The Past

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-five

(In which Nelson seeks information on his friend's beating.)

            “According to my grandmother,” Underhill said, “her grandad became quite impressed with former Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest’s solution to the emancipation of the slaves under the tyrant …,” he stopped and smiled, “Abraham Lincoln. So he, her grandfather, decided that Connorville needed a local chapter of the Klu Klux Klan.”

            “To keep the former slaves in line,” Nelson said.

            “Precisely,” Underhill said. “But there was a hitch.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yep. There were no former slaves in or around Connorville. So no reason for the Klan.”

            “So the local chapter never happened?”

            “Oh, it happened, all right. Great-Great-Great was the first Grand Dragon. I have the old family photograph of him hanging on the wall at our home, a distinguished old gentleman with a full beard and a Bible in his hand. His obituary omitted the Klan part but stated that he preached when he wasn’t busy providing for his family.” Underhill paused, looked away, and then continued. “I guess preaching didn’t pay that well even then.” His gaze returned and he smiled. “The obit also said that he was a good man who, ‘never took part in a neighborhood brawl.’ I’m not sure exactly what that meant, but bless him for it.”

            “So, if there were no black families around, what did the Klan do for fun?”

            “That’s what I’m getting to,” Underhill said. “Bless you for your patience.” He took a breath. “They terrorized the youth, not for fun, but for community stability, like tribal members have done for ages. In Africa, the village elders used to keep the rowdy teenagers in line by slipping out at night and making frightful sounds with leather thongs pulled through stretched animal skins—beyond the village, monsters lurk, and all that. Only during the rites of manhood was the truth revealed.”

            Nelson stirred in his seat.

            “To get to the point,” Underhill said, “in tribal Connorville, the Klan members were the monsters from beyond the pale. My grandmother told me that whenever the local youth became unruly, Klan members would show up one Sunday, all hooded, robed and serious, and sit on the front row of the church, saying nothing, but delivering a powerful message. It would be a klavern from another church, of course, so the identities couldn’t be guessed by seeing who was absent—an early form of networking. At any rate, all would be quiet in the neighborhood for some time afterwards.”

            “And?”

            “And,” Underhill said, “Flash forward. The Soul Warriors form what you might call our Klan. They seem to have this mysterious calming power over our teenagers.”

            Nelson nodded his head.

            “So,” Underhill said, “they keep the youth in line and we do our best to keep them in line, these Soul Warriors. Sometimes we are more successful than at others.”

            “So you have what one might call an ‘unholy alliance,’ then?” Nelson said.

            Underhill laughed, “Everything we do is holy,” he said. “Didn’t you know that?” Before Nelson could answer, Underhill continued. “But what interest could our little peacekeeping force have for the Armistead County Sheriff’s Department?”

“It may be,” Nelson said, “that a couple of them were involved in the beating of one of your long-time residents.” He stopped and waited.

Underhill studied him at length before speaking. “Wait a moment,” he said. He rose, went to the door, and opened it. “Sister Rose,” he said. “Would you call over and ask Brother Glover to come join us in here?” He closed the door and turned to Nelson. “He keeps a closer eye on the young folks than I do,” he said. He walked slowly around his desk and sat. Leaning back, he knitted his fingers across his stomach and thought, and then nodded. “Perhaps you are thinking of our local eccentric: Clifton Sikes. I heard he got roughed up.”

Nelson dropped his chin, gave Underhill a sharp look, and said, “Roughed up is what you heard?”

“That’s the coffee shop talk, as I understand things.”

“Stories must get sanitized in your coffee shop,” Nelson said. “He was nearly beaten to death.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Underhill said, “but not totally surprised. Clifton is what you might call a liberal in his thinking, and not shy about expressing it. That kind of thinking doesn’t sit well with some folks around here, as you might have guessed by now.”

“Is he one of your members?”

Underhill shook his head. “No, and that’s another thing. It’s always circulated around that he and his wife were both, shall we say, non-religious?”

“Does he spout off about that as well?”

“No, they kept to themselves while she was still alive. Folks say they liked to sit in their back yard under a shade tree and talk to one another of an evening. Some even say that they spiced their conversation with a little bourbon from time to time. That sort of thing goes a little further in agitating the good folks of Connorville.”

“The talking or the bourbon?”

“Both,” Underhill said, “but that’s not what started the rumor that they were atheists.”

“Oh?”

“No,” Underhill said, “it was when Clifton chased one of our deacons and two of our sisters off his place with a broom when they called on him to offer the church as a place for healing.”

Nelson nodded. “Sounds like him.”

“Oh,” Underhill said, “then you know him? How? But wait, here’s Brother Glover.”

The door had opened and the assistant minister was entering. Underhill motioned for him to take the other visitor’s chair. Glover walked around and took it, ignoring Nelson.

“You know Mr., Nelson—now Deputy Nelson—I think,” he said, addressing Glover.

“We’ve met,” Glover said. He stiffened and waited.

“Well then,” Underhill said, seeming put off by the terse response, “then maybe you can help us.”

Glover didn’t answer, but waited.

“You’ve heard about what happened to Clifton Sikes?” Underhill said to Glover.

“I heard he got smart with the wrong person at last,” Glover said.

Nelson turned to Glover and leveled his eyes. “Persons,” he said, plural. It took more than one person to inflict that kind of damage.” He paused, and then said in a cold voice. “And trust me, I know a little about inflicting damage.”

Glover fidgeted, seemed to be steeling himself, and said, “Word is out, around town, Mr. Nelson, that you are some sort of big war hero. I know that, but what I don’t know is what concern all of this is to you.”

“First,” Nelson said, “I’m no hero of any sort, just an average guy who doesn’t like bullies or wiseasses.”

Underhill interrupted. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad we got that out of the way. But now where were we?” He stopped and leaned back. Assuming a pose like that of a schoolteacher, he said, “But first of all, where are we? We’re in a house of God and, last time I checked, that implies a high degree of civility.” He smiled. “Go on, Deputy Nelson.”

“My concern arises from the fact Mr. Sikes wasn’t beaten in his home but was taken to a farm shed near the edge of his farm and tortured there. That is outside the city and, thus, a county problem.” He paused. When nobody spoke, he continued. “I interviewed Mr. Sikes and he felt strongly that the assailants were part of a local group known as the Soul Warriors.”

Glover stiffened. “Are you referring to members of our Young Adults Sunday School Class?”

“I’m referring to a group of men who call themselves, ‘The Soul Warriors’ and claim membership in you church.”

“I can assure you,” Glover said, looking first at Nelson and then at Underhill, “that our young men had nothing to do with harming your victim. The group has undergone its share of sorrow lately, the latest instance of which is the mysterious disappearance of two members of the group. This happened only days after one was killed and another crippled in a tragic motoring accident. The fact that even one survived is a miracle.”

“Yes,” said Underhill absentmindedly, “the Lord was certainly riding with him that day.”

Glover ignored him and kept his eyes on Nelson. “But I don’t suppose you know anything about all that, do you, Deputy Nelson?”

Nelson returned his look. “I only know,” he said, “what I pick up on the backroads of the county.”

“Oh,” said Underhill, interrupting, “Brother Dale doesn’t know. Hasn’t heard the news yet.” He turned to him. “The case of our disappearing members is solved.”

Glover leaned forward. “Solved? How?”

“This just in: one of the two phoned one of the other members of the class, all the way from Los Angeles, California.” He smiled. “Seems the pair of them decided on the spur of the moment, like young folks do, that they would take off and seek their fortunes out west. That’s all he said, except to tell you they were looking for a new church home.”

Glover turned to Nelson and glared. “This doesn’t mean,” he said, “that they were guilty of anything,” he said.

“Only poor judgement in my opinion,” Nelson said. “Have you ever been to Los Angeles?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Underhill. “I also wanted a little information, if you would about your clinic, the Ransom Center.”

Underhill and Glover looked at one another. Underhill turned to Nelson and said, “Our clinic?”

“Isn’t it?”

Glover stared to speak but didn’t. A few seconds later, Underhill answered. “Technically yes. But we don’t market it as a faith-based clinic. The name itself was mandated by the deacons, APA. That’s ‘against pastor’s advice’ if you want to know. Other than that, it is an independent rehab clinic operating under scientific, not scriptural, guidance. It has gained a positive reputation in the area of behavior modification.”

“But it is, technically, your clinic,” Nelson said.

“It is ours. We fund and staff it,” Glover said. “Is there a crime in that?”

Nelson ignored him and spoke to Underhill. “So why play down your association?”
            “Simple,” Underhill said. “We want our clientele to get better because their underlying problems have been identified and treated, not because they have substituted one addiction for another.”

“I’m not sure I would call belief in Jesus Christ an addiction,” Glover said.

Underhill shot him a sharp glance, then turned to Nelson and continued. “We seek to remove the curse of drugs and other problems from society at large,” he said. “We’re not there simply to serve those who believe exactly as we do. We like to feel that each of our clients leaves the center with a clearer mind, and that a clear mind will lead them to Jesus without further input on our part.” He thought of something and laughed. “Besides, we make more money with a broad-based clientele.”

Nelson nodded and smiled. “An honest preacher,” he said.

“But of course,” Underhill said. “What other kind is there?” Both men laughed. Glover squirmed in his chair.

“Do you have many of your patients try to run away, escape from the clinic while under treatment?” he said.

Underhill thought. “No, but why would that be important?”

“The young girl who was murdered,” he said, “Abbey Stubblefield, had a friend who was at your clinic but who disappeared not long before Abbey was murdered.”

“He’s talking about Bridgette Thompson,” Glover said.

“Ah yes,” Underhill said. “Comely young Bridgette. Yes,” he said, “she did go ‘AWOL,’ so to speak. We never knew to where. A real disappointment to us all.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she is in the same place as our two members who left town,” Glover said. “That girl could make it big in Hollywood. That’s what we all figure, anyway.”

Underhill said, “That makes sense. Where else could she be? We feel badly about her. But to answer your question, we have three or four each year that leave without completing treatment. We make an effort to find them. Sometimes we do. Sometimes we don’t. We aren’t in the detective business and, if they are of age, no one could do much about it anyway. Perhaps Bridgette enticed our two young men out to Hollywood with a promise of their own stardom.”

“And the remaining Soul Warriors,” Nelson said, “your Sunday School group, they help provide security at the Ransom center?”

“At times,” Underhill said. “At times.” He placed his hand upon his desk. “Is there anything else we could do to help you?”

“You’ve been informative,” Nelson said. “And I thank you for your time.”

“Thank Jesus,” Underhill said. “It’s his time we shared.”

The men parted, Nelson left the office and proceeded to the main entrance. Before exiting, he stopped and withdrew his cell phone. He punched in a number, waited, and then spoke. “Thanks for the text. Yes,” he said, “I can meet you there now. Which street do I take to get there? And oh,” he said, could you get something for me? I’ll wait out there if it takes you a while.”

He spoke for a few more minutes and placed the phone in his pocket. He walked to his truck with slow and deliberate steps. When he had started the truck, he backed slowly to where he could see the office area in his rearview mirror. He paused and waited while he shifted gears slowly. Then he saw it. The curtains behind a second-floor window flickered and remained open wide enough for a person to watch Nelson’s truck as he left.