The Birth of a new moon Page 3

  It was the presence of the 'troubled youth' in Arizona that had first sparked Glen's interest, even though there were no official complaints, no firm evidence from the periodic medical checkups or the social workers' visits aside from one report that some of the older boys had seemed 'unnaturally subdued'.

  Looking through the material the second time, Anne decided that it was probably Steven Chance's background in chemistry that had originally pressed an alarm button somewhere in the FBI's corporate mind. A small religious group led by a man who could construct a bomb was a group the government wanted to keep under observation.

  The material she'd been given was detailed but hardly complete—another indication that Glen wasn't absolutely convinced that there was a problem, or if he himself was, he hadn't managed to bring his superiors around to his point of view. There was an elaborate chart comparing purchases of the various groups, but no conclusions had been drawn concerning the relatively high consumption of rice and fish by the Japanese compared to the Germans, the high demand for concrete mix and heavy lifting equipment in Arizona, currently under construction; or the large orders for chemical fertilizer, garden equipment, and chain saws by the English branch, which was busy restoring a large garden.

  She put the purchase records to one side and returned to Glen's personal analysis, which was based largely on a visit he had made to Steven Change's compound in the Arizona desert. What it boiled down to was that a) the children were too well behaved, b) Steven's speech was heavily laced with references to the Book of Revelations and the cleansing nature of fire, and c) Thomas Mallory's history of guns.

  Anne thought it all sounded very thin, although she had to admit that Glen's judgment in these matters had in the past been extraordinarily good.

  And in the Arizona community alone, there were one hundred and three children.

  At eight-thirty she reached behind her and took the kitchen phone down from the wall. The departmental secretary answered.

  "Morning, Tazzie," Anne said. "I'm going to need half an hour with Antony today. Any chance?"

  "He's really busy. Is it important?"

  "Yes," Anne said flatly. There was a pause while Tazzie thought about this, and then Anne could hear the rustling of papers and a strange humming noise, Tazzie's habit while she was thinking. In a minute the secretary came back on the line.

  "I can cancel a couple of things. Two-thirty do you?"

  'I have a two o'clock lecture,' Anne said apologetically.

  "Of course you do, stupid me. Four-thirty, then. I'll cancel Himself."

  "Don't do that," Anne said in alarm. 'Himself' was the royal reference to the pompous academic vice-chancellor. "I could wait until tomorrow."

  "Himself has cancelled on us twice, it would be a pleasure to return the honor. Are you okay? You don't sound yourself."

  "I'm a bit tired."

  "All those babies keeping you awake? don't get too run down. There's a nasty bug going around, and you wouldn't want it just before finals."

  Anne's laughter was more hysterical than the remark called for: With all the things on her mind, a viral infection might prove a welcome distraction. Perhaps a nice bout of pneumonia would stick her in the hospital and give her an excuse to step aside.

  When she had hung up, she hesitated over the phone. She ought to make this next contact in person, but perhaps for the preliminary stages, she could be a coward. She picked up the phone and dialed another number.

  "Hello, Alice, could I speak with Eliot, please? Sure, I can wait." An interminable five minutes later, Alice Featherstone's flat-voiced monologue on the problems of raising chickens faded suddenly in mid-sentence, to be replaced by the taciturn young voice of her son Eliot, grunting a query into Anne's harassed eardrum. "Eliot," she said in relief. "Look, I just found out that I'm going to have to go away for a while. Are you available?" She knew that he would be, and that he would be overjoyed, in his completely undemonstrative way, at the chance to be away from his mother and the rest of the world. It was, nonetheless, only polite to make a question out of it.

  "When?" he asked.

  "As soon as I get the final grades in, a little under three weeks. I may be away 'till summer, I'm afraid. Maybe longer."

  "The puppies?"

  "Yes, we'll have to think about them. Could you come by one day and we'll talk?"

  Eliot grunted en assent.

  "Over the weekend?"

  He grunted again. She thanked him and heard the telephone go dead in her ear. She put her own phone on its rest and then leaned forward, her elbows on the table and her hands buried in her hair.

  Her hair smelled warm, faintly of coconut from the shampoo she used. It felt soft and thick to her fingers, a luxuriant, well-styled and well-cared-for head of hair. She bent her head further forward until the wavy mass tumbled down onto the table, forming a cave around her face. This is the longest it's been in seventeen years, she thought; almost five years worth of hair, smooth, thick, and alive. She pulled a handful around and pressed it against her face, inhaling the smell. She thought, it's no wonder hair has been such an issue and a symbol over the centuries. The tactile glory of the stuff.

  I will miss it, she thought.

  Chapter Three

  Final Exam

  Religious Studies 204, The Prophet and Prophetic Speech

  Prof Anne Waverly

  Choose three of the following questions. As you should know by now, having been in this class all term, there are often no right or wrong answers, simply arguments to be explored. You will be expected to support any opinions or statements with chapter and verse or specific references. Extra points will be given for the use of extra-canonical writings.

  1. What was the role of the prophet in ancient Israel? Give an example of a twentieth century prophet, and explore the similarities and differences.

  2. Trace the development of the prophetic idea of "speaking with God."

  3. What are the essential differences in world view between First Isaiah and Third Isaiah? Can we determine what influenced these differences, and can we say how they affect the two concepts of God?

  4. To what extent did Old Testament prophecy correspond to what we would now describe as mental illness? Choose two specific examples.

  5. Describe some of the differences between prophet and messiah in first century Jewish thought.

  6. Was Jesus a prophet? Was Paul? Why?

  7. If Jesus were born today, how would he live and who would his followers be?

  From the notes of Professor Anne Waverly

  At four-thirty, the departmental secretary was just getting ready to leave for the day.

  "Hello, Tazzie. Have I managed to catch Antony?"

  "He called to say he'd be five minutes late, but better give him ten. You know, you really don't look too hot."

  "Just tired, Tazzie."

  "Don't get sick, honey. Anything I can get for you?"

  "No, you run along."

  "I think I will. I have to pop into the store and pick up some things for dinner."

  "Hot date?"

  "Warm, anyway. When can I come out and look at the pups?" Tazzie was on her feet, turning off the computer and retrieving her purse from a drawer.

  "Give it another week or two. But really, Tazzie, you don't want a dog when you have a full-time job."

  "Actually, I was thinking of my brother. His wife wants a puppy, and she's home with the kids all day."

  "Have her come and look at them, then."

  "A couple of weeks?"

  "Good. They ought to have individual personalities by then."

  Anne thought she was going to have to eject the woman out the door by force, but eventually she left, with one last warning about stray viruses. When she had gone, Anne went into Antony Makepeace's office and lowered herself into one of his tatty, overstuffed chairs to wait for him. She eased her bad leg out in front of her and leaned her head back to rest on the chair.

  The office had not changed much sin
ce she had first seen it nearly eighteen years before, five months after losing her family. She had come in that door a shell-shocked, bereft young woman one narrow step from suicide, but this office had somehow made an impression on her. Antony had been missing that time, too, she remembered now, and she had sat in this same chair, waiting for him in the silence and the smell of books, looking at the leaves of the tree that grew outside one window and at the small birds that came and squabbled on the feeding tray at the other. She had fallen asleep, slipped into the easiest sleep for months, and woke an hour later to find Professor Antony James Makepeace, half-glasses on his nose and pen in his hand, matter-of-factly going about his work of grading papers, ten feet from where she slept.

  She wasn't far from dozing off this time when he returned. He was grayer than he had been eighteen years earlier, and a little thinner, but still big and shambolic with the same warm, welcoming, and patient expression on his long face and an identical pair of half-glasses tucked into his breast pocket.

  Instead of holding out his hand, though, this time he leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Don't get up, Anne. You look comfortable. Let me fix a cup of tea and I'll sit with you. Like a cup?"

  "Thanks, I would."

  "Not Earl Grey." His broad back was to her but his voice smiled.

  "Flowery rubbish. You'll never convert me, Antony."

  "I live in hope. How are the puppies getting on?"

  They talked of her dogs and his cats while the electric kettle boiled and the tea was made, and he brought two mugs and a once-colorful cookie tin, now dented and worn down to bare metal at the edges, over to the arrangement of chairs and sat down with a sigh. The age of compulsory retirement had been done away with some years before, or he would not be there, but he had begun to make tentative noises about retiring, and had firmly said this would be his last turn as department chair.

  The two old friends drank their tea and ate the cookies his wife made every week, and when the bottom of his cup was reached, Makepeace dusted off his fingers and said, "Now tell me, my dear, what I can do for you."

  "I'm really sorry about the short notice," she replied, "but I'm going to have to ask you to get someone to take my classes for the coming quarter."

  Surprise and administrative concern gave way almost instantly to a deeper, more immediate anxiety.

  "Tazzie said you sounded tired…" he ventured.

  Anne shook her head. "It's nothing like that. Glen McCarthy showed up yesterday."

  He reared back in the armchair looking stricken, almost angry.

  "No, Anne. Oh, no. Not again."

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I thought you were finished with that nonsense."

  "So did I."

  "Let someone else do it."

  "They don't have anyone else."

  "Make them find someone."

  "Antony, I have to do it. It's the only reason I'm here."

  "My dear Anne, you cannot continue to feel responsible for the world's actions. You have done your part—more than your part—and at great cost. Let it go."

  "I can't, Tonio. I thought I could when I saw him yesterday. I tried all night to pick up the phone and tell him to go to hell, but I couldn't." She said nothing about her sure conviction that Glen McCarthy had handled her with his usual Machiavellian skill, putting her off balance from the beginning by deliberately appearing without warning and in the one place where she could not scream at him to fuck off—and by bringing the young policewoman along to distract Anne and keep her polite. He had even taken care to put his telephone number on the inside of the manila envelope, so she would be forced to open it and handle the papers even if she had already decided to refuse the case. From any other man, she might have thought the actions accidental, but not McCarthy: he was quite subtle enough to have planned his attack meticulously. And, he was very determined.

  Makepeace did not know this, of course, and although the knowledge of the FBI man's manipulation might have armed him for another round of argument, all he heard was the flat commitment in her voice and the affectionate use of his nickname. He looked into his mug for a while, then, rose to brew another of his endless cups of Earl Grey.

  "You don't have to go immediately? It's usually a drop-everything rush when Agent McCarthy shows up."

  "Two weeks won't matter one way or another—or if they do, then the thing was moving too fast for me to interfere with anyway. I'll finish up the quarter, hand in my grades. I will tell the students there's an extra ten points for getting their final projects in on the Monday. That should help."

  "But you don't think you'll be finished with this… what do you call it, anyway?" His burst of mild irritation would be another man's fury.

  "Case, investigation, mess, disaster, bit of primal chaos—whatever you like. No, it'll take at least two or three months."

  "You will be back by September, though?"

  "I hope so, but it's best not to count on me."

  "God, Anne. I don't know what to say,"

  " 'Good luck,' maybe?"

  "I will pray for you every day."

  Anne had to smile. "Antony, when will you learn that professors of religion are not supposed to actually believe in it?"

  "When you learn to enjoy Earl Grey tea, I suppose. But seriously, Anne. You can't allow them to use you forever. And they will if you permit it, you know that. Do it this time if you must, but tell them it's the last."

  "When I can't face it any more, Antony, they'll be the first to know."

  Makepeace had to be satisfied with that. The talk turned to mundane matters, of replacement lecturers for one of the classes and the probable cancellation of the other, arranging for Antony to take over her three graduate thesis projects, the choice between leave-without-pay or trying for a last-minute paid sabbatical. Finally, Anne made a move toward gathering her things.

  "Come home for dinner," Makepeace offered suddenly. "Maria would love to see you."

  "I can't, Antony. I have to get home for the dogs."

  "Another night, then. Before you go."

  "I'd love to." She put on her coat and pulled a pair of gloves out of the pocket, and then she looked up with a faint trace of mischief in her eyes. "Oh, and I should warn you, rumors may start up when I fail to appear next quarter. Glen and his policewoman made quite an impression on some of the students. They'll probably work it up into an arrest for drug smuggling or white slavery."

  "Agent McCarthy is fairly unmistakable, isn't he? I can't imagine him doing undercover work."

  She heard a clear note of rather catty pride that she should be better at the wicked and dangerous job he so disapproved of than the hateful man who dragged her into it, but she hid her amusement. "He's actually not bad at it, given time to grow his hair out a bit."

  Makepeace shot a glance at Anne's own thick hair, but did not say anything. He let her go and prepared to leave himself.

  It was only much later that evening, as he sat in front of a dying fire brooding over their conversation, that it struck him there might be a second, darker meaning to Anne's not being able to face it any more.

  For two days Agent McCarthy and Inspector Farmer cooled their heels, Farmer impatiently, McCarthy with the resignation of a man who had done this before. On Thursday afternoon, McCarthy was seated on a park bench, his arms spread out along its back and his face lifted to the weak sun, while Gillian Farmer paced up and down on the gravel pathways between rows of brutally pruned roses. As chance would have it, she was at the farthest point in her circuit when McCarthy's cellular phone chirped in his pocket, and she did not hear it. She saw it in his hand, however, the moment she turned, and broke into a trot in her eagerness to get back to him.

  It was a very brief conversation; McCarthy was folding the telephone before she reached the bench. He stood, putting the phone back in his pocket.

  "Was that her?"

  "It was."

  "Christ. About time."

  McCarthy glanced at her sharply, but he did n
ot speak until they were in the car and on the freeway out of town.

  "Anne doesn't have to do this, you know. She's under no obligation; she doesn't even take a salary beyond expenses."

  "So why does she?" Farmer demanded, still impatient. Three days was far too long, and her department had begun pressing for her return after the second.

  "Eighteen years ago, Anne Waverly's seven-year-old daughter and thirty-one-year-old husband died in a mass suicide in northern Texas. The child drank a glass of cyanide-laced fruit juice, probably given to her by her father. You may have heard about it—they called it Ezekiel's Farm—but it was in the news for only a couple of days because there was a plane crash and then some enormous political scandal just after they were found that knocked them off the front pages. A lot of comparisons were made to the People's Temple suicide in Guyana two years before, and I suppose their reasons were much the same although there were only forty-seven people instead of nine hundred and some. The bodies were not found for nearly a week. In early summer. You can imagine what they looked like."

  Gillian grimaced; she had been a cop long enough to know.

  "Anne herself was a member of the group, but she had begun to question the methods and beliefs of the community. Her doubts were serious enough for her to take a leave of absence, as it were to go away and think about things for a few days. She left the child, Abby, with her husband. Three days later the leader Ezekiel had a final revelation, and broke out the cyanide."