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.