Sam climbed up the two steps, brushing past Belinda, and entered, eying Billy’s “personal secretary.” She was obviously not an approachable woman, hiding behind a shell of arrogance and indifference. She wore the same gray slacks and white blouse she had on earlier and enough perfume to be flammable. Up close, it was obvious that she possessed parts that were not biodegradable, two of which protruded from her chest like Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade balloons.
The bus was rich. It even smelled rich. Sam’s boots sank into the plush peach carpet that covered the floor. To her right, toward the front of the bus, a wall and a closed door separated the driver’s cockpit from the living quarters. To her left, a cream-colored three-cushion designer sofa sat against one wall and two matching over-stuffed chairs along the other. Beyond, a kitchen contained a stove, small refrigerator, sink, table, and two chairs. The human block of granite with the black beard sat in one of the chairs, reading the latest issue of “Guns and Ammo.” He didn’t look up. Further back, a closed door blocked entry to the rear one third of the bus. No doubt Billy’s private quarters.
“This is Carl Angelo, Reverend Billy’s valet,” Melissa said.
Carl nodded and glanced up. His gaze was cold and clinical. She envisioned him as a prison guard at Auschwitz. He returned to the magazine.
“Where’s Reverend Billy?” Sam asked.
“He’s cleaning up. He’ll be out in a minute. Have a seat.” She commanded, motioning toward the sofa.
Sam sat down; the billowy cushions absorbed her.
“Would you care for anything to drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Did you see Reverend Billy tonight?” Belinda asked.
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t he wonderful?” When Sam didn’t respond, she continued. “He’s an incredible man. Always teaching and helping others.”
“Really?” Sam could not hide the sarcasm in her voice.
“With his TV show, his church, his travel to help people like this...and of course his books, he works twenty hours a day.”
“Seems to pay well.”
Belinda’s eyes narrowed. “He works very hard and needs certain comforts when he is able to rest.”
“I see.”
“Listen, Deputy Cody...”
“Why, hello.” Billy’s voice filled the room, startling Sam. She turned as he came through the doorway at the rear of the bus, barefoot, clad in a Hugh Hefner-like silver-gray silk robe. As the door drifted shut, Sam caught a glimpse of Blue Eyes, clad in only powder blue panties, stretched out on the bed, her face reflecting the glow of a TV Sam couldn’t see from her vantage point. “Welcome to my home away from home.” He smiled broadly and flopped into one of the over-sized chairs, facing her. “What can I do for you?” he asked matter-of-factly.
OK, he wanted it straight up, she thought. “What are you doing here?” Their eyes locked.
“What do you mean?”
“Simple question. Why are you here? What do you want?”
“To help, of course.”
“And if we don’t need help?”
The smile that lifted the corners of his mouth retreated, leaving a scowl in its wake. “Oh, but you do. This is way over your head.”
“How so?”
“Satan is here. He is in Richard Earl Garrett. And in his pathetic disciples who hang out on the corner near your office.”
“Garrett may be Satan. I’ll buy that. But, those kids are harmless. Mixed up and confused.”
“No. They are possessed of the devil. They are likely murderers just like Garrett.”
“You’re wrong.”
Billy recoiled. Evidently he was not used to someone disagreeing with him. Recovering, he arranged his features into a look of contrived concern. “Are you religious, Deputy Cody?”
“What does that have to do with this?”
“Humor me. Are you?”
“I grew up Catholic.”
“Are you still active?”
“I split from the program somewhere around puberty.”
“Why?”
“The catechisms, the Our Fathers and Hail Marys, all the puffed up pomp and circumstance. It was too much.”
“Do you consider yourself an atheist?”
“A realist. If there’s a God in the middle of all this, I don’t see him.”
“You are a lost child aren’t you?” His lack of inflection betrayed his lack of sincerity.
Jesus Christ, she thought, how did this happen? She was here to interrogate him and somehow he turned the whole thing around. She looked from Billy, to Belinda, to Carl, then back to Billy. She flashed on something her father frequently said: “If you can’t spot the pigeon in a poker game, you’re probably it.” She never understood it until now. The best defense is a good offense, she decided.
“Look,” she said, “We aren’t here to talk about me. I want to know what your plans are? How do you propose to provide this help you think we need?”
“Only God can help you. I am merely his servant.”
This is what she always hated about preachers, men of the cloth. They talked in circles of nonsense. “OK. I’ll play. What does He want from His servant?”
“I am his instrument. I have come to cut this cancer from your town.”
“How?”
“The Lord will guide me. He will show me the way.”
“You sound like Garrett. Except, he blames everything on Satan.”
“I assure you, Garrett and I have nothing in common.”
“Not from where I sit.”
“Deputy Cody, are you trying to anger me?”
“Billy, as far as I can tell, you’re a parasitic bottom feeder who uses the Lord as a shill. You aren’t here to fight Satan or for any other altruistic reason. You’re here for publicity and your thirty pieces of silver.”
Billy leaned toward her. His bulk seemed to increase. For the first time, Sam realized how big his head was. Not figuratively, literally. His body was huge, but his head was disproportionally large and his thick white mane served to magnify it further. His robe fell open slightly, revealing a mat of white chest hair and drooping fleshy breasts.
Carl looked up from his magazine. His dark eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Sam shifted slightly on the sofa so that her .357 would be more accessible if necessary.
A smile erupted on Billy’s face. “My, my, Darlin’,” Billy said. “Do you have a permit for that tongue of yours? It’s a lethal little thing, ain’t it?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You should have more faith in the Lord.”
“My Lord, or yours? Mine would crash your little canvas temple around your ears. Yours is probably registered with the New York Stock Exchange.”
Billy’s smile collapsed. The heat of their argument hung in the air between them. They stared at each other like two boxers in their separate corners, eying each other, anticipating the next move, assessing the damage.
“Look, Reverend,” Sam said, “the best thing you can do for this town is pack up your toys and go back home. These are good people, but they’re stretched to the breaking point. Just let me and Sheriff Walker do our job and everything will be OK.”
“This is not a secular war, Deputy Cody. This is a Holy war. Your investigative skills will be of little benefit. Only the power of God can win this battle.”
“And I guess that power must be channeled through you?”
“I am this town’s salvation. Soon they will see that and turn on you.” His ice blue eyes bored into her.
Overcoming the chill that rippled through her, she leaned forward, refusing to succumb to his intimidation. “OK, Reverend.” She spat the title at him. “You can make this easy or rough. It’s your call.”
“Are you threatening me, Deputy Cody?”
“Warning. You have already broken enough laws to be deported back to Louisiana.”
“Such as?”
“Obstructing traffic flow and commerce, congregating without a permit, conducting business without a license.”
“A business?” he said indignantly.
“Selling trinkets and Bibles qualifies.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Not to mention a few Federal statutes.” She nodded toward the door where Blue Eyes waited. “Such as the Mann Act.”
Billy stood, towering over her. Carl edged to the front of his seat but did not rise. “Perhaps this conversation has ended,” he hissed.
“Perhaps it has.” Sam stood. “And, perhaps you should remember what I said.”
Sam yanked open the door and stepped out. She collided with Lanny Mills on the steps, stumbled, and fell to the ground, landing hard on her right hip. She jumped up, brushing dirt from the seat of her pants. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’m here to speak with the Reverend.”
“Regarding?”
“That would be between me and Reverend Billy,” Lanny snapped.
“I see.”
Belinda appeared in the open doorway. “Mister Mills. Are you OK?” She glared at Sam.
“Yeah,” Lanny said.
Belinda’s mouth curled into a haughty smile. She stepped back. “Please, come in,” she said to Lanny. “Reverend Billy is expecting you.” He walked past her and she closed the door sharply.
*
Nathan leaned against his car, watching the people stream out of the tent toward the makeshift parking lot. A few seemed to be full of God and glory, but most appeared sad, almost despondent, as if the answers they sought had not been found. They appeared as if they had hoped Reverend Billy would bring peace and hope to their lives, but apparently had not gained such comfort.
In spite of himself, he felt an emptiness swell in his gut. These people were not the shallow, egocentric jerks he dealt with on a daily basis in LA. They were simple, common people whose lives had been imploded by a series of gruesome events that they could never have imagined, much less understand. Their fear and confusion hung in the air. He didn’t need or want to feel their pain or sadness or loss, he only needed a story. He wanted their emotions to flow from his pen, not from his heart.
He looked up as Sam approached. She walked with angry strides, her ponytail wagging to and fro behind her. Her brow was furrowed and her jaw set. She was beautiful.
“I take it, it didn’t go well?” he asked.
“I don’t know why he infuriates me so much.”
“Because he’s a parasite.”
“And an arrogant, pompous ass.” She turned and looked back toward Billy’s bus and the seven faces that stared back from the caravan. “And now, that prick is holed up in there with Lanny Mills, cooking up God knows what.”
“Relax. You’ll find out soon enough.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Nathan laughed. “Cool your jets. Let’s go get some coffee.”
“OK,” she said. “This late, you have two choices. Red’s or King’s Truck Stop.”
“I’ll pass on Red’s.”
She laughed. “I thought you might.”
He walked her to her Jeep, then returned to his Mercedes and followed her toward King’s.
Betty McCumber snuggled beneath the bed covers, filled with the words of Jesus, or rather with those of Reverend Billy. Of course, she saw little difference between the two. After all, both spoke God’s words. The fact that Jesus was the “true Son of God” didn’t diminish Reverend Billy’s bond to the Lord nor his sanctity in Betty’s eyes.
After losing her husband to an unexpected heart attack three years earlier, she had questioned God’s mercy and His methods. At first, she told herself it was God’s divine plan and that one day He would reveal to her why her loving Wilbert was taken. She told herself it was a test of her faith. That carried her for six months, a year even. But, as she tore off the pages of the calendar that hung on the kitchen door, she spiraled into a deeper and deeper depression. Her love of God waned.
She faithfully attended church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday night, but found no comfort in the services. At her lowest point, a place where suicide seemed an alternative, she found Reverend Billy. Scanning the stations on her radio one Sunday, trying to avoid the gospel music she usually listened to but now found annoying, his voice captured her. His flamboyant rhetoric drew her in. Since then, she never missed his broadcast, purchased and read all his books, and listened daily to his taped sermons, which she purchased through his mail-order catalog.
She found that his words soothed but did not completely heal her wounds. Doubts remained in the corners of her mind like cobwebs near the ceiling, too high to reach, mostly unnoticed, but present none-the-less.
The past month, however, had been a revelation for her. The three weeks she had sat in the jury box, feeling Richard Earl Garrett’s dark, threatening eyes upon her, enduring the horror of his sacrificial murder of those three innocent children, hearing him defend his actions by saying he was controlled by Satan, convinced her of one thing: Satan existed and he was here in Mercer’s Corner.
If Satan existed, then God, too, must exist. If Satan was a living breathing entity, then God, too, must be real and tangible. If Satan had risen from the depths of Hell and created Richard Earl Garrett, then God must have descended from the throne of Heaven and breathed his spirit and his words into Reverend Billy Thibideaux.
And now, Reverend Billy had come to expel Satan and his disciples. He was God’s avenging angel and Mercer’s Corner was to be the battleground between good and evil.
After returning home from the revival, she had slipped on her flannel nightgown, made a cup of herbal tea, and crawled into bed with her Reverend Billy autographed and blessed Bible.
Now, she leafed through the book, reading her favorite passages. She knew them by heart, but seeing the words added to their strength and credibility.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,” she said aloud, reading from the Twenty-third Psalm. Whenever she studied the Bible, she always began with this Psalm. Its lyrical nature had comforted and calmed her since she first learned it as a child.
She flipped forward through the delicate pages, searching for the passage she wanted.
Ecclesiastes
, Chapter 8, Verse 8:
“There is no man that hath power over
the spirit to retain the spirit; neither hath
he power in the day of death...neither shall
wickedness deliver those that are given to it.”
She had read these words many times, but only now did she grasp their true meaning. Reverend Billy had been sent here by God to save the righteous and destroy the ungodly. He was God’s sword and would impale Richard Earl Garrett and those wicked children that followed him. He would return this community to God’s hands.