“Couldn’t agree with you more, Pastor,” I said. “Stuart Thomas Rogers is our president. We might not think he’s doing the job he should be, but on the other hand, we have no way of knowing what obstacles he’s facing or what might be getting in the way of fulfilling those promises. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, at least. Besides, that’s not the problem at the moment. The problem is that he’s coming to Road’s End. That’s what we have to deal with right now, and we don’t have a lot of time to prepare.”
The next thirty minutes were spent answering questions, refereeing arguments, and explaining what the residents should expect from their visit with Special Agent MacElroy.
“Agent MacElroy will be here tomorrow morning, and we've offered him the use of the inn for his interviews. I’ve made copies of the times you’ve all been assigned. Please pick up a copy from Mel as you leave tonight. And folks, let’s all be on time. He has a lot of information to gather, and interviews are just the beginning of his preparations for the visit. By the way, the press knows nothing about this visit, and we’re under strict orders not to say anything to anybody. No friends outside of Road’s End, no family members, and especially not the press. Nobody. Period. Agent MacElroy tells me that anyone caught leaking this information will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
I have no idea what the federal penalty is for leaking gossip, but everyone was impressed enough with the protocol they were told to follow that they didn’t question the orders. It would be a miracle if Mack managed to pull off this visit without a horde of television reporters surrounding the town, but that was his problem. Mine was maintaining control in the meantime, along with repairing the church and preparing for our daughter’s wedding. Frankly, Mack’s measly job of protecting the leader of the free world sounded like a piece of cake compared to what I’d be tackling during the next few days.
Forty-five minutes later, the last of our guests were headed for home, and Mel and I were alone. Bristol offered to help take down and return the chairs to the church, but I thanked him and sent him home to get a good night’s sleep. I had a feeling the next few days were going to be unlike anything Road’s End had ever before seen. And that was saying something after playing roles in both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, being the home to a stop on the Underground Railroad, and surviving last winter’s record-breaking blizzard, not to mention tussling with a gang of kidnappers and would-be killers.
If Stuart Thomas Rogers thought brokering peace in the Middle East was a difficult task, just wait until he came to Road’s End. The president had no idea who he was dealing with.
Not long after hearing the president was coming to town, George and Dewey put their heads together and came up with another one of their brilliant schemes.
George started it. “What this town needs is a security force. The prez is gonna need us, ya know.”
Dewey pumped the air with his fist and fairly screeched, “Yep! This town’s been existin’ without a security force all this time. Now’s the time to take the tail by the horns and find us one!”
“Find one? Are you nuts, Dewey? We got one! Us! You and me and the other guys, and Sadie, a’course, ‘cause she’d kill us otherwise. Don’tcha see? We’re a ready-made, hard core, savvy buncha guerrillas!”
That fried Dewey’s bacon. “Who you callin’ apes, George Washington?”
“Not those kinda gorillas, you big dope. Guerrillas. You know, like those guys that sneak through the jungle and snipe at folks and take down gover’ments and such?”
“Gorillas can do that? I thought they jist sat ‘round eatin’ bananas.”
George dropped his head to his chest and sighed. “How many times I gotta tell ya it’s not those kinda gorillas, Dewey? Are you dense or somethin’? It’s guerillas!”
“That’s what I said, Mr. Smarty Pants. Gorillas!”
“I know what’cher thinkin’, Dewey, and it’s not that kinda gorillas. It’s guerillas!”
That was more than Dewey could take. “You call ’em what you want, but I still don’t think havin’ a bunch of apes wanderin’ ’round town is gonna do us any good. Why don’t we just do it ourselves?”
George opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, “You’re right, Dewey. Let’s get the guys together, and Sadie, a’course, and just do it ourselves. We can call ourselves The Gray Team. Get it? Like the A-Team, only …, well, gray.
Dewey scratched his stomach, cocked his head, and looked to the horizon. “Makes us sound old.” He threw back his shoulders. “We’re still viral men.”
“That’s virile. Viral’s somethin’ like the flu.”
“Oh, well, no never mind. Nobody’s got the flu that I know of, anyway.” Scratch, scratch. “How ‘bout somethin’ like that there movie, Men in Black? You know, the one Tommy Lee …, uh, Dorsey, I think, and Bill Smith was in?”
“Will.”
“Will what?”
“His name was Will Smith. Not Bill.”
“Does he know that?”
“’Course he knows that, you dunderhead,” George said. “It’s his name, for cryin’ out loud. Naw, I don’t like Men in Black. Sounds wimpy.”
“Well, then, Mr. Picky Pants, how ‘bout Gray Ops?”
“Thought you didn’t like usin’ gray. Said it made us sound old.”
It was Dewey’s turn to show disgust. “We’re not old, George,” he said, pointing back and forth between them, then snickered. “But Sadie is.” He realized what he’d just said and stabbed his finger at George. “You tell Sadie I said that ’n’ I’ll tell her you stole that cookie outta her kitchen last week.”
“Deal. Gray Ops, it is. Let’s tell the guys. We got ourselves some trainin’ to do.”
Dewey was crestfallen. Training? “Why train? Thought we was viral.”
“Virile, Dewey. We’re virile. Not viral. The flu’s viral. You wanna be the flu?”
“Heck, no. I’m gonna have enough trouble just bein’ an ape.”
George walked away. “That won’t give you no trouble ’t’all, Dewey. You’re natural born.”
It took a second before Dewey caught on. “Hey! Was that a slam?” No answer. George was hoofing it toward home. Dewey cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Still don’t think we oughta take down the gover’ment.” He turned to head for his own house. “Wouldn’t be polite with the prez here ’n’ all.”
Chapter 10
It took all the fortitude I had and a couple gulps of pink, chalky-tasting, stomach medicine to keep from throwing up the next morning.
Mel had done her best to feed me breakfast, but the rats gnawing at the lining of my stomach said no. They didn’t even want coffee. That wasn’t a good sign.
The interviews were scheduled to begin at 8:00 a.m. I’d agonized whether I should start out slowly and introduce the least odd resident of Road’s End to Special Agent MacElroy at the beginning of the process, to ease him into the land of weird he was wandering into, or dive right in with the strangest person I knew. Trouble was there were far too many strange ones to choose just one, so I took the first option and scheduled Pastor Perry Parry for the earliest time slot.
Pastor Parry led the Christ Is Lord Church before I did; in fact, he’s the one who asked me to accept the position one snowy night right after he’d announced his doctor’s suggestion to retire and take it easy. Since I’d been a chaplain in the Air Force for the previous twenty-seven years, I couldn’t find a decent excuse to turn him down. Besides, how hard could it be? Small town in the middle of nowhere; kind, mellow, senior citizen parishioners. What could go wrong?
After his abrupt retirement, Perry and Hazel planned to join their children and grandchildren in a warmer climate, but chose, instead, to remain in Road’s End for a while longer. “It’s too exciting to move now,” Pastor Parry told me one Sunday after the “Road’s End Raid” had come to a tumultuous close, complete with charred Hummer parts all over town and black and blue marks on at least one limb of
everyone involved. That’s a lot of black and blue marks; we were one banged-up little town for a while there.
Anyway, Pastor Parry was scheduled for 8:00 a.m., with Hazel immediately following at eight thirty. I figured I’d lull Special Agent MacElroy into a sense of security with the innocence and relative non-lunacy of the Parrys before subjecting him to the rest of the town, whose mental conditions hovered somewhere between slightly peculiar and borderline psychotic.
Agent MacElroy arrived at 7:15 a.m., declined a cup of coffee or breakfast, and excused himself to do a preliminary investigation of the grounds, perhaps on the lookout for crazed senior citizens bent on beating the daylights out of him. Since he was twice the size of any two of us put together, and armed to boot, he didn’t have a thing to worry about. Still, we’re talking about Road’s End here. The guy had a point.
At 7:59 AM Mack stepped back into the kitchen, and I escorted him to the dining room where Pastor Parry sat on the right side of the table with his back to the buffet. Mack would oversee the interviews from the other side. His tape recorder, legal pad, and a selection of pens sat arrayed in front of him.
Mel had brewed fresh coffee and lined up a mouthwatering array of Sadie’s coffeecakes, still warm from the oven, on the buffet behind Perry. I’m not sure what kind they were, but as long as Sadie baked them, they could be brown sugar-cinnamon grass clippings, and I’d love them. I introduced the men to one another, offered them coffee and something to eat, and left the room. I noticed that Perry nearly upended his chair getting to the goodies; Mack stayed put.
I reasoned that I wasn’t eavesdropping because Mack hadn’t specifically told me not to listen in on the interviews. If I sat just inside the kitchen door with my chair at a right angle to the table, leaned forty-five degrees to the left, shushed Melanie, cupped my ear, and peeked around the door frame every other second, I could hear most of the conversation and see most of what was going on. I salved my conscience by telling myself I was doing the United States a great favor by protecting its president from the curious vagaries of the residents of Road’s End, Virginia—the likes of which, I was pretty sure, he’d never faced.
The interview started off innocently enough. After verifying he would tape the conversation, Mack asked the usual questions I imagine an agent would ask someone whose town was being visited by the POTUS.
“Name?”
“Perry Parry.”
“What?”
“Perry Parry. First name with an ‘e’. Last name with an ‘a.’”
Mack looked perplexed, but then everyone does when they hear Perry’s name. “All right then. Profession?”
“Former pastor of the Christ Is Lord Church here in Road’s End.”
“For how long?”
“Forty years.”
“Length of time in town?”
“Forty years.”
“Married?”
“Yep.”
“How long? Wait, let me guess. Forty years.”
Perry nodded. “Yep.”
“Children?”
“Three. Larry’s the oldest. He’s fifty-five. Lives in Denver. Garry’s the middle one. He’s … let me see now … he’s fifty-three. Tallahassee.” He cocked his head and thought a minute, then nodded. “Yep, fifty-three. And the youngest lives in Tupelo. He’s fifty. Name’s Terry.”
Mack emitted a half-choke, and his eyes opened wide. “Your name is Perry Parry and you named your three boys Larry, Garry, and Terry?”
“Right you are. We wanted a girl, but Hazel had some troubles with Terry and well, you know how it is. The Good Lord saw fit not to bless us with a girl. Had a name picked out and everything, but just didn’t work out.”
“Let me guess. Mary? Sherry?”
Perry cocked his head to one side and frowned. “No. Veronica Genevieve. Why …?”
“Never mind. Let’s continue.”
Mack eased the tape recorder a little closer to Perry, then said, “Are you a terrorist?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you hate the President of the United States?”
“Good heavens, man! No, of course not. Why would you even suggest that?”
“Just answer the questions, sir.”
Perry nodded and mumbled under his breath. It was all downhill after that.
“Are you plotting to overthrow the United States government or any of its territories? Have you ever owned a weapon? Do you have any allergies?
Allergies?
“Ever killed anyone? Ever been fired from a government position? Have you ever spied or worked for a foreign government, specifically an enemy of the United States?” On and on it went. The dumber the questions, the more frustrated Perry became. It didn’t go much better with Hazel, although Mack saved himself a good chunk of time by skipping the names and ages of the kids.
The morning wore on. Bristol Diggs, Joe Rich, Rudy Wallenberg, and Emma River filled the slots from 9:00 to 11:00 a.m. It went about as well as I expected. Mack was no-nonsense and those he questioned were alternately gracious, miffed, enthusiastic, ornery, solicitous, and offended. Mostly offended. These first interviews were just a dress rehearsal for the real thing, though. I’d saved the best for last, and I hoped he was ready for them.
I’d scheduled in a thirty-minute break at 11:00 a.m., so after Emma left, I brought Mack a glass of iced tea and a grilled cheese sandwich that Mel had thoughtfully prepared for him since he’d skipped breakfast. I tried to get a feel for how it was going, but he was having nothing of it. He seemed … how do I say this? Appalled.
Promptly at eleven thirty, Grace Headley walked into the room and sat down. I thought Mack was going to dive under the table; after all, she’d beat the stuffin’ out of him the day before. But he recovered nicely and after giving the room a quick sweep with his eyes—probably worried about Ruby Mae lurking in the corner with a marriage license in hand—he got down to business. I quietly left the room and resumed my surveillance.
He nodded at her and said, “Miss Headley, good morning.”
“’Morning, Agent MacElroy. Nice day.”
“Yes, it is.” Before he could continue, Grace began her own investigation. “Now what is it you want to ask me? I know the president’s coming to town. Does he know he’s unpopular in these parts? Does he plan to address our questions? Is he prepared to justify his behavior since he took office?” She leaned toward Mack, looked him in the eye, and tapped her finger on the tabletop with each question.
Special Agent Ross MacElroy was learning something about Grace that I’ve known since I took over the pulpit at the Christ Is Lord Church. She isn’t one to sit quietly and be investigated. She believes in reciprocity. If she’s going to be asked to prove she’s loyal to the President of the United States, then, by golly, he’d darned well better be worthy of that loyalty. No two ways about it. Trustworthiness breeds allegiance—not the other way around. Full confidence in our leaders, a belief that they’re doing the jobs they were voted into office to do, is earned by their actions, by keeping promises, by upholding the Constitution and maintaining truthfulness with the voters who put him or her in their particular leadership role. I know for a fact that Grace respects our leaders and believes they’re appointed by God, although she’s perplexed at the reasons for some of those appointments, but as for wholeheartedly supporting their actions—well, that’s a measure of respect she feels they must earn.
And it was clear from the conversations I’ve had with Grace Headley about the job performance of our current president that Stuart Thomas Rogers had some explaining to do.
Chapter 11
Jonathan Sterling had a lot on his mind. He paced from one end of his cubicle to the other, a journey of about seven steps, hands behind his back, eyes closed. If he’d been a praying man, he’d have been sending them up one after another. As it was, he’d given up prayer a long time ago—about four years ago, to be exact. Never again. Those two words had been his mantra hundreds of times over the past few years. Never, ev
er again. Every time he looked at his little boy, Tanner, he remembered that God had abandoned the two of them the minute his wife—Tanner’s mother, Jillian—had decided life was too difficult with a newborn baby to raise and a struggling journalist for a husband and had driven off into the night and straight into the path of a municipal snowplow.
The police had declared her death accidental, but Jonathan knew better. Jillian had been suffering from severe postpartum depression and no amount of love from him or counseling from friends or therapists, even the soft cries of their baby, a child she had longed for with every fiber of her being, could ease her mind. In the end, she chose to remove herself from their lives forever.
And God stood by and watched it all.
But as painful as those memories were to Jonathan, they weren’t the cause of his pacing this morning. He and Tanner had survived after Jillian’s death—not happily, not with any joy in those early months, and certainly with no hope of love, aside from one another’s, for the future. But one breath trailed another, heartbeat followed heartbeat, and time passed. Tanner was now nearly four years old and had developed into a bright, rambunctious, and sweet little boy. He could charm the grease off a griddle, and Jonathan was relieved to find he had quite a knack for this fathering thing. He was finally getting the hang of being a single dad.
Then he’d met Amanda Foster, and life began to fray at the edges once more. Mandy was intelligent, quiet, talented, and worked in the same overseas office in which he was doing an internship. Her demure manner belied an outrageous sense of humor, and for the first time in a long time, Jonathan began to laugh again. The first night she met Tanner, the two of them baked cupcakes together after dinner while Jonathan put the finishing touches on a story for the morning edition. He marveled as he watched her stand back and let Tanner decorate each cupcake by himself. It was a confectionary horror, but the little boy was inordinately pleased with his artistic abilities. They choked down twenty-four M&M-encrusted cupcakes over the next few evenings, exclaiming over their beauty the entire time. Tanner didn’t stop grinning for a week.
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