottle in heavy silence.

He then slept and Henry returned, in a dream, in a large, ornate cathedral hallowed as Henry’s place of Merovingian coronation – at long last.

Radiant, and majestically pacing down the aisle beside him was Arzu, Henry’s queen.

Such as he’d never experienced before, Tony felt stormed with burning jealousy strangely and quickly vanishing when he realized that he was the High Priest about to crown them.

He touched golden wreaths to their heads, charged through with the electricity of a timeless connection… and he began smiling, was still smiling upon waking to young day.

He turned his eyes toward the lamp stand holding his phone with the piece of paper beneath it; its color of white had never seemed more pure.

He reached for it and his phone, his fingers seeming to touch the right buttons with the magic of the night before…

… her tired, but joyous voice was on the other end.

___***___

IX

(Falls City, same morning)

Chief Lou Helton was surprised and pleased to realize how refreshed he felt by a good night’s sleep as he drove toward the police station while keeping his left hand on the steering wheel and dialing his son’s hospital room with his right one. Around him, the morning was bursting with life until he almost wondered if birds would answer his phone though his son didn’t.
‘He probably hasn’t waked up yet. And maybe it is boring, but Jeremy’s getting lots of rest, the world’s best and cheapest medicine. The big problem is he’s getting his in a hospital damn-near costing sale of my soul to the devil, or it sometimes feels that way,’ he thought.

He pulled into his designated spot in the headquarter’s parking lot and walked inside, seeing that it was 8:11 by the clock on the far wall of the duty room; good sleep had him arriving a bit later than usual.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he called out to a smattering of replies.

He deposited his briefcase, laptop and jacket in his office before joining his officers, coffee cup in hand.

‘How are you, Cal?’ he asked while passing Harden’s desk.

‘Not bad. You?’ Harden responded.

‘Good. And Nardo, you’re looking remarkably chipper this morning… because you’ve heard from Rita?’ Helton inquired as he walked up to Sgt. Dorn.

‘Heck, no! Besides, if I wanted a mudfish girlfriend and future wife, I could always take hook, line and sinker to Mud River south of town,’ Dorn came back. ‘In fact, last night I dreamed I shot and killed her – with a slingshot.’

‘You dreamed you killed her?’ Helton asked in surprise.

‘Yup, sure did,’ Dorn said.

‘An interesting coincidence. I dreamed I killed Vice with a toy gun.’

‘Heck, boss, my math professor in college claimed that god actually is nothing but coincidence, the law of sheer probabilities. Besides, they say that great minds do run in the same gutter.’

‘No wonder you’re so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning!’ Helton said. ‘But what about your financial situation?’

‘I had to scrounge around on the phone, last night, until one of my friends agreed upon a loan to tide me over. Paying him back won’t be a darn shit better than a saddle burn, but I’ll survive.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ Helton said.

‘Thanks. By the way, I see there’s nothing about our murder in today’s paper.’

‘I noticed, when I was reading it over coffee before I left the house – the way I want it. Vice doesn’t need to know what we’re up to unless he wants to turn himself in,’ the captain said.

‘That’s about as likely to happen as a chicken to sprout teeth, and I know because mom raised chickens in the backyard when I was a kid,’ Dorn responded.

‘I certainly don’t expect Vice to grace us with his presence,’ Helton agreed.

‘True, though guess I’d better get to reviewing reports to see if we’ve missed anything,’ Dorn said.

‘Actually, I have something else. Call Perlmutter’s Locksmith Services and ask if they can have one of their people meet me at 3666 Driftwood Lane in an hour. That’s where Vice lives and I’ll need the door unlocked for a search of his house, Konkel’s, too,’ Helton instructed. ‘Get Konkel’s address from me after you call the locksmith. I’m meeting up with Alberts and I’ll call you when I’m ready for you to help me search Konkel’s house. Oh, before I forget, has NBI called about the Amercian Embassy in Ankara helping us find him?’

‘I got off the phone with Agent Morrison just before you walked in. The embassy’s sent notifications to the police in all the ports of entry and major cities over there. They haven’t learned of Konkel’s whereabouts yet, and their next update won’t be until tonight because of the time difference between here and there. But just how does Konkel figure into the case, chief?’ Dorn inquired.

‘You can find that out by reading the print-out of a file recovered from Van Buren’s computer, that is, when you have time. For one thing until then, the short of it is Vice being pissed-off about a book Konkel’s planning to publish, or was before Van Buren’s death.’

‘Kind of radical. But do you happen to have Perlmutter’s phone number on you?’ Dorn wanted to know.

‘Come, now, it’s in the phone book, Nardo!’

‘Ah, man! You mean I have to look for it?’ Dorn grinned, opening his desk drawer in search of the phone volume as Helton gave him a brief stare of mock sternness then went over to the beverage table.

Nobody had yet supplied more coffee, while there was plenty of tea in the box of it Abrams had bought the previous afternoon. There was a pot of hot water, however; the captain poured a cupful of it, this time dropping in only one tea-bag.

‘Okay, I’m off on traffic patrol,’ Harden then said as Helton turned, out of the corner of his eyes seeing Hoffner waving him over.

‘Stay careful, have a good day and I’ll see you at the end of shift,’ Helton replied.

‘Sure thing, chief,’ – and Officer Harden was out the door.

‘Good morning, Hoffner,’ Helton said, ‘I suppose Alberts is back on surveillance of Vice’s house?’

‘Left for over there a few minutes before you got here, chief.’

‘Good, and it’s looks like it was a uneventful night, since the guys on graveyard are already gone.’

‘As quiet as a squirrel’s pussy in a cemetary – Prettyboy’s words, not mine,’ Hoffner said.

‘Anderson and his wayward sense of humor! Oh well, has either of Van Buren’s daughters contacted you?’

‘I still can’t get a line on Alvea’s phone number; maybe she lives out of the country or something. Felicia’s not answering hers in San Fransisco and I’ll get in touch with the San Fransisco police to see if they can help if I don’t hear from her soon.’

‘Okay, but don’t give up on her yet. Is there anything else?’ Helton asked.

‘First of all, it’s been passed along about Adam Evans and the guy who came in last night to give us a statement. How on earth did you get that information out of him, anyway, chief?’ Hoffner wanted to know.

‘Wallenstein? – met him when I was having dinner at The Flapperjack Hut last night. He’s a professor of ancient Mideastern religions at the University of Nebraska-Omaha. He was drinking coffee at The Hut and recognized me. Since he was friends with Van Buren, I questioned him about anything he might know related to the case. Why’re you asking?’

‘Well, I got to thinking about something else, that a lot of religious organizations are like chain stores and have more than one congregation. I happened to remember you saying that Kramer’s a member of a strict Baptist church – looked in the phone book for the Baptist church with the most aggressive name and used it as a search phrase online to see what I could see when I got to headquarters a bit early this morning. Look what I found,’ – and the daytime dispatcher handed the captain a computer print-out.

‘Sword Of The Word Citadel Outreach Mission, Brownsville, Nebraska, Rev. Brad Olmsby, Facilitator, ‘ Helton read before he looked up: ‘I presume you called Olmsby?’

‘That I did, and he remembered Vice’s, Kramer’s and Evans’ names as soon as I mentioned them. It so happens that Vice volunteered his time at the mission two or three times a month until about a year and a half ago, Kramer still does upon occasion. Olmsby isn’t sure how well-acquainted Vice and Kramer are, but said he’s seen them talking to each other lots of times. Vice’s thing, though, was warning young guys away from the gay lifestyle. And guess what?’

‘Evans was one of them?’

‘Bull’s eye!’ – Hoffner pointed his index finger at the captain and cocked his thumb. ‘But the weird things is that Olmsby said Vice seemed concerned about Evans’ soul, on the one hand, but treated him with a superior, condescending attitude almost as if he didn’t really like him, on the other. Of course, I only mentioned that we needed to question the three guys in connection with a case, but asked Olmsby if it seemed like Vice was recruiting Evans. Olmsby said, come to think of it, their relationship almost seemed commercial, boss,’ Hoffner said.

‘Interesting. Do you have the sketch of Evans?’

Hoffner handed the picture to the chief who looked closely at it.

‘It’s consistent with what Wallenstein told me about Evans’s appearance. Send this out with an APB for Evans as wanted for questioning in connection with murder,’ Helton instructed.

‘Okay,’ Hoffner said.

‘And call Olmsby again to see if he can give us a statement,’ Helton continued.

‘I’m ahead of you. He said he’s coming to town around 10 and will drop by the station,’ Hoffner told the captain.

‘Good. But run this down with me: We now have a witness who can establish a connection between Vice and Kramer. My guess is that Vice recruited Kramer to pass on any information he picks up during his visits here, one result of that being Kramer running interference regarding Van Buren’s theft complaint. Evans’ purpose was theft of those disks and deletion of those files from Van Buren’s computer. And I think we can say that Vice singled-out Evans and Kramer because of coinciding religious sympathies. Sound right, Jack?’

‘Yeah, but what’s the chance Vice isn’t paying Kramer and Evans? – or at least that’s my thinking, chief,’ Hoffner said.
‘Not a good chance, considering god is coincidence and the devil is in the smallest details,’ Helton replied.

‘What’s that? Hoffner asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Helton said, ‘Come to think of it, once you’re finished with the APB and finding out what you can about Evans, call Morrison at NBI and ask for help in accessing Vice’s, Kramer’s and Evans’ bank accounts.’

‘Okay. Anything else, chief?’

‘That’s all I can think of, for now, except that you keep calling Felicia,’ Helton said, looking at the wall clock, ‘Too, I’ll be leaving in twenty-five minutes to search Vice’s and Konkel’s houses.’

‘Nothing new on Konkel, huh?’ Hoffner asked.

‘Not yet, but talk to you later,’ – and the captain was off to his office.

The chief stretched while yawning, then sat down at his desk to call his son again.

‘Hello,’ a young voice said from the other end.

‘Jeremy? How’re you doing?’

‘Okay, dad. The nurse says I can play video games after I take my medicine. She’s my girlfriend, you know, the prettiest thing on two wheels you’ve ever seen,’ the boy replied.

‘Really? Well, I think it’s ‘the prettiest thing on two legs’, not wheels, and I hope your girlfriend doesn’t let you get too stressed-out playing video games. You’re in the hospital to rest and get well, not too worked-up over anything, son,’ Helton said.

‘All you ever want me to do is sleep, dad!’ Jeremy said in a pouty tone.

‘Oh, now, that’s not true! I just want you to get healthy again,’ the captain countered.

‘Wel-l-l, okay, dad.’

‘Yeah, Jeremy, and your mom’ll drop by on her way to work. I’ll see you tonight – all right?’ Helton said.

‘Okay.’

‘I love you, son.’

‘Me, too, dad.’

‘Okay, and we’ll hook-up tonight,’ Helton went on, turning off his phone after Jeremy had bidden him farewell.

The captain then looked up at Dorn walking in: ‘You have Konkel’s address, boss?’

‘I’m sure I put it here yesterday,’ Helton said, reaching for his desk inbox, gratified that its top-most piece of paper had the information written on it: ‘Just make sure to get Konkel’s address in the database before you leave for his house, Nardo.’

‘I do believe I can handle that,’ Dorn smiled before returning to his desk.

Helton then paused to reflect upon feeling some relief that the Van Buren case was starting to look up, before he called Alberts, letting him know that a locksmith would soon be appearing at Vice’s house.

‘I’ll be there, too, in about twenty minutes so you and I we can conduct a search,’ he added.

‘Can’t think of anything better to do than squat flies while I wait,’ Alberts responded. ‘There’s an awful lot of them around here, this morning, boss.’

‘I’ve never known why they put the new subdivision in that particular area. You’re not all that far from the sewage treatment plant, Alberts.’

‘Shit, captain, there’s nothing grateful about me thanking you for devastating my appetite for the danish I was eating!’ Alberts expostulated.

‘You’re welcome,’ – Helton grinned and hung up.

He leaned back in his chair, mentally organizing his day, then turned on his laptop, opened his outline of the case and added the recently-garnered information to it.

‘One murderer and two accomplices met at a church; how strange!’ he pondered while he worked until he was finished and looked at the computer clock to see it was time to leave.
He stepped into the duty room, informing Hoffner: ‘I’m off to search Vice’s and Konkel’s houses,’ – and he put on his jacket while starting toward the door.

‘Good luck, chief,’ Hoffner said.

‘Thanks,’ – and it wasn’t long following a drive through the town that the captain recognized Alberts hunkering down behind the steering wheel of an unmarked car parked a block and a half from Vice’s residence.

Though the morning was warm, it wasn’t so much so as to call for air conditioning and the front windows of both cars were open.

‘Vice is still playing cat and mouse, is he?’ Helton said, peering into the other vehicle after pulling up and stopping beside it.

Alberts jumped: ‘Christ, don’t scare me like that, chief! I didn’t see you there!’

‘Sorry about that, though your man still hasn’t put in an appearance, has he?’ Helton said, nodding toward Vice’s house.

‘Shit, looks more like he fucking hates the place,’ Alberts replied.

‘Well, at least you’re doing well blending with the neighborhood, ‘ Helton observed.

‘Yeah, especially since I tossed the danish you ruined for me and started doing a crossword puzzle on a clipboard, kind of like a meter reader or maybe a real estate person. Do I look real estate, captain?’ Alberts inquired.

‘I’m not sure you want the answer to that; besides, there’s the locksmith. Come on, let’s get busy,’ Helton said.

‘Finally,’ Alberts muttered, starting and putting his car in gear to follow his chief.

Helton introduced himself and his officer to the man from Perlmutter’s who unlocked the door for the policemen.

An hour and a half later, they met in the living room, with the captain shaking his head and Alberts looking gloomy.

‘Hell, boss, I even pulled up a loose place in the carpet – might as well been looking for the Holy damn Grail up the devil’s ass, particularly considering Vice doesn’t even have a gun cabinet,’ he said.

‘I didn’t find anything, either,’ Helton said.

‘Looks like Vice is as careful and cunning as a rat at the sewage plant,’ Alberts went on.

‘I don’t know much about sewer rats, though it’d be a mistake to assume that Vice isn’t careful – cunning, too,’ Helton said, taking his phone out of his jacket to call Dorn.

‘I’ll see you at Konkel’s place in a few,’ Dorn said.

‘Okay, Alberts, go back to surveillance on Vice and hope something scares him out of his hidey-hole. Once you finish your crossword puzzle, I suggest you twiddle your thumbs – might make you look like a real estate agent for real,’ Helton smiled at his officer who snorted, ‘yeah, right!’ and walked away to get in his vehicle.

With Konkel’s residence coming up next and the Perlmutter’s employee having followed Helton to it, the locksmith was soon working his magic while Dorn and the captain walked around to see that, indeed, the living room and kitchen curtains were open while the rest were closed, precisely as Lt. Anderson had predicted.

Helton also found Konkel’s regular phone service had been discontinued when he checked, while a thorough search of the house ended as fruitlessly as it had Vice’s.

‘It appears Prettyboy’s theory is correct,’ Dorn observed.

‘Yeah, Nardo. Konkel knows somebody’s after him and has for a little over a year,’ Helton said. ‘There’s nothing here for us; let’s get back headquarters, ‘ – and he confirmed that the department would be billed for the locksmith’s time and services, then got in his car for the return drive to the station.

The frustration of finding nothing in either residence, however, was somewhat assuaged when Hoffner followed him into his office to report, ‘There’s no record of Evans’ address, of him owning a car or even having a driver’s license.’

‘Well, he might not have one and be driving a stolen or borrowed car or one he didn’t register after buying it from somebody acting outside the law,’ Helton replied.

‘Yeah, maybe, and while you were gone, Morrison called back. He couldn’t find anything about a bank account for Evans, though Vice and Kramer have off-shore ones in the Bahamas. Their first transaction was a year and four months ago when Vice withdrew $7,500 from his account and deposited it in Kramer’s. Next was a withdrawal of $17,500 from Vice’s account, with $7,500 of that being re-deposited in his account and no record of what happened to the other $10,000,’ Hoffner replied.

‘Just a second, go back a little. You say that Vice put $7,500 of $17,500 back in his account. When did he do that?’ the chief wanted to know.

Hoffner consulted the fax Morrison had also sent: ‘At 12:23 yesterday afternoon, boss.’

‘Twelve-twenty-three yesterday afternoon? – wasn’t that long after I talked to Kramer, Jack.’

‘That’s right. If I catch your drift, that could mean Kramer warned Vice that we know about them. Christ! – should we bring Kramer back in for more questioning?’

‘Won’t do any good.’

‘Why not?’

‘First, Kramer will very probably lawyer-up. Second, his lawyer will have a likely story, particularly since bank transactions aren’t proof that Vice and Kramer conspired to commit murder.’

‘How else is a lawyer going to explain Vice paying Kramer?’ Hoffner asked.

‘That he was giving him an advance fee to explore a business venture, something like that,’ Helton said. ‘Truth is, Jack, we don’t have a murder weapon and enough yet to hold Kramer. So, I prefer to leave both suspects twisting in the breeze. That might scare Vice into doing something more careless than a sewer rat.’

‘Say again?’ Hoffner came back…

… the captain simply smiled…

___***___
X

(Omaha/Falls City, that night)

The airplane’s wheels jolting along the runway shook Tony Barret awake. He looked wildly about until he saw an air traffic control tower through the window next to him.

‘We’re in Omaha?’ he asked the elderly woman in the seat beside him.

‘Yes. You’ve been asleep most of the way from Frankfurt, son,’ she said, ruefully adding, ‘It’s been years since I’ve been able to catnap like that,’ – and as if that state of affairs was of no greater consequence, she waited just long enough for the plane to quit taxiing and the seat belt sign to go off before she squeezed past the suited businessman in the aisle seat and disappeared in the press of other passengers.

‘Yeah, and it’s been years since some people had any manners!’ growled the businessman, then looking at Tony, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean you, just that blue-haired biddy who doesn’t know manners from the pile of blubber she has for a caboose.’

‘In other words, you’re saying she couldn’t pull any manners out of her ass if her life depended on it?’ Tony grinningly replied, now that the mini-drama had fully awakened him.

‘The best way of putting it would be to say her good manners definitely are in arrears,’ the other man said, letting Tony into the aisle after getting out of his seat to remove a bag from the overhead storage bin and seeing it was empty: ‘You don’t have any luggage up here?’

‘Actually, I have a phobia about stuff falling out in-flight, so I always avoid responsibility for that happening to my luggage by never using those places,’ Tony said. ‘Kind of mundane for a phobia, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I’d say mundane phobias are the best kind if you have to have them. Where’re you headed from here?’ the businessman asked.

‘Falls City.’

‘Ah, Falls City? – too small for me but a nice town,’ the businessman went on, ‘Have a good journey and keep it safe out there, young man.’

‘Thanks. I will,’ Tony responded.

He’d just started to call Arzu when he realized it was too early, due to the time-difference between Ankara and Omaha. But thinking about her inspired him to cheerfully hum, or try humming the melody of “I’m Just A Singer In A Rock ‘n Roll Band” while he collected his luggage off the baggage conveyor belt.

He next repaired to a car rental agency.

‘Have a good trip,’ said the clerk, handing him a set of keys after he’d credit card-paid for a vehicle. ‘One of our people will show you to your car, sir,’ – and she pointed at a waiting, uniformed man through automated glass double doors.

‘Thanks,’ Tony replied, heading toward and showing the employee the number on the key tag.

‘Your car’s over here,’ the man said – and it was within minutes that Tony found it was easier than he’d hoped to thread his way through the airport’s exit maze to the on-ramp across the river onto Interstate 29 going south.

Perhaps like a mist of incense, moisture rising from the Missouri River seemed to have the night delicately suspended between too-warm and too-chilly, compelling the young scholar to roll his window down, with cavorting wind whipping his hair about while he visualized Arzu of the previous night and continued humming.

But it wasn’t long until he tired of his own entertainment. He turned on the radio, to the classical station at Peru College and a broadcast of a Dutch orchestra performing the fourth movement of Schubert’s ninth symphony, something he found surprisingly well-suited to his mood.

Meanwhile, part of him wanted to indulge a leisurely drive, while a greater and stronger part, attuned to seeing Henry again, drew him along at the legally maximum speed.

The Schubert work ended, followed by Beethoven’s symphony No. 3, its power inciting Tony to slap his left hand against the steering wheel in rhythm.

Having checked the car’s odometer upon leaving the airport, however, a re-check suggested that he was about sixty miles from his destination when his phone rang and he removed it from his shirt pocket: ‘Hello.’

‘Is this Anthony Barret?’

‘Tony Barret, yes.’

‘Do you know a gentleman named Henry Konkel?’

‘Yes – who’s asking?’ Tony inquired.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. This is Chief Lou Helton of the Falls City Police Department,’ – and the voice hesitated: ‘I regret to inform you that Mr. Konkel is dead, was’…

‘… what?’ – and Tony pulled the car onto the berm to fumble it out of gear while staring into a sudden emptiness: ‘Would… you… repeat that?’ – he turned the radio off.

‘Your friend was killed, shot from a car in the left lane while Mr. Konkel was waiting for a red light to turn, about an hour ago, here in Falls City,’ Helton confirmed.

Tony couldn’t respond.

‘Again, my condolences, Mr. Barret. But do you also know a… Mr… Onur… Balama from Turkey?’ – it seemed Helton was consulting Onur’s passport, even as Tony’s mind was reeling. It was a few seconds before he was able to concentrate: ‘Is he okay?’

‘Mr. Balama’s shaken up, otherwise all right and waiting for you at police headquarters,’ Helton replied.

‘Who… killed Henry?’

‘I’ll discuss that with you when you arrive at the station. You’re coming here from Omaha – correct?’ Helton inquired.

‘Yes, about an hour away.’

‘Okay, once you take the Falls City exit across the river, you’ll see signs showing the way to the station. If you still have trouble finding it, re-dial my number and I’ll give you directions.’

‘I’m coming!’ Tony said in a fierce whisper, with the captain ending the call and Tony lowering his forehead against the steering wheel, his body tense in a storm of disbelief colliding with an intensity of other emotions.

‘No, Henry, no!’ – it felt like the words were torn from his lips by mocking darkness stabbed and ruptured by traffic headlights: ‘N-o-o-o, n-o-o-o-o!’

With ensuing silence seemingly gnawing at the car’s interior, Tony finally raised his head, jamming the rental into gear and bringing it back onto the interstate with a vicious jerk.

‘FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU, BASTARD! YOU TOOK MY BEST FRIEND FROM ME, AND YOU’D BETTER HOPE I NEVER FIND YOU! I’LL KILL YOU! ROT ALREADY IN HELL, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP!’ Tony screamed into a storm of wind through his window as he hurtled down the highway in a fury of outraged grief.

The center of his mind seemed a knotted flurry of numbness at its center while the rest of it was drawn across a rack of edgy alertness nonetheless keeping him from crashing as he cursed and wove high-speed around other cars.

Pained anger fueled his driving, with the desperation of its velocity further fueling his anger, though Tony, in a few minutes, was stricken by the thought of something he needed doing.

He pulled over again and stopped, taking his cell phone out and looking at it as though into Henry’s eyes as he opened and dialed it.

‘Hello,’ Lorenzo, his father, answered.

‘Hi, dad’…

‘… why, Tony! How are you?’…

‘… dad, listen. Somebody shot and killed Henry about an hour ago, in Falls City,’ Tony replied.

‘What? You have to be mistaken,’ Lorenzo said.

‘No, dad. The Falls City police chief just called and told me. He’s… gone, dad.’

‘O-o-h!… what happened? Who shot him?’

‘I don’t have time to get into that. I’m driving down from Omaha and have to get to Falls City as soon as possible,’ Tony said.

‘My mind can’t grasp what you’re telling me – do you want to talk to your mother? – no, I’ll give her the news. And I’ll notify the Falls City airport that we’re leaving for there as soon as we can throw a few things together. This is terrible, son!’ Lorenzo said.

‘I know… he was our best friend,’ Tony softly replied.

‘Yes… he was, but hang in there the best you can. We should be in Falls City in no more than four hours when I’ll call to find out where you’re staying. Try not to worry about anything. Your mother and I will be with you as soon as possible, all right, son?’

‘Yeah, dad… I don’t know what else to say,’ – and Tony closed his telephone before tears honoring his friend could splatter across the glow of its screen.

For a moment, he looked through the cascade down his face, then pulled onto the highway, still driving insistently but not so fast as before.

Fifty minutes later, and he’d been guided to police headquarters by signs.

He ran inside, seeing Onur to his left through the open door of the captain’s office.

Henry’s lover stood; the young men took one another in a needy embrace.

‘He’s gone. Somebody killed him,’ – Onur’s eyes even more than his voice spoke his sense of loss.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Tony breathed. ‘Are you all right?’ – and he reached up to touch Onur’s face.

‘I’m okay, just frightened a little.’

‘Your friend’s a brave, young man – been through a horrific ordeal,’ Helton said, ‘But he’s taken a shower and changed into other clothes among the luggage we retrieved from the car Mr. Konkel was driving.’

‘Where’s Henry?’ Tony asked.

‘At the… but I strongly advise against you viewing the body. His head was,’… Helton’s decided against saying more because of wanting to avoid describing the cranial devastation Henry had sustained. ‘Our scientific investigator’s already made a positive identification beyond Mr. Balama’s acquaintance with Mr. Konkel, and nothing more is necessary.’

Tony’s countenance hardened: ‘Who’s the sick asshole responsible for this?’

‘I’ll explain everything the best I can. The both of you, please have a seat. We don’t have any coffee at the moment, but would you like tea?’ the chief inquired.

‘I would, thanks,’ Onur answered.

‘It might calm my nerves, if anything can,’ Tony said..

‘How many teaspoons of sugar in yours, Mr. – u-m-m-m – Onur?’

‘Two.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll take six,’ Tony said.

Helton stepped over to the door. ‘Bert, would you get us three cups of tea? – two teaspoons of sugar in one, three in another and six in the third one.’

Sgt. Linden gave him a dour look, stood and went over to the beverage table without a word.

Helton re-took his seat and continued, ‘I realize this is a terrible time, but I need to ask you, Onur, and Tony, some questions while your memory is fresh. Is that okay?’

‘I’ll do anything I can to help,’ Onur replied, pressing his lips together with resolve.

‘Hell, yeah, let’s get this bastard!’ Tony exclaimed.

‘That’s the idea,’ – Helton repressed a smile due to the circumstances while deciding against typing the young men’s information into his laptop since that seemed too impersonal.

He took a notepad out of his shirt pocket and a pen out of its desk holder: ‘Dealing with some other matters first will help clear up the picture about our primary suspect…’

‘… who is?’

‘Fanny Fay Vice, a fundamentalist Christian and white supremacist who’s angered by any religious views not coinciding with his.’

‘And why he killed Henry?’

‘It’d seem that was responsible for Mr. Konkel murder’….

‘… Henry, please just call him Henry,’ Onur interjected.

‘All right,’ the captain said, as Linden came in with the tea.

Helton took a sip of his and looked at Tony: ‘What’s your work, Mr. Barret?”

‘I’m writing my doctoral dissertation at UCLA.’

‘When was the last time you talked to Henry?’

‘Last night, in Ankara, Turkey.’

‘Do you know why Henry went to Ankara?’

‘Because he was interested in Turkish culture, and to finish the final draft of a book he was writing, probably to get away from this Vice guy following him, too, though he didn’t quite say it that way.’

‘Did Henry ask you to come to Ankara for a particular reason, or was that your idea?’

‘He paid for my two-way airfare so that he could tell me some things about his life and the book because he wanted me to edit the historical parts of it, that kind of thing. He knew he was in danger, chief,’ Tony said.

‘But not from whom?’

‘Vice always followed Henry at night and never got close enough that Henry could’ve recognized him at a later time – not that it matters anymore,’ Tony bitterly added.

‘Unfortunately,’ Helton said while making notes: ‘How did you come to know Henry, and for how long?’

‘My entire life, because he and dad were best friends when they attended college at Peru during the 70’s,’ Tony replied.

‘A life-long friendship? Those… are… nice to have,’ Helton said with a reflective look. ‘Do you know if there was anything about Henry’s life that played into his death?’

‘Yes, but less directly than his unorthodox theories about Yeshua, or Jesus in his book. Have you ever heard of the Merovingian kings of Medieval France, chief?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. Can you summarize how that relates to the case?’

Tony thought for a moment: ‘Some of Henry ancestor’s were from a minor branch of the Merovingian house which is connected to how Jesus wasn’t descended from the great king David and Solomon of The Old Testament. Beyond that was his knowledge of the Merovingians making the Vatican think they were descended from Jesus – stuff Vice wouldn’t like’…

‘… but had a way of knowing because of an accomplice. Did Henry mention a Van Buren?’

‘He owns a publishing company here in Falls City and Henry planned to have him publish his book.’

‘Regrettably, Van Buren is dead, too, for similar reasons,’ Helton informed the young scholar.

‘Vice killed two people?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

‘Man, he really belongs behind bars – well, I prefer some place lower!’ Tony passionately said.

‘We’re aiming for a spot behind bars; any place beyond that is not our jurisdiction,’ Helton replied. ‘But… did Henry say anything about an Adam Evans who worked for one night as a janitor at Van Buren’s business place?’

‘He wasn’t clear on the name, but said he’d saved the rough draft of his book on some disks and a file in Van Buren’s computer before he left the States. He told me that Van Buren suspected Evans of stealing the disks and deleting the file, partly because Paul – u-m-m-m – Van Buren had the user ID and password for his computer in the drawer of his desk,’ Tony said.

Helton thought for a moment: ‘Okay, the next step is determining how Vice knew where Henry was tonight. First, why did Henry return to the States at this particular time?’

‘He’d finished his book and had a meeting tonight with Van Buren to discuss its publication.’

‘Yes, at a restaurant here in Falls City, though Henry didn’t tell me the name of it,’ Onur added.

‘Obviously he didn’t know Van Buren had been murdered. But after the meeting – tomorrow – Henry planned to start a trip around the States with Onur,’ Tony went on.

‘It’s unfortunate he’ll not be able to carry that out, Onur. But what’s your work in Turkey?’ the captain said.

‘I’m a first-year student of Ottoman literature at Bilkent University in Ankara.’

‘I see. How did you meet Henry?’

‘At a bar one night several months ago when Henry was dancing for a blues group,’ Onur replied.

‘Really? How old was he?’

‘Fifty-six.’

‘Amazing! He must’ve been quite energetic for a man of that age. This case is becoming more reprehensible but interesting at the same time. But getting back to what happened tonight, you and Henry drove to Falls City in a car he rented at the Omaha airport, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you arrived in town, do you remember the first place you went, like Van Buren’s store?’

Onur furrowed his brow: ‘Not his store. I don’t know where it was, but Henry slowly drove past a house he said was his friend’s. He wanted to make sure it was okay’…

‘… probably because he was worried that Vice had broken into it looking for information,’ Tony interposed.

‘Can you explain?’ Helton said.

‘Well, that particular friend was feeling down over his divorce and Henry stayed with him to keep him company until his friend took a job across-country two days before Henry left for Turkey. He said that Vice must’ve followed him from Van Buren’s business place to that friend’s house which he likely watched as a way of knowing Henry’s movements when he started stalking him. And Henry probably didn’t realize he was driving past Vice parked down the street from the friend’s house, hoping Henry would show up, tonight’ Tony replied.

‘That’s probable,’ the captain agreed before looking at Onur: ‘Think carefully, this is important. Do you remember if it was still light enough that Vice could’ve seen and recognized Henry?’

‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’

‘But Henry didn’t go inside the house?’

‘No, only drove past it.’

‘How did Vice know who Henry was?’ Tony asked.

‘One of the files recovered from Van Buren’s computer was his design of a cover-jacket for Henry’s book, including Henry’s photo. Undoubtedly, Vice instructed Evans to print out the files before he deleted them and gave that material to Vice.’

‘That makes sense,’ Tony said.

‘It does, and Henry was on the way from his friend’s house to the meeting with Van Buren when he stopped at the red light – correct, Onur?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see the person who killed him?’

‘Everything happened too fast. One second, we were just waiting, and the next I heard a sound like’…

‘… a dull thud?’ Helton queried.

‘Yes. Then, Henry’s head was lying across my legs and blood was everywhere – just terrible!’ Onur replied.

‘I can only apologize for the murder of your friend as your introduction to Falls City,’ Helton said, looking through the window across the room as though reliving the night’s events in his mind’s eye.

In a bit, he turned toward Onur: ‘Can you remember anything about the killer’s car?’

‘No, because ours went down to the side of the street and the safety bag came out before I realized what was happening.’

‘Yes, the vehicle Henry was driving rolled through the traffic light and came to a stop against the right side curb beyond the intersection,’ Helton said.

‘Didn’t anybody see anything?’ Tony asked.

‘We have two witnesses who vaguely recollect seeing a white car in the lane to Henry’s left. They don’t know its model and didn’t get a license plate number since Vice apparently used a silencer and nobody in the area realized he’d killed Henry before he immediately left the scene. Believe me, though, I have every available officer scouring the entire town for the vehicle, and they’ll continue doing so until it’s obvious he’s gone to ground,’ Helton assured Tony and Onur. ‘One thing we know is that Vice hasn’t been at his place of business for more than a week or his house since at least yesterday. We have surveillance on his residence even as I speak.’

‘Do you think you’ll get him?’ – the look on Tony’s face was anxious, though cautiously hopeful.

‘Something tells me that resolution of this case is close,’ the captain replied.

‘I hope you’re right; I want this sicko behind bars!’ Tony vehemently said.

‘My men and I do, too.’

‘I’m sure, though I’m curious as to why Vice took so long to kill Van Buren and Henry.’

‘A good question: Vice displays characteristics of a rage-killer. My guess is, he relishes games of cat and mouse as a form of vengeance partly stemming from religion-based hatred. I think it’s virtually certain he derives sadistic pleasure from dragging his victims down to his level of misery, even farther, in fact,’ Helton said.

‘In other words, one screwed-up mother-fucker!’ Tony grunted.

Helton inclined his head: ‘I can’t argue with that,’ – and it was another second or two before he went on. ‘Well, I think I’ve covered everything. Here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to call anytime if you think of anything. While I don’t think it’ll be necessary, it could be I’ll ask you gentlemen back in at a later time if I have more questions – all right?’

‘Sure,’ Tony said.

‘That won’t be a problem for me,’ Onur agreed.

‘Excellent – do you know where you’ll be staying?’ Helton inquired.

‘We don’t, not yet. Do you have any suggestions?’ Tony said,

‘The Journeyman’s Inn is nice, reasonably priced and not too far from here, though the best way of finding it is asking at the 7-11 four blocks down the street past the station and three blocks to the left. I’ll go out with you so that I can give you Onur’s luggage I have in my car.’

‘Thanks,’ said the young Turk.

‘No problem,’ – and once the three of them were in the parking lot for a transfer of Onur’s luggage from the trunk of Helton’s car to the backseat of Tony’s, the captain said, ‘Again, my sympathy for your loss. And it’s unfortunate it wasn’t for another reason, but it’s been a pleasure meeting both of you.’

‘For me, too, and thanks for your help,’ Onur replied, shaking the chief’s hand before Helton did the same with Tony as the scholar haltingly said, ‘Yes…. thanks’…

… and under the weight of nothing more to say, Helton watched the young men get into their vehicle and drive away.

Seeing the tail lights of Tony’s rental, it somehow seemed to Helton that even they were blasphemous violations of the moment, and he sighed while turning toward his car.

‘Yeah, oh, yeah, somebody needs to pay for their pain!’ he grimly thought as an image of Kramer rose in his mind: ‘Who’s going to pay for mine?’

He wished that somebody, even some thing would answer, though nothing did…

… and he sighed again.

___***___

XII

‘You didn’t have to get murdered just because your family’s pain and suffering should end with you, Henry,’ Tony broke the silence in the car with quiet urgency as he drew up in front of the 7-11 while Onur looked over at him with hooded eyes without speaking.

‘I’ll be right back,’ – heavily, Tony got out and went inside.

He soon returned with the address and location of The Journeyman’s Inn and large, plastic bags containing two twelve-packs of beer which he placed on the rear seat.

He got behind the wheel and nodded toward them: ‘I want to get drunker than ever in my life.’

‘I… don’t think Henry will mind,’ Onur replied.

Tony put the car in gear: ‘No… I don’t believe he will.’

‘At least you believe something; he always said it’s important to believe,’ Onur rejoined.

‘I know,’ – and Tony pulled into the empty street with its asphalt bleeding darkly down the harsh course of the car’s headlights taunting the grasping blind numbness of mind with which he followed directions to the motel.

He considered suggesting that Onur stay in the car while he reserved a room, then realized that the young Turk was his only living connection to Henry at the moment…

… and ‘Come,’ he simply said.

The motel’s matronly, gray-haired night clerk watched the men approaching her desk as Tony specified, ‘One room, two beds.’

‘Sure. How’s the night been for the two of you?’ she asked, taking his credit card with her left hand while giving him a form to complete with her right one.

‘Miserable,’ Tony replied.

‘I’m sorry to hear that; hope things get better for you,’ she commiserated while subjecting Tony’s credit card to the verification machine.

‘Please sign this,’ she said, handing the receipt to Tony, ‘The pen’s right there,’ – and she pointed at it on a plastic chord attached to the desk.

Tony considered, but didn’t apologize for illegibly scrawling his signature in the contradiction of wanting to hastily escape from, while at the same time being drawn to grief like a moth mesmerized by flame.

‘Here’s your key card. Your room is 246 around back on the second-floor,’ the clerk informed him. ‘I trust you’ll have a restful night, gentlemen.’

As he and Onur turned from the desk, Tony bitterly laughed, ‘Maybe we’ll spend the rest of it chasing soap bubbles around our room, all right?… oh, sorry!’

‘That’s okay. Just remember that Jesus will take your burdens on his shoulders,’ the clerk, unperturbed, replied to his back.

‘Jesus killed my best friend, lady!’ Tony retorted over his shoulder, before he and Onur walked out for a return to the car which Tony relocated to a parking space under the second-floor balcony on the motel’s backside.

He was relieved that he didn’t need taking the risk of making the clerk suspicious by carrying the twelve-packs past her, even in bags, as he and Onur took their luggage, then the alcohol, to their room.

The door closed behind them, and – ‘Can I have a beer?’ Onur asked.

Tony tore open the paperboard top of a carton, handing his friend a can and keeping another for himself. They opened them; Onur sank to the floor with his back against one bed; Tony followed suit with his arm around the young man’s shoulder, and they began drinking.

‘What was he like?’ Onur suddenly asked, turning his eyes toward the American.

Tony reached for two more beers with a helpless gesture: ‘He’s almost beyond telling about, like no one else.’

‘I didn’t have a lot of time with Henry and want to know everything about him, Tony.’

The scholar’s eyes slowly traveled across Onur’s face: ‘You know, I used to spend every summer with Henry on one of his farms, like, from when I was six until I was seventeen’…

‘… you’ve known him for a long time?’

‘All my life, yes, and I’ll never forget the summer nights, the rain and the moon here in southeastern Nebraska. I swear I could smell the wild marijuana when it was in blossom. As a kid, it wasn’t hard to imagine that I was in lotus land, even if Henry made me listen to him reading long, boring stories at night until I’d fall asleep on his big couch and he’d wrap me in a blanket and sleep on the floor beside me to make sure I was okay. It was something to wake up and see him snoring – real loud – on the floor next to me so that I could have the comfort of the couch.’

‘Why didn’t you and him use beds?’

Tony shrugged: ‘That was Henry, kind of an indoor adventure… just a second, I’ve thought of something I need to do.’

He took his phone out to call his father with the name and address of the motel along with his and Onur’s room number, then closed and put the phone in his pocket: ‘My dad… he can’t believe Henry’s gone.’

‘Me, neither… can you?’ asked Onur.

Tony gave him a lengthy look, followed by biting his lip as though to punish himself for his inner turmoil.

Seconds passed: ‘You want to know about Henry? The best way to tell you about him is to say that he wasn’t afraid to be human, Onur’…

‘… and I… I loved him so much,’ Onur said.

‘You still do, and he still loves you, always will, even in death.’

‘God!’ – Onur’s exclamation was raw with the moment.

Tony took the young student’s face and held it against him for a long time before raising it and continuing, ‘Listen, you don’t even need to ask what you’ll do without him, Onur,’ – and Tony’s voice became insistent with gentle sternness: ‘The first thing you’ll do is live the best life you can, for yourself, and because that’s what Henry wants for you. Second, you’ll never stop loving him or remembering that he loves you, no matter how… much that hurts. Eventually, the memory of your time together will become bitter-sweet, like honey mixed with lemon, and they’ll be the most precious treasures you have. Do you understand?’

Onur nodded, while swallowing hard: ‘Will it ever stop hurting?’

It seemed as if Tony’s inner being was spinning away, being torn into a suffocating mist as he looked Henry’s lover in the eyes: ‘No, not entirely… which, believe it or not, will be okay because the hurt will mean you’re a living monument to his memory.’

Though that was well-meant, Onur felt as if shot through, and he turned away with the bitter, salted waters of life coursing down his face until he roughly wiped his eyes, his cheeks and said, ‘Now, let’s get drunk, really drunk!’

‘Yeah, let’s!’ – and Tony reached into the carton for two more cans of beer.

With arms around each other, they drank through weighted silence violated only by the lurid-seeming pop of the cans they opened.

Tony nonetheless managed staggering over to the door when he heard a knock in the early hours – his parents were in the hallway outside.

‘Mom, dad, you’re here!’ he cried, collapsing into Meghan’s, his mother’s arms.

‘Of course, son, if for a terrible reason,’ she replied.

‘Your mother and I are stunned,’ Lorenzo, his dad said, after an embrace.

‘Yeah, I know… but don’t let the door hit you in ass on the way in!’ Tony giggled, giddy with an intoxicated need for release.

‘How are you holding up, son?’ Lorenzo asked.

‘My drunk ass is the only thing holding up!’ Tony giggled again.

‘Well, then, sit down before you fall down,’ Lorenzo tried a smile while helping his son to the floor.

With an attempt at dignity in his condition, Tony suppressed an gaseous exhalation as he looked at Onur: ‘These are my parents, Lorenzo and Meghan. Mom, dad, this is Henry’s friend Onur, from Turkey.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, though I regret the circumstances,’ Lorenzo said, reaching down to shake hands with Onur returning the like sentiment.

With graceful simplicity, Meghan knelt and hugged Onur before kissing his forehead: ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I can tell you’re a good person, the only kind of close friend Henry ever had.’

Onur’s only reply were tears again welling in his eyes as she embraced him once more, then stood to ask, ‘What was Henry doing in Turkey, Anthony?’

‘And why didn’t he tell me was over there?’ Lorenzo added.

‘To keep you, me, all of us safe while he finished writing a book he was planning to publish, until some Christian-fart-asshole shot him in the head from a car in the left lane while Henry was stopped at a red light here in town,’ Tony replied, taking a large swallow of his beverage.

‘He’s dead because of a book?’ Meghan exclaimed in astonished disbelief.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘That’s awful!’ Meghan went on.

‘Yeah, the fuckin’ hell tell me about it!’ Tony vehemently spat the words out – ‘but do you and dad want some beer?’

‘That sounds good; you can explain everything tomorrow,’ Lorenzo said, sitting on the floor with his back against the other bed, ‘How about you, mother?’

Meghan replied by removing four cans from the second carton and passing them around before she took a seat beside her husband.

‘This is kind of silly, I know,’ Tony said, ‘But let’s pop these in Henry’s honor. Everybody, on three: One – two – three!’ – and the air was assailed by the four-times-accentuated sound of can tabs being simultaneously removed.

Nobody said anything for a moment after that; Lorenzo then thickly spoke: ‘Henry, old man, I always said you’d be the death of me… and now you’re the one who’s gone. But here’s to you forever until a parting for the rest of us beyond this earthen veil.’

‘Yes,’ Meghan breathed, and Tony cried out, ‘God help me, if there is one. But I want the bastard who did this deader than the grave!’…

‘… if the grave isn’t a grieving heart, or that’s certainly the way it feels.’ – Lorenzo’s voice was heavy…

… with the four of them then yielding to silence as they continued drinking.

It was only a matter of time until the only sound in the room was that of mother, father, son and a lover cradled in the sought-after, if temporary forgetfulness of sleep through the remainder of receding night:- None of them was awake to greet the sun, though they wouldn’t have cared if they had been…

… for death does, indeed, have a sting.

___***___

XIII

(Falls City, the next morning)

From arrival at until departure from his office, Helton occasionally had known what it was like to have his telephone ringing off the hook, except there was no hook this time; it was his cell phone that surprised him since he made a quick check and saw that it was 8:03. He’d been in his office for only ten minutes and didn’t expect the cell device to start his official day.

‘Chief Helton,’ he spoke into it.

‘Hello, this is Marie, your son’s primary care nurse at the hospital,’ a voice replied.

‘Oh, hi. How are you?’

‘I’m good. And you?’

‘Fine,’ the captain said, deciding to go right to the heart of a certain matter: ‘I hope you won’t mind me asking if you’re the nurse Jeremy refers to as his girlfriend.’

‘He says that? – wel-l-l, I suspect I am his target,’ Marie gave out with a pleased giggle.

‘Okay, but don’t let him bother you with that.’

‘Oh, no problem,’ – Helton could imagine Marie making a dismissive gesture before she continued, ‘He’s a sweet kid, kind of cute, too.’

‘How’s he doing?’ Helton asked.

‘Good enough that Dr. Spellman says he can go home day after tomorrow.’

‘That’s great news! So, the antibiotics are working and Jeremy’s recovered?’ the captain inquired.

‘He still has a ways to go to complete recovery and he’ll need to take it easy for a while, yet. But he’s well on the mend,’ Marie replied.

‘That’s good enough for me; I’m glad to hear it. Can I speak with Jeremy?’

‘He’s eating fruit loop cereal in the cafeteria right now, and the boy loves milk so much I swear he could drain a cow if we had one,’ Marie said.

‘Yeah, he’s always had a crush on milk, all right,’ Helton agreed, ‘But have him give me a call when he gets back to his room – okay?’

‘Of course,’ Marie assured the chief.

‘And try not to develop too big a crush on him; he’s still mine,’ Helton continued.

Marie’s only reply was another giggle before she hung up.

‘… sweet girl!’ the captain thought.

___***___

XIV

Tony heard the incantation of Henry’s voice calling him up and beyond demons of residual intoxication to a resurrection of consciousness, although a groggy one – and he shook his head, valiantly trying to exorcise a fogginess of mind until he was able to focus on being in a room at The Journeyman’s Inn.

He saw Onur, his dad and mom still humbled into the various poses of grieving somnolence on the floor – and the events of the previous night stabbed into his still-veiled awareness.

‘Henry!’ he whispered.

His lifetime friend now spoke to him only with the heavy exhalations and inhalations around him, and he rolled over to bury his face in his pillow.

He lay like that for some time – until he understood what he next had to do.

He turned over and struggled into a sitting position.

He didn’t remember doing it, but had stripped to his briefs and fallen into bed at some point, and he wondered where his cell phone was, remembering that it was in the pocket of his jeans.

Swinging his legs over the bed, he steadied himself with his left hand on the headboard as he leaned down to pick up and remove his phone from the garment.

He opened it, feeling oddly smitten when he saw that the time was 8:46.

Even in the grip of lingering drunkenness, he dimly found it odd to feel somehow compelled to add eight, four and six together for the sum of 18. He nonetheless recalled that three had once been a special, a divine number, even if 18 divided by 3 equals 666, the mythical number of The Beast.

‘If it exists, Vice, divinity will stamp that number on your forehead until you die, and the sooner the better, you rotten piece of shit!’ he viciously thought as he got out of bed and slowly, unsteadily started toward the door.

He quietly closed it behind him, realizing that he was standing in the hall wearing nothing but his briefs, and didn’t care, while it seemed he pressed the phone buttons for the right number with a power not begotten of The Beast.

Still, it felt like eternity before Arzu spoke: ‘Tony, I’m so glad to hear your voice. How are you?’

‘Arzu, listen.’

‘What is it, Tony?’

‘Henry’s dead.’

‘No! That’s not possible!’

‘Arzu, he was murdered because of what he planned to publish in a book.’

‘No!… who… killed him?’

‘A sick-minded Christian who hates Henry for what he believed. I’ll send you the details in an e-mail later today. I’m sorry, so sorry, Arzu.’

‘Tony, how can this be?’

‘I don’t know,’ – and Tony’s voice broke.

‘It’s… okay to cry, Tony. I am,’ Arzu said.

He leaned his head against the wall and slammed it with his fist before at last replying, ‘Arzu, I’m coming back to you, I promise, as soon as I can.’

‘I’ll be waiting. Until then, all I can say is tell Henry goodbye for me,’ she said.

‘No, Arzu, no! I don’t want to hear anymore goodbyes!’ Tony sobbed.

‘No goodbyes, then, Tony, only that I am waiting for you,’…

… and Tony struck the wall again as he heard her softly crying while she closed her phone.

Despite his sense of loss, now that her voice was gone, despite his angered sorrow, Tony felt hope rising like a distant, pagan anthem as he returned to lie back in bed, comforted by imagining that he saw Henry’s face in swirls of ceiling texture above him.

His eyes finally closed; he dreamed of heaven, though heaven was the breeze-caressed cornfields on a farm so long ago, its angels he and Arzu as children playing with Henry, the finally-crowned, twelve-year-old king… and Tony sighed as he was conquered by deeper sleep…

… The Beast was nowhere to be seen.

___***___

XV

(Falls City, same day)

Chief Helton couldn’t have explained it no matter how he tried, especially since he had no ruck with paranormal phenomena. But eerily, he suddenly felt as though smitten by an invisible shadow – though he ascertained its apparent source by looking up at Lieutenant Anderson standing in the door of his office.

‘Anderson?’

‘Yeah, boss, and you’re wondering what I’m doing here since I don’t go on days until tomorrow and popped back in only three hours after I went off-duty,’ Prettyboy said.

‘Okay,’ – Helton sensed an air of excitement about the officer despite the nonchalant way Prettyboy scratched his head and went on: ‘Well, you know, Conner’s habit of screwing around with my work schedule has a way of screwing around with my sleep cycle, too. But you’ll never guess what.’

‘I have a feeling I won’t, lieutenant,’ Helton replied, reaching for a cup of coffee next to his laptop, since one of his men on the second shift had bought coffee grounds the previous night.

‘You’re a spoil-sport in the morning,’ Anderson said, ‘Anyway, I’m having trouble with the shut-eye – woke up about thirty minutes ago and turned the TV on.’

Helton was starting to wonder if Prettyboy wasn’t stringing him along despite Anderson then going for the jugular: ‘Vice is dead.’

‘What in god’s name are you talking about?’ the captain asked.

‘I’m talking about the value of the little entertainment box you should have in your office if city council would cough up the money for it,’ Anderson replied, taking out a cigarette and looking through his jeans pockets for a lighter: ‘Do you happen to have any matches around, chief?’

‘You know I don’t smoke, lieutenant,’ Helton responded.

‘Oh, right. Just a second,’ – and Prettyboy checked the pockets of his jacket to find a lighter with which he laid fire to the cigarette, then gave the device a look of mock sternness: ‘And here, I thought you were playing hooky on me, you little motherfucker.’

‘Anderson, why are you taking such delight in not getting on with it about Vice?’ Helton asked, with eagerness to hear more.

‘Because what happened is like a kick-ass punch-line to the world’s best joke – gotta’ relish it, captain,’ Prettyboy said, sitting down, and Helton was surprised when he next took a small, ceramic and ornately hand-painted ashtray out of his jacket with a wink, ‘I carry this everywhere, now that Stella, my girlfriend, bought it for me at the flea market for seven bucks yesterday – a brainy gal who knows the nicotine habit is a promiscuous time-slut you never know when will strike,’ – and he grinned: ‘Getting back to Vice, there was a news break on Channel 5 about him wreaking havoc in the homosexual repairative clinic at Focus On God’s Way in Colorado Springs a little over an hour ago’…

‘… the religious organization run by Rev. Jamie Robison?’ Helton asked.

‘That’s the one, boss – killed two therapists and injured three clients before the security guard popped him in the head with a bullet’…

‘… you’re joking?’ Helton said with incredulity.

‘No, captain, that’s the way it went down, for real,’ the lieutenant replied, blowing a puff of smoke into the air that seemed incongruously dainty compared with his size: ‘Don’t worry; I called the Colorado Springs police and had them put me through to their chief who was on the scene. It was Vice, all right, had a .38 Special with a silencer and his wallet with his driver’s license in it, and they found a white, ‘89 Chevette in the parking lot – likely stolen – that’s registered to a woman in Nebraska City.’

‘He drove all the way to Colorado Springs just to kill more people?’ Helton asked.

‘Yup.’

‘How strange!’

‘Yeah, especially when you hear the punch-line,’ Prettyboy continued. ‘Their records show that three years ago, Vice underwent two months of gay reversal therapy at the Focus clinic. And the director of it says that one day, Vice basically said their program is a pile of shit, walked out and never came back. That’s the strangest part of this whole thing.’

‘Interesting in one way, but not necessarily strange in another, according to Van Buren’s journal,’ Helton said.

Anderson winced around the most recent cigarette in his mouth: ‘Sorry, chief. I’ve been so busy with other angles of the case that I haven’t gotten around to reading those print-outs of the recovered computer files.’

‘That’s a sloppy investigatory precedent to set for yourself; watch that in the future, Anderson.’

‘I won’t let it happen again, chief,’ the lieutenant said.

‘Don’t,’ Helton said. ‘But, involving Van Buren’s wife, Victoria, the short of this story is that Vice and Van Buren met each other – though the journal doesn’t say how – and experimented with bisexuality together some time prior to Van Buren’s marriage. They also had some threesomes with Victoria before she enraged Vice by choosing to marry Van Buren. And Vice had hated Van Buren ever since,’ Helton explained.

‘He hated Van Buren because the two old boys boinked each other or because Victoria kicked him to the curb?’

‘Both,’ Helton replied.

‘Right, though it was a long time before Vice killed Van Buren,’ Prettyboy said.

‘Well, first of all, you have to consider that homosexuality isn’t nearly as dangerous as hatred sometimes taking years to boil over and tending to erupt like a volcano when it does,’ the captain replied. ‘And Vice was boiling with rage that has the rationality of two cats hanging from a clothesline by their tails tied together. Myself, I’ll take the cats.’

‘You’re a brave soul,’ Anderson chuckled, ‘But there’s another piece of the puzzle still hiding in the weeds about Konkel’…

‘… you’re getting better and better at this, lieutenant,’ Helton ventured a smile.

Anderson took his cigarette out of his mouth with an amused snort as Helton removed the Konkel print-out from a desk drawer.

He turned it to a page he’d tagged with a bookmark and handed it across the desk to Anderson while instructing, ‘Check-out paragraph thirteen, lieutenant.’

Prettyboy ran his finger down the page to read: “Yeshua was Mary Magdalene’s husband, the lover of John The Beloved and the bisexual High Priest of a community practicing Goddess-worship. Lazarus was one and the same as John The Beloved, and the most important part of the matter never revealed by orthodox Christianity is that Yeshua did not bring John/Lazarus back from the dead ”…

He looked at Helton over the print-out: ‘Who in hell’s Yeshua?’

It was Helton’s turn to grin: ‘Anderson, your language! Yeshua is another name for Jesus.’

‘Oh, shit!’ Prettyboy exclaimed before he could stop himself. ‘But, yeah, okay, Jesus was married, bisexual and into worship of the goddess – whoa, just a second: If he didn’t resurrect Lazarus, it’s not likely he had a resurrection, either. That’s what Konkel’s saying.’

‘Exactly. He and Van Buren were planning to publish Konkel’s book about all of that before Vice murdered Konkel last night.’

‘No wonder Vice flipped considering his literal ideas about the Bible,’ Anderson broke in.

‘True, because I very much doubt there’s anything in Konkel’s book that didn’t tick him off,’ the captain agreed.

‘Yeah, though we still don’t know where Evans is. But it seems sure that files of Konkel’s book were on those CD’s he gave to Vice after he stole them from Van Buren’s office,’ the lieutenant went on.

‘That’s the only thing that makes sense.’

‘And I’m betting Vice likely told Evans to delete the computer file of Van Buren’s journal to hide his man-to-man thing as long as possible,’ – a serious look of interest now occupied the lieutenant’s face.

‘That’s possible,’ Helton said, ‘though I’d say that also might have been Vice thumbing his nose at two men he looked down on almost as much as himself, especially Van Buren.’

‘Guess it’s a toss-up as to which he hated more: Van Buren or Konkel’s religious ideas.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Helton responded. ‘Vice was gay and used his religion-based hatred to justify his self-loathing, which was unfortunate.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, reputable journals say that a majority of experts on the subject agree that we primarily are what we are born to be, and that none of us makes a choice about our so-called sexual preference. Was it a conscious decision the first time you were attracted to an good-looking girl, lieutenant?’

Anderson pondered for a moment, then scratched his head again: ‘I must say it wasn’t, chief.’

‘Of course not. I had a big-time crush on an attractive, much older woman when I was only four, long before I had what it took to make an informed choice. Why should it be any different for gays?’ the chief went on.

‘So, where do you stand on gay rights?’ – the lieutenant’s eyes narrowed.

‘I stand where there are a lot of things a lot more important to worry about than opposing gay marriage, if that’s what you mean,’ Helton replied.

‘Not a particularly popular sentiment in these parts, chief,’ Prettyboy said.

‘And I’m supposed to obsess on that? Anderson, what we really should care about is that one person, just one person, removed four lives from earth and injured three people out of hatred for himself simply because he was gay.’

Anderson didn’t say anything before the chief went on, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand why so many fundamentalist, right-wing males make such poster boys for misogyny, homophobia and violence, even if I can’t help feel a bit sorry for Vice that he embraced a religion of self-loathing so completely that suicide by a security guard merely capped his long journey of hatred, lieutenant.’

‘Yeah, guess so,’ Andserson said. ‘Ma, you know, isn’t big on religion and gets-off on sticking her tongue in her cheek by saying that gays get what they deserve if homosexuality really is so terrible, in which case God should be damn ashamed of himself – not that I would know anything about any of this. I’ve always hauled my ass down the straight and narrow’…

‘… except for the detour of three divorces!’ Helton slyly smiled.

‘You would have to bring that up!’ Prettyboy came back.

The officers were silent for a bit.

‘You know, I can’t help almost wishing Vice was alive because a part of me would still like to hunt him down,’ Anderson then remarked.

‘I’m sorry for your disappointment,’ Helton commiserated.

‘Ah, naw. It’s not as if I’ve had a bad run of solving these little suckers, even if Abrams does want my job. Besides, all that’s left now is exchanging case files with the Colorado Springs police and looking for Evans, which I can start doing when I go on graveyard, tonight. Other than that, guess I should be glad the case is over,’ the lieutenant said, though his attention was arrested by a saddened look on the chief’s face as he softly responded, ‘No, Anderson, it isn’t quite over’…

… and the lieutenant sensed he was to leave the minuscule beauty of his ashtray behind to follow his commanding officer carrying out the hardest thing he’d ever done in his career, something seemingly mocked by the loveliness of another fine day…

… the sun sometimes can feel so heartless, as it did in the noon-tide sky…

___***___

XVI

… the car in the driveway was telling: – ‘He’s here, all right,’ Dorn said, as he and Kronstadt exchanged glances before drawing weapons to cover the backdoor of the house.

At the moment, Harden was resting his right hand on the butt of his revolver in its holster and standing with Anderson and Helton on the sidewalk leading to the house’s front porch.

Anderson nodded at his chief who returned him a look of grudging resignation, then mounted the front steps to ring the doorbell, with no answer. He rang again, and a third time – still no answer.

Helton rejoined his officers. Briefly, he looked around as though for help that didn’t exist before raising his megaphone: ‘Kramer, this is Chief Helton. Come out quietly with your hands over your head. You’re surrounded and under arrest as an accomplice to first-degree murder. I don’t want to embarrass you by having my men force their way in to bring you out in handcuffs.’

The raucous cawing of a crow winging overhead fractured the edgy, ensuing silence; Helton waited a few more seconds, then, ‘Show yourself with your hands over your head – now, George!’

The front door opened with somber deliberation; perhaps in protest, perhaps as a helpless gesture of defiance, Kramer’s hands were hanging at his side while his body was as proudly erect as ever.

He came down the steps and sidewalk to a stop three or four feet in front of his former chief, who was preoccupied with the portent of a wordless moment between them – with the captain feeling unsatisfied by the answers he sought in the face of what once had been his best friend.

‘Do you wish to waive a reading of your rights?’ he asked.

Kramer nodded, Helton seeing that his eyes were troubled as the captain hesitated, then: ‘Kramer, we know Vice paid you to give him any scrap of information about the Van Buren case you picked up during visits to headquarters and to obfuscate Van Buren’s theft complaint. We also accessed both of your bank accounts and the records of your calls to him. But why, George, why did you help him?’

Kramer inclined his head before fixing the captain’s eyes with his: ‘Because the wrath of the Lord is upon those who refuse to follow his ways… and… for… enough money that my wife could take the cruise around the world she’s always wanted.’

‘Where’s Sara, now?’

‘With her sister in Humbolt.’

‘Did you send her away, George?’

Kramer nodded.

‘Because you knew the end was coming?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘Did it ever occur to you that Vice might kill you?’

Kramer shook his head: ‘Not until it was too late – and he said that nobody would get hurt.’

‘You trusted him?… no matter; Vice is dead,’ – the captain could feel a rallying within his former officer, though Kramer remained physically unmoved despite the mutely grasping tone with which he asked, ‘What are you saying?’

‘A security guard killed him this morning, after he fatally shot two therapists and injured three clients inside the homosexual reparative therapy clinic at Focus On God’s Way in Colorado Springs,’ Helton said.

‘No – he was one of the righteous,’ the ex-lieutenant protested, confusion further clouding his face with the dawning of a realization… and Helton could sense him recoiling from the nascent pain of betrayal as the captain said: ‘Vice didn’t care about executing the Lord’s judgment, Kramer. He used you, even more, used religion as an excuse to vent his self-hatred. He was gay, George,’ – and a veil of numb misery fell over the former policeman’s eyes.

‘You’re not a common criminal, just a righteous fool,’ Helton quietly went on.

Kramer remained silent until he said, ‘And… I… I suppose you want me in the backseat of your cruiser?’

‘If you would, please,’ – Helton gestured toward his vehicle.

A large lump appeared in Kramer’s throat as he swallowed – and though there was no visible change in him, Helton could sense he’d inwardly crumbled as Kramer slowly walked toward Anderson holding the rear door of Helton’s car open.

Nonetheless, Prettyboy and Kramer couldn’t have said why the former officer seemed compelled to give his one-time colleague a crisp salute, though Anderson didn’t reply in kind or speak while helping Kramer into the backseat and closing the door.

Meanwhile, Harden had never seen anything like the look on Helton’s face as he watched – until the chief dialed Dorn’s number and said, ‘George is safely in custody. You men can return to what you were doing.’

‘Congratulations, chief,’ Dorn said.

Helton’s only response was to appear as though blankly staring into voided memories of the past before he closed his phone and returned it to the pocket of his jacket.

By long habit, he never left the keys in his cruiser, even for a few minutes, and Anderson now understood what he wanted when Helton handed them to him.

As Anderson drove away from the curb, he noticed a slight darkening of the earth by a small, solitary cloud crossing the sun’s face, perhaps the shadow of a long-ago time reflecting the-now anguish of Kramer’s mind feeling forsaken by a Divine Presence it seemed had fled the universe.

That only compounded the roiling knot of his inner conflict since, while he’d never admitted it even to himself, he’d always taken quiet pride in self-sacrificial servitude to his deity’s iron-fisted love. At the moment, though, the rancid incense of sacrifice hovered above the altar of his soul like winged demons of condemnation and shame – since hell has no fury like its Gomorrah-inferno of guilt.

He finally leaned forward: ‘Can one of you give me a cigarette?’

Anderson handed his pack of them to Helton taking one out and thrusting it back through the grate between the front and back seats, with the former officer hestitating, then: ‘No – no, that’s all right’…

… eternity was beginning all over again for Georg Ulrich Kramer, once a lieutenant with the Falls City police.

___***___

XVII

(Henry’s farm north of Falls City, that night)

‘Thanks for telling me about Onur and Henry as spiritual lovers,’ Lorenzo said, as he and Tony unloaded firewood from the back of a truck they’d earlier rented in Falls City.

A substantial breeze had brewed up in the late afternoon, though with the sun having laid itself to rest two hours earlier, nature now seemed as if listening for a whisper, perhaps beyond the earthly sound of Tony saying, ‘Onur’s in shock, dad. But I knew you’d want to know about him and Henry, even if that doesn’t really help with Henry leaving us.’

‘In a way, it doesn’t. But this is Henry’s night, and he always said that one sacrifice in life worth the trouble is finding a way to sanctify pain and suffering.’

‘Is that even possible?’ Tony replied. ‘Is that what he did, sanctify his family’s suffering by dying?’

A rueful smile passed across his father’s face: ‘He’s telling us the Universal Oneness was beckoning… listen, Tony, in many ways, Henry was one of the most foolish people I’ve ever known, not childish, but child-like, and it’s fortunate his parents left him with financial security or he’d have been in real trouble. Money was one of the things he understood the least. Yet, he lived with the wisdom of a child, like one of Shakespeare’s court jesters, a wise fool,’ Lorenzo said. ‘And it won’t help to blame him for his death. From what you’ve told me, he died while carrying out the most important thing he’d ever done. He paid for what he believed by standing up to a time and a culture without any real ideals that’d make us better people if we’d only to listen to him.’

Tony didn’t answer while looking at his mother sitting meditatively on a blanket next to a portable, battery-operated CD player – not far from her, Onur squatted, watching Tony and Lorenzo transporting firewood from a pile of it to an unseeded field directly behind Henry’s house.

‘Yeah, I suppose so. And it probably was kind of startling to hear he was descended from the Merovingians,’ Tony said in a bit.

‘Surprising, but what we found in the bank safe deposit boxes this afternoon bears out that Henry carried a burden going all the way back to the quarreling monarchs of northern Israel, while his spirit declaimed the lyrics of David and the Song of Solomon. Now, it’s time to honor what he was, especially considering I finally understand what he meant by saying that the family of all mankind is the only royalty there is,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘Let’s go get another load of wood.’

They got in the truck and Tony began driving toward the large stack of it against the house’s rear wall.

‘So, is this right? – cremating Henry on a funeral pyre seems kind of primitive,’ Tony said, as they again started loading the vehicle.

‘Some years ago, he gave me a codicil of his will plainly stating his desire for a private farewell ceremony involving a pyre. And I’m sure that you, Onur, your mother and I meet the criteria of private as his closest friends. Fortunately, your mother has a large network of well-placed connections, even though it took her a while of making calls throughout it until the governor agreed to sign an executive directive waiving the usual burial requirements. But, you see, Tony, the Christian idea of an afterlife for believers destroys the need for ageless heroes and all Henry wanted was to leave this world like a hero of ancient times,’ Lorenzo replied.

‘That sounds like you, Henry!’ Tony softly but fiercely said as he and his father got in the truck to drive back to the pyre.

‘At least, it was a relief for the police chief to call and let us know his killer is dead,’ he continued, as the two of them disembarked and returned to unloading the truck.

‘Yes, the suspect – what was his name?’

‘I can’t remember all of it, but his last one was Vice, which suited him and what he was just perfect,’ Tony replied, throwing a piece of wood onto the growing pyre with a vengeful hurl.

Lorenzo looked sharply at him: ‘Yes, but Vice is beyond hurting anyone, now.’

‘No, dad! I don’t care what Henry would say! Vice is still hurting us! Just look at what he did to Onur! Damn Vice; I hope he’s rotting in hell!’ – Tony’s response was tight-lipped with anguish.

Lorenzo didn’t say anything before taking his son in his arms, with a sorrowful look over Tony’s shoulder at Meghan and Henry’s lover still overwhelmed in silence.

Lorenzo finally let Tony out of his arms, with a fierceness also coming into his voice: ‘This might not help, at least not now. But I can’t, I’ll never be able to forget Henry’s voice – and he’s telling us we have to have the courage he did to face his final challenge – all right, son?’

Tony nodded – and the moon had gotten well into enchanting the sky’s eastern slope by the time they’d unloaded the truck a third time.

Even more, its evanescent daggers of silver had joined joyful combat with the darkness when Onur silently began helping Tony and Lorenzo unburden the vehicle for the fourth time –and Lorenzo finally said, ‘That’s enough.’

He moved away to make a cell phone call, then, ‘Come,’ – and the younger men followed him to sit with Meghan on the blanket.

Lorenzo had brought the player and a CD Henry had left with his will presenting his special musical requests, and Lorenzo now nodded at Meghan.

She turned the player on, putting one arm around Tony and the other around Onur, while the music seemed only loud enough for the four of them to hear the bitter-sweet surge of the ‘Love and Death’ music from Wagner’s opera, Tristan und Isolde. They listened in silence until the music sighed to completion and Meghan turned the player off as an ambulance appeared, backing onto the field next to the pyre pursuant to Lorenzo’s earlier call.

He stood, walking over to the ambulance, with words not being necessary as he nodded at the pyre. The attendants transferred Henry’s sheet-covered body to it from a gurney they next stowed in the ambulance and drove away.

Seeing the look of pain on Onur’s face, Meghan took his hand while they and Tony watched Lorenzo pouring gasoline on the pyre and body. He left the gasoline to soak in and went back to sit on blanket.

As Henry had specified next for the ceremony, Meghan pressed the machine’s play button, with the prelude of Wagner’s Tannhauser inexorably rising to thunder wrought through with a sob. The ‘Venusberg’ portion of it nonetheless had almost transformed itself into the finale when Lorenzo looked up and nodded at the moon, then at Meghan who stopped the player.

It was time; Tony gently turned Onur’s face away as Lorenzo approached the pyre, to pour gasoline on and light a strip of cloth he’d wrapped around a piece of wood.

With tears streaming down her face, Meghan restarted the player.

The prelude to ‘Die Meistersinger’ leaped triumphantly into the air as Lorenzo threw the torch onto the pyre and Onur wrenched his head around out of Tony’s grasp: ‘Henry! – no, Henry!’ – and he tried struggling to his feet.

‘Onur!’ Tony screamed just as loudly, drawing the young man’s drenched face into a tight grasp against his chest, while in a crackling paean, flames ascended to a roar, their garish light casting the four of them as they were in shadows until Tony said, ‘Don’t run into the fire, Onur. Please? That’s not what Henry wants.’

The young Turk nodded, Tony slowly let him go, and once he, Onur and Meghan had collected themselves enough, they joined Lorenzo, to link arms together as they watched Henry’s departure from earth in a whirling offering of ashes and smoke drawn upward by fire.

A part of Tony was gripped by the magnificence of it, while his mind anew started traveling through the valley of a shadow such as he never known. Just as certainly, however, Tony didn’t understand what slowly began filling the valley, raising it to a high place within, much like the rustic hills where Henry’s ancestors had long ago worshiped the goddess.

Even that was belated comfort, and – ‘Good night, sweet prince, but not goodbye, only until we meet again,’ Tony softly said, with the refrains of the prince’s – no – the King’s Swan Song ravishing the night.

Still, neither he nor the others noticed that clouds had spanned the sky to enshroud the moon by the time Lorenzo asked, ‘Would you turn off the player, Meghan?’

And it lightly started raining as she did – though as on another night in Ankara, none of them felt they were getting wet as Meghan came back and Lorenzo said, ‘Let’s hold hands while I fulfill Henry’s final request by reciting some of his poetry.’

Lorenzo bit his lips in the throes of emotion before he started speaking: – “I have wandered the moon-smitten byways of earth and not seen a divinity as radiantly dark as your eyes, and knowing this I am lost, not caring, for my mind is lost just as well.”

“I won´t be found until the eclipse of divinity, and with an ache marrow-deep of spirit confess that I don´t want to be”

“When come the rabbits from their burrows will come the song of day; dance its rhythms, for living is ceremony, a marriage, even of sorrow to sorrow.”

“Perfume isn´t released until flower-petals are crushed by pulses of the heart.”

Lorenzo then paused to let go of Tony’s and Meghan’s hands. He placed both of his on Onur’s shoulders and said, ‘The last three refrains are especially for you. Listen’:

“I honor you; You, prince of desert horses, the pristine promise of treasured rainbows in your arching neck, the wind in your flowing mane, in the cadences of your feet;
dust rises around you like a veil… the yawning of god in awakening lies beyond”…

“You’re as free as the air into which you release the spirit of your beloved, for visible only to naked soul, divinity shades the same air with its wings”…

‘… and the final one’:- “We are forever as the soil from which we come… and to which we shall return.”

There was a long moment of silence, then, ‘Thanks, Mr. Barret. That was beautiful,’ Onur breathed.

‘All Henry wants is for you to keep his words, his voice here,’ – and Lorenzo placed his hand over Onur’s heart.

‘I will,’ – and Onur pressed his lips together with renewed determination.

He and the others next turned to watch the last of the pyre and body embracing the glowing life of embers in the hissing birth of rain.

And they kept watching, in grieving silence, until Lorenzo spoke: ‘I’ll come back for the truck tomorrow. It’s time to go.’

Meghan collected the CD player and, as Onur and Tony started walking away with their arms around each other, Onur said, ‘I’m not looking back.’

‘That’s what Henry wants, only for you to look forward. Listen, though, mom, dad and I will help you return to Turkey. But I’m sure I can get an extension on finishing my dissertation if you want to travel for three months – you know, like Henry planned with you.’

‘I’d like that,’ Onur replied, as Tony looked deep into his eyes for a long moment and said, ‘It might not be until Thanksgiving or Christmas. But I’m coming back to Turkey. Somebody’s there I want to see again.’

‘That’d be nice,’ Onur said as they continued walking toward Tony’s rental car, no, toward the East, toward the dawn of new love.

It was then that the clouds briefly parted, revealing the face of The Lady.

Her garment of Heaven then closed around her and it started raining again, while still in his grief, Tony suddenly felt encompassed as though by the warmth of a liquid, royal robe – and he couldn’t have cared less that he was getting wet: The House of the Rose was waiting.

‘Iyi gejeler, good night, but only until we meet again, dear king – no, benim ruhani askim.’

___***___

Postlude

While he hadn’t been able to arrest Fanny Fay Vice, self-code-named The Wrath of the Lord, Lt. Anderson was able to close-out the Van Buren murder case once a couple of boys reported Adam Evans’ body floating down the Missouri River four days after he was killed. Prettyboy had divers search upriver until Evans’ and Vice’s vehicles were found. Further investigation showed that Evans did have an unregistered car and was without a driver’s license while hiding-out in southern Missouri until he ventured into Nebraska to collect his final payment of death at Vice’s hand. Obviously, the gray Hummer had once been his murderer’s.

However, economic exigencies forced Focus On God’s Way to close their ineffective gay reversal clinic in Colorado Springs. Even their god apparently works on a budget.

Despite the best of verbal wrangling that Kramer’s lawyer could offer, Judge Hoeckner denied his client bail. Two months after incarceration, the final chapter of Kramer’s life came to a sad ending in the prison dining hall, when a deranged inmate stabbed him in the heart with a handmade shift, and the one-time lieutenant, code-named The Sword of Gideon, died with his blood spilling across the floor, much the way his Savior’s supposedly had once stained a wooden symbol, another device fashioned for violence.

Myrna, Prettyboy’s mother, still is the most popular waitress at The Buffalo Chips Steakhouse, while Brenda continues her work at The Flapperjack Hut.

Nardo confronted Rita in court, attempting to recover his share of the money she took from their joint bank account. She has yet to pay, something which hardly spoils Dorn’s contentment since he has another girlfriend, and not a ‘mud-fish’, either. They plan to marry – sometime in the future.

Tony and Onur did, indeed, tour the United States for three months before Onur returned to Turkey and continued his studies in Ottoman literature at Bilkent University. Tony made it to visit Arzu at Thanksgiving and she plans to emigrate to the States – perhaps they, too, will marry.

Further, Tony edited and published Henry’s book which, while hardly a bestseller, does reasonably well in bookstores similar to Van Buren’s. Needless to say, it’s not popular with fundamentalist Christians.

Is that everything? Oh – Prettyboy Anderson has yet to go through another divorce, while Jeremy, the chief’s son, left the hospital on schedule and lost contact with nurse Marie, ‘his girlfriend’. He recovered completely from illness and is fit as a fiddle. Sometimes, he eschews video games to play cops and robbers with his buddies, and they use toy guns about which Helton occasionally dreams… while triumphant in the deep cradle of sleep, the captain sometimes still mumbles: ‘Got’cha!’

THE END