Preacher Fakes a Miracle E-Book

Gerald Everett Jones

• Herausgeber: LaPuerta Books and Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Evan Wycliff Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 393

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In the heart of rural Missouri, former physicist-turned-preacher Evan Wycliff is no stranger to mystery—or pain.
2020 New York City Big Book Award – Distinguished Favorite (Silver) in Mystery
Still grieving the death of his fiancée and navigating the spiritual minefield of small-town faith, he’s trying to live a quiet life. But when Melissa Benton, a troubled teen mother with epilepsy, is forcibly taken from her sister’s trailer by child welfare officers—and separated from her newborn—Evan’s life of uneasy peace is shattered.

He quickly learns Melissa isn’t just another runaway. Her baby may be the illegitimate son of Luke Shackleton, a wealthy banker’s schizophrenic teen heir, now locked away in a questionable mental clinic. Evan’s mission to find Melissa becomes more urgent as he uncovers a chilling web of corruption: a manipulative psychiatrist, complicit clergy, human trafficking masked as adoption, and a mysterious Eastern European syndicate with secrets to keep.

Evan’s investigation pits him against power players who consider people like Melissa disposable. His only ally may be Luke, whose psychic connection to Melissa might be real—or madness. To protect them both, Evan must do something he’s never done before—fake a miracle so convincing, it just might save a life.

But the deeper he digs, the higher the stakes—and the more Evan questions whether justice can ever come without sacrifice.

Blending spiritual suspense, gritty noir, and sharp-witted dialogue, Preacher Fakes a Miracle is a soulful mystery of love, faith, and the lengths one man will go to uncover the truth. Fans of Louise Penny, Julia Spencer-Fleming, and James Lee Burke will find a new hero to root for in Evan Wycliff.
“This is literature masquerading as a mystery. Carefully yet powerfully, Gerald Jones creates a small, stunning world in a tiny midwestern town, infusing each character with not just life but wit, charm and occasionally menace. This is the kind of writing one expects from John Irving or Jane Smiley.” - Marvin J. Wolf, author of the Rabbi Ben Mysteries, including A Scribe Dies in Brooklyn

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR THE EVAN WYCLIFF MYSTERIES

Kudos for Preacher Finds a Corpse (#1)

2020 Independent Press Awards Distinguished Favorite in Mystery

2020 Eric Hoffer Award Finalist in Mystery

Praise for This Book (Preacher #2):

As anyone who’s spent time in a small town the American Midwest knows, there’s a lot more going on behind the scenes than you’d expect. Or suspect. And there are plenty of suspects in the latest Evan Wycliff mystery by Gerald Everett Jones. Preacher Fakes a Miracle haunted my dreams as I read it, in the way that a good story about a bad situation should. I’m looking forward to reading the next installment of the Evan Wycliff mystery series.

PAMELA JAYE SMITH, MYTHWORKS, AWARD-WINNING WRITER-DIRECTOR-PRODUCER

This is not your mother’s preacher. Gerald Jones has created a character who can discover a corpse, kiss a girl, solve a crime, and get back to his trailer in time to say grace over Sunday dinner.

DAVID DRUM, AUTHOR OF HEATHCLIFF: THE LOST YEARS

This time the Preacher digs even deeper, faster, and funnier than his prize-winning debut. It’s just what you’d expect, except everything you expect is wrong because the Preacher, in the very talented hands of Gerald Jones, is always at least a step ahead in this very satisfying second time out of the gate.

MORRIE RUVINSKY, AUTHOR OF MEETING GOD OR SOMETHING LIKE IT AND THE HEART AND OTHER STRANGERS

A fast-moving mystery with twists and surprises that take you in unexpected directions. Jones is adept at creating unique and fascinating characters. His mystery sleuth is a part-timer with lots of heart who splits his time between religion, skip tracing and sometimes the metaphysical. The hero's search for a missing girl and his interactions with various eccentric individuals in the small town make him both sympathetic and compelling. A bit of a shock to learn what's really going on with the abducted young unwed mother... and amazing how it relates to real stories in the news today.

M.J. RICHARDS, COAUTHOR OF DISHONOR THY FATHER

Praise for Preacher #1:

This is literature masquerading as a mystery. Carefully yet powerfully, Gerald Jones creates a small, stunning world in a tiny midwestern town, infusing each character with not just life but wit, charm, and occasionally menace. This is the kind of writing one expects from John Irving or Jane Smiley.

MARVIN J. WOLF, AUTHOR OF THE RABBI BEN MYSTERIES, INCLUDING A SCRIBE DIES IN BROOKLYN

This is an excellent read. Such an engaging storyteller! It really sucked me in. That last page did cause a triple-take, quadruple-take, and whatever comes after, up to about eight. Jones is definitely one of my favorite authors.

JOHN RACHEL, AUTHOR OF BLINDERS KEEPERS AND THE MAN WHO LOVED TOO MUCH

A smart, thoroughly entertaining, and suspenseful mystery novel, which is not so much a who-done-it as a how-and-why. The characters are universally well-drawn and quirky, and the relationship between Evan and Naomi is fresh and romantic.

I loved it.

ROBERTA EDGAR, COAUTHOR OF THE PERFECT PLAY: THE DAY WE BROKE THE BANK IN ATLANTIC CITY

The constant shifts in trust and tidbits of new information kept me guessing until the end who was friend or foe and the ‘need’ to find out kept the pages turning.

Many of the common stigmas, questions, and feelings suicide deaths leave in their wake were also addressed in a responsible way, which will help the conversation around suicide in general.

RUTH GOLDEN, WRITER-PRODUCER, THE SILENT GOLDENS: A DOCUMENTARY ABOUT SUICIDE AND TALKING ABOUT SUICIDE WITH MARIETTE HARTLEY

Preacher Finds a Corpse is an absolute pleasure to read. Reminiscent of Charlaine Harris’s mysteries and Barbara Kingsolver’s early novels like Animal Dreams and The Bean Trees, it’s full of quirky characters who animate the small town in which they live. Evan Wycliff is a complex and compelling protagonist, conflicted and lost in his own life but nevertheless fiercely dedicated to uncovering the truth about his friend Bob Taggart’s death.

Jones manages to infuse a deceptively simple story with suspense, angst, and whimsy, as well as surprise. His command of setting, history, and behavior is beyond exceptional. I can’t wait for the next book in the series.

PAULA BERINSTEIN, AUTHOR OF THE AMANDA LESTER DETECTIVE SERIES AND HOST OF “THE WRITING SHOW” PODCAST

From the secret contents in a rusty tin fishing box to clues that lead Evan further into danger, Gerald Everett Jones weaves a tense thriller peppered with references to Evan's ongoing relationship to God and prayer.

When the clues boil down to a final surprise, will forgiveness be possible?

Jones does an outstanding job of crafting a murder mystery that romps through a small town's secrets and various lives. His main protagonist is realistic and believable in every step of his investigative actions and setbacks; but so are characters he interacts with; from his boss Zip to a final service which holds some big surprises.

With its roots firmly grounded in an exceptional sense of place and purpose, Jones has created a murder mystery that lingers in the mind long after events have built to an unexpected crescendo.

Murder mystery fans will find it more than a cut above the ordinary.

D. DONOVAN, DONOVAN’S BOOKSHELF

PREACHER FAKES A MIRACLE

AN EVAN WYCLIFF MYSTERY

GERALD EVERETT JONES

Copyright © 2020 Gerald Everett Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher:

LaPuerta Books and Media www.lapuerta.tv Email: [email protected]

The novel in this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The author has attempted throughout this book to distinguish proprietary trademarks from descriptive terms by following the capitalization style used by the manufacturer.

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7332684-4-8

Kindle ASIN: B08D7XRTYN

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020913782

LaPuerta is an imprint of La Puerta Productions www.lapuerta.tv

Cover photo by Benjamin/stock.adobe.com

Cover and interior design by La Puerta Productions

Author photo by Gabriella Muttone Photography, Hollywood

Holy Bible verses quoted from the King James Version [PD]

Created with Vellum

To Benedict Kruse

CONTENTS

Prologue

On Truman Lake, Sunday Morning

1. Loretta’s Trailer

The Previous Friday Morning

2. Near Evan’s Trailer

Earlier that Friday Morning

3. Loretta’s Trailer

Friday Morning

4. Bates Bank and Trust, Rich Hill

Friday Morning

5. Myerson Clinic, Appleton City

Friday Mid-Morning

6. Nathan’s School of Fashion Design, Osceola

Two Years Ago

7. Headquarters of ACH Entertainment, Nashville

Two Years Ago

8. C’mon Inn, Appleton City

Friday Noon

9. Loretta’s Car

Friday Noon

10. C’mon Inn

Friday Noon

11. Sheriff’s Office, Appleton City

Friday, Early Afternoon

12. Aboard the Yacht Namouna, Truman Lake

Friday Early Afternoon

13. Shooting Range, El Dorado Springs

Friday Afternoon

14. Shoulder of State Route 13

Friday Afternoon

15. Twin Dragons Casino and Resort, Osceola

A Year Ago

16. Sisters of Mercy Children’s Home, Osceola

Friday Afternoon

17. Myerson Clinic

Friday, Early Evening

18. First Baptist Church of Appleton City

Friday Evening

19. Evan’s Trailer

Friday Night

20. Butler Country Club

Saturday, Early Afternoon

21. Somewhere on SR 52 Outside Appleton City

Saturday Afternoon

22. Myerson Clinic

Sunday Morning

23. In Evan’s Car

Sunday Afternoon

24. Loretta’s Trailer

Sunday Evening

25. Evan’s Trailer

Monday 2 am

26. C’mon Inn

Monday Morning

27. Twin Dragons Resort

Monday Morning

28. Myerson Clinic

Monday Morning

29. Sisters of Mercy

Monday Noon

30. On the Way to Osceola

Monday Noon

31. Aldy, Chechnya

February 5, 2000

32. Grozny

Five Years Later

33. On the Road to Osceola

Monday Afternoon

34. Twin Dragons Resort

A Year Ago

35. Sisters of Mercy

Monday Afternoon

36. Myerson Clinic

Monday Night

37. On the Namouna

Monday Night

38. Taggart Home, Stockton

Monday Afternoon

39. With Evan and Leon

Monday Night

40. On Truman Lake

Tuesday Dawn

41. C’mon Inn

Wednesday Morning

42. Sheriff’s Office

Wednesday Noon

43. Cork ’n Keg Bar and Grill, Appleton City

Friday Night, One Week Later

44. First Baptist

Sunday Morning

Epilogue

Zed Motors, Monday Morning

Now Read the Sequel

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Gerald Everett Jones

PROLOGUE

ON TRUMAN LAKE, SUNDAY MORNING

The girl awoke in a fog. She was disoriented, but she didn’t panic. It wouldn’t be her first hangover, although this one was a doozy. She wanted to scratch her nose, but she quickly realized both of her wrists were bound with soft cloths. And so were her ankles. She could feel bedsheets on her back. So she was prone, her hands and feet lashed to the bedposts.

She’d been tied to a bed before, but it wasn’t for sex. Sometimes the nuns or the nurse would restrain her so she couldn’t hurt herself. And then there were the clients, who had their own reasons. But if this was a sex game, she wouldn’t expect to be wearing much of anything. She could feel the tickle of cloth against her breasts, her stomach, her hips — flannel pajamas! And she wasn’t cold. The room was quite warm.

Could it be whoever put her here wanted her to be comfortable?

Her vision was still blurry. The light was dim. A bedroom. Despite what she already knew of her situation, she didn’t panic. She’d put up with kinky types before. The comfortable clothing and the warmth of the room made her hope it might all be a game. She had no choice but to go along. Maybe he would get off quickly, then go.

As her eyes began to focus, she felt the bed sway under her. But there was no hot breath on her face, no urgent heaviness hunched over her languid body. And besides feeling she was alone, Melissa noted no accompanying dizziness. This wasn’t like any morning-after head she’d ever experienced. The floating sensation could be the drugs wearing off. What had they given her?

She remembered she’d been taken forcefully back to the convent — again — and not being at all happy about it. But perhaps having to live there might be a whole lot more pleasant than whatever was about to go down here. And maybe it was the stress that had brought on another fit. And, yes, the nuns had tied her down to a cot. But the episode had passed, and they’d given her over to that brutish fellow, who claimed to have paperwork.

She wasn’t in pain. In her body, a feeling of numbness. Also probably the drugs.

Was this some new kind of drug for her fits? If so, it was something powerful, because she couldn’t remember a thing about how she came to be here.

Except — where had they taken her child?

A pang seized her stomach as she remembered how they’d taken him from her. Was that yesterday? She’d have to play their game, give them whatever they needed, and maybe it would all work out.

She had to hold to the belief he’d be safe. Baby Buzz was no good to them dead.

And she convinced herself, which gave her space to worry about her own safety. It wasn’t just the threat of being raped. She’d dealt with that before. But what if, now, in this place which must be filled with danger, her body suddenly spasmed?

What if she had another fit? Would they freak out like the nuns had done?

She lifted her head slightly off the pillow — yes, there was an overstuffed pillow, another deliberate comfort — and she caught a chill as she could make out a shadowy figure seated at the foot of the bed. No facial features for her to study. But he was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt.

He sat very still, with a kind of icy patience.

“Where am I? Who are you?” she asked him.

“In safe hands. And almost home,” he said calmly.

It was a mature, confident, deep, resonant voice.

She knew the voice! How could she forget? But after that one time, she never expected to see him again.

“It’s you!Vasili! Why am I tied up? Is this your idea of —?”

“You never knew my name,” he insisted.

“Who are you, then?”

Maybe it was okay after all. Did he have her bound because he thought she’d hurt herself? Without her pills, she could have another fit.

“I am everything to you now. Without me, nothing,” he said.

She didn’t have the energy to scream. It was more of a plaintive whimper, fraught with sobs. “Where is my baby? What have you done?”

“He is safe, for now. I’ll ask the questions. And if you can give me satisfactory answers — honest answers — you will do very well — for him and for you.”

“He could be yours, you know. We can change his name when I know yours.”

“It is of no concern to you now. Listen carefully to what I am asking you.”

“So it’s a game, right?”

“No, it’s quite serious. Your son’s life — and yours — could depend on the answers.”

She sucked in a deep, panicked breath. Kinky or homicidal, this guy. See where this goes.

“So… ask away.”

He waited for a long moment. Then he asked simply, “Why?”

“Why? Why what? How am I supposed to know what you’re even talking about?”

He took another long moment. The stiff tone of his reply signaled a flash of anger.

She could only submit — what else?

That was how he must want this game played.

“Use your imagination,” he snapped.

LORETTA’S TRAILER

THE PREVIOUS FRIDAY MORNING

Melissa hoped her sister wouldn’t be pissed about her showing up unannounced. But they never stayed mad at each other for very long. All they’d ever had was each other. During the last year, they’d been out of touch for weeks at a time, sometimes months. But when Loretta had moved into this trailer, she’d mailed Melissa her spare key.

It was like an engraved invitation, after all.

The place hadn’t been hard to find, even though they were riding in the dark. Loretta had sent her a link on Google Maps, and she’d made Keith stop several times so she could check her phone. The service was spotty out here but not impossible, and the GPS tracked their route. Now she was thankful that the jolting ride on the back of the guy’s bike was finally over. Keith was a stranger to her, just some dude who’d plucked her off the side of the road, and she hoped she was done with him. As she hopped off, baby Buzz was wailing in her ear. But she took the trouble to wet her lips and flash the guy a grin and a wink before she turned to go inside, and he sped off.

She was glad to be rid of his rank smell. Maybe she should jump in the shower.

There was no porch light on the trailer, and now that she didn’t have the bike headlight to guide her, she had to juggle Buzz as she fished the key from the pocket of her jeans and used the flashlight on her phone to find the lock in the door handle. The place was dark inside, no one was home, and the air felt close and musty. Melissa didn’t bother to open a window. She was exhausted, and so was Buzz. The young mother found a blanket, and they were both out cold on the couch as soon as they lay down.

Loretta had gone off shift at two in the morning, and she was usually home before three. Today, she didn’t arrive until half-past five. She’d wanted an apartment over at the marina complex, but Mick Heston, her manager at the club, had said whatever she could afford over here where the rents were lower would have to do for now. (Considering her failed relationship with Mick, she was grateful he bothered to help her at all.) Hence the dinky mobile home. At least she had use of the car and a gas card. She told her coworkers that the Appleton City-Rockville area wasn’t sleepy — it was comatose. But the commute was just a half-hour’s drive east on State Highway B, which was not bad at all unless you got behind one of those enormous double-decker livestock trailers that chugged along at twenty below the limit and stank of manure.

She’d have to ask her landlord, Mr. Zed, for a porch light. (She wasn’t sure whether he could be trusted, but so far, he hadn’t tried anything.) As she let herself in, she gasped as she saw a figure writhing under a blanket on the day bed she used as a couch.

Then the baby started to cry, and Loretta’s sister tossed the blanket off as she sat up and rocked her two-month-old son in her arms.

Loretta wasn’t upset to see Melissa, but she was startled that the girl and her baby had shown up without warning.

Setting her purse and keys on the dinette, she demanded, “What’s going on?”

“Sisters of Mercy sucks,” Melissa muttered sullenly as she yawned. “You wouldn’t want to keep your dog there.”

“I don’t have a dog,” Loretta huffed, hoping she sounded insistent enough to discourage the idea forever.

But Melissa brightened and giggled. “There’s an idea! Now that you got this place, maybe we should get one!”

“We?” Loretta realized the answer would likely involve an argument, so she simply asked, “How’d you get here?”

“Ugh, a motorbike. Guy named Keith. Friend of a friend. I didn’t have to pay him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he shows back up and, you know, expects something.”

“What did you promise him?”

“Nothing in particular,” the girl replied with a shrug. “I can’t help it if a guy uses his imagination.”

Loretta rolled her eyes. Melissa was too pretty for her own good. At least Loretta knew how to turn the gifts nature gave her into a livelihood.

The baby started to cry again.

Melissa added, “Kind of a bumpy ride. Not the best thing for Buzzbomb here. Soft little skulls? He’s been upset with us moving around and all.”

“Buzz bomb?”

“Lighten up! The kid’s a poop factory. So some things broke your way, and they didn’t for me. You know you’re all I’ve got.”

Loretta ignored the familiar plea, saying, “When was the last time you fed him?”

“Still nursing,” she said, lifting her T-shirt. “I got plenty. I’m the one who could use a meal. And maybe a breast pump and some salve.”

Baby Buzz sucked on a breast and was instantly gratified.

“You can’t stay here,” Loretta said as she sat in one of the two chairs at the dinette and leaned forward in a gesture she hoped would signal both motherly love and worry.

Melissa looked up, her face screwed into a pout. “So why’d you give me the key?”

“For an emergency. You know, like for protection? Like if somebody hit on you?”

“Well, those nuns weren’t exactly beating me.” Then she mumbled, “But I’m not so sure they wouldn’t, and love doing it.”

“For one thing, you’ve got to go to school,” Loretta explained. “And there has to be someone to take care of Buzz when you’re in class. You both need to eat and someone to prepare nutritious meals. My shift in the evening starts at six. I get home at maybe three. When I get some overtime, like today, I’m still home before the sun is up. I have dinner or breakfast or whatever you’d call it in an hour or so, then I try to relax, watch a movie. I sleep from seven until three in the afternoon, maybe longer. I have to do all the shopping on my one day off. Now, you tell me, when am I going to have time to do whatever for you and Buzz, and just how is this going to work out?”

“Hey, no school. It’s summer!”

“So, you finished ninth grade?”

“As if! There’s all this paperwork to get things the way we want. You’ll figure it out. You’re good with numbers and money.”

Loretta sighed. “Melissa, you’re still underage, and you guys need so much more than I can give you. Seriously.”

Melissa gave hungry Buzz the other breast, looked up, and smiled sweetly. “Why don’t you make us both some eggs, and I’ll do the dishes?”

Outside, surveying the house from his jogging path, Evan was just deciding not to knock on their door.

If only he had.

NEAR EVAN’S TRAILER

EARLIER THAT FRIDAY MORNING

If Preacher Evan Wycliff had stopped in to borrow a cup of sugar, this would have been a different story. It was five-thirty in the morning, he’d slept only fitfully, and he was out for his morning jog.

Okay, it’s more like a brisk walk.

He’d resolved recently to make healthier choices in his diet and to get more exercise. More vegetables, less animal fat. And he’d cut back on the whiskey — way back, he promised himself — and his permissible vices, at least for the time being, would remain extra-strong coffee with generous spoonfuls of sugar.

The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour. The full moon, filtered by a lingering fogbank, basked the woods in a cool, soft glow. He stopped to catch his breath within sight of Loretta Benton’s trailer. Hers was on the adjacent lot to the dilapidated box of tin he rented, separated by a thick stand of tall pines. Her privacy was thus assured, not that the preacher would be gawking. She’d moved in recently, and he’d caught sight of her only a couple of times. He had yet to introduce himself, and he knew her name because they had the same landlord — Zip Zed, proprietor of Zed Motors — who also happened to be Evan’s weekday boss.

Loretta was a looker, no doubt about it, and, judging by appearances, just twenty-something. Zip had told him with a suggestive chuckle that she worked as a cocktail waitress at the new Twin Dragons Casino and Resort on Truman Lake. Evan’s personal code of conduct told him that gambling would be a high-risk activity, especially for him, a man of modest and sporadic income with a presumably respectable reputation. But he did know that his father figure and mentor Reverend Thurston’s secret vice was Holdem Poker.

Well, Marcus doesn’t touch bourbon, so who’s keeping score? He’s obviously not. He wouldn’t be bugging me to step up as assistant minister if he thought my petty sins made any difference.

Evan shouldn’t have been out of breath at that point. Although he had the stature of a football player, he had the lifestyle of a sedentary sportscaster. He was up at least thirty pounds from an acceptable body-mass index. He’d already done about a mile and a half, having made a loop around Zed’s properties (which sadly lacked the amenities of a trailer park). He was heading back home now, needing to pee and anticipating the jolt from his second cup of morning coffee-sludge.

The only noises at this hour were the predawn bird chorus and a gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. There were seldom any traffic sounds here, even during the day. This plot was isolated, thickly wooded and lushly green, a half-mile off the sparsely traveled state route about three miles southeast of Appleton City. As Evan hesitated on the edge of the dirt road, there were about fifty yards between him and the young woman’s trailer. A recent-model Buick Enclave, a luxury SUV, was parked out front. A light was on inside the trailer, so an approach might be possible.

Nice set of wheels for a barmaid. Boyfriend? An older guy who gives expensive gifts?

Then came the piercing cry of a distressed infant.

Zip didn’t say anything about a kid. Or a husband.

Then there were two voices. Female voices. Indistinguishable dialogue.

Even though it was an ungodly hour to be calling, Evan had entertained the thought of stopping by, yes, to ask for that cup of sugar. His single-shelf pantry was low on just about everything, and refined dextrose was nearly as essential to his functioning as high-test gas is to a Corvette.

Ever since Naomi’s passing from this plane of existence, Evan hadn’t allowed himself to think about women. Oh, there was that fleeting moment of flirtation with Edie Taggart. Good thing he’d thought better of hitting on his best friend’s widow. But Naomi had encouraged him, more than once, to move on. And even though he probably had ten years on this Loretta gal, a matchup wasn’t inconceivable. Especially if he was thinking of finally starting a family.

But a readymade family? And a former cocktail waitress as a minister’s wife?

He wasn’t so sure he aspired to a pastoral job, even though Thurston was ready to retire and wanted to shove him in that direction. Anyhow, there was a lot more he’d have to learn about Loretta Benton before he’d go knocking on her door.

LORETTA’S TRAILER

FRIDAY MORNING

Melissa was not exactly forthcoming about her recent whereabouts. Loretta decided not to confront her just now. She could guess her younger sister would be defensive, maybe even snarky as per usual. They both needed rest and calmer nerves before they could get down to making plans.

All Loretta was able to ask her was, “Have you been taking your meds?”

The girl shrugged it off. “I’m fine.”

Then Loretta risked asking, “Have there been any… episodes?”

Melissa smirked. “Like I said. I’ve… been… fine.”

After this, Melissa plugged in her earbuds as Buzz slept.

Loretta was feeling groggy. It was more than an hour after her usual bedtime, but the adrenaline from coping with her sister’s issues was allowing her to function. She’d get Melissa and herself fed, finally grab some sleep, and then hopefully be clear-headed enough to talk some sense into the girl before leaving again for work in the afternoon. She didn’t have a plan yet, but she figured that there wouldn’t be any harm in Melissa’s staying with her for a few days until they could think of something. The baby was adorable enough, but they’d have to be adults about this.

She was busy at the stove, Buzz was dozing, and Melissa was nodding to the music in her earbuds when three vehicles pulled up outside, followed by door slams and a series of sharp raps on the door.

Loretta shot a fearful look to Melissa and braced herself with a tight grip on the doorknob.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“Family Welfare Agency,” came the reply from a deep-throated male.

Loretta hadn’t been through this before, but she figured she had a right to ask, “Do you have a warrant?”

“We got the sheriff,” came a husky female voice.

Loretta opened the door cautiously. In rushed two men and a woman. The larger man, overweight and white, was in a suit. The younger one, a scrawny red-haired dude, was in a cop uniform. The dark-skinned woman looked almost casual in jeans and a blouse, but her hair was done up and she had pearl earrings.

The man in the suit grabbed Melissa by the arm, and the woman swept in to gather up the baby.

Melissa realized the nuns must have called the cops. She snarled “Bitch!” at the woman as she tried in vain to wrestle free. In the intruder’s stoic face, there was no look of recognition. No more words were exchanged, no badges flashed, and the woman was out the door with Buzz and into a car as fast as she could move.

Melissa yelled after them, “Where are you taking my baby?” Then, to Loretta, she pleaded, “They can’t do this!”

As the big guy muscled Melissa out the door, Loretta challenged him, “She’s my sister! They live with me! Where are you taking them?”

Last of the intruders out the door was the sheriff’s deputy, who called back to Loretta as he got into his squad car, “They’re both children, ma’am.”

BATES BANK AND TRUST, RICH HILL

FRIDAY MORNING

The man who had recently wanted Evan dead now sat across the desk from him. Stuart Shackleton, chairman of the bank, top wiz of the local Masonic lodge, and visionary land developer, had at one time simply judged the preacher’s existence inconvenient. Just four months ago, Evan had the temerity to investigate — even after Sheriff Otis had closed the case — why his friend Bob Taggart had put a gun to his chest and blown a hole in his generous heart.

And then, of course, there was the small matter that Shackleton coveted Bob’s family farmland for reasons it would take a real estate speculator to understand.

The question was, “Who benefits?” And the answer was Bob’s widow Edie and her lover, this slick money man. They had plans for the family farm that didn’t involve its current tenants. But in the end, Evan had to admit no one else but Bob had pulled the trigger.

Driving someone to suicide might not be a crime, but it’s certainly a sin.

Now Shackleton was making nice — or pretending to.

The summer heat had come early, and it was a steamy June in the farmland around Rich Hill, Missouri. But Shackleton’s climate-controlled office was as cool as the fellow’s demeanor. Not knowing the subject of their meeting nor its degree of formality, Evan had worn his only sport coat, a decidedly uncomfortable wool tweed. Shackleton had on what must have been one of his many Italian silk suits, no doubt from a walk-in closet as big as the trailer Evan called home.

“You’re wondering why I asked you here today,” Shackleton began. Evan had expected the man to pour on the charm, but his earnest sobriety seemed oddly out of character.

His topic, whatever it is, has humbled him. If it’s about Bob’s estate, it’s early to be talking. The probate court doesn’t even have it on the docket yet.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to pray with you” was all Evan said, assuming the banker would take it as a kindly attempt at humor.

“You might be wrong there,” Shackleton muttered, needlessly adjusting the position of the single sheet of paper on his enormous, glossy desk. Evan couldn’t help noticing a simple gold wedding band on one of the fellow’s manicured hands, a hefty Masonic ring on the other.

“I’m sorry,” Evan said, supposing he’d misjudged the situation. “It’s your wife, then? Do you want me to see her?”

Shackleton shook his head. “Ann’s the same — yesterday, today, and tomorrow. They don’t know shit about dementia and even less about sustaining quality of life.” His gaze locked on the document as he frowned into it as if staring at it might cause some hidden message to emerge. “No,” he swallowed hard, and he didn’t look up. “It’s my son.”

Fearing he’d been slouching disrespectfully, Evan straightened himself in the chintz-upholstered guest chair. “I didn’t realize you had —”

“Luke’s been in a… special school… for some time now.” Shackleton looked uncharacteristically embarrassed as he added softly, “Not a lot of people know.”

“Oh my,” Evan said. “Your wife, your son. That’s a heavy cross to bear.”

“Thanks for your sympathy, Reverend, but I’m not religious enough to think in those terms. Bad things happen to good people and vice versa for no good reason. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure where I stand these days.”

I’m not ordained, but perhaps now is not the time to correct him on that point.

“So, is there some new concern with your son?”

“Luke. His name is Luke.” Again, the man didn’t look up. “I’d like you to go see him, if you would.”

Evan swallowed hard and simply said, “Sure. Whatever I can do. Anything I should know?”

Shackleton stood and then so did Evan. The banker handed him the paper, which was a formal authorization for his visit to Myerson Clinic. Then Shackleton said, “He’s a sweet, sensitive boy. When he was six and he was in public school, he’d get all jumpy in class, and they said ADHD. A few years later, he was moody, and it was bipolar disorder. Now it’s supposedly schizophrenia. He says he hears voices.”

“I see,” Evan said, although he could only guess at the implications, and took the paper.

“And,” Shackleton heaved a mournful sigh, “They’re saying he’s molested some girl.”

Evan hesitated outside Shackleton’s office to read the authorization letter.

Addressed to Doc Wilmer? That quack? Is he in charge of everything?

Besides being the administrator of the Myerson Clinic, the good doctor was also St. Clair County’s Medical Examiner. This letter was, in effect, blanket permission to pry into the treatment and welfare of Shackleton’s beleaguered son. People always seemed to be handing Evan powers of attorney, even when he hadn’t asked for the responsibility and didn’t want it. He’d just about worked through the issues surrounding his friend Bob Taggart’s suicide. That was a heap of worry he hadn’t expected to take on. He’d been hoping for a breather and the prospect of not having to visit Sheriff Chet Otis for anything but a friendly chinwag.

And schizophrenia? No wonder Shackleton is so unhinged. He must be really stressed to come to me for help.

Shackleton’s secretary, Dot Meineke, noticed him puzzling over the document. She asked in a soft, polite voice, “Something I can help with, Preacher?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Evan said softly, hoping he didn’t sound rude, and walked out.

In the parking lot, Evan headed back to his practical, if distinctive, loaner vehicle. It was the robin’s-egg-blue Fiat Cinquecento that Zip had loaned him after Evan had traded away a battered but serviceable gray Taurus in what he thought was a win-win swap for a candy-colored, tricked-out Mustang. The owner of record had been three months behind on her payments, and after Evan’s inspired workout deal, Zip had owed her money. But Evan’s boss had honored the deal, secretly baffled at how cleverly the preacher had done the math.

I don’t know which line of work gets me into more trouble — counseling sinners or chasing deadbeats. And somehow tracking down debtors makes people think I’m a detective? Problem is, I’m just good enough at it to be dangerous — especially to myself!

And now I’m cup-bearer for Stu Shackleton? How did that irony come about?

But how do you say no when your gut tells you the angels might be trying to lead you somewhere?

Back when Zip had given him the car to use, Evan had thought twice about the deal and then hid the car away. At the time, a person or persons unknown had had it in for him, including possibly Shackleton, and driving around in an outsized Easter egg was not exactly low-profile. But now the Taggart case had been mostly put to bed (or, more accurately, parked in the courts). And Evan didn’t fear for the safety of his person anymore. So he had fetched the secreted vehicle from its cache in old Arthur Redwine’s barn. And Evan was now proud for the locals to associate its distinctive appearance with his comings and goings. He’d been tempted to name the little car Ms. Naomi, after his dear-departed fiancé. But he judged he should reserve that honored name for a classier vehicle — if he ever owned one. Driving the petrol-sipping puddle-jumper was a kind of testimony to his role as crusader — like the Batmobile — but for an unassuming man of the cloth who wouldn’t mind at all if people laughed when they saw him coming.

Forgiveness, prayers, and reminders of godliness. We deliver! Just because I get those guest preacher gigs, some people want to see me as their pastor. Sure, visiting the sick and the dying is expected of a minister. But I never took the job!

The almost-but-not-quite-ordained minister supplemented his token guest-preacher income by working as skip tracer for Zed Motors, the local Ford car and tractor dealership. His itinerant gigs in the pulpit didn’t pay all that much, but Evan could point to local fame as a confessor and sage advisor in compensation. It also didn’t hurt that, when trying to collect on a car loan, the debtor was intimidated by having to deal with a presumed messenger from On High. For the most part, people in these parts took their religion seriously, even if some didn’t practice it with any regularity.

And, for sure, none of those farmers was about to be caught dead in an Italian kiddie-car. Evan would probably have the use of the Fiat until its wheels fell off.

Evan was hardly surprised to find Naomi sitting demurely in the passenger seat of the Italian subcompact. The fact that her soul had left this earthly plane three years ago hadn’t stopped her from appearing at odd times, doling out advice, often being downright argumentative. But Evan hated to admit most times she’d eventually been proven right.

“So, what is it now?” she asked impertinently as if she didn’t know. (As a manifestation of Evan’s longing, she knew everything he knew, but not much more.)

Evan tossed his wool coat in the back seat as he got in, slammed the driver’s-side door, loosened his collar and his tie, and started the engine. Before he replied, he cranked down the window because the day was getting hot and the cooling system in the little bug was hardly up to it.

“Shackleton’s kid, a teenager. Says he hears voices.”

Go ahead. You’re going to tell me I’m just as crazy.

Instead, she went off on Shackleton. “Well,” she mused, “all that psychosis had to come from somewhere. Don’t tell me you’re going to go and forgive the man.”

Before he put the car in gear, Evan took a moment to reflect. Then he said, “You know, if I don’t, who will?”

But to say I forgive him doesn’t mean I trust him now.

“This boy is going to be trouble,” she said flatly. “And it won’t be just him. He lives in a world of hurt.” Then before she dematerialized, she added cryptically, “You only have a day or two.”

MYERSON CLINIC, APPLETON CITY

FRIDAY MID-MORNING

Luke Shackleton was seventeen. He was sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to the door, his head bent down. Evan thought he might be praying. But when Evan stepped cautiously around to get a look, he could see Luke’s wrists were resting on his knees, his hands holding a water glass full of amber liquid. Luke was staring into it as if it were a magical elixir.

“Apple juice?” Evan offered with a smile.

Luke shook his head morosely but did not look up.

Then Evan caught a whiff of urine.

Before Evan could think of what to say next, an orderly entered officiously and stepped past the preacher to confront Luke. The guy’s head was shaved and he was built like a wrestler.

Jesse Ventura, but probably without the politician’s electable charm.

“This has got to stop,” the muscular guy commanded. He reached down to grab the glass, but Luke jerked it away, splashing urine all over his black T-shirt and the bed linens.

“There you’ve gone and pissed the bed again, haven’t you?” the big fellow growled. Then, ignoring Evan, he added, “You’ll get a timeout for this one,” and, clutching the empty glass, he urged his way past Evan and made for the door.

In the doorway, the orderly turned back and snapped at Evan, “You’re not to stay long. And the administrator wants to see you.” Then he was gone.

Evan sat in the guest chair and took a long breath. “What’s a timeout?” he asked Luke, who hadn’t moved and looked even more sullen now.

Still gazing at his hands, Luke answered, “They lock you in an empty room. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the floor. No place to sit. No place to piss.”

“For how long?”

“It can’t be forever. They won’t let them do that. But you lose track of time. So it feels like forever.”

“Doesn’t seem worth it,” Evan suggested softly.

For the first time, Luke looked up at him. His eyes were wet. “I can’t let them have it,” he sniffed.

The boy looked scrawny and pallid, your stereotypical geek. He had a nervous tick and a fleeting, embarrassed smile. Without any evidence at all, Evan sensed right away this kid shouldn’t be a threat to anybody.

Molested a girl? I’ll bet that’s a story within a story.

“I heard you have a girlfriend,” Evan ventured.

Luke answered softly, “Melissa.”

“Melissa,” Evan repeated and waited for more information.

“They took her away. Medics in an ambulance. Back to the convent. April, I think it was,” Luke said. He looked up and added, “To have her baby.”

“I see,” Evan said as if he already knew the story.

Did he get her pregnant? How could that happen in here — with everybody watching them so closely?

Evan decided not to get into that just now and asked, “So you haven’t seen her since?”

“No. No. They won’t let her in here now. I don’t know where she is. But I know she’s in a bad way.”

“You’re in touch with her?”

Luke nodded and informed Evan, “I can feel her heartbeat. Maybe I don’t know what she’s doing, but I always know what she’s feeling.”

Luke couldn’t pick up on where Melissa was exactly, nor could he know that she and Buzz had been separated. He could only tune into feelings, and he knew she was hurting awfully. For him, it had begun this morning with a disturbance throbbing in his head, and it built to a wrenching pain in his gut. He didn’t tell Evan how he knew this, nor did he want to admit that he would always know — for certain — Melissa’s state of mind, in this life or in the next.

Not asking about the girl would turn out to be a mistake, but Evan was more concerned about the welfare of this boy in the here and now. The baby was indeed a complication. Shackleton must know about it but had left that minor detail out of the briefing. Luke might have a motive in a young man’s horniness, but Evan had trouble imagining Luke would have had the boldness — much less, the opportunity in this lockup — to cause the pregnancy.

Why did Shackleton avoid telling me that part of the story? Does he really think this girl Melissa is an unimportant player in all this? Or does he want me to think her involvement with Luke is old news and of no concern to any of us now? I’m going to bet Luke still cares about her. Maybe, a lot.

For the moment, Evan was more concerned about the problem he’d just witnessed. He asked Luke, “And the urine? Why do you need to save it?”

Luke studied Evan’s face as if to determine whether this stranger could understand the answer. Or perhaps the boy was baffled that an older and wiser person wouldn’t know the answer already. Then he said simply, “Because it’s all I have left to give.”

As the kindly man left Luke alone, the voice came to the boy immediately:

Your sweetheart is mine now. If you pursue her, it will only bring you pain.

Melissa had been gone from the clinic for more than two months, but Luke still thought about her constantly, especially as he was trying to fall asleep. But what could he do? Why was the voice still pestering him about it? It’s not like he could go try to rescue her. Then the voice came back:

Your friend’s searches are pointless. He worships only himself. If he tries to interfere with me, he will die.

By now, Luke didn’t trust anything the voice said. In fact, he took this last warning to be a testimony to Evan’s powers, which must be formidable to invite the wrath of demons.

Luke wondered when they’d be putting him in timeout.

He wanted to watch TV in the community room. But these days all they’d let him see was baseball. He’d overheard Richards telling Clint he wasn’t allowed to watch the news because “the kid’s so suggestible.” What did that mean? Did they think he was going to blow up some school?

Okay, he’d just have to turn on the TV in his head. He projected himself up above the clinic, ascending straight over the roof, then hovering there, looking down. Greenery everywhere. Bright yellow sun. He hesitated a moment, listened for Melissa’s heartbeat. Although she was miles away, he could feel the throb of her. He knew she was panting. Crying!

And his heart began to beat in time with hers.

He sent his spirit shooting off to hover near her.

Evan had excused himself from Luke, left the boy’s room, and sought out the orderly. He hadn’t yet introduced himself to anyone but the receptionist, but he figured he’d better hear what the administrator had to say before he got involved any further. It was pretty clear during this cursory meeting that the boy was seriously disturbed.

Okay, maybe I’m way out of my depth here. They’re supposed to be treating him, but is he also being abused?

The orderly, whose name according to his badge was Clint Everly, showed Evan to a sparsely furnished waiting room. This space lacked the luxuriously upholstered furniture of the visitors’ lobby. Instead there was a long cafeteria table and several metal chairs. The cinder-block walls were painted a glossy yellow, a scrubbable coating that would resist food stains and graffiti. Clint indicated for Evan to sit and promptly left him alone.

Evan guessed they’d hold client and parent conferences in here. Perhaps it was also meant to be a no-nonsense space where child-clients could receive counseling, instruction, or reprimand.

A well-dressed, middle-aged African-American woman came in. She wore a beige twinset with a black velvet collar, an ivory-silk blouse with a foulard twist at the neck, and a single strand of pearls. Her lizard pumps probably matched a handbag somewhere. She sat down opposite Evan and pushed her business card across the table:

Bernice Richards, MSW C-ASWCM

Psychiatric Social Worker

She arched a tweezed eyebrow slightly and asked, “And who might you be?”

“I’m Evan Wycliff,” he replied and handed her the letter from Shackleton.