Mystery Walk

across the title page was a signature in red ink: J.J. Falconer.

In the dimly lit, luxurious leather-and-wood interior of the Tutwiler, Jimmy Jed Falconer was met by a young gray-suited lawyer named Henry Bragg. They stood at the center of the large lobby, shaking hands and talking about general things—the state of the weather, farm economics, and what the Crimson Tide was likely to do next season.

'Everything ready up there, Henry?' Falconer asked.

'Yes sir. We're expecting Forrest any minute now.'

'Lemonade?' Falconer lifted his thick blond brows.

'Yes sir, Mr. Falconer,' Henry said. 'I've already ordered it.'

They entered the elevator and the coffee-colored woman sitting on a stool inside smiled politely and turned a brass lever to take them to the fifth floor.

'Didn't bring the wife and son with you this time?' Henry asked, pushing his black horn-rimmed glasses back onto his nose. He had graduated from the University of Alabama Law School only last year, and still wore the brutal white-walled haircut of his Delta Kappa Epsilon days; but he was a smart young man with alert blue eyes that rarely missed a trick, and he was pleased that J.J. Falconer remembered him from the work his firm had done last spring.

'Nope. Camille and Wayne stayed home, mindin' the store. I'll tell you, keepin' up with that Wayne is a full- time job in itself.' He laughed, a bark of muted trumpets. 'Boy can run a bloodhound ragged.'

The fifth-floor suite, with windows overlooking Twentieth Street, was decked out like an office, containing a few desks, telephones, and filing cabinets. There was a reception area set apart from the workspace, containing comfortable easy chairs, a coffee table, and a long beige sofa framed by brass lamps. An easel had been set up facing the sofa, and on the wall hung a large framed Confederate flag.

A stocky man with thinning brown hair, wearing a pale blue short-sleeved shirt with G.H. monogrammed on the breast pocket, looked up from the paperwork strewn across one of the desks, smiled, and rose to his feet as the other two men entered.

Falconer gripped his hand and shook it. 'Good to see you, George. How's the family?'

'Doing just fine. Camille and Wayne?'

'One's prettier than ever, the other's growin' like a wild weed. Now I see who the hard worker is in this organization.' He slapped George Hodges on the back and slid a sidelong glance at Henry, whose smile slipped a fraction. 'What do you have for me?'

Hodges offered him a couple of manila folders. 'Tentative budget. Contribution records as of March thirty-first. Also a list of contributors through the last three years. Cash flow's thirty percent ahead of where we were this time last April.'

Falconer shrugged out of his coat and sat down heavily on the sofa, then began reading the organizational reports. 'I see we had a sizable donation from Peterson Construction by last April, and the April before that too; but they're not on the sheet this year. What happened?' He looked up squarely at his business manager.

'We've contacted them twice, took old man Peterson to lunch last week,' Hodges explained while he sharpened a pencil. 'Seems his son is in a stronger position this year, and the kid thinks tent revivals are . . . well, old-fashioned. The company needs a tax writeoff, but . . .'

'Uh-huh. Well, it appears to me that we've been barking up the wrong tree then, doesn't it? The Lord loves a cheerful giver, but He'll take it any way He can get it if it helps spread the Word.' He smiled, and the others did too. 'Seems we should've been talking to Peterson Junior. I'll remember to give him a personal call. George, you get his home phone number for me, will you?'

'Mr. Falconer,' Bragg said as he sat down in one of the chairs, 'it seems to me that—just maybe—Peterson has a point.'

Hodges tensed and turned to stare; Falconer's head slowly rose from the file he was reading, his blue-green eyes glittering.

Bragg shrugged uneasily, realizing from the sudden chill that he'd stepped through the ice. 'I just . . . meant to point out that in my research I've found most of the successful evangelists have made the transition from radio and tent revivals to television. I think television will prove itself to be a great social force in the next ten years, and I think you'd be wise to—'

Falconer laughed abruptly. 'Listen to the young scholar, George!' he whooped. 'Well, I can tell I don't have to worry about how slick your brain gears are, do I?' He leaned forward on the sofa, his face suddenly losing its grin, his eyes fixing in a hard stare. 'Henry, I want to tell you something. My daddy was a dirt-poor Baptist preacher. Do you know what dirt-poor means, Henry?' His mouth crooked in a savage grin for a few seconds. 'You come from a fine old Montgomery family, and I don't think you understand what it means to be hungry. My momma worried herself into an old woman at twenty-five. We were on the road most of the time, just like tramps. They were hard days, Henry. The Depression, nobody could get a job 'cause everything was closed down, all across the South.' He stared up at the Confederate flag for a few seconds, his eyes dark.

'Anyway, somebody saw us on the road and gave us a beat-up old tent to live in. For us it was a mansion, Henry. We pitched camp on the roadside, and my daddy made a cross out of boards and nailed up a sign on a tree that said: >rev falconer's tent revivals nightly! everybody welcome! He preached for the tramps who came along that road, heading for Birmingham to find work. He was a good minister too, but something about being under that tent put brimstone and fire in his soul; he scared Satan out of more men and women than Hell could hold. People praised God and talked in tongues, and demons came spilling out right there like black bile. By the time my daddy died, the Lord's work was more than he could handle; hundreds of people were seeking him out day and night. So I stepped in to help, and I've been there ever since.'

Falconer leveled his gaze at Bragg. 'I used to do a radio show, about ten years or so back. Well, those were fine, but what about the people who don't have radios? What about those who don't own television sets? Don't they deserve to be touched, too? You know how many people lifted their hands to Jesus last summer, Henry? At least fifty a night, five nights a week May through August! Isn't that right, George?'

'Sure is, J.J.'

'You're a bright young man,' Falconer said to the lawyer. 'I think what's in the back of your mind is the idea of expansion. Is that so? Breaking out of the regional circuit and going nationwide? That's fine; ideas like that are what I pay you for. Oh, it'll happen all right, praise the Lord, but I've got sawdust in my blood!' He grinned. 'With Jesus in your heart and your blood full of sawdust, boy, you can lick Satan with one hand tied behind your back!'

There was a knock at the door, and a porter came in wheeling a cart with Dixie cups and a pitcher of cold lemonade, compliments of the management. The porter poured them all a drink and left the room clutching a religious pamphlet.

Falconer took a cooling sip. 'Now that hits the spot dead-center,' he said. 'Seems Mr Forrest forgot about us, didn't he?'

'I spoke to him this morning, J.J.,' Hodges said. 'He told me there was an afternoon meeting he might get hung up in, but he'd be here as soon as he could.'

Falconer grunted and picked up an Alabama Baptist newspaper.

Hodges opened a folder and sorted through a stack of letters and petitions—'fan letters to God,' J.J. called them—sent from people all over the state, asking for the Falconer Crusade to visit their particular towns this summer. 'Petition from Grove Hill's signed by over a hundred people,' he told Falconer. 'Most of them sent in contributions, too.'

'The Lord's at work,' Falconer commented, paging through the paper.

'An interesting letter here, too.' Hodges spread it out on the blotter before him; there were a couple of stains on the lined paper that looked like tobacco juice. 'Sent from a town called Hawthorne. . . .'

Falconer looked up. 'It's not but fifteen miles or so away from Fayette, probably less than ten from my front door, as the crow flies. What about it?'

'Letter's from a man named Lee Sayre,' Hodges continued. 'Seems the town's been without a minister since the first of February, and the men have been taking turns reading a Bible lesson on Sunday mornings to the congregation. When did we last schedule a revival near your hometown, J.J.?'

'Four years or more, I suppose.' Falconer frowned. 'Without a minister, huh? They must be starving for real leadership by now. Does he say what happened?'