The Reverend Holloway knocked. A voice inside said, “Come right in,” and Holloway opened the door and Kerry and I went in. He stayed out in the hall, shutting the door after us.
It was a large office, done in plain blond-wood paneling, with its dominant feature being a plain blond-wood desk set in front of windows shaded by Venetian blinds. The blinds were open now and sunlight came streaming in. It bathed the Spartan contents of the office in a benign radiance, as if by design: the desk, a group of matching and uncomfortable-looking chairs, a blond-wood file cabinet, a painting of Christ on one wall, a huge cloth banner on another-dark-blue lettering on a snowy white background that said THE MORAL CRUSADE—and the sole occupant coming toward us with both hands outstretched.
Clyde T. Daybreak was something of a surprise. I had half-expected a tall, dour, hot-eyed guy dressed in black—a sort of cult version of Cotton Mather. Or maybe the strong silent type with a gaze that was both penetrating and hypnotic, like Robert Mitchum in Night of the Hunter. Clyde T. was neither one. He was short, he was round, he was bald except for a reddish Friar Tuck fringe forming a half-circle around the back of his head. He wore the same kind of conservative dark-blue business suit as the Reverend Holloway, and a skinny tie with a gold clip that, believe it or not, formed the words The Moral Crusade. He was smiling, and his cheeks were red and rosy, and his eyes were as bright and blue and serene as a mountain lake on a summer day.
He took hold of my hand and worked it up and down vigorously, as if he were trying to prime a pump. Which, in a manner of speaking, he probably was. He said, “Welcome, brother, welcome!” in a just-perceptible Southern drawl. Then he took Kerry’s hand and pumped it and said, “Welcome, sister, welcome!” Through all of this I paid close attention to his eyes. Behind the bright blue serenity there was a shrewdness and something that might have been guile. He had a kind of aura about him, too, that electric quality that makes people respond to religious and political zealots everywhere—a combination of intense will and either deep conviction or the ability to simulate it. He was the type who could lead a crusade, all right, all the more so for his plain looks and deceptively open manner.
He asked me, “Have we met before, brother? I don’t seem to recall having the pleasure.”
I told him it was our first visit to the church. I didn’t tell him I hoped it would be our last.
He invited us to sit down, ushered us to the chairs in front of his desk, held Kerry’s for her, and then bounced around behind the desk and sat down himself. His swivel chair must have been wound up high or built up with extra padding; as short as he was, he still seemed to be looking down at us like a little king on his throne.
“Were you with us for services this morning?” he asked.
I said, “No, we missed them. We just got here.”
“Too bad, too bad. You’re familiar with the teachings of Ezekiel, of course? The resurrection of dry bones?”
I nodded. Kerry took out her handkerchief and sneezed into it.
“Well,” Daybreak said, and smiled, and then said, “The Reverend Holloway tells me you’ve come to offer a donation to the Moral Crusade.”
“Actually, no,” I said. “That was just a ruse to get in here to see you.”
He had terrific poise, you had to give him that; his smile didn’t even waver. “Deceit is a sin, brother,” he said gently.
“That depends on the magnitude of the deceit. Some kinds are more sinful than others.”
“To be sure. But all sin is wicked, brother; those who indulge in it casually are no less apt to be damned than those who embrace it with open arms. The sins of man are the devil’s playthings.”
“Would you say harassment is among them?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Harassment. The kind that’s done in the name of God.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“This lady is Kerry Wade,” I said. “Does the name mean anything to you, Reverend?”
“No, brother, it doesn’t. Should it?”
“It should if your assistants confide in you. Ms. Wade is your Reverend Dunston’s ex-wife.”
His smile was gone now; but it seemed to have faded out gradually, rather than to have disappeared all at once. In its place he wore a grave, earnest expression.
“I still don’t understand,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better explain the purpose of your visit.”
“Isn’t it obvious? We’re here to put a stop to Reverend Dunston’s delusion that Ms. Wade is still his wife. She divorced him more than five years ago.”