“Good.” Brant felt a tugging on his heart.
He was sure this was God moving him again. He didn’t know what he would find at the revival, but for the Holy Spirit to so obviously place it in his path… it had to be divine.
“So, what now?” Brant asked. “Where can we get a bite and stay before the service.”
“My mother’s house,” Chris said matter-of-factly.
“Your mother?”
“Well, sure,” Chris shrugged, “that okay with you, brother?”
“Oh, yes.” Brant fought the urge to look surprised. “I just hadn’t thought about… I mean, I just didn’t know you had a…”
“A mother?” Chris threw his head back and laughed yet again. “Oh, I’ve got one alright, friend. Who do you think told me about the revival?”
“Right,” Brant said, laughing, “I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming.”
“The good news is,” Chris said as he rubbed his belly, “she’s a wonderful cook. I’ll bet she’ll have a fine lunch laid out and ready for us when we get there.”
“Chris,” Brant said, “I’m really happy we met. I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
Chris’s fingers finally found a clear gospel station and he began to boom out the words to My Jesus… Brant joined in.
Mrs. Anastasia Saint Juneau was the picture of grandmotherly love. A red checkered apron covered a blue dress with patchwork pockets. Her hair was white and fluffy—fresh from the beauty parlor. She wore house slippers with little flowers embroidered on the top, and padded around the kitchen slow and soft.
“Well, I shore am happy to meet a good friend of Chris’s,” she said as she slid a plate in front of Brant.
It had scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, a piece of heavily buttered toast, a small dollop of grits, and a slide of honeydew melon. Brant hadn’t realized how hungry he was until then, and grabbed his fork to begin shoveling the wonderful smelling food into his mouth.
“Son,” she said, and laid a soft hand on his arm.
Chris steepled his hands and whispered, “Grace.”
Brant laid his fork down and clasped his hands together.
“Do you mind offering up our blessing, Brant?” Mrs. Saint Juneau asked him.
“Oh, gosh, Mrs. Saint Juneau—” He started to make an excuse.
“Just call me Mama,” she said, her eyes smiling at him. “Everyone does.”
Brant almost raised his protest again, but then thought better of it.
“Of course, Mama,” he said.
He bowed his head and was immediately aware of the presence of God. His heart was warm and full, and he felt tears forming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed in earnest… at least without a television camera present.
“Father,” he started, “thank you for this journey. Thank you for these friends. Thank you for this meal. May all three nourish our bodies and our spirits with your healing power. Amen.”
“Amen,” Chris and Mama chimed in together.
They all began to eat and it was quiet for a moment except for the occasional clink of a utensil on china. Chris was the first one to empty his plate, but he went back for seconds. Brant finished his, but declined to eat anymore.
“I would,” he said leaning back in his chair, “but I’m as full as a tick.”
Mrs. Saint Juneau—Mama—began shuffling back and forth to the kitchen to clear the table, and Brant jumped up.
“Please let me help you, Mama,” he said, grabbing a plate and a glass.
“No, no,” she said, taking them from him, “you boys just go into the den and watch a little TV. After a while, we’ll head up to Raulerson.” She patted him on the arm.
He had absolutely no idea what Raulerson was, and just smiled and nodded.
When Chris had finished his second plate, he invited Brant to join him in the next room. The den was straight out of the seventies, with a dark gold shag carpet, two recliners sporting a brash floral pattern, a TV tray between them holding a Bible and a wireless telephone receiver. The television was an old thirteen-inch RCA model—Brant wondered if it would be in color or black and white—with a pair of rabbit ears on top wrapped in aluminum foil. Sheer panels on the windows allowed a soft glow to fill the room.
“She only gets one channel,” Brant said, “so, we’ll see what we can get.”
Not surprisingly, it was a church channel showing old televangelical programming from, you guessed it, the seventies. Big hair, big teeth, big money.
“I love watchin’ these old things,” Chris said and laughed, “they used to really love the Lord back then.”
“And the Lord’s money,” Brant added.
Chris laughed and rocked back in one of the recliners. Brant watched through half-closed eyelids and was quickly asleep. He woke to a gentle touch on his arm. It was Mama. She was still in her blue dress, minus the apron, with a cotton shawl over her shoulders.
“Hun, Chris and I are headed up to Raulerson,” she said softly. “You can stay here and get some shut eye before the meeting if you like.”
“What’s Raulerson, ma’am?”
“It’s the hospital,” she said, smiling. “I like to do some visitation there. Some folks ain’t got nobody to come visit ‘em, so I like to go up and say hello.”
She patted a Tupperware she was holding in her other hand. “Take ‘em some cookies, you know?”
Chris was looking over her shoulder expectantly.
“That sounds nice, Mama,” Brant said as he raised himself up out of the recliner, “I would love to go.”
Chris smiled broadly. They all piled into the old Buick, and Brant sat quietly, tracing the gold inlaid letters on the cover of his Bible.
God was truly on the move.
21
An Incident
Gil Dickerson won the Florida gubernatorial election in a landslide bigger than any previous Democratic candidate… ever. Every newspaper in the region—and even some of those several states beyond the region—announced the result with all the pomp and feeling of a coronation. There were countless editorial pieces on the coming of the savior of the state of Florida, and most of those pined for the day that Governor Dickerson could throw his hat into the presidential ring.
The Gallup poll for the upcoming presidential race, barely more than three years away, had him winning against every other candidate they could think of… including past presidents with high popularity ratings. He was being crowned not only as the Governor of Florida, but also as the future President of the United States.
His wife, Sandy, did not find it surprising that Gil Dickerson couldn’t sleep, but she couldn’t have been more surprised over the real reason why he tossed and turned.
“You have to sleep, hun,” she would say, and hand him a prescribed sleeping pill.
He took them from her, but would flush them down the toilet every time. He didn’t want the meds to dull his thinking, especially under the circumstances. The first indication that something was wrong came at the press conference, where he intended to release the names of his appointees to his cabinet.
He’d been reading the names, when a man stood up in the back of the press room and started shouting.
“You jackass!” the man screamed, and ran toward the podium. “You took my Jackie away from me!”
His security detail pounced on the man before he could get within ten feet of Gil, but it had been enough. The chest pain in his chest knocked Gil to the ground. At first, he was sure he’d been shot, but as he fell to his knees he realized he wasn’t bleeding. He tried to clutch his chest with his left hand, but it wasn’t responding. Oh, God, he thought, I’m having a heart attack.
The doctors, under incredible pressure from clandestine persons to do so, would call it an incident—not an actual heart attack—but it had been a heart attack just the same. Gil had been checked by the doctors and they had found two arteries one-hundred percent blocked. Two stents later, he
was pronounced in perfect health with very little chance of a recurring incident. The press herded doctor after doctor across their stages, all of whom were quick to pronounce that this sort of thing happened all the time—especially to political figures.
Gil woke up in a hospital bed after being whisked away to the heliport at Raulerson Hospital. He was admitted under a false name and his whereabouts were kept under the strictest confidentiality. In fact, nobody knew where he was except for Sandy and James Hardy. Sandy had been by his side for over thirty-six hours, and he sent her home as soon as the doctors assured her that he was back to one-hundred percent health and that he was only staying in the hospital so they could complete all the tests.
James Hardy came in only after she’d been ushered out to a private helicopter to take her home.
“How ya feelin’ there, buddy?” asked the senator from Vermont, who came in all smiles and squeezed Gil’s upper arm. “Ya gave us quite the scare there.”
“You heard him, James,” —Gil didn’t bother to fake being jovial— “It went out all over the nation. It was live for Christ’s sake. It won’t be long now until someone makes the connection.”
Hardy’s demeanor instantly went dark. “Now, you listen here, Governor Dickerson,” he said, squeezing Gil’s arm harder. “We have worked very hard to get you to this point. Do you really think we haven’t taken care of this?”
“How could you—”
“That man is in custody right now,” James interrupted, “being questioned from six ways to Sunday and in grave danger of being charged for attempted assassination.”
Gil felt his mouth drop open. “He had a gun?”
“If I need him to have had a gun,” James said, easing the pressure on Gil’s arm, “he will have had a gun.”
Gil studied the man’s eyes. He was becoming increasingly worried about what James Hardy was seemingly prepared to do to make sure nothing stood in his way. Gil wondered when he would become the something in his way.
“What do they have so far?” Gil asked.
“They know that this man’s wife, Jackie Ranchero-Doral, was an intern in your office,” he said, “and that she is currently missing.”
“Shit,” Gil said, whistling through his teeth.
James held up a hand. “It’s okay. We have retroactively recorded a few memos from your office detailing her less-than-stellar punctuality, and thrown in a couple of write-ups for no-shows as well.”
Gil felt his heart rate speed up and the monitor next to him beeped.
“Easy buddy,” James said. “Get that under control.”
Gil took a few deep breaths, and his heart rate slowed just as the nurse entered his room.
“Are you doing alright, Mr. Diavia?” she asked him.
“Oh, gosh, yes,” Gil said, and smiled and made a show of adjusting his position in bed. “Sorry, I was just getting comfortable and you know how that makes the heart rate jump.”
“No worries,” she said, with a trace of annoyance in her voice.
James looked at Gil. “Mr. Diavia?”
“My wife’s horse’s name,” he said and shrugged.
“And the nurse has no idea who you are?”
“Doesn’t seem to.”
“Well, don’t get used to that, Mr. Governor,” James said, then winked at him.
Gil said nothing. He clicked on the television to find a local story about Mr. Doral. They were detailing two separate incidents of domestic violence against his current wife, Jackie, and also against an ex-girlfriend. Neither had ended in prosecution, but they had two different mugshots of Mr. Doral looking decidedly evil. Gil looked over at James.
“We didn’t do that,” he said, shrugging, “Mr. Doral did all of that to himself.”
The news story continued and showed a reporter detailing the multitude of guns and rifles that Mr. Doral owned and used on a regular basis, one of which was discovered to be illegally purchased.
James Hardy pulled out his cell phone, tapped a number, and said, “Get me that gun.”
He hung up, took the remote control from Gil, and turned the television off.
“I’ve got to tell Sandy,” Gil said. “I owe her at least an explanation of what was going on with Jackie and I.”
James Hardy’s face darkened. He pursed his lips and inhaled deeply. “Now, you just hold that thought for a second,” he said, and walked toward the monitor. As he traced his finger down a bag of saline solution that was dripping into a wire running into Gil’s arm, he said, “I’m not so sure the timing is right for such a thing.”
Gil felt a chill run up his spine. “James,” he whispered, “I can’t lie to my wife. She deserves better than this.”
Hardy’s face softened a bit. “Look, Gil,” he said, “this is all my fault really. I’m the one who set you up with Jackie. Hell, you can blame it on me when you decide to talk to Sandy about it. In fact, I insist that you throw me under the bus when it comes to your adultery. I will be more than happy to beg forgiveness from her.”
His phone pinged. Pulling it from his pocket, he stole a quick glance at the screen and then tucked it back into his suit. “But let’s hold off on this revelation,” he said quietly and glanced back at the door, “at least until we’ve taken the White House.”
“Aw, hell, James,” Gil said, raising his arms, “I’ve just barely won the governorship and with this damn heart attack—”
“Incident,” James corrected him.
“Okay, whatever,” Gil continued. “There’s no guarantee of anything at this point.”
“That, my friend,” James said and poked a finger at Gil’s chest, “is where you are wrong. There are a lot of people invested in you, a lot of very powerful people.”
“James, you’re hurting me.” Gil grabbed James’s hand, but he wasn’t strong enough to remove it from his chest.
“And these people,” James continued without releasing the pressure, “have assured me that you will be the next President of the United States of America. And you and I both know that I will be the Vice President.”
He pulled his hand away and Gil grabbed his chest.
“Are we clear?” James Hardy asked dryly.
“Crystal clear.”
“Well, hello there, Mr. Diavia,” a kindly voice chittered from the doorway.
They both looked to see an elderly lady standing in the door holding a tray of Jello cups.
She seemed to notice Gil wasn’t alone. “Oh, no,” she said, frowning, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. I will come back later.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Saint Juneau,” Gil said pointedly, “he was just leaving.”
In a flash, James Hardy became the smiling, baby-kissing, hand shaking politician he always was in public.
“Not before I steal some of that homemade Jello,” he said, beaming.
The elderly lady smiled back and tittered. He grabbed a cup and pecked her on the cheek as he walked out the door.
“Get well soon, Mr. Diavia,” James’s voice echoed down the hall.
“Well, he sure is a nice man,” Mrs. Saint Juneau said as she walked into the room and laid a Jello cup on Gil’s table.
“Mmhmm,” Gil said and nodded absentmindedly.
“How are you feeling today, Governor?” she asked him.
Gil was shocked for a second and his face must’ve shown it.
“Oh, come now,” she patted his hand, “don’t you think I would recognize the man I voted for in the election?”
Gil smiled and took a bite of Jello. “Thank you, Mrs. Saint Juneau.”
“I could just tell by looking into your eyes what a fine, honest, upstanding young man you were,” she said as she picked up her tray.
Gil inhaled deeply. He decided in that moment that he would tell Sandy. She deserved the fine, honest, upstanding young man that she had married, and telling her what had happened was the only way he would feel worthy of her trust and love.
“Can I ask you a favor?” t
he elderly woman asked as she reached his door and turned.
“Of course,” he answered, and joked, “as long as it doesn’t have anything to do with voting for a bill you sponsor.”
She chuckled. “Oh no, no, nothing like that. I’d just like to have my son drop in and meet you… if that’s alright.”
“Can he keep our little secret?”
“Of course, he can.”
“Then that would be just fine with me.”
“Wonderful,” she said, “I’ll bring him by when I finish my rounds.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Saint Juneau,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Diavia,” she said, and winked.
Gil Dickerson sighed and took his last bite of Jello.
22
If The Shoe Fits…
Troy Bodean again sat in the jail cell that he’d been in just a day before. Joe Bond had acted very strange upon seeing the discarded white shoe in his belongings bin that he’d had with him when he left work—ostensibly for the last time. Now he was waiting… not exactly arrested… just being held.
He lay on his back staring at the ceiling and wondered if it was just his lot in life to be locked up. He also wondered what in the heck he was being locked up for this time. At least this time, he wasn’t locked up with a bunch of Troy clones for being a Peeping Tom. But then again, he worried that this time he’d been locked up for something much worse.
As he stared at the concrete ceiling, he began to think about Mindy. He hoped to God she was okay, but the longer this situation went on, he worried that she really was in grave danger… if Taz hadn’t already done something awful to her. Taz was really the key here. Troy sensed he was the bad guy in all of this, he just had a hunch that the guy was becoming more and more unhinged, and offing the two girls was easily something he was capable of… and now he was missing too.
Troy ran over the details in his mind, trying desperately to figure out where the allegedly murderous tennis pro could be, but nothing seemed to click. He ran down the list in his head.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 63