Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 09 (7 page)

“I should have known you’d be lounging around the PD,” she said by way of greeting. Her smile was as warm as the iceberg that took down the Titanic. “Not that I blame you, of course. As I told Jim Bob, the town council had no business hiring you in the first place. It’s getting more and more obvious that women aren’t cut out to do a man’s job. If you’d take time to read the Bible, you’d realize that your only hope is to mend your ways. Why don’t you come to church before it’s too late?”

I retreated behind the desk. “Have you ever thought about changing laxatives, Mrs. Jim Bob? I know it’s none of my business, but whatever you’re using doesn’t seem to be working all that well.”

She sat on the edge of the chair across from me, her hands clasped and her ankles crossed, her skirt carefully smoothed to cover her knees. Her lips were so pinched they were almost invisible, but they seemed to be functioning. “I was telling Jim Bob just the other day that I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you spent your vacation on an island named Lesbos.”

“Is it in Florida?”

“How should I know about something disgusting like that?” she countered without missing a beat. “What do you plan to do about this snake-oil salesman and his hussy? He’s as slick as an eel in a barrel of slime, and she’s—well! I have made too many sacrifices to see our town awash in godless heathens and tourists with more money than piety. I demand you run that man and his entourage out of town.”

“You get the tar and I’ll get the feathers.”

“I do not find you amusing, Miss Chief of Police. Malachi Hope is a threat to our community. I for one will not watch decency go down the drain like so much bathwater.”

I nodded earnestly. “Okay, I’ll get the tar and you get the feathers.”

“I have had it with you,” she said as she snatched up her purse and rose to her feet. Outside of flinging her purse at me, there wasn’t much she could do in the way of a physical assault, but I stayed where I was (being a pacifist and all). “I’m asking for the last time—what are you going to do about this man?”

“Okay, okay,” I said, shrugging. “I’ll get the tar and the feathers, but it doesn’t sound like a fair division of labor. At the least, I think you should offer to heat the tar on Jim Bob’s barbecue grill.”

She went flying out the door, although probably not to buy a bag of charcoal. I leaned back in my chair, wiggled around until the cane stopped poking my fanny, and began a new list along the lines of: Would I rather be lectured by Mrs. Jim Bob or eat cold grits?

There was no doubt in my mind.

—==(O)==—

Thomas Fratelleon put down the receiver and gave Seraphina a smug smile. “Mort will start drawing up the option papers this afternoon. We should have them in hand by a week from Monday.”

“That’s great,” she said with manufactured enthusiasm. “I was afraid we were going to have a problem with that creep who owns the middle parcel. Imagine him thinking we’d fall for his lies about escalating property values. The price of rocks hasn’t gone up.”

Fratelleon winced as he recalled the bargaining session with the mayor. “As long as he doesn’t shoot off his mouth about what we’re paying him, it’ll be fine. But if the other two yokels learn that he’s getting twice as much as they are, they’ll refuse to sign the papers. If we don’t have the options, there’s no way we can get any long-term financing for the first phase.”

“The good Lord will provide,” Malachi said from the bedroom doorway. He was wearing a coat and tie, and carrying a handsewn leather briefcase. He looked like a history professor, the kind whose classes are always jammed with sorority girls listening in awed silence. “I’m going into Farberville to do a little politicking with my fellow ministers. I think I’ll promise them each five percent of the contributions in exchange for encouraging their congregations to attend the revival.”

Fratelleon gave him a puzzled look. “And if twenty churches take you up on this generous offer of yours, we end up with the net from souvenir sales. It won’t cover the utility bills.”

Malachi put his arm around Seraphina’s waist and pulled her against his body. “Thomas, my literal-minded son, I said I’d promise them a cut. I didn’t say I’d actually give it to them.” He kissed Seraphina’s cheek and waited for her to reciprocate before he released her. “Where’s Chastity?”

Seraphina moved away from him. “I’m not sure. She left an hour ago with those two girls who came by in a station wagon the other day.”

“Where did they go?” Malachi asked softly.

“One of them said something about shooting baskets at the high school gym. Chastity didn’t look excited at the idea, but she went with them anyway. I doubt she can get into any trouble at a gym. Besides, she needs to get some exercise or I’ll have to let out her school clothes.”

Malachi’s voice remained soft , but Thomas could hear an edge to it. “When we had our little conversation last night, I told you that Chastity could get into trouble in Mother Teresa’s rec room.”

“You were in the tent talking to Joey,” protested Seraphina. “I didn’t see any harm in letting her—”

“I also told you that as of that moment—a scant twelve hours ago, if I remember correctly—you were not to allow her to leave this area without my explicit permission. She is not to be trusted. In that I have assumed joint responsibility for her physical as well as spiritual well-being, I must insist you respect my position of authority within this family. Do you understand me, Seraphina, or should I repeat it in words of one syllable?”

“I understand you, Malachi,” she said as she tried to ease past him.

He grabbed her arm. “Why don’t you remind Thomas and me of what the Apostle Paul wrote to the Ephesians?”

“Ephesians, chapter five, verse twenty-two,” she recited numbly. ” ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.’ “

“Continue,” commanded Malachi, his fingers still clutching her arm.

” ‘For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.’ “

“Very nicely done. Now then, why don’t you put on a pretty dress and go down to that supermarket to do some shopping? While you’re at it, drop by the office and have a friendly conversation with Mr. Buchanon about complying with our private arrangement. His dim brain was clicking like a cash register, and I’m afraid he’s keenly aware of the significance of his parcel to the overall sale. Do whatever it takes to make sure he keeps his mouth shut until the deal is final. Whatever it takes.”

Seraphina pulled herself free, turned, and left the room. Seconds later, a door slammed at the opposite end of the RV.

Thomas busied himself with the papers on the table, uncomfortable as always when these scenes occurred. In his opinion, they did so much too often—but marital mediation was not in his job description. “I hope we have a good take the first few nights of the revival,” he said, trying not to fidget as he sensed Malachi’s gaze on the back of his head. “We’ll need fourteen hundred dollars for the three options, and we used most of our resources to cover transportation expenses and the utility deposits.

“I’ll ask the local churches to pitch in to sponsor us,” Malachi said. “After all, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

“You’re not the Lord.”

“Are you quite sure, Thomas?” Without waiting for a response, Malachi went through the living room and outside to the gold Cadillac. The interior was worse than Satan’s furnace room, he thought as he switched the air conditioner to high, then drove down the road to County 102. At the intersection with the main highway, however, he sat for several minutes, idly watching pickup trucks rumbling by while he considered his next move. As he reached a decision, he saw a stout man with a particularly red face come out of a trailer parked beneath a scattering of sycamore trees.

He touched a button that caused the window to silently slide down. “You!” he called. “Can you tell me how to get to the high school?”

It was not a difficult question, but the man froze in midstep, his face crinkled with bewilderment—or perhaps even terror. Malachi patiently repeated the question and then did all he could to sort out directions from the mostly incoherent sputters he received in response. Unwilling to cause any more anxiety, he nodded and turned in what might be the correct direction. One more turn led him to a sprawling yellow-brick structure with a sign proclaiming it to be the home of the Maggody Marauders. A football stadium to one side confirmed his theory that this had to be the high school; even in an alternate universe, Maggody would not have attracted a professional football team.

At one end was a two-story addition with a rounded roof. Malachi parked in front of it, locked the car, and pushed open a metal door. It proved to be the gym, but there were no players of either gender shooting baskets or even sitting in the bleachers.

Muttering a phrase that might have caused his more ardent followers to think twice about writing a check, he walked across the glistening hardwood floor to a door marked OFFICE.

“Hello?” he said as he eased it open.

A woman with yellow hair looked up from a pile of paperwork. The annoyed expression faded as she recognized her visitor. “Malachi Hope,” she exhaled reverently.

“I’m looking for my wife’s sister, a girl named Chastity Hope. I was told she was here, shooting baskets.”

“I knew you would come to me.”

Malachi stepped back, his hand still holding the doorknob. He was accustomed to reactions such as this, and at times went out of his way to encourage them when he could sniff a profit in the air. At this moment, though, he was intent on finding Chastity. “Have any girls been here today?”

“I’m Norma Kay.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Norma Kay. Have any girls—”

She stood up and leaned forward, her eyes glittering too brightly for his taste. “I realize you have millions of loyal followers, Malachi, but you surely remember me. I wrote you for the first time about ten years ago, when I was close to committing suicide. You wrote back with such compassion that I found the strength to carry on with my life. I’ve written you every month since then, sending every penny I could and begging for your prayers.”

If possible, her eyes became even brighter. Droplets of foam accumulated in the corners of her mouth, and her fingers were splayed like talons. “I’ve taken every bit of advice you’ve given me, Malachi, even when I had trouble understanding why. I ordered your Bible study course and played the cassettes over and over again. I even went to one of your revivals, but the stadium was so crowded I couldn’t get close enough to talk to you.”

“Of course, I remember you, Norma Kay,” murmured Malachi, easing out the door, “and it’s a real blessing to meet you in person like this. I want you to know you’re always in my special prayers for those who rely on my guidance in spiritual matters. Now, I’d really better see if I can find my wife’s sister. She doesn’t know her way around town and I’m concerned.”

Norma Kay was close to toppling across the desk and undoing a morning’s worth of organization. “You said in one of the letters that you’d be pleased to meet with me in private if we ever had the chance. My husband and I own the property where you’re going to build your park. We live in the white frame house at the bottom of the hill.”

Malachi froze. “Your last name is Grapper?”

“I married Bur almost ten years ago. When I heard you were putting on revivals, I wrote and told you all about the pasture and how perfect it would be for your City of Hope. Don’t you remember?”

It occurred to Malachi that the option and subsequent sale would be determined by his reaction to this disturbed woman with unnaturally yellow hair. “Of course, I do,” he said through a strained smile, “and I am delighted. I’m sure if we pray together we can iron out all your problems and get you aimed straight for prosperity. Why don’t you call my manager and ask him to make you an appointment sometime during revival week?”

She stumbled around the desk, taking a jolting hit to her hip in the process, and grabbed his hand. Rubbing it against her damp cheek, she said, “Thank you, Malachi. There’s so much I want to tell you. I’ve allowed lust to rule my heart, and you must counsel me until I have the courage to cast aside my sinful ways.”

He freed his hand and patted her shoulder as he would a large dog. “Until then, you’ll be foremost in my prayers, Norma Kay. Foremost.”

To his dismay (but not his surprise), she burst into tears and flung herself at him. He was much too concerned with the deleterious effects of salt water on his silk tie to notice as a door at the back of the office closed with a soft click.

—==(O)==—

Brother Verber was sitting on the rectory steps when he spotted Mrs. Jim Bob coming across the lawn, marching along like a brisk drill sergeant, her arms swinging smartly and her chin leading the way. As always, an aura of conviction and dedication hovered about her, he thought admiringly, giving him as well as the rest of the congregation strength to aid in the battle against wickedness and fornication. Why, he’d put her in the ring with Satan anytime and never once doubt the outcome. He mentally dressed her in a short leather dress and a hood that came just below her eyes so her mouth would be free to tell ol’ Satan what she thought of his wily attempts to lure good Christians into his den of iniquity. She’d pull out a whip and flail his buttocks until he whimpered for mercy. Then she’d put her foot on his chest and look down at him, her face distorted with anger—

“I was looking for you in the Assembly Hall,” she called, interrupting his pleasant reverie. “We can no longer sit in the sunshine and allow this Malachi Hope to destroy our town. It’s time to take action, Brother Verber.”

Uncomfortably aware of a peculiar sensation in his privates, he stood up and held open the screen door for her. “Action, Sister Barbara?”

She continued into the living room and sat on the sofa. “Yes, action. I was tidying some papers on Jim Bob’s desk when I came across some ominous scribbles.”

Aghast, Brother Verber plopped down beside her. “Scribbles like pentagrams and hexes? Jim Bob isn’t turning to devil worship, is he? I had a newsletter from the seminary that said it’s happening more and more these days—especially among the youngsters. This newsletter said we’re facing a worldwide Satanic Panic, and if we don’t stop it, women will be dancing naked and engaging in lustful degradation with their very neighbors and kinfolk.”