Butch Karp: Bad Faith Part 7

At first, he "resisted" her plan, saying he didn't want her to go against her husband's wishes. Then, after an afternoon of lovemaking, he relented "because the money goes for the greater good, G.o.d's work, and that isn't a sin."

His frequent prayer visits to the house had resumed, as did his ardor in bed. Then the woman's daughter died, normally a time when he expected the woman would turn to him for comfort. But rather than leaning on him, after signing over the insurance check she instead became overwhelmed with guilt and told her husband about the affair and the insurance scam.

A large redneck, the husband then made two mistakes. He should have gone to the police, but instead he dropped by Westlund's house one evening to demand the money back for his silence. "And it'll keep me from putting a load of buckshot in your a.s.s for taking advantage of my wife, you sorry piece of c.r.a.p," he added.

The second mistake the man made was not looking out for trouble the next night when he went to take out the trash. He was a big man, a tough man, but he was no match for three other large men wearing ski masks and wielding crowbars. The first blow to the back of his head had knocked him down and out; the several dozen more that followed eventually killed him after he spent a week in a coma, during which he never regained consciousness. That's when Westlund had paid the widow a visit to offer his condolences, and a piece of advice. "You're still alive, and I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you," he said without a hint of his former affection for her.

Westlund thought that was the end of it until a Memphis homicide detective, Willie "Wink" Winkler, came calling. The detective said he'd been a.s.signed to the husband's murder case and in the course of his investigation he had checked the wife's phone log. "And it looks like she calls you a lot."

"Of course she does, I am the family's spiritual adviser," Westlund answered. "This has been a difficult time for them with their daughter's illness and tragic demise ... and now this murder. Terrible ... just terrible."

Westlund had felt reasonably secure that the detective would never be able to make a case against him. There'd been no witnesses to the attack, and the crowbars had gone into the Mississippi River. The wife was scared to death and apparently hadn't said anything to the detective about the insurance payment. But he knew from his first stint in prison-for a simple Ponzi scheme that had cost him five years-that detectives sometimes lie in the weeds and wait for their targets to relax.

So when David Ellis got a job in New York City, Westlund had told Nonie she needed to go with him, and then announced that it was time to move his ministry north to "battle evil in that modern-day Sodom." Brother David was lukewarm about his plan, but Nonie, whom he'd set his l.u.s.tful eyes on, had been ecstatic.

The move had paid off even better than he expected. His sometime partner in Memphis, Sister Sarah, told him that the detective had come by the widow's home but the frightened woman had stuck with the story that there had been no romantic liaisons with Reverend LaFontaine and that she believed he'd moved on to California. Sarah, whom he'd asked to keep an eye on his victim, had dropped by for "a visit" right after the detective left her home to let her know that she was being watched.

Meanwhile, Nonie introduced him to the widow Kathryn Boole, and he'd charmed her into turning over the Avenue A building to him. He'd also been duly grateful when she told him that she'd amended her will to leave the building to him, along with the balance of her estate, when she died.

Although he'd so far been unable to duplicate the system he had in Memphis for identifying the families of critically ill children, he'd been pleased when his plans for the Ellis kid, Micah, had apparently come to fruition. As he'd known was likely, the symptoms of the tumors returned and then grew steadily worse.

When it became apparent that Micah was fading fast, David Ellis's "faith" had begun to waver, and he spoke to his wife about taking the child to the hospital. Of course, Nonie, who leaned increasingly on Westlund as her son's condition grew worse, told the reverend about David's plans. He turned that around to blaming the husband's qualms for the lack of faith that was dooming their child. Fortunately for him, the child died before David could change his wife's mind.

However, Westlund hadn't counted on the New York District Attorney's Office bringing charges against the Ellises. In Memphis, whether it was due to the religious politics of the region or something else, the district attorney had never pursued a faith-healing case. But Karp was a different breed and determined to pursue the parents for their recklessness.

Westlund could not have cared less about what happened to the Ellises. But Nonie had told him about the letter from the insurance company. It was simple: if the Ellises were found guilty of the reckless-manslaughter charge, the insurance claim wouldn't be paid. It was worth a quarter of a million dollars to get the case dropped, and if that didn't work, to make sure the Ellises were acquitted. He didn't like putting himself in the limelight, just in case someone in Memphis saw him on television, but his ego and desire for money had led him to bring the protests against the DA's office, as well as contact the lawyers who'd taken on the case on First Amendment freedom-of-religion grounds.

Now here was David Ellis angrily waving the insurance letter in his face. "I meant to thank you for that," he said, acting as if they'd all known about the policy. "It was a generous gesture, brother."

"You trying to tell me you didn't sign my name on the policy?" David Ellis demanded.

"I swear on the Bible," Westlund said. Not even a lie, he thought. Brother Frank signed it.

"I don't believe you!"

"Brother, I understand that you're on edge with the trial starting tomorrow, but it's going to be all right and-"

"There's not going to be any trial," David interrupted. "At least not for me. Nonie can make up her own mind. But I'm going to plead guilty in the morning." He held up the paper again. "And I'll be giving this to the district attorney."

Westlund looked aggrieved. "If it's the money you want, you can have it. I thought it was a gift for Christ."

David shook his head as tears came to his eyes. "Money? You can't give me what I want," he replied. "I want my son back. We were fools to believe in you and your lies. I was a fool to let you into my home. ... And just so you know, I was the one who called 911 that day ... but I was too late, so I lost my son, and now my wife. But I'm going to do what I can now to atone, may G.o.d forgive me."

David Ellis turned and left, but Westlund followed him out of the apartment to the elevator. "You're sure we can't reach some understanding, brother?"

"Don't call me 'brother,' and the answer is no," David said. He paused and, with his voice breaking, added, "And if you see my wife, send her home."

When the elevator door closed, Westlund called Bernsen. "Hey, bro, we got a situation," he said. "Get someone to follow Ellis. We may have to find us some more crowbars, if you get my drift."

Returning to the loft, Westlund paused for a moment inside the foyer and then went to the kitchen, where he opened a drawer and looked at the two handguns there-one an automatic, the other a revolver. He took out the latter. Any idiot can use a revolver. He then went into the bedroom, where the woman was waiting, the hand with the gun in it hanging loosely at his side.

"I can't believe that David would ..." Her voice trailed off. "What are you doing with that gun?"

Westlund's shoulder sagged. "I would have never expected David to react that way either, but the devil has taken his heart and soul," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Now I'm afraid the authorities will misinterpret. You know the district attorney, Karp, has it in for me and won't rest until I am in prison."

The big man began to cry quietly. "I will not go to prison to be set upon by the agents of Satan," he said, looking down at the gun. "You need to go now, my love, and we will meet on the other side someday."

"You can't! I won't let that happen!" the woman declared, rus.h.i.+ng into his arms.

Westlund kissed her fervently, dropping the gun on the floor, then picking her up and carrying her to the bed, where he set her down. "How much do you love me?" he asked as he pulled off his sweat suit.

"More than life, my darling, more than life!"

13.

BRUCE KNIGHT STEPPED OUT OF THE D TRAIN AT THE 125TH Street station in Harlem and immediately regretted it. It was well after midnight and the only other people in sight were three young black men whose exposed arms and necks were covered with dark tattoos. They immediately stopped smoking whatever it was they had been pa.s.sing among themselves and watched him intently. He went over to a bench and sat down with his back to them, hoping he didn't look as much like a target as he felt.

Conscious that his suit alone, never mind the color of his skin, in that neighborhood at that late hour invited criminal avarice, he was also sorry that he'd brought the sophisticated new cell phone with all the bells and whistles that his former and now-current employer had delivered to him with a note that read "A gift so that we can communicate effectively. All apps and the monthly data plan paid for one year. Enjoy." He wondered how he'd explain what he'd been doing in Harlem in the early A.M. when robbed of his wallet and new toy. They'll think I was looking for drugs, he thought, which I guess is better than their knowing what I'm really doing.

He heard footsteps behind him. Oh well, here we go. The thought was immediately overwhelmed by a stench so powerful he nearly gagged. He expected to hear a demand for his wallet and started to rise but stopped at the sound of the voice behind him.

"Evening, Mr. Knight ... c.r.a.p t.i.ts whoop whoop ... sorry we're a little late."

Knight relaxed and looked behind him as he stood up. There were no g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers around, just "Dirty" Warren Bennett and an enormous, bearlike man from whom the smell emanated. "Hi, Warren, good to see you," he said. "And your friend ..."

"This is Booger," Dirty Warren replied. "Sometimes known ... oh boy ... as the Walking Booger."

Knight looked back at Booger and noted he was aptly named, as the man had a sausage-sized finger shoved knuckle-deep up a nostril. Booger appeared to be wearing several layers of filthy clothing that covered all but his hands, neck, and face, all of which were in turn covered with coa.r.s.e dark hair, further enhancing his ursine appearance.

The giant apparently did not believe in bathing. However, he was friendly enough, extending the unoccupied hand, which Knight chose not to examine as he shook it.

"Please a meet choo," Booger mumbled. He may have even smiled, though it was difficult to tell through his furry face.

"Likewise," Knight replied. "What happened to the 'bangers who were just here?"

"They ... oh boy t.i.ts c.o.c.ks whoop ... took off," Dirty Warren replied, then pointed at his companion. "They're afraid of him. Booger's just a big teddy bear unless ... whoop ... you get him riled, then he's Ursus horribilis ... a grizzly."

"Grrrrrrr," Booger growled for effect, then laughed. "Booger Bear hong-ree. Go."

"You're always 'hong-ree,' Boog," Dirty Warren replied. "But you're ... a.s.shole whoop whoop sc.u.mbag wh.o.r.e ... right. David's waiting." He looked at Knight. "You remember the way?"

Knight looked down the subway tunnel to where the rail disappeared. Most people would have cringed at the idea of walking into the darkness, but while he would have rather been home in bed, he felt nostalgic at the same time. "Not really, but I know we go that way," he replied, pointing down the tunnel.

Dirty Warren patted him on the back as he walked past and hopped down from the platform onto the tracks. "Good start. Remember to stay away from the third rail."

Knight walked to the yellow warning line at the edge of the platform and hesitated, recalling the first time he'd climbed down from another platform looking for a place to sleep.

Some four years earlier, on a bitterly cold February night, he'd been homeless and living on the streets. There were no more s.p.a.ces available at the Bowery Mission, so he stumbled down into the nearby subway station to stay warm. Craving a drink but without enough money to buy a half pint of even the cheapest bourbon, he contemplated giving up, just stepping off the platform in front of the next train or touching the electrically charged third rail.

However, although he frequently contemplated suicide, the will to live kept glowing in him, though he did little to fan the flames. So he hopped down from the platform and headed along the track looking for some dry spot and a little warmth. As each train pa.s.sed, he wondered if any of the occupants looking out caught a glimpse of his haggard face and booze-hazed eyes and, thinking they'd seen a bogeyman, screamed.

A little ways down the track, he found a nook in the tunnel wall leading to a doorway marked MAINTENANCE ONLY, above which hung a dim lightbulb that cast a faint orange glow, giving the s.p.a.ce a Halloweenish look. He tried the door but it was locked. Still, the alcove was reasonably dry and the color of the light at least offered the illusion of warmth, so he curled up in a corner, the backpack that held all his earthly possessions his pillow.

He fell asleep between the pa.s.sing of each train, which in his exhaustion merely stirred him to semiwakefulness, after which he'd slumber again. So it had taken him quite a while to realize that he was being shaken by someone and then, once he was awake, to believe he wasn't still dreaming.

Thinking that he was being robbed or a.s.saulted by some other subway dweller, he pulled the small steak knife he'd found in a Dumpster and slashed at the dark figure bending over him. But it was like fighting a shadow, as his a.s.sailant easily evaded his frenzied swinging. He was soon exhausted and stood numbly, realizing he was at the mercy of the stranger, who he now realized was a tall bearded man in a hooded robe.

During their "fight" he caught glimpses of the man's pale, gaunt face, which was framed by long, dark hair and dominated by two black eyes that flickered with an inner fire. Now, as he stared into those eyes, Knight knew he was looking into the face of a killer who, if not totally insane, was walking insanity's razor edge. Yelling in terror, he made one last lunge at the stranger, only to have the knife knocked from his hand. Then, as fast as a cat after a rat, the man moved around him and kicked behind his knees, driving him painfully into the ground; his attacker then yanked his head back, and with one hand digging into his eye sockets, he took the other and placed a sharp blade at his throat.

"For the love of Christ don't kill me!" Knight cried out. He had no idea why he'd chosen those words, which he hadn't heard or used since leaving his Midwest home and Presbyterian upbringing. But they seemed right at that moment.

The man suddenly released the grip he had on Knight's hair and the knife disappeared. "Stand up! Let me look into your eyes," the stranger demanded.

Trembling, Knight did as he was told. The man then leaned forward and stared deep into his eyes. He had no idea what the stranger was looking for, but a moment later, the hard stare softened into a kindly look that matched the smile that came to the man's face. "I do not see evil in you," the man said, "or I would have had to release you from that body. But you are safe now, brother. I will not harm you."

The stranger offered his hand. "I'm David Grale. What's your name?"

"Bruce Knight," he replied, still wondering when he would wake from this new nightmare. But whether he was dreaming or not, he recognized that whatever insanity battled for control in the man's brain, he spoke the truth. He was safe ... at least for the moment. "I was trying to stay warm."

"And not doing such a good job of it, brother," Grale said. "You look hungry. Follow me and we'll see if we can take care of both."

Grale then turned and entered the maintenance door, followed by Knight, who wondered how he'd opened it and from which side. Stepping through the door and watching the other man march off down a dimly lit hallway, he hesitated. Maybe he's taking me someplace to kill me, he thought, then shrugged before hurrying to catch up to his long-legged benefactor. If he wanted to kill me, I'd already be dead.

Grale led him down the maintenance tunnel for a bit and then went through another door, which took them to a ladder that led down into a sewer pipe, judging by the ankle-deep water, smell, and cat-sized rats that hissed and scurried away. In places where there was no light, Grale turned on a flashlight, though Knight got the impression it was more for his sake than his guide's.

Knight had quickly lost his bearings and had no sense of what direction they were heading. In general it seemed to be ever farther down, though they sometimes had to go up a ladder in order to go down three more levels. They pa.s.sed through a variety of doors and openings, including some that were not man-made but clefts in the rock leading to paths that linked with their man-made counterparts.

They'd been walking for perhaps a half hour when they reached a dimly lit intersection of several tunnels. Grale stopped, motioning for Knight to do the same as he called out, "I'm looking for the entrance to the kingdom of heaven."

"And how do you gain entrance?" a voice shouted back from the dark outside the circle of light.

"The love of Christ," Grale replied before turning to grin at Knight. "It seems you knew our pa.s.sword."

"I have no idea why I said that," Knight said. "Dumb luck and fear, I guess."

Grale shook his head and placed a hand on Knight's shoulder. "Not luck, brother, no such thing. It was divine intervention," he said as he resumed walking toward the other voice. "Good evening, brothers."

Two men materialized out of the dark-one carried a bow with an arrow nocked, the other an older-model rifle, and both had long knives on their belts. Dirty and ragged, they appeared to Knight to be ordinary street people, except for the fact that their eyes were clear and steady, and on second glance looked more like photographs he'd seen of Czech resistance fighters from World War II.

"Evening, father," said the older of the two, tipping his cap to Grale. "A visitor?"

"G.o.d be with you, my son. Yes, Brothers Harvey and Chuck, meet Brother Bruce. I vouch for him," Grale replied, making a vague sign of the cross before turning away from the pair and continuing their journey into the bowels of the city.

"'Father'? 'My son'? Are you a priest?" Knight asked.

"No. I was a Catholic layperson on the outside before I inherited my kingdom," Grale replied. "But the Mole People seem to have accepted me as their spiritual leader while adopting my mission to fight against the coming darkness. We have quite a few Catholics and Lutherans, and with no one else to serve their needs, I am their de facto priest. Others of different faiths, and even the stray agnostic, have picked up the honorific."

"The Mole People? I think I read an article in the New York Times a while back about the Mole People-something like thirty thousand homeless people living beneath the city in subway tunnels and sewers," Knight said as they walked.

"I'm aware of the article," Grale said, his voice hardening. "It was replete with errors, misinformation, and lies. For one thing, the article cast a large umbrella over many people and called them all the Mole People-murderers, rapists, the depraved, and criminally insane lumped in with those whose only crime is poverty. Oh, they may be tormented by addictions to alcohol and drugs, maybe even struggling with mental illness, but by and large they are good people down on their luck. However, they were all painted with the same broad brush by the article, which further isolated them from society-they're now avoided on the streets by 'normal' people rather than extended the hand of Christian charity."

As he listened to Grale, Knight realized that his guide was more a philosopher than the usual street person. When they were able to walk side by side, he stole glances at the other man's face as he spoke.

Grale was gaunt to the point of skeletal, with deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks, and a sharp aquiline nose above his thick mustache and beard, but he had clearly once been a handsome man and there was still a n.o.bility to his visage. He was also younger than Knight first thought, fooled by the creases that radiated from the man's eyes and mouth and crossed his forehead. Knight guessed him to be in his midthirties.

"I found it alarming that the article missed that most of the real Mole People aren't society's castoffs and misfits, nor are they coming from the ranks of the traditionally poor, though that cla.s.s has grown, too," Grale said. "Whatever our makeup ten years ago, currently our ranks swell with the recently impoverished, the great disappearing middle cla.s.s, who find themselves suddenly homeless, penniless, and now among the 'have-nots.' These are the new immigrants to my kingdom beneath the streets, and this country had better wake up or there will be no middle cla.s.s, only cla.s.s warfare."

"That's the third reference to your 'kingdom,'" Knight noted. "So you are a guardian, a de facto priest, and a king?"

Grale did not answer immediately but trudged on. They rounded a corner, and although he couldn't see beyond the reach of his guide's flashlight, Knight could feel that he had stepped into a large open s.p.a.ce. The flashlight wasn't the only illumination as all around him there were odd diffused lights; some even climbed partway up the dark s.p.a.ce across from where he stood.

"This, Mr. Knight, is my kingdom, the kingdom of the Mole People," Grale said, and called out loudly to the dark, "The peace of Christ be upon you!"

"And upon you!" dozens of voices called out from around the s.p.a.ce.

"We have a new visitor tonight," Grale announced. "Brother James, would you please turn up the house lights for a minute so that Brother Bruce can get a good look at our home."

"Now, father? It's after hours," a voice whined off to their right.

"It's just for a moment, Jim," Grale replied, sounding perturbed. "Newcomers are disoriented enough without being able to get a sense of their surroundings. And, besides, he knew the pa.s.sword."

Knight was soon aware that the light was growing, and with that came the realization he was standing at the entrance to a cavern the same approximate size as Madison Square Garden. The glowing lights turned out to be electric bulbs behind cloth hung in front of living quarters built or carved into the walls. Curious, the Mole People peered out from their hovels-men, women, and even some children.

"Welcome to my kingdom," Grale said with a grand sweep of his hand. "Come, follow me to my throne."

Knight followed Grale over to a long, raised cement platform, looking around as they walked. Although much of the cavern appeared to be natural, or at least carved crudely from the bedrock of Manhattan Island, the rest was obviously constructed by engineers.

"A long time ago this was a subway station," Grale explained. "They were trying to expand when engineers discovered a dangerous fault in the rock, and the station was abandoned and another built quite close to here. Although there are a number of other places beneath the city where my people reside, this is the inner sanctum, accessible only to those who know the pa.s.sword."

"You have electricity," Knight said, stating the obvious.

"Courtesy of the New York transit system," Grale said with a laugh. "The Mole People come from many walks of life, including electricians capable of tying into the juice that runs the subway. It's all magic to me, but apparently they even know how to shut the whole system down with a flick of a switch, though of course we use only enough power to light and provide a little heat for our humble homes."

Grale led him up onto a raised platform on which sat a large leather overstuffed chair that might have once dominated a Fifth Avenue penthouse living room but had seen better years. Several smaller chairs formed a semicircle to either side of the "throne." He was invited to have a seat on one of the lesser chairs while Grale plopped down on the leather chair.

Reaching above him to turn on a standing lamp, Grale called out, "Brother James, would you please dim the lights again so our family may sleep?" Brother James didn't answer but the house lights dimmed and then went out, leaving only the lights in the living quarters around the walls and Grale's lamp.

When they'd settled in their seats, Grale leaned forward, the shadows of his face deepening beneath the light of his lamp. "So, Brother Bruce," he'd said, "do you want to tell me how you came to be s.h.i.+vering on the doorstep of the Mole People?"

Knight was still thinking about that night as he and his two escorts approached a vaguely familiar intersection of tunnels. He had not recognized much of the route they'd taken, though he knew from experience that the Mole People rarely took the same way back to their homes. As Grale had explained to him that first night, they had many enemies. "Some are criminals and violent men who seek revenge on some of us or think we'd be 'easy' targets," he'd said. "But some are officers of the law, even federal agents, looking for some of us."