by Dijorn Moss
Cameron makes a hard right turn off the main road and down a steep hill. I’m certain this will cause the cart to turn over and I will be sent flying into my death. Cameron, however, remains vigilant and kept both the bike and the cart on course.
We arrive at the bottom of the hill where a hotel sits less than a hundred feet away from the shore. The architecture of the house resembles a state building, and thus, the hotel looks as if it has no earthly business being on the beach. The place isn’t crawling with local law enforcement; just a few Jeeps with sirens attached to the roof of the vehicle. This is a place where a gruesome murder of an internationally renowned pastor took place.
Even though there is a police presence at the scene, I notice that the presence is light, and I am somewhat disappointed. I vehemently opposed Pastor Cole on a theological level, but from a humane perspective, a man of his stature deserves more of an outcry. But that is just the way this world is. A lawmaker can spend his entire tenure breaking every moral code and use his power to put his foot on the necks of his constituents, and yet, he receives a military salute and ongoing investigation. I realize that will probably not be the case for Pastor Cole, however. The church community will have a great celebration of his legacy, and preachers from all around will come and try to outdo each other in the best eulogy. There will, without a doubt, be a concert from Gospel-recording artists to choirs, and then silence. The center stage will be empty until the battle over supremacy for Pastor Cole’s church is over. That’s what awaits Pastor Cole’s followers.
“Here you go, fam. Cameron told you I would get you there fast.” Cameron bothers himself to open the cart door to let me out.
“Thank you,” I say as I stumble to get out of the cart. Though I’m not Catholic, I cross myself as if I was and reach into my pocket and hand him a hundred-dollar bill.
Cameron’s eyes light up when he sees the money. “Thank you, fam. If you ever need a ride, you just let Cameron know.”
Hopefully, I won’t. “Okay, just be careful, all right?”
“Sure!” Just like that, Cameron hops on his motorcycle and guns his bike.
I walk toward the hotel somewhat perplexed. Though this is a luxurious hotel, I have seen Pastor Cole fill up stadiums. I wonder why of all of the places Pastor Cole can have his international conference, he chooses to have his conference here.
I walk past the police officers who aren’t doing anything but passing the time. I enter the hotel and see a bunch of people in their uniforms running around. In the midst of a murder investigation, the hotel staff still tries to attend to the whims of their guests. The report says that Pastor Cole was shot and killed in his hotel room. The police officers that are on the inside of the hotel make their way up and down the staircase. Pastor Cole’s hotel room must’ve been in the back because some of the police officers would disappear once they reach the second floor. For a second, one wouldn’t think that a murder has taken place, just that the hotel is extremely busy.
The conference is taking place in the back of the hotel, so I make my way past the staircase and the front desk and down a narrow hallway. While planning for this trip, I thought about staying in Green Cove and staying in this very hotel. I am thankful for my decision to go to a more secluded island.
I arrive at the outside of the conference room. Two gentlemen stand guard in front of the closed doors.
“I’m Minister Nicodemus Dungy. I’m here to offer my—”
I couldn’t even finish my sentence before the man’s eyes enlarged as if I am some kind of a celebrity.
“Right this way, Minister Dungy.” The man takes me by the arm before I even have a chance to protest. We cross the lobby and head toward the back of the room.
I enter the conference room and the who’s who of ministers are in attendance. I see Pastor Christie from Higher Ground in Philadelphia, a former client. Then there is Pastor Richardson from Milwaukee, seventeen thousand members strong.
I even see Pastor Gerald Watkins from Powerhouse Faith in Chicago, also a former client. The list goes on and on, and my curiosity grows. With this many prominent pastors on this small exotic island, I wonder if there is more going on than just an international convention. I could be wrong, but my track record suggests otherwise.
Pastor William Bryant enters the conference room. He and Pastor Cole are as thick as thieves. No surprise as to why he is here. He has one of the two largest ministries in the country, and he is one of the main keynote speakers. Pastor Bryant is head and shoulders taller than any other man in the room, and he reinforces his stature with a tailor-made power suit. I’m sure he’s the envy of his fellow brethren with a full head of hair and only a few gray streaks.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen, men of God. Today is a black day for us all. One of our generals of the Gospel has been sent home to be with the Lord, and it’s not his death that troubles me; it’s how he died. The devil is strong, but we as men of God are stronger.”
“Amen,” we say in unison.
Pastor Bryant has a voice that commands attention, and his vocabulary and diction are so precise that I hang onto every word.
If I was still preaching, I would want to be able to command a crowd like Bryant. I know it’s shallow and self-conscious for me to say that, but I’m only human.
“The devil is trying to take us out, and the police do not have any suspects, but I know that God will help us to bring to justice the people responsible for this. For the family of Pastor Cole, let us pray.”
I bow my head and think about Adele’s words regarding Pastor Cole. I’m not a prophet of doom, but to wake up and hear about a pastor being murdered is a sign of the end times in my opinion.
“Amen,” we all say upon completion of the prayer.
I look up to see the same short man that led me into the conference room is now whispering in Pastor Bryant’s ear. One can only guess what the short man is telling Pastor Bryant because immediately, Pastor Bryant’s eyes start scanning the room, and when his eyes lock onto mine, I know what the short man has been whispering to him. A smile creeps out the side of Pastor Bryant’s face.
“Oh, Minister Dungy . . . A word in private, please,” Bryant says.
All the men turn around to look at me, and I have a look like I have just been called into the principal’s office. I emerge from the group and follow Pastor Bryant out of the conference room down the hallway. Bryant doesn’t break stride nor does he turn around to check and see if I am following him. He just keeps on walking until he arrives at a door at the end of the hallway. Bryant opens the door like he owns the place, and I close the door behind me. He goes into the minirefrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water.
“Do you believe in serendipity, Minister Dungy?”
“I believe in the scriptures when it says all things work together for the greater good.”
“The greater good,” Pastor Bryant says to himself. “What are the odds that you would happen to be on this island at the same time Pastor Cole is killed?”
“Am I a suspect in this case?” I ask, not sure of the intentions behind Bryant’s line of questioning.
“Quite the opposite. I was thinking more of an asset. Maybe even a saint.”
I’ve been called many things; most of it I won’t even bother to repeat, but a saint would undoubtedly be the first.
“Let’s cut to the chase. You know who I am and what I do, so what’s up?”
“What is your opinion of Pastor Cole?”
“Not a high one,” I say.
“Well, contrary to what you see on the news or hear whispered among certain circles, Pastor Cole was an honorable man.”
Pastor Bryant’s statement is met with silence. I have no way of determining if Pastor Cole was honorable or not. It doesn’t really matter to me anyway since he’s dead. It’s a harsh reality, but I’m not the kind of person who dislikes someone one minute, and then praise them when they die.
“I need your help in finding out who did this,” Pasto
r Bryant says.
It takes a minute for me to realize what Pastor Bryant is asking of me. He wants me to find out who killed Pastor Cole.
“You know they got these guys who run around here with a badge and a gun called cops. They’re more qualified to help you in this endeavor—”
“—You know the police are not going to kick over any stones to find a slain pastor’s killer. Pastor Cole is one of our own, and you may have forgotten that, but I need a soldier, a man of God with a unique skill set such as yours to bring the person responsible for this to justice.”
It hasn’t even been a month since my ordeal with the husband stalker. The infamous serial killer avoided authorities for decades. He sought after the husbands of prominent women and brutally murdered them. With the help of my friend and bounty hunter, Spider, we were able to capture him. After my run-in with the husband stalker, I have had my share of chasing after another killer. That was not in my job description.
“I’m not sure what it is you need me to do,” I say.
Pastor Bryant goes into his pocket and pulls out a small pen and a tablet and starts to scribble on the paper. Judging by the way he’s writing, I assume that he is writing down a figure.
“I just need you to knock on a few more doors and ask a few more questions. And if you do find out who is responsible for this, this will be your reward.”
Pastor Bryant folds the piece of paper and hands it to me. I open the piece of paper and at first I think that Pastor Bryant is being a little too cavalier with the zeros, but then I realize that he has over 30,000 members whose tithes and offerings allow him to be carefree with their money.
“This is a lot of money,” I say.
“Indeed, but you know I’m good for it,” Pastor Bryant says.
“That’s not what I’m implying. Pastor Cole must’ve been in deep for someone to kill him, and by me taking on this assignment, that means I’m about to get in deep as well, so before you pay me a king’s ransom, tell me something that those other guys in the room don’t know.”
Pastor Bryant finishes his water and places his hands in his pocket. “You realize that what I’m about to tell you is of the highest confidentiality.”
“If you know me, then you know what I do and you know the answer.”
Pastor Bryant nods his head in concession. Even my enemies would vouch for my discretion.
“Have you heard of Randall Knox?”
“The business tycoon who just had an unsuccessful gubernatorial campaign?” That’s my way of saying that I know who Randall is, and I know of his influence back home. I also know that he’s a jerk and a proud member of the 1 percent. “What about him?”
“After 9/11, Knox noticed a spike in church attendance, but what he also noticed was after the waves of emotions subsided from 9/11, people stopped attending church as usual. So he and his think tank got together and came up with an idea. They started approaching pastors, offering to help them expand their ministries and keep the church pews full. He offers construction companies and franchise coffee shops and fast-food restaurants. The pastors soon saw his genius and saw a way to make a profit.”
I remember reading an article not too long ago that showed a cathedral with a golden arch on the outside. It was an article that focused on how corporate America has both infiltrated and influenced today’s church.
The article made me sick. I understand why Jesus turned over the money tables. The church is supposed to be a place of prayer and healing, not commerce. I know I’m the last person to judge, but if I walk into the church and see more commerce than prayer going on, then something is off.
“So how does this relate to Pastor Cole?”
Pastor Bryant lets out a big smile. “He was the innovator; he’s the first to embrace big business in the church. He changed the game.”
“He prostituted the church, you mean,” I say without remorse.
“Don’t look at it from one angle. There is another side to the coin. Big corporate dollars means more education programs, affordable living programs, work placement programs, and recovery programs. The list goes on and on with what the church can do with enough resources. The church is now able to provide people with not only spiritual nourishment, but socioeconomic nourishment as well. These opportunities no longer lay at the back of the congregational tithes and offerings.”
I hear what Pastor Bryant is saying, but the truth is that the church is meant to be sustained by tithes and offerings through the faith of the congregation. The church would always thrive if souls are being saved, even if a Starbucks is not in the lobby.
“So you think one of these corporate execs had Pastor Cole killed?”
Pastor Bryant shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. All I know is that money is the root of all evil. Lord know what people would do if they stood a chance to gain it or lose it.”
“I need a name, something to go off of. The list of suspects stretches from here to Atlanta. Could it be any of the ministers that are here at the conference?”
“No,” Pastor Bryant says.
“How do you know? Obviously, whoever did this had access to Pastor Cole.”
“Because these are men of God, and they wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh yeah, because men and women of God don’t sin; we all just follow the Bible to the letter. Bottom line, if you live in this world, you get a little dirty.”
Pastor Bryant is taken aback by my frankness. I know it’s a strong indictment of his fellow brothers and sisters of the cloth, but experience has taught me to never rule someone out.
“The day before he died, Cole came to me visibly shaken. He said he was concerned for his life. He wouldn’t tell what or who. All I know was that I saw fear in his eyes.”
“And that was the last time that you saw him?” I ask.
Pastor Bryant nods his head. He then pinches his eyes to keep the tears at bay. “I should’ve pressed the issue, but I didn’t. I have to live with that, but I can at least find out the truth of who killed my brother.”
The story is compelling, and Pastor Bryant is right: the world won’t care what happens to a preacher. But this is my vacation, and I really should be trying to get over what happened in Sacramento. I’m not up for this challenge, but I can’t ignore the urge within that is telling me to pursue this case. I don’t know if it’s the devil or the Holy Spirit. All I know is that it’s a voice that I cannot ignore.
“I’ll ask around and see what I find.”
“There’s one more thing. Cole would kill me if I told you this.” Bryant goes into his pockets and scribbles something on another piece of paper.
He hands the paper to me, and I read it. It says Elisha Davis and it has her address written at the bottom of the paper. “Pastor Cole had a daughter from back when he was in seminary a long time ago. That was part of the reason why he had the conference out here, to see her. Look her up and see what she might know.”
So Pastor Cole had a daughter that the world didn’t know about. Every man has his vices, and every man has his secrets.
“And before I forget,” Bryant goes into his jacket and hands me an envelope. “Make sure you hand this to her. I would do it myself, but since you’re going to see her first . . .”
More than likely there is a check on the inside of this envelope. The question is, is this check for a grieving daughter, or is this hush money?
“Okay, I will probably start there and ask her a few questions.”
Pastor Bryant shakes my hand before he heads toward the door.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“The conference must go on. The devil can’t win.”
He’s right; the devil can’t win, but to continue with a conference in the midst of Pastor Cole’s death is bad form.
I thought about Pastor Bryant’s words on the flight home. I arrive at Adele’s place to hear her engage in a playful conversation. I don’t want to be rude and not say anything so I go into the kitchen and there in the middl
e of the living room is Victory. Victory has finally arrived, and her timing couldn’t have been worse.
Chapter Four
Victory’s hair looks like it’s been kissed by fire. Her hair is also stringy like I remember. She wears a cream sundress that fits her slim frame to a tee, and the scent of cucumber melon permeates from her skin. In short, Victory’s presence is both refreshing and breathtaking.
“Boy, if you don’t pick your mouth up off my floor, I’m going to kick it closed,” Adele says.
Victory covers up her mouth in laughter to avoid adding to the embarrassment that Adele’s comments causes. But she doesn’t have to cover up for my sake; I love to see her smile, even at my own expense.
“You look good, Nic,” Victory says.
I’m glad I don’t look the way that I feel. “Thank you. You’re beautiful, as always.”
“Lord Jesus, gets this boy some game. I swear!” Adele says.
Victory tries to cover up her laughter again, but can’t. I understand Adele is quite a character.
“I’ve been comparing notes with Adele,” Victory says.
“Hopefully, she hasn’t been beating me up too bad,” I reply.
“No, but I did tell her how you’ve been out here watching the planes as they come in like Tattoo on Fantasy Island. It was starting to get embarrassing, if you ask me.”
Now that statement is a blow to my ego. Whatever swagger points I earned while in Sacramento has just been lost in a matter of seconds. Adele sits there and dares me to challenge her on her accusations. Of course, I have a weak defense, so I must continue to take the blows.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t know I was in such high demand,” Victory says.
“You have no idea,” Adele states.
“Excuse me,” I say to Adele, and I extend my hand to Victory. She takes my hand and grabs her purse. Victory leaves her suitcase behind and follows me. Out of my peripheral vision, I can see that Adele wants to protest, but she decides to just let us go. I’m sure Adele will have plenty of time to compare notes with Victory, but since I arrived at this island, I couldn’t wait for Victory to show up so that we can walk along the sand. I wonder if she will get the same pleasure from feeling the warm sand between her toes.
