“The authors, all twelve of ‘em.”
Charles’s last bubble died in a smile. The sheriff had produced the lesser pops but the better punch line. Then Charles was appalled to learn that the sheriff was not joking. There were twelve apostles on the New Church governing board, and the text of the Bible had been substantially rewritten.
As he opened the passenger door of the car, the sheriff leaned toward him and said, “I’m gonna send my deputy back here to pick you up when you’re done. I’m not being pushy, Mr. Butler, I’m just real concerned for your health. So you won’t mind that?”
“Not at all. I appreciate the concern.” And he meant that, for they had just been bonded by gum, hadn’t they?
“Have a nice visit,” said Jessop, “but don’t stray off the fairgrounds. That’s just a friendly caution.”
Charles stepped out of the car and walked over the open field beyond the parking lot, past the blights of vans and trucks, trailers and food stands. When he stood at the center of the denuded horseshoe bend, he had a spectacular view of cypress trees and their mirror reflections lining the far shore of the bayou. A snowy egret took flight in the distance, escaping the noise which was growing in volume as the grounds filled with workers shouting and barking commands.
His eyes followed the flight of the bird. Its wings spread on the air and long legs flowed back from white feathers. The sun dappled the bayou in a bright band of sparkling lights. A fish broke through still water near a string of trap lines extending out from the bank. Scales shining like silver, it rose out of the bayou as though to fly free. At the end of the tether of hook and line, it fell back into a foam of splashing water.
Charles turned his attention to the metal shafts erected in the middle of the field. Each tall pole waved a bright red banner, and long ropes trailed down to the ground. The tallest would be the center pole of the great canvas tent, which now lay in a huge flat circle spread out at his feet. Its circumference would make a fair-size dog track.
Off to one side of the bend, a sudden burst of a cappella music came from a gospel choir in blue jeans. A woman with a baton stood before the group and waved their voices up and down with a flick of her wrist. Suddenly, she broke off the rehearsal to shout obscenities at a man passing close by with a boom box blaring rock music. There were hollered conversations all around him as men converged on the massive circle of canvas.
He had come just in time. The tent was going up, being hoisted on the ropes, rising before his eyes and blotting out the sky. Each time he blinked, it morphed into some new shape, sharply pointing at the center and more points at the outer rim, as the material, anchored in metal rings, was drawn up the length of the poles. All around the vast circle, men hauled on the lines, and the pulleys squealed. The canvas was alive in the wind, whipping and bucking against the ropes, stressed and straining, finally rearing up into the familiar form of a gigantic circus tent. Atop the poles, the red banners snapped in the breeze and then stuck straight out in forked tongues.
Another man had come to stand beside him, and when Charles turned, he half expected to see the famed magician, Maximillian Candle. But Cousin Max was long dead, and Charles was staring at Malcolm Laurie, a head smaller than himself. But it occurred to him that this man must also be a conjuror of sorts, for he was experiencing the illusion of falling down into Malcolm’s eyes.
“I thought you might enjoy this, Charles. I’m glad you came.”
So, Malcolm had gone to the trouble to learn his first name, but not asked if he might use it. Though he had always given such permission to anyone who wanted it, he didn’t like the sound of his more familiar name in Malcolm’s mouth. It felt like an intrusion.
A violation?
Augusta, get out of my head.
Charles turned back to the tent. Four men were raising a neon sign by guide wires to suspend it from a tall steel framework. It was a marquee of green glass tubes rising high in the air above them. The capital letters were very large, and Charles was startled by the bluntness of the words: ‘MIRACLES FOR SALE.’
Mallory shook pillow feathers off the blanket and sent them drifting into the corridor outside her cell, where the sheriff was lecturing his new deputy on the fine points of housekeeping and the proper procedure for handling dangerous prisoners.
“Now, at the end of the month, I gotta give you back to the state in the same condition they gave you to me. So follow my orders and stay out of trouble.” The sheriff waved one hand in the air to bat away the feathers from the small storm Mallory had created with her blanket shaking. His mood was worsening by the second.
Good. Mallory sat down on the bed and commenced her daily activity of staring at the opposite wall.
“First, have her put her hands through the bars. Then you cuff the prisoner to the bars before you unlock the door. You got that? And be sure you hang up your gun belt outside the cell.” He pointed to the hooks on the wall.
Mallory had noticed that the sheriff never took his own advice. During all the hours of questioning, pacing up and down her cell while she sat in silence, he had never taken off his gun belt. He had all but waved it in her face. But she had bided her time, waiting for a slip of words to hang him with.
As a small child, she had believed this man was God with a six-shooter. This morning, the man outside her cell was just an ordinary human, sloppier and slower now, falling short of a god in every way. He was even conforming to Louisiana code and carrying a police-issue automatic. However, his deputy had strayed outside the code to pack a.38 revolver. Now that was promising. The ammo would work in her own.357.
“And then,” the sheriff was saying to his new deputy, “you clean all those damn feathers outta that cell. Hear me?”
The deputy took umbrage, dark eyebrows rushing together, lips pouting. Perhaps no one had told her that maid service was part of her job description. All Lilith Beaudare’s words came out in a rush. “I was first in a class of – ”
“Girl, that police academy was nothing more than a glorified kindergarten.” His irritation was showing more, building to a boil.
So the deputy was only a rookie, fresh from a six-week training program which might have taught her how to avoid shooting herself in the foot, but little more than that. Mallory noted another giveaway – the deputy’s belt. It was weighted down with Mace, ammo, flashlight, handcuffs, cell phone, speedloader and a nightstick. This woman was all dressed up for a task-force raid, yet she conveyed the credo of the overly prepared Girl Scout.
Mallory ceased to listen to the argument beyond the door of her cell. She was taking further measurements of Lilith Beaudare, estimating the woman’s height as even with her own. Their build and weight were about the same. Beaudare might be a few years younger. The woman seemed secure in her dark skin, moving with an easy physical confidence of the body – but the sheriff was walking all over her.
“When I come back up here, I don’t want to see one damn feather in that cell.” The sheriff opened a small door to disclose a pantry of shelves bearing cleaning supplies. He pulled out a broom, a dustpan, a cloth and a folded plastic trash bag. He handed off these items to the rookie, who was now subdued by humiliation. “We’ll just see if you can do this one job right before we turn you loose on organized crime.”
Mallory picked up a handful of feathers from the floor, held them to her lips and blew the sheriff a kiss. Two feathers landed in his hair. Others were delicately balanced on his nose and chin. He removed them with great deliberation, pinching them between his fingers and reducing them to strings.