The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  The youth are grown up now and starting families of their own, but they fondly remember their brief and meaningful stint in the gospel movie biz, and I can’t think of any who are not serving the Lord today.

  LORRAINE BRADLEY, Mrs. Framer, Libby Hiddle, Emily Kelmer, and all the wonderful ladies in the church who brought dinner over while Marian was sick. They had it all scheduled out, every day of the week. They cooked, they cleaned, they did our laundry, they helped me get Marian in and out of the car, they helped me get her to and from the hospital. . . .

  MY COFFEE CUP was cold and empty. I was staring at it, wishing I could hide in it.

  “You can stop,” said Morgan.

  I had been enjoying the stories up to this point. “Okay.”

  She touched the back of my hand. “Thank you.”

  I shrugged. “You asked. I hope I delivered.”

  “I loved it.”

  I looked at my watch. “Man, is it that late?”

  “Time flies.”

  I pushed away from the table. “It’s been a great evening.”

  “It’s been absolutely wonderful. Thank you.” She rose from her chair and I held her coat as she slipped into it.

  “So anyway, I might be hearing from the Cathedral—that is, if they remember to call me—”

  She held up her hand to stop me. “I don’t think that’s what this evening was about, do you?”

  Maybe I was unwilling to explore it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  She buttoned her coat as she looked up at me over her glasses.

  “All those people, Travis. They’re still with you, right in here.”

  She tapped on my heart. “When you go home tonight, don’t think about old what’s-his-name up at the Macon ranch. Think about them. They’re what the last fifteen years were all about. They’re what Jesus is all about. Old what’s-his-name can’t touch that.”

  We came to the restaurant in separate cars and left the same way. All the way home I reflected on the evening, warmed and healed by Morgan Elliott’s discerning spirit, soothed by the acceptance I saw in her eyes. I had to wipe some tears away as I drove.

  I hadn’t felt this kind of kinship with anyone since Marian went home. Maybe we could have dinner again sometime. Maybe we wouldn’t need a particular reason.

  Perhaps we could even go in the same car.

  Twenty-Three

  WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Florence Lynch had been cranky to begin with, but after waiting until past her bed time for a cop, any cop, to show up, she was beyond cranky and not to be trifled with.

  Brett Henchle stepped through her front door and into her living room, nervous and agitated. “We had another incident across town—”

  “Well what about my incident? You keep me waiting here all night . . .” Florence went to her dining room table and grabbed up the list she’d compiled. “I have it all right here. Two dresses, three hair combs, two bracelets, four blouses, and a pair of shoes.” She handed it to him and he looked it over with a certain detachment.

  “I caught her red-handed, in the very act. Did Rod tell you?”

  “Uh, no . . .”

  “She was trying to sneak out of my store with the Stoendegger— that’s the purple dress—” she pointed to the list in his hand—“this one right here. A hundred and twelve dollars retail. She was wearing it under her own dress, but I saw the hem sticking out. Rod and I went over to Penny’s house and—” She snuffed and rolled her eyes.

  “Have you ever smelled that place? The carpet’s woven marijuana!

  Has to be! And the clothes Bonnie Adams wears! No wonder Penny was stealing from my shop.”

  “So that’s where you found the rest of this stuff?”

  “In Penny’s closet and right on top of her dresser! Oh, Bonnie Adams had a fit, just screaming at Penny and slapping her around.

  But you know what? All Penny did was sit there and shrug and flip her hair out of her eyes. I don’t think she’s a bit sorry.”

  “Well, I’m sure she is.”

  “You’re sure she—what? You’ve got to be kidding! You’ve hauled her in before, several times! Rod told me!”

  “Yes, but that was—”

  “That’s why he jailed her. She can’t be trusted.”

  “I’d still like to talk to her. Penny’s not a bad girl at heart. If she spends some time in the jail this evening and gets a good talking to, we may not have any more trouble from her.”

  She gawked at him. “You’re dreaming, right?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Well, wake up. I’m pressing charges!”

  It was easy to tell he didn’t like that news. “You’re asking for a lot of trouble, a lot of time, a hearing, a trial—”

  Perhaps he was hard of hearing. She said it slower and louder.

  “I’m pressing charges! You’re a police officer! Now see to it!”

  He grabbed his leg and winced. “Did . . . did Rod get your statement?”

  “Yes, he did. And he told me to write up this list of the stolen merchandise, so now you have it.”

  He turned toward the door, and yes, he was definitely limping. “Well, I’ll get back to you in the morning.” He pulled a card from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on the back. “If you decide to change your mind you can call me at home.” He handed the card to her.

  “That’s highly unlikely!” By now she was angry with him. “Penny Adams is a thief, she’s always been a thief, and this town needs to be rid of her once and for all.”

  He answered with an edge in his voice, “Yes, ma’am,” and went out the door.

  DON ANDERSON awoke from a restful sleep, disturbed by a strange, low hum he’d never heard in the house before. He raised his head from his pillow and listened. It sounded like a sixty-cycle hum, the same noise sometimes picked up by amplifiers and sound systems. Had he left something on?

  He got out of bed, careful not to wake Angela, and went into the living room to check the stereo. It was off. The television was off. The fluorescent lights in the kitchen were off. The furnace wasn’t running.

  He listened to the refrigerator. Wow! He could hear everything that compressor was doing: the whir of the motor, the high-pitched rushing of the Freon through the condenser. There was a sixtycycle hum down in the middle of all that noise, but it wasn’t the hum he was after.

  Where was it coming from?

  He walked down the hallway toward the bedroom again, still hearing the hum like a steady note in his head. The bathroom light was on. He reached for the light switch on the wall and clicked it off.

  The humming stopped.

  Oh. The wall switch. He clicked it on again.

  There was that hum. He bent close to the switch and listened.

  Well . . . it wasn’t just in the switch.

  He straightened slowly, his ear close to the wall. Then he moved a foot or two down the hall, still listening. Then he backed up again. He raised as high as his tiptoes, then squatted. He shook his head in amazement.

  He could hear the wire in the wall—or more exactly, the electric current flowing through it. He could hear where the wire was, which way it went up the wall, where it turned. Incredible!

  He chuckled with delight. Like his other new abilities, this could be useful. Imagine being able to find wires in walls, maybe cables underground, maybe hear bad connections or short circuits!

  He clicked off the light—the humming stopped—and headed for the bedroom, grinning to himself in the dark. This was going to be great.

  Back in bed, he listened again for the hum of the wires. Not too many things were turned on right now. The house was dark and quiet. Good enough.

  But what would it sound like during the waking hours, when things got turned on and power was flowing through the wires?

  Well, he’d worry about that in the morning. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

  What was that? It sounded like an ant doing a tap dance on his night stand. Tick, ticka tick tick tic
k, ticka tick tick tick.

  He rolled over and looked. Too dark. He clicked on his bedside lamp. The wires in the wall hummed.

  Angela woke up and groaned, “What’re you doing?”

  “Checking out a noise.” He reached for his digital watch. The moment he touched it, the little tap dance came through loud and clear, TICK, TICKA TICK TICK TICK, TICKA TICK TICK TICK.

  He put the watch down.

  “What noise?” Angela asked.

  “Oh, it was just my watch.”

  “Your watch?”

  He clicked off the lamp. The humming stopped.

  Angela went back to sleep. Don lay there, eyes open, wondering whether he should be worried as the sound of his watch kept tap dancing in his ears, tick, ticka tick tick tick. . . .

  FLORENCE LYNCH lay in her bed, troubled and tossing, dreaming of a deranged and bug-eyed Penny Adams reaching out and grabbing things. Penny was ghostly, transparent around the edges, drifting and floating through Florence’s house with long, sticky fingers clutching after everything in sight, and Florence kept chasing her, never keeping up, trying to stop her, screaming at her. Penny just laughed a witchy laugh and kept grabbing, grabbing, grabbing, taking dishes out of the cupboard, knickknacks off the shelf, a scarf from around Florence’s neck. Stop that, put that back, put it back, that’s not yours! More witchy laughing, green, fuzzy teeth, the touch of long, cold fingers—

  Florence awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding, her face slick with sweat, the darkness like a mask over her eyes.

  Terrified. A nightmare. She tried to calm down. She couldn’t.

  It was a nightmare! she told herself. It’s over now.

  It wasn’t over. Her terror would not subside. With a death grip around fistfuls of down comforter, she covered her face up to her eyes and searched the deep, endless darkness of the bedroom.

  A man was standing in the corner.

  The terror felt like a hammer blow to her heart. Her throat constricted, her hands trembled.

  His gaze emerged from the blackness like dim, yellow headlights emerging through thick smoke. There was something vaguely recognizable in their expression, a glint she’d known for years and hadn’t seen in ten.

  “Louis!” she gasped. “Louis?”

  The form of her dead husband inched toward her, the darkness receding like tidewater from the old gray shirt and jeans, the pale, veined skin of the face. Except for the unbroken glare of those eyes, he looked the same as the moment he died. The pale, blue lips were moving but there was no sound.

  She managed to breathe again, in short, shallow gasps. “Louis.

  What is it?”

  He raised his finger and shook it at her, his eyes angry and scolding, his lips forming the word no. No, no, no!

  She no more than felt the question forming in her mind before she had the answer. She knew what he was trying to tell her.

  PENNY ADAMS was not asleep, but she was comfortable, lying on a cot under clean, warm blankets. Compared to some of the other jails she’d occupied, this cell wasn’t bad.

  Even so, she felt disappointed. Her new hand was supposed to be something magical, something shielded from hassles.

  She’d been in and out of Anderson’s and Kiley’s with all kinds of great stuff and they never noticed. Florence Lynch never noticed either—until today. That’s what Penny couldn’t figure out. Where did she slip up? What killed the magic?

  People could be so weird, getting all shook up over a few dresses, a few blouses, a few watches and CDs. She liked them, she wanted them, Don Anderson and Matt Kiley and Florence Lynch never even missed them, so what was the big deal? They had plenty of stuff and she didn’t, and that wasn’t fair. What good was having a new hand if you couldn’t use it?

  She heard the front door open and footsteps moving across the front office floor. She sat up in time to see Brett Henchle come through the cellblock door, the keys to the cells in his hand. He was wearing civilian clothes and hadn’t combed his hair. He must have gotten out of bed to come down here.

  “Well,” he said, “you’re still awake.”

  She shrugged and flipped a lock of hair out of her eyes.

  He paused outside her door. “You don’t know how lucky you are. I just got a call from Florence Lynch. She says to let you go, to forget about the whole thing.”

  Way cool, she thought, but said nothing.

  “So I’m going to let you out of here, but I want you to do us all a favor. You listening?”

  She looked up at him. “Sure.”

  “You got a new hand, maybe from God, and I know he wouldn’t do that just so you can go on stealing. So try to do something else with it. This town doesn’t need the trouble, and neither do I, and neither do you. You got it?”

  She knew how to answer. “Okay.”

  He unlocked the cell door. “Get your coat. I’ll take you home.”

  She followed him out of the station and to the squad car, feeling relieved and giddy. Maybe the magic was still there. Officer Henchle was in a good mood, going easy on her.

  She also noticed he wasn’t limping like before.

  WHEN MY TELEPHONE RANG Friday morning, it could have been Kyle Sherman calling for an update, or maybe Jim Baylor calling to talk about Dee. Bob Fisher still called once in a while just to call; Bruce Hiddle or Joe Kelmer called occasionally to make sure I was still breathing. My sister, Rene, called whenever there was family news; it could have been Morgan Elliott following up on last night’s dinner meeting (I would have liked that). I was half expecting a call from the Cathedral, probably from Miles Newberry or some other well-screened and thoroughly instructed Cathedral associate, but I still considered that too much to hope for.

  There was no way in the world I could have expected this caller.

  “Travis Jordan?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Jordan, my name is Elise Brenner. My maiden name is Harris. Dale Harris is my father.”

  I sank onto the couch, more than a little intrigued. “The Dale Harris? Pastor of The Cathedral of Life?

  “One and the same. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “No, no, no, I’m free, I’m okay.”

  “I understand you visited my dad’s church a little while ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you talk with my father?”

  I broke into a grin and hoped she didn’t hear me chuckle. “No.

  He was unavailable.”

  “But you did talk to Miles Newberry.”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s, that’s right. I, uh, talked to Miles—uh, Pastor Newberry.”

  “About a mutual acquaintance? Justin Cantwell?”

  I leaned forward, pressing the receiver to my ear. “That’s right.

  He, uh, he was going to get back to me.”

  “He won’t. None of them will. Mr. Jordan, it’s only by a fluke that I heard about your meeting with Miles. They weren’t about to tell me. They don’t like this sort of thing getting out.”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “Because I know Justin Cantwell and I can tell you about him, which means I have to tell you about him. It would be wrong not to. The others—my father included—don’t want anyone to know about him because it would be too embarrassing.”

  I grabbed a notepad I kept by the phone and flipped to a clean page. “So . . . you understand who I am and what my needs are?”

  “Mrs. Fontinelli told me. You remember her, my dad’s secretary?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Fontinelli. She seemed like a nice lady.”

  “One of the nicest. She’s like a second mom. She told me about your visit and how the staff handled it. She’s a professional and she does her job, but she’s a friend too. She wasn’t going to tell me unless I asked her, but I asked her, so she told me.”

  “Okay.”

  “This conversation is going to be confidential, all right?”

  “All right.”

  She took an audible breath. “I’m m
arried to one of the associate pastors at the Cathedral, Tom Brenner. I used to be the head of the music department at the church. I directed the choir, ran the worship team, organized the Christmas and Easter pageants, all that sort of thing. Three years ago, Justin Cantwell auditioned for the choir and we put him in the tenor section. That’s how I got to know him.

  To make a long story short, we ended up having an affair.”

  I tried to keep my voice from betraying my wide-eyed facial expression. “I see.”

  “Now, you have to consider who my father was. He had a monstrous church with three services on Sunday morning, a book deal with a major publisher, a television ministry, a tape ministry. He was a district presbyter for our denomination and serving on the board of Horizon Bible College. He had a professional, big time booking agency to line up his outside speaking engagements and another company managing annual vacations to the Holy Land with his name in the logo. He had a well-trained professional pastoral staff and we had ourselves an efficient, smooth-running church with a multimillion dollar annual budget. Mr. Jordan, I guess I’ve made it clear, my dad was successful in . . . well, the popular word is, the ministry.”

  “Oh yes. Anybody can see that.”

  “So, next thing you know, his daughter, married, with three kids, has an affair with a stranger from the teeming masses of that congregation. The, uh, powers-that-be—the board, the pastors, and my father—feared it would mar the image of the church and the pastor. They thought it could snarl the ministry’s momentum— let the church roll on, as the song goes. I was ashamed and felt foolish. My husband’s ministry was going to be in jeopardy as well. So we got together, prayed about it, and then, to put it simply, we covered it up. The church kept me on staff through Christmas—hey, it was the big Christmas pageant, they couldn’t let anything jeopardize that—and then they let me take an in-definite leave of absence in January. My husband went right on serving as an associate pastor, doing all he could to act normal, to keep the College and Career department rolling while we worked things out. The official word was that I’d worked very hard and needed a rest and time to be with my family—which was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.”