A Mighty Fortress (23 page)

He flashed a warm but smug good-old-boy grin. “So you keep up with local politics, Mr. Porter?”

I nodded. “Hard not to in this town.”

 
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have much time. You said you had questions about Chad Scalzo?”

“Of course.”

He cupped his hands in his lap. “I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s not much I can tell you. I’ve already talked to the police, and we do have the problem of attorney-client privilege.”

I nodded.
 

“So what can I tell you?”

My mouth suddenly felt dry, and my head ached. I wished I’d had more Gatorade at Rico’s. “When did you last talk to the deceased?”

“I don’t recall the specific time. I told the police it was sometime between nine and ten Sunday night.”

“I noticed you didn’t attach an affidavit to your motion.”

“That’s right. He was supposed to come by and sign one Monday morning. I was running late that morning and had to meet my associate at court. I didn’t know Mr. Scalzo was a no-show until I got to court.”

“So he was able to reach you directly by phone on a Sunday night? He must have your cell number or something?”

He lowered his head a few degrees and sharpened his eyes. “We’ve worked for Mr. Scalzo and his companies for quite a while.”

“Really? I always imagined a firm of this reputation having higher standards.”

“It’s actually a pretty simple and indiscriminating standard.” He grinned and flashed those beautiful ivory caps. “Namely, we like our clients to be able to pay our bills.”

“Were you at the funeral today?”

“I was not able to make it. The family wanted it to be a small affair.”

“You know the family well?” I asked.

“Like I said, we have worked for them for quite some time, yes.”

“So, you expecting the elder Scalzo to make an appearance tonight?”

“I suppose not.” He arched his brow, as if to ask whether I had anything else.

“You know a guy named Don Alexi?”

He squinted his eyes in concentration and took a contemplative breath before answering. “Name does ring a bell.”

“What about Tim McSwain?”

“Sure, I know Tim.”

“You know anything about his dealings with Scalzo?”

The politician’s grin returned. “If I did, that would be privileged, now wouldn’t it?” He stood to tell me time was up. “Anything else, Mr. Porter?”

I stood and surveyed the photos again. “Just one.”

He nodded with anticipation.
 

“Why should I vote for you?”

He tilted his head and smiled. “Why? Because my record speaks for itself, and I’ll make the better attorney general.”

I made quite a few mental notes.
 

One of which was to not vote for Dane Parker.

I went home with the shakes. I knew I should eat again, but my stomach was sour. I threw some Kale, coconut milk and whey in the blender. It was a recipe Val had given me, what was supposed to be a quick, healthy meal. I knew I was forgetting something., and as soon as I took a drink, I realized I’d forgotten fruit for sweetness. What I’d made tasted like a milky tropical vegetable. I thought about throwing the drink back in the blender and tossing in a few berries from my freezer, but instead I cut my losses and chugged the damn thing. Then I went to the fridge and pulled out a few random bottles of beer.

I made another mistake. I went to the website for
The Times
. I couldn’t get the headline I’d read earlier out of my mind. Maybe I’d read it wrong, even though I’d read it a dozen times and talked to McSwain about it.

They’d arrested the girl’s father. He claimed God told him to do it.

God told him to do it.

I closed the browser, feeling almost nowhere to go, nowhere to find refuge.

So I worked. I went back to the office, woke up the iMac, and started writing. I summarized my interviews that day, starting with McSwain, my lunch with C-Rod, a few notables from the hearing—including the fact that Fred Mitchell was present—and then everything I’d learned during my unannounced visit to Dane Parker.

The writing came easy. I had to go back to my notes a few times, but I found that just taking notes usually kept me from having to consult them later.
 

I closed the file on my computer.

Then I took a breath and hit Command+N.

A fresh blank document stared at me, the cursor flashing on an empty page.

I thought about the number of times Dr. J had told me that if I would just start writing, if I just got it going, then it would all start to rush out like the waters of a flood. Everything was in my mind, and I knew what I wanted to write. Maybe that was the problem. As she’d suggested, maybe I didn’t want it to come out. Not yet at least.

I sat in silence for a moment. My office was hot, and it was too dark for this time of the evening. I opened the window and felt a warm breeze outside. No question, another storm was brewing somewhere out there, not far from home.
 

I was sweating and exhausted. I abandoned my desk, went and turned on the shower. Let it run cold. My body numbed to the feeling of ice after a minute or two. By the time I turned it off and started drying, lightning was flashing in sync with delayed groans of thunder, all seemingly in my front yard.

I fell onto my bed, my head and back still wet.

I took deep breaths.
 

The thunder lulled me to sleep.

It even held my hand through my dreams. It told me I could dream away, dream about it again, but I was still hearing thunder in Tampa, Florida.
 

Asleep, yes, not that deep. But deep enough to question. To forget. I wasn’t hearing thunder.

It was artillery. Hitting us hard.

That grainy taste returned to my mouth. Sand mixed with Willie Pete. Dry and bitter. The smokescreen backfires. I have no idea where I’m running.
 

I’m leading a few marines, kids barely old enough to shave, through the smoke. Insurgent fire is coming from every direction.

All we know is that we aren’t where we’re supposed to be.

And I know it’s my fault.
 

I’m the first to see the grenade. I yell a warning.

But I don’t see where it stops. The smoke around us is suffocating. Still, I lunge where I think it landed.

But the kid from Texas screams too, and he jumps to the ground first, prostrate, not three feet from me.
 

His midriff explodes, a feat Hollywood could never truly capture right.
 

We pull him up by the arms. His pelvis, hips and legs seem connected to his body only by his spine.

The shells keep coming.

I feel the burning in my neck. Lose feeling in my legs. And I can’t breathe.

I want to die. I want my lungs and heart to get on the same page and go on strike. For good.

And there’s the thunder. Holding my hand. Reminding me that those things were real, but you’re here now, Milo, in sunny, happy Tampa Fucking Florida. You can wake up, friend. You can wake up anytime.

So I did. Just as my pulse was about to explode. My pillow smelt sour, drenched in sweat.

And just then, I thought I was ready to start; I was ready to start writing. I felt something telling me to write.

Or was it? Was it really telling me to read?

Read what?
 

I returned to my office and stared down the old bookshelf filled with tattered paperbacks. Books I’d collected from undergrad; Stephen King I read in junior high. Maybe I just needed something to take my mind off things. But what was there worth reading?

I grabbed the nearest book to me, and without looking at it, left for the kitchen. I crossed through the living room.
 

I glanced over and saw Rico’s Bible, right there on my coffee table. I stopped and stared down at the book.
The Book.
What was it about this book, written by dozens of men over a dozen centuries, that had given it its prominent place in history? Why had it guided so many lives—or, depending on how you looked at it, ruined so many?
 

I thought about my visit with Tommy Nicholas, and how I’d randomly opened the book for him and read where my finger fell. I recalled something he’d said about Saint Augustine and picking up the book. I thought about reading the book, just picking it up and reading it. But I was afraid. I didn’t want to open it, because I was afraid what it would say to me.

I went back to my computer and Googled “Saint Augustine Open Bible at Random.” As suspected, it was Augustine. I read that one day he’d heard what he considered a divine voice telling him to pick it up and read. So he did. He randomly opened the Bible to a verse in the book of Romans that convicted him and, many argued, led to his conversion.

His conversion.

What the hell did that really mean?

I skimmed many posts on the web that dismissed what Augustine had done as Biblical Roulette. Even some so-called Christians thought it bad practice, and amounted to leaving to chance what should be matters of reason.

Biblical Roulette.

Maybe that was why I felt impelled to give it a try. Maybe I was telling myself that the chances were pretty good that I’d open the book to something ridiculous, and I could dismiss what I was feeling as a bad day.
 

But before I knew it, I was standing over the book again.

I set down my beer and picked up the book.
 

Pick it up and read.

I ran my thumb along the pages a few times. Then something told me to stop, and I did. I peeled the pages apart, and without looking down I slid my index finger a few inches, until that same voice told me to stop.

I realized my eyes were closed, and a cold sweat had come over me.

Another voice inside spoke up.
This is ridiculous
.

But isn’t life ridiculous?

Then read it already—what the hell are you, you of all people, afraid of?

Nothing!

So I looked down.

Right where my finger pointed.

And I read.

But it couldn’t be.

I couldn’t be reading what I thought I’d just read.

So I read it again, the first verse my finger had touched while my eyes were closed.

My heart might have skipped a beat or two.

I thought of the dream I’d just woken up from. I thought of that kid from Texas who fell on the grenade for us and had since haunted my dreams.

Then I looked down and read it again. And again. And again.

I noted that verse and went to my computer. I wanted to type it in and make sure I wasn’t seeing things.
 

I typed John 15:13. There was no denying now what I’d read, because my computer screen was now populated with a dozen different translations of it.

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

I wanted more. I wanted context.

This was a sick joke, I thought. But who was playing it?

Just then, my phone rang.

I knew the number. I didn’t want to answer. But I had to.

I didn’t know if I was surprised or relieved to hear that it was Kara’s voice, and not Mattie’s. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.

My eyes locked on the computer screen, I said, “Try me.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Concentrate,” I said, quite aware of my own hypocrisy.

“It’s the video, Milo.”

“The video? The McSwain video?”

“Uh-uh.”

“So the Scalzo video?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Kara, I’m tired of guessing.”

“I’m not sure who it is, Milo, but it’s not Scalzo or McSwain. But I recognize him. Kind of.”

“Where’d you get it?” I asked.

“It was in the mail today. Anonymous.”

“Kara, I really don’t have time—”

“Just come over, please. You have to see this in person.”

I was about to tell her again I didn’t have time for this, but she hung up.

Thunder boomed and rattled the window in my office. I wanted to stay home. But I knew I couldn’t do that now.

Regardless, I didn’t like where the night was heading.

I arrived a few minutes before 9:00 P.M. The air was warm and swarming; remnants of the evening storm still lingered above, filling the skyline with random flashes of lightning. The thunder had relaxed, but still droned on like a dump truck rolling along the highway in the distance.

I got to the front door. I still felt dizzy from the sleep and dreams I’d had earlier. I wondered why the entire office was pitch black. I knew Mattie was supposed to be at Parker’s fundraiser; maybe Kara liked to work in the dark.
 

I was about to call Kara, to see if she’d knocked off early without telling me, when I noticed something wasn’t right. The lock to the front door—it jutted out about half an inch from the door, picked and smashed.

And the front door was two inches ajar.

I eased my way into the lobby, careful not to make a sound. The air was warm and dead. I stood still a moment and listened, but I couldn’t hear anything but myself breathing. No sound of life or movement inside. No air conditioner. No ice machine or refrigerator in the break room. I slid against the wall and took easy steps until I found the light switches. I flipped them up and down a few times and confirmed my suspicion: Someone had cut the power.

I told myself that the storm could have killed the power, and maybe that was why Kara left. Of course, that didn’t explain the door lock, but I held out hope that maybe that was just a burglar taking advantage of the power outage.

Just then, I heard a creaking that sounded like a floorboard overhead.
 

I knew I had a better chance of being unseen the closer I was to the floor, so I knelt down and crawled through the lobby. Then I entered the hallway, far removed from any light outside. I felt for the first door on my right.