Circling the Calgary airport I said a humble prayer for guidance and strength for the struggle before me.
Nettles was waiting when I emerged from the arrivals area. His brown suit was immaculate, crisp. From his voice and manner on the phone I’d expected a rumpled fedora, checked suitcoat, whiskey breath and tobacco-stained fingers. Instead, the hand that reached out to shake mine was manicured, steady and strong. The eyes were steel gray, clear, with a hint of humor at their corners.
His trimmed silver hair gave him an elegant, refined look incongruous with the voice that greeted me.
“Reverend. Good to see ya!” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder and gently guiding me towards the escalator. “The missus said I should offer to put you up with us instead of having you flop in a hotel. How’s that?”
“That’s fine. I prefer to stay with families,” I replied.
“Travel a lot do you, Reverend?” he asked.
“Not generally, no. Conferences sometimes.”
“Me neither. Planes? Keep ’em. Me, I figger God wanted us to fly he’da give us wings
before
we become angels, you know? Oh. Hey, Reverend, no offense, eh?”
I grinned. “None taken, Inspector.”
“Good. Missus says, me, I gotta learn to engage the brain before my mouth pulls out into traffic sometimes. Habit, you know.” He pointed to my small carry-on. “That all you brought?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be here that long.”
“Why’s that, Reverend?”
“Johnny always liked a fast solution. I don’t expect he’s changed much,” I said quickly.
“I don’t know. He’s been pretty methodical. Don’t exactly come across as a snip-snap kinda guy, you know,” Nettles said.
His car was a new maroon Crown Victoria. It was as immaculate as his suit except for the food wrappers crumpled beneath the pedals. He kicked them back under his seat as he settled. A statue of the Virgin was glued to the dash and a strand of rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror. Nettles grinned sheepishly.
“The missus. Good Catholic girl. Her waya tryin’ to get me converted. Me, a convert’s the kick followin’ a touchdown, you know?” he said, wheeling sharply out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
Nettles reached down to plug a cassette tape into the player and fiddled with the volume as the sounds of thrashing guitars filled the car. He drummed his fingers out of time against the steering wheel.
“Jason and the Scorchers,” he said, hooking a thumb at the tape player. “Figure it’s gotta be country might as well be wild. Kid
gave it to me a few years ago. I like it. Better’n all the twangy slop they play on the radio. You a country lover, are you, Reverend?”
“Music? Yes. Gospel mostly.”
“Oh, yeah, gospel’s good. Hard to write a good drinkin’, wife cheatin’ gospel tune, though, eh, Reverend?” Nettles said, winking.
I laughed. “You know what happens when you play a country song backwards, of course.”
Nettles looked at me with raised eyebrows and a silly grin. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You get the wife back, the truck back, the dog back! Huh! You’re okay, Reverend, you’re okay. Listen. We need to go over a lot of stuff before we get you to the scene. Me, I figured you’d feel more relaxed if we worked at home ’steada the office. ’Sides, the missus is real excited about me havin’ to spend time with a man of the cloth and wants to meet you as soon as she can. Wants you to get to work on my conversion, I guess.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Gebhardt knows you’re comin’. We told him as soon as you confirmed. He’s gonna cool out till he talks with you. Promised not to do nothin’ rash as long so we didn’t. So we’re okay for now. Mornin’s soon enough to get you out there, I figure.”
“A fresh start,” I said.
“Yeah. Kinda gotta have all your faculties workin’ when you get there.”
I nodded. Nettles drove like he talked, randomly sashaying in and out of traffic, aiming rather than steering. We swept through the streets quickly and by the time we pulled up in front of a coral brick split-level, I was ready for the relative safety of a plane again. He reached into the back seat to retrieve my valise.
“The homestead,” was all he said.
The door swung open as we walked up the sidewalk and a small, pretty red-haired woman stepped into the doorway. She smiled. Nettles took the last steps quickly and swept her up in an enthusiastic hug, twirling her around. She patted down her curls before smiling at me again.
“Honey, Reverend Kane. Reverend Kane, my wife, Vicky,” he said, standing with his arm around her waist.
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend Kane,” Vicky Nettles said so primly I almost expected a curtsey.
“Please, will everyone just call me Joshua? My parents called me Joshua long before anyone called me Reverend.”
“Well, Joshua,” she said merrily, “welcome. Once you’re settled in the guest room we can have dinner. It’s ready.”
“Thank you. That would be very welcome.”
Vicky led me to the guest room while her husband left to “get out of the monkey suit.” It was a small room, cheerily decorated in soft blues and pinks. A small crucifix hung above the headboard.
“We’re Catholic,” she said quickly.
“That’s terrific,” I said, lightly. “A hundred religions, one God.”
She smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Come down when you’re ready.”
I settled myself on the bed once she’d left. It felt good to be in the company of a family, to feel the warmth that spelled out home, even if it was someone else’s. I meditated briefly, then wandered downstairs to find the dining room.
They were standing around the table when I entered. The Nettles had three children, two boys and a girl, all in their middle teens. I was introduced to Henry, the oldest, Sharon and then Samuel, the youngest. They all shook my hand solemnly, politely and silently. We sat down to a traditional roast beef dinner complete with mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, salad, buns and pumpkin pie.
I was asked to offer a blessing, which I did gladly. I was happy to see that the Nettles were as respectful of ceremony as they were lax with propriety. Hands reached out instantly as the amen faded and the clink and clatter of plates being scraped and filled was a joyous cacophony.
“You gotta have a boarding house reach if you’re gonna get anything at this table, Joshua. Help yourself. Can’t reach, just yell. Someone will toss it to ya!” Nettles said. He was wearing faded jeans now with a ragged sweatshirt that read “I Got Crabs at Fisherman’s Wharf.” He pointed and waved while he talked and ate, pulling all of them easily into the flow of his words. Their chatter was enthusiastic, animated with a great deal of laughter and
encouragement from each other over school projects, team sports and hobbies. Vicky Nettles was demure, matriarchal almost, the perfect foil for her husband’s garrulous conviviality. She smiled at me as I watched her family and I sensed her deep and abiding pride in all of them. The meal passed quickly. When Nettles and I took our coffee to the downstairs den I was totally refreshed and invigorated.
In the den were shelves of books, family pictures, trophies, overstuffed armchairs, a fireplace, an antique table that held a marble chess board and a set of medieval pewter chess men. The books were largely classics, eclectic and well used. Nettles fiddled at the stereo until the sounds of a Baroque concerto filled the room elegantly.
“Bach,” he said, easing into an armchair, lacing his fingers behind his head, “Brandenburg. Sappy but soothing, you know.”
“It’s a nice room. Very comfortable, very homey,” I replied, settling into the opposite chair.
“Yeah,” he said with a hearty sigh. “The wife set it up as my space. First it was gonna be an office but hell — oops, sorry, Reverend — I spend all day in an office. Who needs one at home, you know? I come here to relax, listen to tunes, read, try’n figure out this chess thing. You play, Joshua?”
“No,” I said. “Far too militaristic for me.”
“Too bad. You’d probably be a good player. Thought you might give me some pointers. Vicky, she says the chess and the books are good for me. She’s been trying to refine me since day one. The suits and all. Me, I always been a desert boots and Levi’s kinda guy, you know. Cuss too much, drink a bit, watch Stallone movies, that kinda thing. But I love her. So I read the books. But chess? Forget it. Checkers? Now there’s a game! Want a game, Joshua?”
“Sure. I’d like that.”
“Don’t tell Vicky, but that’s all the boys ’n me use the chess board for!” he said, reaching up to the top of the bookcase for a yellow box. “It’s an ammo box. She never touches ’em. Last place she’d look!”
We settled ourselves around the antique table and Nettles replaced the pewter chess set with the checkers. He took the first move.
“So, you think about you ’n Gebhardt, Joshua? Your friendship?” he asked while I considered my move.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “It’s a lot to think about. We go back a long way.”
“You remember anything that might help? Good move.”
“Thanks. I don’t know exactly. The Johnny I knew and the one you describe are two different people. I knew an angry man at the last but I didn’t know a violent one.”
“Well, I can tell you this. He’s an articulate son-of-a-bitch. Oops. Damn! Shit! I mean … Aw hell, Joshua, you don’t mind a little cussin’, do ya?”
I laughed. “No. I was raised with farm kids, David. I could probably give you a few lessons!”
“Probably! Good. Anyway, he walks into the building cool as can be, nobody notices anything. Walks up to the commissionaires’ desk on the mezzanine, asks them if he can leave his knapsack with them while he goes to his appointment. Commissionaire figures he’s a little weird lookin’ but he’s well spoken and polite so he figures, what the hell. He gets directions for Indian Affairs, goes into the Reserves and Trusts section on the fourth floor, asks to speak to somebody and sits calmly in reception for about ten minutes. Receptionist liked him. When he’s called to go in he excuses himself, saying he needs to go to the bathroom first. Comes back carrying a duffelbag. Receptionist figures that’s a little strange but thinks nothin’ more of it. Your move, Joshua.”
I looked down at the board and moved a man perfunctorily.
“Oooh!” Nettles said deliciously and pounced over two of my men. “Been a while, has it, Reverend? Anyway, he walks into the office of this James Mueller. Sits. Sets the duffelbag at his feet. Introduces himself. He chats up Mueller for about two minutes. Mueller likes him. Then, while he’s talkin’, all calm still, a real no-fuss, no-muss kinda guy, you know, he takes a sniper’s rifle outta the duffelbag which he assembles in front of Mueller. Loads it. Sets
it down on Mueller’s desk and tells him he’s got four bombs planted in different places on the floor. Four’s some kind of special number to you natives, is it Joshua?”
“It is,” I said.
“Figured. Four’s been poppin’ up regular all through this. Fourth floor. Mueller’s office is four-forty-four. Gebhardt releases four hostages. He takes over the place at four p.m. Fourth day of the fourth week. Closes off all incoming phone lines except for line four. Not really a rocket scientist kinda guess about significance, right? Anyway, he shows Mueller what he tells him is a remote detonator. Tells Mueller there’s a knapsack full of dynamite behind the commissionaires’ desk and that he should phone building security and tell them to evacuate. Then he pulls out a pair of grenades and lays them on the desk. By now Mueller’s convinced he’s for real. He makes the call.
“Then Gebhardt moves him out through the offices in that section where he gathers up sixteen people and herds them into the boardroom where there’s a fridge, hot plate, microwave and a view of the hallway and the cliffs across the river. Knows his stuff. Knows we coulda put snipers on the building so he chose a room that faces the river. Harder shot, you know. Security evacuates, they call us, we respond, he calls us. Tells us the elevators are rigged, his location, what he’s packin’ for weapons, short list of demands and a promise to release four people as a show of good faith. Staff tell us he’s genuine, about the weapons they seen, we get worried. He ties up twelve people, walks four downstairs. He’s got the detonator in one hand, .45 auto in the other, small pack on his back. He locks all the doors, leaves a block of dynamite taped across the handles on remote detonators and lets the hostages out the last door. They tell us he’s armed to the teeth, calm but threatening nonetheless. We get a fax telling us the phone line for communications. We talked to some of the hostages to assure us they were okay. They tell us he’s all war painted up and dead serious. One of our guys takes a look at the explosives on the door, says it’s hard to tell for sure but it looks like the real thing. We decide not to risk entering the building. That’s when he tells us he’ll only deal
with you or he starts shooting people. We call you, you’re here, it’s showtime. And it’s also your move again.”
I moved. Nettles chuckled and took three of my men. I didn’t care. The situation he depicted was volatile and the Johnny he described was a calculating, thorough and desperate man, a dangerous combination. I knew Johnny well enough, I believed, to know that he would have thought out and examined his plan from every angle, that the science of this particular game would be airtight, perfect.
“He sent you faxes?” I asked, finally.
“Yeah. Well written. Tight, punchy. Mostly political but not a lot of radical rhetoric. He’s a sharp bastard, this Gebhardt. King me, Reverend.”
I crowned his man as Nettles rubbed his hands together with boyhood glee. Any other time and I would have enjoyed this game. “What about his demands? Are they things you can deal with?”
“Well, we’ve been on the phone to national Indian groups. They say they don’t know him, don’t know about his actions, his plans. They’re calling it a nutcase reaction. Legitimate? Maybe if he was Indian. White guy doin’ it? Nice touch but no way, they say. The demands? Same thing. Callin’ for the House of Commons to reconvene over the Oka situation is reactionary horseshit, never happen, they know it, we know it. Gebhardt? He don’t know it. The UN thing? Some kinda tribunal to examine the Indian condition? Big deal, they say. A little press, no real action, no solution. They’d take it but it’s mostly show. So we got some sway there. The army thing? Forget it. No way they can pull out and let the Warriors in Oka off the hook. Just tryin’ to keep that from explodin’ into open warfare’s a trick in itself without this. So I don’t know. We’re city cops, Reverend, we can’t promise much. Maybe we can swing an MP into the works but that’s about it. Shit, the feds ain’t even makin’ a sound over Oka and there’s a few hundred lives involved there. No prime minister, no minister of Indian Affairs, no nothin’. So it looks doubtful.”