The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  It was Thursday evening. The day was cooling down, and the shadow of the west ridge had advanced up the opposite slope and shaded half the town. Ron and Levi were walking up the street toward the old steepled church, a short climb up the hillside from the main highway. This was the part of the new Hyde River that had first sprung up when Old Town began to fade early in the century. Its original log and hand-hewn timber homes had been restored, then restored again. The matronly old church, built of logs and tilting a bit, was a centerpiece for the neighborhood, and now it too was being restored with a new coat of weather sealer and a new roof. Ron and Levi were heading up the project, and that was the real reason for their being together now. This other subject had come up out of necessity. Word had gotten around town about the Great Trespass, and Ron had gotten word—a rather strong word—that Levi needed talking to.

  “But look at the cost,” Ron continued, hoping reason would prevail. “Not only is Dr. Benson in trouble with the law, but we’ve got people upset and talking about it. Levi, it’s a simple matter of respect for other people’s feelings and views and keeping peace in this town.”

  Levi gave Ron a sideways look, signaling that a disagreement was coming. “Kind of a one-sided effort, don’t you think?”

  “Levi—”

  “All this talk about tolerance and understanding. When do I start getting tolerated?”

  Ron only smiled resignedly. He was a gentle sort, with a smooth, soothing voice. It suited his job quite well. “Maybe when you learn to keep your strong opinions to yourself.”

  “I can’t help it. People ask me, I tell ’em.”

  Ron laughed. He’d learned to do that whenever he was with Levi. “Okay, Levi, okay. But you could have told him he’d be trespassing.”

  “I did. But he’s a driven man, Ron. He’s gonna find out what killed his brother or die in the attempt, I know.”

  “And I’ll bet you told him the dragon killed his brother.”

  “He asked me; I told him.”

  Patience, Ron, patience, he reminded himself. “Well, that’s something we disagree on.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “In any event,” the minister continued, “you won’t be doing Benson any good filling his mind with that stuff. It’s the reality he needs to be informed of, like who owns that land down there and how people feel about outsiders snooping around.”

  “He knows now.”

  “So let’s have a look at this roof.” It was a quick change of subject, something either man could use at any time. It was one way they’d learned to put up with each other.

  The old church, built in the 1920s, was looking good for its age—better and better, as a matter of fact. Since Ron had come to pastor the church some four years ago, he and Levi had repainted all the trimwork, recaulked and weather-stripped all the windows and doors, and jacked up the sagging front steps so the porch and front door lined up again. The bell in the steeple, originally from a steam locomotive, was ringing once more, thanks to Levi’s machine shop and a little welding.

  The problem now was the roof, or more specifically, the roofing contractor.

  Levi stood with Ron along the side of the church and had no trouble spotting what Ron was upset about. “Didn’t he use a chalkline?”

  “Quite honestly, I don’t know that he used anything—a little too much alcohol, maybe.”

  The first row of shingles looked all right; the second row looked a little crooked; the third row looked worse; and the fourth row looked like a desperate attempt to straighten out the error made in the first three. The rows applied above these continued to wander about the roof like a car without a driver.

  Then Levi spotted something else. “Where’s the shake liner?” Ron looked quizzical, so Levi explained, “He’s supposed to be running a strip of felt under each row of shingles. Come to think of it, that was in his bid.”

  “Oh, no.” More bad news.

  They circled around the back of the church and found the contractor up on the roof of the back porch, slapping more shingles down and nailing them home whether they were straight or not. He didn’t look up from his work when they came around, but not because he didn’t see them.

  “Vic!” Ron called.

  Vic Moore didn’t look at them. He only grabbed another shingle. “What?” His tone was so vicious it shocked them both.

  “We’d like to have a word with you.”

  Vic kept pounding nails. “What about?”

  Ron looked at Levi for help.

  Levi spoke up. “You’re doing a lousy job on this roof, Vic.”

  Vic stopped hammering and used the hammer to point at Levi. “I’m not talking to you!” He looked at Ron. “I’m not talking to him!”

  Ron pressed on. “Vic, I don’t see any shake liner up there. Wasn’t that part of our agreement?”

  Vic took a second to look at his work, then answered, “I changed my mind.”

  “You changed your mind about our roof?”

  “You don’t need any shake liner.”

  Levi looked at the clear sky. “Well, not today, anyway.”

  Vic looked as if he was ready to throw his hammer at Levi. “What’s he doing here?” he said to the minister.

  “He goes to this church, Vic. He’s on the restoration committee.”

  “I don’t need any direction from anybody, and I don’t need him telling me how to do my job!”

  “You don’t huh?” Levi said. “Well, why didn’t you use a chalkline on this east side? You’ve got the courses so crooked it makes my eyes cross.”

  “They’re close enough.”

  “No, Vic,” Ron said in what he hoped was a calm, rational voice. “They’re not close at all.”

  “So now you’re taking his side?”

  “Vic, I’m being straight with you. This roof is costing the church a lot of money. We need better workmanship than that.”

  “Well, nobody’s gonna see it from the street!”

  Ron and Levi looked up at him, then at each other. What was wrong with the man? Vic went back to nailing, banging with more force than was needed on a little shingle nail.

  Ron was hoping Vic’s common sense would take hold soon. “Vic, come on, now. The inspector’s going to take one look at that and—”

  “I’ll slip him a few bucks. He’ll go for it.”

  Levi finally drew a deep breath, sighed it out, and nudged some gravel around with his toe as he told Ron, “Well, it’s your call. You hired him.”

  Bang, bang, bang, bang.

  “Vic, could you stop a minute?” Ron asked.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “Vic, please, don’t nail another shingle!”

  Vic stopped, his eyes full of spite.

  Ron kept his voice calm and even. “I think you should stop working until we can iron this out.”

  Vic considered that for maybe one second. “I’ve been in business in this town for twelve years. I’ve got friends up and down the valley who know good work when they see it, and they show me some respect! You don’t like my work, you just try to get somebody else to work on your crummy little church!”

  “Okay, Vic, come down,” Ron said as if he were talking someone out of jumping from a ledge. “Don’t nail another shingle—”

  Vic burst into an adult tantrum, hurling a bundle of shingles to the ground as Levi dodged out of their path. He fired some obscenities at Levi and then translated, “You’re what’s wrong with this town! If you weren’t around we’d all have a better time of it!”

  Enough was enough, Ron thought. “Vic, that’s it, it’s all over,” he said firmly. “Now come down from that roof and pack up your gear. You’re—” The word sounded so spiteful, he dreaded saying it. “—fired.”

  “Well, that’s fine with me!” Vic growled, going to the ladder. “You can just get somebody else, somebody you don’t even know . . .” He kept muttering as he came down the ladder. “And just try to get this signed off. The inspector’ll never work with
anybody else; you’re gonna find that out.”

  Vic climbed down and walked straight over to Ron. “I thought you were a better man than this, Ron! You been listening to this old idiot too long, and now you’re thinking like he does!” Ron stood his ground but was wondering how bad things might get in the next few seconds. Vic was waving the hammer around like he’d love to smack somebody with it. “Well, you’re not gonna make it in this town, let me tell you. Things could get real bad for you.”

  Ron had no interest in winning the argument. He only wanted to defuse the situation. “Now, Vic, just calm down. We can talk about this later.”

  Vic gathered up his tools, throwing his hammer, nails, tape measure, and shingle hatchet into a five-gallon bucket. His jacket was unzipped and hanging loose. It flopped open as he slammed his tools around.

  Ron swallowed. This man was carrying a gun!

  Vic grabbed the bucket and approached Levi on his way out of the churchyard. “You’re dead meat, Cobb!” He put his finger right in Levi’s face. “You and me, we’re gonna settle this. You be ready.” With those words Vic turned and stomped away toward his truck. A few moments later, they heard the truck roaring down the hill.

  Ron walked over to Levi. “Don’t let him upset you.”

  “Oh, I’m upset all right, but for him.” Then Levi read Ron’s face. “You’re not looking so good yourself.”

  Ron’s gaze fell to the ground. Vic Moore was gone; the confrontation was over. Now he could just be himself. “I’m upset, yeah. To be honest, I just—I just want to punch that guy!”

  “Whoo! Strong words, Ron!”

  The minister was apologetic. “I know, I know.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get the roof done.”

  “It’s not just the roof, Levi. It’s—” Then he blurted out, “What am I doing here, anyway? What’s the point?”

  Levi could sympathize. Vic Moore was not the first of Ron’s problems in this town. “Just obey God, Ron. That’s the first thing.”

  Ron took no comfort in that little sermon. “Obey God—fine.

  So where is He?”

  Levi couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Ron, you haven’t figured that out yet?”

  Ron’s abundant patience was running low. “Levi, not now.”

  “All right. But you asked.”

  “I’m sorry I asked. I was just—just spouting, that’s all.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  Ron looked at the tattered, ragged roof, then over the rest of the forlorn town. “I deserve better than this, you know? I’m a professional. I could really make a difference, I think, if I could just—” He was reluctant to express his feelings aloud but was in a sour-enough mood to do it. “If the placement board had a little more regard for all the training I’ve had, I could be somewhere else right now! I could be accomplishing something! As it is . . .”

  He stared at the old church and shook his head bitterly. “I have a waking nightmare about this place. I can envision myself in my eighties, and Sue dead and the children all grown and gone, and I’m still here with no retirement, living on next to nothing, still having to do everything myself because people won’t show up, still getting yelled at by all the Vic Moores, and still wedging up this old building to keep it from falling over. I didn’t go to seminary to spend my life doing this!”

  Levi thought it over, then said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you need to ask God why you’re here and not let go of Him until you get an answer.”

  It was ironic, Ron thought, that one of his own church members was giving him a sermon. But, then, Levi gave a lot of sermons. Ron relaxed a little. “What is it with people, anyway?”

  Levi repeated an old theme, “You haven’t figured that out yet?”

  Ron waved it all aside. “I don’t want to talk about it. We’ve got to get this roof back on before it rains.”

  “I’ve got some people I can call. Maybe they can finish the job for us.”

  “Great.” Then Ron added, “But Levi, be careful about Vic. He’s a man with a lot of anger. He could hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  Levi said nothing more, but it wasn’t Vic or his threats that had triggered Levi’s fears. It was the anguish he could sense in Vic’s soul, the fear in the man’s eyes, the gun under his jacket—and the faint stain Levi saw on Vic’s shirt, right over his heart, soaking through like sweat and smelling like death.

  THAT NIGHT, Vic Moore wouldn’t quit talking. He was resolutely planted on a bar stool at Charlie’s, throwing back beers and running down the same list, over and over.

  “Now Taylor’s place, that was a classic! Bid that job out at forty grand. Know how much it cost me to build it? Twenty! Taylors were happy, and you bet I was happy!” Then he couldn’t help laughing. “Hope they never check the insulation under the floor— it isn’t there!”

  After that came the saga of Ike Buhler’s cabin on June Lake, at least six inches out of level because Vic had forgotten to bring his transit but went ahead and guessed. The justification: “Aw, it’s clear up there on the lake. Nobody’s gonna see it.”

  People came and went, buying drinks, having dinner, shooting some pool, and every one of them heard at least one of Vic’s stories of shoddy workmanship or shady dealing, how he’d gotten away with it, and how much money he had pocketed.

  Behind the bar, Charlie was quiet, edgy, distracted. Every loud boast frayed his nerves a little more. He didn’t know what to do with this guy. The other patrons were trying to ignore Vic’s ramblings, but Vic was getting more pleased with himself and talking louder with each recollection he shared.

  “Saved on roofing nails, saved on lumber, saved on hangers— Charlie!”

  Charlie jumped a little. His hands were shaking as it was. He’d been drying glasses behind the bar just to give his hands something to do. “Yeah, Vic?”

  “How many earthquakes we get around here? We get a lot of ’em?”

  “No. Not very often.”

  Vic smiled and nodded, recalling another job. “Won’t make any difference, then. Saved on labor. It’ll stay there.” He turned to Paul, who was in his usual spot at the end of the bar. “People trust me, you know? I’ve got a reputation around here.”

  Paul muttered without turning around, “Not after today, you don’t!” Then he went right on watching the baseball game on the television suspended above the bar.

  “Yeah,” said Vic, continuing his monologue as if Paul hadn’t said anything, “I come up with good cost-saving ideas, so I can give people a good price.” He pondered his own glory for a moment and then agreed with himself, “Yeah, I do all right.” Then he turned to Paul again. “Hey, Paul!”

  Paul rolled his eyes but didn’t look at Vic.

  “Did I ever tell you what I did to Homer Kirby? He was up there at Smyths doing that remodel, remember that? Remember how he got fired for drinking on the job?” He lowered his voice. “Hey, I was responsible for that. I waited ’til Homer knocked off for the day, and then I went up there and tossed beer cans all over the yard.” He tried to take a swallow of beer but couldn’t hold back a laugh, and he spit the beer all over the bar. “Wish I coulda seen old man Smyth come home and blow his stack. He sure was happy I could fit him into my schedule, let me tell you. That’s what Homer gets for trying to underbid me. That don’t sit too well with me, you know?”

  Phil Garrett was trying to shoot pool with Kyle Figgin and Carl Ingfeldt. It was his turn to shoot, but he kept staring at Vic.

  “They’re never gonna get that church roof done. I’ve got friends, you know that? Red Johnson’s my friend. He’ll never sign that place off. And who’s that guy at the county, you know, with the road crew? Paul? Who’s that guy—”

  “Wally Neddleton,” said Paul without looking away from the ball game.

  “Neddleton, yeah. I’ll just have a little talk with him about that Levi Cobb.” He took a swig of beer. “Cobb’s never gonna see another county job when I get through.”<
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  Phil Garrett finally shouted, “Charlie! Make him shut up!”

  Charlie was still standing behind the bar drying glasses and feeling scared. Phil’s order only intimidated him further. He went to Vic and spoke quietly, “Vic, you about done with your drink?”

  Vic was offended. “No, I am not.”

  “Well, I, uh . . .”

  Suddenly Charlie found himself pulled halfway over the bar by his collar, nose to nose with Vic. “Hey, Charlie. Wanna play tough guy?”

  Charlie was speechless. Vic let Charlie go with a little shove so that he almost fell backward, then laughed at him. “Whatsamatter, Charlie? I scare you?”

  By now, everyone in Charlie’s was watching. Vic turned and spoke to the other patrons. “Nobody—nobody—tells me what to do. I do what I want, when I want. You all know that, now don’t you?”

  They were silent, gawking at him.

  “Well, what are you staring at?”

  At the table nearest the door, a miner named Jack Carlson and his wife Amy reached for their coats. Kyle Figgin moved away from the pool table.

  Vic was nonplussed. “I’m just telling you, don’t take it so serious. Goodies go to the grabbers; ain’t that right, Paul?”

  But Paul was getting up to leave as well.

  Charlie tapped on Vic’s shoulder. “Vic—I got something for you.”

  Vic turned to see a full bottle of Jack Daniels in Charlie’s hand. He got the message. He took the bottle, and got up from the bar.

  “Thanks for coming in,” said Charlie.

  “Be seeing you,” said Vic, pleased.

  On his way out, Vic noticed Carlotta Nelson sitting with Andy Schuller and stepped toward her. “Hey, Carlotta—”

  She cowered under his gaze. “No, Vic. Not tonight, no way.”

  “Aw, c’mon.”

  Andy spoke up, “You heard her, Vic.”

  Vic glowered at Andy for a moment and then he pulled back his jacket to reveal the gun. He waited until he’d gotten just the right amount of wide-eyed fear from both of them and then enjoyed another laugh as he let his jacket fall back into place. “Whatsamatter? Did I scare you?”