For Trippy, Piraty, Blackie and WjO. Is this update fast enough for ya?

Demagogue and the Daisy Girl

Chapter Two

A Rockwell inspired, tree-lined street of untainted Americana greeted the agent and the consultant, the sight killing their conversation on hate propaganda and curious corpses. The sheer volume of plush greenery spoke of a summer that had made even the identical trees happy. Houses in neat rows bore the muted pastels of an old seaside town and each front window showed a variance on a red, white and blue theme. Damn near colonial, Olivia had muttered while the cynic beside her voiced an opinion of fakeness. No one really liked so much unity, such disregard for the principle of individuality.

On their way to a man that Charlie had interviewed earlier, Peter stopped under the shade of a tree and looked up. In her hurry to pursue justice, Olivia fought to scold the man whose expression, in this moment, had shifted to awe at whatever he was viewing. So much like his father.

"A single leaf turning early," he explained with the beginnings of a smile. "Maybe originality isn't dead here."

"But other things are, so…" Olivia gestured a thin hand to the road. "Shall we?"

Abe Winston's house, while carrying the apparently requisite patriotic theme, did so with refreshing subtlety. A construction belt hung from a horse head coat rack and a collection of old tools lined a wide chair rail. The visitors were handed store-bought lemonade and homemade scones and Mr. Winston cleared his throat four times before appearing ready to answer questions.

"Sir, you told Agent Francis that your sister had joined a new preacher's congregation?"

The middle-aged carpenter and his curly, graying mop of hair, nodded vigorously enough to pinch a nerve. "Went off with some yahoo who said God told him the names of those being damned. And she just had to know if she was one of'um."

"And was she?" Peter asked after recovering from a sip of biting liquid.

"Tell you something, she came home after the first meeting just about dancing. So I guess not. I'd have been happy for her to get some direction, but not from this nut."

Olivia put her untouched glass on a flag coaster and placed her elbows on her knees. Studying the man just enough to elicit the slightest squirm, she then leaned back like an invited friend.

"Where were these meetings held?"

"Never saw, myself. But I heard from Mrs. McCray that her son followed that quack, too. Said he came home looking like he sat in dirt and corn husks."

Standing, Winston shuffled to a mantle overhanging an electric fireplace, took down a small, silver-plate frame and handed it to Peter. The woman, still on the fair end of thirty, looked to have kicked the luck puppy a few times herself. Hunched by the burden of mistakes, there was a sallow pallor that suggested she'd rarely been on the right side of a fight.

Taking back the photo, Winston shook his head at the image before returning the frame to its place. Outside, a train rumbled across tracks while inside, a myna bird hummed in response.

"Looks as beat as the Confederates at Yorktown, huh? But last time I saw her, it was like a different person snuck into her skin, smiling like a fool."

"As though this preacher had helped her in some way?" Standing, Olivia pulled out her notebook. "Did she tell you his age or appearance?"

"She liked the older set, if you know what I mean. I take it he was at least fifty. Probably decent looking, knowing her."

"Nothing else that might describe him?"

"Nope," Winston shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just said he was the pillar of righteousness or some such nonsense. Rather her be beat than duped, you know? Least one's close to the truth."

…….

The quality of liquid refreshment improved at Mrs. McCray's home, where a delicious punch made starting the interview difficult. It was, the ninety year old informed them, a combination of orange sherbet and 7-Up with a few maraschino cherries thrown in. In childlike fashion, Peter dug the ladle through the bottom of the punch bowl to nab as many cherries as possible. The resemblance to his father struck Dunham for the second time in as many hours, but she thought better of declaring it.

The Americana color scheme was overwhelming in the small space; banners, rugs and upholstery all succumbing to what Mrs. McCray described as the linchpin in the town's charter. The two guests were seated on flag draped chairs while the senior citizen covered herself in a star spangled throw despite the day's warmth.

"Well, my youngest boy started telling me about this minister. Much as I didn't like what I was hearing, I figured it was a better time waster than what Daniel had been doing."

"He was in trouble before?" Peter inquired, having asked all the questions to this point. The old woman seemed taken by him and Olivia was not above using that.

"Running around, mostly. Silly things he shoulda grown out of." A delicate slurp of her punch revived Mrs. McCray's fading voice. "This fella gave him a purpose, seemed like."

Reaching across the table for the ladle, Peter refilled her glass, earning a smile wrapped around ill-fitting dentures. "And what did Daniel tell you that you didn't like?"

"Oh, I liked that he was finally going to church like I always hoped. That the man said Daniel could live up to his biblical namesake. But the messages he was bringing home were… disturbing. Always pointing out the bad rather than focusing on the good."

There was an antique sideboard in the living room, photos scattered on the worn surface. Taking a frame of two boys fishing from among the cobwebs, Olivia brought it to the woman, asking if these were her children.

"The two that lived, sure. The oldest went to Vietnam instead of doing that disco and having babies. Never found his body in those camps." A finger bent by arthritis pointed to the shorter boy, his legs yellowed with the paper's age. "That's Daniel with his other brother, James. Danny had a live fish behind his back there and put in down Jimmy's shorts after I snapped this picture."

"And do you know where Daniel is now?" Cocking his head to get her attention, Peter asked again, "Where is he?"

Shaking hands rose from her lap, fussing with the hair she'd pinned into a proper bun. The stall tactic lasted a full minute before she came to a decision.

"Some big revival the other night. Never came home, just like a bunch of others in town. I heard a rumor that those dead strangers little Matthew found were also part of it." Mrs. McCray set the frame down on the coffee table and pointed at Peter. "You find him for me. I know you can."

With a trembling rise on unsteady, thin legs, the woman smoothed her house dress and then snatched a piece of orange paper from a side table. Peter recognized the rhetoric, flipped the page over and then handed it to Olivia. On the back, someone had written the location of the flattened field and a phone number in thick pencil.

Thank you for taking this little journey with me. More to follow...