Pieces of Hate (34 page)

And then the voices really cried out at him. They shouted angrily, as if what he’d said had been a personal insult, and Pastor Freeman had to fight not to shrink away from their angry cries . . .

They were calm for a while as they moved up and down the sidewalk, even around the corner and back and forth in front of the bookstore’s large display window where a sign read:

JAMES K. DENMORE IN PERSON!
 
AUTHOR OF “LUST AND THE DEVIL”
 
HERE! TODAY! 2:00 p.m. — 4:00 p.m.

Pastor Freeman knew they were waiting for their prey: whoever might show up to have their books signed by an author whose work they enjoyed. Did those readers have any idea what awaited them? How would they feel, on their way home with their autographed books, about the “Christians” who would shout at them and ridicule them on their way in and out of the bookstore? Would they go away laughing at the Bible, at Christ and His life . . . at the entire institution of Christianity?

He turned to one of the maples, Bible still held in his right hand, and leaned his head gently against its narrow trunk as he sighed.

Voices rose around the corner. The shouting began again and Pastor Freeman turned away from the tree to look.

Two couples — in their late twenties or perhaps early thirties — rounded the corner, each with books tucked under his or her arm, their faces registering shock and more than a little fear at the hostile crowd around them. The signs were pumped up and down again, shouting voices quoted Bible verses and accused them of patronizing a follower of Satan. The two couples had to push through the protesters on their way to the door.

Pastor Freeman rushed forward and pulled the door open, and smiled at the two men and two women as they neared. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said as they passed, “and I hope you’ll forgive them for their mistake.”

They froze and looked at him. Their eyes looked down at the Bible in his right hand and suddenly looked surprised as they looked back at him. One of the men smiled hesitantly, then fully, and nodded as he said, “Thank you very much.” They went inside.

Pastor Freeman turned to the crowd and, as the saying went . . . if looks could kill. Their eyes stabbed him, again and again. He’d never seen so many teeth in his life.

Then, as if a signal had been given, people began coming in crowds. James K. Denmore was, after all, a best-selling author. Millions of copies of his books had been sold in many languages. Three of them had been made into hit movies, one into a popular cable mini-series. It was no surprise that so many people were coming. In fact, when he arrived, Pastor Freeman had been surprised to find that they weren’t waiting for the author to get there.

When the people began to arrive — some with books, some without — the crowd went over the edge, and suddenly, in a sickening flood of vivid, red-tinted memory, Pastor Freeman was taken back to the end of that morning’s nightmarish sermon . . .

Fred Granger suddenly shot up, standing tall among the angry congregation in his ill-fitting suit. Beside him, his pregnant wife held the baby in one arm and the hand of their toddler beside her, her hair somewhat disheveled.

“God said in the book of Exodus,” and then he shouted the rest at the top of his lungs, “‘Thou shat not suffer a witch to live!’ And what he writes is evil! It’s supernatural! He writes about witchcraft! About devil worship!”

Pastor Freeman could not contain a nervous laugh. “You’re saying we should kill him?” The very words made his blood run cold.

“I’m not saying that!” Granger cried, spittle flying from his mouth as he cut the air with a fist. “The Bible is saying it!”

“But that was — ” He closed his eyes a moment, raised his arms and shouted, “Please, everyone, calm down! Listen for a moment! The verse you quoted, Fred, came from the Old Testament, early on in the Old Testament. During that time, God spoke directly to the people. He handed down the laws, He made the decisions and the people carried them out. Things have changed since then. Does God talk to us and make our decisions for us? It would be nice, but it doesn’t happen anymore. That’s why Christ came. He wanted to let us know we were on our own. He wanted to give us an example with His life, so we would know how we should treat one another. I’m not dismissing the Old Testament, not at all, because it’s very important . . . I’m just saying we’re not living in the Old Testament now. God doesn’t speak to us from mountains or clouds anymore and we, as Christians, are left to carry on His message . . . Christ’s message. Christ is not here anymore, so we are the examples. We Christians are here to bring others into the fold and to tell them that what we have on this earth is not all there is . . . that the creator of the universe loves each and every one of us and is concerned about how we live our lives. We are not here to shout and scream at them and break their windows and condemn them for their behavior!”

It grew worse then. People began to leave. They picked up their children, their purses, their Bibles, and began to walk

Fred Granger pointed a stiff finger at Pastor Freeman and screamed — he didn’t shout, he screamed — “You’re gonna die for what you said, you unnerstand me? You’re gonna buuurrn! God’s gonna fryyyy you!” Then he reached down, grabbed his wife’s arm and jerked her to her feet. Her head remained down, eyes staring at her feet as she followed her furious husband out of the pew, pulling the tiny boy behind her.

Then, with the exception of a scant few, everyone stood and began to leave.

“Please wait!” Pastor Freeman cried. “Please! We need to talk some more!” He raised his arms. “Where are you going? We should settle this!”

They continued to stand and leave their pews . . . but they hadn’t quite left yet . . .

Pastor Freeman tried to do the same for all the other people that he’d done for the first four: holding the door open and apologizing for the behavior, smiling at them, trying to make them feel better after the attack they’d endured coming in.

But that didn’t last long.

The crowd of protesters grew louder and more frantic as more and more people came to the bookstore and were greeted pleasantly by Pastor Freeman after passing through the gauntlet of signs and shouting.

The number of people in the bookstore grew and the line at his table became longer and longer.

Pastor Freeman continued to greet Denmore’s fans with a friendly smile, asking them to excuse the crowd for their behavior.

The time came when they could take his behavior no longer, and the crowd of protesters began to follow the people into the bookstore. They went in just a few at a time; those with signs handed them to others, leaving them outside, and crowded around the long table where James K. Denmore sat signing books, the woman and the large bodyguard standing behind him.

Pastor Freeman was horrified. He followed them in, entering the bookstore right behind Fred Granger with his wife, baby and child . . . and his heavy-hanging canvas shoulder bag.

He positioned himself between the table and the crowd and said, as quietly as possible — because the bookstore was such a quiet place — “Stop this. Please, please stop this. What you’re doing is wrong.”

“No, no,” Fred Granger said, stepping forward, his bag swinging from him shoulder, “you’re doin’ wrong, Pastor. Fact, you’re not even a pastor . . . yer a traitor. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“What you don’t understand, Fred, is that I need to be here, because you’re doing something terribly wrong. You’re judging a man when you should be accepting.”

Fred’s face darkened, grew angrier, and gave Pastor Freeman a scowl that chilled him to the bone.

“Please, Fred,” Pastor Freeman said quietly, “understand that I don’t mean to sound accusing. I just think that you — that all of you — are making a mistake. Please understand that. I don’t want you to hate me. I want you to listen to me. I want you to think about it. Please. Please realize that — ”

Suddenly, Fred screamed, “You’re wrooonngg! You’re evil and you’re wrooonngg!”

A sickness moved through Pastor Freeman. Cold dread gripped his insides. “Fred, please, don’t think that I’m — ”

Pastor Freeman froze as Fred reached into his bag and removed a sawed-off shotgun.

“Oh, dear God, Fred, please don’t do what you’re — ”

Fred aimed the shotgun at Denmore, who stared with wide, shocked eyes at the gun, pen in hand, poised over an open book that was ready to be signed.

Pastor Freeman moved quickly as the large man behind Denmore grabbed his female friend and pushed her down on the floor. Pastor Freeman dove toward the table, shoving to the floor the woman who was waiting for her book to be signed, landed atop the table, where he rolled to the other side, letting his Bible flop onto the tabletop.

He put his hands on Denmore’s shoulders and pushed him out of his chair and onto the floor, shouting, “Get down! Get — ”

The shotgun fired.

Pastor Freeman made a horrible wet sound as his midsection turned a dark red-black, and he suddenly jerked forward awkwardly. As he flew backward, his body made two — not one, but two — distinct, solid clumps.

There was a long, deadly silence.

Then the woman who had been standing at the table waiting for her book to be signed screamed a long, shrill scream . . .

“Wait, please wait!” Pastor Freeman shouted from the pulpit as most of the congregation began to leave angrily. “Please, think about what you’re doing! I mean, really, think about how you would feel if someone came into this church and tried to silence me because they disagreed with what I had to say. . . .”

. . . disagreed with . . .

. . . and tried to . . .

. . . what I had to say . . .

. . . silence me . . . silence me . . . silence me . . .