nightmare, a whirling mass of far too many people in far too much of a hurry to get to far too many places. Everyone, it seemed, was always in a rush. Always on the go. Dantzler often wondered if Americans were somehow wired for constant movement. Maybe it was part of our DNA, like the color of our eyes. Whatever the reason, the evidence was clear that taking life easy, stopping to smell the roses, or appreciating Nature’s beauty were quaint concepts that had long ago vanished in this mad-dash country.
He gave brief consideration to making an appearance at the police station, but decided not to. It was out of the way, and he didn’t want to fight the traffic any longer than necessary. Also, he knew there was no need to check in, not in today’s cell phone, text message, Twitter world. Had anything happened demanding his attention, he would have heard about it ten seconds after it occurred.
After making a quick stop at the Liquor Barn on Richmond Road to buy a bottle of Pernod and some orange juice, he headed home, the small ranch-style house on Lakeshore Drive he bought in the mid-1990s. Home sounded good, especially after the craziness of the past few months, in which there had been four homicides and three suicides. God knows, he could use the down time, the quiet, being alone. There were books to be read, music to be listened to, tennis to be played, personal issues to be dealt with. In the blur of work, too many important items had been neglected or pushed aside. Like most Americans, he seemed to be trapped on a speedway going nowhere fast. It was a feeling he didn’t like.
With each passing year, he became more aware of the reality that time charges relentlessly forward, never yielding, grabbing your life by the throat and carrying it toward its inevitable end. We are all weary and reluctant travelers hanging on as best we can, engaged in a futile attempt to outrun the clock, to win the mad dash to the finish line. But no matter how hard we fight it, how strong our resistance, or how swiftly we run, time always wins the race. Time is undefeated and always will be. That will never change.
An hour later, sitting at home alone, he recalled a line written by the great T.S. Eliot:
He wanted off the speedway.
Maybe that was why he felt such ambivalence toward his meeting with the Reverend. Did he really want to open that can of worms? Dig into a crime now almost thirty years old? Help a man who would surely be dead within a matter of weeks, possibly even days?
Did he really want to invest his time and energy in a closed case?
Dantzler’s silent answer to every question was no. And yet… he couldn’t simply dismiss it outright, no matter how much he might want to. The old man was right-Dantzler tended to believe him. Dantzler had interviewed his share of liars in the past, but the Reverend, though smooth-tongued enough to be a superb liar, was hitting at some truths.
The detective instincts in Dantzler were screaming that this was a case with legs. It was, Dantzler conceded, and he admitted this with some reluctance, one he would probably look into. Like it or not, his interest had been piqued. His detective juices were flowing.
There was yet another, ever greater reason for his interest-the possibility that an innocent man was in prison. That was unacceptable.
Dantzler spent Saturday night drinking Pernod and orange juice and listening to Leonard Cohen CDs. On Sunday, he rose early, put himself through an hour of torture on the treadmill and Stairmaster, showered, and read the newspaper. After paying a couple of bills, he gave thought to playing a few sets of tennis with Randall Dennis, but quickly brushed them aside. He also toyed with the idea of phoning Laurie, but cast that notion out just as quickly. Their relationship had cooled during the past few months, which, both of them agreed, was for the best. Richard Bird, their captain, was in equal agreement. He was dead set against co-workers being involved romantically, and he had not been afraid to make his feelings known.
Instead, Dantzler opted to dig into the stack of unread books, beginning with Harold Bloom’s
By three-thirty, however, Jesus and Yahweh had been usurped by Eli Whitehouse. Dantzler couldn’t get the Reverend’s words out of his head:
“Jack,” he yelled, “if this isn’t life-or-death important, I’m gonna shoot you dead.”
“You’d do better to shoot those fish you’re trying to catch. From what I hear, you can’t land one with a rod and reel.”
Charlie laughed. “Much as I hate to admit it, there’s a good deal of truth in that statement. I’m an old man who can’t see.”
“Clever, Charlie. Didn’t know you were up on your Hemingway.”
“Hell, Jack, I met him once. Down in Key West a couple of years before he ate the shotgun. Shook his hand.”
“You and Papa. Hard to envision.”
“I only shook the man’s hand, Jack. We didn’t share a beer.”
“I assume you’re at the lake. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“When will you be back?”
“Tonight, around midnight. Why? What’s up?”
“Meet me at Coyle’s tomorrow. Say around one-thirty. Lunch is on me.”
“What’s this about, Jack? Something important I need to know about?”
“Relax, it’s nothing big. I simply want to talk to you about a few things.”
“That has an ominous sound to it.”
“You worry too much, Charlie. There’s nothing ominous about it at all.”
“Worrying is what made me a good cop.”
“See you tomorrow, Charlie. And don’t smell like fish when you show up.”
After hanging up, Dantzler returned to the Bloom book, spending the next hour reading and contemplating the author’s suggestion that Yeshua of Nazareth and Jesus Christ were not only different personages, but were, indeed, totally incompatible with one another. According to Bloom, one was a rather dark and mysterious human, the other a theological God. One longed for his father, the other was his father’s anointed son. The great irony, Bloom was quick to point out, was the transformation of Yeshua, the Jew of Jews, into the centerpiece of a new religion- Christianity. Bloom took that paradox even further, saying that had Yeshua of Nazareth somehow survived the Crucifixion and lived on into old age, he would have regarded Christianity with amazement. Dantzler found himself in complete agreement with Bloom’s assessment.
At six, with more than half the book finished, Dantzler’s growling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten all day. Yahweh would have to wait, Dantzler decided. Food, not esoteric literature, was now the top priority.
He quickly threw together one of his instant “left-over specials,” this one consisting of spaghetti and meatballs, and what remained of a Caesar salad. Not an award-winning meal by any standards, but at least it was filling.
There was nothing in the house that would even remotely pass for dessert, so he mixed another Pernod and orange juice and was about to head for the deck when his phone rang. He put his glass on the counter and picked up the phone.
“Jack Dantzler.”
“Forget everything the Reverend told you,” a man’s voice ordered. “That’s for your own good, and I will not repeat myself.”
