What Lies Within Page 10

  The dog’s joyful bark resounded in the room, and Annie laughed as she made her way to the front door to grab Kodi’s leash. She glanced back at the clock on the wall as she pulled open the door. She had a half hour until Jed came over. Plenty of time.

  Besides, she needed to run. She always thought better when she ran.

  Five minutes of warmup later, they were off, Kodi trotting along beside her, tongue flopping in happy rhythm to their steady footsteps.

  Annie let herself go on automatic pilot, her body falling into the easy rhythm of running. She took in the flowers blooming along the path, the sun that was already starting to grow warm, the fragrances all around her.

  What a great day.

  Only one thing cast a pall on her full enjoyment. That conversation with Kyla. She’d sounded so … what? Upset? Not really. Frustrated? Yes, but something more. There’d been something in Kyla’s tone she’d never heard before.

  Her sister was hiding something.

  What, Annie wasn’t exactly sure. Was there a problem with her work? Possibly, though that made no sense. With her relationship? Now, that was a definite possibility. Kyla and Mason seemed more like work associates than two people in love. People in love touched and shared private jokes and couldn’t bear to be apart.

  Like you and Jed, you mean?

  Annie allowed herself a little smile. Exactly. Of course, Kyla and Mason might just share something different than she and Jed. A more sedate relationship. But Annie wasn’t convinced that was what her sister really wanted.

  Or, for that matter, needed.

  Kodi nudged her around a corner, and Annie realized they were in the homestretch. Remembering Jed should be at the house by now, she lengthened her strides, eating up the distance.

  Sure enough, the gate to the driveway was open, and Jed’s car was parked by the front door. Annie knew she should slow to a walk for her cooldown, but at the sight of Jed’s tall form standing by his car and the smile on that handsome face, her feet developed a mind of their own. She sprinted the last few yards toward him.

  His smile shifted to a full-blown grin as he watched her, and he opened his arms. She didn’t hesitate; she jumped into his embrace. He caught her, laughing as he spun her around, Kodi circling them and barking up a storm.

  After a breathless kiss, Jed set Annie on her feet. “Now that’s what I call a welcome.”

  Annie paced back and forth, letting her muscles cool down from the run. “Hey, can I help it if I missed you?”

  “You mean those whole nine hours we were apart? After all, I didn’t head home last night until a little after midnight.” He stretched. “I swear, woman, you’re gonna be the death of me with all this late-night carousing.”

  She sat on the grass, stretching. “It was your idea to watch four John Wayne westerns in a row, genius.”

  His grin reappeared, and he leaned back against his car. “Start off with The Shepherd of the Hills, then on to The Sons of Katie Elder and The Undefeated, and finish up with Rooster Cogburn. You have to admit, it was a great way to spend an evening.” Kodi stuck her snout in Annie’s face, that long tongue slurping up the side of her face, and Annie shoved the dog away. “Thanks a lot, Moose.” She wiped her sleeve across her face. “And yes, it was a great evening.” She reached out to pet Kodi, who’d taken her rebuff by circling a couple of times, then plopping down on the grass beside Annie with a doggy huff.

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  Annie looked up at her intended. “What do you mean?”

  He tilted his head at her. “I mean, what’s wrong. And don’t say nothing, ’cuz I can see it in your eyes.”

  Letting out a heavy sigh, Annie told him about the call with Kyla. “She’s my only sister, Jed. And I can tell when something’s off. I can’t pinpoint it, but something’s just not right with her.”

  “You’re worried?”

  She pondered that, then gave a slow shake of her head. “I’m … bothered, but not worried yet.”

  Jed pushed away from the car. “Well then, I say we take some time and pray for her.” He held his hand out to Annie, and she let him pull her to her feet and into his arms. “And if you shift into being worried, we’ll know it’s time to do something else.”

  She snuggled against him. “Such as?”

  “Such as send you and your beast to Portland so you can check up on your only sister.” He nudged her. “Like I didn’t know that’s what you were hinting at, brat.”

  Annie framed his face with her hands. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “No”—he pressed a kiss to the side of her mouth—“you don’t. But you’ve got me.”

  Ample proof, Annie thought as she melted against him, of how very, very much God loved her.

  ELEVEN

  “An evil life is a kind of death.”

  OVID

  “God … reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in darkness.”

  DANIEL 2:20, 22 (NIV)

  He loved these windows. Too bad he had to trash ’em.

  You couldn’t tell now, not with the streetlights shot out to make sure there wasn’t even a sliver of illumination, but when daylight shone through those windows, it was beautiful. Just let the sun come out, and the windows rained color down on the room. He used to sit there, holding out his hand so those colors washed over his skin. Skin the color of ebony, his mama always said. He’d study the pieces of glass, how they fit. Like those puzzles he and Mama used to put together.

  One side of his mouth drew up. They never had all the pieces. And his mother’s patience only lasted through a couple drinks. Then she started grabbing pieces and pounding them into place. He’d learned early on not to complain, to point out that the picture wouldn’t be right if she did that.

  Better a messed up picture than a broken jaw.

  He touched a finger to the cool, stained-glass window before him. No pounding here. Just color and perfect fit; rippled colored glass from ceiling to floor, forming pictures. Beautiful, terrible pictures.

  Yeah, these windows were older than he was. Probably twice as old. He didn’t know anything else in the neighborhood as old as this church. Made him sad, what they had to do.

  But the old men hadn’t left them any choice.

  “King K, we got it all in place. Time to light it up, man.”

  He didn’t respond. Just splayed his fingers across the glass, let his gaze rise to where Jesus hung on the cross. You shoulda made them listen.

  “King—”

  One look was all it took to shut his boy up. If it ever took more, he was in trouble. “We light it when I say, Chato.”

  He almost smiled at the fear that sprang to the kid’s eyes. But this wasn’t the time to smile. Kid needed to fear him. He’d stay alive a lot longer that way.

  “Naw, man, I know. I wasn’t sayin’ nothin’. Just, you know, letting you know we ready. Nothin’ more, man.”

  This boy talked too much. They’d have to break him of that. “Go wait for me with the others. Tell ’em I be there”—he sharpened his gaze and words—“when I’m ready.”

  The boy’s hands came up. “Sure, sure. I’ll tell ’em. Just what you say, man. We wait ’til you’re rea—”

  “Chato.”

  If the kid been a dog, he’d have wet himself. “Yeah?”

  “Go.”

  Chato went.

  King Killa watched the boy scramble. Kid wasn’t afraid of anyone—except him. King respected that. Kid was jumped in a few weeks ago. Took the beat down better than King expected. Even managed to get back on his feet when it was over. He’d stood there, face split and swollen, clothes soaked in blood, chin up.

  This kid … he was gonna be a player.

  The door closed behind Chato, and King turned back to the scene before him. He studied the face as he’d done so often as a child. Saw how pain twisted those features. God’s features, if what his mama told him was true.

  Why’d You do it?

  Son of God, right? God m
ade man. More power in His little finger than all those religious leaders had between them.

  Man, You coulda taken ’em all out. Just like that.

  He pressed his palm to the cold glass. Fit his hand to God’s. Let his fingers cover the rigid fingers that spread out, as though trying to escape the nail holding Jesus’s hand to the cross. The tats traveling King K’s hand blended in, became part of the scene. The dagger cutting across the back of his hand followed the rough line of the cross; the blood dripping down the blade, the drops circling his wrist, flowed from the red stream escaping the center of Jesus’s hand.

  What did his mama always say? “God sees all and knows all. He’s in all things, and more powerful than anyone can begin to imagine. All power. That’s what God is. All-powerful.”

  So why’d You lay down and die?

  King K dropped his hand and turned away. God made man? So what? You let Your crew down. Let the Man dis them. Hunt them down. Torture them. Kill them.

  He looked down at his hand, at the red drops of blood circling his wrist. The blood of his brothers. His fingers clenched into a fist, and he walked toward the door.

  Mama was wrong. God wadn’t no hero. No all-powerful being. He was a coward. Let God die. Let Him give up His blood.

  King Killa didn’t work like that.

  He didn’t die. And neither did his crew.

  He pulled open the door, walked out into the cool night. The Blood Brotherhood were there. As he’d known they’d be. King K lifted his chin to the largest of the crew. “You got the lighter? It’s Sunday, man. Time to have church?”

  Dancer’s scarred lips curled into a dark grin as he pulled his hand out of his pocket and tossed the lighter to King K. King caught it, then flipped it open. A flame jumped to life. He eyed his crew standing there, watching him. Waiting.

  They knew he wouldn’t let them down. Just as he knew they’d stand for him to the last breath. They were family. A brotherhood tested in blood. They didn’t lie down. They didn’t give ground. Not one inch. Nobody—not a bunch of old men, not God Himself—could change that.

  And anyone who thought they could—He flipped the lighter through a broken-out window in the parsonage—was about to see just how wrong they were.

  TWELVE

  “I haven’t failed; I’ve found ten thousand ways that don’t work.”

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  “I said to them, ‘You know very well what trouble we are in. Jerusalem lies in ruins, and its gates have been destroyed by fire. Let us rebuild the wall of Jerusalem and end this disgrace!’ Then I told them about how the gracious hand of God had been on me.… They replied at once, ‘Yes, let’s rebuild the wall!’ So they began the good work.”

  NEHEMIAH 2:17–18

  Ashes. That’s all that was left. Of the parsonage. Of their dream.

  Smoldering, ruined ashes.

  The contractor quitting wasn’t enough? We have to suffer this baleydikung as well?

  Anger grappled with sorrow deep within as Fredrik stepped over the charred remains of what once was the three-story church parsonage. At least the fire didn’t spread beyond that portion of the building. The church sanctuary still stood. As did the classroom section.

  But was it enough? Was there enough left for them to fulfill the calling God had given them?

  Yeshua, it’s in Your hands. You know what they will say. How this will pain them. Discourage them. How they already feel time is running ou—

  Oh! Time. His fingers felt for the gold chain hanging from his vest pocket, then tugged his pocket watch free. He thumbed the spring release so the cover flipped open to reveal the face of the timepiece. So. Ten minutes. In just ten minutes he’d sit at a table and face them. The church elders.

  Followers of God. Friends. Treasured advisors.

  Willard and his two sons, Von and Don. Steve, Alden, Sheamus, Wayne, and Hilda. Dear Hilda. Faithful believers whose years on this earth had granted them wisdom. Fredrik could almost guess what they’d say.

  No, don’t guess. Wait. Listen. They may surprise you.

  Perhaps. He eased the watch cover shut, then slipped the timepiece back into his pocket. He turned and made his way through the rubble. To the sanctuary, where they were most likely waiting.

  I wouldn’t mind it, Yeshua. Being surprised. He stepped over a charred board. But would it be such trouble, just this once, to let the surprise be a good one?

  He hoped not. He’d had all the bad surprises he could take.

  “It’s over.”

  So. Fredrik had waited, and he’d heard. Sheamus’s two words, spoken with such conviction, were pretty much as he expected. A clear reflection of years of running his own business.

  Sheamus’s pronouncement told the tale.

  It was okay to keep up the fight so long as there was a solid payoff in sight. But now? The only thing before them was ruin.

  But is Sheamus right? Help me know what’s right.

  Fredrik stilled his troubled thoughts—which had sprung to life with Sheamus’s heavy words—and folded his hands on the tabletop. Then he frowned. Yeshua, how can these be my hands? My hands are strong. Carpenter’s hands, like Yours. Or they were last time he looked at them. When had they become so pale and wrinkled?

  “How can you say that, Sheamus?” Steve, who’d never turned away from a challenge, entered the discussion. “We still have time.”

  Optimism speaks up. Thank you, Steve. I needed to know not everyone is ready to give up.

  “Two months!” Wayne was usually the quiet one, speaking only when he had something he absolutely needed to say. For him to blurt out such an exclamation swept Fredrik’s relief aside. “Steve, be realistic. What can we do in two months? Especially after the fire. The parsonage is in ruins …” Wayne turned to the man sitting beside Fredrik. “Don, you tell him. Tell him he’s talking crazy.”

  Don’s strong hands—hands that had run a dry kiln at the mill with both precision and skill—rested on the table. Fredrik waited as the man pondered his response. Like his brother, Don loved to tease and laugh. But both men were as solid as the concrete foundation of the church and, when the situation called for it, thoughtful and solemn.

  And if ever a situation called for it, this one did.

  Finally, drawing in a heavy breath, Don met Wayne’s eyes. “I don’t know, Wayne. Seems to me if God has called us to this, He has to be the One to tell us to give it up.”

  If. Yes, Yeshua, there is the question. If. Did You call us, as we thought You did? Then why so many obstacles? Fredrik rubbed his fingers across the back of his hand. And when did my skin turned to rice paper draped over eighty-year-old blue veins?

  Old, Fredrik? Yes, I suppose. But life flows through them. Your life. My life.

  Yes? He drew in breath, felt his lungs fill. Yes, Abba. Life, still. And I thank You for every new day. But the dream. What of the dream You gave us? Is that alive?

  “Surely God doesn’t expect us to run what’s left of this church into the ground.” Sheamus shook his head. “How is that good stewardship?”

  Fredrik wove his fingers together. Sheamus is right, Yeshua. How can we continue to throw good money after bad?

  Hilda looked down in her lap, where her ancient Sheltie lay curled. There was more Sheltie than there was lap, but Hilda didn’t care. Doggy Dog was her family, and the animal went wherever she did. Even church.

  She stroked the dog’s fur, and when she spoke her gentle tone ushered calm into the room. “None of us wants to run the church into the ground. That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

  Don fingered the edges of the paper he was doodling on, then directed a question to his brother, Von. “Where are we with our finances?”

  Von opened the folder on the table in front of him. “As of this week, we’re down to about a fourth of what we started with.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “Maybe not if we were in this on our own.” Steve met the troubled gazes around the table. “I know yo
u understand business, Sheamus. The success of the company you founded shows that. But this isn’t about just business.”

  Alden nodded. Years working in the forests as a ranger had given him a quiet astuteness. “That’s true enough. If it was, we’d have pulled out long ago.” He gave another slow nod. “No, obedience. That’s what this is about.”

  Such a team You put together here, Yeshua. Such a blending of personalities and temperaments. Only God could have done this—knit their hearts and spirits into a tapestry of faith. Made them more than members of the church Fredrik had pastored for over forty years. God made them friends.

  No, more than that. You made us family.

  “Fredrik, what do you say?”

  He lifted his eyes to those sitting around the table, studying the faces almost more familiar to him than his own. These people he respected and loved.

  Which was why it tore him apart to hear them do little lately but debate.

  This time the breath he drew in made him weary. Old friends at odds. It shouldn’t be. “What do I say about what, Wayne?”

  The man’s back straightened a fraction more—something Fredrik hadn’t thought possible. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “Listening?” He let his gaze travel to the seven faces watching him. The church elders. The heart and soul of what, until six months ago, was the Blessed Hope Fellowship Church. Seven elders and one deaconess, all as timeworn and tested as he. Well, almost. He did have most of them beat in the age category, but not by much.

  “Listening to what, Wayne? More arguing? More debates?” He slid his hands beneath the table, resting them in his lap. “I should listen to this, instead of what God told us?” He shook his head. “No. I wasn’t listening. But I was asking.”

  “Asking?” Wayne leaned his elbows on the table. “Asking what?”

  “If we believe this call we’ve been given, to make our church over into a community youth center, is from God.”

  Slow nods answered Fredrik. Hilda’s blue eyes encouraged him to go on.

  “And do we trust the Scripture we’ve held to since this church opened its doors? The psalm we chose for our mission statement?” He indicated the framed psalm on the wall.