ALL DURING the ride down the lift, all during the walk to the limo, Vanderslice is mute. I recognize that silence.
It’s the same careful silence I keep in my office. Vanderslice thinks the building’s bugged.
In the limo, we sit opposite each other. He opens a tiny refrigerator and, without asking if I want one, brings out a pair of native soft drinks. The soda is an off-putting hue of purple and sickeningly sweet.
I set the soda down. “Who’s in charge of the local investigation?”
Vanderslice’s head is tilted back against the seat. His eyes are closed. He has a sheltered, guileless face.
One eye opens. “Me,” he says.
I suppress a laugh. Of course. That’s why the investigation is stalled.
“The gossip Marvin mentioned. What is it?” If he thinks the car is bugged, Vanderslice won’t answer my question.
He stops smiling. He studies the level of his soda. Tips the bottle this way and that. “You ever hear Marvin preach?”
I don’t bother to answer.
“He’s good. Really good. Marvin and I go way back, and he was always a star. While the rest of us were busy playing ball, he memorized the New Testament. When we were discovering girls, he’d already begun his ministry.”
My attention wanders from Vanderslice’s monologue. The limo’s been moving at a brisk pace, and wherever I look are houses. Individual houses on their own private lawns. There are sidewalks, too. But no one’s outside. Strange. If I lived in that neighborhood, I’d walk there.
“Marvin was one of those guys who knew where he was going. He was ambitious that way.”
Ambitious. The word rouses me from boredom like a slap in the face.
“Marvin had the handicap of that voice. You’ve heard him. He sounds like a castrato. But otherwise, he was a natural. Straight-A student. The class cut-up. When we were in school, and the teacher wasn’t around, he’d preach these hilarious sermons. He’d talk about sin and make his voice tremble. He’d talk about forgiveness and cry. Old Marv gave an outstanding performance.”
I look out at the houses again. Lila and I could have been happy there. Maybe we could have had a dog. A small white fluffy dog like the kind she cooed over in pictures. My fault we didn’t. Ten years as an M-4. Twenty years of successful cases and criticisms in my Personnel File.
Doesn’t work well with others.
Prima donna.
Insubordinate.
The bastards. I should have been M-6 at least. I had the seniority for it.
Troublemaker.
Iconoclast.
I wanted to buy Lila that little dog. Wanted to live where ceiling light tiles never fail. But I didn’t want it bad enough. We could have had an apartment on a restricted M-6 Level. A spacious apartment. With security cameras. Neighborhood security gates. She wouldn’t have . . .
“You’d never know it,” Vanderslice says.
I’ve clenched my fists so hard that my hands have cramped. Never know what? I’m lost. Nothing he’s saying makes any sense.
“When Ed the Chosen died, Marvin managed five True Prophecies, three more than his closest competitor. He forgets how many times he was wrong. A few years ago he told me that when he opens his mouth, God speaks.” The green eyes lift to mine. “I think Marv’s crazy.”
I stretch the ache out of my fingers. Vanderslice has finally come to the point. “So that’s the gossip.”
He leans toward me. Backlit by the morning sun, his brown curly hair is a halo. “No. Listen. If Marvin thinks he’s the right hand of God, he has to believe in mercy.”
Wide sidewalks, green lawns flash by. Marvin and Vanderslice were born here. Of course they believe in mercy. The people on M-6 might believe in it. On M-4 ceiling lights fail.
“‘Into Thy hands I commit my spirit,’ remember? Marv takes that to heart. He’d punish a sinner. He’s done it before. But he’s absolutely incapable of hurting someone to save himself. No matter how many thou-shalt-nots Marvin’s made of, no matter how inflexible or self-righteous or even silly he might be, God commanded submission. And Marvin isn’t going to let Him down. Once you understand Marvin, really understand him, you’ll see the conclusion my investigation reached is all wrong.”
He pauses for my question, but I’m not interested in his answer. Vanderslice is gullible. Too sheltered to buck the system. I ask anyway. “So what was the conclusion?”
Vanderslice presses his lips together. Gives me a shrug that is more nervous tic. “That Marv is behind the terrorist acts. And the murders are part of a government conspiracy.”