“Good boy.” Another glare. “Winnie, will you keep it down, for crying out loud?”
Winnie stopped pounding for an instant. “What?” Before Sadie could answer, Winnie promptly resumed her piano abuse.
“I said, keep it down! Down!”
“What?” Pound, pound.
“Oh, forget it.” Sadie turned her attention to another of the men, this one under the tutelage of Hazel. “Hey, Bleeder. Name the four gospels.”
Bleeder, his wounded arm bandaged, in a sling, and bound to his other hand, looked up. I could read the terror on his face. “Uh …”
Hazel prompted him. “Matthew.”
“Matthew.” Hazel nodded and held up one finger, then two. Bleeder stared at her.
“Uh … Matthew, Mike …”
“Mark.”
“What?”
“Mark.”
“Mark.” He took a breath and started over. “Matthew, Mark.”
“Yeah, yeah, Luke and John. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” Sadie piped up. “Got it?”
Bleeder nodded. Hazel beamed. On the other side of the tree, Dreadlocks tried to blend in with the branches. Did a pretty good job of it, too, but Sadie wasn’t fooled for a second. “Hey, you. The guy with the ugly hair.” Dreadlocks looked up. “Yeah, you,” she said, pointing at him. “Why do we celebrate Easter?”
It was Martha’s turn to show off her student. She nudged him in the ribs and made a cross with her fingers.
He looked confused.
Martha raised her hands and shook her finger cross in his face. His face brightened. “Doublecross! He was doublecrossed. By His own man. And then they hung Him on a cross! It killed him.”
Sadie nodded. “Yes. Why?”
Dreadlocks looked befuddled again. “Why’d it kill him? Lady, I don’t know about you …”
“No, no, not that. Of course that would kill a man. But why did they kill Him? Why did Jesus have to die? Tell me that.”
Dreadlocks thought for a moment, then brightened and said, “For us, right? He died for us?”
Martha thumped him on the back. Nearly sent him into the tree.
Sadie grinned and gave Martha a thumbs-up.
Dreadlock stopped scowling—his version of a smile, I guess.
Winnie segued into “The First Noel.”
I looked at Bristol and he grinned. We backed away and closed the door.
Bristol slipped out of his coat and hung it on a hook behind him. “I’ll send the ladies home in a few minutes and take the first watch,” he said. “Think I’ll brew a pot of coffee first.”
I nodded. “Good idea. I’ve got a little bit of work to do.” I motioned to my office behind me. “I’ll be back with Mel when she brings dinner to you and the men and I’ll take over from there.”
Bristol headed for the kitchen. I was just inside my office when I heard Sadie shriek, “The white one, you dimwit!”
Some things never change.
Twenty minutes later, I headed for home. I stepped into the night, the church porch slick with a thin layer of trampled-down snow, and breathed deeply of the frigid air. Another busy day. Another night of guard duty. Another reason to wonder what’s wrong with Road’s End.
The big oak door was just closing behind me when I heard a chorus of deep voices shouting, “Hallejulah! Praise the Lord!”
I’ll be hanged. Another reason to rejoice.
Sometime during the night, a snow plow came through and unplugged the road to the main highway. The state police arrived the next morning to pick up our prisoners. The end of a saga was at hand in Road’s End. No longer the holding tank for gun-toting felons, the village was once again relegated to the role of small-town Virginia.
I think I.B. and the rest of the men were happier to get out of there and into the hands of law enforcement than we were to see them go. I have no idea whether or not the ladies convinced the men to renounce their sin and accept Jesus Christ into their lives as their Lord and Savior. I did, however, note a distinct look of relief on the faces of the men when they were hauled away. Whether or not that had anything to do with being saved for eternity or being removed from the presence of the ladies of the Christ Is Lord Church congregation, I couldn’t say. But I do know that the Lord works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. Could just be that He used five righteous and glory-bound senior citizens from Road’s End, Virginia, to save the souls of four very unrighteous men of the world. Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me any. Our Lord is a powerful God. Besides, stranger things have happened—most of them right in this town.
As for Jackson—well, he made it out of town, too, but not before a good dressing down by Sadie and the rest of the ladies. Once I explained to them that he was an innocent victim in this horrible mess, I figured they’d apologize, albeit grudgingly, and let him be on his way.
No such luck.
Sadie was (no surprise there) the first to lay into him. “Whatcha mean he’s not guilty?” She stuck a bony finger under his nose and wagged it. “He’s got guilty written all over his face.” She turned to the other ladies. “See that there?” she said, pointing at his glowering face. “If that doesn’t say guilty, I don’t know what does.” Nods all around. She harrumphed her way to a chair and flopped down nearly flipping it backwards in the process.
Winnie was next. “I don’t know, Sadie,” she said as she drew close to Jackson and peered into his face, “whether or not guilty is the right word. Maybe more like ‘mean and nasty’? Not that you’re wrong about that, dear, but I’m just not sure if guilty really describes him. What do you think, Hazel?”
Hazel, having been a pastor’s wife for the last forty years (years, I might add, that did not include the last few chaotic days), seemed cautious. Probably didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but after hearing you’re guilty, mean, and nasty, what more is there? I shouldn’t have asked.
“Well,” she said, “he’s certainly an ugl.... I mean, not a good-looking man. Sorry about that, Mr. Jackson, but I must tell the truth. I cannot bear false witness. It’s in the Bible, you know. Ninth Commandment.” Del scowled. I wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of the Bible, let alone the Ten Commandments. “It’s just so hard to tell what with those scruffy whiskers and that scar there.”
“Yeah,” Sadie piped up. “Just where’d you get that scar, anyway, Jackson? Knife fight? Gang attack? What are you, anyway? Some kind of vigilante? Maybe hired gun? Soldier of fortune? Huh?”
I couldn’t take any more and I wasn’t sure Del could either. I was afraid he might break down and cry and believe me, nobody wanted to see a grown man—guilty, mean, nasty, ugly or not—break down and cry. Especially Delbert Jackson. Or me, for that matter.
“Ladies, why don’t we just let Mr. Jackson be on his way. I think some apologies might be in order considering the treatment he received at your hands, don’t you think?”
Dead silence.
“Ladies?”
Deader silence. Most of the time I couldn’t get these women to shut up if my pension depended on it. Not today.
“Sadie? How about you starting with the apologies? Aren’t you sorry for dragging Mr. Jackson around in the snow?”
Sadie crossed her arms in front of her chest, stuck out her chin, and said, “Nope.”
“Oh, come on now, Sadie. You and the others tied and gagged him, hit him with a frying pan, stuffed a mop in his mouth, dragged him through the snow, and tossed him into the shed. With Sophie, no less.”
“Well, if you put it that way ... okay.” She uncrossed her arms. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I shouldn’t have been a part of tossin’ that heathen in the shed with you.” She looked at me and recrossed her arms. “Happy now?”
That was as good as it got. For another thirty minutes, I harangued, argued, begged, and finally just gave up. It was clear Jackson would never get an apology from the fine ladies of Road’s End (aside from Mel’s heartfelt one, bless her heart), and I was sure his first stop once he got into Richmond would be at
an attorney’s office and Road’s End would be sued for the hundred or so dollars it was worth at the moment. Since Plan A, apologizing, wasn’t working, I knew I’d be forced to implement Plan B—begging.
But as I said, God works in mysterious ways and that day was no exception. Just after Del huffed and puffed his way upstairs to get his suitcase and back down again to the kitchen, he turned to me and in a low voice said, “Listen, Foster, if you never mention this again or let any of those ... those cackling hens tell anyone else on the face of the earth what they did to me, well ... I’d be grateful. Can we keep this to ourselves? I ... well, I couldn’t let this out to any of the—shall we say, clientele—I have. Embarrassing, bad for business, you know? Deal?”
He stuck his hand out and I briefly hesitated, wondering if he’d sneezed lately, but did the right thing and gave him a warm handshake. “Deal. And come back any time, Mr. Jackson. It’s not always this crazy around here.” Of course that wasn’t entirely true, I suppose, but these people have to sleep some time.
He turned just as he pushed open the back screen door and stepped down. “Are you nuts, Foster? I wouldn’t step foot in this town again if they do end up putting me in the Witness Protection Program. I wouldn’t send my worst enemy—and believe me, I’ve got plenty—to this two-bit, worthless ... ”
“Well, then,” I said, nearly shoving him out the door, “you don’t want to miss the tow truck, do you?” Witness Protection Program?
The thought of having to spend another minute in Road’s End must have been enough to spur him on. The last I saw of him he was doing some sort of limp/jog combination toward the road, giving a wide berth to the henhouse.
We were all interviewed by the detectives that day, as well. The officers were thorough, but I think they got more detail, explanations, opinions, and advice on what to do with their prisoners than even they wanted, but like Bristol said, “They asked for it.”
Bristol made a trip to Richmond on Friday to help clear up some other details about the case and before he left, I made him promise me he’d be back the same day. I didn’t know if Melanie and I were equipped—mentally or physically—to handle the live Nativity program by ourselves, and we needed all the help we could get.
The program was scheduled for Christmas Eve on Sunday night. A lot had to be accomplished in just three days, but thanks to the herculean efforts of every able-bodied person in Road’s End, the church, private homes, and the stores downtown—all three of them— were beautifully decked out for the holiday season.
Mel’s first Christmas season as an innkeeper’s wife was a joy to behold. Twenty-seven years of carefully-laid plans took shape before my eyes as she transformed The Inn at Road’s End into the epitome of an elegant eighteenth century home decorated for the holidays, one that rivaled even Colonial Williamsburg in its splendor. “Aren’t you glad we weren’t shot the other night, dear?” she said to me over breakfast, grinning and gesturing at the beauty that surrounded us. “All this would have gone to waste.”
I smiled back and looked around at the simple, refined grace of our dining room, at the festive touches with which my talented wife had embellished it in anticipation of a glorious celebration of Christ’s birth. I looked at her beautiful face and saw the joy in her eyes—a joy brought about through the strange culmination of twenty-seven years of planning and one night of pandemonium. Planning and pandemonium—the stuff of life.
The house smelled of fresh coffee and cinnamon and pungent pine. I put my arms around her, held her close, smelled the lavender in her hair. Pine and lavender and coffee. Nice combination.
Christmas and being alive and married to Mel—even nicer.
No one anticipated performing in snowdrifts when they made the initial plans for the Nativity, but they made the most of it. Word around town was that they’d pretend it was sand by sprinkling a little bit of the real stuff over the drifts. I admit I was impressed with their can-do attitude. When they weren’t shoveling out their driveways or dragging chunks of Hummer to the village limits, the men around town spent their time catering to the whims of their wives—building a backdrop for the Nativity, standing around being fitted for their shepherd or wise man costumes, running to the hardware—ten shelves in the northeast corner of Percy’s Grocery and General Store— for more duct tape, rope, or bags of sand.
Although Sherman DeSoto did the bulk of the work taking care of Sophie, the men took turns exercising her and then scooping up remnants of her forays through town. It frightens me a little to know that the sight of a camel strolling up and down Gloucester Street began to look normal, almost comforting. I had a feeling we’d miss her and her fluorescent orange-haired owner when they left.
Oh, there were a few mishaps, of course. One doesn’t walk a camel around town without something—a dog, a flock of chickens, Sadie Simms, take your pick—scaring the daylights out of it. I noticed that Sophie behaved a little better when being led by Leo Walling. Must have been something soothing about his leisurely pace, his aromatic pipe, his lack of a firearm. George and Dewey, however, who seemed to be joined at the hip despite their frequent bickering, had just the opposite effect on our dromedary. I guess their skittishness wore off on her; it was under their guard that she continually broke free, bounded over shrubs and snow drifts, and ruffled everyone’s feathers—including those of Francine and her friends. After repeated poultry uprisings, Sadie finally ordered George and Dewey to never, ever bring Sophie in her direction again. That pretty much eliminated most of Road’s End as you had to get past her house to go anywhere except straight out of town. I noticed, however, that they tried to sneak Sophie past her place more than once and to give Sadie her due, I think she turned a blind eye to their shenanigans for the sake of the camel. She and Sophie were kindred spirits—both were cranky, opinionated, and afraid of nothing. I think Sadie figured Sophie had enough problems just being in the presence of those two goofy guys, and she didn’t need to add more stress.
Whenever I had a few minutes, I tried to talk to Emma. I felt an urgency to reach her with the Word of God before it was too late. She was polite but distant. I assumed she was simply decompressing from the trauma and tried not to add to the stress by pressing her for time alone. But I did extend an invitation to church the following Sunday and expressed my hope that she’d also come to the live Nativity. She accepted my invitations graciously but was noncommittal. All I could do was place the situation in God’s hands, which I did in nearly constant prayer. When the time was right, God would soften her heart and place a desire in her to know Him, His Son, and His Word. Soon, dear Lord. Please have it be soon.
Chapter Forty-Six
With the wild wind and snowfall nothing more than a chilling memory, the weather on Sunday morning was bright and sunny despite the unseasonably frigid temperatures. But this was Christmas Eve and nobody around town seemed to care that getting out and about was still a challenge with two feet of snow on the ground. I wondered what they’d think about the cold weather later on that night during the outdoor program.
Melanie and I took our time strolling hand in hand over to the church. We had a well-shoveled path between the inn and the church and already, signs of thawing were in evidence, although the shrubs and tree branches still held several inches of snow piled precariously atop each twig. A good breeze would send it sailing toward the earth, but for now, the world was still frosted with white and exquisitely pure.
I took a deep breath and turned to Mel. “Just smell that air, hon. Talk about fresh.”
She smiled and nodded then looked upward at the piercing blue canopy above us. “Seems good to see the sky again, doesn’t it?”
“Feels good to see anything again. I’ve had enough of blizzard conditions to last the rest of my life. Gunfights too.”
Melanie giggled, and I smiled. I love her laugh.
We reached Rivermanse Lane. Several people were still wending their way to the church, keeping to shoveled pathways rather than parking in the l
ot or plunging across the yard as they normally would. Some driveways were still plugged, but snow never lasts long around here. Once the temperatures rose, it would be gone in a couple of days, and life would get back to normal. “Lots of folks getting their exercise this morning,” I said. There’d be a bigger crowd than normal, if for no other reason than to size up the new pastor in town. But any excuse to get folks into the house of the Lord was good enough for me. I’d worked diligently on my inaugural sermon with the Christ Is Lord Church, and I hoped it would touch a few hearts—and one, in particular. I took a moment to breathe a prayer. Lord, please help me come up with a way to save this fine church, to bring more souls to You, to rejuvenate the spirit and love that have guided this church and its congregation for so many years.
We reached the steps to the front door just as Winnie and Dewey Wyandotte approached. I shook Dewey’s hand. “Morning, folks. Winnie, you are looking particularly fetching this morning.”
“Thank you, Pastor. I feel particularly fetching, as a matter of fact.”
Melanie linked her arm through Winnie’s, and I heard her comment on Winnie’s hat. It was a far cry from the elaborate affair I could see bobbing its way atop Ruby Headley’s head a few feet away, but I must admit it looked nice on her and was a definite improvement over the black monstrosity she’d worn to her brother’s funeral. We walked in together and after exchanging “good mornings” and “nice to see you today” and “so glad you could make it” with a variety of men and women—some I’d never laid eyes on before—Melanie and I walked up the aisle. I waited as Leo ushered her to a seat in the front row. Then I walked the two steps up to the pulpit and turned around.
In front of me were about sixty pairs of eyes, all looking expectant, hopeful, and eager—with the exception of Frank, who was already starting to nod off. Pastor Parry and Hazel sat a few rows behind Melanie. He gave me a nod and a big grin. I don’t know if he was trying to encourage me or was just plain tickled to be on the sitting-down side of a sermon for once. Martha and George Washington arrived just then and after about five minutes of rustling and bustling, folks standing up to let others past them, hand-shaking, and apparel-complimenting, the congregation of the Christ Is Lord Church of Road’s End, Virginia, settled in for the service.
Misstep (The Road's End Series Book 1) Page 26