Until Proven Guilty by J. A. Jance Page B

as he had been the night before.
     
    No one answered our knock, although the doorknob turned in my hand when I tried it. The house was empty. No dirty dishes filled the sink. The beds were made. Someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to clean the place up. We got back in the car and drove to Faith Tabernacle.
     
    Carstogi’s reluctance surfaced as we climbed the steps to go inside. Pastor Michael Brodie wielded some residual power that made the younger man, if not downright scared, at least more than a little wary. It’s the old talk-is-cheap routine.
     
    The church proper was open but empty. We found Suzanne in the Penitent’s Room, kneeling on the stand before the open Bible. Peters and I dropped back while Carstogi approached her.
     
    “Sue?” he asked tentatively. “I’m sorry about Angel. I just heard.”
     
    Suzanne didn’t so much as look up. There was no sign of recognition or acknowledgment. He stood over her, clenching and unclenching his fists in a combination of nervousness and frustration. A range of emotions played over his face—grief, anger, rejection. He knelt beside her and touched her arm. Her body tensed at the touch but still she didn’t look up. “Please, Sue,” he pleaded gently. “Come back with me. Let’s start over again, away from here, away from all this.”
     
    The door to the study swung open and Pastor Michael Brodie charged into the room. He grabbed Carstogi by the collar and hauled him to his feet, shoving him off-balance and away in the same powerful motion.
     
    “Satan is speaking to you through the voice of a devil, Sister! Pray on. Your immortal soul is hanging in the balance.”
     
    Carstogi recovered and came back swinging, his face a mask of fury. He was pretty well built in his own right, with the broad shoulders and thick forearms of a construction hand, but Brodie outclassed him all the way around. With the ease of a trained fighter, Brodie fended off first one blow and then another before sending Carstogi crashing against the opposite wall. By then Peters and I moved between them. Peters helped Carstogi to his feet and bodily restrained him. The younger man’s nose and lip were bleeding. Brodie may have looked like he had gone to seed, but looks can be deceiving. Carstogi was no match for him.
     
    Brodie turned on me. “Get out,” he snarled. “You’ve no right to bring an infidel into a place of worship.”
     
    “She’s his wife,” I said.
     
    “She’s his widow!” he shot back. Brodie lunged toward Suzanne. For a moment I thought he was going to hit her. Instead he knelt in front of her, his face inches from hers. “Do not be tempted to leave off your cleansing. These apparitions are Satan’s own instruments, sent to tempt you from the True Way. Shut them out, Sister! Pray without ceasing.” He rose, turned on his heel, and returned to the study, locking the door behind him.
     
    Carstogi struggled free from Peters’ grasp and rushed toward the door just as it slammed shut in his face. He leaned against it, his shoulders heaving with impotent sobs. Carstogi was no lightweight in the physical department, yet Brodie had disposed of the younger man so easily, he might have been a child. A lot of the power Brodie wielded over the True Believers had to do with sheer brute strength and fear. Fear so strong that he could walk away from a kneeling Suzanne and know she would refuse to speak to us even with her spiritual master out of earshot.
     
    Carstogi swung away from the door and went back to Suzanne. He too knelt before her, cradling her face in his hands. “How could you let him do it? How can you let him get away with it?”
     
    Suzanne Barstogi’s eyes were blank. She might have been struck blind. When he let her go, she dropped to the floor like a limp rag doll.
     
    “Come on,” Peters said, placing his hand on Carstogi’s shoulder. “Let’s go. This isn’t doing any good.”
     
    Carstogi rose to his feet like a sleepwalker.