by A. Sparrow
“Doesn’t matter. Wood can be mended. A good luthier could put it back together and make it sound almost as good as before, if not better.”
“It’s … a nice thought. But—”
“Tell you what. You play with us. I’ll pay for the restoration. Just bring me the pieces, all of them.”
Aerie smirked. “Okay. If you say so. The thing is … this music … it kind of bothers me. I can’t see myself doing this full-time. It kind of … grates on my nerves.”
“You’ll get used to it,” said Eleni. “It’s gotten so I actually hum my parts in the shower now.”
“Eleni, you know the rules,” said Aaron. “What happens in production—”
“Stays in production. Yeah, I know. But it’s not like I’m showering with anybody these days.”
“None of what we play leaves this house. Understand? That’s why we have rehearsals.”
Aerie hoisted her bass up onto her shoulder. “We’ll, it’s been nice playing with you all. Good luck.”
“You will play with again, won’t you?” said Aaron.
Aerie winced. “I don’t think so. It’s really not my thing.”
Aaron looked panicked. “I’ll double the pay … for the whole collective. Two hundred per rehearsal. A thousand per production.”
Ron and Mal looked at each other, eyes popping.
“Aerie. You have to play with us,” said Eleni.
Aerie shrugged. “It’s not like I need the money. I have a job. A trust fund pays half my rent. I’m comfortable.” She dragged her bass out of the music room, heading for the door.
“Promise me you’ll think about it?” said Aaron.
“I’ll call if I change my mind,” said Aerie, letting the door slam behind her.
Chapter 7. Deliverance
With the breakfast dishes all scrubbed and the boys both dressed, John settled into an armchair in the sunroom, rolling his sleeves back down to ward off the morning chill. Jason sat in the play pen beside him, slobbering over an alphabet block. Nigel sprawled in a patch of sun on the hardwood floor, coloring outside the lines of his dinosaur coloring book.
Cindy had gotten back late and was sleeping in. Somehow, she had slipped into bed without waking him. He bumped into her warm shoulder when he got up at four to calm Jason back down, relieved to have her back home. As he had dressed he had hovered over her slumbering form, with that raspy wheeze of hers that was too cute to be called a snore, sniffing for signs of other men, namely Pastor Mac’s cologne. Sensing nothing but Cindy, he pecked her cheek and went off to attend the boys.
He picked up the days-old newspaper that Cindy had brought home on Wednesday. He wished they could get the paper every day, but no one delivered the New York Times to this neck of the woods. He lost.
Nigel got up, acting sluggish as an old man after a hard day’s work.
“Gotta go potty,” said Nigel.
“Need help?”
“No.”
“That’s my big boy!”
John sank himself into the sports pages, studying the fine print of who got cut, and who got traded from the NFL training camps. He had a fantasy draft coming up and needed to stay on top of things. He didn’t bother to read the news anymore. There was never anything good, just the same old mistakes and crimes repeated.
The toilet flushed, drawing a smile from John, particularly when he heard the bathroom faucet turn on right after. Three months of potty training were finally drawing dividends. Now if he could only find a way to wean Jason off his dang formula.
An altercation broke out down the hall. Cindy screamed at Nigel to quit making so much noise and Nigel started to bawl. John put down the paper, taking the ruckus as a cue to bring Cindy her coffee, which was already brewed and sitting in the decanter.
“Morning Cind,” he said, approaching the bed cautiously, like a zookeeper bearing a raw steak to a hungry leopard. She had the TV tuned into Good Morning America. Nigel was hunched on the closet floor, sobbing. “What’s up with him?”
“Oh, I was just trying to hear the news and he’s babblin’ at me and crinklin’ in the closet.”
John handed the mug to Cindy, went to the closet and lifted Nigel to his feet and whispered into his ear.
“Go finish coloring those dinosaurs, ‘kay? It’s a nice day. We’ll go bug hunting later.”
“Draginz,” said Nigel, pouting. “They’re draginz. Not dinosaurs.”
“Get a load of that,” said Cindy. “Bank of America just put a moratorium on foreclosures. That’s going to totally mess up that sweet deal we had up in Seneca Falls.” She took a slurp of her French Roast. “Thanks for the coffee, hon.”
“Well, I heard there’d been some fraud,” said John. “Judges rushing to foreclose over bad paperwork.”
“Oh, bull hockey, that’s not fraud. Mistakes happen. People make mistakes. How do they expect a judge to review six thousand cases per month? It’s not humanly possible.”
“These are people’s houses, their lives.”
“I know, but … there’s a very special property up on the lake the agency’s had its eye on. A real sweet place, all stucco and sloping gardens. The owner’s been missing payments.”
John sat down the corner of the bed, settled his hand down gently on her calf. “How’d it go … at the parish last night?”
Cindy narrowed her eyes. “Fine.”
“So is that … consolidation thing happening?”
“What consolidation thing?”
“The merger. You said that Covenant Love was consolidating with some church in Varna.”
The blankness filling Cindy’s blue eyes dissipated. “Oh, that. No, we didn’t get around to discussing that.”
“So … what was the meeting about?”
“Oh, various things.” She took a tiny sip from the steaming mug. “One of them … being us.”
“Us?”
“Our problem.”
John blinked. His stomach quivered. He felt as if he had swallowed an eel.
“With the neighbors?” said Cindy, peering over her glasses. “Hello?”
“Oh. Right.”
“We had a long talk. Me and Pastor Mac and the elders,” said Cindy. “It’s decided. We’re doing an intervention.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mac’s gonna try to get this ministry in Georgia to come up to do a deliverance. An old friend of his runs it. Owes him a favor. He thinks he can get us a big discount.”
“We have to pay? For what?”
“It’s 15k. But don’t worry. Mac said he’d get the congregation to put up a collection.”
“Fifteen thousand? But what do they do?”
“Sanctify. Expunge evil. Cast out demons in the name of Jesus.”
“Oh Lordie.”
“You have a problem with this?”
“Cindy, I’m not sure this is as serious as you make it out to be.”
“Not serious? We have small children in our house.”
“They’re just musicians. It’s not like they … sacrifice babies.”
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Here we go again.”
“I met the man, Cindy. He seems perfectly normal. Clean. Polite. Friendly. Maybe some of the kids he plays with are a little funky looking, but they’re just kids, barely out of high school.”
“Looks deceive.”
“Point is, I think he’s just an eccentric. Maybe he’s not as God-fearing as … as we might prefer, but calling him evil? Possessed? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
Cindy glared up from her coffee cup. “True evil can be felt, John. I feel it here, outside our door, comin’ out through every pore of that hell house. If you can’t feel it … it makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“I … I just think that those who have given themselves fully unto Jesus are more sensitive to these things.”
“Gosh, Cindy. After all we’ve been through. You’re doubting my faith?”
“Oh, hush John. I’m not doubting you. Ju
st saying you don’t have the kind of sensitivity one needs to detect these things. Mac … and the elders, they understood immediately when I played them the tape. The feeling swept through both of us like lightning. We went down on our knees, joined hands. It was electric. They’ve got the tape confined under a lead apron.”
“Seems a little extreme. Don’t you think? Considering it’s only music.”
Cindy’s jaw tightened and she swung her feet off the bed. “The way you say that … burns me. Same way you dismiss my reasonable requests to keep my damn kids out of that blackberry patch. Sometimes I wonder what happened to the man I married.”
“He’s right here, washing your underwear and scrubbing your toilet.”
“Someone in this family has to make a living! Is it too much to ask that you help out?”
“Cindy, I’m fine with it. It’s just … this exorcism thing … really? What are they gonna do, come up here and do some kind of mumbo jumbo?”
“It’s called deliverance, John. And there’s no mumbo jumbo involved, it’s called prayer.”
“We gotta pay 15K for a bunch of prayers?”
“Stop trivializing it. These are deliverance specialists. They have a ritual that involves use of the Holy Fire. A very special kind of Holy Fire.”
John blinked at her. “Fire?”
Cindy’s eyes rolled. “Fire that’s holy. Preserved from consecrated places, miracles, disasters, tragedies. If you have a problem with this, let me know and I’ll have Mac come and explain it all to you.”
“No,” said John. “That’s okay. If you think it’s gotta be done, it’s what we gotta do.”
“I’m glad you see things my way,” she said, dryly.
“So how does this work? Are they gonna stay with us?”
“If need be. Mac says that once the case gets assigned, they’ll be calling us for a screening interview.” Cindy glanced at the clock. “8:30. Oh my. I’ve got to get to Seneca Falls by ten and I still need to shower. Be a sweetie, John and fry me up a couple of eggs, over hard? Some wheat toast?”
“Sure hon, but who exactly are these … exorcists? I think I might want to Google them.”
“Deliverance, not exorcism,” said Cindy. She rose up on the balls of her feet and stretched; the curls of her long, blond hair uncoiling. “They’re called Last Hope. Last Hope Ministries.”
Chapter 8: Last Hope
The Reverend Donald Beasley, spiritual warrior, rapped his fingers on his antique desk, a slab of polished chestnut with nothing on it but a phone, a folder and a figurine of Jesus. Sweat dampened his shirt; his pulse throbbed in his temple as he ran through his options for dealing with Mac Hargrove’s request.
Anxiety was not normally part of his makeup. The sense of ease he so treasured and had worked for years to cultivate had been disturbed, and he didn’t like the feeling one bit.
A man like him shouldn’t have to deal with such crap. His ministry practically ran itself these days. He had small people to sweat the small stuff.
But all week long he had been on edge, ever since he had gotten that call from an old and almost forgotten colleague—MacIntyre Hargrove. Mac.
The call had come late last Friday when he was getting ready to wrap up his day and head off to his house on Lake Lanier. Things had been going so smoothly. He and his partner Jerry had just finished a training session for a set of new hires that would double the number of intervention teams they could deploy, once the new folks got up to speed. Their expansion into general Christian counseling would greatly expand their outreach and uptake.
Out of the blue, Mac had called, as if Mr. Baalzebub himself had decided things were going too well for Last Hope Ministries and decided to intervene. Mac was a pastor now, with his own congregation. Hard to believe, considering his roots.
“Well God bless! Mac? Mac Hargrove? So nice to hear you. How’d you get my number?”
“Wasn’t hard. Wasn’t hard at all, considering all the media you’ve been doing,” said Mac.
“Yeah, well it’s good PR, if you know what I mean. Got to get the word out so we can share our good works far and wide.”
“Well, it worked. I found you.”
Donnie had felt short of breath. His heart was pounding. “Well Gosh, how’s your wife? You must have … how many kids by now?
“None. I never married, Donnie.”
“Oh no? What happened with that girl you were always with? That perky honey-blonde.”
“Michelle? Michelle left me when I was in prison. Listen, I know you’re a busy guy and all. But I have a favor to ask of you. Remember what you told me during … the trial? That anytime I needed your help, you would be there for me?”
“Oh sure. Of course. Anything. Anytime.”
“I need a deliverance, Don. Holy fire, the whole shebang. Everyone says you’re the best, and you get what you pay for, but this one has to be a freebie. This … very special lady in my congregation, she’s upside down in her mortgage. Two kids. Her husband’s been out of a job for almost a year. I’m asking you to waive your usual rates. I’ve got myself a decent flock up here, but none of us are wealthy. We got maintenance to pay for, not to mention the service on our loans. I hope you understand. We could really use a freebie.”
Donnie bristled at Mac’s attitude. Here they were, two old friends, and he’s not even attempting to catch up on things. He’s skipping the chitchat, bringing up the money straightaway.
“Well, we do have a grant program for cases of need. Glad to put her on the list, Mac, but it might be some time before we get to her case. We got a big backlog. We got so much business we have to do triage.”
“They need help right now,” said Mac. “And I want you to give it. Personally. I want you to come up here.”
“Me? That’s not how we work here at LHM,” said Donnie. “I’m an executive not an operative. I just manage the folks that do the counseling.”
“That’s not what you say in your interviews,” said Mac. “You keep telling those media folks that you’re a full blown spiritual warrior.”
“Special cases, maybe,” said Donnie. “But we got folks better trained on the counseling end of things. Let me see if I can—”
“Forget counseling. We need a deliverance. We need the whole shebang.”
“Well, like I said, we’re happy to put her on the list. The grants are need-based, so she’ll have fill out a financial disclosure form. I’ll even bump her up the list and make sure she—”
“I need your help, Donnie. I’m cashing in that favor you promised me. Do you understand what I’m saying? This lady is special to me. I need your help. If … you’re not willing ….”
A chill rippled down his back. Hearing Mac’s voice again was like listening to a ghost. “Give me the contact info. We’ll do a screening, as soon as possible.”
***
It had been a week since Donnie had taken that call, and every day since he had been hoping to find a way to sweep things under a rug, have someone else handle things, but he could find no way out, quailing at the thought of what Mac might do if Donnie evaded his quite specific requests. Assigning others to deal with the Mac problem was simply untenable. The things Mac could tell them about their younger days. Unseemly things. Incriminating things. Things that could torpedo a cable deal. Clearly, this was an assignment he would need to handle himself.
He had known Mac since they were in their teens. For a while, their lives had been synchronized, both triumphs and failures. They played high school football together, never quite making it to varsity. They both went to Pepperdine, and both dropped out. They tried their hand at burglary, punk rock, pot farming. Both had ranted against the very holy rollers who would later become their partners in faith, and both found Jesus at a crossroads in Galax, Virginia.
It happened during the nadir of their punk aspirations. The remnants of their band, Vile, had been driving back to Georgia after an aborted tour, their implosion triggered by a pair of poorly attended gigs in Lynchb
urg and Roanoke. Richie, their drummer had quit with one set left to play as some pretentious little club in Roanoke. The owner had claimed breach of contract and refused to pay them.
To top their misery, the van broke down in Galax farm country. They were rescued by a man plowing his land with a team of oxen, who seemed all beard and hat and piercing eyes. The man fed them, gave them cots to sleep on, spent half a day under their van helping them replace the bearings in their differential, preaching to them all the while about the call of Jesus.
Turned out he was Rick Reynolds, a local holy man with an almost cultish following. He was never ordained, but had baptized thousands. In the 70s, folks would have called Rick a Jesus freak, but he transcended labels, and his charisma was just riveting enough to capture the souls of a couple of vagabond anarchists like Mac and Donnie, in their weak and dispirited state.
They joined his congregation, became indoctrinated into his brand of charismatic Christianity. Sundays became orgies of faith. Morning and night people came from afar to see Rick, and receive his healing graces—people with cancers, depressions, every ill in which the Devil cared to dabble.
Eventually they left Galax to attend the Rock of Ages School of Ministry in Lawrenceville, Georgia. And just like that they went off together and bought an old Pentecostal church on the outskirts of Athens. The existing congregation mostly melted away when they experienced saw the raw and crude ministry these young upstarts had to offer. But slowly, in trickles and surges they built a congregation, younger and poorer than those who had come to the church before. It was as if Donnie and Mac were building a church in their own image, so to speak.
Problem was, though they had given up all forms of unholy music, they hadn’t entirely lost their taste for petty crime. Donnie wasn’t proud of it, but early on, he and Mac had established a meth lab in the basement of the church. Methamphetamines provided a tempting way to fund a newborn parish that was still finding its legs. Of course they were being hypocrites and sinners, preaching one thing and doing another. But wasn’t everyone in the same boat? Didn’t everyone need something sinful in their lives for Jesus to forgive?
The meth operation was Donnie’s baby. Mac had never cooked a batch of crystal before. Donnie showed him what ingredients to procure, how to manage the solvents without frying your ass, how to package the product and deal with unruly or financially delinquent clientele.
