right hand of God. God’s right hand turned out to have a mean right hook.
Andrew Carstogi had come to his senses one morning with the crap beaten out of him. It had made a big impression. He had crossed Brodie on the righteousness of physical punishment, on Brodie’s requirement that all wives belonged to God’s Chosen Prophet first and their husbands second. Brodie hadn’t quit until Carstogi was unconscious. If Carstogi had left it at that, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but Andrew Carstogi didn’t take kindly to being beaten up or losing his wife. He called in the cops and the press.
Chicago is a pretty tolerant place, but once the charges had been made, even though Carstogi had been unable to substantiate them, Faith Tabernacle was held up to ridicule. Experience tells me that the Pastor Michael Brodies of the world can handle almost anything but ridicule.
Carstogi was Disavowed. It’s worse than it sounds. In the world of Faith Tabernacle, he ceased to exist. Not only was he no longer a member, he was no longer a husband or father either. He tried to get a court order for custody of Angela. Unfortunately, Suzanne was neither a prostitute nor a drug addict. Later, when Brodie made a killing in a real estate deal on some property the church owned, the whole congregation folded their tents and stole away in the middle of the night. Once they left Chicago the group had as good as fallen off the edge of the earth until a cousin of Carstogi’s, a guy in the navy in Bremerton, put two and two together and came up with the connection.
Carstogi finished his story and looked from Peters to me as if we should understand. I still felt there were big chunks missing. “Why do you say he killed her?” I asked.
“He almost killed me,” he replied. He had sobered up enough that his words no longer slurred together.
“That’s two men going at it. It’s a long way from killing a defenseless child.”
“You been in the church?” he asked.
“We’ve been there,” Peters replied.
“But during a service?” Carstogi continued doggedly. “Have you been there during a service? If I just coulda gotten that judge to go to a service he woulda given me custody.”
“Tell us about the service,” Peters suggested.
“You probably won’t believe it. Nobody else does.”
“Try us,” I offered.
He looked at us doubtfully. The sobering process made him more reluctant to talk. “It’s like he owns them body and soul. Like it’s a contest to see how far they’ll jump if he tells them.”
“For instance,” Peters said.
“If he told them to eat dog shit they’d do it.” He said it quickly, with a ring of falsehood.
“That’s not really what you’re talking about, is it?” Peters’ face was a mask that I had a hard time reading myself. Carstogi gave him an appraising look, then shook his head.
Peters followed up on the opening he had made. “You’re afraid to tell us for fear you’ll end up being prosecuted too, aren’t you?”
“It’s scary,” Carstogi admitted. “I didn’t realize until after I got out. You just do what he tells you, what everyone else is doing. It doesn’t seem so bad at the time. You don’t think that you’re hurting someone. The whole time Brodie is there telling you that suffering is the only way those sinners are going to heaven, that you are the chosen instrument of God.”
“Shit.” Peters got up and left the table. He went into the bar and came back a few minutes later. A distinct odor of gin came with him. Maybe the juniper berries in gin had been promoted to health food status. Because I knew about Broken Springs, Oregon, and Peters’ own situation, I could feel for him, but to leave in the middle of an interrogation was inexcusable, to say nothing of drinking on duty.
I made a mental note to climb his frame about it later. I don’t like personal considerations to get in the way
Andrew Carstogi had come to his senses one morning with the crap beaten out of him. It had made a big impression. He had crossed Brodie on the righteousness of physical punishment, on Brodie’s requirement that all wives belonged to God’s Chosen Prophet first and their husbands second. Brodie hadn’t quit until Carstogi was unconscious. If Carstogi had left it at that, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but Andrew Carstogi didn’t take kindly to being beaten up or losing his wife. He called in the cops and the press.
Chicago is a pretty tolerant place, but once the charges had been made, even though Carstogi had been unable to substantiate them, Faith Tabernacle was held up to ridicule. Experience tells me that the Pastor Michael Brodies of the world can handle almost anything but ridicule.
Carstogi was Disavowed. It’s worse than it sounds. In the world of Faith Tabernacle, he ceased to exist. Not only was he no longer a member, he was no longer a husband or father either. He tried to get a court order for custody of Angela. Unfortunately, Suzanne was neither a prostitute nor a drug addict. Later, when Brodie made a killing in a real estate deal on some property the church owned, the whole congregation folded their tents and stole away in the middle of the night. Once they left Chicago the group had as good as fallen off the edge of the earth until a cousin of Carstogi’s, a guy in the navy in Bremerton, put two and two together and came up with the connection.
Carstogi finished his story and looked from Peters to me as if we should understand. I still felt there were big chunks missing. “Why do you say he killed her?” I asked.
“He almost killed me,” he replied. He had sobered up enough that his words no longer slurred together.
“That’s two men going at it. It’s a long way from killing a defenseless child.”
“You been in the church?” he asked.
“We’ve been there,” Peters replied.
“But during a service?” Carstogi continued doggedly. “Have you been there during a service? If I just coulda gotten that judge to go to a service he woulda given me custody.”
“Tell us about the service,” Peters suggested.
“You probably won’t believe it. Nobody else does.”
“Try us,” I offered.
He looked at us doubtfully. The sobering process made him more reluctant to talk. “It’s like he owns them body and soul. Like it’s a contest to see how far they’ll jump if he tells them.”
“For instance,” Peters said.
“If he told them to eat dog shit they’d do it.” He said it quickly, with a ring of falsehood.
“That’s not really what you’re talking about, is it?” Peters’ face was a mask that I had a hard time reading myself. Carstogi gave him an appraising look, then shook his head.
Peters followed up on the opening he had made. “You’re afraid to tell us for fear you’ll end up being prosecuted too, aren’t you?”
“It’s scary,” Carstogi admitted. “I didn’t realize until after I got out. You just do what he tells you, what everyone else is doing. It doesn’t seem so bad at the time. You don’t think that you’re hurting someone. The whole time Brodie is there telling you that suffering is the only way those sinners are going to heaven, that you are the chosen instrument of God.”
“Shit.” Peters got up and left the table. He went into the bar and came back a few minutes later. A distinct odor of gin came with him. Maybe the juniper berries in gin had been promoted to health food status. Because I knew about Broken Springs, Oregon, and Peters’ own situation, I could feel for him, but to leave in the middle of an interrogation was inexcusable, to say nothing of drinking on duty.
I made a mental note to climb his frame about it later. I don’t like personal considerations to get in the way
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