56

            Susan Marrow lived in Kennesaw, a suburb on the northern rim of metro Atlanta.  All Anthony knew about the town was that a Civil War battle had once been waged near Kennesaw Mountain—and that a local ordinance required all heads of household to possess a registered firearm. 

            Marrow’s home was in an established neighborhood of bungalows and ranches with verdant, well-tended lawns.  Anthony cruised along the tree-lined street in the Volkswagen, while Lisa, riding in the passenger seat, searched for the address they’d found on Omega Search.

            The morning sunshine was bright, the sky a clear turquoise canvas.  It gave him a more optimistic mood than he had any logical reason to have considering their circumstances.  On a balmy June day such as that one it was easy to believe that everything would work out in their favor.

            Lisa pointed to a home coming up on the right.  “There it is.”

            The Marrow residence was a quaint bungalow with white clapboard siding, blue shutters, a veranda, and a detached garage.  The small yard was a lush green, neatly maintained, and a bed of hydrangeas basked in the sun.

            A white Honda Pilot was parked in the driveway. 

            “Looks like someone’s home,” he said.  He slowed to a stop and parked alongside the curb in front of the house.     

            Lisa turned to him.  “How do you want to do this?”

            Although the record on Omega Search had included a telephone number, they hadn’t called ahead.  They doubted that Marrow, if she were inclined to speak at all about her daughter, would have done so over the phone with a stranger.

            “Let’s play it straight,” he said. 

            “And tell her we’re on the run from a group of church assassins?  She might think we’re nuts.  I would.”

            “Or she might believe us.” 

            Carrying the Bible that Bob had given him, he climbed out of the car.  They took a flagstone walkway to the front door. 

            Two ornately carved stone angels stood opposite each other on the veranda steps, faces tilted to heaven.  A virtual greenhouse of potted plants and flowers thrived on the pine-floored porch, suffusing the air with a medley of scents, and a wicker bistro set sat amidst the greenery, a circle of tea candles on the table.

            The weathered door was burnished oak, featuring a stained glass window at the top that depicted a winged angel in flight.  A peephole was set at eye level.

            Before he pressed the doorbell, a chorus of high-pitched barking erupted.  After he pushed the bell, the dogs’ barking got even louder.

            “Two dogs,” Lisa said, recalling the obituary.        

            As they waited, he suddenly had the distinct sense that someone was on the other side of the door, examining them through the lens.

            He wasn’t confident they would pass a visual inspection.  Although they had changed into fresh clothes—he wore a polo shirt and jeans, Lisa wore jeans and a blouse—with their reddened eyes and fatigue-lined faces, they had the look of a couple of drifters living on the edge.

            “Miss Susan Marrow?” he called out, lips close to the door.  “My name is Anthony Thorne, and this is my wife, Lisa.  We’d like to speak to you about your daughter, Kelley.”

            He held up the Bible to the peephole.

            “Someone named Bob gave this Bible to me, and your daughter’s name is written in it.”

            A few seconds later, the dogs quieted.  The door opened. 

            A petite blonde with delicate features stood on the threshold.  She wore a white blouse half-covered by a denim gardening apron smudged with soil, jeans, and sneakers.  A silver cross hung around her neck.

            She had striking green eyes.  With them, she closely appraised both him and Lisa.    

            Behind her, an identical pair of Pomeranians sat obediently on their haunches, watching them with interest.

            “I’m Susie Marrow,” she finally said.  She had a melodic voice and a syrupy Georgia accent.  “What can I do for you folks?”

            “Bob gave me this.”  Anthony handed her the Bible.  “Check out the front page.”

            “It’s a very long story,” Lisa said.  “Rather incredible, too.”

            Susie opened the book and read the inscription on the front page.  She frowned, gave the book back to Anthony.

            “Come on in, please,” she said.  “Don’t mind the dogs.  They’re friendly.”

            The dogs sniffing at their heels, they followed her down a hallway with a hardwood floor.  Photos crowded the walls.  He noticed several pictures of a pretty girl who had inherited her mother’s blonde hair and green eyes: one shot showed her astride a dark mare, in full equestrian gear; another was a recent-looking graduation portrait; others were taken when she was a much younger child.  She was smiling in almost every picture, a fun-loving child whose life had been cut far too short.

            Anthony’s curiosity about the cause of her death sharpened.   

            Susie led them into a small but fastidiously neat living room furnished with cloth armchairs and matching sofa, a glass coffee table, more photos, and lots of live plants.  The walls were the color of eggnog, edged with ornate crown molding.  A large window framed by sage-green curtains overlooked a vibrant flower garden in the back yard.

            Strains of music drifted to them from another room in the house.  It sounded like big band, swing era stuff, music for dancing and good times.

            Because her daughter had died three months ago, Anthony had expected a bereaved woman, someone still in the throes of grief and reluctant to accept visitors, with a home and yard in disarray.  But Susie Marrow seemed to be in high spirits, and her home was in excellent condition.  He wondered what helped her get by.

            Susie untied her apron from around her waist.  “I was working in my garden, but please, make yourselves comfortable.  Can I get y’all some iced tea?  I brewed a fresh pitcher this morning.”

            “Sweet tea?” Anthony asked.

            “Of course.  This is Georgia, honey.”

            “We’d love some, thanks,” Lisa said.

            When Susie left the room, both dogs trailing her, they sat together on the sofa.  Anthony looked around, hoping that something would jar loose a revelation, a clue.

            “Nice house,” Lisa said after a few minutes had passed.  She clasped her hands in her lap, crossed her legs.  “Very cozy.”

            “I wonder where she keeps the gun she’s required to have by law,” he said.  “Hopefully not in the kitchen.”

            “Stop it.”  She gently punched his arm.  “She seems really sweet.  I wonder what we said that made her invite us in?”

            “I think Bob’s name was the magic word.”  He indicated a photo on a side table that had caught his eye.  It was a shot of Bob—sans horn-rimmed glasses—Kelley, a dark-haired teenage boy a few years older than the girl, and their mother, at an outdoor celebration of some kind.  “The old guy in the picture is Bob.”

            “That’s him?”  She stared at the photo.

            “You seem surprised.  Like you thought he was a figment of my imagination.”

            “It’s not that.  I had a different image of him in my mind, I guess.  I was thinking he’d look like some kind of super spy.  He looks like a grandfather.”

            “That’s ‘cause he is.” Susie returned with a silver tray that held a glass pitcher of iced tea and three tall glasses.  She placed the tray on the cocktail table and poured tea.  “He’s my daddy.  Kelley’s grandpa.”

            “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Anthony and Lisa said, almost simultaneously.          

            Anthony caught a flash of grief in the woman’s gaze that was so searing that he had to look away. 

            “My baby’s in a better place now,” she said softly.

            Anthony wanted to ask how Kelley had died, but a direct question would have seemed rude.  Instead, he took a sip of the sweet tea, which was delicious, and told Susie so.      

            “I second that,” Lisa said, raising her glass.  Then, in a somber tone:  “Thirteen years old.  So young.  She’s with the Lord indeed.”

            “I believe that with all my soul,” Susie said.  She sat on an armchair across from them, sipped her tea.  The Pomeranians flanked her legs protectively.  “There are some folks who’d say God sent her to a much different place if they found out what happened . . . but that’s the beauty of our country.  We’re free to believe whatever we like.”

Not if Bishop Prince gets his way, Anthony thought.

            “Kelley loved to sing in the church choir, I read,” Lisa said.  “Which church do you attend?”

            “I used to attend New Kingdom, in Austell.  We all did.”

            “You, your children, and Bob,” Anthony said. 

            “Bob.”  She smiled wistfully.  “Only people in the family call Daddy that name.  He must really trust you.”

            He let the remark pass.  If Bob trusted him so much, why hadn’t he given him all his damning evidence against New Kingdom from the beginning and spared him all this trouble?

            “How long did you attend New Kingdom?” Lisa asked.

            “Nine years,” she said precisely.  “I know that ‘cause the kids and I started going to the church after my husband died—he was a firefighter here in Kennesaw.  Died rescuing a child from an apartment blaze.”  She sighed and swirled her glass absently, clinking together the ice cubes.  “My husband and baby are together now in heaven, waiting on me and my son to join them one day.”  

            In spite of the multiple tragedies that had struck her, she spoke of her family’s final reunion in heaven with complete conviction.  He wondered about that.  When he thought of his own parents, he didn’t envision a heavenly gathering with them someday, though he had once entertained such fantasies.  

            He thought of just . . . nothing.  And at certain times, as it did then, it left him feeling cold and empty, as if nothing really mattered at all.