Who the hell are you, June Cleaver? Maybe she should say nothing forever, let Sam think his father just made industrial films. Pete wouldn’t want Sam to be ashamed, to bear the brunt of his sins. Or she could take the money, throw it at Sam, say. Here’s what your mama wanted to pay me for silence, hon. Know who you’re living with.
She dug the creased business card out of her purse, smoothed it out, then dialed Whit’s number.
*
At ten after nine Wednesday morning, Claudia drove past an elaborately painted sign that read JABEZ JONES MINISTRIES. Above the logo was a gold cross etched over a pair of gargantuan biceps.
‘Did you know that Jesus did not work out on a regular basis?’ Whit slurped a cup of hot coffee he’d snagged at Irina’s cafe.
‘Judas was flabby, too,’ Claudia said. The road leading to the compound was surrounded by a dense growth of bent oaks and lined by hardy palm trees. They drove past another sign that read SALVATION AHEAD -FEEL THE BURN BURN.
‘So what happens if you go to hell? Don’t you still feel the burn?’ Claudia asked. She didn’t feel the burn, but she felt the tension in the car. She and Whit hadn’t talked since she’d seen Faith at Whit’s place. Whit had seemed tired when she picked him up at the courthouse. He updated her about his talk with Junior Deloache and Anson Todd. Another angle for her to present to Delford, although she fretted her boss would welcome news of Pete’s friendship with hoods no more than theories of murder. ‘Do you think he’s this corny on purpose?’
‘Absolutely. It’s sort of like asking if pro wrestlers consider themselves athletes,’ Whit said. ‘Do you remember Jabez Jones from school?’
‘Vaguely. Geeky, glasses, the kind of preacher’s kid you felt bad for because you just knew he never got to have one lick of fun,’ Claudia said.
‘I remember seeing him wrestling on TV. Joltin’ Jabez Jones. I nearly didn’t recognize him. Especially in gold tights.’
‘God knows my father considers pro wrestling a religion.’
‘God doesn’t have much to do with his appeal,’ Whit said. ‘He’s just like those TV specials on pets that attack or cops’ greatest chases or us all watching a president get caught with his pants down. Everything is entertainment now. He’s just making local evangelism another genre.’
They turned into an asphalt parking lot. Jabez’s compound was the original odd folly of a Fort Worth oil baron who had built a television studio outside Port Leo, part of an ill-conceived plan for a fishing network. The few shows he produced bombed and the compound stayed shuttered for a few years until Jabez Jones defected from the pro wrestling ring to start his church and show. Holy Cross-Training. It had found a shaky home on stations serving rural markets with low-powered religious programming.
The squat cabins were painted a glossy white. A game of women’s volleyball, played in modest shorts and T-shirts adorned with gold crosses, was under way in a sand pit. A couple of men stood by, watching, attempting unsuccessfully to look pious while ogling the bouncing breasts.
‘He’s Hugh Hefner with a Bible,’ Whit said.
Whit and Claudia were barely out of the car when the welcoming committee arrived. She was six feet tall, well muscled, and wore her platinum-blond hair closely cropped. She wore a tight white T-shirt with a gold cross emblazoned on the chest and cargo pants bulky enough to conceal an armory. Whit remembered what Ernesto had told him about one of Pete’s visitors: like a man with titties. It was a crude, unkind, but effective description.
‘Hi. I’m Judge Whit Mosley and this is Detective Claudia Salazar from the Port Leo police. We have an appointment with Jabez,’ Whit said.
‘Regarding?’
‘He wanted to share some information with us regarding a case,’ Claudia said.
‘Follow me. But if he’s not done with his taping, you’ll just have to wait.’
Claudia and Whit followed the Amazon along a crushed-oyster-shell path that led down from the main complex toward a finger of the bay.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Whit said.
‘Mary Magdalene.’
Whit shot Claudia a look. If Mary Magdalene was this tough, Whit thought, God only knew how butch Esther and Ruth were. Eve could probably kick major ass, too.
‘This is an impressive setup.’ Claudia gave Whit a frown that said. Don’t you dare laugh,
Mary Magdalene nodded. ‘Oh, yes, the Lord has smiled on Jabez.’
‘He’s smiling on that volleyball court,’ Whit said.
‘Jabez says exercise is a way of paying homage to what the Lord has created, in making man and woman. Building muscles is worship.’ She flexed her own thickened arms.
‘I’ve always believed our bodies are temples,’ Whit offered. Mary Magdalene gave him a quick scrutiny, then apparently dismissed his temple as one devoted to a lesser god.
The volleyball bounced into the grass near them. One of the comely disciples chased it. She scooped the ball up, and Whit thought: Do I know her? But the young woman turned and sashayed back to the game.
‘Jabez doesn’t have much trouble getting a date, does he?’ Whit observed in what he considered to be a completely friendly tone. Claudia withered him with a glare.
‘Jabez doesn’t date,’ Mary Magdalene spat out the last word. ‘He doesn’t care a whit for the temptations of this physical world.’ Her voice hardened. ‘The temptations of the flesh are the seed of all evil.’
Whit surveyed the immaculately kept buildings, the sand-rumped girls playing volleyball, the new Cadillac parked right by the administration building door with JABEZ on the plate. ‘He’s a real Francis of Assisi,’ Whit said to Claudia, his voice lowered.
‘Sissy?’ Mary Magdalene had misheard.
‘No, sassy,’ Whit answered. ‘He sasses that old devil, don’t he?’
Mary Magdalene raised one platinum eyebrow. ‘Jabez could kick the devil’s ass, and don’t you forget it.’
Whit and Claudia reflected on this platitude in silence. Claudia pinched Whit on the meaty part of his arm to ensure he wouldn’t comment.
Mary Magdalene escorted them to a small stretch of beach full of cameras, portable sound booms, and spandex-clad missionaries. Sparkling white sand, cleaner-looking than the grayish beige grit on most Texas beaches, had been spread over the native soil.
Whit and Claudia stood back to watch the spectacle. Jabez Jones, well over six feet tall, two hundred thirty pounds of muscle with less body fat than a moth, lay on his side, scissoring his tree-trunk legs into the air, counting off reps while providing a little insight into the Book of Luke. Behind him two women (one svelte, one heavy for the dieting viewers to bond with) and a less beefy man mirrored his exercises, all beaming like angels.
‘Now, hold the lift until the Scripture is done,’ Jabez boomed. ‘“I tell thee, thou shalt not depart thence till thou hast paid the very… last… mite.”… There! Amen! Bless us all, did you feel the Holy Spirit invigorating your limbs? I know I did. I’m just coursing with the Holy Spirit right now. You keep doing those leg lifts and the devil himself won’t be able to catch you. Now let’s start our cool-down, and our Scripture for that is one of the more relaxing Psalms, a personal favorite of mine, number sixty-one.’
Whit resisted the urge to lead a cheer.
Cool-down completed, Jabez jumped to his feet, did a hand clap, reminded viewers about his I -888 number and Web site to place requests with Jabez’s Prayer Workout Chain or to order his fitness-theology tapes. ‘Remember, your donations make all the difference in fighting flab… and sin! Praise God! Call now!’
God – who, in Whit’s mind, represented the infinite beauty of the universe – as a weight-loss shuckster.
Finally a nasal-voiced director called, ‘That’s a wrap. Beautiful, Jabez.’ Jabez gave a weary sigh and wiped the sand off his oiled legs. The crew began their cleanup.
‘I’m curious, Mary Magdalene,’ Whit said. ‘Where does all the money come from to pay for this wonderful spread? Jabez’s wrestling career must’ve been lucrative in that worldly goods way.’
‘The Lord provides,’ Mary Magdalene intoned.
‘The Lord must provide on a real regular basis,’ Whit said. Claudia shot him a look: Quit antagonizing this woman. Whit moved to the left a couple of feet to avoid another pinch.
Jabez Jones trotted over, smiling. ‘Hello, Detective Salazar. Judge Mosley. Bless you.’
‘Hello, Reverend.’ Claudia nodded. ‘We had an appointment?’
‘Of course. Thank you for escorting them here, Mary. We can talk here along the beach, it’s quiet and
