Alma Hall demanded in her quiet precise way, “Why do I have the impression there is more you want to tell me?”
Marcus took a breath and held it. Kept it locked up tight for what felt like ages, long enough for them to make the turning at the back corner. Which was where Alma halted and turned to him. “Well?”
He squinted out to where girders for the New Horizons headquarters building thrust like giant pikes into the scarred hillside. And released the breath. And committed. “I need to know whether your goal is actually to win a case against New Horizons.”
“I want my baby home.” A response as firm and solid as the woman herself.
“We might be able to accomplish that just by bringing suit. An accusation of this magnitude would attract a lot of negative attention.”
“Do it.”
“I’m not promising a thing, Mrs. Hall.”
“It’s time you started calling me Alma.”
“This could backfire in the worst possible way.” Almost wishing she would relent and release him. “If New Horizons had a hand in your daughter’s kidnapping, this could drive them farther underground.”
She stabbed the Sunday afternoon with a finger as straight and true as the distant girders. “Those people over there are snakes. They are evil. It doesn’t take a genius to know they’re involved. They’ve lived their entire lives crawling around underground.”
Marcus studied the woman. “That’s a mighty strong statement.”
“You ask anybody who’s had dealings with that group. They dress it up with a fancy logo and nice colors, but they’re snakes out to make a killing off the young. Creating a world of make-believe, telling kids they’ll grow up to be stars if only they buy these fancy clothes and special shoes.” The arm dropped to her side. “What about the warning the other lawyer gave my husband, something about the court arresting us?”
“Actually, they would come after me, not you. It’s called filing a frivolous claim. And yes, it could just happen.”
“But you’re willing to go after them anyway? Even after that other lawyer turned us down?”
The sun rested like a gentle hand upon his head and shoulders. “Let’s just say I’ve got a lot less to lose.”
EIGHT
The ritual of fearful tremors chased Marcus from his bed long before the light was strong enough to be called morning. After breakfast he took a final cup of coffee out to the veranda. The wrap-around porch was one of the house’s many follies, with great open rafters of wild cherry exposing a cedar-shingled roof with tiny fake cupolas at each corner. The pillars were maple, including the new ones Marcus had turned and carved himself, and the floor’s planking was ten-inch heart-of-pine. Three of the dozen-odd rockers he remembered from his childhood had been salvaged from termites and wood rot. Marcus was trying to decide which one to sit in when the process server came and went like a ghost from the dreams he had hoped would remain inside. He settled himself just the same, leaving the bulky envelope unopened and unread in the seat beside him.
A morning mist whispered silent fables of autumnal chill. The trees stood as apparitions in the gray half-light. Even the house’s own connection to earth seemed gossamer and fragile. Somewhere out beyond the borders of his vision a motor purred. It appeared to approach from all directions at once, the fog was that thick. A bulky shadow pulled into Marcus’ drive. A door slammed. A wraith scrunched up the graveled walk and became the old pastor in paint-spattered coveralls.
“Got folks telling me of signs all over the county,” Deacon Wilbur said in greeting. “Portents of a hard winter to come.”
“Soon as this mist burns off, we’ll be back in summer heat,” Marcus replied.
“For now.” The old man turned and stared over the porch railing, squinting his whole face as though peering ahead through the mists of time. “But the dogwoods are already casting off leaves, like we’d lived through hard frosts for weeks on end. And there’s tales of gray squirrels warring over nuts while the acorns lie ten inches deep under the oaks. Nanny goats with winter beards already a foot long. Hoot owls crying the whole night, restless like they was hunting against winter hunger. You ever heard the like?”
“Not in all my born days,” Marcus said, liking the old man immensely.
“Don’t you scoff, now. Don’t you scoff. Such signs and portents are the writing of nature’s hand for them who know the tongue.”
It was the closest Deacon had ever come to what Marcus might consider the normal conversation of friends. “I could brew up a fresh pot of coffee if you’d like a cup.”
“Thank you, no. My back teeth are already like to floating.”
“Would you have a seat here?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Deacon Wilbur settled himself into the rocker next to Marcus. The chair creaked a gentle welcome, and the floor drummed comfortably as the man set a slow cadence to the morning. “Nice to see you in church yesterday, sitting there among the faithful.”
The burnished mist shimmered slightly. “I enjoyed it.” Marcus fretted that the words were so insufficient as to be insulting, but the old pastor simply rocked and hummed a quiet listening note. “And the music was incredible.”
“I always wanted to sing in the worst way. Only thing I ever got was the worst way.”
“Have you ever been to a white church?” Marcus asked.
“A few times. They were just fine, I suppose.” Deacon Wilbur chose his words carefully. “Problem wasn’t with those churches. It was me. I heard the spirit in there, yes. I wanted to stand up and thank God for the gift. Dance, shout, clap my hands.”
“And they didn’t.”
“Not that I saw. Felt like I was sitting there with the chosen frozen.”
“While I was in your church, I felt good. Comfortable.” Marcus was stymied by his inability to confess just how rare those moments had become.
“I tell you what’s the honest truth.” Deacon’s words flowed in time to the rocker’s creak. “You’re welcome. The place is yours. I don’t know how to say it plainer than that.”
Marcus felt the pastor’s gift deserved an honest response, and motioned to the packet in the seat on his other side. “A process server showed up an hour ago with the final divorce decree.”
“Right sorry to hear that.” The words were spoken to the fog. “Yes, I truly am.”
The sympathy in Deacon’s voice left Marcus too open not to say what burned his gut like a branding iron. “I’m seriously thinking about getting drunk.”
There was none of the condemnation he expected and half-hoped he would receive. “Didn’t know you were a drinking man.”
“Used to be. Always thought it came with the good life. And it fitted the job. People unload their problems on a lawyer like they do a doctor. I found bourbon helped ease the blows.” He waited for a response, and when none came, the bubbling pressure gave him no choice but to proceed. “I’d been drinking that weekend of the accident. A lot.”
Deacon contemplated the fog a long moment before asking in that deep, honeyed voice, “You taken a drink since then?”
Marcus finished off his mug, wishing it held more than cold coffee. “Not after that first week.”
The reverend spoke as though reading lines written in the mist. “Afraid if you started you might never stop.”
“That’s about right.”
“Afraid when you hit the bottom of the bottle you’d be staring into the darkness of eternal night. Looking straight into your own personal hell.”
Marcus said to the bottom of his cup, “Sounds like you’ve been there yourself.”
“Something I’ve found on life’s hard road. When I’m staring at the great temptations, I’m being turned from an even greater opportunity.” He faced Marcus for the first time since seating himself. “You got something that needs doing? Something strong enough to call to your heart just like this hunger is firing your belly?”