“You ever see anybody bothering her?” asked Nick.

“Men were attracted to her,” said Leary.

“What about Cory Bonnett?” asked Nick.

“Guy’s a nutcase,” said Fowler. “I can’t even be in the same room with that creep.”

“He’d kick your fake hippie ass,” said Lobdell.

“Cory is a man headed for trouble,” said Leary.

The sand gave way to rocks. Leary and Fowler seemed to glide across them. Nick steadied himself, picking his way. In the faint moonlight it was hard to see the cracks and holes. The air had the tide-pool smell of ocean and of seaweed beginning to spoil.

“Janelle was working for the Sheriff’s Department,” said Nick. “As an informant. We didn’t find that out until after she was murdered.”

“I never trusted her,” said Fowler. “Didn’t I tell you, Tim? Didn’t I make her for a snitch right out?”

“Yes,” said Leary softly. He sounded genuinely disappointed. “You did.”

“So,” said Nick. “We thought if some genius like Fowler here figured that out, maybe that’s a reason to shut her up. That’s the kind of possibility that interests us.”

“I never touched her,” said Fowler. “I got no interest in chicks that think they know everything. I crashed with some friends that night out in Dodge City. I’ll give you numbers. You can ask them. I don’t give a shit what you think.”

Leary stood on the rocks. White shirt and pants flapping in the stiff coast breeze. Nick felt the soles of his wing tips growing slick from the brine. Could use some sandals with tire-rubber soles like the hippies, he thought. A wave rushed across the rocks. Soaked him halfway up his calves.

“This world is full of experience,” said Leary. “And the temptation of experience.”

“You and your drugs are temptation,” said Nick.

“But they’re not my drugs and they haven’t killed anyone.”

“There’s that lady who jumped out of the skyscraper,” said Lobdell.

“She was under psychiatric treatment,” said Leary. “LSD should probably not be prescribed for a potential suicide.”

“Your first wife killed herself,” said Lobdell.

“Yes. God bless her.”

Fowler had jumped up onto the rocks. Nimble for a thick strong man. Whispered something in Leary’s ear, then laughed.

“Dr. Leary, where were you on Tuesday night, October first?” asked Nick.

Leary looked at him but said nothing for a long moment. “With my wife Rosemary and my son Jack. We ate at a Chinese restaurant downtown. That’s a nasty insinuation you just made, if you’re considering me a suspect.”

Leary aimed the flashlight at himself. The light turned his flesh pale red and cast shadows upward on his face. Weird guy, thought Nick. Figured Leary had spent more days frying on LSD than he had spent on the job as a homicide detective.

“Where I’m standing right now is called the Giggle Crack,” said Leary. He aimed the light down on the shiny black rocks. “See the crack, where the water comes in and flows out? In daylight it’s really quite beautiful. People like to see if they can get in, feel the tide swell around them. But there’s a sharp edge they don’t see and it snags their ankles and the water beats them terribly against the sharp rocks. The Giggle Crack has killed three people. Every ten years it claims a new victim. There it is again-the temptation of experience.”

“Someone raped and strangled Janelle,” said Nick. “It wasn’t temptation that did that.”

Leary shined the flashlight on Nick’s face, then tilted it back at himself. “Is this more to you than a case, Mr. Becker?”

“I knew her when she was a little girl,” said Nick. “She used to sing and dance.”

“I’m sure she was perfect in every way,” said Leary. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Goodbye. There’s a trail to your right that leads up the bluff. It’s easy to follow. There are feral cats in the brush. Their eyes glow faint yellow in the dark. They’ll lead your way. Good night, gentlemen.”

Fowler handed Nick a piece of paper. “My alibis. Check ’em all you want.”

They drifted away. Nick could see Leary’s white clothes slowly vanish.

Nick and Lobdell climbed up the trail on the bluff, yellow cat eyes paired in the brush around them.

24

DAVID WALKED THE NEW CHAPEL that morning with young Darren Whitbrend. David leaned slightly forward, half a step ahead of his prospective partner, hands locked behind the small of his back. He was finding it very difficult to shake the words that brother Andy had written about brother Nick in this morning’s Journal. Max, their father, had called David just after 6 A.M., perplexed and fretful at the hostility between his sons.

“Is televangelism a word?” asked David.

“I heard it somewhere, sir,” said Whitbrend. “And thought it was perfect.”

“Barbara tells me you’re a televangelism guru,” said David.

“Guru was her word, sir,” said Whitbrend with a smile. Whitbrend was fair-complected and white-haired. Eyes small and quick. Round spectacles. He had a trim, wiry frame and a blunt face.

“I think televangelism is the future of ministry,” said Whitbrend. “I think there will be a day, in my lifetime, when churches become the studios for Christianity. Faith will surge across the airwaves. Entire networks will be dedicated to God’s word. Empires built with satellites and antennas and closed-circuit broadcasts and pay-as-you-view events. A television set in every room and in every vehicle and in every public space. Screens so small they can fit in your pocket. Screens so big they’re placed on the sides of buildings. A staggering apparatus for transmitting faith and making money for God’s purpose.”

David sighed and shook his head slightly.

“Is that distasteful to you, Reverend?”

“Grim shit,” David said.

“Why?”

Whitbrend was direct and comfortable with words. David wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Like I said on the phone,” said David. “I love my congregation. I don’t want to lose them.”

“With respect, sir, if you don’t televise, you’ll surely lose them.”

“Preach to millions? How can one man minister to millions? I can hardly keep Mrs. Hartley’s allergic papillon straight from Mrs. Harley’s allergic grandson.”

Whitbrend smiled. It was somehow transparent and conspiratorial at the same time. It forced David to figure out which and he didn’t appreciate the extra work. He noted that one of Whitbrend’s neat front teeth was capped and slightly whiter than the others.

“Well, sir. As you and Mrs. Becker and I understand, one man can’t do everything. We see that it will take two. Two. You and whoever you choose for the astonishing journey you are making.”

David eyed the young minister. Whitbrend’s résumé had billed him as a “nondenominational, faith-based evangelist in the tradition of Billy Graham.” He was twenty-two. But it was difficult to see the spark in him. Billy Graham could light up like a Texas bonfire. You could feel the heat. Whitbrend, however, seemed only intelligent. And probably tenacious. David pictured him behind the pulpit here in the Grove Drive-In Church of God, unknowingly leading the congregation-his congregation-into bored resentment. Faith was joy. God was joy. Jesus was joy. Whitbrend was a Lutheran-trained mutineer without pizzazz.

Outside they toured the playground and storage buildings, the classrooms and the extra drive-in stalls. David felt like a homeowner entertaining buyers he didn’t want to sell to. They stood approximately two hundred feet back from the full-screen Raising of Lazarus, the optimal distance for taking it all in. The speaker-studded expanse of sky blue asphalt stretched all around them.

“This is all well and good,” said Whitbrend. “But your congregation deserves more. You want to inspire awe.”

David suspected he’d entirely misread Whitbrend. “This inspires me every morning when I see it,” he said.