This was his last chance. Either he took out the president or he’d die trying. Too bad Mack had to go, too, but hey, Mack knew what he was signing on for when he decided to spend his career guarding the POTUS. He liked Mack, but business was business. No time for sentimentality in his line of work.
He inched closer, slithering over the wet ground like a snake. Night vision was great, but bulky. He’d had to buy his goggles over the Internet to avoid raising suspicion, so they weren’t the best, but in the blackout created by the storm, they were coming in handy. He knew that Mack didn’t have any, so that gave him an advantage.
He had them pinned down for the moment, but Mack would take the offensive eventually. He knew he couldn’t afford to sit back and wait. If Mack called for backup, a chopper could arrive any time.
I admit to being an impatient man at times. Yes, I’m a pastor and I know better. God is supremely patient with me, and I should do the same for my fellow man. But honestly, why am I constantly dodging bullets in this yard? What is it about Road’s End that attracts the criminally insane, mean-spirited, gun-toting people we seem to run across every few months?
I had a brand new grandson being pressed into a pancake beneath me, and the president beside me, also being flattened, not to mention a camel above me. Somewhere beside me, a maniac was shooting at the President of the United States. Trouble everywhere I looked.
This night would end in one of two ways. But we’d already witnessed a divine intervention, and I had no reason to believe the Lord would save us from a tornado, then let a two-bit murderer shoot STR. Besides, having the President of the United States killed in my backyard wasn’t going to go over well, so I might as well make sure the night ended on a happy note.
I leaned even closer, if that was possible, to Tanner’s ear and whispered, “Do you still have that flashlight, Tanner? The one you got from the shelf in the dairy? Don’t talk. Just nod if you do.”
I felt a slight nod as the back of his head grazed my chin.
“Can you hand it to me slowly?”
Another nod. A little wiggling, and I felt him tug it out from under his belly. Poor kid was lying on it. “Thank you, Tanner. Now do exactly as I say, okay?”
More nodding. This was going to be the tough part. The door to the dairy was still open, and we were about two, maybe three feet from it. If the gunman had his eyes trained on Mack and STR, I might be able to slowly edge my way off Tanner’s back and on to my side, shielding him from view. Then if I created a disturbance, Tanner could scurry into the dairy and hide behind the antique farm plow—it had some cast iron on it that would hide him and protect him, horror of horrors, from stray bullets—while I did my best to help Mack get rid of this guy once and for all. I’d had a long, long day, and it was time to go to bed.
I explained to Tanner what my plan was, asked if he had any questions. He wanted to know what Mommy and Daddy were going to name a new baby when they had one ... geesh. I started to explain there wasn’t any new baby but thought better of it. “I don’t know, buddy. Let’s ask when we go back inside, okay? Any questions about our plan?”
He shook his head as if Grandpa were a simpleton. It’s a simple plan, Gwampa. I go into the dairy. You save Uncle Pwesident and take care of the bad guy. Come on now, let’s get this thing over with. I gave him a big kiss, squeezed his little shoulders, and told him I loved him.
I couldn’t talk anything over with Mack, so I just whispered, “Mack, be ready!”
I thought I saw a nod. That would have to be good enough.
It took a good two minutes for me to sidle my way to the ground to hide Tanner completely from view. So far, so good. Either the gunman didn’t care what I was doing or didn’t see me. From the direction the last bullet had come, I figured he had to be lying in the grass beyond our range of vision. He probably had his eyes trained on Mack and STR, which was a good thing. A very good thing.
I had the flashlight in my right hand, which was now up over my head. Not very comfortable considering I was still lying prone on the grass, but it was the only way I could keep it where I could use it at a moment’s notice. That moment happened quicker than I imagined.
Before I could tell Tanner it was time to shimmy over to the dairy, a fuzzy blur ran past us at lightning speed.
Pewter. Thank You, Lord. I don’t know how she got back in there, but I’m glad she did.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. Pewter dashed from the dairy, straight past Tanner and me, then made a flying leap and plastered herself, claws extended, into the rear end of Sophie, who, by this time, was no longer channeling Joe Cool. More like ... well, like a camel attacked from the rear by a cat. I pieced a lot of this together later, since we were operating in the dark while it happened. The only person who probably got a good look at it while it was happening was the guy with the night vision goggles. And he wouldn’t have good vision for long.
I gave Tanner a mighty shove, and he practically somersaulted into the dairy.
I leaped to all fours—well, leaped might be an exaggeration. Quickly staggered is probably more accurate. “Behind the plow, Tanner! Behind the plow!”
I heard a little, “You betcha, Gwampa,” just as I flicked on the flashlight and scanned the yard for our shooter, well aware I was making myself a very lame, very stupid, very big and easy target. To my credit, I did bob and weave, but that was more from bad knees than any good planning on my part. I rolled to the right to keep any stray bullets directed my way from heading toward the dairy and Tanner, then just at the right moment—thank You, Lord—saw a glimmer of the reflection from my flashlight on the shooter’s goggles.
I focused my beam and heard an agonized cry as the goggles magnified the light and temporarily blinded him. But he was determined; I’ll give him that. He rolled away from my light, back onto his stomach, and took aim.
It wasn’t at me, though, that he aimed. I scrambled to my feet and leveled my flashlight at him the best I could. Then like my furry hero before me, I leaped into the air and landed right on top of Mack, who was still on top of President Rogers, who was going to need some oxygen real soon now. Stupid move, in hindsight, but I guess I thought my adding to the pile would somehow protect the president and keep the flashlight glare in the shooter’s eyes. It didn’t matter anyway, because Mac threw me off like I was a stuffed teddy bear, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
I heard the guy scream, figured he was down for the count, and lay there panting, while Mack checked the president for bruises or asphyxiation problems. All that couldn’t have taken two seconds, but when Mack grabbed the flashlight to shine it on his victim and would-be presidential assassin, the man was gone.
George looked around at the men surrounding him. They, like him, were having the time of their lives. They’d stuffed enough food into their pockets and inside their shirts to last through the night, they had lanterns to light the church basement, and bore holes to shoot their rusty guns through. If all had gone as planned, Joe and Rudy had escorted Senator Gilbert Austin to his new “safe” quarters under the basement of the inn—the old slave tunnel used by the inn’s owners as a part of the Underground Railroad during the Civil War.
Sherman was delighted at Austin’s dilemma. “He’s gonna be one mad politician when he gits outta there, ain’t he, Granddad?” Gilbert Austin had insulted Sherman by calling him a stupid redneck who wouldn’t know the Emperor of China if he bit him on the neck, so Sherman was more than happy to see the man get his comeuppance.
“Would, too, know the em-per,” he protested to his granddad earlier that night. “He was the one over there eatin’ chips,” he said, pointing to one of the serving tables. “Just as plain as day, he was, and he wasn’t chompin’ on no necks, neither. Geesh, that guy think I’m stupid?”
Now they were in the dimly lit, borehole-riddled, dirt floor basement of the Christ Is Lord Church in the middle of the worst storm the town had ever seen. They’d even cleverly, in their minds, rigged up an auto-sho
ot weapon. They stuck Dewey’s pistol through one of the boreholes with one end of a string tied to the trigger and the other around a sapling a few yards into the grassy expanse beyond. The idea was that if someone took careful note of George’s hint and had need of a hiding place, they’d trip the trigger by snagging the string with their foot on their way to the cave. This would free up the men to play tic-tac-toe, insult one another, and eat all night instead of actually watching for the bad guys.
Their chances of success were one in three trillion.
But wouldn’t you know it, two minutes after Mack first shot the would-be assassin, the guy managed to get himself shot a second time. Not the best of nights for bad guys, but pretty good for laying a bet against impossible odds.
When I heard yet another gunshot coming from the direction of the church, followed by an ear-piercing scream, I knew immediately what happened. Someone got himself ankle-shot, and I had a bunch of senior citizens about to be charged with attempted murder.
When Mack left to investigate, he warned me to stay with the president, and I was more than happy to oblige. After carefully leading a skittish Sophie back into the dairy and making a mental note to hang Sherman DeSoto in the morning for leaving her there, and hugging him for the very same reason—after all, she and Pewter did help save our lives—STR, Tanner, and I trudged up the back steps and into the inn. The kitchen teemed with folks streaming up the basement stairs, congratulating one another on surviving the night’s activities, and heading for the refreshment tables.
Mandy’s tear-streaked face met mine right after we came in the door. I pointed downward at the little towhead beside me, and she nearly vaulted over Winnie Wyandotte to get to him. Seconds later, Jonathan burst through the back door. The reunion was complete. I don’t think the three of them let go of one another for the next two days.
I walked through the house, looking for any damage. Not easy, considering we were still depending on candlepower. Aside from some water on the dining room floor and a couple of branches lying on the front steps, the inn had come away unscathed. I’d check more carefully in the morning, but for the time being, all was well.
I turned to go back to the kitchen. The dining room was crowded enough already, but just then George, Dewey, Leo, Sherman, and Dodge trudged in looking despondent. Going on trial for murder does that to a person, I guess. I started to say something to Pastor Parry when I spotted a familiar black suit through the press of senior citizens giddy with relief at not being dead and still having snacks to enjoy. He walked away, though, so I leaned against the table and made small talk with Perry.
I heard a commotion in the kitchen and looked up just in time to see Mack walk in the back door, dragging another black-suited man behind him. Not too gently, I might add, considering the guy was shot in the ankle. Turns out it wasn't the ankle, but rather the calf they injured, although I bet he’ll have a limp for the rest of his life. That accounted for the sad looks of my Road’s End men—if you can’t shoot a guy in the ankle, what’s the use of shooting him to begin with?
Also turns out it wasn’t Old Eagle Eye Reynolds, as I had suspected. Wet, scruffy, about to go down in the annals of all-time American bad guys, and worst of all, bleeding on Mel’s floor, stood former agent Artie Sandborn. And from what I could hear, he was slinging blame all over the place. It just so happened that Senator Gilbert Austin’s name was at the top of his list of fellow bad guys.
Well, I’ll be doggoned.
Chapter 46
In a delightful turn of events that only God could orchestrate, the next morning dawned with bright sunshine and blue skies. Not a breeze nor wispy cloud marred the pristine air. It was as if after the turmoil of the world’s brutal lashing the night before, we'd been put in an earth-sized dryer on fluff cycle, gently tossed by the refreshing breeze until all vestiges of the thunderstorm’s violent outburst were removed.
But what was left in the earth-sized dryer vent would fill several dump trucks. Branches, ranging in size from tiny sticks to the one that clobbered Sadie, fallen leaves, and assorted debris from yards all over town littered the inn’s yard, as well as the church’s and the homes of everyone in town. Unbelievably, the only damage done, aside from the downed vegetation, was a barn on Leo Walling’s pig farm. No news yet on any porcine deaths, but at least his house was spared.
I looked around at Mel’s soggy herb garden and the twigs snagged by shrubs and sticking out like porcupine quills, and thanked God for about the tenth time that morning for His provision and protection. Mel and I had ventured outdoors with the newlyweds first thing and stood in the middle of the front yard, which was surprisingly devoid of puddles or barns, or pigs, for that matter. There would be no outdoor reception today. Jonathan and Mandy shook their heads and grinned when Mel and I told them there was no way we could get the yard picked up, let alone dried out, by that afternoon. Next month, maybe.
“No offense, Hugh and Melanie,” Jonathan said, “but we gave up on that last night when we heard the crash on the roof. The best reception we could ever hope to have is the one God gave us this morning when we woke up. What was that last night, by the way?”
Mel spoke up. “Bristol told us this morning it was a lightning strike. Surprising the inn didn’t burn down, but then he thinks it probably didn’t hit the inn at all. Just close enough that it sounded like it did.” She glanced upward. “He’ll double-check later on today, but we were lucky.”
Lucky? Mel realized her mistake immediately. “Well, I guess lucky isn’t the word for it, is it?”
No one said anything. Didn’t have to; we all knew what she meant.
I rocked on my heels and clasped my hands together. “So ... who’s ready for church?”
The residents of Road’s End were in a mood to worship. The church was filled to the bullet-riddled rafters—courtesy of Dewey Wyandotte’s rusty pistol last December—with worshippers, both members and non-members of the Christ Is Lord Church. Nothing like a divine miracle to snag a person’s attention.
It took the usual ten minutes after I motioned to my parishioners that the service was about to begin before it actually did. Stuart Thomas Rogers, Mack, Irene Austin, Eagle-Eye Reynolds, Melanie, Jonathan, Mandy, Tanner, and Sadie, sporting a scratched-up face and a big bandage wrapped around her head, sat in the front pews. Senator Gilbert Austin was conspicuously absent from his wife’s side, but I’d venture to say that not a soul in the place missed him. Artie Sandborn, Mack-wannabe and now disgraced former Secret Service agent, was also not in attendance. Considering his dastardly deed, no one missed him either.
I leaned forward and placed my hands on the sides of the pulpit, looked around the sanctuary at the now familiar faces before me, and cleared my throat. I’d like to think it was my allergies acting up, but truth be known, I was a little choked-up to see all those who meant the most to me in this world—my family, my friends, my neighbors, and even my Commander-in-Chief—safe and sound, relatively speaking, in front of me.
“Thank you for coming out to worship this morning, folks. I know we had a little excitement last night, and you didn’t get a lot of sleep.” Laughs, guffaws, titters all around. Ruby Mae yelled, “Amen!” Grace put her hand on her mother’s arm, probably to keep her from jumping out of the pew and knocking someone out with her goin’ to church the mornin’ after a tornado hat. After last night, she’d have her pick of branches and vines for her millinery creations for the next six months.
“Thank you, Ruby Mae. Our continued existence on this earth definitely merits an amen. I had a different sermon in mind for this morning, but in light of recent events, I think I can table that for another time and just wing it today. Hope that’s okay with you folks.”
No one objected, so I took that as permission to speak off-the-cuff and from the heart.
“Yesterday, as you may remember, we held a wedding right here in this sanctuary.” I grinned and pointed to Jonathan, Mandy, and Tanner. “We made a family, didn’t we, Tanner?”
He grinned his thousand-watt smile and said, “You betcha, Gwampa!”
“And before God and I pronounced Jonathan and Mandy man and wife, I promised you folks I’d continue my discussion of Tanner’s question to me right after I met him Thursday afternoon.” I pressed on. “If you’ll recall, he asked me, do you love me yet? I then posed another question to all of you—namely, Has there ever been a more important question asked? I hope you’ve all had some time to think about that. Perhaps the events of last night will help you put that question into perspective.”
What followed was some bottom shifting, tie adjusting, cuff straightening—the usual methods people use when they don’t want to look their pastor in the eye. Undeterred, I continued, “Let me put it another way, my friends. When Jesus opens His heart to us, offering salvation and hope and joy and an eternity in His presence and in the presence of His Holy Father, what does He get?”
Silence. Even Frank didn’t snore, which meant he was either dead—unlikely, absent—even more unlikely, or awake, the least likely of all. I made a mental note to make sure he was still in the earthly realm before I left the church.
I walked from behind the pulpit and took a few steps to my left, hands clasped behind my back, before I turned and walked in the other direction. Took me all of three seconds, but I wanted them to think about what I’d just said before I continued.
I stopped and faced the congregation. “He gets us.” I stretched out my arms and gestured to include the group of people in front of me then pointed with both hands to myself. “Us.”
Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2) Page 27