Mike almost dropped the phone. He slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs. Putting his hand over the receiver, he whispered intently to the little group in the kitchen.
“The old sanctuary at Little Creek is on fire!”
Muriel stopped close to Sam, who put his arm around her shoulders. Mike lifted his hand from the receiver.
“What caused it?”
“He didn’t tell me. Explain again why you were at the church?”
Mike felt drops of sweat trickle down inside his shirt. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
“I received an e-mail this afternoon from Milton Chesterfield that the elders wanted to meet with Sam Miller and me at the church around seven o’clock. We went to the church and waited about twenty minutes, but no one showed up so we left. I turned on the coffeepot in the conference room, but we didn’t go into the old sanctuary.”
“I don’t know anything about a session meeting. Milton Chesterfield has been in San Francisco on vacation with his wife and won’t be back in town until tomorrow.”
“I have the e-mail right here.”
Mike read it to Bobby.
“Check the originating address for the e-mail,” Bobby said. “Are you sure it came from Milton’s computer?”
Mike glanced at the top of the message.
“It lists the sender as ‘[email protected].’”
“I’m sitting at my computer, and that isn’t the e-mail address I have for Milton. Did you say bcsd.com?”
“Yes.”
Bobby was silent for a moment. “Barlow County School District. That email was sent from one of the public schools. My daughter sends notes to me at the office with that return address.”
Mike panicked. “Bobby, you know I didn’t have anything to do with setting fire to the church.”
“Of course not.”
Mike continued speaking rapidly, “I’d come to terms with the reasons for the sabbatical and hoped we could work through any problems about my leadership now that the charges against Sam have been dismissed. That’s why I went to the church. I believed it would be the first step toward my return as pastor.”
“That was my goal, too. But we hadn’t discussed when to meet with you or if Mr. Miller would be included.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go to the church.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
Mike clicked off the phone.
“The e-mail was sent from one of the schools,” he said to the group. “But Milton is in California and won’t be home until tomorrow.”
Peg looked at him with sad eyes.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to go to the church?” she asked. “If someone is trying to make it look—” She stopped.
“It will look worse if the pastor of the church doesn’t show up when a major building on the property is burning to the ground. Sam and I didn’t do anything wrong, and no one can prove otherwise.”
Peg appealed to Sam, “Tell him not to go.”
The old man shook his head. “I’m not his master. It’s up to him.”
“Are you going with him?” Muriel asked Sam.
“Nope. I need to get home and ask Papa what He wants me to do.”
After Sam and Muriel left, Peg turned to Mike.
“I’m not sure I can handle any more of this pressure. It was hard enough suffering alongside Muriel and Sam. If the police try to claim you had something to do with—”
“They’ll be wrong. I’m gone. I’ve got to see what’s happened.”
AS HE DROVE TO THE CHURCH, THE PANIC MIKE HAD FELT WHEN Bobby first mentioned the fire changed into anger. He was mad. Setting fire to a church was an act of sacrilege. He sped down the road, passing several cars against the restrictions of the yellow line.
Close to the church, he had to stop as traffic slowed to a crawl. Mike impatiently tried to peer around the corner of the road. Trees along Little Creek hid the church, but there was no mistaking the orange glow in the sky. The ancient wood in the sanctuary would burn fast and hot. Noticing that no cars were coming from the opposite direction, Mike pulled to the left, zipped past the line of cars, and pulled off the road just past the creek. Two large fire trucks and several cars were on the church property. Firefighters were spraying water onto the rear of the old sanctuary. The front portion of the building was already a charred pile of black wood.
Mike got out of the car and saw a hose stretching from one of the trucks into Little Creek. A handful of spectators had parked their cars on the opposite side of the highway to watch the activity. A firefighter approached Mike.
“Sir, please move along.”
“I’m Reverend Mike Andrews, the pastor of the church,” he replied. “Is there a place I can stand so I won’t be in the way?”
The man pointed. “Stay close by the creek. I’ll let the captain know you’re here.”
Mike walked along the familiar path that ran alongside the creek. He stopped near the place where the spring bubbled up from beneath the earth. One of the crews was spraying water on the roof of the administration building. Fortunately, there was no sign of fire on the adjacent structures. No one else from the congregation was present. After a few minutes, a gray-haired man in firefighting gear walked toward him.
“I’m Captain Logan,” he said.
Mike introduced himself.
“There was no chance to save it,” Logan said. “As you know, it was a tinderbox covered with old paint.”
“Are the other buildings going to be okay?”
“Yes, the fire is contained, and we’re fortunate to have the creek close by.”
“Who reported the fire?”
“I’m not sure, but I suspect a motorist saw the smoke and dialed 911. We were here in less than fifteen minutes, but there was nothing we could do except keep it from getting hotter or spreading to the other buildings.”
“Do you know what caused it?”
“It’s a clear night, so it’s either electrical or arson. Did you have any space heaters or other electrical devices in the building?”
“Nothing except the lights. It had been converted to central heating and air-conditioning years ago. We didn’t use it except for special occasions.”
“I assume it’s insured.”
“Yes.”
Logan left. Mike continued to watch. He saw Bobby Lambert’s car turn into the parking lot. A firefighter pointed in Mike’s direction. Bobby joined him. Neither man spoke. The remaining blaze at the rear of the old sanctuary was almost out. Without the light of the fire, the darkness of night crept in except where the lights of the firefighting equipment illuminated the figures moving around the destroyed building.
“What is happening here?” Mike asked.
Bobby ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Did you talk to anyone?”
“The captain came over and told me it’s either electric or a set fire. Is anyone else from the church coming?”
“It was on the radio news report while I was driving out here, so I suppose people will start coming soon.”
“What are you going to tell them?” Mike asked.
Bobby continued to stare straight ahead. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Thirty-one
IT WAS ALMOST 3:00 A.M. WHEN MIKE CLIMBED WEARILY INTO bed. The smell of the burned building lingered in his nostrils. The responses of the church members who came to the scene and saw him beside the ruins of the old sanctuary had been heart-wrenching.
Delores Killian wept when she saw the church building of her childhood wiped off the earth. Mike put his arm around her shoulders and held her as she sobbed. He spoke to a firefighter, who retrieved a piece of the altar rail and gave it to her. Both ends of the carefully polished wood were charred black. Nathan Goode stayed by Mike’s side for more than an hour. They didn’t discuss Melissa Hall or Sam Miller. Most people stared at the devastation for several minutes, spoke briefly with Mike, then left. Around midnight, Bobby came over to
him.
“Milton called from California. The neighbor who feeds his cat phoned him with the news. He was upset, not as seriously as Delores, but the old sanctuary was linked closely to his family.”
“Did you mention the e-mail?”
“No. I told you I wouldn’t bring it up.”
Mike nudged the ground with the end of his shoe. “And thanks for meeting me in the deed room.”
“Let’s not mention that either.”
“Okay.”
The men stood beside each other in silence. Mike ached for the return of the lighthearted banter they had enjoyed for so many years. He turned toward Bobby.
“Will there ever be a Friday afternoon when we can play eighteen holes of golf without worrying about anything except avoiding the fairway bunkers?”
“I don’t know when.”
The next time Mike looked, Bobby’s car wasn’t there.
Mike stayed until the last firefighter left. He shook hands with every one of them and thanked them for their efforts. He drove home, sad about the destruction of the beautiful old building, apprehensive about questions he feared would come.
THE DOORBELL RANG THE FOLLOWING MORNING AT 6:30. MIKE, wearing his pajamas, stumbled downstairs. Through the sidelight of the door, he saw a couple of men he didn’t recognize. He opened the door.
“Michael Andrews?” the younger of the two men asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Hank Perkins, a detective with the sheriff ’s department. This is Richard Shactner, a fire scene investigator who works with Barlow and four other counties. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The officers’ sober faces confirmed the seriousness of the visit. Mike’s mind raced through his options. He could refuse to talk without the presence of an attorney, which was the advice he would have given any client who called him when faced with investigative interrogation. He could show them the e-mail and fully disclose every detail of his actions the previous evening. Or he could find out as much as he could while revealing as little as possible. Even the last approach held substantial risk.
Judge bounded out of the kitchen barking. Mike grabbed him by the collar. “I’ll put him in the backyard. Come in and have a seat.”
He held Judge’s collar as the officers followed into the great room. Peg called from the top of the stairs.
“Who’s here?”
“Two men who want to talk about the fire at the church. No need for you to come down.”
Mike opened the back door for Judge. He motioned for Perkins and Shactner to sit on the couch.
“What can you tell me about the fire?” Mike asked. “I spoke briefly with Captain Logan, but he didn’t have much information.”
Shactner spoke. “I was at the scene first thing this morning. During my initial walk-through, I could identify an accelerant pattern that ran from the front door partway down the main aisle. The burn patterns were very distinct.”
Perkins added, “And we found an empty gas can in the bushes behind the new sanctuary. Did a commercial company cut the grass at the church property?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Miller Lawn Care?”
Mike’s mouth went dry. “No. Did the gas can belong to Sam Miller?”
“It had his company name on it.”
Mike licked his lips and unsuccessfully ordered his heart to stop pounding. “Mr. Miller cut the grass for us several weeks ago so he could submit a bid.
We’d been using another service but thought he might be cheaper. He must have left the gas can when he was there.”
“I know Mr. Miller was with you at the courthouse yesterday morning,” Perkins continued. “Do you know what he did after he left?”
“Went to work. I believe at the Blevins residence.”
“And after that?”
Mike stood up.
“Thank you for coming, but this conversation is over.”
The two men remained seated. Perkins spoke. “Reverend Andrews, do you realize there will be consequences from your failure to cooperate with us?”
Mike’s face flushed. “I’m not refusing to cooperate; however, you are aware that I represented Mr. Miller in a recent embezzlement case”—he paused and spoke with emphasis—“in which all charges were voluntarily dismissed by the district attorney’s office. As his attorney, it would be improper for me to speculate about his activities, especially if he is the subject of a criminal investigation.”
“This is part of an ongoing investigation that may or may not become criminal,” Shactner said. “You’re the pastor of the church, and we hoped you would assist us.”
“Which I will, except to the extent that it violates the attorney-client relationship.”
“Has Mr. Miller already retained you to represent him in this matter?” Perkins asked.
“The ongoing nature of the attorney-client relationship is privileged.”
Perkins smiled crookedly. “Reverend Andrews. We’re not just interested in Mr. Miller’s activities yesterday. We also want to talk with you. Where did you go and what did you do after leaving the courthouse?”
Mike put his hands together. “That’s all, gentlemen. It’s time for you to leave.”
Shactner stood and Perkins joined him. Mike started walking toward the door, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were following him. As the two men left the house, Perkins turned around on the landing and handed Mike his card.
“If you decide it’s in your best interests to cooperate, please call me anytime. My cell number is on the back of the card.”
Mike closed the front door and leaned against it. He looked up and saw Peg, her hair disheveled, at the top of the stairs.
“What is it?” she asked.
Mike crossed the foyer and quickly climbed to where she waited.
“The beginning of an inquisition that could make the previous charge against Sam seem like a traffic ticket. I may be implicated as well.”
“What did they say?”
“Not much, except that they found one of Sam’s gas cans in the bushes near the fire scene. I suggested he might have left it when he cut our grass, but I have doubts. The fake e-mail from Milton that lured us to the church; a gas can conveniently left in the bushes. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t produce an alleged witness who claims we ran from the building right before smoke started—”
Peg collapsed in Mike’s arms and sobbed. He held her head close to his chest and gently rubbed her upper back while she shook in his arms. It was all he could do. Anticipating the next step of the people who wanted to destroy Sam, and now him, seemed impossible. After her body began to relax, he took a step back but still kept his hands on her upper arms.
“Will you lie down?”
Sniffling, she kept her gaze toward the floor. “I can’t sleep.”
“Just be still. Do you think we should contact Dr. Crawford and ask for a prescription that will help calm you down?”
“I’m not going back to bed, and there isn’t a pill that can take away what I’m feeling!”
“Then come downstairs and lie on the couch. I need to phone Sam and warn him.”
Mike let Judge into the house. The dog went straight to Peg and rested his head close to her hand so she could pet him without moving from the couch. Mike brought the cordless phone from the kitchen into the great room and dialed Sam’s number. Muriel answered.
“I need to speak to Sam.”
“It’s too late. They already came and got him,” Muriel said, her voice quivering. “He’s been gone about ten minutes.”
“Who came?”
“A deputy we didn’t know took him to the jail.”
“Did he ask Sam any questions?”
“No, he just told him to get in the police car.”
“I’m on my way to the jail. I should be there in less than ten minutes.”
Mike hung up the phone. Peg shook her head sadly.
“Is there a risk you’ll be arrested, too?”
“Yes,” Mike admitted.
Peg buried her face in her hands.
“I’m going to the jail to keep Sam from talking to any of the detectives. The last time he was arrested, he gave a statement that could have been interpreted as an admission of wrongdoing. I can’t let that happen to him, or me.”
Peg turned on her side so that she faced the back of the couch.
“Go,” she said. “Leave the phone with me.”
Mike touched her shoulder, which was stiff with tension. “I’ll be back.”
“When?”
“In a couple of hours.”
Peg didn’t respond. Mike stared at her back and searched for a reassuring word. None came. He turned and left.
THE EARLY MORNING TRAFFIC FLOWING INTO SHELTON SEEMED out of place. People shouldn’t be getting up, drinking a cup of coffee, and slipping into the usual Tuesday morning routine. Mike parked in front of the jail. The familiar female deputy was on duty.
“I’d like to see Sam Miller,” Mike said.
The woman hit a few keys on her computer. “He’s in booking. I’ll let you know when he’ll be available.”
Mike sat in the waiting area. The initial adrenaline rush produced by his encounter with Perkins and Shactner had faded, and he felt drained. He forced himself to begin analyzing Sam’s plight, but so many possibilities rose to the surface that he couldn’t begin to develop a cohesive plan. Fifteen minutes passed. He tapped on the glass. The deputy glanced up.
“Oh, you can go back now.”
Mike stood in front of the metal door until he heard the click that signaled release of the lock. He pushed open the door and went to the second door where he waited again. When he passed through, he saw Sam dressed in regular clothes, sitting in a chair near the booking area. Detective Perkins approached Mike.
“I’m here to see Mr. Miller,” Mike said to Perkins.
“That’s fine. We just finished.”
“Did you question him?” Mike asked, his voice getting louder. “I told you at my house that I was representing him!”
“That’s not what he told us, and you didn’t instruct me not to talk to him.”
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