TEN

Everything about the woman who opened the door was practical— her tan slacks and blue blouse, efficient short hair, solid, stocky body— but a deep, feminine grace drew together her strong features. Her light brown eyes, even as they assessed the stranger before her, were doubtful but not unfriendly.

She was lighter-skinned in the flesh than she’d appeared in the photographs, but her Blackness still shocked Jessica because it represented a side of Daniel that remained fundamentally ungraspable to her. Jessica was not an overt racist like her Georgia-born father, and racial mixing had never seemed to her the abomination it did to him but only because it wasn’t something she’d ever had to consider. Other than Caleb Cowell and his family, there were no Black people in her world, and she had no reason to think about them. Now, confronted with her husband’s Black lover, the mother of his only child, she felt disoriented, speechless.

“Hello,” the woman said. “May I help you?”

She managed to say, “I’m Jessica Herron. Daniel’s wife.”

Now it was Gwen who stared speechlessly at the woman on her doorstep. She cleared her throat and said, “Come in, Mrs. Herron.”

••••

Gwen offered tea, a diversion, Jess thought, to give them both time to absorb each other’s presence. While she pottered in the kitchen, Jessica paced the cluttered, comfortable living room. A bay window framed the backs of the adjoining Victorians with long, complicated staircases leading down from the upper flats to small gardens just visible from where she stood. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected but the quiet, pleasantly furnished room and shrill piping of a tea kettle in the kitchen— the ordinariness of her surroundings— calmed her apprehensions. Yet, as she ran her hand over the back of a wing chair, she thought, Daniel might have sat here, and a strange discomfort came over her, as if her presence violated, not Gwen’s, but Daniel’s privacy. This was his real life, she realized sadly, and I have no right to be here.

Her sense of having stumbled into a stranger’s life grew as she studied the framed photographs on the mantel of the gas fireplace. Many were of the boy— Wyatt— taken from the time he was a toddler to his teens. Gwen was in some while in others were what she assumed were members of Gwen’s family, solid, comfortable-looking Black men and women and children. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins. In a photograph half-hidden among the others Wyatt was wedged between a smiling Gwen and a beaming Daniel in a high school graduation cap and gown. She lifted it from the mantel. Here was the conclusive evidence of paternity in the color of the boy’s eyes, the curve of his nose, the shape of his face— all identical to his father’s. As if discovering Daniel’s secret life all over again, the photo left her nearly breathless with shock, then anger and then, to her surprise, a complicated sadness. Daniel’s death had ended not only his life with her, but his life with them, his family.

Gwen came in with the tea things and set them down on the coffee table.

“That was Wyatt’s graduation from Lowell,” she said about the photograph in Jessica’s hand.

Jess replaced it on the mantel. “He’s a handsome boy. How is he? I understand he was— is ill?”

“Please, sit, have some tea.” When they had arranged themselves in facing chairs, Gwen asked, “How did you know about Wyatt? Did Daniel tell you?”

Her voice was calm and candid, but she busied herself with the tea things nervously.

Jessica accepted the cup of tea Gwen had poured into a lovely, gold-rimmed china teacup— the cups she imagined Gwen brought out for guests.

“No, he never told me about you,” she replied. “I hired a private investigator to follow him because I thought he was having an affair. He found you.”

Gwen picked up her own cup. “Did he know you knew about us?”

She shook her head. “I never told him.”

Gwen put her cup down, the tea untouched, and said, “Daniel and I were not having an affair. We were kids when we first met— not much older than Wyatt is now— and whatever we had was over a long time ago.”

“But he kept in touch with you,” Jessica said.

She shook her head. “No, after I told him I was pregnant we went our separate ways, and I didn’t see him for another six years. Dan was in town for work and he looked me up. I suppose he was curious about me, the way you’re curious about how people you knew when you were young turned out. He thought I’d had an abortion, so he certainly didn’t expect to meet his son.” She sighed. “Maybe I should have put him off, but I thought he deserved to know about Wyatt, and once Dan met him he wanted to be in his life. He was his father; it wouldn’t have been right to shut him out, and Wyatt loved him, loved having a dad. So, you see Mrs. Herron, it was Wyatt he came to see, not me.”

“Did Wyatt always know Daniel was his father?”

“Not at first,” Gwen replied. With a slight smile, she said, “Neither one of us knew how to explain the situation to a six-year-old. He was just mom’s old friend, but when Wyatt was nine, Dan took him out for ice cream, and he told me Wyatt looked at him and asked, ‘Are you my dad?’”

Jessica, imagining the scene, could not suppress her own smile. “Why on earth would he ask that?”

“He has Dan’s eyes. No one else in our family has blue eyes,” Gwen replied. “One of Wyatt’s cousins told him your daddy’s a white man. Wyatt put two and two together. He’s a very intelligent boy.”

“He must be,” she said.

“Daniel admitted he was Wyatt’s dad. He said Wyatt just nodded and kept eating his ice cream. Later on, he was angry.”

“Who was angry?”

“Wyatt didn’t understand why he couldn’t visit his father in Los Angeles,” Gwen said. “He thought Dan was ashamed of him because he was Black. When we told him that wasn’t the reason, he was even more confused. Frankly, so was I. I didn’t understand why Dan was keeping Wyatt a secret. I confronted him, and he said it was to protect you.”

“Me?” she said, startled.

“Dan said you were unable to have children, and knowing about Wyatt would have been very distressing to you.”

“He told you about me?” Jessica said, bile rising in her throat.

“I cornered him,” Gwen said, apologetically. “As soon as he said it, I was sorry I’d forced him to.”

Jessica looked at the cup, tiny fragments of tea leaves settling at the bottom. Weren’t tea leaves supposed to predict the future? What future was left for her?

“Did you tell your son about me?”

“All he knew was that his father was married,” Gwen said softly.

“I suppose in his mind I turned into the wicked stepmother,” Jessica said, “who kept his father away from him.”

Gwen sipped her tea and set down the cup. “Wyatt’s used to all kinds of families. Families with two parents, one parent, two dads, two moms. His favorite cousin is being raised by her grandmother, and some of his friends are adopted. After a while, he accepted our family’s situation as what it was. The important thing was that he knew Dan loved him and wanted to be with him.” She smiled. “Then he got to that age when he was more interested in being with his peers than his parents, and both Dan and I were just embarrassments to him.”

“Well, I guess Dan didn’t need children from me, did he?” Jessica said, bitterly.

Gwen waited a moment before she answered, softly, “He was a good father, Mrs. Herron. I imagine he would have loved having children from you.”

She stared at her tea, wished it was alcohol. “He should have married you.”

“We were very young,” Gwen said, “and going in different directions. Dan had converted to his faith. I couldn’t follow him there.”

Jessica raised her head. “You’re a nonbeliever?”

“I believe in kindness,” she replied. “You were a much better match for Dan.”

“Me? Do you think he married me out of love?”

“He spoke of you affectionately,” Gwen replied.

“I think you mean pity,” she said coolly. “My father founded our church and wanted to keep it in the family, but he had no sons, only me, a daughter. He chose Daniel to take over and married me off to him to keep the church in the family.”

Gwen eyed her over the rim of her teacup. “That sounds more like Shakespeare than the Gospels.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The old king without any sons to carry on the dynasty marries his only daughter to his hand-picked heir to keep the kingdom in the family.”

The analogy struck a nerve. “I had a choice,” she replied sharply. “I didn’t have to marry Dan.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Your marriage is none of my business.”

“Then you should have stayed out of it!” Jessica said angrily.

Gwen’s expression was both stung and sympathetic. After a moment, she said, “Dan wasn’t married to you yet when he came back into our lives. If he had been, and I’d known, I wouldn’t have let him in. After he married you, I should have— I don’t know, told him to concentrate on his new family and stop coming around. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. I’m sorry that we interfered with your marriage.”

Her apology knocked the air out of Jessica’s anger, and she began to weep. She wept and wept in the cheerful cluttered room that had been her husband’s second home, with the woman whom he must have once truly loved; she wept for the happy life he had given up and the barren life they had lived. Gwen reached across the little table, over the fancy tea service, and held her hand until the tears stopped. She fumbled in her purse for her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

“Dan’s death must have been very hard on Wyatt,” she said.

Now Gwen’s face trembled with tears. “He was waiting for Dan’s call the night Dan was killed.”

“What?”

“They talked every Thursday evening. When Dan didn’t call, Wyatt tried calling him but got a message the phone wasn’t working. We didn’t know what happened until the next day. Wyatt was devastated.”

Jessica asked, “How is Wyatt doing?”

“He’s . . . holding steady but Dan’s death was a blow.”

The room had darkened as the afternoon waned. Jessica read in Gwen’s face the emotional exhaustion she herself felt.

“Thank you for the tea,” she said. “For seeing me.”

“I think— no, I know that I’m glad you came, Mrs. Herron,” Gwen replied.

Jessica stood. “Call me Jessica. If there’s anything I can do for Wyatt, please let me know. I’ll leave you my number.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said. “Jessica, I am very sorry for your loss. I hope your faith is a comfort to you.”

“Yes,” Jessica lied. “It is. A very great comfort.”

••••

For once, I had a morning in my office instead of being on the road to some far-flung courthouse in a county the size of Rhode Island. The unusually efficient temp sent over by the agency that morning— a brisk woman named Emma Austin— was copy editing a motion for severance at her desk outside my office while I sat at my desk reading up on third-party culpability evidence or, as it was colloquially known in the defense bar, SODDI: Some Other Dude Did It.

In Theo’s version of events, Freddy Saavedra planned the bombing and Theo’s participation was minimal until Freddy made him plant the bombs. But even in this version, he completely incriminated himself.

Theo admitted: (1) he and Freddy had talked about bombing Ekklesia; (2) he had agreed to help Freddy carry out the bombing; (3) he’d gone with Freddy to the hardware store to purchase parts for the bombs; (4) he’d been in the apartment when Freddy made the bombs; (5) the Sunday before, he’d gone with Freddy to the church to scout locations to plant the bombs; (6) he’d agreed to plant the bombs; and (7) he’d planted the bombs. Objectively considered, Theo’s own story implicated him as an accomplice to the bombing, and under the felony-murder rule, as guilty of the murder of Daniel Herron as Freddy.

If, in fact, he was even telling the truth about Freddy. I had only his word that Freddy was involved. Nothing from the police investigation— to the extent the cops had released details of it— pointed to any other suspect.

Theo also repeated his claim that Freddy had assured him the church would be deserted and that he’d been coerced by Freddy into helping him. Under the felony-murder rule, it was irrelevant whether Theo believed the church would be unoccupied. If someone is killed in the commission of a felony, you’re still on the hook for murder. As for coercion, the law had its own definition— a threat or action taken by the perpetrator of the crime so intimidating that the person threatened lost the ability to refuse to assist in the crime. What Theo described, verbal abuse and being slapped around a couple of times, didn’t cut it.

A potentially more promising defense was that Theo’s emotional state was so compromised by drugs and his obsession with Freddy he lost the ability to make rational decisions: a kind of Stockholm Syndrome claim. But again, that was based only on Theo’s word. He painted Freddy as a homicidal maniac, but no one who had ever seen them together supported that characterization. To the contrary, the people in QUEER thought Theo was the firebrand and that’s what the evidence pointed to as well. I needed different evidence. It was time to call in my investigator.

••••

Freeman Vidor’s office was a short walk from the Criminal Courts Building on the second floor of an old brick building above a bail bondsman. I rapped at the door and he said, “Yeah, come in.”

Behind a surplus sale metal desk, strewn with papers and fastfood bags, sat a thin Black man wearing a gold suit and a vintage Rolex. The dusty blinds were drawn over windows that fronted the noisy street; the only illumination in the room was the harsh light of a gooseneck desk lamp. Above a threadbare sofa was a license that attested to the legitimacy of his operation. Beneath it was a photograph of a much younger Vidor in an LAPD uniform.

At first glance, except for his graying hair, little seemed to have changed about Freeman Vidor since that picture had been taken. His face was still unlined, but he didn’t look young. He looked like a man nothing had ever surprised. I’d been referred to him on another case by a public defender when I first started practicing in LA and had used him since then.

Freeman was the most thorough and tenacious investigator I’d ever worked with. He was also utterly without illusions about humans and human nature, a cynic to the bone. As such, he regarded his fellow humans and their behavior— however atrocious— without judgment. He brought intelligence and cunning to his work, but no emotional investment. As far as he was concerned, we were all specimens he regarded with clear-eyed curiosity and mordant humor. That included me: a gay, Mexican-American defense lawyer was the kind of oddity he enjoyed.

“Morning, Freeman,” I said.

“Move that box off the chair and have a seat,” he replied. “You want some coffee? I got a thermos here.”

“No, I’m good.”

He poured coffee into a mug, added a packet of Sweet ’n Low and stirred it with a pencil. “So, now you’re defending church bombers. It’s like you like being hated on.”

“Everyone hates defense lawyers until they need us; then they expect us to pull rabbits out of hats.”

“What rabbit are you trying to pull out of your hat for—” he glanced at the case file on his desk I’d sent over earlier, “Mr. Theo Latour?”

“I’m trying to keep him off death row.”

In capital cases, once the defendant is convicted of the underlying murder, the jury chooses between two penalties: death, or life without the possibility of parole— LWOP. I was hoping to plead the case for a deal on the sentence. In my wilder dreams I even thought I could talk the DA into a life sentence with the possibility of parole.

“You want to offer up this Saavedra character to the electric chair instead of Latour?”

“You know California stopped using the electric chair decades ago.”

He grinned. “I know, but it sounds scarier than lethal injection.”

“I don’t know about that,” I replied. “Lethal is pretty scary.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“We need to gather evidence that supports Theo’s story that Freddy planned the bombings and made the bombs.”

“You want me to find Saavedra.”

“Actually,” I said, “no. It’s better for my defense if he stays disappeared because if he’s found and arrested—”

“He’ll pin the blame on your boy.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to fight a war on two fronts at trial, against the DA and Saavedra.”

Freeman lit a Winston and said, “But if both boys point at each other, that will confuse the jury. Isn’t that what you defense lawyers like? A confused jury?”

“Ordinarily, yes. A confused jury is at least a hung jury and maybe even an acquitting jury. But in felony murder, the jury doesn’t have to decide exactly who did what to convict them as long as it’s convinced they both did something. Theo did more than something. He planted the bomb that killed the victim. There’s no possibility he won’t be convicted of murder. It becomes a question of degree and punishment. If all he did was plant the bomb, not knowing someone was going to be at the church, and everything else was Saavedra’s doing, maybe I can talk the DA into a deal or persuade a jury not to send him to San Quentin.”

“Tell me again why these boys were blowing up churches.”

“To protest the church’s support for the quarantine initiative.”

“You’re not going to get much sympathy from a downtown jury for that,” he said. “The Black folks you pull from south-central are likely going to be churchgoers, and your people from East LA are not big gay rights supporters.”

He wasn’t wrong. Downtown juries, largely drawn from the surrounding Black and Latino communities, were often better for the defense than the white suburban juries because they tended to be more skeptical of cops, but on the issue of homosexuality they were, if anything, likely to be more conservative than white jurors.

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I need hard evidence against Saavedra.”

He tapped ash into an overflowing ashtray and asked, “Like what?”

“We need to prove he made the bombs. Theo told me he went with Saavedra to a Home Depot on Sunset where Freddy bought the components.”

I reached into my briefcase and handed him a manila folder.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a photograph of the two of them taken by a photographer for one of the gay papers at a demonstration. Take it to the Home Depot and see if anyone who works there recognizes them.”

He was taking a long look at the photo, which showed Theo and Freddy standing in a crowd, shoulder to shoulder, fists pumping the air, screaming at a line of cops.

“These the bombers?” he asked, tapping the photo.

“Yeah.”

“The Chicano dude I could see; the other guy— your client— he looks like an addict.”

“He is,” I said.

He slipped the photo back into the file. “What else do you want me to do?”

“Check out Saavedra’s criminal history. Apparently, there was an arrest warrant out on him for an assault charge. Maybe there are other arrests and convictions for violence. When I get the police reports, I’ll see if the cops got his prints in the apartment where the bombs were built. I know for a fact he spent a lot of time there. Theo’s roommate could testify to that.”

Freeman lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “He could testify he saw Saavedra making a bomb?”

“No, only that he was frequently in the apartment where the bomb was made.”

“You talk to the roommate? Is he involved?”

“Yes and no,” I said. “He’s my, uh, boyfriend.”

Freeman snorted with amusement. “You’re dating a witness? Isn’t that what you guys call a conflict of interest? I can already hear the DA asking him on cross, ‘Isn’t it true you’re sleeping with Mr. Rios, the defense lawyer?’”

“The DA won’t know unless someone tells him, and I’m not under any duty to disclose it,” I said. “Besides, it’s irrelevant.”

He shook his head, still amused. “If you say so.”

“Find me evidence connecting Saavedra to the bombing,” I said, “and don’t worry about my love life.”

“I’m just surprised to hear you got one. I was starting to think you were one of those married-to-his-work types.”

••••

Freeman was right about Josh and me. If jurors knew I was sleeping with one of my witnesses, we’d both look sketchy. Plus, it would out me at trial as a gay man with all the negative associations that entailed. I couldn’t see a way of keeping Josh off the stand, though. The bombs had been constructed at Josh’s apartment. I needed to establish that Freddy had been a frequent visitor to the apartment, often while Josh was at work. Freddy’s fingerprints— assuming the cops had lifted any— would only show he’d been at the apartment, not when or for how long. The only person other than Josh who could testify to Freddy’s comings and goings was Theo, his accomplice. I needed untainted corroborating testimony: Josh.

••••

Was Josh my boyfriend? At the moment, it wasn’t at all clear to me what we were to each other. Since talking to his parents, he’d grown distant. He’d reached that fork in the road where he had to choose between fight or flight— fight through the shame and guilt to stay in our relationship, or run. The stress put him all over the emotional map. He still spent nights with me at Larry’s house, but he came in later and later after his shift at the restaurant; he’d taken to going out with his coworkers for drinks. By the time he rolled in, I was usually asleep. Sometimes he woke me wanting to have sex and other times he kept to his side of the bed. If I asked him what was wrong, he’d say nothing, and if I pressed, he shut down completely. I knew I could do little but watch and wait. So I did, but I can’t say it didn’t hurt.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” he said that night after my meeting with Freeman. He tossed his leather jacket over the back of the sofa where I was reading a brief.

He went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, came out, and sat down at the other end of the couch. I could smell the cigarettes and booze, but he seemed sober enough.

“We need to talk about Theo’s case.”

I explained why I might have to call him as a witness. I warned him that, to discredit him, the prosecutor would likely bring out the fact that the cops had questioned him as a suspect.

“Oh, that’s great,” he said sarcastically. “Now the whole world will know the police thought I was a terrorist and a murderer. Something to put on my resume because I’ll be looking for another job.”

“I’ll have you testify that the police concluded you weren’t involved and released you without charges.”

“That’s not what people will remember.”

“People have very short memories. Anyway, your testimony will only be a minor part of the defense.”

He flushed. “Minor! Maybe for you.” He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and angrily lit it. “Will the prosecutor also ask me if you’re fucking me? Wouldn’t that also be— what did you call it? ‘Relevant to my credibility’?”

His outburst solved my problem of how to broach the subject.

“That could come out.”

“Listen to you!” he shouted. “You sit there calmly telling me how I’m going to be humiliated in public like it’s nothing to you. Why don’t we let it all hang out? Tell the jury I’ve got AIDS, too. Or would that hurt the defense?”

“You don’t have AIDS.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I’m not in the mood for another pep talk from a guy who tested negative.”

I took a breath. “Then maybe you should leave.”

This got a shocked, “What?”

“If all you’re going to do is treat me with contempt like I’m your enemy instead of the guy who loves you, I don’t understand why you’re here.”

I couldn’t read his expression and thought maybe I’d been wrong to put the challenge so bluntly, but even rejection was preferable to the loneliness we’d created for each other. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“We need to talk about what’s going on with you, Josh,” I said.

He huffed a sound between a laugh and a groan. “I wish I knew what was going on with me.” He dropped back on the couch. “I feel trapped between the way things were before I got diagnosed and what might happen to me.” He sank into the cushions. “I’m afraid, Henry.”

“Fuck everything and run.”

He furrowed his brow. “What?”

“It’s an acronym for the word fear,” I said.

He worked it out. “Oh, I get it. F.E.A.R. Fuck everything and run.”

“It’s one response to fear,” I continued. “Deny it, try to escape it. Drown it with booze or silence it with drugs or, like I used to do, bury yourself in work.”

He leaned forward. “What were you afraid of?”

“Some of the same fears that chase you,” I said. “That I was broken, defective, dirty. It’s hard to be hated for who you are, Josh. We can’t help but absorb some of it. Work distracted me, but the booze took me to the place where I finally had to decide if I was going to live or die. You know what? It was a harder choice than you’d think.”

“You got sober,” he said.

“I stopped drinking,” I replied. “I’m still getting sober. I’m still making that choice to face the things that scare me and work through them.”

“I’m positive,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, that’s a fear you have to face that I don’t, and it’s not something you’ll resolve once and for all. You’ll have to face it again and again, but you don’t have to do it alone. You’ll have me beside you.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a prick.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

••••

She saw the red light flashing in the rearview mirror, heard the siren, and jerked the steering wheel to move her car into the next lane and allow the patrol car to pass her. But the patrol car also switched lanes, closing the distance until it was almost on her bumper. Then she heard the voice over the loudspeaker: “White BMW, pull over to the shoulder. Now.”

She flinched when the officer shined his flashlight in her face, and she fumbled for her driver’s license and car registration. When he returned to his patrol car, in her panic she briefly considered driving off. Instead, she gulped air to calm herself. Cars slowed as they passed her, and she felt exposed and humiliated, but her overriding emotion was terror. In the back seat was a grocery bag containing a half-gallon of vodka; she’d roused herself and run out earlier to go to the liquor store.

As her drinking had increased, she went farther and farther from home to purchase her alcohol, reasoning vaguely that this way she could conceal her consumption. This liquor store had been in a neighborhood where the signs of the surrounding businesses were as much in Spanish as English. The clerk, a thick-waisted, dark-skinned man in black-rimmed glasses, bagged her purchase without comment, but she still felt judged and hurried out of the store without collecting her change. On the drive home she got lost and ended up on the wrong freeway. Spotting an exit ramp, she cut across two lanes of traffic so abruptly she nearly hit someone. That’s when she saw the red light.

The officer was back at her window, her papers in hand. He was young enough to have been her son. For a moment, she thought he would simply return them and release her, but then he asked, “Do you know why I stopped you, ma’am?”

“No, officer, I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

“You changed lanes without signaling and almost caused an accident.”

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I will be more careful.”

“Ma’am,” he asked, leaning into the car, “have you been drinking?”

••••

She stood at the window and watched the retreating back lights of Metzger’s car. Uncle Bob. That had been her first thought when she was led from booking to the jail cell after her arrest. I must call Uncle Bob. Roused from sleep, he had appeared at the police station looking every moment of his seventy-six years, mouth curled in displeasure, eyes fogged with contempt. But he had secured her release and on driving her home had assured her he would personally resolve the issue with the sheriff before it proceeded any further.

She had hoped he would let her out and drive away, but he insisted on coming inside.

Once inside, he asked, bluntly, “How long has this been going on, Jessica?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He sat heavily, regarded her coldly, and continued, “Your mother was also an alcoholic, but your father protected her. He’s not here to protect you and neither is Dan.”

She went cold, then hot. “I am not an alcoholic.”

“Cut the crap, Jess. I can arrange for you to go into rehab.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied. “I’m not leaving my home.”

“Technically, it’s the pastor’s residence, not your private home,” he said. “The church owns it. There will be a new pastor soon. One with a family. We’ll need the place back from you.”

She stared at him. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Of course, we’ll help you resettle,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “But before any of that happens, you have to do something about your drinking. Do you understand, Jessica? What happened tonight can never happen again.”

“I think you should leave, Bob.”

He pulled himself to his feet. “We’ll talk later.”

“If Dan were here—” she began.

“But he’s not,” Metzger said. “No more of his hippie mumbo-jumbo. We’re in the last days, Jessica. The enemies of the Lord are everywhere. We need soldiers, not sissies. Dan’s death was— providential.”