Preparedness

sundown in zion

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

            It had been a long day and one that was turning to dark when Nelson and Charlie returned home. Charlie began to prepare supper and Nelson took the letter Elvis Barker had given him to the living room. Taking his Barlow knife from a pocket, he slit the envelope with deliberate care. He removed a light blue sheet, unfolded it, and found it filled with elegant and small handwriting. He read:

            Gideon:

            The news of your return spread through Armistead like a summer storm, so trust me when I say that I haven’t tracked you nor do I intend to. This will be my only correspondence, and I send it as one final attempt at an apology and, in the highest realm of blind hope, some reconciliation, no matter how slight.

            Please understand that my life changed as a result of knowing you and from contemplating the miracle you performed for our community. I hope you have heard that it has flourished since you left. I have as well, partly through good fortune and partly as a result of a self-improvement effort dedicated to you.

            You might be interested to know that I even initiated a reading program involving your favorite, Mr. Dickens. It has opened my eyes to many things. One of those is that I don’t know whether I love you or not but I do know that we share a common appreciation for beautiful things, and I think that if it were ever possible for me to love someone after the traumas through which I lived, that person might be you. Don’t worry. I share no hope that you feel anything similar toward me.

            Should, however, there ever develop any shred of affection, I seek no scene of our running in slow-motion through the fields towards one another. Nor, would I expect a promise to meet atop a skyscraper or have you standing under my window yelling my name. Just send the message, “Barkis is willing.” Your Peggotty will be waiting.

            Sincerely, from someone who would have loved to be your friend … and more.

            The signature said simply,      “Morgan.”

            Nelson folded the letter and placed it in the envelope. He laid it on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen where he took a glass from a cabinet. He filled it with ice from the refrigerator and then poured two fingers of Jack Daniels over the ice. Tasting it, he turned and walked to the front door and then out into the night. On the porch, he turned and sat in the swing there and stared quietly at the street scene. He began to swing gently and sipped his drink. Deep in thought, he nodded his head in synch with the swing. From Ninth Street came the sound of fire trucks leaving to answer a call. The door opened and Charlie walked out and stood beside him.

            “Good news I hope,” he said.

            Nelson shuddered and looked toward him. “Beg pardon?”

            “The letter,” Charlie said. “Don’t mean to pry but just wondered if it was good news or bad.”

            “Neither,” Nelson said. “Just a voice from the past setting up hopes for a future.”

            “Ah,” Charlie said. “It must be nice to have a future. That poor girl Abbey doesn’t have one, does she?”

            “Nope,” Nelson said.

            “I’m one to talk,” Charlie said.

            “About what?” Nelson said.

            “Futures,” Charlie said as he turned to go inside. Nelson followed him.

            “Wait,” Nelson said. “We’re going to work on yours. Be patient.”

            “Oh,” Charlie said, “I can be patient as long as your money holds out.”

            Nelson laughed and said, “Don’t worry about that, but we’re going to work on getting your own money coming in.”

            “And how will we do that?” Charlie said. Before Nelson could answer, Nelson’s cell phone rang. He held a finger up for Charlie and answered.

            “Hey Martin,” he said into the phone as he motioned for Charlie to go ahead with his meal. “Didn’t find out anything surprising. I’ll fill you in on it in detail next time we meet.” He stopped and listened. Then he nodded his head. “That sounds interesting. Don’t delete them.” Listening again, he walked his computer table and retrieved a notepad. “I’ll be happy to. How do I contact them?” He began to scribble on the paper. “That’s not far from here. You’re sure that they expect to hear from me.” He nodded again. “I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

            After answering a few more questions, he rang off and put the phone away. He turned to Charlie. “Food still warm?”

            “Help yourself. It’s as good cold as it is hot. Important call?”

            “Martin,” Nelson said. “He remembered Abbey borrowed his phone a few weeks ago. She had misplaced hers and used his for a day. He was able to download the numbers she called.”

            “How?”

            Nelson shrugged. “You’re asking me? Anyway, he wants me to check them out and see if I notice anything he missed.”

            “The lad is becoming a real sleuth,” Charlie said. “He may have a career in detective work.”

            “I think science will pay more.”

            “What else did he have on his mind? Charlie said.

            “You already are a sleuth, aren’t you? I didn’t know artillerymen were so nosey.”

            “Never underestimate a ‘redleg.’ We stick with our coordinates, wreak havoc, and bring justice to a weary world. What else did Martin report?”

            “He wants me to meet Abbey’s parents,” Nelson said.

            Charlie leaned back and let out his breath. “That’s gonna ‘redline the old fun meter,’ now ain’t it.”

            “Couldn’t have put it more accurately myself,” Nelson said. “But you know what it means when you accept a mission.”

            “Oh, do I,” Charlie looked out into space before continuing his meal.

            Nelson fixed a plate and set it on the table. He turned to freshen his drink as Charlie said, “What did you mean about working on my money?” he said.

            “I have a plan,” Nelson said.

            “Mind sharing it with me?”

            “Not a bit,” Nelson said, but at that moment his phone rang again. “Wait one,” he said to Charlie. “Martin must have forgotten something.” He punched the phone, put it to his ear, and said, “Hello.”

            His face immediately reddened. “The inevitable?” he said. “Are you sure?” His look was stoney and his eyes hard. “You’ve got to be sure,” he said. Listening, he nodded and then smiled. “I’ll need to shower. Charlie and I have been on the road all …. What? Yes … I’ll hurry.” He listed a moment a nodded. “I’m on my way.”

            Charlie looked on in amazement but didn’t speak. Neither did Nelson for several seconds. Then he said, “Two questions.” When Charlie nodded, Nelson said, “First, will it hurt your feelings if I skip this fine meal for an important mission?”

            Charlie said, “Sure. What mission?”

            “Second, would you be okay here tonight by yourself?”

            Understanding settled on Charlie’s face. “You old sea dog,” he said. He smacked Nelson’s shoulder with his hand. “You goddam old bastard of a sea dog.”

            They both laughed as Nelson rose and headed for his bedroom.

            By the time Nelson reached his destination, the moon had risen and dominated the eastern sky. He pulled his pickup into a driveway beside the house, killed the engine and stepped out. Before continuing, he took a deep breath and stared at the ground before him. Exhaling, he shrugged once and walked to the front door. There he stopped, took another deep breath and nodded his head once. Then he knocked.

            Tina opened the door and stood before him in a kimono of rich dark shades of brown and orange, her hair cascading about her shoulders. She smiled and motioned him in. “I was afraid you would change your mind,” she said. She took his hand and led him across the room  to where they stood before a large glass sliding door. She held his hand and leaned against him. “Isn’t the moon gorgeous tonight? That’s what drove me to the inevitable. Have you ever seen it so full?”

But before Nelson could speak, she turned around and kissed him. Feeling his response, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him tight against her. He didn’t resist.

            After a long, luxurious kiss, their faces parted and they looked at one another. Morgan spoke first, “Are you surprised?” She still held a hand behind his head.

            “I’m not, by training and practice, allowed to be surprised.”

            She smiled, and lowered her eyes. “Shocked?”

            “I am trained to do the shocking rather than be challenged by it.” He leaned forward and kissed her on forehead. She lingered in his arms form a moment and pressed her body to his. Raising her head she looked him straight in eyes and, locking her gazed, released him and retreated two steps.

            She stood in front of the door leading to her back yard now. The wide panel of glass allowed the light from a full moon to illuminate the right side of her body. Her skin glowed in the light and she smiled. Raising her hands from her side, she untied the belt of the kimono and allowed it to fall open. Before Nelson could respond she unloosed the soft cloth from her shoulders and allowed the garment to fall to the floor. It settled round her feet with a faint sound like a sigh in the night.

            She stood nude before Nelson now. Her full breasts shown before the full moon, its light forming a glowing outline from the almost invisible hairs that covered her body. Her olive skin needed no tan. It was smooth and inviting in the moonlight. The pleasing smell of a subtle cologne mingled with the moonlight. As Nelson looked at her, the nipples of her breast hardened as her breath quickened and her body arched slightly toward him. Her lips parted.

            She closed her eyes. “Pleased?”

            “I am allowed to be pleased, and yes, I am.”

            She opened her eyes. “Then Sailor,” she said as she stepped forward and began to unbutton his shirt, “let’s see if we can hoist that battle flag.”

Exemptions

You kinda have to wonder what the Galilean thinks when he sees some of memes posted on Facebook. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't shared his thoughts on line. He does give us a hint, though, in The Sermon on the Mount.

It comes right after he reminds the crowd on the hill about the Old Testament injunction regarding killing.

 “But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.”

Oh goodness. He didn’t really mean to imply that being angry with one’s brother is tantamount to murder, did he? Listen, and you will hear the out “of context crowd” saying, “he really didn’t mean that. How can we rid the world of homosexuality if we don’t teach our children to be angry with a brother or sister who chooses such a life? Anger is bad? He surely didn’t mean that.”

Well, he said it, or so the story goes.

And this word “raca,” is an interesting one. Some say it comes from the Aramaic word “reqa,”meaning “empty headed.”

“Empty headed” is extremely mild compared to what some of our “Christian” friends post about Michelle and Barack Obama, oh, and their children. And one doesn’t see the Galilean providing an exemption for our African-American brothers and sisters, or … our gay ones either.

Of course other professed followers of the Galilean aren't exactly circumspect about posting their opinions of those whom they consider empty-headed fools, even at the highest levels of political office.

Is the message that we can't forbid ourselves the choice of eschewing indifference? Is he saying that we can't speak out against evil? Can we not resist a malicious cancer that threatens our country and planet? Are we bound by silence in the face of wrongdoing?

No. He implies that abusive words reveal the true condition of our heart for which we will be punished. Does murder begin in the heart? Is the hatred that causes a person to post memes, (perhaps created in Russia) the very root of the hatred that causes murder?

We just don’t know. We might ask a survivor of the Holocaust. Maybe that was the sort of thing the Galilean was warning us about on that lonely hill.

Duplicity

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Gideon Nelson's new friends visit the crime scene while he experiences an encounter with an Asst. pastor.

            Charlie and Sam wound their way through the city as the mid-afternoon traffic slowed to a deliberate pace. They reached the freeway and Sam entered the south lanes and drove for a short distance before exiting. Heading north, at an angle to the freeway, the two entered an area of rural subdivisions, all with a single entry feeding off the state highway. When they came to a street somewhat larger than the others and bordering a new school campus, Sam turned right. The street was poorly maintained with large ditches on both sides. Sam drove past several homes on large lots. He pulled to the shoulder before the street began a steep decline. It was a secluded spot, too rugged for development, the ditches appearing as great gashes in a mixture of clay and rock. He stopped the engine. Pointing ahead to the right, he said. “That’s where they found the body … in the ditch, face up.” Before Charlie could respond, he said, “One of my gun nut clients is on the police force. He was on duty the morning they discovered her.”

            Charlie said, “I assume that examined the crime scene carefully?”

            “Unfortunately no,” said Sam, “At least not according to my man. There had been a gulley-washer of a rain that night and anything that might have resembled a clue had been washed to the Arkansas River by then. There was nothing left to examine.”

            “Except the body,” Charlie said.

            Sam said, “Except the body. All they could do was load it up and take it to the Medical Examiner’s Office.”

            Charlie peered forward and said, “Can we get out?”

            “Be my guest,” Sam said. He opened his door as Charlie opened his and both men stepped out. They walked to point where the road began its descent and stopped. The road descended for some 30 yards before leveling and making a gentle turn to the right and then out of sight.

            Charlie regarded the site for a moment, then said, “Lots of houses farther on?”

            “Rural subdivisions,” Sam said, “folks who say they want to live in the country but really want to live a quarter of a mile from the city limits. That was until the roads started falling in. This was all annexed into Connorville a year or so ago, at the request of the residents. Developers build crap subdivision out here, sell the homes to the unsuspecting, and disappear. The residents eventually look to the city to repair the damage.” He pointed at the washed out ditch where the body was found. “You can see the quality of the original construction. Not a good final resting place, even for a little colored girl.”

            Charlie said, “Do you have any ideas about what happened?”

            Sam thought, “Around here they sure seem to think it was gang related.”

            “That would make it Little Rock’s problem?”

            “They seem to think so,” Sam said. “They don’t have gangs in Connorville.” He stopped talking, looked at the ditch, then said, “At least any black ones.”

            “So the police here think she was a gang member,” Charlie said. “Why?”

            “From what I hear,” Sam said, “a number of things.”

            “Such as what?”

            “Well, she was black,” Sam said, “and that is enough for most of the Connorville elite.”

            “And …?”

            “She was wearing gang colors, at least a red bandana.”

            “And …?”

            “She had a nickname on her bracelet that sounded like a gang moniker.”

            “And that was …?”

            “Poison,” Sam said. “Her bracelet identified her as ‘Poison’ and that doesn’t sound like a Sunday School nickname, does it?”

            “Maybe,” Charlie said, “then maybe not. My nickname was ‘Snot’ back on the schoolyard.”

            They laughed. “Mine was ‘PW’ because I had a girlfriend.” Sam said, smiling. “Anyway, the way the body was arranged seems to suggest an execution.”

            Charlie, who was staring at the ditch, turned around. “How so?”

            She was strapped to a half-sheet of plywood cut lengthwise,” Sam said. Her arms were extended out past the edges. I suppose it was meant to resemble a crucifixion of sorts.”

            “What killed her?”

            “That,” Sam said, “I don’t know. Some sort of gunfire I expect.”

            “So who found the body?” Charlie said, “a resident?”

            “No,” Sam said, “the residents passed it by, some say on purpose, others say because so many out here haven’t seen a black person in so long they wouldn’t recognize a body if they saw it.” He chuckled. “That may be true, but no, a jogger finally saw it Sunday morning and called the Police.

            “What time was this?”

            “I think,” Sam said, “that it was about eleven o’clock. Lots of folks were in church.” He turned to Charlie and grinned. “Not me, though, I was, uh, I was … redecorating my office. Yeah, that’s it. Otherwise I would have been on the first row.”

            He and Charlie laughed.

            Nelson wasn’t laughing. Assistant Pastor Eddie Glover wasn’t either. He glowered at Nelson and said, “I still don’t see why Dale sent you to see me and I don’t know how I could help you.” He took a breath. “Just what is it you want from me?”

            “Nothing from you,” Nelson said. “I’m just a friend of a friend of the young girl who was found murdered here and I’m trying to find any information about her that might be available.”

            “You …,” Glover fumed, “you think someone in this church may have been involved?”

            “Not at all,” nelson said.

            Glover interrupted him. “Then just what do you mean?”

            “I understand that she attended church here a couple of times and I was trying to figure out why.”

            Glover stared at him for several seconds. “Over a thousand people attend our two services here on Sunday morning,” he said. “And I don’t remember a black girl—excuse me—African-American girl attending one.”

            Nelson regarded him. He leaned slightly forward. “Then what can you tell me about a group of young men who do attend here and call themselves The Soul Warriors”?

            “The what?”

            “The Soul Warriors.”

            Glover looked around the room. He turned his gaze back to Nelson. “Are you talking about Donnie Bridges and his friends?”

            “The one they call ‘Bully Bridges’ if that’s the one you are talking about.”

            “We call him Donnie, or Donald, or Don,” Glover said. “And he is a fine Christian man and a loyal worker for this church.” He fiddled with a pencil on his desk. “We are lucky to have him.”

            “Is he kind of person that might bully a young black girl?”

            Glover exploded in anger. “Mr., … whatever your name is … you have a lot of nerve coming into a house of God and accusing one of our members of being involved in something as hideous as a murder.”

            “I don’t think I accused anyone of anything,” Nelson said, leaning back in his chair and relaxing.

            “Well don’t then,” Glover said, slapping the pencil on his desk. “Just who are you, anyway?”

            “I told you,” Nelson said, “just a friend of a friend.”

            “Well, then, friend, let me tell you something,” Glover said. “Nobody in this church had anything to do with any murder.”

            “I believe you,” Nelson said, “but how can you be so sure that somebody doesn’t know something about the young girl? Maybe someone looked into why she came to this particular church.”

            “If she did come here, and I don’t recall it at all,” Glover said, “nobody looked into the reason, and I can tell you why.”

            Nelson didn’t speak.

            “They didn’t check on her,” Glover said, “because we didn’t tell them to. And they didn’t murder anyone because we didn’t tell them to. And they didn’t harass a young black girl because we didn’t tell them to.”

            “It seems,” Nelson said, “that you exercise a great deal of control over your flock.”

            “Our flock, as you call them, does what we say. We tell them what to think, we tell them who is head of the household, we tell them how to act, we tell them what to believe, and we even tell them who to vote for.”

            Nelson raised an eyebrow.

            “Yes,” Glover said. “We pick their candidates, just like the black churches do.”
            “I see,” Nelson said.

            “Yes,” Glover said, “Some folks think it was fine when the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. told the flock— as you call it—at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church what candidate to elect.” He took breath. “But when white folks in Connorville do it, the foundations of the country shake.” He stopped. His face was red and his breathing was heavy.

            “You’ve been helpful,” Nelson said.

            Glover seemed to regain his composure. “Tell me,” he said, “when was the last time you attended church?”

            “A year ago or so,” Nelson said, “to attend the funeral of a friend.”

            “A Baptist church?”

            “Presbyterian.”

            “It figures,” Glover said. “Why don’t you come worship with us? You would be welcome.”

            “Because I’m white?”

            Glove stood quickly. “If you will excuse me, I have work to do, the Lord’s work.” He pointed toward the door.

            Nelson left the church and returned to Sam’s place. There he picked up Charlie and thanked Sam for his help.

            “My pleasure, Sam said. “Why don’t you come back and get your ‘concealed carry permit’’?

            “I’m afraid not,” Nelson said.

            Sam said, “Why?”

            “One, I’m afraid I’ve ‘laid down my sword and shield,’ for now and two, I don’t even own a gun.”

            “No problem on the second,” Sam said, “I rent weapons to the ‘firearms needy’—any caliber you want, from lady’s weight to real penis elongating hand-blasters. I have them all.”

            “Thanks,” Nelson said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

            “Anytime,” Sam said. “And let me know if I can help on your mission.”

            As they drove away, Nelson asked Charlie if he had learned anything.

            “Not much,” Charlie said. “Seems the crime scene got washed away by a terrible rain storm. How about you?”

            “I don’t think the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle is a hotbed of free thinking.”

            “Did they open up to you?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said. “The head pastor seemed nice. His assistance was less so.”

            “Was it worth the trip? Did you find out a single thing?”

            “One thing,” Nelson said. “The assistant pastor is a liar.”

            “A pastor lying,” Charlie said in mock horror. “What has the world come to?”

            “What indeed?” Nelson said.

            “What did he lie about?”

            “When I mentioned that Abbey Stubblefield had attended services at his church, he assured me that he didn’t personally recall any African-American girl attending Sunday morning services at all.”

            “So?”

            “I didn’t say she attended the morning services.”

Deep Waters

Once I had a job in the U.S. Navy driving a boat from where our ship was moored five miles up the Cooper River out into Charleston Harbor. Our mooring was a low, mosquito-infested lowland and was surrounded by earthen mounds holding buried nuclear missiles and torpedoes. The place produced no joy. We had to account for that ourselves, each in our own way.

I generally sought mine with much reading and mass quantities of alchohol.

Leaving the place on a mission was also a joy. I would watch the prop of my gig churning the muddy water of the Cooper as I followed the winding river toward the sea. After crossing under the two ancient bridges spanning the river, there was a point at which the prop quit churning mud and started churning foam. We had reached the sea.

Charleston harbor wasn’t clear, but it was much better than the rancid Cooper at ebb tide. When our ship sailed out of the harbor we met the clean, clear ocean. If we altered course to starboard, the seas became bluer the farther south we sailed until we came to the majestic blue, deep water of the Caribbean. The bright sparkling waters seemed to invigorate one’s soul.

Life is a bit like that. Stuck in our own self-imposed moorings, we get overwhelmed by lowland worries, concerns, and discomfiture. In all likelihood, that accounts for much of the reason we get stuck scrolling Facebook to find people that hate the same people we do. I’ve been thinking about that all morning.

As a result, I think I’m going to leave the mental lowlands and sail for the deep blue waters of life.

Art

For someone like me, who worries about the state of our country and the state of Christianity as so many so-called Christians practice it now, the Sermon on the Mount troubles the soul. How, we ask ourselves, can people that we have known for years, who live decent lives and never miss church, suddenly begin saying and writing things that would make the Galilean wince? Have they never read The Sermon, or have they simply stopped? How can a non-religious person like me use it—The Sermon that is—as a daily guide, when you could wield it like a crucifix on a vampire, to chase away the likes of a Franklin Graham?

That’s a question designed for better minds than mine. We all have our cognitive limits and I certainly do.

But, you may be thinking, "That’s never stopped you before."

True that. So here goes.

If we accept the premise, as I do, that The Sermon is many things, including a high-level work of art, we notice things about it that that are consistent with other great works of art. For example, in art, we must have “an approachable object.” What one does with that object makes a work of art.

In this case, the Galilean has an opportunity to elevate the message of righteousness by emphasis, erudition, and expansion. He chose his spot in history as carefully as Ansel Adams chose his spots on earth, or Rembrandt chose his faces in the crowd.

Art also offers a range of values, sometimes from pure white to pure dark. Consider the range of humanity in a great novel, say from Peggotty to Uriah Heep in Dickens great work, David Copperfield.

The Galilean provides us first with challenge of attitude that is easy to achieve. Call it the lighter, more doable, segment of his work.

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.

What could be more simple and straightforward than than respect for those words? It certainly doesn’t sound, as so many fundamentalists now claim, that it is taken “out of context.”

He shifts, rather suddenly, to the dark and troublesome exhortations.

Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, thou shalt not commit adultery: But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart. 

Even a true and great Christian like President Jimmy Carter admitted to having trouble with that one.

It’s a hard and rocky road to travel, this living by The Sermon. Maybe that’s why so many people who once led thoughtful and generous lives now follow the mantra, “I’m with those who hate the same people I do.”

Those are the thoughts that trouble me today. Oh, and yes, I’ve quoted from the King James version of The Sermon in deference to my conservative readers who prefer to “read the Scriptures in the original English.” At any rate, new versions of the Holy Bible ordained by “prosperity-gospel” preachers and cult-evangelicals will no doubt expunge The Sermon in its entirety. The translation and its demanding strictures may be lost to history. So, I’m afraid, will our national experiment in social justice for all and care for the "least of those among us" that was so long in coming, so difficult in endeavor, so righteous in concept,  and so violent in denunciation.

Crime and Sin

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 Our hero Gideon Nelson seeks information about Abby's murder from a strange source in the City of Connorville, site of the crime.

            The campus of the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle was a sprawling affair containing a number of mismatched buildings on several acres. The complex was located on a major street that connected the central business corridor with a freeway to the north. On the western portion of the property stood a modest replica of a traditional red brick church with tall white columns supporting a triangular pediment. A cross dominated a large steeple rising from the roof.  Signs indicated that it housed the church offices although it had evidently been the original church.

            The eastern half of the property contained a massive structure that served as the present sanctuary. The design was modern and the building dominated the campus more from its bulk than its beauty. The construction was based on an a-frame design that allowed a massive glass front to extend like a folded page beyond the rest of the building. A metallic cross protruded from the point where the two halves of the fold met. Red bricks covered the rest of the structure and represented strength to counteract the fragile impression suggested by the glass front.

            A couple of acres of black asphalt provided parking for the two main structures and assorted out-buildings. Nelson eased his truck through expanse toward the office building. The lot was deserted except for few cars parked at the front of the smaller building and a group of pickup trucks gathered at the far corner of the lot.

Nelson eased toward the office entrance, but something caught his eye. He twisted the steering wheel and swung slowly toward the group of trucks. Reaching them, he ignored the group of men standing nearby and drove along the rear of the vehicles, stopping behind the final one in line. He put the truck in neutral, engaged the parking brake, and exited. He walked to the rear of a metallic blue truck with a gun rack visible through the rear window. A sporting rifle rested in the rack.

As Nelson studied the truck’s license, the group of men walked to where he stood. They were led by massive man with broad shoulders, easily over six feet tall. He wore a short-sleeved shirt that revealed a large cross tattooed on one forearm. The letters “S.W.” were tattooed in formal text below it. He sported a black mustache and goatee on a face shaded by a cap advertising Remington Arms.

The man stopped near Nelson and said, “Good morning brother. Welcome to the Tabernacle.”

Nelson continued to study the truck’s license. After another ten seconds or so, he turned toward the man who had spoken and said, “Whose truck?”

This seemed to surprise the man who considered the answer at length before he spoke. “Mine,” he said. “Interested in buying it?”

Nelson turned to face him. “I’m interested in why it was parked in front of my house with a pistol sticking out the window.”

The man didn’t speak. The others in the group studied him, seeming to expect a response. When he didn’t speak, Nelson did. “A few nights ago, in a neighborhood near downtown Little Rock,” he said.

The man eyed him. “You must have me confused with someone else, brother,” he said. “The boys can tell you that Donnie Bridges won’t go near Little Rock. Too much sin there.” The group with him laughed nervously.

“You the one they call Bully Bridges?”

“They don’t to my face. My Christian brothers call me Don.” When Nelson didn’t respond, the man said, “I don’t believe I know your name.”

“You don’t need to,” Nelson said. “You just need to stay away from my house and my friends.”

Bridges didn’t respond. He looked Nelson in the eyes as if making some major decision. He gave a short sniff and glanced toward the church headquarters. “You have me mistaken with someone else,” he said. His hands were clinched at his side and his jaw tightened. He said, “Do you have some business with our church?”

Nelson didn’t answer, but turned abruptly and climbed into his truck. He drove slowly to the church office building and parked in front. When he reached the front door, he turned to look at the group of men who were standing where he left them and were looking back at him. He made a quick wave that began with his hand above his head and ended with his index finger pointed toward them. Then he entered the building.

He stepped into a lobby with doors leading to hallways on the left and right. In front of him, multiple doors opened into a large, empty sanctuary. A sign directed the visitor seeking the church offices to the left, so Nelson followed this hallway as it turned right and proceeded along the length of the sanctuary. Doors on his left entered into meeting rooms and at the far end of the hall he saw the words “Pastor’s Office” in large gold letters.

He reached the door, entered and encountered a receptionist in a small outer area. She was young and had a studious look about her. Dressed modestly in business attire, she smiled broadly as Nelson entered. “You must be the visitor that Brother Dale is expecting. Mr. ...?”

“Gideon Nelson,” he said.

“Just a moment,” she said, rising. She walked to her right and opened a large oak door with “Pastor Dale Underhill” in painted in gold on it. She peeked inside and said, “Dale, your visitor is here.”

A voice boomed from within, “Well show him in.” She immediately motioned for Nelson to enter. She held the door open for his and closed it quietly after him.

The office was spacious with modern furnishings. A large sofa rested against one wall and an ample wooden desk dominated the central portion with an impressive set of bookcases lining the wall behind it. Tasteful paintings with bucolic themes graced the walls. Photos of a smiling family adorned the desk.

Behind it, already standing, was heavy man in perhaps his early forties. A strip of bald scalp showed along the top of his head, with well-groomed black hair speckled with gray along the sides. He was clean-shaven and exhibited a pleasant smile. He extended a hand across the desk. “Dale Underhill,” he said, “Pastor, counselor, disciplinarian, and janitor of this modest establishment. And you are Mr. Nelson.”

“Gideon.”

“Well, Gideon,” he said, motioning for Nelson to sit and waiting until he did so before sitting himself. “Have you made the decision to trust Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

Nelson smiled. “I’ve had to trust myself for so long I haven’t placed much trust in anyone else.” He stopped. “So, I’m afraid not.”

“Fair answer,” the other said. “We will pray for you.” He flashed Nelson a good-natured smile. “I have to ask everyone that,” he said. “I get ‘preacher demerits’ if I don’t. Are you from around here?”

“Actually,” Nelson said, “I live in Little Rock.”

“Sodom and Gomorrah,” Underhill said. Then he winked. “Actually, I love Little Rock but don’t tell my deacons. I go there every chance I get to eat and catch a movie. The latter used to be considered quite sinful in my youth. Still is, by some. Don’t mention my ‘weak moment excursions’ to anyone around here.” He laughed. “I have even enjoyed a glass of wine there. Just like Jesus.”

“Our secret,” Nelson said. “I understand you are second generation in the pastoring business.”

“Fourth,” said Underhill. “I have a large framed photo of my great-grandfather hanging in the den at home. He is holding a Bible and looking quite stern. Civil war veteran and part-time preacher. Would have been full time but it wouldn’t support his family. I can understand that.” He looked away and then back. “The pastors of these big ‘freeway churches’ make a bundle but my deacons don’t see it that way. It was even worse in Dad’s day.”

“I see. So you were expected to go into the ministry?”

“In some manner or other,” Underhill said. “I didn’t want to preach at first. When I finished my doctorate, I opted to run a retirement home that the Baptists owned. It was in Little Rock, by the way.”

“And that didn’t work out?”

“Miserable way to serve a ministry,” Underhill said. “I was pretty much a hotel manager over the most cantankerous bunch of old coots you ever met.”
            “They were all Baptists?”

“Most were. Some had lived in the home before the Baptists bought it and they were allowed to stay. They were the royalty … wouldn’t speak to the newcomers. That was one group. There were the city folks group who wouldn’t speak to the country folks group, a group of wealthy widows who wouldn’t speak to anyone—even me—and a group of dirty old men who spent all day playing pool and talking about ‘it’ although not a one of them could even remember what ‘it’ was. They just knew it pissed the old women off when they giggled about it. And don’t let the temperature get one degree to hot or too cold or you will go straight to hell.”

Nelson laughed. “Sounds like quite a place.”

Underhill said, “I just despised those old bastards.”

Nelson laughed again.

“So,” Underhill said. “I decided to preach. My dad got me this gig and it has done well.” He leaned forward. “But what can I do for you? It must be important if old “Sure-Fire” Sammie Coulson called on your behalf.” When Nelson looked confused, Underhill said, “That’s what we called him in high school. Best shot in the county. Never thought he would do it as a business though.”

Nelson said, “I asked him to call because I’m interested in the death of Abbey Stubblefield.”

“The African-American child that was murdered?”

“That one.”

It was Underhill’s turn to look confused. “Are you in law enforcement?”

“No,” Nelson said. “Just a friend of a friend of hers.”

“You didn’t know her?”

“I’m beginning to feel as if I did. But no, I wasn’t. Would like to have been, but wasn’t.”

“And your purpose is?”

“Just nosing around to see if I might uncover something that might generate some interest on the part of the authorities in speeding up the investigation.”

“By jingo,” Underhill said, slapping his thigh. “A genuine do-gooder, and I thought they didn’t exist anymore.” He paused and got serious. “How in the world can I help?”

“I understand she attended your church a couple of times.”

“She did,” Underhill said, “and I was hoping that she might come back.” He took deep breath and exhaled. “My flock could use the exposure.”

“You don’t get many African-American visitors?”

“Not since I enticed a family who lives just past the county line to join us. We uh,” he chose his words carefully, “need to work on our reputation here.”

“They came? This family?”

“For a while. They kept trying to quit but I kept insisting. Each week I had to call and cajole them all over again.”

“What happened to them?”
            He shrugged. “I got wind that some of the older crowd were calling them ‘Dale’s, you know whats.’ Sometimes behind their back. Sometimes not. So I gave up.”

“And Abbey?”

“Didn’t hear a word about her.”

“I understand,” Nelson said, “that she received some fairly nasty e-mails that sounded like they might have come from some of your young folks.”

“What kind of e-mails?”

Nelson said, “The kind intended to discourage her from coming back.”

“Oh, I hope not,” said Underhill. “You need to talk to Eddie.”

“Eddie?”

“My assistant, Eddie Glover. He is our youth director and is currently filling in as my assistant since our uh …,” he paused, “trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Old Sure-Fire didn’t tell you?”
            “I don’t guess he did.”

“Our assistant pastor ran off with his sister-in-law about a year and a half ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nelson said. “Must have caused a stir.”

“Pretty much,” Underhill said. He smiled. “It happened on Friday night and we had to ‘duct-tape’ his name off the sign out front so we could have Sunday services.” He thought. “My dad always said it would be the music director that pulled crap like that. But …” he shook his head, “it had to be higher up the food chain in our case.”

“I guess that ended his preaching career.”

“Oh,” said Underhill, “he actually came out smelling like a rose.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” Underhill said, obviously relishing the story, “when their money ran out, which didn’t take long, he went back to his wife.”

“She took him back in?”

“She did. Her options for a replacement were, shall we say, limited.” He nodded to Nelson as if they were involved in some conspiracy. “But the condition was that they would be what you might call ‘a spiritual team.’ Now they have this travelling show they put on at revivals and guest shots, for quite a profit I’m told.”

“Travelling show?”

“Yeah,” Underhill said. “Seems like, as it turned out, that his was no free-will dalliance.”

“No?”

“No, apparently the Devil made him do it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You don’t believe in the Devil?”

“How is a sinful preacher making money off an extramarital affair?”

“Now I haven’t seen it personally,” Underhill said, “but I understand that it is quite impressive. They ping-pong the story. He tells about being in the fog of sin and yearning for salvation. She tells about knowing that the Dark One had to be behind it all. He calls out for redemption. And she is praying like …, well like hell, for his deliverance. Supposedly, she provides a ‘prayer sample’ or two that involve a lot of hand waving, fist pounding, and dancing about.”

“And?”

“They say he lets out a big ‘whoop!’ That’s when the Devil leaves him and he goes into convulsions, wakes up, and wants to know where his wife is. Then they do duets, they are both gifted singers, and the audience goes berserk. They start with ‘Standing in the Need of Prayer’ then follow that with ‘Love Lifted Me’ before they join hands and sing to one another ‘The Sun’s Coming Up in the Morning.’ Do you know that song?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Hell of a number,” Underhill said. “Hell of a number. After that, they take up collection. They perform from Texas to Georgia and from Nashville to Biloxi. Booked up a year in advance, I’m told.”

Nelson didn’t say anything.

“Who says sin isn’t profitable?” Underhill said. “But let me call Eddie and tell him you need to see him.”

Enjoying these? Want to read about Gideon Nelson's first adventure? You can get the book  at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. Or just contact me. I only have a few hundred copies left. It will make me so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes me little money and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.