Choices

As I write this, America finds itself tested and the outcome remains unclear. The current situation may be a bump on the road to salvation, or it may be the end of homo sapien rule. The results of years of simmering distrust, even hatred of our own brothers and sisters, is exploding like a volcano kept too long under pressure. The culmination of more than three years of practiced divisiveness is spewing forth the results of seeking political gain through social distrust.

We find ourselves only wondering what the Galilean would say. Maybe our concentration on the Sermon on the Mount can guide us.

 Of the many dichotomies that he set forth in that brief sermon was the difference between righteous and unrighteous behavior. Perhaps that was why he began with a listing of those things that should make us blessed, or happy in the thought of eternal reward for worldly sacrifice and effort.

How did the forces of evil come to govern while claiming it is being done in his name? One wonders. It hasn’t come from the Galilean. He was pretty clear, if pretty demanding, about righteous and unrighteous behavior. For example:

Men can’t divorce their wives just because a younger woman sashays by. We sin even when we succumb to thoughts of sin. We must reconcile and show love with our enemies. What’s worse, we must even show forgiveness and forego revenge. We should consider what we think are our treasures and where we should store them. (Hint: It’s not money.) We should not worry. Some say he meant unnecessarily, but that isn’t what he was recorded as saying.

Those are some tough spiritual rows to hoe.

Some righteous edicts should be easier. We should help the needy in secret, likewise for praying. We should not look somber when we sacrifice, or fast. As for looking somber when we sacrifice, would that include waving our guns in the air and threatening violence. Some strictures are going to be difficult for a select crowd.

Others should be downright simple. He tells us that unless our righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law—the Franklin Grahams and Kenneth Copelands of the world—we will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven. Being more righteous than the spiritual “leaders” that now frequent the halls of government is a “piece of cake upside down.”

But overall, the Galilean knew it wouldn’t be easy, this seeking of righteousness stuff. He warned:

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” (Matthew 7: 13-14 NIV)

Is it all worth it? Evidently many don’t think so. Some do, however. They find comfort in a favorite passage of those who legitimately seek righteousness. It reads:

“The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eyes are unhealthy, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness! (6:22-23)

Into the Depths

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER THIRTY-one

            “Hey sailor.” Tina Barrow looked from the paper she was grading and into Nelson’s eyes. “Are you stalking me or is that just a look of wonderment in your eyes?”

            Nelson ignored her. “Coffee?” he said.

            “I thought you would never ask,” she said, placing a red pen on the paper. She motioned toward the paper. “This poor child is sweating bullets trying to convince me that the modern Fundamentalist Mormons represent one end of a continuous arc of religious cultism that began with the Child-abusing Patriarch, Abraham.” She indicated that Nelson should sit.

            “So,” he said, “she condemns both?”

            “No,” she said, “she holds the FLDS boys accountable for their obsession with 14 year-old girls but lets old Abe get away clean with traumatizing his favorite son.” She shifted into a fake German accent. “He vas yust followink orders.” She resumed her normal voice. “It figures, don’t you think?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “These young folks today are a lot like their parents and grandparents when you delve into their neuroses.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “You wouldn’t,” she said. “You aren’t from these parts.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “As much as modern Southerners may claim to be free of religion, it sticks to them like the smell of death sticks to someone headed for the execution chamber.”

            Nelson didn’t respond, but waited.

            “When you are taught,” she said, “from the moment you first gain consciousness, that there is an invisible monster in the sky who will burn your little body in a fiery pit for all eternity if you cross him, no amount of education or rationality ever quite cleanses you of the primal fear of fire.”

            “That’s a little heavy for me this early in the morning,” Nelson said. “Is there a lesson there somewhere?”

            “Let’s just say the hard-core Mormon men either don’t think it’s a sin to swap their young daughters around, or they like it so much they will tolerate the fear of heat,” she said. She placed the paper on a stack to her right. “Speaking of which, you mentioned coffee?”

            “Come on,” he said, and she followed.

            Once seated in the student union, Nelson sipped his coffee and said, “Are you okay?”

            “And why shouldn’t I be, surrounded as I am by the future hopes of America?” She motioned around them.

            He allowed the implied cynicism to fade before answering. “Cryptic notes deliver more than their stated message,” he said.

            “Are you talking about our broken date?”

            “Was it a date?”

            “It was something,” she said. “I’m not sure what.” She drank her coffee and watched the activity of the students for a moment. “They don’t have a clue, do they?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “Their worry list is so limited.”

            He sat his coffee cup on the table before them and studied her. “Their worry list?”

            “Yeah,” she said. “They have to find their way from here to the next class. They have to find their way from there to their girlfriend or boyfriend’s place. They have to find their way from the Raman Noodles to the condoms at Walmart, and, on rare occasions they might be asked to find their ass with both hands.” She drank more coffee and smiled. “Pretty limited worry list if you ask me.”

            “What about,” he said, “all those papers and tests you and the others require of them.”

            She faked a look of incredulity. “Trust me,” she said, “they don’t spend a lot of time worrying about those.” She leaned back in her chair and lifted her cup in mock salute. “Bless you my children, for yours is the kingdom of heaven.”

            Nelson took on a look of resignation. Placing his cup on the table with some force, he said, “Do you get into these states often?”

            She eyed him with a cold look. “You don’t have many regrets, do you sailor?”

            “I’m willing to be your friend,” he said. “I don’t regret that.”

            “You told me you’ve never been married,” she said.

            “That’s correct.”

            “You’ve never stood before a crowd and promised to love and honor someone.”

            “No,” he said, “I never have.”

            “So you don’t have ghosts, ghosts that call to you from the grave?”

            “It was a mistake to intrude on you,” he said. “I’ll be going.” He shoved his coffee cup aside and started to rise.

            “Don’t,” she said. He did.

            When he left the campus an hour later, he drove north to the office of the state crime lab. Sheriff Love had given him directions and a brief history of the grounds. “The area used to be called ‘crazy graveyard’ when I was a kid,” he said. “It is where they buried patients from the state mental hospital that had no family connections. We would bring girls to Little Rock and go there to park,” he said. “Of course, my girl and I would just sit and discuss history projects, Sunday School assignments, and plans for the future. But some of those boys would threaten to leave the girls there if they didn’t … well, you know.” He stopped, but then added, “They used to tell us they buried the corpses upright to save space”

            “Sheriff,” Nelson had said, “why are you telling me all this?”

            “Just to let you know that we don’t respect our dead at times the way we should. We can learn a lot from them if we listen.”

            Nelson had said, “I knew that already.” Then the Sheriff had called Little Rock and arranged an appointment for Nelson.

            Later, he was ushered into a small well lighted office. A young man wearing dark trousers, a checked shirt, paisley tie, and lab coat welcomed him. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties and had a ruddy complexion, pale blue eyes, and an unruly shock of red hair.  “Ben Forsythe,” he said. “I’m a forensic specialist, and you are from the Armistead County Sheriff’s Office.”

            Nelson extended his hand, “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Deputy.”

            They shook. “We have the report on the young girl,” Forsythe said, “the one murdered outside Connorville.” He pushed a large brown envelope from his side of the desk toward Nelson. “Your county has been keeping us busy of late,” he said.
            “Oh?”

            “Nasty truck accident the other day. Couple young guys playing ‘how fast can this old pickup go,’ and they found out the hard way.”

            “I didn’t work that case,” Nelson said. “Find anything?”

            Forsythe frowned and thought. “We normally can’t discuss cases with just anyone,” he said. “But since you are from the same office …,” he stopped. “Oh hell,” he said, “I’ve been curious ever since. Do you folks have a big methamphetamine problem?”

            “Doesn’t every county?”

            “Sure,” Forsythe said, “but I mean a really big one.”

            “Why do you ask?”

            “That kid’s clothing was soaked in it,” he said. “None in his bloodstream, but you could have stayed awake for weeks just sniffing his clothes.”

            “Does Sheriff Love know this?”

            “Yeah,” Forsythe said. “Didn’t he tell you and the other deputies about it?”

            “No.”

            “Odd,” Forsythe said. He seemed to catch himself. “Anyway, there is the report on the young girl. Not much … died from a single gunshot wound entering her frontonasal suture, her, uh, forehead, and exiting the anterior.”

            “One shot?”

            “Yes.”

            “Only one?”

            “Only one. Why do you ask?”

            “Somehow I had the impression that multiple shots were involved.”

            “Oh there were,” Forsythe said, “multiple shots fired into the plywood board to which the body was attached. Some were quite close but only one hit her.”

            “Oh hell,” Nelson said.

            “Oh hell is right. It appears that the perpetrators took multiple shots at her with different weapons, possibly to torture her.”

            “That’s in the report?” Nelson’s face displayed shock.

            “Yes,” Forsythe said. “Of course it is.” Then he paused and stared at Nelson. “Say,” he said, “just how long have you been a law enforcement officer?”

            “Not long,” Nelson said, “not long at all.” He recovered his composure.

            “And before?”

            “United States Navy.”

            “So you’ve never had to deal with reports of violent murders, I suppose.”

            “I’ve never had to tell a young girl’s parents that her daughter was used for target practice before she was executed.” He glanced at the folder. “Calibers involved?”

            “Multiple,” Forsythe said. “All the way from the small handguns women carry in their purses to 38 calibers and nine millimeters.”

            “And the one that killed her?”

            “One of the small ones, a 22 long rifle, probably a Walther P22. They are pretty popular around here.”

            “Her personal belongings,” Nelson said, “when might they be released?”

            “Depends,” Forsythe said, “on a lot of factors. But I can tell you there weren’t many, just some ragged clothes. The body was washed around in a violent rainstorm, you know.”

            “I know,” Nelson said, “but a young man, a friend of Abbey’s, gave her the necklace she was wearing and it would be a great favor if he could get it back some day.”

            Forsythe thought. “Don’t remember it,” he said. “I’ll check but let me tell you ….” He stopped.

            Nelson said, “Tell me what?”

            Forsythe looked toward the door. “Mind closing that?” he said.

            Nelson rose and did what he was asked. He came back and sat, but didn’t say anything.

            Forsythe drew a deep breath. “Can I trust you?”

            “Yes, if you can help me find Abbey’s killer.”

            “The body of the deceased wasn’t handled initially by Sheriff Love’s office.”

            “I know,” Nelson said. “The Connorville Police Department was the first responder.”

            “Do you know anything about that department, or the city for that matter?”

            “I’m learning.”

            “Then you may not be surprised to know that anything of value worn by a murder victim found in that jurisdiction may not find its way here.”

            “You mean it may have been stolen.”

            Forsythe didn’t answer. He simply stared at Nelson with no expression on his face.

            “I see,” Nelson said. “We may never find it.”

            “You have the report,” Forsythe said. “If you or the Sheriff has any questions, please feel free to call. Feel free to call the pathologist as well, but I did most of the work. She just supervises, reviews, and approves.”

            Nelson rose. “You have been a great help,” he said. He extended his hand and the two shook again. Nelson said, “I wouldn’t want your job.”

            “Nor I yours,” Forsythe said. As Nelson turned to leave, Forsythe said, “By the way, you didn’t tell me what you did in the Navy. My dad was a machinist mate during Vietnam.”

            “Not much,” Nelson said. “I spent most of my time straightening out messes that other people made. And sometimes I made messes that others had to clean up.”

           As Nelson reached his truck, his cell phoned beeped, announcing a text message. “You were a great help,” it said. “I think I may be exorcised of ghosts, at least for the present. If you are game, I think the kimono may drop tonight.”

Dan Sickles at Gettysburg: Two

Spending Quarantime: The Battle of Gettysburg and Dan Sickles continued.

So MG Dan Sickles disobeyed orders by moving his Third Corps out of its assigned position along Cemetery Ridge on the second day of he battle.

So his corps suffered over 40 percent casualties.

So the entire battle plan nearly collapsed and the Union line was breached temporarily.

So he was awarded a Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions during the battle, although 34 years and much politicking later .

How? Why?

Perhaps, for one thing, Americans take orders, military or otherwise, like the “pirates’ code”, as guidelines on occasion. And sometimes they reap great rewards for it.

Arthur MacArthur Jr. disobeyed orders to stay put at the base of Missionary Ridge, grabbed the unit flag instead, and led the Union troops on a successful charge over the summit. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for it.

Years later, his son Douglas supposedly disobeyed some order, not sure which, and, for reasons not well understood or documented, was awarded the Medal of Honor.

In more recent popular culture, the most successful war movie in decades tells the story of a unit of Army rangers sent to rescue a buck private who refuses an order from a Ranger captain (yeah, right), gets pretty much the entire squad killed, and ends as the plot's surviving hero.

So Dan Sickles maybe figured the odds and got away with it.

In recent years, some have attempted to polish the reputation of Dan Sickles and explain how, tactically, his corps landed in a poor spot terrain-wise. A tragic turn of events at Chancellorsville had taught him the danger of defending an indefensible spot. Others say his action disrupted Longstreet and Lee’s battle plan enough to save the day despite the heavy losses suffered. Others take the attitude of the character from Peter Gent’s 1973 best seller North Texas Forty, who admitted, “What could have happened did happen.”

That is a point not accepted by Virginians or, easily by many other southerners. It is a feeling most famously expressed by William Faulkner in his 1948 novel, Intruder In The Dust:

“For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it’s still not yet two o’clock on that July afternoon in 1863, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out and Pickett himself with his long oiled ringlets and his hat in one hand probably and his sword in the other looking up the hill waiting for Longstreet to give the word and it’s all in the balance, it hasn’t happened yet, it hasn’t even begun yet, it not only hasn’t begun yet but there is still time for it not to begin against that position and those circumstances which made more men than Garnett and Kemper and Armistead and Wilcox look grave yet it’s going to begin, we all know that, we have come too far with too much at stake and that moment doesn’t need even a fourteen-year-old boy to think This time. Maybe this time with all this much to lose than all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world, the golden dome of Washington itself to crown with desperate and unbelievable victory the desperate gamble, the cast made two years ago.”

Yes, what could have happened did happen and, oh yes, Dan Sickles lost a leg during the battle and the bones rest on display at Army Medical College in Washington, D.C. Historians regard his actions on Day Two as the awful results of orders not followed. There is no monument to  him on the battlefield. He spent much of his after-war life trying to destroy the reputation of General George Mead who does have a monument there, in the most prominent spot.

On the plus side of his history, Dan Sickles was most instrumental in saving the Gettysburg Battlefield as a national park. On being reminded that the preservation efforts resulted in no monument to him, he is reported to have said, "The whole damn battlefield is my monument."

Barksdale's Brigade nearly crushes Third Corps.

Blessings

Are we abandoning the concept of gracious blessings in our national dialogue? A look at The Sermon on the Mount, as contrasted with modern America, would suggest so. The contrast is particularly stark when we select the Beatitudes. These form the exordium, or introduction to the Sermon from which this most important Christian constitution flows. Why did the Galilean use them so?

He knew. We guess.

The concept of gracious blessings is not particularly new in Hebrew or Greek genres. We read in Psalm 1:1−2: “Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers, but whose delight is in the law of the Lord, and who meditates on his law day and night.” (NIV) Luke, of course has his own version of the Beatitudes. Some say Matthew expanded and edited these, most notably perhaps in adding the modifying “in spirit” to the blessing of the poor.

At any rate, we don’t do much meditating in our nation these days. The advent of spurious but addictive “news” outlets and social media seems to have replaced our reflective time and practice.

Neither are we content with the promise of future blessings based on our righteous behavior at present. The current worldwide health crisis brings that home to us daily. We can only guess how the Galilean would react to his armed and angry children who refuse to protect the least of his children, or a national leader who exhorts the mob instead of comforting those who mourn. We sit on the edge of global annihilation and pray for a peacemaker. But none comes. 

In fact, one could make a sound argument that, for more than a third of Americans, the Beatitudes and much of the remainder of the Sermon provide nothing more than a contra-constitution for guiding daily life. They provide only nauseous rules that bless the most obnoxious segments of society, and should be shunned and strewn from out path. We do tend to elect politicians that promulgate that philosophy.

Some scholars have argued that the content of the Sermon, demanding to the maximum as ordained by the Galilean, was intended as guidance for his disciples and not as structures for the average person.

We’d best hope so.

Quotes

sundown in zion
CHAPTER THIRTY

            Nelson and Charlie had breakfast together next morning in silence, each consulting his thoughts. As they finished, Charlie reached for the morning newspaper and began thumbing through it, cursing under his breath. He jabbed a story with his finger and said, “Bullshit.” After studying it, he moved to another, read it intensely and said, “That figures.”  Then he slammed the entire paper to one side an apparent disgust, saying, “Cocksuckers. All of them.”

            “Why,” Nelson said, “do you insist on reading something that upsets you so much?”

            “Keeps my heart rate up,” Charlie said. “Isn’t that supposed to be good for you?”

            Nelson shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said. “What news are you finding so therapeutic this morning?”

            “Says for the umpteenth time we’re going to start drawing down our troops from Afghanistan.” He made a grimace and moved his head up and down. “Now,” he said, “ain’t that the same thing they told you several years ago?”
            “Well,” Nelson said, “they did withdraw me. See what kind of success that brought.”

            “Then,” Charlie said, “there’s this story about how many miles the Mars Rover has traveled in its exploration.”

            “So?”

            “Don’t you find it odd that our country can’t subdue a stone-age civilization but can land a vehicle on Mars and begin subduing that poor place from this far away?”

            Nelson thought for a moment, then said, “We have always seemed to do better, of late, against countries or planets that don’t fight back.”

            “Fuckin’ A,” Charlie said. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He stopped and emitted a sigh. “Cocksuckers,” he said as he rose and began clearing the table.

            “What’s on your schedule to today,” Nelson said, “other than keeping your heart rate elevated?”

            “That’s about it,” Charlie said. “I plan to go to the gym at War Memorial Park and do some strength training.”

            Nelson looked him. “Know what? I could use a workout on the weights myself.”

            Charlie eyed him and the look bordered on the suspicious. “Oh?”

            “I have to run some errands this morning,” Nelson said, “but if you could wait until this afternoon, I’ll go with you.”

            Charlie turned his attention to running water into the sink. “Uh,” he said, “I’ve already made plans to go this morning. I have to go to the VA this afternoon.”  He squirted detergent into the sink and concentrated on watching the bubbles rise.

            Nelson studied Charlie for a moment. “It was just a thought,” he said. “Need in the shower?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “You go ahead.”

            Thirty minutes later, Nelson was heading across midtown to UALR campus. Reaching it, he parked his truck in the deck, exited, and started walking across campus, a leather briefcase in hand. Although it wasn’t a warm day, there was a hint of spring in the air and several students wore shorts. Most ignored him, but some gave him a smile and “hello” just in case he might be an instructor and, therefore, of potential value to them at a future date. Some talked excitedly on cell phones. Most simply stared at theirs, fingers working furiously. Nelson took in a deep breath, enjoying the clear morning air.

            Dr. Jackson Bartholomew was expecting Nelson and welcomed him in, with a “Good morning, my non-traditional student scholar. Please have a seat.” Before taking a seat, Nelson reached into his briefcase, produced a bulging manila folder, and handed it to Bartholomew.

            “Ah,” Bartholomew said, “our paperwork. I trust you enjoyed the drudgery and that it prepared you for all the term papers awaiting you.”

            Nelson laughed. “Fortunately,” he said, “my previous education taught me to deal with torture.”

            It was Bartholomew’s turn to laugh. “I ‘spect so,” he said. He thumbed through the file of papers. “I’ll look these over,” he said. “I’m sure they’re fine.” He leaned back and placed his fingers together. “Have you thought what courses you’d like to tackle first?”

            “Do you have anything that broaches Dostoyevsky? Maybe Crime and Punishment?”

            “Hmm,” Bartholomew said, “strange choice for a ‘Dickens Man’ I’d say.”

            “Well,” said Nelson, “I am an official lawman helping out on a murder case. I’m sure the Armistead County communication network has informed you of that by now.”

            “By way of Antigua in fact,” Bartholomew said. “That’s where the Judge and Uncle Millard are, or at least they were a few days ago.”

            “Would I be correct in guessing,” Nelson said, “that the news was patched through to the Caribbean from the vicinity of Barker’s store?”

            “You’ll make a good lawman,” Bartholomew said. “You have the instincts and I’m sure you have the backbone.”

            “We’ll see,” said Nelson. He paused, nodded as if talking to himself, then said, “To that end, may we leave the student-mentor state a moment and redirect our course to the investigative?”

            Bartholomew looked surprised. “How do you mean?”

            “Just a question,” Nelson said. Before Bartholomew could react, he continued. “Martin Barker loaned Abby Stubblefield his phone for a day just before she was killed. She lost hers and it hasn’t been found.”

            Bartholomew’s face grew stony. “That was …uh … as they say ‘mighty white’ of him.” He forced a faint smile. “And that prompts that question?”

            “Not a question so much as a fact,” Nelson said. He leaned forward. “Martin made a list of numbers she called and printed me a copy.”

            Bartholomew’s face tightened again. “So?”

            “Your number was on the list and I recognized it.”

            “And that is of importance in what way?”

            “I have no idea,” Nelson said. “It’s just that you didn’t mention it when you shared information on Abbey last time we met.”

            Bartholomew leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk. He placed one hand over the other and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened them and spoke. “We have rules,” he said, “we sons of Ham, rules that allowed our survival for 300 years in this place.”

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “I’ve heard of the three rules.”

            “There are more,” Bartholomew said, “some ancillary, some minor, and some that we could term guidelines, more than rules.” Both men smiled. “And the one I particularly like applies to your observation.”

            Nelson nodded and said, “And that is?”

            “Don’t ever tell a white man everything you know about a subject the first time you meet him.” He nodded and smiled. “We have learned, over the years, the art of dribbling other things besides basketballs.”

            “So you did talk to her?”

            “I did indeed. I’ve knew her since she and Martin became close friends and we spoke on occasion.”

            “And,” Nelson said, choosing his words carefully, “would it be violating a sacred rule to share with me the gist of your conversation?”

            “Some small talk of the teen-aged girl variety, and other things,” Bartholomew said.

            “Teen-ager talk?”
            “Yes,” Bartholomew said. “She wondered if Martin might be attempting to escalate their relationship beyond the friendship level.”

            “Martin?”

            “Our boy. Seems he gave her an expensive neckless and she wondered if the giving of it implied more than friendship.”

            “Was it,” Nelson said, “a necklace involving her nickname?”

            “I think so,” Bartholomew said, “although she didn’t share the actual name with me. Do you know it?”

            “You said she had other reasons for calling,” Nelson said.

            “After I told her not to worry about Martin, yes.” Bartholomew said. She changed to a new topic.”

            “Can you share what it was?”

            “It was literary,” Bartholomew said, “and it concerned her friend Bridgette.”

            “Bridgette,” Nelson said. “The girl who ran away from the rehab center?”

            “Her friend Bridgette who disappeared from the Ransom Center,” Bartholomew said.

            “Did you know her as well?”

            “Only by reputation.”

            “As an athlete?”

            “That,” Bartholomew said, “and the reputation of being a person of uncommon beauty. That’s the extent of my knowledge about her.

            “I’m not sure I understand,” Nelson said. “If you didn’t know her, what could Abbey have sought from you?”

            “As I mentioned,” Bartholomew said, “it was literary.” He leaned back. “It seems that the two girls were in contact for most of the time Bridgette stayed at the Ransom Center. Then …,” his voice trailed off, “then it seems that a few days before she allegedly disappeared, communications ceased as if someone had taken Bridgette’s phone away.”

            “And the literary part?”

            “Abby was asking my help,” Bartholomew said, “as a teacher of literature and poetry.”

            “And?”

            “Bridgette’s last communication with Abbey was actually a text message delivered a few days before Bridgette disappeared.” He thought back. “Abbey thought the message sounded as if it might be a quote of some sort.” He smiled. “As a child of today, she first relied on the internet for help, but to no avail. Then, rather uncharacteristically for modern youth, she fell back on puny human resources.”

            “And you helped?”

            “Unfortunately, no. The quote rang no bells nor stirred no memory in my vast store of knowledge. Have you ever felt inadequate to the task before you?”

            “I was trained,” Nelson said, “to eliminate the word ‘inadequate’ from my vocabulary, but my short tenure as a lawman is beginning to bring it back.”

            “You know, don’t you,” Bartholomew said, “that the murderer in Crime and Punishment is revealed in the first few pages of the book?”

            “I’ve heard,” Nelson said. “That’s some murder mystery, huh?”

            “Strangely,” Bartholomew said, “one of the greatest in literary history.”

            Nelson reached for his briefcase and began to close it. “I’ll go now,” he said. “Maybe wander around campus for a while.”

            “She’s in,” Bartholomew said. “I saw her this morning and she doesn’t have class today.”

            “Maybe we should get you sworn in as a deputy,” Nelson said. “You seem to know things.”

            “I think literature is my life’s great mystery he said, “like a man staring into a volcano and wondering from where the heat comes.” He laughed, “Metaphors and similes,” he said, “I thrive on them.”

            “You are your uncle’s nephew, all right,” Nelson said. He closed the top of his briefcase, rose, shook hAands with Dr. Bartholomew and walked to the door. As he began to open it, he turned suddenly. “Oh,” he said, “one more question.”

            “Yes, Lieutenant Colombo?”

            “What was this mysterious quote Abbey sought? The last words she heard from Bridgette, or do you remember?”

            “I do indeed. They still haunt me.”

            “They were?”

            “The happiest ones are those who think that someday they might leave this world.”

Seekers

My reading of The Sermon On The Mount most recently focused on the present historical context. Imagine being on that hillside with the Galilean.

Just imagine.

There are a number of possible reasons for your presence.

You might be a disciple, one of the chosen ones. Your attendance, in that case, was more or less mandatory. If you are expected to help spread the message, you’d best learn it first-hand.

You might be there for personal reasons. You may have heard that this mysterious stranger had been going around healing the sick and that bunion was beginning to bother you.

You might have been curious. News probably travelled quickly in that region of the world.

You might have been a pharisee coming to check out the competition.

You might have been a politician thinking that this fellow’s followers might be a good group to latch onto.

You might have been a seller of goods attracted to any crowd that might make you rich.

Your boss might have sent you.

You might have heard that this stranger hated the Samaritans as much as you did.

You might have slipped in to seek righteousness, disguised, in order to avoid the wrath of your neighbors and the ruling elite.

Whatever the reason, the Galilean gave you a bitter pill to swallow. Can you imagine the chill you might have felt when he said the following?

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

Oh hell.

That’s when the crowd might have thinned.

Payback

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Gideon Nelson serves retribution, Navy style.

            The sun was setting as Nelson eased through the traffic on Markham Street toward St. Vincent Hospital. He reached it as night settled on the city. The hospital was sprawling institution, located on a high spot at the intersection of two major streets. It towered above the area like a modern castle, promising nurture and succor to those in need. As he turned into the entrance, signs directed him to a large parking garage, and he wound through a maze until he found a place to park. He walked to an elevator, pushed the button, and surveyed his surroundings while he waited. The elevator took him to ground level where he crossed the main drive and entered the hospital. In the lobby, a receptionist reviewed his identification and told him Sheriff Love had contacted the hospital and they were expecting him. Clifton was undergoing some examinations at the moment, but if Nelson would proceed to the nearest waiting room, he could find out if, and when, visiting might resume. Nelson thanked him and complied.

            It was a long wait, an hour and a half. At nearly eight-thirty, a nurse entered the waiting area. By this time, Nelson was the only person there and the nurse told him that he might visit Mr. Sikes for only a few moments as he, “… had a pretty rough evening as you might imagine.” Nelson nodded and followed her down a corridor to a dimly lighted room. The nurse motioned him in and said, “Be brief. We’ve given him some pretty strong pain medication and he won’t be coherent for long.”

            Nelson was a stranger to neither injuries nor hospitals, but his first glimpse of Clifton stopped him cold. On hearing someone entering, Clifton turned his head to see who it was. The once merry face was a sickening color of purple except for two black eyes swollen partly shut. Gauze party covered his forehead, with red hair extending above it as though trying to escape the indignity. His lower jaw was supported by bandages and both lips were split. One arm lay at his side while the other hung from an overhead sling, a cast covering an elbow bent nearly perpendicular. The rest of his body lay beneath a sheet. He stared at Nelson, but didn’t speak.

            “Do you recognize me,” Nelson said.

            Clifton tried to nod, but only winced in pain. Through clenched teeth, he managed to speak in a raspy and soft voice. “Just who the hell are you, mister?”

            Nelson didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “Who did this to you?”

            “That’s what they wanted to know,” Clifton said.

            “That’s what who wanted to know?”

            “They wanted me to tell them who you are.”

            There was a chair placed against a wall not far from Clifton’s bed. Nelson walked over, picked it up with one hand, and set it alongside the bed. He moved close to Clifton so he didn’t have to talk loudly. “What did you tell them?”

            Clifton was quiet for a moment as if he struggled to remember. Nelson waited. Finally, Clifton said, “I told them you were a man who gave me a ride when I needed one. I told them you seemed to be the kind of person who helped those in need.” He stopped as a wave a pain traversed his body. His lips trembled.

            “And about the cook in the diner?”

            Clifton closed his eyes in thought. They remained closed until what could have been interpreted as the briefest hint of a smile flowed over the part of his face that was visible. “I forgot that part,” he said.

            “How many were there that did this to you?”

            “Two, I think,” Clifton said. “Maybe three.”

            “Did you know them?”

            “Might have,” Clifton said, “but I never got a look at them.” Another wave of pain hit him and he stopped talking.

            Nelson waited. Before long, Clifton nodded that he was in control. “They caught me behind the diner,” he said. “I went there to eat and they grabbed me when I came around back to where I always park.”

            “Did anyone see them?”

            “I don’t think so. They …” he stopped again and both men waited until he continued, “they put something over my head and pushed me into a truck. Took me out on the farm and then went to work on me.”

            “That’s enough talk,” Nelson said. “Now you just listen. I’ll find the ones who did this to you.”

            Clifton coughed, winced, but said nothing.

            “They’ll answer for this,” Nelson said.                                             

            Clifton nodded and said, “One thing, if you would, mister.”

            “Anything you ask, Clifton.”

            “Please,” Clifton said, “Talk to the doctors. Tell them to not let Marge come in and see me like this.”

            Nelson swallowed hard.

            “Tell them to make her wait,” Clifton said, “until I look okay again.” With that, he closed his swollen eyes and drifted into a merciful sleep.

            When Nelson reached the parking deck, it was deserted. Official visiting hours had ended and the hospital staff was between shift changes. He reached the elevator but stopped before reaching the doors. Instead of taking the elevator, he entered a stairwell and proceeded slowly to his floor.  He emerged at the opposite end of the parking space from the elevator. He spotted a surveillance camera trained on the elevator and one above him on the exit. Easing around the exit and avoiding the cameras, he looked both ways along the parking stalls. That’s when he saw them.

            Two men leaned against a truck parked across the drive from his. They were positioned to watch the elevator, but had neglected to observe the stairwell. Nelson watched them as they talked softly and joked with one another. One held a club and the other held what seemed to be large woven sack. The rear bumper of the truck displayed a “Soul Warriors” sticker.

The traffic outside on the busy streets masked the sound of Nelson circling around to approach them from their rear and out of camera view. He reached the opposite side of their truck, and he waited. Over the din of traffic sounds, he caught parts of conversation, including “The son of a bitch must have decided to spend the night.”

            It wasn’t long before Nelson heard the sound of an ambulance piercing the night as it sped toward the emergency room of the hospital. When the sound reached its peak, Nelson spun around the rear of the truck, took a step and delivered a sharp, open-handed blow to the temple of the nearest man. He collapsed in a heap. Before the second man could respond, Nelson had stepped into him and delivered an upward blow to one arm, disabling it. He seized the other. In a fluid and instantaneous move, he bent the other arm with one hand and seized its fingers with the other. The man fell to his knees yelling “Oww!” He stared at Nelson like a child seeing a killer animal in front of him. “That hurts,” he said.

            “It’s supposed to, asshole,” Nelson said, applying pressure that produced a soft scream from the other. Nelson had him completely immobilized. “Now,” he said, “let’s you and I talk.” He looked toward the inert form of the other man. “I don’t think your pal has much to say.”

            “Mister,” the kneeling man said. “You’re killing me.” His eyes were white from fear and pain.

            “Bullshit,” Nelson said. “If I wanted you dead, guess what?” The man didn’t answer. “I said, ‘Guess what?’” Nelson said.

            “I would be?”

            “Let’s just say you wouldn’t beat up old men any time soon,” Nelson said.

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nelson increased the pressure and the man groaned.

            “Are you two the ones who hurt my friend?” When the man didn’t answer, Nelson waited. When appeared to move, the threat caused the other to nod and speak.

            “Yes,” the man said. “We did it, but we were ordered to. It wasn’t our idea.”

            “Whose?” Nelson said. “Who told you to hurt my friend?”

            The man looked around as if help might be forthcoming. Nelson repeated the question. The other drew a deep breath and seemed to relax. “Bully did,” he said.

            “So you beat an old man because Bully Bridges told you to?”

            Uncertainty covered the man’s face. “Yes.”

            “Why?”

            “Why what?” the man said.

            “Why beat a harmless old man within an inch of his life?”

            The man looked even more confused. Finally he said, “Because Bully told us to.”

            “Why?”

            The man groaned from the increase pressure on this wrist. “He thinks you are out to harm the Soul Warriors.”

            “Why would I want to do that?”

            “That’s what we wanted to find out.”

            “Stand up,” Nelson said. The man rose slowly. “Now tell me about Abbey Stubblefield.”

            The man cocked his head. “Who?”

            “The girl that wasn’t welcome in your church.”

            Understanding descended upon the man’s face. Confusion returned immediately. He appeared sincerely bewildered. “You mean that little ni…,” he began but stopped when pain pierced his arm.

            “Careful,” Nelson said. “We’re talking about a young lady who came to your church, was mistreated, and found dead in a nearby ditch a week later.”

            “Mister,” the man man said. “I don’t know anything about her, except that some of the guys had some harmless fun with her.” He immediately screamed in pain and fell to his knees again. Sobs rose from him like bubbles. He shook his head in pain and cried.

            “Her name was Abbey,” Nelson said, “Now who killed her?”

            The man continued to sob. Nelson had him stand again. Looking the man directly in his tear-filled eyes, Nelson said, “You know. Oddly enough, I believe you.” He eased the pressure on the man’s fingers and the man ceased crying. “Thing is though,” Nelson said, “you still have to answer for my friend.” Pure terror filled the man’s face. “What do you think would be appropriate?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Doing the same to you would be the apparent answer, the Old Testament one,” Nelson said. “Now wouldn’t it?” When the man didn’t answer, Nelson increased the pressure again. The man nodded. Then Nelson said, “But that would make me just like you, wouldn’t it? The man was confused as to the correct answer, so he said nothing. Nelsons twitched his hand slightly and the other nodded. Nelson said, “But the New Testament thing would be to forgive you and let you do to me what you did to my friend. Right? You do know your scriptures, don’t you?” The man nodded again.

Beside them, the other man moved slightly. “Would he know any more than you?” Nelson said, nodding toward the crumpled figure. The standing man shook his head.

“Tell you what,” Nelson said. “I’ll do something worse.” The man’s eyes widened. “I’m going to take away your most cherished asset.” He nodded toward the fallen man. “His too.”

The man waited, a look of faint hope mixed with awe clearing his eyes.

“Now I figure the thing you cherish most, the thing that sustains you above everything else, and the thing you fear losing above anything is …” When the man didn’t respond, Nelson did. “Your pack. Your gang. The thing that gives you courage and superiority by its numbers. Am I right? That’s what makes a bully, an overpowering and protecting group of other bullies, right?” The man looked at the ground and nodded. “Not a team, mind you,” Nelson said. “I know about teams. They’re composed of individuals joined in a worthwhile cause.” He turned an spat on the one still down. “I’m talking about a gang of assholes, assholes like you that gang up to do evil, a nest of cowards, usually with their precious guns strapped on them.” The man kept looking down and said nothing.

“So,” Nelson said, “I’m going to make sure you go don’t go back to them. In fact, if I were you, and can remember this pain, I wouldn’t slow that pickup truck down until I was way over in Texas somewhere. If I let you go, you will light out, won’t you?”

The man nodded so hard that spittle ran down his chin, Nelson released his grip and, in an efficient movement swung one fist into the other’s left eye and the other into his right. The man slumped to the ground. Nelson pulled a baseball cap from the man’s head, pitched it into the bed of the pickup, and grabbed the man by the hair exposing his face. With a sharp strike, he broke the man’s nose, saying,  “I don’t imagine you would ever show that face to your Soul Warriors, now would you?”

After Nelson had delivered the same judgement to the second man, he placed both unconscious bodies into the cab of their truck where he left them. An observer would have thought them asleep, perhaps waiting for a visitor to return. He returned unviewed to the exit, walked to his truck in plain view of the security camera, and drove home. When he arrived, Charlie was on the computer. He looked up as Nelson came in. “Well,” he said, “it is a surprise to see you. What have you been up to this pleasant evening?”

“Working on my anger management,” Nelson said.

The Great Reversal

In a rather strange way, America may now be aligning itself with The Sermon on the Mount. One might say, “in a strange way” for it took a crisis of epoch proportions to catalyze the phenomenon. We may not see it again soon. It emanates from the Beatitudes, but is not limited to those profound pronouncements.

What is this Great Alignment?  Why grows from the common theme of reversal of values. It is not an uncommon one in either religion or literature. The Galilean himself would later say, in Matthew 20:16, "So the last will be first, and the first will be last." (NIV) More recently, author John Steinbeck observed, in remembering his friend Ed Ricketts, “The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success.”

And then we have the Beatitudes, perhaps the most wonderful expression of the reversal in values ever expressed in western literature. They would foretell the later advice that, “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” (Matthew 25:40 NIV)

Yes, one could argue that America had drifted out of harmony with the teachings of The Sermon, or the teachings of the Galilean for that matter. Leaders mocked the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, the meek, and those out of harmony with the ruling elite, right on down the line. Those who achieved both their success in life and their worldly fortune from a slap on the rear by a pediatrician received praise, envy, and even worship. Those who rose by bearing false witness were rewarded. We even bore some into the highest seats of power. Those laboring in our fields by day or fleeing from vicissitudes which they had no role in instigating were reviled, shunned, and even imprisoned. The world was, as we say, “in sixes and sevens,” or great humanitarian disorder.

That has changed, hasn’t it?

It isn’t the hedge-fund managers or “trust-fund babies” for whom those laudatory aircraft were flying in formation for yesterday, was it? No, it was those we see teeming with love and grace when we peel back the pages of The Sermon on the Mount.

I think the Galilean would be pleased. Others not so much.

Evil Spreads

sundown in zion
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The mystery deepens 

            Nelson returned to Little Rock at a slow pace, remaining deep in thought as vehicles roared past at speeds well past the stated limit. Traffic was particularly heavy as he navigated the corridor of anonymous shopping centers and fast foods. From more than one driver’s window, a hand making an obscene gesture shot from the window of a vehicle that had seized the opportunity of a break in the traffic to swing from behind Nelson’s truck and speed around him. He paid no attention. A manila envelope, at which he glanced periodically, lay on the seat beside him. Martin had produced it from his briefcase and given it to him before they parted. It contained, Martin had said, a listing of phone numbers to which Abbey had made using Martin’s cell phone. Nelson had work to do that afternoon.

            He began as soon as he reached home. Charlie’s car was gone and Nelson had the house to himself. He fixed a drink and spread the sheets in front of him on the kitchen table. Martin had color-coded the telephone numbers when he printed the lists, a nicety that made Nelson smile. Abbey had borrowed Martin’s phone on the morning of the day before her murder had occurred. She had returned it that night. Martin had coded calls he knew to be to and from other students in yellow, calls to family and other friends in blue, and unknown calls in red. There was little way of knowing what the red-coded numbers implied, but he noted the area codes and frequency. From a file he had place alongside the listings of number, he withdrew a business card from Sam Coulson at the Pro-Tex concealed carry school. Holding it in one hand, and scanning the numbers with a finger of the other, he found, as Sam had said, that Abbey had phoned him before her death. Then something caught his eye.

            Although the area codes of all numbers on the list were the same as those for Little Rock, Nelson could see that the first three-number prefix on Sam’s number appeared on several of the other numbers. He took a pen from his pocket and jotted a note on a page of listings, “Check the land-line prefix for the Connorville area.” He resumed his checking but stopped suddenly when his finger touched another number. He stared for a moment before making another note. He resumed checking the numbers and began shaking his head in negative response. When he finished, he pushed the pages aside and reached for his own cell phone. He punched a number and waited.

            “Please wait a moment, Deputy Nelson,” a stern female voice said from the phone. A country and western song immediately began expressing hopes that a recent sexual encounter didn’t produce a “road-trip result” played while he waited. Then Sheriff Love’s voice literally exploded into Nelson’s ear.

            “My star deputy,” the voice said, “What news do you bring? Shall I send a squad car to load the miscreants you have apprehended?”

            “Not quite yet,” Nelson said, “all I’ve done is eliminate a dead-end.”

            “And which would that be?”

            “Abbey Stubblefield was involved in a gang, but not one of bad intentions?”

            “Oh? There are gangs with good intentions?”

            “Our so-called ‘Christians’ certainly seem to think so.”

            “Indubitably ,” Sheriff Love said, “So hers was a religious one?”

            “Hardly,” Nelson said. “It’s a harmless but boisterous group of students at the school in Hot Springs whose sense of humor is located on a level so high above us that we wouldn’t even know which of their antics are supposed to be funny.” Nelson paused, then said slowly, “At any rate, they didn’t kill Abbey, but that’s where she got the nickname Poison.”

            “Spare me the details,” Sheriff Love said, “I’m a little busy and quite upset.”

            Nelson ignored him for the moment. “Just a quick question,” he said. “Do we have the capability of tracing cell phone number to their owners?”

            “Let’s just say that …” He paused, “You aren’t taping this call are you?” He paused again. “Let’s just say we have friends that can.”

            “Good,” Nelson said. “Now what has your berth all lumpy?”

            “Another body got dumped just over the city limits of Connorville.”

            “Oh shit,” Nelson said.

            “Oh shit is correct, my nautical friend. Only this one was still alive, barely. At least I assume he still is.”

            “Has he been identified?”

            “Oh,” Sheriff Love said. “Everyone knows who it is. They even found him on his own land.”

            “A Connorville man?”

            “Just barely,” Sheriff Love said. “His house is in Connorville, but his farm, which he now rents out and refuses to sell to developers for vast sums of money, is in the county.”

            A long pause followed. “Finally Sheriff Love, evidently fearing a disconnect, said, “Are you still there?”

            After a short pause Nelson said, “I’m here. What happened to him?”

            “He got beat up,” Sheriff Love said. “He got beat up real bad. One of the officers from Connorville who used to work for me called and told me about it.”

            There was another pause. “That would be Officer Patterson.”

            “Yes. He said it was about as bad a beating as he ever saw. They medevacked him to St. Vincent Hospital in Little Rock. I’m headed there as soon as we break off.” Then he said, “Are you okay. You sound like you just saw a whole company of Taliban.”

            There was a short silence again. Then Nelson’s voice eased soft and slow from the sheriff’s phone. “Are you at liberty to tell me the victim’s name?”

            “Hell,” Sheriff Love said,” You’re a deputy ain’t you.” He stopped. “Besides, the newspaper feller has already been here.”

            “And the victim was?”

            “A local man, known and loved by just about everybody except, I guess, whoever beat him up. Clifton Sikes was his name, but I’m sure that don’t mean anything to you.”

            The only sound that came from the phone was heavy breathing. Nelson broke the silence. “It happens that I do,” he said. “It happens that I do know him.”

            “Did you know him well?”

            “Well enough,” Nelson said, “that you might want to hope you find the person, or persons, that beat him before I do.”

            “Lord, mister,” the sheriff said. “Troubles follow you like hounds after a bitch in heat.” Sounds of a chair moving came through Nelson’s phone as the sheriff rose. Then he said, “Are you ever going to tell me who the hell you are?”