Like Sheep Gone Astray (28 page)

She walked down the basement steps, ducking her head as she entered the lower hall. The paint-spotted plastic was loud under her feet and she was careful to avoid wet patches. For once, Terri was glad she'd put on tennis shoes.

The pastor's study was open and the lights were on. Gospel music played softly from an unseen CD player. Donnie McClurkin—she recognized the CD as one Sister Porter had given her last Christmas. Terri took a quick look behind her before stepping in and looking around. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she was compelled to keep moving forward.

A half-eaten breakfast sandwich and cold coffee sat on the desk next to a stack of sermon notes. Typewritten pages, study guides, Greek Bibles, Hebrew texts, journals, notebooks. Terri flipped quickly through the stack, seeing nothing of particular interest to her. She ran her fingers along the leather-bound volumes lining the two medium-sized bookcases behind Pastor Green's desk. Greeting cards and plaques filled almost every available space on the wail. Terri smiled at some of the messages of gratitude and honor scribbled on the flowery pages and inscribed on the metal tablets. Pastor Green was a well-respected man. Terri couldn't argue with that.

She sank into the overstuffed desk chair and rested her head against the red, bumpy leather. So
this is what it feels like to be a minister.
She picked up a pen and tapped the stack in front of her. Her office was bigger, less cramped, with no basement mildew smell.

“All right, enough. I need to know what's going on with my husband.” As she spoke, her eyes caught the corner of an envelope sticking out of a pile on Pastor Green's desk. She immediately recognized the print on its face.

“I saw this before. This is that letter I gave Pastor Green the other night after I found it in my old car. Anthony wrote this letter.”

She picked up the envelope, fingering it on all sides before slowly lifting the flap.
It's not really a violation of privacy. The letter was already opened and the writer is my husband. He shouldn't be keeping any secrets from me anyway.
She thought of a million different reasons defending her right to read the letter, but curiosity alone served enough justification. Her eyes soaked up each word.

Dear Pastor Green,

This is a hard letter to write, but it must be done. I want to let you know that I am stepping down from my ministerial duties at Second Baptist Church effective immediately. Several months ago, I made a choice that has weakened my walk with the Lord and severely injured my conscience. While it would be easy and preferable to secretly pray for forgiveness and move forward like nothing happened, the decision I made has significant consequences that will not go away until publicly addressed.

As I deal with the fallout of my disobedience, I feel that it would be in the best interest of the congregation for me to remove myself from my leadership position. The role I played in the scandal I must disclose will most likely discredit my witness and affect my relationships. I do not want to be responsible for tarnishing the work and image of the church by staying in a high-profile place once news of my actions is disseminated. Thank you for your understanding. Please pray for me.

Anthony M. Murdock

Terri read the letter twice, then once more to make sure she was believing her eyes. Her husband was admitting to a scandal. It was written in black and white, in his own handwriting, confessing that he should not be a minister anymore and that his choices were going to affect his relationships.

In anger, she rolled up the paper in a tight ball, aiming for the trash can.

“No.” She caught herself. “I need to hold on to this. This is my proof. There's no way he'll be able to deny that he's been cheating on me.”

With a calmness that almost scared her, she folded the letter and put it in her pocketbook. By the time she walked out of the church, she already had a full game plan in mind. She turned on her cell phone and dialed quickly.

“Hello, Reggie. Do you know any good lawyers?”

“I was just looking one up for you.”

The number fifty-seven bus was crowded for a Saturday afternoon. Eric marveled at the hordes of people left standing behind in the choking fumes as the bus pulled away. He was fortunate to have gotten on the bus himself. Two buses filled beyond capacity had already passed without stopping.

He did not mind standing, even after the rare occurrence of a young man offering him a seat in the elderly and handicapped section. Eric knew that his past years of drug use had made his body age well beyond its thirty-eight years, but the generous act of respect still surprised him.
Do I look that old?
He chuckled to himself. He was one of the lucky ones. Premature aging was one of the milder outcomes of long-term drug abuse. Many of the addicts he knew from yesteryear were in jail, HIV positive, or long dead.

The bus hit a sharp bump on the road, making everybody jolt backwards. Eric held on to the pole as most of his body bumped into the tight ball of legs and arms and breath around him. The coolness of the day had not found its way onto the bus. Stuffiness wrapped around the swaying bodies like a flannel blanket in July.

“You've got to love traveling in this forty-six-seat stretch limo, don't you?” A kind-looking woman with rosy undertones in her brown skin sat near where he stood. A bag of groceries filled her lap.

Eric smiled. Hers was the first genuine smile he'd gotten all day.

“You look familiar to me,” she continued. “I know I've seen you somewhere. Do you attend Saint Peter's Cathedral?”

“No, but I recently gave a presentation for CASH there. That's probably where you remember me. My name is Eric Johnson.”

“Eric Johnson of CASH?” Her smile quickly faded and her eyes turned to the window. She said nothing else.

“Everyone, please take a step back,” the bus driver called out. Backs pressed against backs and space was made where there was none as several more passengers squeezed onto the bus. Hands held on to every available stationary object. Eric was relieved when his destination came into view. He rang the bell and got off, staring at the massive warehouse building before him as he crossed the street to enter. Sometimes just sitting behind his desk at the office of CASH gave him the extra push he needed. It was a tangible piece of evidence that his prayers were being answered.

“I'll have to send some new prayers up now.” He sighed as he took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Eric knew someone was out to sabotage his efforts. He knew someone had access to his mailing list and was determined to use it to undermine his name. He knew someone had a single purpose to destroy everything associated with CASH. He knew all of this, and yet he was still not prepared for what he saw when he opened the doors to the office suite.

Everything was in shambles. The furniture, old and worn as it was, had been pushed over the edge of its usability and lay broken in pieces throughout the room. The computer had been smashed, papers and leaflets were shredded and tossed about the room like crumpled trash, and jagged, black graffiti covered the walls and floors with harsh, unspeakable words and pictures.

Eric slid into a slump beside the door, unable to find words or even identify an emotion. In the quiet chaos he thought he heard the voice of a child. Before he could make sense of it, Nikki Galloway and a small boy emerged from the adjoining conference room. After a split-second look of shock, immediate tears washed over her face.

“Oh my goodness! Can you believe this? I was feeling better when I woke up this morning, so I came in here to make up some of the work I missed yesterday, and this is what I found.” She recapped a black marker out of Eric's sight as she spoke. “This is terrible! I can't believe it!” she screamed, and then realization dawned on her face. “You know what?” Her voice softened. “I think I know who is responsible for this, Eric. Eric?”

He was still sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands.

Anthony left the Vital Records Department with more questions than he'd had when he went in. But wherever there were questions, there were also answers, he was certain. It was just a matter of going to the right source.
And with You, Lord, as my source, how can I fail?
It felt good praying that prayer, knowing that his Source was not affected by the stock market, downsizing, or any other temporal factor that could leave him short-changed. He was convinced that his trip to the department had not been fruitless. It had been necessary to lead him to the next thing.

“Jesus, I know You have my best interests at heart. I love You, and I want to do things Your way, so I'm trusting You to guide my steps.”

The next step took him back home. Searching for the licenses and certificates that recorded his parents' lives and times made him wonder about his own proof of existence, namely his birth certificate. He had not thought about it until after Mrs. James had relocked the front door of the office, but now it was the single thought in his mind. Certainly his birth certificate, a document he had never bothered to study and had not even seen since he took his driving test at age sixteen, would have some kind of information about his parents.

Standing in the two-car garage adjacent to his house, he groaned at the racks, crates, and boxes before him. Many of the cardboard and plastic bins were still sealed, the contents of them deemed nonessential since the move into their home several months ago. Anthony knelt on one knee and picked up the first stack of boxes. Left to right, top to bottom, that was the order he would follow.

He was nearing the end of the fifth box, second row, when a rustle in the bushes near the garage entrance caught his ear. He turned but saw nothing.

“Squirrels.” He returned to sorting out the blue-and-white-checked dishes surrounding him, placing them back in the unmarked box. Humming as he worked, he almost missed the second rustle, but he did not miss someone calling his name.

“Anthony!” It was a sharp whisper, more of a muted yell, and Anthony did not recognize the voice. He dropped the gravy bowl in his hand, the splintering shatter of it making the rustle in the bushes turn into hurried footsteps on the black pavement.

“Who's there?” Anthony stood with a ladle outstretched in his hand. He looked down at the silver utensil, poised between his fingers in full attack mode, and could not hold back a quick laugh at himself.

“Who's there?” he called again, this time walking out of the garage.

“Not so loud.” It was Councilman Frank Patterson, a man he had not seen or spoken to in six months. Their last encounter had been in a supermarket parking lot when a stack of green went from Anthony's hand to his with a promise from the politician to vote against CASH in the next council meeting. Councilman Patterson, a long-time elected official who was often at odds with Walter Banks, had been an easy bribe.

“I don't know why you would want to do this in the middle of the day.” The councilman brushed some leaves off of his suit jacket as he scowled at Anthony.

“Do what? Why are you whispering?” Anthony looked past the stout, red-cheeked man. “Why are you here?”

Frank took a quick glance back to see what Anthony was looking at behind him. “Look, enough with the questions. Just give me the money so I can go.”

“Money? What money? What are you talking about?”

“You know, the five grand.” Frank grew impatient. Anthony had no response, only a look of bewilderment.

“Oh no—no you don't.” The council member looked at Anthony sideways. “They told me you might do this.”

“They who? Who told you what? I still have no idea what you're talking about.” Anthony's befuddlement quickly turned into amusement as Frank became more agitated.

“They said that you would try to play dumb so you could keep all the money to yourself. Look, I know you have it, so give me my part and I'll vote the right way, just like last time.”

“Somebody sent you here to collect a bribe?” Anthony caught on. He still had the five hundred thousand dollars in his trunk. Whoever the “they” was knew it.

“This is good.” Anthony shook his head, amazed at the smoothness of the scheme trying to take him down. “Look, Mr. Patterson, I'm not involved with whatever's going on here. I should never have gotten involved six months ago, and I'm in the process of getting out. If you care at all about your community and your conscience, you should too. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?”

“Don't start with the moralizing, Murdock. You better be careful about what you say. If you start trying to come clean, you'll make too many other people look dirty. I don't think they'll like that.” Frank gave Anthony a fierce stare as Anthony stared back unperturbed.

“I think they are right. You do just want to keep all the money to yourself, don't you?” Frank's cheeks turned redder.

“Who is this ‘they’]?”

“Don't play games with me. You don't know who you're messing with.” Frank Patterson stepped away. “Don't think you're going to get away with this. I know you have my money.”

Anthony went back to the boxes after the council member disappeared into a silver Audi parked near some shrubs. He was wondering if anyone else would be coming his way when he noticed a manila folder at the bottom of a crate. Anthony was scribbled across in Terri's curvy handwriting. He opened it immediately and found his birth certificate mixed in with other legal forms, tax information, and myriad insurance papers.

He studied the fading print, his eyes stopping abruptly at a single line.

“Why didn't I notice this before?”

The fresh ocean air seemed to bring out all of the vacationers on Martha's Vineyard Saturday afternoon. Kent, wearing sunglasses and a green windbreaker, stood in line with the others waiting for the next tour at a historic lighthouse. As tourists around him talked on endlessly about the centuries old building, he scanned the small visitors' center for a pay phone.

Kent had been waiting all day to break away from Mona. Opportunity came when she decided to hike a public walking trail with a woman she met at an art gallery the day before. It was a hard sell, convincing her to leave his side. She was suspicious of his intentions when he encouraged her to go to the trail. She agreed to the split only after he promised to do some casual sight-seeing that would keep him in relaxation mode.