Even Death Passage

“YOU THINK THESE ARE THE AMERICANS?” Schultz asked Schmidt as he sat on the loveseat, reading through immigration records.

“Sure seems like it.”

“Why pastors?”

“Who knows? I don’t understand any of it.”

“Of the case?”

“No, of religion.”

“Never go to church?”

“Not since confirmation.”

“Evangelical or Catholic?”

“Evangelical. It was getting harder and harder to tell the pastors from the politicians. God was obsessed with social democracy. You go?”

“Try to. My wife takes the kids every week.”

“Catholic?”

“No.”

“Evangelical?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Independent.”

“What do you mean?”

“Old Lutheran, not state church.”

“How’d you end up there?”

“Wife.”

“You into it?”

“I’ve got no problem with it. It’s important to her.”

“What’s it like?”

“I don’t know. A lot of Jesus.”

Schmidt chortled, as if he knew Schultz’ pain. “He’s everywhere, isn’t he? In your wallet, on the ballot, in the bedroom, on your case about whatever the pet peeve is that week.”

“Mostly on the cross, way our pastor tells it.”

Unsure what to make of the remark, Schmidt changed the subject. “You think they’re going to kill them?”

“I’m planning on not giving them the opportunity.”

“Good plan. Let’s hope it’s realistic. These guys don’t seem like amateurs.”

“Neither are we, Schmidt.”