“‘I am sorry, Reverend Scaler,’ came the learned man’s response. ‘I cannot.’”

“‘HOW DARE YOU TELL ME I CANNOT HEAR THE TRUTH!’ I railed at the learned man of science. ‘WHY CAN YOU NOT TELL ME THE TRUTH?’”

Scaler waited for the anger to drain from his face, replaced it with fresh sorrow.

“And my learned man said to me, ‘Because it will cause your house to crumble into ashes.’”

Chapter 26

“Bizarre,” I said, unable to pull my eyes from the screen. “Is that all there is?”

Harry held up a finger. “He’s got a coda.”

I turned back to the monitor. Scaler was dabbing his head and face with the handkerchief again. Beads of sweat had gathered in the thick folds beneath his tragic eyes. He tucked away the cloth and turned back to the watchdog lens.

“Excuse me. I wanted to get this recorded before my will failed. Sometimes the best place to hide a truth is in plain sight. Thus it will live in the Tower of Babel. I have made mistakes, I have walked a lie. I have been led astray by false companions over years. If I don’t falter, many things will soon come to light. I will tell you the truth through the Trinity, and what I now believe to be –” Scaler put one finger atop the other to indicate a capital letter – “the Truth.” He slid his finger down to the first digit, forming a cross. “The Way and the Light,” he whispered.

He stared at his gesture. His hands fell to his lap and he began weeping. I saw him reach for the white remote control and the video died.

“It’s cryptic deluxe,” I said. “The ravings of a madman?”

“Actually, it’s making more sense to me,” Harry said. “I think Scaler himself put the video on the web. Hiding his truth in plain sight.”

“The Tower of Babel,” I said, suddenly catching Harry’s drift. “His video tucked away with ten million others. One grain of sand in an hourglass.”

“But what’s this ‘truth’ he’s talking about?” Harry said.

“The parable, the analogy to the house…I figure house either pertains to himself, or to his empire.”

“I like the second one, myself,” Harry concurred, sighing and flicking the computer off. “The empire as his house of worship, the church enterprises, fits well with the parable house. But Scaler and the institution were pretty much one and the same, so it could be representative of both.”

“In either case, something’s been built on sand,” I noted. “But he didn’t know that until the ‘expert’ did work for Scaler, work seeming to undermine Scaler’s mysterious edifice. Is the expert Christ?”

Harry frowned and tumbled it through his head.

“Not making the nut for me. There’s something in it that doesn’t have the reverent tone I’d expect if Scaler was using Jesus as his expert.”

“It’s Richard Scaler, bro. The scuzzball would –”

Harry waved me silent. “For thirty years I’ve been looking at Scaler and every time I did I swear I could smell something bad in the room. But now that I’ve been through his sermons and tapes a dozen times…” He shrugged, like he couldn’t understand his coming words. “I believe he’s sincere.”

“Sincere?”

“The bible has passages of great compassion and love, often butted against passages of vengeance and pain. It seems to me that self-titled men of God define themselves through the passages upon which they build their theology. I don’t agree with Scaler’s selection. But I think the guy actually felt he was following scripture.”

“Scaler?” I scoffed. “He was an ignorant cracker bullshit salesman.”

Harry said, “A girlfriend gave me a book of poems by a guy from the sixties, Richard Brautigan. He had a short poem about a schoolroom where once a day the teacher pulled a red wagon across the floor and that was all the kids knew.”

I waved my hand in front of his eyes, said, “Earth to Harry.”

“Don’t you get it, Carson? If that’s all you’re taught, that’s all you know. Especially if it starts when you’re in the cradle.”

“You’re giving Scaler a pass because he’s been a preacher for fifty-odd years?”

“I give Scaler a semi-pass because I suspect he got pumped full of fundamental hate-ology as a kid.”

“Just because you start life as a blank slate doesn’t mean accepting what others write there.”

“I don’t understand that level of self-delusion, Carson, but I understand the process that creates it: Endless spewing of hate and aspersions. To deny a parental belief questions the entire family.”

“You think Mrs Scaler might help make sense of this?” I said. “Hubby’s weird monologue?”

“You’ve been there, so it’s your call.”

I pulled my black briefcase from beneath the desk. I kept my old Apple iBook in it, used the computer for moving files from work to home. I pulled out the computer and handed it to Harry.

“Let’s give the lady a show.”

The housekeeper led me into the Scalers’ home. She wore an apron and had a feather duster tucked in the strap. I was surprised to find the living room painted rose instead of the white I recalled. Accents were scarlet and sun-yellow, a bold deployment of color. I smelled fresh paint in the air. Saw ladders and drop-cloths.

“Is Mr Fossie around?” I asked.

“Mee-star Foss-see he ees een the room named Jim,” she said.

“Jim?”

“Si.” She began pumping her arms up and down.

“Ah,” I said. “Gracias.”

Wandering to the back of the house, I heard a moan and a squeaking sound and stuck my head in the exercise room, the gym. Fossie was sitting on a quadrilaterals machine, legs under the padded bar, trying to lift with the pin in the fifteen-pound block. He saw me and, startled, let the block clank down all of the four inches of elevation he had managed.

Fossie unwrapped himself from the machine clumsily as I pretended to look the other way. He did a couple of side stretches and a toe-touch attempt, making as if shaking off a major-league workout.

“She’s having the place re-painted?” I asked, nodding toward a stack of folded drop-cloths.

He dabbed his face with a towel and nodded. “The rooms have too many memories. Patricia wanted the change.”

“You’re spending a fair amount of time here, I take it?”

“I have the time, and it makes Patricia feel secure to have me here. At least until she’s better. How are you feeling?”

“I’m sleeping better. And I think some of my energy’s returning. It comes and goes.”

“Good. But returning your body and mind to a balanced state doesn’t come as quickly as getting a shot of penicillin for an infection. Regimen is the key. Keep taking the vites and avoid processed food. Don’t stay up late. I’ll drop off more vitamins when I’m out on Dauphin Island in a day or two. Maybe add a bit of Tibetan ginseng to the mix, perhaps some kelp.”

I nodded my thanks and started to climb the stairs, but paused.

“Mr Fossie?”

“Yes?”

“Have you had any luck looking for…” I ended the sentence with a raised eyebrow, got a look of guilt in return.

“I-I will. It feels strange to look through things that aren’t mine. Like I’m ransacking.”

“Don’t do anything that makes you feel ill at ease,” I said. “But you’re the one who wanted us to uncover more about Richard Scaler.”

He nodded and looked happy to retreat. I continued up the stairs and knocked on the door.

“Mrs Scaler? It’s Detective Ryder. May I come in?”

“Just a second, please.”

Her voice sounded as faded as the last time, a tired wisp of sound. The second-hand of my watch made three revolutions until I heard the voice again.

“Come in, sir.”

Patricia Scaler was a-bed, one that configured every whichaway. It was a huge bed, king-sized at least, and she had the head elevated. She seemed lost inside a fluffy yellow robe, the sleeves at her fingertips; her husband’s robe.