Valediction

'Okay,' I said. 'I'll go visit them. Any summation you'd care to give me before I go?'

'I don't know how much reason you have to be wary of these people,' Keneally said, 'but I have none. As far as I know the church leaders and membership are sincere, if doctrinally unsophisticated. The Bullies pose no threat to the established church or, as far as I know, to the established order. Its membership is probably disenchanted with more orthodox worship, and like so many other fringe religions, the Bullies provide a complete life, albeit a limited one. It is communal, rather rigidly ruled, and vigorously organized by a single purpose. Certain kinds of people find it a very attractive alternative to lives that have been chaotic or aimless.'

'The Bullies are not the only source for that kind of satisfaction,' I said.

'Indeed not.' Keneally smiled. 'Many in my calling are drawn by something not dissimilar. But the Bullies also, of course, represent an antiestablishment, and-for lack of a better word-revolutionary, option. The established churches are just that, established, and would thus be less inviting to a certain kind of person.'

'A life with mission and without uncertainty,' I said, 'with some revolutionary zeal for frosting.'

Keneally nodded. 'One could do worse,' he said.

'One often does,' I said.

CHAPTER 9

The founding church of the Reorganized Church of the Redemption was on the former site of an animal park and theme village off Route 114 in Middleton. There were about fifteen acres with a green, and a plain white church at one end. Several bungalows lined each side of the green and behind them some small outbuildings, and then gardens. The whole thing looked like a cut-rate version of Old Sturbridge Village.

I pulled in onto the gravel drive that circled the green and drove up and parked beside the church. It looked like any New England village church. In the gardens behind the bungalows a number of people were working.

I walked up the front steps of the church and into the foyer. A sign said OFFICE, and an arrow pointed left. I went left. There was a set of stairs and another arrow. I followed the arrow down and in the basement of the church found a collection of office cubicles separated by frosted glass partitions. There was air-conditioning and fluorescent light and the sound of typewriters. A young woman at the reception desk said, 'May I help you.'

She had a frizzy perm and some makeup. She wore a white blouse with a round collar and an olive skirt.

'Is there someone who normally talks to people with questions,' I said.

'Questions about the church, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Mr. Owens is our director of community relations,' she said.

'May I speak with him,' I said.

'Certainly, sir. Would you have a seat. I'll see if Mr. Owens is free.'

I sat and she stood, and walked down the corridor. She was wearing high-heeled shoes with no backs and her tan legs were bare. Not bad hips for a religious zealot. Susan had told me that those kind of shoes were called fuckme shoes. 'On the assumption that you didn't want to order them in quite that way to a saleslady at Filene's,' I had said, 'what else would you call them?' Susan had said that she'd simply have to find some and point. She'd never heard them called anything else. Probably called hold-my-hand shoes here.

The receptionist returned and smiled and said Mr. Owens would see me. I followed her down the hall and she ushered me into one of the cubicles. There was a gray metal desk and two gray metal chairs and a file cabinet and a picture of a man, probably Bullard Winston, on the wall. Owens stood and put out his hand.

'Bob Owens,' he said.

Owens was tall and trim with sandy hair and some freckles. His hands had large knuckles and they cracked slightly when we shook hands. He had on a seersucker suit and a white shirt and a light yellow tie.

I sat in one of the metal chairs and said, 'I am looking for a young woman named Sherry Spellman.' I took my license out and handed it across to him. He looked at it, smiled, handed it back.

'Not a flattering likeness,' he said.

'It didn't have much of a start,' I said. He nodded.

'Sherry is with us,' he said.

'Here?' I said.

Owens smiled. 'She is with us,' he said.

'I'd like to speak with her if I may.'

'I'm sorry, sir, that isn't possible,' Owens said.

'Why not?'

'She has sought refuge with us. We cannot very well violate her refuge at the first request.'

'She's here voluntarily?'

Owens put his head back and smiled and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. 'My God, yes. How else would she be here? This is a Christian church.'

'Her friend says she was taken forcibly. That's why he hired me.'

Owens didn't smile. 'That is absurd,' he said. 'Who is this friend?'