Living Proof, стр. 33

“And if she is?”

“Then find a way to ask her directly what she thinks of embryonic stem cell research—if she really is a good Christian, she’ll reject it with disgust, and at that point, I would have to be inclined to believe her. A worshipful person has no reason to lie, because she knows God will have the final say. As far as her clinic’s high numbers, I guess sheer popularity could explain them … although it would be bizarrely unprecedented.”

“And we could drop the case if so?”

“I guess so. But let’s not write her off yet. I want to see if she’s going to church like she says.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then find out where she is going, and the faster, the better.”

“You got it,” Trent said.

*   *   *

On the subway the next morning, Trent tried to ignore the tension in his gut that was keeping his abs in a perpetual state of crunch. Whether it was anticipation alone or mixed with the poisonous handle of hope, he did not care to learn. For hope—of seeing Arianna in a church, and of ending this pursuit—signaled a selfish investment in the case that could derail his judgment.

He studied the two printouts in his hand: one, a list of addresses of the six Christian churches in the East Village that had a congregation of two hundred or fewer; the other page was a map marking out fourteen blocks long and six avenues wide, the neighborhood of tattoo shops and bars, smoke shops and dives, peppered here and there with a sobering house of worship to repent for last night’s sins.

He got out of the subway at Astor Place, right at the block where she had fallen off her bicycle two days earlier. The streets were littered with glass bottles and crushed cans, and the late-late-night stragglers who were only now heading home. Trent felt out of place in his formal suit, but he focused on his list. Calvary Christian Church was four blocks north and two avenues east. He walked briskly, crossing streets in the absence of traffic, until he came up to a building that was narrow and tall, with sharply pointed spires. The bronze door was engraved with a cross. He pulled it open, relieved when it did not creak.

Words bellowed throughout the modest chamber, coming from a pastor facing his rapt audience: “To serve Christ is to live for Him, even if it means losing it all. As we learn in John twelve twenty-five and eight forty-four, everyone serves something: Some serve themselves, and don’t realize they’re serving Satan.…”

Trent scanned the backs of heads along the pews, looking for thick black waves over dainty shoulders. Even before he finished looking, he somehow sensed she would not be there. Quietly, he slipped back outside, and headed four more avenues east and a block south to the next church, Saint Mary’s Mount of God, which was nestled next to a Chinese restaurant and a cigar lounge. He had never walked so far east in this part of town, and it felt as if he were in a different, more dilapidated city. This church looked older than the first, with a crumbling brick exterior and a peeling wooden door. Inside was a surprisingly large hall lit only by candle chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling. A pastor, bowing his head, stood at the pulpit underneath a life-size painting of the Crucifixion. The room of about 150 was silent, filled with the fervor of prayer. Feeling like a voyeur, Trent quickly examined the rows—to no avail.

He exited as noiselessly as he could, feeling strangely criminal, as if he were getting away with something. As he walked toward the third church, he realized why: It was the first time he had walked out of church in the middle of a service. For a moment, he worried that he was not observing Sunday Mass, the earmark of his religious life. But I have Dopp’s permission, he thought. Certainly a former pastor had the authority to dismiss him. It was a free pass, redeemable this morning only, to skip church—and it was guiltily liberating.

At the sight of a peeling cross on a door that was several steps up from the sidewalk, Trent stopped. Stained glass windows on either side of the door were smashed in. The handle of the door was green with rust and grime. He climbed the stairs and seized it. The door didn’t budge. Peering inside the broken windows, he could see empty pews and stray cats milling around. He stepped back, wiping years of accumulated filth off his hands, and glanced at the street signs. He was at Avenue C and East Tenth Street, one block north of the actual third church on his list, so he hurried down the steps, and walked on.

This looks more like it, he thought, walking up to a red-painted door with a polished gold handle and a sign that read DAMASCUS CHURCH OF CHRIST. He opened the door to the smallest hall yet, which set off a twinge of hope that she might be there. The pastor didn’t pause in his sermon as Trent entered, but smiled welcomingly and continued speaking:

“Man has a natural inclination to worship—it is built into his faculty of thought to worship something. For some, it is the perverted call of the flesh, and others, the greedy call of the dollar, and still others, the hedonistic call of the bottle. The challenge is to worship God, for only He is worthy of true worship. Let us refer to the passage of John four twenty-four.…”

Trent felt, before he saw, that Arianna was not there. Something was off in this roomful of dutiful churchgoers. He recognized what he was accustomed to seeing and hearing in churches—in the preacher’s tone, the content of his sermon, the deferential bowing of heads praying for redemption—and that was the problem. She does not fit in