Mammoth Secrets (31 page)

“Welcome back, Pastor Gibb.” The towering, thin form of the carnival master, Randall, stepped into full view. “Wondering if you'd come around before dark.”

Jake sat up, rubbed the bruise on his shoulder. “Why'd you jump me?”

“Why do you think?” Randall held a hand out to the downed pastor. “It was your idea to have the Revival on our grounds. You introduced her to that boy. If she dies, what does it all mean?”

So, the spider-like carnival master doled out a father's anger, mixed with grief? But why? The puzzle pieces jarred and jumbled in his rattled head, but the ache in his lower back left him in need of assistance, even of this potential enemy. Hoisted up, he stared at the man, obviously stronger than his years would suggest, and hobbled to the front pew. “Thanks.”

Randall stood with his back to Jake, just underneath the cracked stained glass window. “I've read the Bible, cover to cover a couple of times. Bigger fan of the Old Testament than the New.”

“Is that right?” Jake rubbed his jaw, now down to a dull ache.

“Good stories. Seems more real to life, if you ask me.” The vein at Randall's temple bulged as he clenched his jaw. Steeped in shadow, Randall's anger emanated from him in a wave. “There's lust, deception, scandal, murder—”

“Redemption, salvation, hope.” Jake sized up the white haired man across from him. The empty chapel. Wasn't tonight the deacons' weekly meeting? Or the evening the Ladies Guild changed centerpieces? He winced at a fingertip touch to his swollen jaw. “I've read it, too.”

“That's the trouble with this corner of the world.” Randall turned his back on the window, away from the steady gaze of Jesus. He focused the full force of his icicle gaze on Jake. “Get your nose out of that book and look at what's happening to the world around you. Everyone's high and mighty on Sunday, but by Saturday night, they'll be darkening my door again. Here, or in some other town.”

“Maybe.” Jake shifted on the hard wooden seat. “But I don't think that's why you're here.”

“No.” Randall sat heavily next to him, gaze locked on the sharp edge where rug met altar, not looking him in the eye. “Maya survived the surgery, but…the doctor took her spleen. She's in ICU. All those tubes, monitors. They call it a medically induced coma.” Randall's eyes smoldered to charcoal pinpoints. “She had her reasons for going off with that boy. He had his for taking her.” Randall reached round to scratch his back and returned both hands to his lap, weighted by a shining .38. “Do you think she'll be forgiven? If she dies in that hospital?”

Jake dry-swallowed, gaze glued to the polished nickel surface. “That's between her and her Savior, Mr. Randall.”

“Her Savior.” A sneer touched Randall's razor thin lips. He slow clicked the chamber one at a time. “I'm her father. No one knows her better. The girl's learned the trade, you see. She's a con artist, just like her old man.”

Jake kept his gaze on the man's gloved fingers. The slow, deliberate turn of the cylinder and the sound it made, so loud in the hallowed sanctuary.

“What is it, son?” Randall lifted an elbow to the back of the bench. “You worried about this, here? I've a license to carry a weapon. I'll show you if you like.”

“No need.” Jake put his hands up, palms out. “I believe you.”

“Not for this particular one, though.” He proffered the weapon. Satin metal winked in the lights.

Jake's mouth went sandpaper dry. “Sorry?”

“Found this one behind the glass man's counter. He's packing it in, sold his rig, decided to stay. Ain't that a hoot?” An eerie smile touched his face as he angled the weapon. “So, I liberated this. Can't be too careful in our business. Never know when someone's gonna stab you in the back.”

“Guthrie?” Jake blinked. His thoughts churned to the trailer, the river, to Lilah.

“It's only the start of summer, and I've already lost my daughter to this town. Now, Guthrie seems intent to stay here, as well.” Randall dipped his chin, his eyes remaining on Jake's blank face. “You know anything about that, Pastor?”

“No. I haven't seen him, not in a while.”

“He came from these parts, you know.” A subtle
snick-snick
as he cocked, then slow-released the firing pin back to a benign position. “Back near thirty years ago.”

Jake's heart thudded, his gaze locked to the subtle play of Randall's long fingers on the polished weapon. On the thin leather gloves the man wore. No call to wear gloves like that on such a hot, summer day, his mind screamed. He sat stock-still and listened.

Randall continued, “Guthrie had an accident on that same stretch of road as my Maya.”

“Lots of accidents out there.” Jake cleared a tremble from his throat, searching for a way to get up, to move without the man leveling that weapon on him. His left hand searched blind, felt leather, and dragged the Bible onto his lap. Jake's prayer shot to the heavens.
Lord, help me find something to say to this man.
Following Lilah's method, Jake stared down at the words of the prophet Isaiah.

I will smite thine enemy.

Always Isaiah.

Just like Lilah said. Eyeing the pew, he gauged how many steps it'd take to lunge to the door as he spoke. “Many souls've been called up on that stretch of road.”

“Called up?” Randall snorted a laugh, crossed one leg over the other, pistol dangling between two fingers. “Kind of a pretty way to describe such a gruesome scene.”

Jake moved to stand, but Randall grabbed his neck at the shoulder and gave him a solid, excruciating push down. “Stick around. I'm not through talking yet.” He lifted the weapon again, this time, leaving it cocked and locked. He angled the short barrel of the pistol to the side of Jake's head.

“Our friend, Mr. Guthrie, thinks he's gone sober. He thinks he's gonna come back to Mammoth and stay. That this town will forgive him for the sins of his past. Ain't that the limit? The same town that ran him out on a rail.”

“Crazier things have happened.” Jake glanced to the door, then back to the black hole of the weapon and the man who threatened to end his stay in this world. No chance he'd miss from this range.

“They'll find you, here with his weapon. Then, they'll trace the bullet back to a shallow grave in Heber.” Randall's eyes went crazy. “Anonymous tips are unique weapons. All Guthrie remembers is, he's the one done the digging,” Randall continued. “My greatest con? Convincing that poor sap he's a murderer, just like I did on the night his wife died, all those years ago.”

“Rebecca Dale.” At once, Jake stopped. Listened. Randall had his full attention.

“Driving her to the hospital. Big rig crashed into that little car. He never forgave himself for her death, abandoned his babies for a bottle of his own. Spent his life on the road with me and mine.”

Jake clutched the heavy Bible, heart racing. He'd talked down drug addicts, alcoholics, even helped a man from swallowing a fist full of pills. He'd never once tried to save himself. Not like this. Never like this, as Randall leaned forward, so obviously enjoying the unveiling of another man's sins.

“There's no redemption out there for us. God's not gonna sweep in and save you, me, or anybody else, for that matter.”

“Maybe not.” Jake's head ached, his shoulder throbbed, he'd have to get his wits together and make a break for it. His only chance. God helps those who help themselves, Jake. “But, I trust in Him.” Jake's words gathered strength as he wagged the heavy, leather-bound book. “I trust His word. What do you trust, Mr. Randall? What do you believe in?”

“This.” Randall pulled the trigger.

The chapel echoed with the boom.

The heavy book pitched up and out of Jake's hands as the projectile slammed through the pages. Paper exploded with the force, drifted around him like confetti as bullet and Bible crashed into the stained glass window.

The window crumbled, collapsed, and ribbons of lead and colored glass rained upon them.

Jake lunged, tackled, and plowed his attacker into the altar. The communion table overturned, further smashing the wasted work of art. Jake balled his fists and pummeled a boxer-worthy right-left combo into the carnival man's side and chin.

Randall crawled to the window frame, tilted his bleeding nose back, groping blind for his pistol.

Jake saw it under the pages of the pulverized Bible and lunged to scoop up both. Power from both surged through his hands.

Outside, the river ran. Twilight sky spilled with crystal stars. Motion lights whirred on in a blinding flash.

Randall stood amid the wreckage, glass dust in his hair, glittering on the shoulders of his clothes.

“Get going and I won't press charges.” Jake gestured with a chin. “Unless you want to watch your daughter recovering from behind bars.” Jake dumped the cylinder, allowing brass bullets to rain onto the floor. “And don't come back.”

Jake watched until the man was out of sight, and then collapsed on the altar steps. No thoughtful prayer sprang to mind, just a jangle of “hallelujah” and “thanks be to God.” His hands vibrated with nerves that only now showed themselves. He glanced to the front pew, the destroyed window, the confettied Bible, and wondered how he'd avoided getting blown to smithereens. His Savior. His Savior was right there for him.

“Jake!” Lilah's voice reached him before she raced through the courtyard. Her steps crunched over the broken stained glass. She knelt at his side, inspecting his wounds with careful fingers. “I heard a shot. Who did this?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does!” Fire in her eyes, she turned the force of her fury on her pastor. “I've had it with this love thy neighbor nonsense bull. Sorry, Guthrie.”

“No sorry needed here.” Guthrie knelt at Jake's other side. “I'm afraid she's right in this case. Forgiveness can only do so much. Sometimes the law's gotta step in.”

“It was Randall.” A throbbing ache commenced in Jake's shoulder, head, and the raw meat of his knuckles from pummeling the carnival master. “He was going to kill me, frame you.” He massaged the backs of his hands.

Guthrie wiped a broad hand on his stubble-covered jaw, shrugged under his jacket. “Some sins just ain't forgivable.”

“He told me your story...” Jake winced as Lilah grabbed his hands and examined the cuts. “You're Lilah's father?”

Lilah merely nodded, her gaze hooked on Guthrie's empty, folded hands.

Head bowed, the glass man closed his eyes. “Heaven forgive me for driving that road so fast. The rain. The tires got away from me. I was fine, but Becca...the babies were comin'...I was a coward then...not much better now.”

“If you loved her like you say you d-did…” Lilah's pain revealed in her trembling voice. “W-why didn't you stay?”

“I couldn't.” He turned to his daughter, grief painting his features. “What could I tell you? After a few years, I tried to come back. To see you for myself. To hope the words would come.” He shook his head as tears rolled from his welling eyes, and trailed through the valley of his cheeks. “You and Eden just got older, more beautiful. Just like your mama. When your Papaw got to ailin', your grandmother made no bones about having none of me. So, I just disappeared. Still use the river shack when I get back this way. Keeps Becca close.”

“Lilah was ready to call the cops on you.” Jake cautioned. One could almost see the wedge that kept this family apart.

“It's yours, and Eden's, too, a'course.” He averted his gaze back to the door. “If'n you still want it, that is.”

“Apparently, Papaw deeded it to him years ago.” Lilah half-smiled at Jake. “He must have figured we'd make amends someday.” The cellphone buzzed at her hip pocket. She flipped it open and stutter-sighed a long breath. “It's Eden. Be back in a minute.”

“I'm ready to come back now. Rejoin the living.” Guthrie watched her hurry to answer the call. “I always loved that river place. It's where Becca and I shared our life. Where she was so happy.”

“Lilah, too.” Jake said.

Guthrie directed a long, suddenly scrutinizing stare his way. “You love her, don't you, son?”

“That I do, sir.” Jake dipped his attention to the ribbons of metal and glass. Could anything so broken ever be made right? “I love her with my whole heart, but I don't think she's ready to hear it yet.”

The situation had turned suddenly off kilter, as he realized Guthrie now looked at Lilah with a father's eyes. “Well, that's alright, then.” Guthrie turned back to the shadows from whence he came and glanced back over his shoulder. “Sorry about your window, there, Pastor.”

“Me, too.” Jake gazed out at the stars, an idea forming in his mind of how to mend three broken hearts. “Know anyone good with fixing glass?”

 

 

 

 

45

 

Naomi sat by the window, worried the locket on her chain, and stared at nothing. Back and forth, the grating of gold on gold made just enough melody to mask the whispers and long silences from the kitchen. Not enough to hide the beeps of the monitors now taking up residence in her parlor. And thankfully, not enough to cover the sound of Earl's raspy breathing.

Luke and Eden piled out of the ambulance as the hospice workers pulled in to find Lilah and Jake in final preparations in the living room, arranged as they'd discussed. Everything went according to plan.

She stood back and allowed her adult grandchildren to go about their business, attending to her husband as the bitter reality set in. They'd brought the man she'd loved since girlhood home to die. She barely recognized Earl inside that skeletal, withered frame on the hospital bed. Her mind refused to admit that this was the same cowboy who'd rode by on a cattle pony while she'd strummed a new tune on her guitar. The one who'd stood across from her at church and pressed his lips to hers when the preacher said “kiss the bride.” The one who'd held her baby daughter, dipped a kiss to that fussy baby's cheek, and calmed her with a slow “shush.”