by Ted Dekker
The big service. The one in which a stranger had basically told the town to choose between his way or Stanley’s way. By the looks of the flock after the meeting, they chose Black’s way. They chose a message of so-called grace and hope that sounded more like the gospel according to Hugh Hefner than the gospel according to Luke.
Yordon walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. This cowboy preacher had waltzed into town and shown Paradise a party, all right. Forget bingo night, we’re having us a real party. What’ll you have? Some grace? Some hope? Let’s throw in some magic to boot. We can grow and ungrow warts on demand.
They loved the entertainer! He’d have to talk to the bishop about this. Stanley shaved, dressed, ate a slice of dry toast. Hopefully, by the time he returned from Denver on Saturday, this fool would be gone and they could get back to church and the old reliable pig-roast potlucks that never failed to draw a crowd.
Yordon walked outside and immediately noticed the wind. A warm breeze blew down the road, almost hot. Dark clouds boiled overhead—the news had mentioned a coming rain storm, but here there was only wind. Wind and dust.
Main Street was deserted. At least Black wasn’t holding a rally.
He walked briskly to the church, skirting a few dust devils as he went. The auditorium was still a mess from the previous night. Visitor cards and hymnals lay strewn about the pews and floor. Those unchurched . . .Yordon grunted. Wouldn’t know respect if it hit them upside the head.
“Nancy?” He walked into the offices. “Nancy?”
“Here.”
“Where?”
“In the kitchen.”
He found his secretary with her head stuck in the church refrigerator. Her wide body all but obscured it. “I have to get going,” he said, reaching for a coffee mug.
Nancy straightened and looked at him. “Going where?”
“Denver. Bishop Fraiser? Quarterly meeting?”
“Oh.”
He poured hot coffee into his cup. “Frankly, it couldn’t have come at a better time. With our mayor running off and that preacher coming in, I believe we have us a class-one mess on our hands.”
“Come on, Father, the preacher’s harmless. It’s good for the town to get a little spice now and then.”
Some of the coffee missed the cup. “A little spice? That’s what you call last night? The man threatened me.”
“Please. You can’t take that seriously. Do you know what we did with those leftover danishes?”
“What danishes? I’m worried about the church and you’re worried about danishes?”
“The danishes from Sunday’s potluck. The cherry-apple ones with frosting. There was a whole rack of them right here yesterday.”
Yordon sighed. “I’ll be back Saturday.”
“Oh, here they are!”
Nancy grabbed a tin plate from the top of the refrigerator and dug at the shrink-wrap that covered the old danishes. She pried a gooey pastry out and took a large bite.
“Personally, I think you’re overreacting, but you go right on ahead. We’ll be here when you get back.” She smacked at the danish. “You’re back Saturday? Why not tomorrow?”
“I always go for three days.”
She shoved the rest of the pastry into her mouth.
Yordon wasn’t sure what to think of this. Nancy lost fifty pounds in the last six months, thanks to a no-sugar diet. But here she was, stuffing her face with enough sugar to fuel the church for a week.
He thought about asking her but decided it would do more harm than good.
“I’ll call you from Denver.”
She nodded and dug out another pastry.
Yordon left the church, walked to a blue Chevy Caprice parked in the church lot, slid behind the driver’s wheel, started the engine, and was past the old theater before it occurred to him that he’d forgotten his shaving kit. Never mind, he would pick up the basics at a convenience store.
Honestly, he couldn’t get out of town fast enough.
Ten minutes later he approached the highway and slowed the old Caprice to a stop. The road was empty—as quiet as the road leading up to Paradise behind him.
An image popped into his mind. An image of an old Buick—Marsuvees Black’s ’83 Buick—sitting on the shoulder with its front bumper stuck into a buckled road sign. Funny thing happened to me this afternoon, Black had said.
But there was no car.
The sign was there, but no ’83 Buick. When a car broke down on this strip of highway, it usually remained on the roadside for at least four or five days before the cops towed it away.
Curious, Yordon climbed out and walked toward the sign. A ringing lodged in his ears, and he whacked the side of his head to no avail. The air was still and cool down here. Amazing how the mountains play with weather. Hot in one valley and cool in the next. Seemed like it should be the other way around though. Hot down here and cool higher up, in Paradise. His boots crunched on the gravel as he rounded the sign.
Go 2 Paradise, Black had said. Paradise 2 Miles, drawing that stupid two in the air as if that was how to drive a point home.
Yordon shielded the sun from his eyes and gazed up at the green sign. Paradise 3 Miles.
That’s what he thought. The sign read three, not two. The ringing in Stanley’s ear grew a little louder. He looked down the road again. Three miles instead of two miles, and no car.
The man was a fake. But he already knew that.
He thought about turning the car around and heading back. The town had no mayor, no law enforcement. Only the Episcopal father. Stanley Yordon.
He slid into the Caprice, and with a last look down the deserted highway, he pulled the car into the road, bound for Denver, two hundred some-odd miles east.
JOHNNY AWOKE late Thursday morning, and for a full ten seconds he didn’t think about the previous day’s events. It was just another summer day after a sleepover.
He sat up. Mom was probably . . .
Mom was gone. Cecil had died. Marsuvees Black had poisoned the town.
He flung the covers off and stumbled into the hall.“Mom?”
But she was still in Junction, shopping—he already knew that. She wouldn’t be home until noon at the earliest. And knowing her, it would be closer to late afternoon.
“What’s up?” Roland asked, leaning out of the room. “You yelling?”
“Nothing. Just seeing if my mom’s back.”
Roland turned back into the room, dropped facedown on Johnny’s bed.
Johnny walked past him and peered out the window. Wind howled. Roland lay as if dead.
“You okay?” Johnny asked.
Roland groaned, pushed himself up on both elbows. “How late did we stay up?”
“Midnight. You want to see what’s happening?”
Roland glanced at the clock, rolled off the bed, and grabbed his jeans. “Sheesh, it’s ten o’clock! I have to mow. I’ll see you at the Starlight later.”
“You sure you don’t want to see what’s up?”
“What do mean, what’s up? Nothing’s up.”
“After what happened last night? Trust me, something’s up.”
“My mom’s going to kill me if I don’t mow this morning,” Roland said, pulling a worn yellow T-shirt over his head.
“In this wind?”
“Gotta go, trust me. See ya.”
Roland left. Except for the wind moaning occasionally through the rafters, the house was quiet.
Too quiet for Johnny’s peace of mind.
STEVE SMITHER pulled himself from a groggy sleep late Thursday morning, dressed in blue jeans and a red plaid shirt, and headed out to the kitchen.
Not until he passed the picture window that looked over the back lawn did he remember the dream.
The details fell into his mind. Black, stakes, Paula, stakes, shed, STAKES, screaming. A gust of wind whipped at the shed—no sign of Black or Paula. He had half a mind to check behind it. For stakes.
Steve swallowed, unnerved by
the strong impulse. Then he remembered the stake in his hand. He ran back into the room and scanned the bed, the floor.
No bloody stake. That had been part of the dream too?
He headed back into the living room. Where was Paula?
Maybe he was still in the dream. Or maybe it hadn’t been a dream.
He took a step toward the back door.
“Steve?”
“Hmm?” Steve stopped and turned toward Paula’s voice. His head swam and for a second he thought he might fall, but the dizziness passed, leaving him with a headache.
And a lingering case of grogginess.
Paula leaned against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed. She looked a bit fuzzy to him. A bit loose. Her bathrobe draped over her body, untied, and her hair hung in tangles, straddling that terrible-looking white streak—God only knew why she’d let Katie do that to her.
Looked like a worn-out mutt.
He chided himself for the thought.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He headed for the front door. “What does it look like I’m doing? The saloon doesn’t open by itself.”
She let him go without comment.
Steve paused in the wind, noticing it only as a faint distraction from an uncommon drive to check out the shed. Just to be sure. He had a dream, sure, but this feeling wasn’t a dream. He had to check out the shed.
Steve rounded the house, approached the shed, and stopped three feet from the corner. His heart was hammering with an almost palpable desire to turn the corner and find the very stakes Black had used in his dream. Maybe even with blood on them. Why?
He took a deep breath and stuck his head around the corner.
Nothing.
“For the love of . . .” He clenched his teeth. “I can’t believe he’d do this.”
Do what, Steve? Who would do what?
What was he thinking? He put his hand on the fence, patted it once, and turned to leave.
Pain shot through his palm. He swore and jerked his hand away from the fence. A splinter the size of his little finger had sliced into the heel of his palm. He stared at it, speechless. Pain throbbed and his hand began to tremble. The thing was in deep, buried at an angle.
Steve dug at it with his fingernails but couldn’t get a grip on the wood. He gripped his wrist and held his hand for a better view.
A stake. There was a stake in his palm. For crying—
“Hello, Steve.”
Steve spun. Black stood by the shed, smiling warmly. His eyes dropped to Steve’s hand, and his smile faded, replaced by a shadow of concern.
“You okay?”
Black moved forward, seemingly intent on examining him. But Steve wasn’t sure he wanted the man to examine him.
“Do you mind?” Black asked, searching his eyes. Blue eyes. Comforting eyes. Genuinely concerned. The man looked different today than he had looked yesterday. He looked . . . kind.
Steve turned his hand for Black to inspect.
The man’s fingers were warm.“Pretty deep,” he said, digging in his pocket. He brought out one of those multipurpose pocketknives with small pliers.
“I think I can get it. Do you mind?”
Steve felt disconnected from the scene, despite the intensity of the pain and the sudden appearance of Black.
“Okay.”
Black opened the knife and gently worked at freeing the sliver. The stake. Steve turned his eyes away and let him work.
The moment wasn’t awkward, something that surprised him.
“Everything will make sense to you soon, Steve,” Black said softly. A burst of pain made Steve flinch. When he looked at his hand, the sliver was gone. Black held it up in the pliers, smiling.
“You see, it hurts coming out, but in the end you wouldn’t have it any other way.” He let the sliver fall to the grass. “Just like this town. After a bit of pain it will all make sense. My ways are a bit unconventional, but you’ll thank me, Steve. The whole town will thank me.”
He lifted a hand and tipped his hat.
“Where are you going?” Steve asked.
“I was on my way to speak to the father when I saw you down here. I’m sure he’s all messed up about now. It’s not every day that someone comes into town and pulls the stunt I did yesterday. I think he deserves an explanation, don’t you?”
Black walked away.
Steve wanted an explanation too, but he felt stupid calling out again. What’s that explanation, mister? And why did I dream what I dreamed?
He was talking before he could stop himself. “What about my dream?” he called out.
Black stopped and turned back. “What dream?”
It was clear by his blank stare the Black really didn’t know of any dream.
“Never mind,” Steve said.
“Your dreams are your own, Steve.” Black tipped his hat again and left.
Steve rubbed his palm with a thumb, relieved that the pain was gone.He stuck his hands into his pockets and headed for the saloon.
His head felt heavy.
STEVE SPENT the first thirty minutes by himself, wandering aimlessly around the bar, setting up shop. Wiping the counters down. Putting out glasses. Setting out peanuts. All without a thought.
His thoughts were elsewhere, on the stakes.
Claude came in about eleven, shirt untucked but buttoned up tight around his neck. He grunted and sat down in his regular spot along the bar. Early for Claude, who often came in for lunch, but never before noon.
“You open today?” Steve asked.
The big Swede didn’t seem to hear.
Steve looked out the window and saw that Katie and Mary were angling for the saloon from across the street. Early for them too. It meant that others would see them coming and join them. That’s how it always worked. Word spread fast in a small town. The lunch crowd was coming in early today.
“Sure,” Claude said.
“Sure what?” Then Steve remembered his question.
“Sure I was open. Closed for lunch. Traffic’s dead. Can I have a drink?”
“Lemonade?”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind something stronger if you have it.” Claude rubbed his temples. “Head’s throbbing.”
“Beer?”
“Jack and Coke?”
Odd for a nondrinking man. Steve made the drink and served Claude.
His mind drifted again.
The door banged and Katie walked in with Mary. Both ordered drinks. They were as quiet as Claude. Others started wandering in then, each entry punctuated by the slam of his screen door.
In some ways the stupor that clouded Steve’s mind felt like the effects of the strong painkiller prescribed to him after some fool tourist’s Doberman tried to rip off his hand.
Steve was normally a controlled fellow, ask anyone. But that hadn’t stopped him from hauling out his shotgun with his unshredded hand and sending the Doberman to mutt hell with enough buckshot to splatter its head over a ten-foot-square section of the back wall.
Paula walked in. She was dressed for Sunday in a navy blue cotton dress with white piping on the neckline and pockets. Black leather flats. Who was she trying to impress? She sat at the end of the bar, and Steve ignored her.
Two fans swished overhead, and no one bothered turning on the jukebox. Steve stopped whatever he’d been doing,which was already a distant memory, and looked around at the “in” crowd of Paradise, Colorado. Without counting, he’d say about twenty.
The silence grew uncomfortable. Awkward. Downright infuriating.
Steve slammed his fist on the bar. “What’s the problem?”
Katie looked up at him, blinking. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He wasn’t rightly sure, actually. He just didn’t like the silence. A person can hide in a cacophony of noise, but everyone stands out in this kind of melancholic silence, and Steve wasn’t in the mood to stand out.
“You think he poisoned us?” someone asked.
Katie faced B
ob, an older farmer who raised the question. “Right.”
Bob looked at one of his fingernails as if deciding whether it needed cleaning.
Once again silence stretched through the bar. A fly buzzed by Steve’s ear.
“Could be,” Claude said after a while. “We all drank his communion. Could be he poisoned us. I feel . . .”He stopped, either distracted or unsure how he felt.
“Well, if he did poison us, bring it on, medicine man,” Katie said. “I feel pretty relaxed.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Paula said. “The man’s a devil, not a medicine man.”
“You think a devil got up there and turned water into wine?” Katie challenged, coming to life.
“What water into wine?”
“Okay, then an apple into wine. Whatever. You get my point.”
“No, Katie, I don’t think I do. What is your point?”
“My point is if he wanted to kill us, he’d have done it last night.”
They stared at her, uncomprehending. Steve didn’t know what she was driving at either. Maybe she’d had a dream like his about a killing.
“Who said anything about killing?” Claude asked. “He’s off his rocker maybe. He might be playing us for some reason, but I doubt a killer would be so obvious.”
“What in the world are you all talking about?”Katie demanded.“He’s no killer. He’s a preacher.”
“Come to bring grace and hope to Paradise,”Bob said, still inspecting his fingernails.
“You’re the one who brought up killer, Katie. And frankly it wouldn’t surprise me. Either way, he’s a devil,” Paula said.“No man of God would talk the way he talked. I say we have our way with him before he has his way with us.”
“Has his way with you?”Mary asked. “You holding out on us?”
A lone voice spoke out loudly from the rear door. “Paula’s right. You should get rid of him or call the cops in Delta.”
They turned as one to face Johnny Drake. The boy had come in the back and stood facing them with a fixed face.
“You eighteen, boy?” Steve asked. “Get out.”
Paula stood. “Shut up, Steve.” She walked toward the boy. “What makes you say that, Johnny?”
Johnny eyed them.“He may not be the devil, but he’s not right.”He hesitated. “And he’s a killer.”