A Sounding Brass

by Shelley Bates

  “How are we doing?” Luke stuck his head in her office door.

  “Almost fourteen thousand, between last night and this morning. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d say it was impossible.”

  “God’s work is never impossible. Sometimes improbable and often unbelievable, but not impossible.”

  She laughed. “You’re right.”

  “If we apply for access to the repeater tower on Mount Ayres, we can broadcast to an even wider audience. I’ve got Toby working on that now. In the meantime, it’s time for the mobile unit.”

  She saluted. “You’re the boss.”

  He leaned on her doorjamb, looking casual in khakis and a button-down shirt. His chestnut hair curled around his ears and Claire fought a sudden urge to walk over and smooth it back.

  “God’s the boss, otherwise our ministry wouldn’t have this much power.” Which confirmed what she’d just been thinking. “I’ve got our unit all picked out; it’s just a matter of handing over a down payment and then getting it outfitted with broadcasting equipment.”

  “Do you want me to cut you a check?”

  He grinned at her. “You read my mind. When my show’s over I’ll drive up to Spokane and buy it. No point in waiting. God’s time is now.”

  “But won’t you need someone to drive it back for you? How are you going to get both vehicles back down here?” Not that she was fishing for an invitation, but she hadn’t been to Spokane in ages. Maybe they’d have a late lunch together before they went to the dealership. She couldn’t think of anything she’d like better than a long conversation with someone as interesting as Luke. They were practically on the same wavelength. And then maybe he’d see that—

  “I may as well have it outfitted while I’m there. And we’ll need to get the station’s logo painted on it, too. All that will probably take the rest of the week.”

  “If you tell me where and what, I’ll get it set up for you.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I know what we need. I’ll take care of it. What I need you to do is handle the back end when the bills come in.”

  “Will it be expensive?” She was used to handling large amounts of money at the bank, but that was in a corporate environment. Here at the station, the money almost seemed bigger because the environment was so small and intimate.

  “I won’t lie to you. The broadcasting equipment will probably cost as much as the van, even if I get some of it on the used market. But look at it this way—God will provide for our needs as long as we use it to glorify Him. Right?”

  “Right. Oh, by the way, a guy from Amato and Son called. A first pass at the worship center’s design is ready, and he wants to get on your calendar to go over it.”

  “No kidding? Wow, they must be hard up for business if they got that through so fast. Maybe we’re their only client.”

  Claire thought that was highly unlikely. Amato was the only design firm in the valley, and with the discount store going in and all the people who had come into the bank wanting custom homes, he had to be busy. “Should I set him up for tomorrow?”

  “Sure, right after the morning show. Then I can bring the drawings to Gathering on Sunday and get people behind the plan. Somehow seeing something on paper makes it more real than just my running off at the mouth about it.”

  She’d hardly call his style “running off at the mouth,” but his self-deprecating humor was endearing.

  “Okay, so.” He held up a hand and began counting down on his fingers. “Ten thousand to Cascade Chevrolet for the van, and ten thousand to the Good Shepherd Church for the homeless program—those are the ones we talked about last week. I’ll get you their addresses. A thousand to Amato and Son for a deposit on the drawings, and . . . are we missing anybody?”

  “Five hundred to the food bank in lieu of my bonus,” Claire reminded him.

  “Right. If you get those cut today, I can drop off the Amato one and mail the others.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty seconds left. Thanks, Claire.”

  He spun out of her doorway, and moments later she heard his smooth voice back-calling the previous couple of songs. By now she was used to the rhythm of the station, where conversations happened in multiples of three minutes, and silences fell when Luke was talking, even though the DJ’s booth itself was soundproof. It would be just her luck to be yakking on the phone with someone the day Luke forgot to shut the door, and everyone within five counties would hear her in the background.

  He came back after launching another song and gave her the addresses of the ministries on his omnipresent yellow sticky notes. If anyone took them away from him, he probably wouldn’t be able to function, she thought with a smile as she stuck them to the sides of her monitor and began to prepare the checks.

  Okay, one to Pastor Richard Myers, care of Good Shepherd at a P.O. box in some little town across the state line in Idaho, one to Amato, one to the food bank, and one to the Chevy dealership. When the checks printed, she signed her name carefully on each one, not without a sense of happiness.

  This was ministry. Not fighting with your hair every morning in the hopes that someone would be impressed with your so-called example and ask a question about what you believed. No, real ministry was supporting the work of God, buying food for people who had none. This was service. This was what God wanted.

  Thank heaven for Luke, who had opened their eyes at last.

  * * *

  THE SERGEANT’S PHONE rolled over to his cell and rang twice before he picked it up. “OCTF, Harmon.”

  “It’s Harper.”

  “You still out there, running up motel bills?”

  “Yes, but I’ve got a good reason. I’ve tied Brandon Boanerges to Luke Fisher and a character called Richard Brandon Myers, formerly of Hollyweird, California.”

  “Tied them together as in they’re all the same guy?”

  “Yes, sir. And I’m seeing a pattern of increasingly serious fraud. First petty crime, then an Internet ministry that led to this lonely hearts thing in our files, and now . . .” Ray’s voice trailed off as he tried to think of what Luke Fisher might be up to next.

  “Now?” Harmon prompted.

  “He’s spinning records at a gospel radio station, and I haven’t figured out what he’s up to.” Ray’s voice was a little flat. Harmon wasn’t going to go for this.

  “Christian radio. Harper, did it ever occur to you that maybe the guy saw the light and decided to go straight?”

  Ray pinched the bridge of his nose while the plain beige carpet on his motel room’s floor blurred as he closed his eyes. “Yeah, it occurred to me. I just don’t think it’s likely.”

  “And why is that?”

  Harmon wasn’t going to buy it. He wasn’t going to let him stay here on the state’s dime until he figured out what Fisher was up to.

  “Because it’s my opinion that this guy Myers, Boanerges, Fisher, whatever you want to call him, is exhibiting the behavior of a sociopath. He doesn’t feel emotion, so he can perpetrate these scams on people and just walk away. A sociopath doesn’t get a revelation about God and turn over a new leaf, because to him God is just an abstract, like anger or love, which he can’t feel. He can’t have a relationship with God because he can’t feel it. And therefore God won’t change his behavior.”

  “Since when are you a psychologist?” Harmon wanted to know.

  “I listen to textbooks on tape, sir. I have the depositions from these women who say that Boanerges was just going through the motions of courtship behavior, that they never really felt that he loved them. That makes a certain personality type try harder to get his attention, which is why he was so successful.”

  “So, how does this relate to him now? This guy playing Christian music at this station?”

  “If his behavior is escalating, I’m thinking he’s got something bigger than lonely hearts up his sleeve. I just don’t know what it is, yet. Everything he’s doing seems to be legit, and he’s got the community squarely behind him.”

  “
So, other than sitting around drinking coffee and waiting for him to rob a bank, what’s your plan?”

  “He’s gotten himself involved in this church Ross Malcolm and I have both investigated. You know, the Elect of God.”

  “Malcolm did the case where the Elder’s wife had Munchausen’s by Proxy, yeah, and you arrested their head guy, who’s a rapist. Nice bunch of people you hang around with.”

  “They are a nice bunch of people, in the main. So nice that I don’t think a guy like Fisher can resist setting them up for something.”

  “Another week.”

  “What if that’s not enough time? Whatever he’s got cooking could take months.”

  “You’re not staying out there for months unless it’s on an unpaid leave of absence. Do what you can in another week. Then you’re coming back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Harper?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do your best to nail this guy. I really hate lowlifes masquerading as Christians. It gives us all a bad name.”

  His boss hung up with his customary abruptness, and Ray blinked in surprise. Five years of working under him and he’d never suspected the good sergeant swung that way.

  * * *

  WHATEVER CLAIRE HAD been expecting when she walked into Gathering at the hall on Sunday, it wasn’t the rainbow of color she saw. Mixed in with the holdouts who were not convinced you could just decide that wearing black was no longer a standard of godly behavior were those who embraced this brave new approach wholeheartedly. Linda Bell wore—ouch—orange. All the singles edged toward the new standard in brown, beige, blue, and green. The teenagers had gone all out and sported flowered skirts in hot pink and lime. People who were undecided chose a black skirt with a muted blouse in white or gray.

  Clearly the stores in Hamilton Falls, Pitchford, and even Spokane had been raking in the sales this past week as Elect women came out of their closets in droves. Even Rebecca, Claire saw with amazement, wore a pretty silvery gray outfit that complemented her hair perfectly.

  “You look lovely,” she whispered to Rebecca as she sat next to her.

  “Black never did anything for me,” Rebecca whispered back. “But there was no point in getting a bad spirit about it, was there, since there were lots of other women in worse shape than I. Poor Julia with her red hair, for instance. That green is very nice on you. It matches your eyes.”

  Claire had wondered if she would stick out like a sore thumb as the only person wearing color in the entire congregation. But as she’d put on the stylish little mail-order skirt and jacket this morning, she’d told herself that she was supporting Luke and Owen. If they said it was time for a change, then that was good enough for her. It was liberating, in a way, to see her sisters in Christ smiling at each other and passing around compliments like candy. But just in case anyone went overboard, there was always Alma Woods and her little flock of cronies, dressed in black as usual, as though it were a badge of righteousness, and staring daggers at Rebecca.

  “I don’t think Alma cares for gray,” she pointed out, leaning close to Rebecca’s ear.

  “I don’t think Alma cares for anything,” Rebecca answered tartly. “She probably thinks eating liver and parsnips is counted unto her for righteousness, too.”

  Claire stifled a giggle, and the service began. Halfway through the first hymn, the street door opened, and a ripple went through the room as Ray Harper made his way up the aisle, stepped over the knees of four people, including Rebecca, and settled on Claire’s other side.

  “Hello again,” he said.

  Claire stopped herself from looking around to see who was staring. “Hello. Hymn 156.” She was going to have to have a little talk with him about seating etiquette. Ray couldn’t know that by sitting with her in more than one Gathering, he had just declared to everyone present that he was interested in her. Now she would have to fend off the concern of people like Rebecca and Linda Bell, who would feel it necessary to caution her about the dangers of looking Outside.

  After testimony time and the closing prayer, Owen announced another hymn. “We’re going to sing number 284, ‘The Faithful Carpenter,’” he said. “I think it’s very appropriate given what Luke is going to talk to us about after the service.”

  Melanie Bell, who was playing the piano, launched into the opening chords and Owen led them in song.

  The carpenter is standing

  On a barren plot of ground

  But in his mind the house is complete and new.

  He uses all his years of skill

  To make the foundation sound

  Look up, carpenter, the walls must be straight and true.

  Her foundations were sound. Even if he decided to become Elect, Ray Harper just wasn’t her kind of guy. He was a cop, for one thing, and didn’t cops carry guns in order to shoot people? She’d never seen a gun on him, but still. At least he wasn’t as intimidating as he used to be. When he’d hugged Dinah the other night, she’d seen he was capable of softness—tenderness, even, for a friend. And now it was somewhat endearing to see the battered leather cover of the hymnbook held so awkwardly in his hands. He had nice hands, she had to give him that, whether they actually held a gun or not.

  He’s labored all his life

  To build a temple unseen

  Its walls are strong, its rooms are filled with love.

  He invites his Lord to dwell there

  Whatever cost it means

  Look up, carpenter, and peace will come from above.

  Peace was in short supply in her life lately, between the excitement of working for Luke and the unsettled feelings she was having about Ray—not to mention what he was doing to her reputation. But hadn’t she been moaning not so long ago that she needed some stirring up? Did that count as an answered prayer, too?

  Now he stands in that great doorway

  That leads to heaven and home

  He sees the roofs of those heavenly mansions fair

  His journey now is ended

  No more on earth to roam

  Look up, carpenter, the Savior awaits you there.

  As the last notes died away, Luke Fisher walked to the front with a long roll of paper in one hand. Claire straightened and marshaled her straying thoughts into order. It had to be the plans for the worship center. What would people say? Would they get behind the vision, or would they murmur politely and fade away, which was the usual Elect way of indicating disapproval without actually being accused of judging their neighbor by saying so.

  Luke adjusted the microphone and smiled at the crowd the way the angel must have smiled at Mary when he told her the good news about her pregnancy. “God is good,” he said. “Thanks to people who have responded to His promptings in their hearts, we’ve been able to make a down payment on a mobile station, give to worthy ministries, donate to our own food bank, and . . .” He shook out the drawings and Owen began taping them to the wall behind him. “. . . begin designing the Hamilton Falls Worship Center.” He motioned to the crowd. “Come on up and look. I had them make multiple copies so everyone could see.”

  Claire was one of the first to the front, followed closely by Ray. The drawing showed a huge central hall (Seating capacity 1,000 said the caption), with a kitchen in one wing and several breakout conference rooms in the other. Down a path were cabins and a smaller building that held gatherings of as many as fifty. There was an administration building with offices and a couple of dormitories (Capacity 50 beds). The gathering rooms had fireplaces and large windows that looked out on the lake, and each cabin had its own view.

  “This is beautiful,” Claire breathed, almost to herself. “No one has ever thought of something like this before. It’s amazing.”

  “He’s amazing,” Maggie Bell, Linda’s widowed sister-in-law, sighed. “You’re so lucky to work with him, Claire. I don’t know how you get anything done.”

  Did she think Claire spent her days with her chin in her hand, gazing dreamily through the studio windo
w? “I take my job seriously, that’s how,” she replied. “To everyone else it may just be accounting, but to Luke it’s the Lord’s work.”

  “And you get to help him with it.” Maggie shot her a sidelong glance. “So . . . is anything going on between the two of you?”

  For half a second, Claire debated. If she said yes, Maggie would back off. But you could guarantee Luke would hear about it, and that would be embarrassing if he didn’t feel the same way. If she said no, the field would be wide open. But the field was wide open now. Better to stick to the truth.

  “He’s very focused on God’s work,” she said. “So far there hasn’t been time for anything else.”

  “Oh,” Maggie said with a rising and falling inflection that told Claire the black-and-white flag had just fallen at the racetrack. Well, the widow was welcome to make a fool of herself if she wanted. Claire still had the inside lane.

  “And are you just as focused on God’s work?”

  She practically jumped out of her skin at the low voice behind her. She’d thought Ray had moved on through the crowd after looking at the drawings.

  “Of course,” she answered. Well, what else could she say?

  “No distractions, huh.” Though he spoke from just behind her shoulder, he kept his gaze on the drawings hanging in front of them as if they were the most interesting things in the world. They were practically alone in the crowd; Maggie had already drifted purposefully in Luke’s direction.

  “And what does it matter to you?” she murmured. Her distractions or lack thereof were none of his business.

  “It matters,” he said.

  Oh. Oh, dear. Maybe he did know how seating worked at Gathering. Maybe he’d sat next to her for a reason.