CHAPTER

TWELVE

CHRIS TURNED ON THE AIR CONDITIONER FOR THE short drive to District Four. The morning was humid and the sun pale yellow in a gauzy cotton sky. The day would be hot and brown by mid-afternoon.

I walked out of District Four a free man after two hours of questioning about my relationship with Clay Krieger and Sunday’s events. I had no alibi for Sunday night, the rough time estimate of Clay’s murder. That night I was home alone preparing my stuff for sale. As I recalled, there were no phone calls for the phone company to log.

So, I sat in a slick green vinyl office chair while Chris harangued me about my past and my possible connection with a murder. The knife was all Chris needed.

How did I get the knife? I told Chris the story.

What did I know about Aryan America? Very little, I said. Clay had mentioned a compound in New Hampshire.

What did Rodney Jessup tell me? He told me he didn’t know Stephen.

A minute more and I would have snapped. Another half hour and I might have killed him.

I walked out a free man because I escaped after Chris went to the bathroom. While he was taking a piss, I looked at the papers on his desk. Everything was pretty standard, but I did find a utility bill that listed his address—Carver Street in East Boston. I memorized it.

When he returned, I told him I needed to do the same because my stomach was “churning and I was feeling sick.” I was sure, I told him, that he could commiserate because of the intense pressure he was putting on me. He scowled and told me where to go. Fortunately, the bathroom was next to an emergency exit that I was sure wasn’t alarmed. They never are. I held back for a few seconds and then bolted through the door. I figured I had about ten minutes to do what I needed to do before my apartment would be awash in a sea of blue.

I pulled the diary out of my boot and ran, red-faced and puffing, to my apartment in about five minutes. I loathed being a smoker even as I craved a cigarette. I entered my building through the back basement door, twisting past the ancient washer and dryer in the dank, moldy darkness. I looked through the chicken wire of my green front door. No cops yet.

In my apartment, I grabbed my large black duffel bag, which was already partially filled for a quick getaway. I had stashed $958 behind some books. I grabbed the cash along with a carton of cigarettes, two summer dresses, a pair of flat pumps, two pairs of heels, my drag kit, a blond wig, my padded breasts, a padded panty for shapely hips and butt, and, most important, my reconditioned .357 Magnum I found in a garbage bag on West 46^th Street in New York. My favorite pair of Crossman police-regulation handcuffs, a pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and Mag cartridges were already in the bag. I could have cried over what I was leaving: my books, plays, makeup, jewelry, records, leather, my weights, the special detritus I loved. I didn’t know whether I would be back again, or if I did come back, what would be left.

Because I knew where everything was, packing took about three minutes. On impulse I threw my two-volume collection of the works of William Shakespeare, along with the diary, into the duffle, locked the door and headed down the stairs. At the front door, I looked out again but the cops weren’t outside. I knew they would come cruising up at any time, lights on but no sirens.

I left the building through the back door and walked east in the alley behind Channing Street looking for suitable transportation. I couldn’t ask John for Stephen’s car; he would turn me in. I wanted an automobile that was common, but first I needed a license plate. A modest gray Honda sat most of the time in a parking spot behind the apartment building. Its plate was perfect, two numeral threes, which, with a bit of waterproof marker could easily be converted to eights. The plate came off with a few twists of the screwdriver.

I walked to Harrison and turned onto East Springfield. I knew hotwiring hands down, but I was looking for an easier mark. The cars on the street were secured with steering wheel clubs; others were alarm wired. I walked west to Tremont Street, dangerous territory because I was nearing Stephen and John’s apartment.

The car I wanted—a red Chevy Cavalier with Massachusetts plates—was double parked with the keys in the ignition in front of Goldman’s Bagels. There was a large crowd inside and everyone seemed intent on securing a morning nosh. All eyes were on the counter help.

I slipped behind the wheel and fired up the car, hoping the owner didn’t see it slip away down Tremont Street. The owner might even finish a bagel inside before notifying the police. I wanted to be northbound for New Hampshire before the car was reported stolen. Traveling I-93 in a stolen car was an open invitation for a State Police arrest. A sandwich and a couple of hours sleep off the Interstate were what I needed, along with a chance to change the license plate.

About 10 a.m., I left the highway and parked in back of a convenience store lot in Woburn. I knew better than to park the car with the plate facing the store because of security cameras, so I backed in, popped the release, and put my duffle bag in the trunk. The back of the store bordered a marshy open lot (a former toxic waste dump, I was certain). I went inside and bought a turkey sandwich, water, and a green marker from a teenager who looked as sleepy as I felt.

I drove cautiously through Woburn and north into Burlington. After a few miles of serious searching I found a wooded area near an industrial park that didn’t look patrolled. I pulled in and parked near the north end in the shade of a stringy willow. The sandwich and drink hit the spot. I colored the threes to eights on the Honda plate I had stolen and switched tags.

The car was stifling, but there was a breeze and a small pond nearby—those ubiquitous small depressions created for industrial parks. I stretched out near the pond with Stephen’s diary in hand and thumbed through the pages.

It was more than a diary. It was a book of sketches about his life. His life. I dug my boots into the hard earth. What life did I have now? I pictured the FBI poster going up in the Post Office. WANTED: For First Degree Murder, Armed and Dangerous, Cody Harper, AKA Desdemona. I was banished from my apartment, on the run, because I wanted to find a friend who stirred romantic notions in me. Yet I already missed my leather, the posters, my books and plays, the small, comfortable realities of my life. I lit a cigarette and opened the diary. There were nice words about a mostly pleasant adolescence, coming out, lovers, and his first encounters with John. In a long passage, Stephen wrote about his first attraction to another boy and the difficulty of understanding his emotions. A few pages near the end were ripped from the book—the jagged tears along the spine were splintered and fresh. I lay back on the grass, unsettled.

***

“Hey buddy.”

An unfamiliar voice lifted the black veil from my eyes.

“Wake up.” The words came from a young man in a green uniform. “You slept through lunch.”

I started, aware of my vulnerability, and looked at my watch. Half past two. I had been asleep for nearly four hours.

“Thanks,” I said and shook the grog from my head. The sun had shifted beyond the zenith. My face felt flushed and burned.

“Saw you sleeping about an hour ago. I was mowing the other lot, but I got to mow here now.

I thanked him and muttered, “Back to the grind.” Aside from a little stiffness, my body appreciated the sleep. I picked up the diary and headed for the Chevy, which sat shimmering in the afternoon sun. I twisted the air conditioner knob and hot air poured out of the vents.

I took the back roads, and by the time I reached Manchester, New Hampshire, about an hour later, the car was freezing. I didn’t mind the goose bumps—air conditioning was a luxury.

I pulled into an economy motel near a large, glistening shopping center. The sun had dimmed under a bluish haze of clouds in the west, the harbinger of an approaching thunderstorm. When I stepped out of the car, the air hit me like a wet blanket.

A disinterested gray-haired man registered me at the check-in desk. I signed as Bryce Swerdloe from the Upper West Side, NYC, and paid $25 cash for a ground-floor room on the rear of the motel away from the street.

“What newspaper does everybody read around here?” I asked.

The man laughed. “You are from out-of-state. Only one paper to speak of—The Union-Leader. Gives you everything from picnics to politics.”

He said the magic word—politics. “Phone in the room?”

“Local calls are free. Long distance goes on your bill. Check out at 11 a.m.” He looked down and busied his hands under the desk.

I parked the car a few spaces away from room number 11. I wanted to compose myself and dress before finding Rodney Jessup.

A drugstore happened to be a five-minute walk from the motel. I bought cream bleach, a copy of the paper, which, in large type on the front page, confirmed Rodney Jessup’s appearance schedule in Manchester.

Jessup was meeting supporters from 3 to 5 p.m. at a downtown hotel and then was delivering a speech at the Holiness Church at 6 p.m. The last event was timed perfectly for the local evening news and also for me. It gave me time to dress and prepare my questions for the good Reverend. The paper mentioned a pot-luck supper for the candidate. Nothing suited me better than a free meal.

Safer in drag tonight.

I showered, shaved my legs and chest and applied the bleach to my arms. My hands and Adam’s apple, the scourge of many would-be drag queens, weren’t problems for me. My small hands and long fingers, with a light coat of makeup and polished nails, ensured a feminine illusion. My “apple” didn’t protrude because of muscle thickness in my neck. When I was younger, I had considered the tracheal shave that many professional drags endure, but I never saved enough money for the operation. A silk scarf was much cheaper.

My makeup kit contained the basics, but didn’t allow me to perform the kind of transformation I could have with the essentials I left behind in Boston. The stormy sky might obscure any noticeable faults. I started with a basic coverup, moved on to foundation, then to blush, eye liner, lashes, and lipstick. The eyebrows and lashes were the most work for me. It took a half-hour to get the blend that matched my natural brows. The end result was okay, but not gorgeous. I chose a royal blue dress I had pulled in haste from my closet. The dress, combined with the padded breasts, panty enhancer, and blond wig gave me a passable appearance. The navy heels were off but would have to do. When my drag was right, straight men stared and gay men worshipped. Tonight, I’d have to act as well.

When I judged myself as good as I could get, I left the motel about 5:30. I wondered what the desk man would think if he saw me walk out of number 11.

The paper had listed the church address. I found a New England map in the car’s glove compartment and studied the inset map of Manchester. The church was a short drive across town, off the southern extension of I-293.

After a few wrong turns, I found the parking lot of the Holiness Church as large drops of rain splattered the windshield. The church looked like a granite square topped off with a steeple. I had expected it to be light and modern, but instead it stood severe and imposing on the top of a grassy hill. Four maples, in summer green, secured each corner of the lawn. I had a hard time finding a parking space, but finally found one quite a distance from the church. Radio and television station vans with their transmission gear lined the edge of the lot. A group of well-dressed men and women gathered around the church door.

I’d forgotten to take a purse when I left Boston, so I looked less the female. I locked the car and carried the keys in my hand. As I walked up the hill, I spotted a woman who looked official. She carried a yellow legal pad, which shone against her red dress. She turned from a group of reporters carrying video cameras.

“Excuse me,” I said, raising my voice to an appropriate register. “Is Rev. Jessup inside?”

The flesh around her eyes crinkled. She regarded me for an instant, then shifted her attention back to her legal pad.

“Yes, but the church is filled to capacity. You can’t go in now. A few drops of rain and everyone wants to go inside.”

Her irritation at my question was palpable. She wore a plastic badge secured by a metal chain around her neck. It identified her as a member of Jessup’s staff. She looked dismissively at me and shook her right wrist. An expensive gold chain jangled against her gold watch.

“Are you a church member?” she asked.

“No. I was invited by Mr. Jessup.”

“Press?”

“No. A friend.”

“Really.” She looked me over and then a gleam of recognition streaked through her eyes.

A drag queen is a woman for all seasons.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I do remember you. Lee Ann Blakely from Idaho?”

“The same.”

She extended her hand and I took it lightly making sure to touch her only with the pads of my fingers.

“I’m Janice Carpenter,” she said. “Public Relations for the Council. I believe we met in New Orleans.”

“We certainly did.”

Applause burst from inside the church and for an instant I heard the amplified voice of Rodney Jessup, the lilting tone and timbre the same as the night before.

“Excuse me,” Janice said. “I have to go inside to complete press arrangements…make sure people are happy. I’ve got reporters out here who want seats, but if I can find a place I’ll come get you.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, and then smiled as broadly as I could. I peered inside as Janice pulled open the door. The stark interior was lit with the intensity of July Fourth fireworks. Rodney Jessup, arms raised into an exultant V, basked in the adoration and applause of the crowd before him.

A small woman with thick arms and legs waddled up the lawn toward me.

“Have you seen Reverend Jessup?” she cooed. “He’s soooooo gorgeous and soooooo wonderful. I wish he wasn’t married.”

“He’s my kind of man,” I said. “Why when we were in New Orleans—” I couldn’t go further with the lie.

The woman poked her face closer to mine. “I understand he’s very devoted to his wife. Did you hear what happened in New Orleans?”

“Yes.”

She was more than willing to go on with her story. “Well, the nerve of that woman. I never did find out who, but some woman from the Midwest made a big pass at Reverend Jessup. He had to fight her off.” She jiggled her large arms. “She barged right into his room and threw herself at him. He had to have her escorted from the hotel. Rumors flew all over. Janice—I saw you talking to her—she’s in charge of PR, she had to handle it for Reverend Jessup because he’s much too busy to put up with that. Imagine, that woman had to be hauled out by hotel security. Janice even wanted to print a story about it in the Council bulletin; but Reverend Jessup being the kind man he is, not wanting to hurt this woman, talked Janice out of it. He’s such a dear man. Can you imagine? Such is the price of fame and virtue. Some women have no morals.”

“Oh, don’t I know.”

“Where do you live?” she asked me. “I can’t remember, dear.”

“Idaho. Spud country. And you? I can’t remember either.”

“Ohio.”

The church door opened as a reporter walked out and the woman pointed a chubby finger inside. “Look! There’s Zaleen, from Nebraska. I bet she’s the one. Look at her. She always looks as if she’s ready to pounce.”

Zaleen was unknown to me, but my companion’s finger led my eye to an average-looking brunette sitting in a back pew. She didn’t look at all the type to force herself on a man, let alone Rodney Jessup.

Janice Carpenter made her way toward the door. There was another blast of applause and cheering, and Janice motioned for me to come inside. I waved “toddles” to the large woman, who frowned as the door closed in her face.

Janice escorted me to an aisle seat in the back pew, apparently the one vacated by the reporter. The combination of lights, muggy air, and squished bodies had turned the church into a living hell. Two small window air conditioners churned at top speed, but hardly dented the inferno inside. I hoped my makeup would hold up.

Rodney Jessup, erect, poised, and confident, worked the microphone and the crowd like a pro. He strode in front of those gathered, his hands cupped in contemplation. One minute he served up the serenity of Buddha, the next the rigid stance of a hell-fire preacher. He lectured his audience, his swooning voters. I admired his style: He mesmerized the crowd despite unbearable conditions.

At one point, after outlining the sacrifices he would have to make to run for President, he extended his hand to his wife, Carol Kingman Jessup, a blonde who sat in the front pew. I could only see the back of her head. “I stand before you today, humbled and honored, on the verge of the creation of a great America. I will lead you in that creation.” He walked back to the oak pulpit. When he looked around the sanctuary, I was sure he looked at me; however, I suppose everyone in the church felt the same way. Cameras clicked behind me.

“Today, I have formed a presidential exploratory committee in my bid for the presidency of the United States.”

The crowd broke into wild applause amid chants of “We want Rodney.” He quieted the crowd with his hands, and then made the usual political pitch for support and money, while outlining all the ills of America. He was better than Elmer Gantry and a lot more dangerous.

He ended by saying, “Thank you for your love and prayers. God bless us. And God bless America!”

Every man, woman, and child stood and cheered. I stood as well because I didn’t want to be different—to stand out among the adoring throng. It was revolting to cheer on a man who couldn’t care less about me or those like me, but it had to be done for Stephen’s sake.

Rodney clasped his hands over his head in a victory sign, then stepped down from the pulpit and shook hands with the men and women in the front pews. Others moved forward to greet him. Janice Carpenter skirted around him like a hovering bee, directing reporters and photographers. Rodney kissed all the children amid flashbulbs and video cameras. He began his walk up the center aisle, shaking hands all the way. Lightning flashed through the windows and the church lights flickered.

He walked toward me without a hint of recognition. He extended his hand and as he did so, I stuck my right leg in front of him.

He stumbled, arms splayed, and then fell with a thud on the red carpet.

Janice, following a few feet behind, screamed. Others joined in the chorus of gasps and exclamations.

I bent down quickly and whispered in his ear, “I need to talk to you about Stephen Cross. Alone.”

He looked up at me with wild eyes; a disbelieving horror spread across his face.

“Get back!” Janice yelled and tugged at my shoulder. I felt her hand go limp against the muscles of my back.

I helped Rodney from the floor and smiled at Janice. She stared back, her eyes blazing.

“Are you hurt, Rodney?” Janice asked.

Rodney rubbed his reddened palms gingerly. “No. Just a little carpet burn.”

“Let me help you,” I said and then hooked my arm through

his.

“Get away,” Janice hissed.

“It’s all right,” Rodney told Janice as he smoothed his rumpled suit. “Let Miss…uh, walk with me for a moment. Gather everyone in the Fellowship Room.”

Rodney pointed to the back of the church and a deserted office. “So, Miss….”

“Lee Ann Blakely.”

“Yes, we’ve met.”

“So I’ve heard.” I lowered my voice. “Stephen Cross has disappeared.”

We stepped into the office and Rodney closed the door.

“What has this got to do with me? Mr. Harper isn’t it?”

“The very one. Right now, I’m in a lot of trouble and I don’t want more. All I want is the truth. Is it a coincidence you were at the hotel last night?”

“Like I told you, Mr. Harper, you are always welcome. Extremism isn’t needed. I have obligations to fulfill right now. The press and the crowd are hungry and so am I. I don’t think you want me to disappoint. They might get suspicious.”

The last thing I wanted was a troop of reporters on my tail, so I agreed with Rodney’s point.

“Have something to eat,” he said. “We can talk after the fellowship dinner. I’ll make sure the church is cleared.”

“Please make certain you’re a man of your word. I can make your life hell.”

I opened the door and said, “Thank you, Reverend Jessup,” in my feminine register. A group of the faithful, including the large woman I had met outside, had followed us down the hall.

“Reverend Jessup fell, Lee Ann,” the chubby woman said to me as I passed her.

“Yes, honey, he certainly did.”

***

I was dying for a cigarette an hour after dinner. The thunderstorm had passed, but the air was as soupy as wet cotton. Low gray clouds streamed overhead, pushed by a strong southwest wind. The church stood like a mausoleum, its façade illuminated by spotlights.

Dinner had been an experience to say the least. I felt like Daniel in the lions’ den. A man named Lester gave a quick blessing in front of tables piled high with food and Rodney took his place at the head of the line. I made my way through the wholesome, shiny crowd, talking to no one and retired with my plate to one of the brown metal folding chairs lined against the wall. I stuffed myself until I couldn’t eat another bite and then slipped from the room.

Only a few cars remained on the lot when I decided to return to the church. I passed a black luxury limousine with a driver. The car, I assumed, was for Rodney and his entourage. I pulled on the church’s front door, but it was locked. I walked down the wet flagstone path to a red side door. It opened into a small, dark kitchen.

My heels clicked lightly on the linoleum floor until I found my way into the carpeted sanctuary. The outside spotlights illuminated the stained glass windows and threw misty colors on the beamed ceiling. Christ. Christ blessing the children. Christ blessing the animals. Christ on the Sea of Galilee. Christ in the Garden.

I saw him, sitting in the front pew, staring at the window— Christ on the Cross—behind the altar. As I approached, he glanced at me casually, as if expecting my company and his face seemed as blank as a man without God, expressionless and robotic, a face lacking joy and redemption. He lowered his head and prayed; he curled a leather-bound Bible between his hands. I sat beside him and waited for him to raise his head.

After a time, he began to speak but didn’t look at me. “I love my life, Mr. Harper. I have a wonderful wife and two children. This business with Stephen Cross is insanity.”

His voice was like a wave, crashing and receding, at once strong and weak.

“I knew that summer day north of Waynesboro on the Appalachian Trail. Have you been to Virginia, Mr. Harper?”

“I passed through in a car once.”

He turned and I could not look away from his eyes, as glazed as a porcelain doll. He slumped against the pew, drained. The lapels of his blue suit ballooned in front of him.

“It’s beautiful,” he continued. “I grew up there, but I knew, as sure as I’m here, that day in the shady woods, ripe with the smell of water and moss, that my destiny was chosen. The world beckoned. I was jolted by a rapture that shook me for hours. I lost myself. I didn’t know where I was. I prayed for the forgiveness of my sins, as I prayed for the forgiveness of the sins of all people. When the rapture fell away, an exhilarating, powerful charge remained. In the quaint term, Mr. Harper, I received ‘the call’. I understood the power. The Lord had spoken to me. I felt invincible, Mr. Harper, and, most of the time I still do. That’s why I’m running for President. Invincibility—the invincibility of God’s will.”

“Very nice,” I said, “but it doesn’t get me any closer to the answer I want. Where’s Stephen?”

He chuckled and little flecks of light danced in his eyes. “I don’t know, but Stephen Cross is not the issue. Neither you, nor Stephen Cross, not even the Rev. Rodney H. Jessup, Founder of the Council for Religious Advancement, matters. What matters is God’s will be done.” He pointed at me and laughed. “I sit here, giving you my time. You. Dressed as a woman.”

“Why are you talking to me?”

“Because I want this rumor to go no further. Because I also want to know how far it’s gone.”

“A few people. It doesn’t have to go any further.”

“My wife suffered two miscarriages within the first three years of our marriage. Do you know how beautiful she is? She erased the years I wasted; erased the damnable mistakes of my life. She saved me.”

It was my turn to chuckle. “I thought God saved you.”

“Always the cynic, Mr. Harper. Carol saved my life. God saved my soul. When we adopted Ruthie and John four years ago, we did so out of Christian duty, not biological need. They were orphaned in a South Carolina fire, leaving them with no surviving relatives. This thick-jawed ass of a reporter from New York called me a ‘grandstanding profiteer of misfortune.’ But I held firm, Mr. Harper. Decency triumphed. They are after me. All of them. Waiting for one mistake, one error to bring me down. Even a lie.”

“It wasn’t a lie, Rodney.”

“Don’t you dare judge me,” he said, his voice veering toward anger. “Do you think this man, Stephen Cross, any man, could change the way I feel about my wife? He will not be made a martyr at my expense.”

“You betrayed Stephen.”

He folded his hands around the Bible, shut his eyes, and prayed. “You gave me the means to fight this, Lord. You wanted me to fight this evil. Don’t punish me now. I did what you wanted.”

“Look at me, Rodney. Am I evil because I want to save his life?”

He turned and stared; the glaze was gone from the pupils. The irises crackled. “I love your holy spirit, Mr. Harper, but your soul will be lost unless you give yourself to the Lord, our Savior. Your actions will doom you. There is no evil in repentance and conversion to God. What power there is in God’s love, Mr. Harper.”

He leaned toward me, and, for an instant, I thought he might kiss me on my left cheek, but the church lights came up with a harrowing brilliance. Carol Kingman Jessup and Janice Carpenter soon appeared in front of us.

“Time to go, Rodney,” Carol said. The ice oozed from her eyes.

“And you, too, Lee Ann,” Janice said. She lifted her notepad and smirked. “You fooled us for a while, but you’re an open book with the police. You’ve got a great past: small-time drug dealer, hustler. Now you’re wanted in Boston for escape from a police officer and suspicion of murder. Reverend Jessup would only have to say the word and you’d be in jail.”

“Let him go, Janice,” Rodney said without looking away from Christ. “We must learn to forgive.”

I knew when to make a propitious exit.

“He’s in love with a friend,” Rodney said to the women.

I took off my wig and let my hair fall free. Carol shook her head in disgust.

“Maybe you’re telling the truth,” I said to Rodney.

“I am,” he said and finally looked my way. “I wanted to save us all from this disaster. We would never have known about this supposed announcement if it hadn’t been for that Boston police officer.”

“What was his name, Janice?” Rodney asked.

“Detective Spinetti. I just got off the phone with him.”

Rodney smiled at me.