EARLY SUNDAY MORNING, MIKE’S FEET WERE ON THE FLOOR before he remembered that he didn’t need to go to church. He started to lie down again, but the pain of rejection brought him awake. He looked over his shoulder at Peg, who was sleeping peacefully. With each day, his confidence in the sincerity of her desire to remain committed to the marriage grew. He couldn’t imagine the pain he’d be going through if she’d decided to leave simultaneously with the trauma at the church.
Quietly leaving the room, he opened the door for Judge to go outside. It was a fine morning, and the grays of night were giving way to streaks of color in the trees and bushes that signaled the new day. Mike watched Judge trot happily around the yard in his familiar morning ritual and wished his own Sunday morning routine hadn’t been so cruelly disrupted. The dog returned, and Mike directed him back to the kitchen.
“No, she’s not awake,” he said when the dog headed toward the art room.
Mike went into the great room and sat in his chair. He reached for his Bible, but instead of opening it, placed it in his lap and closed his eyes.
Instantly, he was in another place.
It was a barren landscape with trees so broken and disfigured they looked like old men about to topple over. The ground was various shades of sickly brown, none of which indicated any hope of future fertility. The sky was gray, the sun hidden. A few puddles of polluted water collected in what looked like shallow bomb craters that pockmarked the earth as far as he could see. An oily slime on top of the water glistened with a sickly rainbow of color. To his right rested a simple table with a spotless white tablecloth thrown over it. A plain wooden chair was pulled up to the table.
Mike sat down in the chair. Although the table was bare, he bowed his head in a silent blessing. When he opened his eyes, there was a bowl of soup before him. Mike quickly glanced around but saw no one. He dipped a spoon into the soup and tasted it. It was not easy to identify. He ate another spoonful and decided it had to be a type of bisque containing complex flavors. As the soup encountered different parts of his tongue, it interacted with each category of taste buds. It was delicious. Mike continued eating, savoring each bite until he reluctantly scooped up the last of the soup and raised it to his lips.
He woke up.
The sun was streaming in shafts into the backyard. He looked at the clock and realized it had been almost an hour since he sat down in the chair.
“What was that all about?” he spoke out loud.
Mike opened his Bible and flipped through the pages, looking for a verse in the Psalms. He heard footsteps as Peg came into the room. She sat on the edge of the chair and squeezed close to him.
“I know it’s hard for you to stay home instead of going to the church,” she said.
“I was depressed when I woke up, but then I came out here and had a dream.”
“Tell me.”
When Mike reached the part about the delicious soup, Peg interrupted.
“You could taste it? I’ve never had a dream involving taste.”
“Yeah, it was so real I can still remember the flavors. When you’re back on your feet and in the kitchen, I want you to fix it for us.”
Peg smiled. “You’ll have to take me with you to Dreamland so I can get the recipe.”
“When I finished the soup, I woke up. Then I thought about this verse.” He picked up his Bible. “Psalm 78:19: ‘Can God spread a table in the desert?’ It describes exactly what I saw and experienced—a wonderful meal in a desolate place.”
Shortly before 11:00 a.m. the doorbell rang. Judge barked and followed Mike to the door.
Sam and Muriel Miller stood on the front steps. Sam spoke. “Since you’re a preacher without a congregation, I thought we might have church here this morning.”
Mike held the door open. “Come in.”
They went into the great room.
“Can I sit in your chair?” Sam asked.
“Only if you promise not to go to sleep during the sermon.”
Peg joined them. She and Muriel sat on the couch. Mike brought in a chair from the dining room and placed it so that he faced the other three.
“What’s going to happen during this church service?” he asked.
“You’re the preacher. What’s on your heart?” Sam replied.
Mike glanced at the clock.
“I want to pray for the service at Little Creek.”
Sam nodded. “They can take the sheep away from the shepherd, but the shepherd’s heart remains with the flock.”
Mike told them the little he knew about Vaughn Mixon.
“He’s a good man,” Sam said.
“Do you know him?” Mike asked in surprise.
“Nope, but Papa does.”
Mike looked at Peg. “I step into that hole just about every time Sam digs it.”
“Let’s pray,” Sam said.
Peg started speaking before Mike could organize his thoughts. Her direct, commonsense approach to life came through in practical requests. Sam or Muriel interjected an occasional “Amen.”
When Peg grew silent, Sam took up where she left off. He prayed in spurts, as if listening for a few moments then speaking what he heard. Mike had grown used to Sam’s use of “Papa” and “Master,” but was startled by the old man’s knowledge of the Bible. He effortlessly quoted long passages from memory. And his knowledge wasn’t limited to the New Testament. He used verses from the Old Testament, too. Apparently, Sam did more than walk mindlessly behind a mower all day. Mike felt slightly jealous; a response he knew would make Sam happy.
When Sam grew silent, Mike waited for Muriel, but she didn’t say a word. After a minute or so, Mike cleared his throat to speak, but an inner restraint held him in check. Three times, he prepared to break the silence but couldn’t do so. Finally, the old woman spoke. And when she did, Mike was grateful he’d waited.
“Father, let the sweetness of Your love flow over the people of the Little Creek Church. Many of them are taking the baby steps of faith. Bring them along the path with gentleness and wisdom.” Her voice increased in intensity. “Protect them. Do not let the Enemy trip them up. Let the people remember the love Mike and Peg have for them and how they showed that love to them day by day.”
As Muriel continued, emotion welled up in Mike. The old woman understood the heart of the Father for His children and the concern of a pastor for his flock.
The prayers of the others so beautifully communicated the need of the moment that when it was finally Mike’s turn, he searched for something to add but did nothing more than provide the final “Amen.”
He looked up into the eyes of the other three people in the room.
“If there was regular prayer like this for every church in America, our nation would change.”
“Yep,” Sam replied. “It doesn’t make the evening news, but there are more praying people than you might think. I’ve seen the lights in the night, and they cover the whole country.”
Mike looked at the clock. “I didn’t prepare a sermon.”
“Tell your dream,” Peg said. “Sam will like it.”
Mike pointed to the chair. “I took a ride on the rocket ship.”
While Mike talked, Sam smiled and nodded knowingly. Mike tried to wipe the grin from the old man’s face by describing in greater detail the devastation of the landscape, but nothing changed Sam’s countenance. When he reached the part about the soup, Sam’s face lit up. Mike stopped.
“Do you want to say something?” he asked.
“Nope.”
Mike finished by reading the verse from Psalms.
“That’s better than a bunch of sermons I’ve heard,” Sam said, patting his stomach. “It’s something I can carry with me when we go home. It also reminds me of a vision I had many years ago.” He turned to Muriel. “Remember when we were helping that church on Mackey Road?”
“Yeah, a lot of people got saved before things turned rough.”
Sam spoke to Mike and Peg. “It was during the time I me
t Larry Fletchall’s father. His name was Victor. Back then, blacks and whites working together in the ministry didn’t happen very often, but Papa showed Vic and me that we were supposed to do some meetings together. Neither of us knew much about the ministry, but Papa showed up, which is all it takes to have good church. It was a great time until a bunch of preachers, some white, some black, started telling lies about us and stirring up trouble. Some of the people working with us got sick, including Vic, who ended up in the hospital.”
“Our son Matthew was little,” Muriel added. “And he started having nightmares.”
“Anyway, one night I had a vision. I was standing on a battlefield that looked a lot like your wilderness except there were people lying around wounded. When I saw their faces, I recognized Vic, our son, and several others. Nearby was a table, and I sat down. An angel appeared and asked me if I wanted to order soup or a salad. I thought it was a stupid question and pointed to the people who were hurt. How could I consider eating when I was in the middle of such a horrible battle? The angel repeated the question several times then I woke up. Do you know what it means?”
Mike shook his head.
“I wasn’t sure either,” Sam continued. “But like you, Papa reminded me of a verse. It’s in Psalm 23.”
Mike thought for a moment. “He prepares ‘a table before me in the presence of my enemies.’”
“Yep. We may think the world is coming to an end, but Papa isn’t upset. He let me know that He’s in control and could offer one of His children a quiet meal even if things in life are rough. Soon after the vision, Vic got better, and Matthew was able to sleep at night. A lot of the folks who founded the Craig Valley church were saved in those meetings.” Sam paused. “You know, I need to remember that one. It will help me face what’s up ahead for both of us.”
Peg invited Sam and Muriel to stay for lunch.
“We’re eating your leftovers,” she said.
“No thanks,” Muriel replied. “We’re going to visit a woman who lives not far from our house. I have to pick up something to take to her.”
Mike walked them to the front door.
“What exactly did you say to Butch Niles when you saw him on the sidewalk the other day?” he asked Sam.
“Nothing except the interpretation of the dream.”
“Did you quote the poem?”
“Nope.”
“Did he understand what you told him?”
“Yep. But understanding isn’t the same as obeying. He got upset, but it doesn’t mean he won’t think about it later and do the right thing. I’ve seen that happen many times. Remember how long it took you to agree to help me?”
“Yeah.”
“But now you know it was the right thing to do.” Sam put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “And hearing what Papa is doing in your life gives me hope for what lies ahead.”
After Sam and Muriel left, the phone started ringing, and Mike fielded calls from members of the congregation. He quickly learned that Bobby Lambert spoke on behalf of the elders, and Vaughn Mixon made it clear that his stay at the church was temporary. He didn’t want Mike’s job. Many of the people who called said they would be praying for Peg and looked forward to Mike’s return. When the calls slowed, Mike went into the downstairs bedroom.
“Did you hear my side of the conversations?” he asked.
“In part. A lot of the people support you.”
Mike sat on the edge of the bed. “At the session meeting, I thought my time at Little Creek was over. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“We’ll have to wait and see. One thing I’ve realized in the past weeks is that a lot of big changes can happen in a short period of time.”
MIKE WOKE UP MONDAY MORNING AND FIXED BREAKFAST FOR Peg. He brought it to her in bed with a short love note placed beside her toast. Peg opened the note and read it while he waited.
“Thank you,” she said.
“How are the eggs?” Mike asked. “I know you like them over easy.”
Peg took a bite. “Perfect. When did you learn to do that?”
“It took six eggs to get two right. In the process, I discovered a lot about how eggs react to heat.”
Peg sipped the coffee. “Where’s your breakfast?”
“I ate the mistakes.”
Mike sat on the bed and watched her eat. “The elders told me to care for you. Since they’re the ones in charge of my life, I’d better do what they say.”
Peg laughed. “That sounds interesting, but who’s going to take care of you?”
“I’m self-sufficient.”
“You’ve not been self-sufficient since you lived like a pig in college.”
“We didn’t live like pigs.”
“I saw the kitchen at the fraternity house. But you’re much more domesticated now.”
“A domesticated pig instead of a wild pig?”
“That’s not a fair comparison, considering how beautifully you fixed my breakfast.”
“What else am I going to do today?”
Peg nibbled a bite of toast. “Keep me company.”
“That will be pleasant. Anything else?”
“Work on Sam’s case.”
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, MIKE TOOK A SHORT NAP IN HIS CHAIR in the great room. He’d not had any dreams as dramatic as the table in the desert, but several times he’d awakened with a thought or a phrase that he entered in his PDA. The phone rang as he rested with his eyes closed. It was Darius York.
“I called the church, and the secretary gave me your home number,” York began.
“This will be the place to reach me for the time being,” Mike said. “What can you tell me?”
“I’ve reviewed the writing sample you sent and ran a comparison on the checks. It’s your man’s signature on the bottom of the checks, but it’s not a sophisticated imprint job.”
Mike felt a sudden knot in his stomach. “What do you mean?”
“The name on the checks was stamped with a signature stamp. There isn’t any smearing of the ink, but there’s no doubt an old-fashioned stamp was used. Did your client use a signature stamp in his work?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask him.”
“If he had one, find out who had access to it.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t jive with the information obtained from a former bank officer involved in the investigation.”
Mike summarized his conversation with Brian Dressler. “I was hoping for a high-tech imprint of the signature,” Mike concluded. “That would have given me a better defense than the unauthorized use of a signature stamp.”
“If your client is innocent, the people wanting to make him look guilty adopted a simple yet clever strategy to do so.”
“Did you discover anything else?”
“The payee name and date were typed on an old IBM Selectric typewriter.”
“I doubt my client owns a typewriter. He writes in notebooks.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He has a small lawncare business. No employees.”
“The typewriter used to produce the checks was a business model, heavy-duty and state-of-the-art when introduced, but a dinosaur today.”
“Could you identify the specific unit?”
“If I had a proper sample. The print produced by each typewriter is unique, especially after the passage of time increases eccentricities in the typeface.”
“Would it be the type of machine used at a bank?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you still want to see the originals of the checks?”
“Yes. The copying process masks details that would be easier to locate if I had access to the originals.”
“Could you come to Shelton to review them? The judge wouldn’t let them leave the custody of the bank or the State.”
“Yes.”
Mike thought a moment. “Do your qualifications as an expert witness include analysis of typewriters?”
“I’ve performed less work with machines, bu
t they’re easier to identify. Unlike handwriting, their peculiarities are reproduced repeatedly.”
“Can you send a report of your findings thus far?”
“Why?”
“So I can be sure about your opinion.”
“I won’t back off my assessment.”
Mike felt uneasy. “I don’t like to go to court without something in my hand to guide my questions.”
“What more do you need?”
Mike listed several items.
“I can give that information.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want me to return the documents you sent me?”
“Not yet. I’ll let you know as soon as possible if I find out anything about the original checks or the location of a typewriter.”
MIKE HUNG UP AND CALLED MELISSA HALL. THE RECEPTIONIST paged the assistant DA, who answered the phone.
“How is your wife?” Hall asked before Mike could speak. “I heard you’ve taken a leave of absence from the church to take care of her.”
“She’s off her feet and taking it easy. It’s hard because she was an everyday runner and very active.”
“Are you going to ask for a continuance of the case to take care of her?”
Mike didn’t answer. Judge Coberg might grant a postponement, but Mike wouldn’t be completely honest in asking for one.
“That remains to be seen. When will the Miller case be on the trial calendar? I haven’t received notice of trial.”
“It’s being worked up, but Ken has it penciled in as a backup in a week and a half. After that, there won’t be a criminal court trial week for at least two months.”
A two-month postponement looked very attractive. Mike made a note on his legal pad.
“If you’re still pushing the case up the ladder,” he said, “I need to see the original checks. I won’t stipulate to the use of copies.”
“I haven’t received them yet.”
“My expert wants to examine them prior to trial.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call the bank and let you know. He can look at them here at our office. Any preliminary idea what your expert is going to say?”
Mike was so surprised by Hall’s request that it caught him off guard. Modern rules of disclosure had limited the opportunity for trial by ambush in most areas of the law, but in a criminal case it was still possible to blindside the prosecution in the heat of battle.
Mountain Top Page 28
