CHAPTER 14
“The highest form in music is spirituality.” Pandit Ravi Shankar
Toby’s phone played a few notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, interrupting his efforts to clean and unpack his new black cloth suitcase that appeared to have gathered quite a bit of dust since he left his condo.
“Toby, I love you, too, but don’t get any ideas. I’m not ready to jump into marriage or anything that drastic, yet,” said Tad, who continued talking before Toby could respond. “You do understand, don’t you? My whole life has just been turned upside down, and I hardly know where I am, much less what I want to do. Don’t get me wrong. I love being with you, even if you do let that spoiled cat of yours sleep with us.”
Toby chuckled as he used a paper tissue to wipe the dust or powder off his suitcase and then sat on the edge of the bed.
“Of course I understand,” he replied. “I just wanted you to know how I feel- which you should already know. I know your head must still be spinning after all you’ve been through in the last two weeks. You certainly don’t need to make any commitments now.”
“I knew you’d understand,” Tad said. “By the way, where are you?”
“At the Mulberry Inn,” Toby answered. “You remember. It’s the small hotel on East Bay near the historic district and the river that you and I stayed at the month before you left.”
“Of course I remember,” Tad replied. “What a wonderful place. I remember they had a really good jazz group that played in the evenings. And what I remember most is that they had a great bed- or maybe that was just because you were in it.”
“Don’t get me thinking about that,” Sullivan said. “I think I may actually be in the same room that we were in. If not, it’s close to it. It’s on the second floor in the rear, overlooking the courtyard.”
“I can picture the view of the courtyard- and what the room looked like,” said Tad. “That’s a pretty fancy place for a government employee. Is Trey staying there too?”
“No, and that is an interesting story unto itself,” Toby responded. “After Giordano picked us up at the airport, we toured the crime scene and met the local law enforcement folks. Then we tried to check-in at the hotel where Tony is staying on Hutchinson Island next door to the convention center that serves as the temporary headquarters for the investigation. Unfortunately, there were no rooms left, but Giordano suggested that one of us might stay with him, since he had two double beds in the room.
You know how I feel about sharing a room with anyone except you and J. Edgar, so I wasn’t going to offer. Fortunately, the decision was made when Tony said that he is a very religious person and hoped that his Bible reading and praying wouldn’t bother whoever stayed with him. That’s when Trey volunteered to be his roommate- praise the Lord. So, anyway, to answer your question, Trey is across the river at the headquarters hotel and I am here at the Mulberry. I was able to get the room cheap, because I am a government employee and because several people cancelled their reservations after the explosion.”
“Somehow, I can’t imagine Trey sharing a room with anyone except his wife,” said Tad. “I know I don’t know him that well, but anyone as obsessed as he is about his appearance and organization has to be pretty set in his ways. I doubt that arrangement will last very long.”
“Somehow, I think you’re right,” Toby agreed. “But enough about them. Let’s talk about us. Do you think you can come down here to help?”
“To Savannah? Did you forget that I’m working here under the watchful steely eyes of Director Drake?” Davenport asked. “I can’t just pick up and join you, as much as I might like to.”
“But I need some help and I don’t know of anyone as well qualified as you to provide the skills needed,” Toby said.
“And what skills would those be?” Tad asked. “I hope you aren’t still thinking about that bed, are you?”
Toby laughed. “No I wasn’t, although you definitely have skills there, too. I was thinking of your expertise in the Islamic culture. We need someone to help us tactfully question the local Muslim population to see if anyone knows something that might help us find the terrorists,” Sullivan explained. “You are the only one on the taskforce who has the skills necessary to do that.”
“Well, that certainly sounds like a much better use of my skills and time than sitting at a desk and sifting through endless computer files looking for who knows what,” Tad said, seemingly intrigued with the idea.
“In that case, why don’t I broach the idea with Drake to see if he’ll let you come? Toby asked. “The worst he can do is say no.”
“Go for it,” Tad responded. “It’s not as exciting as international espionage, but it beats the hell out of sitting in front of a computer screen all day. Call me as soon as you get off the phone with Drake…and Toby?”
“Yes,” he responded.
“I do love you,” she said.
“I’m glad. I love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said as he pushed the off button on his phone.
___
After hanging his shirts in the closet and putting his small shaving kit and toiletries case in the bathroom, Toby reached Trey on his personal phone. “What are you and Tony doing for dinner?”
“I believe we’re just going down to the hotel restaurant,” Trey said almost in a whisper. “I think he wants to talk to me about some religious issues. Drake must have told him I was an evangelical and Tony is suddenly in the mood to talk scripture. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”
Sullivan chuckled. “Yea, like that’s really going to happen. Talking about scripture just isn’t me. I would ruin the party for sure. When and where should I meet you guys in the morning?”
Trey laughed, too. “Why not our usual time- 7:30- in our hotel lobby?”
“Seven-thirty it is,” Toby said, wondering why he even bothered to ask, since Trey always began work precisely at the same time every morning.
When he finished unpacking the rest of his clothes and putting them in the small bureau below the large plasma video screen, Toby left the comfortable inn to take a walk and, hopefully, find an interesting restaurant that was open in spite of the bombing. Rather than head down to the waterfront where most of the remaining tourists would be, he decided to walk south, through the historic squares of the city. It was in this area that a large number of 19th century homes and businesses still remained, tucked among the moss-laden live oak tress, giving the city its unique southern charm.
After walking through several beautifully landscaped squares, Toby came across a statue of John Wesley, founder of the Methodist Church and then the grave of Tomo-chi-chi. He was a famous Creek Indian who, more than any other person, helped General James Oglethorpe establish the colony of Georgia.
It was a beautiful evening, and the azaleas, dogwoods, sweet tea olives, camellias and other spring flowers were in full bloom, but Sullivan saw few people enjoying the nice weather and vibrant color that nature had provided. In many of the squares, he was all but alone. That was certainly not surprising, given the shock of the day’s events and the fact that the state’s governor was still listed in critical condition.
When Toby reached Johnson Square, he suddenly saw dozens of people, all apparently heading in the same direction. He joined the procession and discovered that the crowd’s destination was Christ Church, which, according to a sign on an easel near the front door, was the sight of a prayer service for healing and reconciliation. There could be no better place to hold such a service, Toby thought, because Christ Church was known as the mother church of Georgia, having been established with the founding of the colony in 1733. One of the first rectors had been John Wesley, who later abandoned the Church of England.
At first, Toby thought about continuing his walk and finding a restaurant, but then he heard the pipe organ. The magnificent sound was like a magnet.
Unable to resist the call of an organ playing the music of Johannes Sebastian Bach, Toby followed the crowd into the historic building. As soon as he reached the top step and glanced inside the quaint church, he was very glad that he had. The building, he learned from a booklet he picked up on the way in, had been designed in 1838 and rebuilt after a fire in the 1890’s, and it was in beautiful condition. The magnificent Ontko Pipe Organ that dominated the entire West end of the building, was built in England in 1972.
After taking a seat toward the rear of the church, Toby listened as the organist worked his way through several familiar pieces. Then suddenly, the minister, who had been seated near the altar, climbed the dozen steps that led to the lectern and began to offer words of solace to a community in grief.
Although he questioned the power of prayer- since he wasn’t sure who was supposed to be listening- Sullivan nonetheless prayed with the minister and the congregation for the recovery of their governor. And then he listened to the minister’s words of solace and comfort- words that failed to provide him much of either, or with a rational explanation for God’s inattention, indifference, or whatever allowed such horrendous acts of violence to occur. Maybe it’s too much to ask for a rational explanation for something that is inherently irrational, he told himself.
The minister did say something that made sense to Toby, however, and that was an admonition to the congregation not to jump to conclusions regarding who was to blame for the recent bombings.
“Yes, it is a sin to commit such horrendous acts that take innocent life,” he said, “but it would be just as great a sin- or greater- to unjustly blame and punish an entire group of people on nothing more than a guess or feeling that someone in that group is responsible for these crimes.”
And the minister continued, “And even if it is eventually proven that individuals belonging to a particular religion were to blame, we cannot blame every member of that religion. Would it be fair to blame every pro-life Christian, because of the actions of a few who have murdered in the name of their religion?” he asked rhetorically. “Of course not,” he answered his own question. “We all need to be patient and wait for the law enforcement authorities to bring charges and for them- whoever they are- to receive a fair trial. None of us should attempt to make judgments based on prejudice and fear.”
After the minister gave the blessing of peace, the organist finished the service with a stirring rendition of God of Our Fathers, which Sullivan found as uplifting and moving as all of the words the minister had used. When it came to emotions and feelings of spirituality, music often meant much more to him than any sermons or Biblical passages.
Leaving the historic church, Toby renewed his search for a restaurant that might be open in spite of the day’s events. He walked east on Congress Street, through Johnson Square, Reynolds Square and Warren Square until he came to East Broad, the street on which the historic Pirate’s House Restaurant was located. When he reached this famous landmark, he was relieved to see that the original building- the oldest in Georgia- was still in use and that the restaurant was open in spite of the tragedy earlier that day.
The hostess seated Sullivan in one of the vintage downstairs dining rooms, where he ordered a glass of chardonnay and began looking over the menu. When the waitress returned with his wine, he placed his order for one of the house specialties, fried chicken with pecan-honey dressing, along with mashed potatoes and green beans. As the waitress wrote his order down, Toby chuckled to himself, recalling something a southern chef had once told him: “You can cook anything you want for Southerners as long as it is chicken and fried.”
While waiting for his food, Toby looked around the small dining room and soaked up some of the old tavern’s three centuries of history. According to the short narrative on the menu, the small building adjoining the Pirates’ House was erected in 1734 and was very likely the oldest house in the State of Georgia. Then around 1753, when Georgia had become firmly established as a colony, the site was developed as a residential section with one of the first buildings constructed being an inn for visiting seamen. Situated a scant block from the Savannah River, the Inn became a rendezvous of pirates and sailors from the Seven Seas.
On a trip to the restroom, Toby discovered something he remembered seeing on a previous visit- a sign about a tunnel that had allegedly led to the sea, via the Savannah River. With such atmosphere, it is no wonder that the old tavern helped inspire Robert Lewis Stephenson as he wrote his famous Treasure Island.
When his dinner arrived, Toby ordered another glass of wine and thought about what the minister had said at Christ Church- that no one should prejudge any person or group of people as being responsible for the bombing in Savannah today, or any of the other bombings of the past two weeks. Were the members of the taskforce looking for the right people? Was the New Mexico agent, Dessert Dan, getting accurate information? Was Drake too eager to believe that Muslim terrorists were responsible? Had al-Qaida operatives actually been living in the rented house near Leesburg, Virginia? Had these same terrorists come to Savannah to plant the car bomb that had seriously injured- and possibly killed- Georgia’s governor? If so, why was the governor a target, since he had no influence in foreign policy? If Muslim terrorists were not responsible, who was? And perhaps the most important question of all- why hadn’t the taskforce been shown or told about any physical evidence?
By time he finished savoring the last bite of the Pirate House’s famous key lime pie and taking his final sip of decaf coffee, Toby had discovered no answers to his questions, but he had decided that his earlier instincts had been correct- the way to find Muslim terrorists (if there were any) was not by mobilizing Christians in some modern day crusade, but by working quietly through the American Islamic community. They should know better than Christians if foreign terrorists were in the country.
This is what Toby was thinking when his phone began to ring.