The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  “First”—she looked at him while her foot began tapping out an insistent rhythm on the carpet—“let me share my condolences for the loss of your father. The crash of Flight 848 was a tragedy felt by millions. I was in Tampa when the plane went down, and the event left us all heartsick. I can only imagine what you must have felt when you learned you had lost your father.”

  Settling slowly back into his seat, Timothy Manning closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Yes, it was a terrible thing.” His voice came out hoarse, as if forced through a constricted throat. “My wife and children—well, we’re still in a state of shock, if you want to know the truth. Pop was on his way back to his retirement place in St. Petersburg when it happened. We hadn’t seen him in a while, but he was planning to visit us for my little daughter’s birthday. Obviously”—his voice cracked— “he won’t make it.”

  “Your daughter Karrie?” Peyton asked, grateful she’d studied the bio.

  Manning nodded, then pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at his eyes. His complexion had deepened to crimson, and Peyton realized he needed a moment to compose himself.

  “I’m sorry.” Peyton paused, giving him a chance to steady his voice. “The reason I’m here, Pastor Manning—”

  He waved a feeble hand. “Please call me Brother Tim. Everybody here does.”

  “Thank you. As I was saying, I’ve come to see you because we have found a note that may have washed up from the wreckage of Flight 848. Before I tell you about it, however—and I really hate to ask this, but you know how things are—I must ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement. Basically, this document states that you won’t discuss our conversation with anyone else for at least one week.”

  Reluctantly, she pulled a file from her backpack, then extracted a copy of the document. She stood and handed it to the pastor, who stared at it intently.

  He cleared his throat. “I must say, I’m not used to this sort of thing. My word has always been my bond, good as gold.”

  “I know.” She sat again, then clasped her hands. “But you know lawyers—and this is for your own protection. We want to keep the story under wraps until the issue is settled so you won’t be badgered by other members of the media.”

  The confidentiality agreement had actually been Peyton’s idea, a last-minute inspiration prompted by Julie St. Claire’s phone call. Thousands of people now knew about the note’s existence, and the only thing preventing other reporters from beating Peyton to the punch was the note’s content. So long as the message remained hidden, Peyton’s lead would be protected.

  Pastor Manning’s brow furrowed, but he plucked a pen from a cup on his desk and signed, as Peyton knew he would. When he finished, he slid the page back to her, then pressed his fingers to his smooth chin. “What makes you think this note might be for me?”

  “Your name begins with T.” Peyton pulled a copy of the note from her file. “As you will see, the note is addressed to ‘T.’ The handwriting is a little shaky, but we’re fairly sure the plane had developed problems by the time it was written, and the author must have been frightened. The message is simple, and I wondered— well, I thought it might have been intended for you.”

  Peyton passed the photocopy over the desk, and watched as the pastor took the paper and read it aloud: “T—I love you. All is forgiven. Dad.”

  He stared at it for a full moment, then shook his head and dropped the page to his desk. “This isn’t from my father,” he said, sliding the page toward Peyton. “I’d swear it on a stack of Bibles.”

  Peyton lifted the page and glanced at it, wondering if she could have missed something obvious. “But how can you be so sure?”

  “Several things.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the paper. “First of all, my father would never have signed a note Dad. He was Pop to everyone who knew him, including most of the folks in this church.”

  Peyton studied the signature. “You never called him Dad?”

  “Of course I did, but not since my own kids were born. He’s Pop-Pop to them, Pop to me. Besides, the handwriting’s not his. Not at all. He never wrote like that, not even when he broke his right hand and had to write like a lefty for eight weeks.”

  Peyton lowered the note, only half-aware that the rate of her toe-tapping had increased. “We really don’t know what happened aboard Flight 848, Reverend Manning, and this note was scrawled under duress. The turbulence could have distorted his handwriting.”

  “There’s something else.” The pastor leaned back in his chair as a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “My father would never have written ‘all is forgiven.’ We were on good terms, he and I, with no outstanding debts. We were close and we stayed in touch. There was no reason for him to speak of forgiveness.”

  Glancing down, Peyton pressed her lips together. Perhaps Pastor Manning was right and perhaps he was wrong, but evidently he had no room for doubt.

  One thing Timothy Manning cannot do: doubt his daddy.

  She tried another approach. “Tell me about your father.” She gave the pastor a confident smile, ready to sit back and wait for him to open like Mary Grace’s hypothetical newspaper. “I’d like to mention him in my next column—without going into detail about the note, of course. I’ve been doing research on several of the crash victims.”

  “My father was a saint,” Tim said, leaning on an arm of his leather chair. “He raised me and my sister, Victoria, on a shoestring budget and taught us the Bible every night before bed. He loved the Word of God, breathed it in and out. Vicki and I could recite Scripture forward and backward before we started school—I suppose I still can.” He paused. “‘Earth and heaven the created God beginning the in.’ Genesis 1:1, backward.”

  Peyton blinked. She wanted to remain silent, but Pastor Manning was waiting, one brow lifted, for a response.

  “Oh. Well. I hope you didn’t have to learn the entire Bible that way.”

  Manning laughed. “Of course not. Vicki and I did it as a joke.”

  “Even so, it must seem a terrible tragedy to lose such a creative father. I understand he was only in his early sixties.”

  “Ms. MacGruder, a long time ago I learned not to question God. He has His reasons, and all things happen for a purpose. Even when I can’t see the rationale, God does. And that’s good enough for me.”

  Silence, thick as cotton, wrapped around them as Peyton waited for another revelation. She was about to give up and ask another question when someone rapped on the door. Without being invited in, the secretary stepped into the room, her eyes wide. “There’s a TV crew outside,” she said, her hand pinching the ruffle at her throat. “They say they want to talk to you.”

  Pastor Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he looked at Peyton. “Some of your people?”

  Peyton shook her head. “I came alone.”

  The secretary stepped forward, a business card between her fingers. “A woman gave me this—she said she wants to come in and do an on-camera interview.”

  The pastor scanned the card, then flipped it toward Peyton. “Ever heard of Julie St. Claire?”

  Momentarily speechless, Peyton stared at the neat, white rectangle, then found her voice. “As a matter of fact, I have. She’s with the World News Network . . . and I believe she’s following this story.” She blew out a breath. “I apologize, Reverend, for bringing this sort of attention to your neighborhood. I have no idea how they learned I was here—”

  Undiluted laughter floated up from Manning’s throat. “Don’t you worry about them. The camera guys are probably the regular locals, and I know ’em all.” He pushed his chair back and stood, adjusting his tie. “We get a crowd of protestors here about every Sunday, and they draw the news guys like magnets. If it’s not the femi-Nazis, it’ll be the gay rights brigade or the pro-abortion folks.” He chuckled as he walked forward and paused by the edge of his desk. “I’ve learned that if you stick your neck out, folks are happy to come along and take a whack at you. They want us to stay
hidden in our pews, but we’re American citizens, too, by heaven. And we have a right to tell folks how we believe Jesus would vote in the elections.”

  Peyton made a face. “Would Jesus vote? I thought He was a pacifist—”

  “Of course He’d vote.” Manning came out from behind the desk. “He was a responsible citizen, He paid taxes, and He said we ought to render unto Caesar the things that belong to Caesar. So until I reach the kingdom of heaven, I’m going to do my part to make sure Caesar’s people are running things properly on earth.”

  He laughed again, and something in the sound told Peyton the interview had ended.

  “Thank you, Reverend,” she said, standing. “I appreciate your time. I’d also appreciate you remembering your promise of confidentiality. The reporter outside will want to know what we talked about, so this might be a good time for a case of selective amnesia.”

  He smiled, which sent a dimple winking in his cheek as he pulled a navy blazer from a coat rack and slipped it on. “Ms. MacGruder, have you ever known a preacher to lie?”

  She laughed. “As a matter of fact—”

  “Never mind, then.” He took two steps forward, ushering her into the outer office where the secretary fidgeted behind the desk. “Rest easy. My pop didn’t write your note, so I’ll be praying that you deliver it to the right person. And as far as that crowd outside is concerned, you and I were in here chatting about the state of the world in general and nobody-else’s-business in particular.”

  “Great.” Peyton glanced around, hoping to spot some sign of a back door. “Any way I can get out of this place without having to run the gauntlet?”

  “Afraid not. But if you come with me, everything will be fine.” Manning’s smile deepened. “You’re not afraid of your own kind, are you?”

  “No.” The answer sounded more snappish than she’d intended. “I’m not afraid of anyone. But my being here attests to something I’d rather not make public yet.”

  “If they followed you here, looks like at least part of your secret is already public knowledge.”

  Realizing the truth in his statement, Peyton grimaced.

  Julie St. Claire caught her breath when the door to the church building opened. Slipping from the passenger seat of the news truck, she straightened her skirt and nodded toward the camera operator. She’d already briefed the gawking yokel from KTVI on her plan—he was to pan the scene, then focus on the pastor, being certain to catch Manning’s expression when she asked him about the note. What he said didn’t matter, she could correct any missteps in a voice-over. The expression on his face, however, might be worth a thousand words.

  She’d been lucky to convince the manager at the FOX station to send out a crew—only the thought of shared coverage in what she assured him would be a huge story had won his cooperation. Now a microwave truck with the Channel 2 logo growled in the parking lot, its engine running as the director whispered in her earpiece and a camera-carrying Jim Varney look-alike dogged her footsteps.

  She walked toward the office doors with long, sure strides. “Pastor Manning,” she called, noticing that two women accompanied the minister. The eldest was the flustered secretary she’d spoken to earlier, so the redhead at his side had to be Peyton MacGruder. The columnist was whispering to the pastor now, probably telling him to keep his mouth shut so she’d have an exclusive.

  That frump-in-a-pantsuit didn’t stand a chance.

  “Pastor Manning!” Using her most charming voice, Julie called for the man’s attention, but the pastor didn’t look up. Though a pleasant smile remained on his face, he held his hands firmly clasped in front of him while he looked down and listened to Peyton MacGruder.

  Julie narrowed her gaze and focused on the Tampa reporter. MacGruder’s photo on the Web site hadn’t done her justice. She wore a hairstyle and clothing suited to a forty-something career woman, but no wrinkles had yet appeared on her face, not even laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. The gold-red color of her hair hid any telltale streaks of gray, and the entire presentation wasn’t as frumpish as Julie had first thought. MacGruder would have to lose twenty pounds, though, if she ever planned to do any on-camera work.

  Tired of waiting, Julie moved closer, her heels scraping the asphalt parking lot. “Pastor Manning, Julie St. Claire here, from World Network News. We’ve heard rumors that you may have been made privy to information about Flight 848.”

  Timothy Manning finally turned, a look of well-mannered dislike crossing his face before he donned a saintly smile. “You’ve heard rumors?” He pronounced the word as if it were unfit for public consumption. “Well, Ms. St. Claire, I didn’t know WNN came out to cover mere rumors. I thought you all were in the business of reporting facts.”

  She shot him a cold look, the lively twinkle in his eye fanning her irritation. “Pastor,” she began again, “did Peyton MacGruder show you a note recovered from Flight 848?”

  The pastor lifted a brow. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Did we have an appointment for an interview?”

  Julie didn’t look, but she had the distinct impression Peyton MacGruder was grinning. “Excuse me, Pastor Manning,” she said, struggling to maintain control. “Let me explain. We’ve reason to believe Ms. MacGruder”— she paused to nod at the columnist, hoping the cameraman would follow her cue—“brought you a note reportedly recovered from PanWorld Flight 848. It’s public knowledge that Ms. MacGruder is trying to find a survivor for whom the note might have been intended—”

  “I can assure you I have no note.” The pastor lifted his palms to the camera, like a child displaying just-washed hands. “And I can also assure you that my father didn’t pause to write me a note as his plane went down. My father, God bless him, was probably singing a hymn as the occupants of that plane went to their eternal destinations. He was as sure of heaven as if he’d already been there ten thousand years.” He gave the camera a captivating smile. “Ms. MacGruder’s reasons for visiting our church are personal, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to pry.”

  Julie St. Claire couldn’t believe her ears. She’d been professionally and courteously dismissed. From behind her, she heard the hayseed cameraman grunt while the director in the news van cursed softly in her ear. She dropped her microphone in resignation.

  “All right. Off the record,” she said dully, glaring at the man. “You’re sure the note wasn’t meant for you?” She transferred her gaze to the reporter. “You’re sure?”

  “The only thing I’m not sure of”—Peyton MacGruder’s gaze was as frosty as her tone—“is how you learned about my trip. I thought I told you I didn’t want the network’s involvement in this story.”

  “The story doesn’t belong to you alone.” Julie folded her arms. “This is an American drama. It involves all of us.”

  Timothy Manning stepped forward, protectively placing himself in front of Peyton MacGruder. “Not now, it doesn’t. Now, Miss St. Claire, I believe you and this crew are on private property. I’d like you to leave, as not to give passersby the idea something improper is occurring at our church.”

  Julie glared at him, primed and ready to give him her opinion about churches and ministers and all the improper things taking place in the name of God every week, then she bit her tongue. She could afford to give Peyton MacGruder a little leeway, at least for today. The woman hadn’t had time to hear from her superiors, so she probably had no idea what awaited her in Tampa.

  “We’re leaving now.” Julie flashed a smile at the minister, then twiddled her fingers in the reporter’s direction. “I’m sure I’ll see you again, Ms. MacGruder. Have a nice flight home.”

  Leaving the pastor and the two women standing atop the church steps like a trio of stooges, Julie climbed into the news van and told the driver to shove off.

  “Interesting morning, right, Pastor?”

  Tim smiled at his secretary and nodded his agreement. “One for the books, Eunice. Let’s see if we can keep things quiet around here for a couple of hours, all right? I really
do need to prepare for prayer meeting tonight.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

  Stepping around her desk, Tim went into his office and closed the door, then leaned against it. The morning’s encounter had been interesting—it wasn’t every day that reporters and TV crews showed up at the church without his having done something extraordinary to draw them. And while Peyton MacGruder seemed nice enough, that other one—St. Claire?—seemed like a regular fireball. Trouble with a capital T, for sure.

  Shaking his head, he moved toward his desk. St. Claire was lucky he liked and tolerated people, or he might have been tempted to tell her to take a long walk off a short pier. He knew he could never say that—or even admit that’s how he felt. People were always surprised to discover that a minister’s thought processes mirrored most other people’s—just because a person was saved and called to ministry didn’t mean he wasn’t flesh like everyone else. And sometimes the flesh could get a little cramped under the mantle of holiness everyone expected him to wear.

  He settled at the desk, pulled out a blank tablet of paper, and opened his Bible to the book of Mark. He’d been planning to preach on hypocrisy, but as his eyes drifted over the passage, a pair of verses seemed to rise up before him like an accusing finger:

  But you say it is all right for people to say to their parents, “Sorry, I can’t help you. For I have vowed to give to God what I could have given to you.” You let them disregard their needy parents.

  He slammed the Bible shut. He had told Peyton MacGruder the entire truth, plus he’d managed to keep his cool with the St. Claire woman, no easy task. Still . . . perhaps he should have kept a copy of the note on the off chance that his father did write it.

  He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. Note-writing wasn’t Pop’s style. And he knew he didn’t have to settle anything with Tim; they were on good terms. His father had known for years that Tim loved people and had given his life to the ministry.