Sooner Fled

by David L Thornburg

  The Postmaster got up from his desk. “Good morning! What can we do for you?”

  I wanted to ask what kind of mail Frank Clemson got, but instead I stuttered, “Is there any mail for the church?

  “Not here,” said the lady. “Billy the carrier will bring it to your office later this morning.”

  “Great. You do have P. O. boxes, though?”

  “Of course,” she said, probably wondering why I didn’t notice the bank of them to my immediate left.

  “You may know I conducted the service for Frank Clemson yesterday. I heard he came in here every day.”

  She paused. “I probably shouldn’t discuss that.”

  “I understand. I was just curious, that’s all. Well, thank you just the same.”

  The postmaster said, “Marjorie, I’m going to take our deposit to the bank.” He grabbed a currency bag out of his desk and walked out with me.

  When the door closed behind us, he said, “Don’t mind her. She takes the confidentiality thing a little too far. I’m Mike Miller, by the way.”

  We shook hands.

  “Fact is, Frank Clemson was an interesting customer.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he was in here every day, but that’s not so strange. No, it was what he received. There was correspondence with no return address, but postmarked from New York, and at least once a month he got what looked like checks. I could see “Pay To The Order Of” in the envelope window, but I could never make out the name. I’m sure it wasn’t Frank Clemson, though.” He said the last thing sheepishly. I could imagine him turning the envelope every which way to see the contents.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “he always went to the bank after the post office. Always carrying his leather satchel. Strange, but they never found his satchel where he was hit.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Nope. I guess his habits were one of those strange things you get used to in a small town. You see it every day, you stop wondering. Here we are at the bank. Come on in, I’ll introduce you.”

  After last night at the diner with John Gray, I didn’t see how there could be many people I hadn’t met yet, but I followed him inside. We went to the first cashier, and Mike handed her his deposit. “Good morning, Sue. Richard in?” He nodded toward the empty desk in the corner of the lobby.

  “He’s with some customers in the safety deposit boxes,” she said, and started to count the money from the bag.

  A crash came from one of the back rooms. “There’s nothing here!” a familiar woman’s voice shouted. “It’s empty!”

  Vera Clemson swept into the lobby, Clete Vassel trailing in her wake. A dazed man in a shirt and tie followed. Richard, I assumed.

  “Listen, Vera, keep your voice down,” Vassel said. “You don’t need everyone knowing your business.”

  “Leave me alone,” she said. “Just go back to your office and find something else to bill me for!” Her eyes met mine as she shoved the bank door open. She got into a late model Lincoln Town Car and drove away.

  After awkward introductions and apologies for the peace being disturbed, I headed back to the church. As I turned onto the sidewalk, Vera Clemson’s Town Car pulled up beside me. Her window slid down. “Get in, Preacher.”

  Remember that curiosity thing? It was in full bloom. As I got in, I saw Stephanie watching from an office window. She didn’t look happy, and the Building Committee probably wouldn’t be happy either.

  We pulled away from the curb. Vera’s eyes were red, but her voice was steady. “You must have some questions. The incident in the bank, and my argument with Clete.”

  “All of that is your business, Mrs. Clemson.”

  “No, I want you to know. My husband left behind certain assets that we can’t find. Literary assets.”

  “Oh?”

  “My husband was K. C. Waters. I’m sure you know the name.”

  I managed, “Of course.”

  “Then you know he made enough money off ‘Fires of Summer’ to keep us living quite well. The educational sales alone have been generous every year, but the movie residuals and now e-book sales…it seemed like the money faucet couldn’t be turned off. You would think it would be enough.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “It was for Frank and me. All he wanted to do was live in this godforsaken backwater and write in secret.”

  I was galvanized. “He kept writing?” The rumor was he suffered from writer’s block, terrified that nothing he wrote could compare with “Fires.”

  “Oh, yes, every stupid, miserable day. Tap, tap, tap on that cursed typewriter. And he never showed anything to anybody. I was his first reader – almost a collaborator - on ‘Fires,’ but I never saw a word after we moved here.”

  We drove in silence. We left the city limits, which didn’t take long, and turned onto County Road 1136, which doubled back along the outer edges of town.

  After a while, she said, “We had enough, but so many people wanted more out of him. His publishing company was desperate for new work. Academic ties he had from the past wanted to be the first to introduce anything by him. Even some of the old leaders in town who knew his identity wanted him to acknowledge he was Waters because the attention and tourism would help the local economy. The pressure was enormous.”

  “How did Frank handle it?”

  “He was despondent, but he refused to give in. He was a perfectionist, and he wouldn’t release anything that was not up to his standards. That was part of what made ‘Fires’ great, but it became paralyzing. He kept promising me he had something almost ready, but it never happened.”

  “So where is everything?” I knew that was the million dollar question.

  “I don’t know! No one does. I was sure we would find it in the safe deposit box, but there was nothing in there. He could have had some stuff in his satchel, but there’s no way it could have been everything from the last thirty years.”

  “Did he have any friends he might have given his work to?”

  “His closest friend was your predecessor, Reverend Bradley. Even he seemed to be putting pressure on Frank in the last few weeks before he disappeared.”

  I thought of the letter I had discovered.

  “Then Frank found out he was after the new work like all the rest, and stopped speaking to him.”

  The tires crunched as they rolled over the gravel road.

  “Why tell me?” I asked.

  “Whoever is after Frank’s work might think it’s in your parsonage. You might be in danger.”

  “Danger?” I was thinking of the intruders in the church.

  “I’m convinced Frank was murdered, and maybe Reverend Bradley.”

  “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  “Sheriff Harris? He’s the only law we have around here. He’s a good man, but not equipped to handle more than a drunk and disorderly and the occasional drug bust. He’s one of the group that ran the town when we first moved here, but he told me he thinks Frank’s death was an accident and Reverend Bradley will give his forwarding address any day now.”

  The church office was cold when I returned, but not because of the air conditioner. Stephanie did not look up when she said, “Mr. Gray,” in clipped syllables.

  To his credit, Gray managed a smile when I entered. “Hello, Pastor. Did you remember the 4:00 Deacon’s meeting?” I glanced at my wristwatch. 4:45.

  “I’m sorry. Something came up.”

  “That’s what I told them. Settling in issues, and so on. They were disappointed not to meet you, though, and we have some items that need your attention.”

  I slumped in the chair beside him. “I’m sorry, John. Time got away. I was with Vera Clemson.”

  “I know,” he said. Of course he did.

  “She’s afraid for her safety, and she doesn’t think the sheriff will protect her.”

  “Wait a minute!” he whispered intently. He got up and shut the door. My last glimpse of Stephanie was her indignant eyebrows archi
ng.

  Gray’s voice was quiet. “Peter, you’ve got to remember you’re not an active duty police officer anymore. You need to let Sheriff Harris do his job.”

  I was shocked. “How…how did you know?”

  “Your FBI handler filled me in. He didn’t tell me any details, or your real name. He needed some eyes on the ground, and he thought I could help. Don’t worry, I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “Are you with the Bureau?”

  He laughed. “No, I’m just who I told you I was. But as someone who cares about this community, I can’t let you do anything that will bring unwanted attention to you or this town. My family is here.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope so. From now on, you’re the pastor of this church, no more and no less. Keep your office hours, show up at the meetings, and have a sermon every Sunday. By the way, this Sunday is the biggest crowd you’re likely to ever have, due to the novelty factor. You never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

  A sermon. It was 5:00 on a Friday afternoon.

  I got John out of the office and decided to work at home. Sitting in Reverend Bradley’s office there was distracting, though. I couldn’t settle on a topic. My go-to theme in Detroit when I spoke was how faith could rescue people from drug abuse and lives of crime, but that somehow didn’t seem appropriate to rural Oklahoma.

  The truth was I had never spoken in a traditional church setting. After I received my ordination, I moved right into chaplain work.

  The thought of preaching Sunday made me anxious. I left the room and wandered into the kitchen, but I wasn’t hungry. I looked out the window over the sink into the backyard. It was bare, with sandy spots peeking through the patchy grass. The most unusual feature was a mound of dirt with a revolving vent at the apex. A tornado shelter.

  When I heard I was being shipped to Oklahoma, tornadoes were the first thing I thought of, but I guess everywhere has something. The east coast has hurricanes, California has earthquakes, and Detroit had gangland executions. At least my part did.

  I walked out into the yard. As I got closer to the shelter, I saw the metal door. I opened it, and a cloud of dust swirled up. Steps went down into the murky depths. Anything was more interesting than writing, so I turned my phone’s flashlight app on and went in.

  It was cobwebby and musty, but I suppose it was better than being swept to Oz. As I turned to leave, I noticed the dirt on the floor had been disturbed. There were footprints and a swath against the opposite wall, like a door had been opened. I approached the wall and saw a small indention that could serve as a handle. I pulled it open.

  On the other side was another room with cinderblock walls and free-standing metal shelves. On the shelves were three air tight file boxes with year ranges written in black marker. “1985 – 1990,” “1991 – 2010,” and “2011 –.” The ending date on the last was blank. I pulled it down to the floor, and knelt beside it. I released the plastic clamps and removed the lid.

  Inside were neatly labelled manila envelopes, some with a few type-written pages, some full to bursting. I pulled one out.

  “Remembering Big Muddy” by K. C. Waters.

  “Nocturnal Blooms” by K. C. Waters said the next. And on and on, short stories, poems, and a couple of lengthy manuscripts that had to be novels.

  I heard a woman’s voice from outside the shelter. “Reverend Andrews, are you down there?”

  Stephanie.

  “Are you alone?” I called.

  “Yes. Sheriff Harris phoned for you.”

  “Come down here.”

  I heard her descend the steps. “Sheriff Harris called me. He didn’t have your cell number, so he called mine.”

  She appeared in the doorway. She had changed from the business slacks and blouse she wore at the office into blue jeans, red sneakers, and a Dire Straits tee shirt. Her eyes opened wide. “What is this place?”

  “Take a look.”

  I handed her some folders. She opened one and read, closed it and opened another. “Why are these here?’ she asked, then answered her own question. “Mr. Clemson was K. C. Waters.”

  “Exactly. What did the sheriff want?”

  She put her hand over her mouth. “Vera Clemson is dead. Shot. Do you think it was over this?”

  A man’s voice interrupted, “Quite possibly.”

  Clete Vassel, the lawyer, stood with a gun trained on us. He stepped into the room and glanced down at the files. “There they are. I guess Vera was telling the truth when she said they weren’t in the house. I always thought Reverend Bradley knew more than he was letting on. I came back here to look one more time.”

  “Take them. They’re yours,” Stephanie said, her voice quivering. She seemed on the verge of tears.

  “I’m sorry, dear, you know too much. Fortunately, your bodies will be easier to hide than Bradley’s. All I have to do is close the door.”

  He aimed his gun at me, and Stephanie backed toward the wall. “Pete, duck!” she yelled. She grabbed the shelf and pulled it over onto Clete.

  I jumped out of the way, and the gun skittered to my feet. A .22 pistol, kept clean. I picked it up and pointed it at the lawyer. Pages from the boxes floated down around us.

  “That was a slick move,” I said.

  “Three brothers,” she answered.

  The sanctuary was full. I could see a wooden statistics board with slots to change the numbers at the back of the room. Attendance last Sunday had been 42, of which 36 attended Sunday School, and the offering had been $514. Today there were at least 200, curious not only in a new preacher but one who had inadvertently cracked the most famous literary mystery of the last 40 years. I wondered what the stats board would say about today’s offering.

  I spotted John Gray, beside himself with excitement at the crowd, next to his very expectant wife, Cynthia. In front of them was Stephanie, beautiful in a navy blue dress.

  The preliminaries were dealt with, the hymns, the choir’s special music, and the announcements. Church picnic a week from Saturday, sign-up sheet in the lobby. It was down to nut cutting time, as one of the local ranchers might say.

  “There are many ways we can hide,” I began. “The Bible tells us we can hide from our enemies, we can hide in the shadow of His wings, and we can even hide from God, like Adam and Eve tried to do. But probably most common for us today is trying to hide from ourselves. Hide from who we are, what we want, or from our purpose.”

  I wondered if I would ever get used to this, a way of life different from all I had ever known. Should I even try? I had to be ready to move at a moment’s notice, and the fewer attachments I had when that time came the better.

  “Perhaps the remedy is to live in the moment, and engage in it to its fullest. To not hold back, but instead to give, and receive in turn.”

  My eyes found Stephanie again. She smiled.

  Chapter 2

  Blessed are the Seekers

  My bloody hand slid down my chest to the soupy pool forming on my stomach. You expect the red from the blood, but the yellow and brown fluids can be alarming.

  I was leaning against a tombstone in the cemetery. A few yards away, I could see Stephanie. She wasn’t moving.

  I called her name, but I don’t know if the sound ever came out.

  I had to get to her, but I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sure if I would ever move again.

  The baby cried in anger, but anyone would be mad if they awoke to cold water splashed on their head.

  “Behold, children are a gift of the Lord,” I intoned, trying to be heard above the racket. The parents, John and Cynthia Gray, vacillated between embarrassment at the noise and pride in their new little girl.

  I looked around the 71-member congregation of Oak Valley Community Church in rural Oklahoma, where I had been pastor for about ten days, and saw smiles on almost every face. Babies will do that.

  Not one of the faces knew that a month ago I was involved in one of the most violent drug gang take-downs in Detroi
t’s history as a police chaplain, and that their new pastor was here as a guest of the Federal Witness Protection Program.

  “Train up a child in the way he should go, and even when he is old he will not depart from it.” John Gray was chairman of the board of deacons for the church, about my age, which is to say his early thirties, and firmly ensconced as the owner of the town’s Ford dealership, inherited from his father few years ago.

  John knew that I was in the WPP, but he did not know the details of my story, or even what my real name was. He knew me as Peter Andrews, and that the FBI had asked him to keep an eye on me.

  I took the squalling baby from Cynthia, and it quieted. Who would have thought I had a way with babies? I held her up so everyone could see. “Brothers and Sisters, meet Crystal Renee Gray.”

  The rest of the service settled into its normal rhythm until Sheriff Harris entered the sanctuary. He had dressed quickly, missing one of the crucial shirt buttons needed to completely cover his paunch. He looked over the congregation, then approached John and whispered in his ear. John’s face blanched white. He whispered to Cynthia, then followed the sheriff out.

  I finished my sermon, gave the benediction, and distractedly shook hands with parishioners as they filed out. Cynthia approached with her baby, followed by Stephanie, the church secretary. Stephanie had increased in my estimation since she pulled a metal shelf over onto a guy holding a gun on us last week.

  “There’s trouble at the dealership,” Stephanie said. “I’m driving Cynthia over now.”

  “I’ll lock up and be there as soon as I can.”

  Gray Auto Sales was not far from the church. Nothing in Oak Valley was far from the church. As I pulled into the parking lot, the swirling lights on our only cop car reflected off the showroom windows. Except the one that was shattered. I stepped through it to see John, Sheriff Harris, and a few random onlookers wandering among the new vehicles parked inside. Each of the cars had some kind of damage – windshields broken, mirrors ripped off, tires slashed.

  Stephanie was comforting Cynthia, so I approached the sheriff and John. “Preacher,” the sheriff said by way of greeting. “Sorry to interrupt your service.”