Crown of Thorns (Nick Barrett Charleston series)

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Jubil stared at me long and hard. “I’m going to leave you

  my cell number. Call anytime from anywhere if you change your mind or if you need help. Just remember, I’m doing this on a gut feeling. We’re talking a career breaker here. It turns out you’re not telling the truth—the little of it that you gave me—I’m suspended, or worse, discharged.”

  He put on his sunglasses as he stood to leave. He turned his face down toward me, his eyes hidden. “If you’ve lied to me, our past means nothing. I will take you down in whatever way I can.”

  Chapter 10

  Retha Herndon stood in the cramped kitchen of the trailer, trying to pull together something presentable from leftovers of cold fried chicken, adding collard greens and cabbage cooked in pork fat. Whatever she had hoped—or feared—might happen in the trailer after sending Billy Lee away with a stranger, it wasn’t a houseful of guests, especially the ones waiting in the living room.

  Her nerves were frayed enough anyway from worrying all afternoon if she’d be able to get Junior to believe it was Billy Lee in bed, not a doll. Now she had ten more to fool—including Shepherd Isaiah and Elder Jeremiah and Elder Mason—all of them pushed together in front of the television, some of them sitting on lawn chairs that Junior had hauled in without bothering to wipe the dirt off the legs.

  “What’s the holdup?” Junior pushed his way beside her, almost knocking over the bowl of potatoes she’d boiled earlier in the day to slice and fry for the evening meal.

  Nervous about their important guests, Junior had changed from T-shirt and jeans back into his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit. He was nearly a foot taller than she, with the strong nose and jutting cheekbones he’d inherited from his father, the red hair, with some red in a beard he never trimmed. He’d begun the beard when they married— something encouraged at the Glory Church because all the heroes of the Bible had beards—but since his growth was sparse, the hair hung from his cheeks and chin in thin dirty clumps that would sometimes get in Retha’s mouth when he forced kisses upon her.

  “Honey,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you got to hurry it up. Those folks are burning with holy heat to get started on why they came.”

  “I told you already,” Retha answered. “Billy Lee is sleeping quiet. I think he’s over the worst of it. Seems to me it would do more harm than good to have him taken up in front of all these strangers.”

  “And tell Shepherd Isaiah that in front of everyone else?” Junior took her face in his hands and looked her directly in the eyes. Junior was careful to use his tall body to block his actions from anyone who might glance into the kitchen from the living room. He hissed in her ear. “It better not get out that you been trying all week to get that boy to a doctor. If Shepherd Isaiah hears you ain’t got the faith, we’re in more trouble than I care to think about.” He let go of her face. “Besides, say Billy Lee is better, it won’t hurt none to have him prayed over by the Good Shepherd himself.”

  Queasy already with the smell of boiled cabbage filling her nostrils, Retha nearly threw up from dread at the reminder. She didn’t dare tell Junior about the doll, but it seemed that as soon as the food was served, she wouldn’t have much choice.

  It had been Retha’s prayer that she could keep the baby doll unnoticed until she got a phone call from the man in the black Jeep, that he would take Billy Lee to a doctor, and Billy Lee would be better in a few days, and that she would be able to make the switch later. It was a long shot, but it was her only hope.

  Retha had tried to imagine how it would go when she and Junior arrived home after the church service. The best thing possible was that he would take her word for it that all their prayers over the last week had finally worked and that Billy Lee was on the mend.

  She’d told herself there was a good chance Junior wouldn’t bother to look in the bedroom. Junior often joked that he wasn’t interested in a baby until he was old enough to go fishing, or, if it was a girl, old enough to tend to housework.

  Retha had also imagined a worse scenario, that maybe Junior would want to see Billy Lee. She had set it in her mind that she’d try to stop him at the doorway so that from a distance—and in the darkness of the bedroom—the doll under the blanket would be enough to satisfy Junior. The worst thing she’d imagined was for Junior to want to hold Billy Lee. It didn’t happen much, but Retha had had years of learning to expect the worst in life. And here it was.

  Now all of them in front of the television wanted to see and hold Billy Lee. Retha had never figured on Junior going ahead and asking for Shepherd Isaiah to deliver a Glory Session along with all the elders and their wives—all intent on proving the power of God by the healing that would take place from their prayers. She could hear their voices, a loud hum of babble.

  “Whatever you’re making, honey, make it fast and make it good,” Junior said, relaxed again and giving her shoulder another squeeze. “Don’t forget maybe you should get out there quick and make sure none of them are run dry on that store-bought lemonade.”

  “Sure,” Retha said. But her mind wasn’t on lemonade. It was on what would happen after dinner, when Shepherd Isaiah and his flock started the Glory Session over a doll.

  **

  Magnolia’s is a fine, fine restaurant on East Bay, a ten-minute walk from my childhood mansion, which was now occupied by my half brother, Pendleton. There are, however, many fine restaurants within walking distance of that three-story monument, so it had not occurred to me that I might run across him at Magnolia’s that Sunday evening.

  I saw Pendleton before I saw Glennifer and Elaine. He sat alone at a corner table. This surprised me; Pendleton used attractive blondes as ornaments, and this was certainly the restaurant to exhibit yet another.

  Ever the Southern gentleman, he winked and waved, as if he and I were not locked in battle over the estate that Lorimar Barrett had left behind upon his death for Pendleton, each of them confident I would never have my share. Until I’d discovered the truth on my first return to Charleston.

  Unlike Pendleton, I was not a Southern gentleman. I stared through him, then followed a young hostess to another table, where Glennifer and Elaine had already started on, of course, mint juleps.

  I bowed, took and kissed each of their hands, and sat, too conscious that my back was turned to Pendleton.

  “What a delight, Nicholas,” Glennifer said. “I believe this is our first social occasion together.”

  It was a step forward in our fledgling friendship, for as often as I had seen them, it was always at the antique shop. This was, in a way, like moving a work relationship out of the office and to a more personal level.

  “I’ll mind my manners,” I promised.

  “With Pendleton approaching?” Elaine looked past my shoulders and smiled. “This should be interesting.”

  When he reached our table, Pendleton bowed deeply and introduced himself to Glennifer and Elaine. He wore a hand-tailored suit and a silk tie, accentuating his handsome face and well-toned physique. His hair was cut immaculately, and I knew he went for weekly manicures. In all, a wonderful presentation

  to the world. He’d recovered well from a gunshot wound in the spring, suffering as little permanent damage as his wife’s reputation among the aristocracy had. She’d fired the pistol, and her self-defense claim had stood; now she was on her way to becoming a leading mayoral candidate.

  “Nick,” he said, “we should talk. As in you and I. Not through our lawyers. I’m tired of leaving messages at your hotel.”

  The interior of the restaurant was suitably dim, and his face was in shadow.

  I sipped from a glass of ice water. “Business, politics, religion, and the inequities of the college football playoff system,”

  I said. “None of these should be discussed at the dinner table. As well-bred as you claim to be as often as possible, you of all people should know this, Pendleton.”

  He smiled. “But the rule doesn’t apply, as I’m not part of your dinner table.”


  “Nor will you be.”

  Pendleton spoke to Glennifer and Elaine. “He’s like a caged tiger, isn’t he? All that prowling, restless anger. It must be exciting to spend time with him, wondering when any of it might be unleashed.”

  “Strange,” Glennifer said, “how one brother might be angry when the other has tried to take away his name, his life, and his rightful inheritance.”

  “His wife, too,” Elaine added, speaking to Glennifer as if Pendleton did not exist. “Don’t forget how Pendleton took away his wife.”

  “Good-bye, Pendleton,” I said. I’d saved his life as he lay bleeding from the gunshot wound; I didn’t owe him anything, least of all courtesy.

  “I think I can work out a deal with the IRS,” Pendleton answered me. “They’re not quite so confident about seizing everything now that you’re in the picture.”

  A few months earlier, during the college spring break, I’d returned to Charleston and learned the truth about my mother’s disappearance. It was then I’d discovered Pendleton’s role in the car accident that had resulted in the loss of my leg. The role he’d played in the annulment of my marriage to the woman he’d wanted badly since childhood. And how he had kept from me the secret that we shared an inheritance. Now it was about to be trimmed considerably by the IRS because of his tax-fraud actions. By proving paternity, however, I would be able to claim my share before the penalties. According to my lawyer, the outcome was not in doubt. I would not lose in court. With me on one side and the IRS on the other, Pendleton would be left with nothing.

  “Good-bye, Pendleton,” I said again. Considering what I knew about Pendleton and the history between us, I was impressed that I could remain this civil. “Please.”

  “If you sign off on a reduced penalty to the IRS,” he said. “we will have plenty to share. I’ll give you the house. You could move in tomorrow. Your half of what’s left of the trust fund will still be enough to retire on. I won’t dispute this any longer. You’re only punishing yourself by trying to punish me.”

  I sipped my ice water again.

  “You don’t need revenge,” he said. “You’ve won.”

  “Good-bye,” I repeated.

  “Please,” he said. His habitual smirk disappeared as he paused. “The divorce is final. My daughter won’t speak to me. I’m a laughingstock in Charleston. There is nothing here for me. I want to leave and try to begin somewhere else.” His face had lost all animation. “You may not believe me. But I’m sorry for what I did. I’m asking you to forgive me.”

  I could think of no immediate reply to this.

  Pendleton studied my eyes briefly. “That was difficult for me to say. I hope you can appreciate that.”

  He then turned and left without further comment. I twisted and watched him go. When he reached his table, he dropped some bills for a tip and departed the restaurant, his magnificent shoulders squared.

  **

  “Juh-hee!-ze-huss, Juh-hee!-ze-huss, Juh-hee!-ze-huss,” Shepherd Isaiah Sullivan began in the living room of the Herndon trailer, drawing out the Holy Name in his hypnotic manner. Shepherd Isaiah had dreams of television syndication for himself and the Glory Church of the Lamb of Jesus, first across the deep South and then north to the heathens. To accomplish this, Shepherd Isaiah knew he needed more than the sizable amount of cash his church had accumulated over the last years. He needed a trademark, something to set himself apart from his competition. Accordingly, he had spent hours experimenting on different ways to emphasize the different syllables of the Holy Name. Years earlier, Shepherd Isaiah had also begun to cultivate a trademark look, and, happily aware that his tallness and Lincoln-like appearance gave him a spooky aura, he emphasized it by wearing dark clothing and a full beard. His approach had proven effective, at least within the Glory Church of the Lamb of Jesus.

  He prayed loudly now, repeatedly calling upon the name of Jesus. “We beseech thee and thy Holy Spirit to come among us here . . .”

  Retha was on her knees on the orange shag carpet at Shepherd Isaiah’s feet. Some of the others, standing above her with hands joined in a tight circle, trembled in anticipation of holy ecstasy. Retha, with the doll in her arms hidden by a blanket, trembled in fear that her lie would be discovered. Entering the living room with the doll, her knees ready to buckle, she’d almost found the courage to confess, despite her terror of Shepherd Isaiah setting Elder Jeremiah loose on her. But when some of the elders and their wives had immediately begun to moan in fervor as a prelude to the Glory Session, she’d been unable to blurt out the truth. So she was committed to the entire Glory Session, devoting her own prayers to self-preservation as the other prayers rained down upon her.

  “We beseech thee! Look kindly upon us, for we are the true followers who obey all thy commands. Cursed be those who bring false teachings to the sheep. Blessed be those who rely only on thy goodness and glory and truth for all their needs. Blessed be those who let thy will be done.”

  Retha knew Shepherd Isaiah was directing this portion of the prayer at her. Early in her marriage, Retha had made the mistake of allowing a makeup person in a department store to

  talk her into a free makeover. It had been simple curiosity. While Retha had been astounded at the results, she had not broken church law by purchasing any lipstick or eyeliner or blush. Yet one of the other sheep in Shepherd Isaiah’s flock had seen her in front of the makeup mirror—her sin had resulted in a reputation that she must be closely watched, a calling forward for public repentance at the next church service, and a private beating at home from Elder Mason, who, like Shepherd Isaiah, taught the part of Scripture that admonished true believers to remember that a spared rod resulted in a spoiled child.

  “We beseech thee! Look kindly upon us, for we are the true followers who obey all thy commands.”

  The repetition was deliberate to remind his listeners that in the Glory Church of the Lamb of Jesus, everyone understood that whatever happened was God’s will and purpose. Sickness was brought upon those who had sinned. Health was restored only after repeated pleas for forgiveness to God through the Lamb of Jesus, and then only if God so chose, and all miracles as such then brought glory to his name; last year one member had succumbed to appendicitis, another to unhealed broken ribs that had eventually punctured a lung; these two were deemed by the rest as not having believed enough.

  Shepherd Isaiah began to pant as he continued to cry out, raising and dropping his voice like a roller coaster to bring his Followers on a ride with him. “We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee!”

  The others began to join in, gripping hands and rocking back and forth, catching Shepherd Isaiah’s zeal as they cried out to God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Despite the lack of danger in a Glory Session, done right it was almost as gratifying as a snake-handling—activities that required a fervor that would crest and fall, crest and fall, leaving Shepherd Isaiah’s sheep exhausted and drained and satisfied.

  Shepherd Isaiah allowed his sheep to rock and moan for another fifteen minutes, letting the Glory Session build as he blended his voice in with theirs. When he sensed the time was right, he cried out above them, penetrating their trance with his deep baritone.

  “We beseech thee! Rid this child of the demons of sickness! “We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee! Forgive the sins that have placed him at the gates of hell!”

  At the delicious words demons and hell, the Glory Session catapulted itself to a higher level.

  “Lay on the hands, Good Shepherd!” the followers begged Shepherd Isaiah. “Lay on the healing hands!”

  Retha cowered at their feet. Had it been Billy Lee in her arms, her baby would have been shrieking at the storm of prayers around it.

  Shepherd Isaiah smiled with calm detachment as the others swayed like trees before a hurricane. He knew the followers were truly lost in their consecration and rhythmic rapture when they called him the name that gave him the secret pleasure of power.

  “Good Shepherd! Good Shepherd! Good
Shepherd!” The cries of affirmation rolled over him.

  “We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee!” he responded. “We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee!”

  “Lay on the hands! Lay on the hands! Lay on the hands!”

  Shepherd Isaiah reached down for the baby in the blanket of the arms of the young woman at his feet.

  Retha could not help her own impulse. She pulled the doll in tighter to herself.

  Shocked by the defiance, Shepherd Isaiah almost lost his rhythmic chant. The others, crying aloud and rocking with their eyes closed, failed to notice, and Shepherd Isaiah was able to get himself together.

  “We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee!”

  he said. “Bring this sinner close to thee! Anoint her with thy our goodness and mercy. We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee!”

  He reached again. Retha protected the doll by curling

  over it.

  This time, as Shepherd Isaiah made his awkward and determined grab for the baby, he did lose his cadence. Enough that it brought a few of the followers back from the brink of bliss. Their voices dropped as they opened their eyes to see Shepherd Isaiah pulling at Retha in an attempt to straighten her. The remaining followers, including Junior, picked up on the disturbance, and they too opened their eyes to become witnesses.

  Shepherd Isaiah, furious that one of his followers would deny his will, fought for the baby as if it were a football. Retha screamed and fought back, so filled with terror at the consequences of her deceit that she was blind to how much worse she was making it.

  Elder Jeremiah stood from the couch and waited for instructions from Shepherd Isaiah. But this was not a time for anyone’s authority but the Shepherd’s, and he shook his head. Elder Jeremiah sat back down but remained extremely watchful.

  The followers stopped swaying and their voices dropped to silence.

  “Anoint this baby,” Shepherd Isaiah shouted. “We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee!”

  To Shepherd Isaiah, possession of the baby had become possession of leadership. He was not going to allow this girl child to thwart him in front of the elders of the Glory Church of the Lamb of Jesus. “The Lord orders you to let it go!”