Authors: J.D. Rhoades
There were a number of vehicles parked outside the wooden building, mostly older sedans and pickups. Here and there, a newer and flashier pickup gleamed in the reflected light off the building, but most of the vehicles were sober, economical. The building was a simple structure, a rectangle with a steeply pitched roof. It was painted a gleaming white made even brighter in the darkness by the spotlights pointing up from the ground. There was a plain square steeple perched on the roof. A lighted sign out front named the building as the FIRST CHURCH OF GOD OF PROPHECY. Below were words spelled out in black plastic letters that slid into runners on the sign. FRIDAY PRAYER MEETING. 7:00 P.M.
Stan braked to a stop in front of the church’s broad wooden doors. He killed the engine. He could hear a faint drone of sound in the stillness. After a moment, he recognized the sound of people singing. The sound was quickly drowned out by the metallic rattle of Laurel taking the guns out of the burlap that they had wrapped them in to mask them from people looking in. Stan heard the ratchet and click of the weapons being cocked. He looked at Roy, saw that flash of white teeth in the darkness. “Showtime,” Roy said.
The Shelby house was a one-story modular home on a one-acre lot. There were a dozen similar modular homes on similar one-acre lots around a long loop of road off the main highway. All of the houses were neatly kept, with perfectly trimmed yards and shrubbery.
Shelby greeted them at the front door. He had swapped his coat and tie for faded jeans and a light blue sport shirt. “Come on in the house,” he said as Keller and Marie mounted the steps.
Inside, the house was well lit and comfortable. The furniture was old but looked sturdy. There were sounds of barely controlled chaos coming from the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans and the murmur of female voices.
“Supper’s almost ready,” Shelby said. “Y’all want somethin’ to drink? Iced tea? Coke?” They both chose the tea and Shelby disappeared into the kitchen.
It was Barbara Shelby who came out, bearing the tall iced glasses. Marie was surprised to see that she seemed considerably younger than Shelby, no older than her early thirties, pretty and blonde. “Hey” she said, smiling brightly, “Warren didn’t say if y’all wanted lemon, so I left it out.”
“That’s fine,” Marie said, taking the glass from her. “I’m Marie Jones.”
“Oh, hon, you don’t need to tell me who you are,” Barbara said. “Warren’s been talking about you practically nonstop. Sounds like you’ve got quite a future.”
Marie was wary for a moment; since coming to North Carolina, she had dealt with her share of Southern women who could fill just such friendly words with enough venom to knock over a buffalo, but Barbara Shelby seemed totally open and sincere. “And this,” Barbara said as she turned, “must be Mr. Keller.”
“Jack,” Keller said, taking the tea glass with one hand and shaking hands with the other.
“Nice to meet you, Jack,” she said.
Shelby came back into the room. “Honey,” he said, “somethin’s boilin’ up on the stove.”
Barbara gave a comically exaggerated eye roll. “And you, of course,” she said in a teasing tone, “couldn’t figure out that the thing to do is turn it down?” She turned to Marie. “I swear, sometimes I think if it wasn’t for us women, they’d burn the house down.” She gave Shelby an affectionate peck on the cheek.
“Anything I can do to help get things ready?” Marie asked.
“Sure, hon, c’mon,” Barbara said. “Whoever said too many cooks spoil the broth never had to feed this crew.”
Marie followed her into the kitchen. Once they were there, Barbara lowered her voice. “Girl,” she said, cutting her eyes back toward the living room. “He is gorgeous. Where’d you find him? How’d y’all meet?”
“Actually,” Marie said, “I was arresting him.”
Barbara’s eyebrows shot up and she grinned delightedly. “No,” she said, laughter bubbling under the words. “You have got to tell me that story.”
Marie laughed. “Maybe someday,” she said. She found herself beginning to relax. In the kitchen, two girls were putting out plates and utensils on the round dinner table. One was a teenager, with long red hair braided halfway down her back. The other looked to be about seven or eight. She was blonde and blue-eyed like her mother.
“Girls,” Barbara said, “this is Miss Jones. She works with your daddy. These are my daughters, Carmen and Jordan.”
“I’m Carmen,” the redhead spoke up. Marie caught a silver glimpse of braces in her shy smile.
“And I’m Jordan,” the younger one said.
“Well, duh,” Carmen said, rolling her eyes.
“Shut up!” Jordan said.
“You shut up, brat!” Carmen snapped back.
“Hush, both of you!” Barbara scolded. “We have company. Now help get this food on the table.”
Within a few moments, the four of them had the table loaded and nearly groaning beneath the weight of platters of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green
beans, com on the cob, and biscuits. Keller and Shelby came in, drawn by the smell of the food. Shelby introduced Keller to his daughters as they sat down.
Jordan regarded him openly. “Are you a rock star?” she said.
Keller looked amused. “Not hardly,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
She brushed her hand through her own short blonde hair. “You’ve got long hair like a rock star.”
“Jordan!” Barbara said sternly.
Keller just laughed. “No,” he said. “Not a rock star, sorry.” Carmen looked like she wanted to sink through the floor.
“Since Mister Keller’s our guest,” Barbara said, “maybe he’d like to say the blessing.”
Marie glanced at him. His face had gone blank and impassive. “Maybe one of the girls should do it,” he said.
There was a brief uncomfortable silence, broken when Barbara turned to Carmen. “Carmen, honey, would you ask the blessing?”
Carmen looked at Keller. Marie was amused to see a slight blush rise to her cheeks. The girl dropped her eyes. The rest of them did the same as Carmen stammered out a quick prayer of thanks. When she was done, the passing around of the food occupied everyone for the next few minutes. Then Shelby turned to Marie.
“I expect to be hearin’ pretty soon about that overtime.”
“Papa,” Barbara Shelby spoke up. Her voice was soft, but there was a hint of steel in it. “I thought we agreed. No shoptalk at the table.”
Shelby looked abashed. Keller seemed fascinated by his plate. There was another silence, soon broken when Barbara turned to Marie.
“Warren tells me you’re from Oregon?”
“Yeah,” Marie said. “Portland.”
“Oh, I hear it’s beautiful there.” That broke the ice and they made small talk through dinner. Marie noticed that Keller seemed to have retreated back into himself. He was civil enough, but he answered all of Barbara’s attempts to engage him with monosyllables. He kept checking his watch when he thought no one was looking. Marie felt a flash of irritation. What the hell is wrong with him?
After dinner, Barbara refused Marie’s offer to help clean up. “You’ve been chompin’ at the bit to talk to Warren about this case,” she said. “Me and the girls’ll take care of things. Now shoo.”
“Okay,” Marie said. She went into the living room. Keller and Shelby were looking at one of the framed pictures on the wall. It was a black-and-white, slightly yellowed around the edges. It showed a much younger Shelby, dressed in fatigues. He was in the middle of a group of a dozen other men dressed the same way. All of the men were smiling, some with their arms draped across one another’s shoulders. A scrawled inscription in pen at the bottom read simply “Hue. January 1968.”
“You still see any of them?” Keller was asking.
Shelby shook his head. “Lot of ‘em didn’t make it,” he said. “Those that did…well, there ain’t much to say after a while.” Keller just nodded. Shelby glanced at him. “I reckon you know what I’m talkin’ about,” he said. Keller looked at Marie, his brow furrowed in irritation.
“She ain’t said nothin’ specific,” Shelby said hastily. “But she did tell me you were over in Saudi. An’ I can tell somethin’ in life’s left a mark on you.” He looked at Keller shrewdly. “Maybe more than one thing.” He put his hand on Keller’s shoulder.
“After I got back,” he said, “I spent a lot of my life tryin’ to drown out what I saw over there. Drinkin’, druggin’, tomcattin’ around. But I didn’t find peace ‘til I found Jesus. Or more like He found me.”
Keller said nothing.
“I seen some terrible things, Jack,” Shelby said. “An’ I’ll most likely see some more. But I believe God has a plan that we’ll know, in His good time.”
Keller turned to face him. “I’m glad you found that, Shelby,” he said. “I just don’t know that it’s going to help me.”
“It won’t, Jack,” Shelby said. “Unless you give Him a chance.”
“Thanks,” Keller said. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He looked around. “Can I use your restroom?”
“Down the hall,” Shelby said. “Second door on the left.”
The preacher was the first to die.
He rose as the last notes of the hymn died away amid the rustle of the crowd sitting down. The back doors to the tiny church swung open and he glanced toward the sound of the latecomers, the look of mild irritation turning to puzzlement, then consternation as he saw Roy and Laurel enter. Then his face dissolved in a wet mass of red as they both opened fire on him at once. They were using the M-14s Roy had bought in Fayetteville. Roy fired from the hip while Laurel held the stock against her shoulder. Both rounds hit the preacher at the same time and tumbled him backwards from the pulpit. The congregation froze, shocked into immobility by the volume of the shots in the narrow space. The only sound that broke the deafening silence was the rumble of the preacher’s body as he tumbled backwards off the steps of the high lectern. Then someone screamed. As if on cue, Roy and Laurel stepped to the sides, one behind each row of pews, and began firing into the back rows. Laurel took an elderly man in a black suit with a blue carnation in his lapel, the shot tumbling him brokenly over the pew in front of him. A plump man in overalls turned to face Roy and was blown backwards over the next row, his feet going comically up in the air. Chaos broke loose at that point. People began scrambling for the front of the church, clambering over pews and each other. The two began firing steadily, methodically, picking their targets, putting a single bullet into each before seeking and firing again. Their faces were keen and intent, the faces of two people working together on a complicated and intricate task. A knot of four people stumbled into each other and went down in a heap in the aisle. Roy killed each of them in turn as they struggled to regain their feet. A slender woman in a purple dress and flowered hat made it halfway down the aisle before running up against the obstruction of the fallen bodies. Unable to go further, she fell to her knees and threw up her hands as if pleading with God to spare her. Laurel shot her in the back of the head. A big man with his hair slicked back turned and tried to charge Roy. Roy shot the man through the throat. The man fell to his knees. Roy shot him again, this time between the eyes. The air filled with the smell of blood and cordite and then the acrid stench as the bladders and bowels of the dying let go. A few people made it to the door of the choir loft and escaped. Others made the mistake of seeking sanctuary on the altar. They died there beneath the eyes of the
stained-glass rendering of the Good Shepherd. Finally, there was no one left inside the sanctuary but the killers and the slain. They moved forward then, in tandem, reaching down to search the pockets of suit coats and of purses. They ignored wallets and change purses in favor of cell phones. Each collected half a dozen. One man groaned in agony as Laurel turned him over. She pulled his bloody flip phone from a holster on his belt. Then she aimed the rifle at him and pulled the trigger. There was only a dry click as the firing pin snapped onto an empty chamber.
“Shit,” Laurel said. She pulled her automatic pistol from her waistband and finished the wounded man with a shot to the temple.
When they were done, they stood together for a moment and looked at their handiwork. “Let’s go,” Roy said finally. “Some of ‘em got away. There’ll be cops here soon.”
“Just a minute,” Laurel said. She turned and put a round through the stained glass behind the altar. Shepherd and flock dissolved in a kaleidoscope of colored shards.
Stan was behind the wheel, the engine running. He was tapping his fingers nervously as they walked out. Their legs and sleeves were spotted with gore and there was a streak of blood across the bridge of Laurel’s nose like a stripe of war paint. A sudden flash of movement caught her eye and she turned and fired at an indistinct figure in a white shirt or blouse stumbling away through the darkness. There was a cry of agony and despair from the darkness and she smiled for the first time.
“Looks like I’m one up on you, Roy,” she said as she slid into the backseat.
He grinned and shrugged as he took the shotgun seat. “That’s show biz.” He reached back toward her. “Hand me one of them phones.”
“Uh…shouldn’t we wait?” Stan said. “I mean, if we call the cops now…”
“We ain’t calling the cops, pardner,” Roy said, still grinning. “We’re calling the news.” Laurel handed him a phone. “They get their shit together, we may get on the eleven o’clock.”
“Wait a minute,” Stan said. “Let me see that phone.” Roy handed it over. Stan turned the phone over in his hand and looked at it. “I got a better idea,” he said.