The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone 13)

On the way back from Orlando I’d stopped in Gainesville and retrieved Valdez’s file photos from the Mail ’N More. The cassette tape had remained safe inside the truck’s player. Both items, along with the reel tape from Oliver, were now resting in the lower right drawer of my desk at work. Nobody had a clue I possessed them, which to me seemed the best protection. What to do with them was still up in the air. My assignment called for me to turn them over to Stephanie Nelle.

But I had to speak with Foster.

So I took a personal leave day and drove to Orlando for the funeral.

Another lie to Pam quelled any questions she might have had.

Follow-up to what I just did.

I’ll be home by nightfall.

* * *

Coleen and Nate were laid to rest together in a small cemetery west of Orlando, beyond the sprawl, in what was once orange groves. A perfect bowl of bright blue stretched overhead east to west. About two hundred people came to the graveside service. Foster sat with a few others, whom I assumed were Nate’s family, in rickety wooden chairs as the final words were said. Then everyone filed by and paid their respects. Foster remained in a daze, but seemed mindful of each person, shaking their hand, forcing a sad smile, thanking them for coming.

The crowd progressively thinned, everyone leaving the quiet cemetery in cars parked in an orderly line atop the close-cropped grass. Foster lingered, and a few of the older folks in the crowd remained with him. I loitered off to the side, among the other graves, waiting for a chance to speak with him.

Finally, he walked over.

“What have you told them?” he asked.

Right to the point. “Not a thing.”

“I knew that about you.”

I was puzzled by the observation.

“When I first met you in the house by the lake, I told myself you were a man who could be trusted.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Forty years of trusting other people.”

“Look what price King paid for trusting you.”

He nodded. “His life.”

“You say that as if it means nothing to you.”

“On the contrary, it has ruled my every moment for the past thirty-two years.”

“Coleen died never knowing the truth.”

“I noticed how carefully you chose your words in front of her with Valdez.”

“And you said nothing.”

“It seemed the best course. One thing I never did was lie to Coleen.”

His words came in a low, soft monotone with little emotion accompanying them. I wondered if he really believed his own bullshit.

“You still have the tape and the files?” he asked.

I nodded. “They’re safe. No one knows I have them. I also have the original recording from Oliver.”

Which surprised him.

“I took it off his body.”

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“You.”

He seemed to consider my dilemma, then said, “It’s not complicated. I was told to find FBI spies within the SCLC. I did, but I sold my silence to Jansen in return for cash that I needed. Then I sold out King, in return for a rare gold coin.”

He seemed to be keeping with his official line. “You should be in jail.”

He gave a slight nod. “A better fate than everyone else. They’re all dead.”

“Except Bruce Lael.”

“You don’t need him. You have the cassette copy and the original tape. All you need is for me to validate those and the files, implicating myself in a murder.”

“Those thoughts had occurred to me.”

“I’m afraid none of that is possible.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that.” I wondered what he expected from me. “I’ll have to arrest you.”

I’d known this man for less than a week. My opinion of him had ranged from none at all, to sympathetic, to outright loathing, to finally pity. His wife died long ago. His daughter and son-in-law were now gone, too. Certainly nothing about him should demand any compassion. He’d brought all of his troubles onto himself.

But something wasn’t right.

My lawyer intuition had been telling me for days that two plus two here did not add up to four. Foster was a man of God. A preacher with a flock. I’d just watched a ton of people shake his hand and hug his neck. Not a perfunctory gesture, expected or required. Those people were hurting, because they knew he was hurting. Many who’d been there had to be members of his church. Nothing but love and respect filled their faces. Either this man was one of the most accomplished phonies in the world, or something else was going on. I’d lied to Stephanie Nelle and kept silent the past three days on the belief that something else was indeed going on.

“It’s time you tell me the truth,” I said. “No more hedging. We’re at the end. I have to make a decision.”

He stared back at me with eyes that genuinely considered the request, which came with the tone of a plea.

“People expect me to come to the gathering at the church for Coleen and Nate. It will be over by 5:00. Come to my house at 6:00. We can talk there in private.”

He gave me the address, then said, “Truth is defined as sincerity in action, character, and utterance. As Christians we believe that every word in the Bible is true. It is the foundation upon which we live our lives. I have counseled many people in need with what the Bible says about truth. I’ve always told them that keeping God’s word in their heart helps them to know when they are listening to the voice of truth. Now it’s my turn to follow that advice. These are the things that you shall do. Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace. Let us hope Zechariah is correct.”

And he walked off.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

I killed time by finding a Cracker Barrel and eating a late lunch, not getting in a hurry and thinking about the past few days. I called Pam and told her that I would be late getting back and, for once, there was no interrogation. The past couple of days had been good between us. We’d even started talking about having a baby. Both of us wanted a child, and perhaps the time had come. With all of the trouble in our marriage, having a baby had never seemed the solution. But maybe we’d turned the corner and could move on, a child providing some additional glue to keep the pieces together. I liked the idea of becoming a father. My own father died when I was ten, so I grew up with my grandfather. I wanted to make a difference in a child’s life. Be there for him or her. Be a part of their growing up. As to my military career, who knew where that was going. My temporary foray into the Justice Department was over. I was back in the navy and a job that I was more and more starting to resent. And I had to fight that. The home front was chaotic enough without work joining in the battle.

A little after 5:30 I left the restaurant and headed toward Foster’s house. I stopped at a local convenience store and purchased a city map. Orlando was a big place. Easy to get lost among its many neighborhoods, but I found the house, a modest one-story, brick home in a quiet subdivision. Foster’s Toyota wasn’t parked in the driveway—probably still in Port Mayaca where I’d left it after Jansen cornered me.

I approached the front door and rang the bell.

The door opened a few moments later and Foster invited me inside.

“I told everyone that I wanted to be alone,” he said. “We should not be disturbed.”

The house was clean and spacious, the walls papered and ornamented with pictures of Coleen and another older woman, surely her mother.

He noticed my interest.

“I was so proud of her. She was a good daughter. Not a follower in any way. She had a mind of her own, never craving the strength of others.”