Bad Girl

by T. E. Woods

  When he finally reached the dais, he turned to face the audience, stood with raised arms, and basked in the adulation of the group for a full three minutes. It wasn’t until the stereo speakers were silent that he climbed onto the platform. Self-effacingly, he urged the congregants to stop their applause and be seated.

  “Brothers and Sisters,” he began once the worshippers were settled into their comfortable pews. “I welcome you to the house of the Lord. This is a day the Lord has made. Let us be exuberant in our thanks.” The stereo came to life again and the audience returned to its feet, making a joyful noise. This guy knew how to work a crowd. Six minutes passed before he again urged them to return to their seats.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome. I don’t have words to tell you the joy you bring to this tired old heart each and every day we gather for worship. To come here and to see you. To know you as family. To feel your love. The love you have for one another. This is my joy. This is my peace. This is my rock. And I know God has blessed me with each of you.”

  Choruses of “amen’s” echoed from around the room, encouraging the bishop to continue. He spoke about the importance of this family of worshippers and the strength he received from them.

  “But our family is troubled this day.” Fulcraft modulated his voice to convey heavy heartache. “One of our dear sisters has been taken from us. If you’ve not yet heard, I’m sorry to bring you the news that our dear Miranda Greer…” He stopped and gave a tired, mournful smile. “It’s so odd to say her entire name. She’s simply been Miranda to us, hasn’t she?”

  The crowd nodded. Women wiped tears away from their eyes. Men bowed their heads.

  “Miranda is lost to us. Lost to all but God. And as a family, we are left to grieve. To try to understand that which seems to be impossible to comprehend.”

  Fulcraft paced the dais in long languid steps. A caged lion moving back and forth, signaling his intensity, marking his territory, and warning any who would dare challenge his authority to stay back.

  “Death comes to us all. That much we know. But who can understand the desire to hasten its arrival? Especially when we know it is our destiny…our God-given birthright…to reap the benefits of this earth while we still walk it.” A frown accompanied his furrowed brow. “No, dear, gentle people. We may never come to understand what led our own Miranda to take her life. But knowing her the way I did, I can assure you she’s watching us today. From wherever she is in the great beyond, Miranda’s smiling on us today.” He beamed a megawatt smile to the far reaches of the sanctuary. “Because she is now seated next to the One who stands ready to fulfill our fondest dreams!”

  The crowd, eager to shed their pose of mourning, responded with rousing calls of encouragement. Fulcraft, so comfortable in the frenzy he’d so skillfully fomented, waited before urging them all to take their seats again.

  Once his flock had settled down, Fulcraft began the service with an agenda typical of most churches. There were announcements and reminders. Then a young woman climbed the dais and read a passage of scripture. That was followed by another hymn, which in turn was accompanied by the passing of offering platters. Fulcraft hadn’t been subtle in his exhortation to his people to fill them to overflowing.

  “Give generously,” he instructed. “God is watching. How much you give Him will help Him decide how much He gives you!”

  By the time the ushers arrived at the back row and offered her the donation plate to pass along, Sydney needed both hands to manage its weight.

  Another song followed the offering. Fulcraft left his chair, buttoned his suit jacket, and strode to the podium. She watched the people in the crowd shift their weight, as though they knew the main event was about to begin and they wanted to eliminate anything that might distract them. Before he spoke, Fulcraft drew in a mighty breath. He held it, allowing his chest to swell.

  And he stared right at Sydney.

  It was only for a moment. Not long enough for her to catch whatever message he’d hoped to send. Then he smiled and began his sermon.

  The content of his oration was unlike anything Sydney had ever heard in any church. There was no mention of heavenly standards. No urging to feed the poor, clothe the naked, tend to the sick, or comfort the dying. No exhortation to walk humbly. Denton J. Fulcraft had another message altogether.

  And his audience hung on every word.

  “You are a creation of the Almighty,” he boomed. “God’s own child. His true heir. He has much to give you. All you have to do is accept it.”

  Sydney watched heads nod as many took notes or exchanged reassuring smiles.

  “I know some of you here have been fortunate enough to receive an inheritance from someone in your family,” Fulcraft continued. “Perhaps a bequest from a loving grandfather or a long-lost uncle. And if you are one of those fortunate enough to have received such a gift, you know as well as I do that you did nothing to deserve it. Am I right? You didn’t punch a time clock or work a shift for that money. The only thing you ever did to be entitled to that windfall was have the incredible good luck to be born to the right family. That’s all. Don’t start acting like you deserved it or you earned it or you had it coming. You did nothing. The giver did it all. Can I get an amen on that?”

  A refrain of amens answered him. Fulcraft put one hand on his hip and cocked a questioning eye toward the group.

  “That was about as weak an amen as I’ve ever heard,” he gently teased. “How about we try that again? This time, I want to hear only from those folks who know damn well they did nothing to deserve whatever inheritance got handed to them by some lawyer.”

  This time Sydney felt the response as the crowd roared their answer.

  “That’s more like it.” Fulcraft beamed. “You’re catching on. Now, let me ask you something. How long did it take old Grandpa or crazy Uncle Lenny to pull that inheritance together? Twenty years? Thirty? Heck, let’s go whole hog and assume our benefactor was a penny-pinching miser who hoarded every dollar he’d made his entire life. Let’s say your inheritance was the result of ninety years of hard work. How about that? Now there’s someone who earned their money!”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “I mean no offense to your dear departed loved ones. They were nice enough to leave you a little something, after all. But, brothers and sisters”—Fulcraft dialed the volume of his voice to maximum level—“God has been working for you since the dawn of time. For thousands and thousands and thousands of years he has had diamonds forming deep under the mountains. Gold buried in rivers. Timber to harvest. Water to harness. Even the powerful force of the sun itself is part of God’s wealth. And He wants to give it to you! He has created this world and all its riches for you! God didn’t make you to suffer. God made you to enjoy life.” He held his Bible over his head. “Says right here: more abundantly! We’ve heard that piece of scripture since Sunday School, haven’t we? Ever ask yourself why the Good Book doesn’t have God saying he wants us to live abundantly? Or even most abundantly? No? You never wondered about that?” His chest heaved. “Well I did. I wondered about that phrase. When I was done wondering I prayed about it. When I was done praying I got quiet and waited for the answer.” Fulcraft’s microphone must have been state-of-the-art. His next words, spoken from a half-crouch, were whispered, but every syllable was clearly discernable to every set of ears in the enormous space. “And God answered me.”

  Most of the congregants were tilted forward, eager to hear the words God gave Denton J. Fulcraft, born Myron Myers, only son of a Bible-selling thief. He pulled himself tall and proud, spread his arms wide, and thundered his voice to the farthest recesses of his church.

  “Because there is no end! More begets more. There’s no end to more. There’s an end to most. Am I right? Can’t get anything bigger than most. But more? Brothers and sisters, there’s no end to that! There are still diamonds and gold and r
iches and status. Go ahead! Try to amass it all. God will come right back with a laugh and show you more! There’s always more! God has it. He wants to give it. And He wants to give it to you!”

  The crowd was on its feet. The boisterous music resumed, this time at a volume even louder than at the beginning of the service. It was clear the congregants were eager to buy the gospel of prosperity that Fulcraft was selling. To Sydney, the mood of the room seemed more appropriate to a pre-game pep rally than a worship service. She gathered her parka and purse and slipped out of the pew, unnoticed by the throng of hand-waving, praise-offering churchgoers. She was in the vestibule, reaching for the handle on the massive glass door, and desperate to breathe fresh air when she felt a hand grip her arm. She turned to see the same man who’d earlier offered her a program.

  He didn’t look friendly this time.

  “Bishop wants to see you.”

  * * *

  —

  Sydney looked over to the two men standing by the door. “Maybe he’s forgotten about me. I can call and make an appointment.”

  They didn’t need to respond. She knew they were operating under orders to keep her there. While she was as eager to speak with the bishop as he apparently was to speak with her, she was getting a bit bored cooling her heels in what she assumed was Fulcraft’s office. She was more than ready when the door opened and the bishop walked in.

  “It’s been almost an hour,” she said.

  Fulcraft seemed unbothered by her complaint as he made his way to sit behind a large glass desk situated on a platform three inches higher than the remaining office floor. It was backlit in the same shade of blue that served as accent throughout the entire church building. Tall, narrow windows in the wall behind him filled the room with light bouncing off the snow outside. Sydney decided the entire effect was ingeniously calculated to remind whoever sat opposite him that Fulcraft had the inside track to the Almighty.

  “My flock is slow to let me go,” Fulcraft explained cheerfully. “As I’m sure you saw, they’re quite a devoted lot.”

  She glanced again at the two men by the door and wondered how far they’d go to please Fulcraft. Fear tugged at her gut.

  “Brother Jimmy, Brother Tito, thank you for keeping Ms. Richardson company.” The bishop’s voice was as gracious as it was soft. “I’m humbled by your willingness to serve. I trust I’ll see you both at services on Sunday?”

  The men understood they were being dismissed. When they had gone, the bishop turned his attention back to Sydney. This time his voice was as cold as the polished concrete of his office floor.

  “I made myself clear, Ms. Richardson. You were to leave Ann Arbor. I was astonished to see you at this morning’s service.”

  “I understood you perfectly…what should I call you? Denton somehow seems a bit familiar for someone of your stature. After all, we haven’t known one another long.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Nor will we, Ms. Richardson. There’s no need for you to call me anything. But if you must, most folks call me Bishop.”

  Sydney held his gaze. “Do you mind telling me by what authority you claim that office? Who declared you bishop?”

  A slow, humorless smile smeared across his face. “You’re not a woman who would come here without doing her homework. You must know my church is headquartered here. Started by me. I am its head.”

  “Like Napoleon crowning himself emperor? Why stop at bishop, then? Why not declare yourself pope or king?”

  “Because I’m but a servant, Ms. Richardson. I claim no ultimate power in this mission. That belongs solely to God.”

  “From what I saw today, you certainly have power over your people.”

  “As I said, their devotion humbles me.”

  Sydney was ready for this particular parry to be finished. “How about I call you Myron? Seeing as how we’re going to be working closely with one another, it seems right to me that we be on a first name basis. You can call me Sydney.”

  Fulcraft didn’t blink. His hands didn’t shake. Only someone who was looking for it would have noticed the small twitch in his right eye when he realized she knew his true identity.

  “No use threatening me with exposure to Alden, is there?” Sydney asked. “Looks like we have our own mutually assured destruction situation going, doesn’t it, Myron? If you tell Alden I really wasn’t a childhood friend of Miranda’s, I’ll have no option but to unmask you for who you are. Myron Myers, fast talking charlatan out of West Virginia.”

  “What makes you think he doesn’t know? We’ve been friends nearly three decades.”

  “Then I guess the egg would be on my face, wouldn’t it? Shall we call Alden and invite him to join us? Play our own little game of To Tell the Truth?”

  His stare was intense. She met it in kind.

  “What is it you want?” he asked.

  “I want in. Miranda had a child with Clay. But you probably knew that long ago.”

  “I told you, I had Miranda thoroughly investigated when she first arrived in Ann Arbor. Just as I did with you.”

  “As you said, you have a vested interest in knowing who’s getting close to your cash cow. Clay knew Miranda had found herself a money tree the minute he laid eyes on her. At first he figured it was the church scam. That she and you were working a hustle that paid off big here in Ann Arbor and were looking to expand into Madison. Imagine his surprise when he found out Miranda bought what you’re selling. Hook, line, and Jesus Loves Me.”

  “Miranda was a valued member of our church.” Fulcraft’s voice was strong and steady.

  Sydney hoped her own smile was as mirthless as his. “Valued? How about valuable? Old Man York had feelings for her. My guess is he was paternal toward her when they first met. But as Miranda became more of an equal, those feelings morphed into something quite different, didn’t they? Particularly after his wife died. That man would probably do anything for Miranda, wouldn’t he? At least that’s how she described it to Clay.”

  “And Clay shared the story with you? Is that what happened?” Fulcraft’s ire was starting to show. “Tell me, whose idea was it for you to infiltrate Alden York’s household? Yours? Clay’s? Or perhaps it was their bastard son’s.”

  “You’d do best to think of Clay and me as one cohesive unit. He’s a smart man. He could see what side Miranda’s bread was buttered on.”

  Fulcraft shrugged. “Miranda’s dead. Probably killed herself when she found out about you and Clay.”

  Was he trying to see if she knew Miranda death wasn’t suicide?

  “Did that foil whatever plan you and Clay hatched up to steal Miranda’s money?”

  “Actually, it made things easier. One less hurdle for us to clear.” Sydney leaned back on the sofa. “You need me, Myron.”

  This time Fulcraft’s laugh was genuine. “Like I need a boil on my ass!” He looked around his elegant office, arms spread wide. “Look around you. I’m where you want to be. I’ve already arrived.”

  “Looks like it, huh? But it’s like what you were preaching out there. You’ve got quite the gift, by the way. You’re well-suited for this line of work.” When he didn’t respond to her compliment, she smiled. “You preached to your people about more. Men like you are never satisfied. They always want more. That’s where I come in.”

  “I can’t wait to hear your reasoning.”

  “You told me Alden York’s your biggest contributor.”

  “Certainly not my only.”

  “But your largest.” Sydney let that sink in. “York’s seventy years old. Fit as a fiddle, handsome, too, but seventy nonetheless. What do you figure he’s good for? Twenty more years? Less if dementia sets in? You had an extended warranty with Miranda. She was intensely devoted to you and your church. York was planning on leaving the business to her. That would have kept the pipeline filled with ImEx money long enough to
see you out.” She paused again. “But Miranda’s gone now. And Natalie doesn’t buy into your line of bull one bit. That girl may be as flighty as a dandelion puff, but she can smell a con. You’ve seen York’s reaction to Miranda’s death. That kind of grief has a way of knocking the wind out of a man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided he’s had it. Decides to hand the company over to his only living heir and be done with it.” She dialed her smile to irony. “Maybe even become a missionary in your church. How long do you think it would be before Natalie pinched off all ImEx involvement with the Church of Today?”

  Fulcraft drummed his fingers on the arm of his leather chair. “And you propose?”

  “I’m your new pipeline extension. Bright, shiny, and filled with grief over the loss of my dear friend. I can get next to York and you know it. It took me all of twenty minutes to get invited to his home for dinner.”

  “Do you expect Alden to teach you the business like he taught Miranda?”

  “Maybe. You and I can figure out those details later. Today’s a concept meeting. My goal here is to get us both on the same page.”

  “Why do I need you? I already have Alden’s devotion.”

  “And I’ll have Natalie’s. We’re already drinking buddies. She’s shared some secrets. I guess I have that kind of face. She and Miranda were close.”

  “And you’re the person to step into the void Miranda’s death left in Natalie’s life.”

  “Bingo, Bishop! Natalie and I have bonded over our shared grief. I can work with that. I think our teaming up makes the best sense all the way around.”

  Fulcraft was silent, thinking over her offer. “Clay Hawthorne? And his son? What’s their role in this?”

  “You leave them to me. Whatever they get comes out of my cut.”

  “How is it you expect to be paid?”