What Lies Within Page 11

  “Absolutely.” There was no doubt in Wayne’s tone, nor in the echoes of agreement from the others.

  Fredrik folded his hands on the table. “Then I ask you this: does this fire mean God has released us from that call?”

  Not one of them hesitated. They shook their heads, and Steve voiced their reply. “No, it doesn’t.”

  Fredrik planted his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. “Then, old friends, we have our orders. We must move forward.”

  Grumbles sounded on every side, and Sheamus frowned. “I just don’t see how we can possibly do that.”

  The sharp sound of metal scraping wood jerked their attention to the right. Willard had pushed back his chair and, hands resting on the table for support, pushed himself to his feet. At eighty-seven, he was the eldest elder, both in age and in wisdom. His large hands reflected his heart, equal parts strength and tenderness. He’d endured a season of suffering—thanks, as he often said, to his own choices as a young man—and come out, by God’s grace, cleansed. Grounded. Joyful. This was a true man of God. Though the newest elder to the church—he’d been attending since he moved to Portland after retiring ten years ago—it seemed he’d been a part of them forever.

  That was most likely because Willard’s sons, Don and Von, had been. Just two years apart, they’d started coming to the church as young men. Fredrik had married them to their sweethearts, baptized, and married their children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren. And through it all, Willard was there. Visiting at first, and then as much a part of their church family as anyone who’d ever attended.

  And Fredrik’s most trusted friend.

  He watched now as Willard made his way to the whiteboard on the wall. Lifting a marker, he pulled the cap free, the snap sounding like a thunderclap in the suddenly silent room. His movements slow but steady, Willard wrote on the whiteboard. The silence stretched. One minute. Three. Five. When he was finished, he put the cap back on the marker, walked back to his chair, and sat down.

  Such a simple answer, Yeshua. Fredrik raised a hand, letting his finger touch the board beneath Willard’s paraphrase of verses they all knew so well. Why didn’t we see it sooner?

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then Wayne let out a low sigh. “Point taken. Let’s take the night to pray. To seek God’s guidance as to our next step. Then talk again tomorrow and form a plan.”

  Murmurs of agreement sounded, and the group rose and left the room. Fredrik waited until he was the only one left, then went to stand before a frame hanging on the wall. Like similar frames in every room of the church, it held selections from Psalm 89—words that had undergirded their lives as a congregation:

  I will sing of the LORD’s unfailing love forever!

  Young and old will hear of your faithfulness.

  Your unfailing love will last forever.

  Your faithfulness is as enduring as the heavens.…

  Who in all of heaven can compare with the LORD?

  What mightiest angel is anything like the LORD?

  The highest angelic powers stand in awe of God.

  He is far more awesome than all who surround his throne.

  O LORD God of Heaven’s Armies!

  Where is there anyone as mighty as you, O LORD?

  You are entirely faithful.…

  Powerful is your arm!

  Strong is your hand!

  Your right hand is lifted high in glorious strength.

  Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne.

  Unfailing love and truth walk before you as attendants.

  Happy are those who hear the joyful call to worship,

  for they will walk in the light of your presence, LORD.

  They rejoice all day long in your wonderful reputation.

  They exult in your righteousness.

  You are their glorious strength.

  It pleases you to make us strong.

  Yes, our protection comes from the LORD.

  Fredrik let the words seep through his soul, strengthening him anew. He patted the framed Scripture, then walked toward the door, a wry smile teasing his mouth. He opened the door, turning back for just a moment to the whiteboard and what Willard had written there. Words he’d memorized long ago, but it wasn’t until now that they’d hit home with an impact that almost took his breath away. Words that offered life and promise. And one other thing.

  Consequences.

  Fredrik smiled. Ah, but wasn’t that always the way of Scripture?

  As though confirming the thought, the words from the whiteboard drifted through his mind: “If you need wisdom … ask God, and he will gladly tell you. But be sure you expect an answer, for a doubtful mind is as unsettled as an ocean wave driven and tossed by the wind. Doubters waver back and forth in everything they do. Such people should not expect anything from the Lord.”

  Fredrik walked from the building out into the sunshine. If you need wisdom … ask.

  This he could do. This he would do.

  And God, as sure as the sun would rise on the morrow, would answer.

  THIRTEEN

  “When evil men plot, good men must plan. When evil men burn and bomb, good men must build and bind. When evil men shout ugly words of hatred, good men must commit themselves to the glories of love.”

  MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

  “Its walls are patrolled day and night against invaders, but the real danger is wickedness within the city.”

  PSALM 55:10

  These old fools were going to answer for their stubborn stupidity.

  King K leaned against the side of the building, thumb flicking across the point of his butterfly knife, pondering what he’d just overheard. Good thing they were too stupid to close the windows during their meeting. Made it easier to listen in, find out what was happening.

  He’d expected them to bail. Walk away. They had to know the fire was set. Had to know it was a warning. Get out before things got worse. Leave now. No harm, no foul.

  But no. These stupid white fogies were going to pray. Think about it and pray.

  King snapped his wrist, flipping the knife until it folded up, and slid it into the side pocket of his pants. So. They were going to pray. Maybe stick it out.

  Fine. Just meant he had some planning to do.

  He turned, then froze. A form slipped out of the shadows. His hand slid toward the knife he’d just pocketed.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Fingers tensed, then relaxed as he recognized the voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Watching out.”

  King’s lip curled. “For what?”

  “For you.”

  The boldness of the words, the pointed intensity, drew his fingers into a fist.

  “You did it, didn’t you? You set the fire.”

  King didn’t dignify the question with a response. Just stood, arms crossed, features bored.

  “You proud of yourself? Settin’ fire to a church?”

  That was enough. More than enough. “What you doin’ here, L’il Man?”

  “More to the point, what are you doing here?”

  Anyone else dared to question him, King K would put the fool down. Instead, he spread his hands out, palms up. “Just walkin’ my turf. Makin’ sure everything’s cool.”

  Tarik’s lips thinned, but King didn’t take the bait. Let the boy get upset. He wasn’t backing down. He let his posture say as much—for all the good it would do. This boy didn’t scare.

  He would have made a great 22.

  King K shook the thought from his head. No. Not this one. The life wasn’t for him. Sure, he’d been mad when L’il Man walked out on them. Or so he’d made it appear. Couldn’t let his crew know how relieved he was Tarik was gettin’ out.

  Tarik turned to look at the burned section of the church. King studied the younger boy’s profile. Kid got more handsome with each year. Stood taller too. He might be young, but it was clear to any who looked at him that Tarik was a man. />
  “You’ve gone too far, man.”

  King narrowed his eyes. “No such thing. I go as far as I like in my own crib.”

  Tarik spun to face him. “This isn’t your crib! It’s God’s. Don’t you see that? You’re not going against me or these people. You’re going against God. And that’s a stupid play, even for you.”

  Nobody called him stupid. Nobody. King K took a step forward. Let his words hiss though clenched teeth. “You’re as much a fool as those old men, Tarik.“ He spat the name.

  The boy didn’t flinch. Just squared off. “I can only pray I’m one-tenth as good as those men in there. Those men you tried to kill.”

  King K let his mouth curve at the accusation. “I don’t try to kill nobody.” Anger flowed, turning to venom that dripped from his words. “I kill. Period. I want someone dusted, they gone. You got that?”

  Silence. No sign of fear. Not even a flicker in those dark eyes. Had to admire the kid’s guts. King’s sneer almost slipped. Almost.

  “I got it.”

  Tarik’s voice, low and firm, sounded so old. And cold. King K could remember a better time … that voice young, laughing …

  He turned and walked away. No point thinking about the past. Old business. Over and done with. All that mattered was here and now. And taking care of today’s business.

  No matter how hard—or messy—it got.

  FOURTEEN

  “Evil is easy, and has infinite forms.”

  BLAISE PASCAL

  “What does this bunch of poor, feeble Jews think they are doing?”

  NEHEMIAH 4:2

  I can’t believe the mess you’ve made of this. You’re telling me those old men haven’t given up?”

  “Maybe if your boy had done his job—”

  “Think carefully before you finish that sentence.”

  The man on the other end of the phone call fell silent. Good thing. One more word and he’d have had to find another lackey.

  Because that one would have been dead.

  “Now, let’s do this again. I ask the questions, you answer them. Short, concise answers. Have they given up?”

  “No, Mr. Ballat.”

  Good. Tone and words both restored to the proper level of respect. “Do they have the resources to continue?”

  “It’s tight, but … for now, yes.”

  His lips pressed together so hard it made his jaws ache. Relax, Samuel. You’ll win. You know you will. Just consider it a challenge that it’s taking longer than you thought. “What do you mean, ‘for now’?”

  “They almost gave in. Their funds really are close to gone. But Fredrik Tischler … he drew them back.”

  “And how”—he didn’t try to keep the ice from his tone—“did you let him do that?”

  “It wasn’t something I could stop!”

  So. His weapon wasn’t as effective as promised. “Then what am I paying you for?”

  “Look, I’m doing all I can. But you can only get so far in the face of Bible verses and prayer. Not when people really believe in them. These men, they’re dinosaurs! They don’t even know how extinct they are.”

  Sam’s lip twisted. “You listen to me, my friend, and listen close. I expect this job done on time. Failure on your part to do what you’ve promised will cause … dire consequences.” He let that sink in, then softened his tone a fraction. “Success, though, will make me very happy. And if I’m happy, you will be as well.”

  The answering silence didn’t bother him. He’d learned the value of silence, of letting people chew on the meaning—evident and hidden—of what he said to them.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get it done.”

  See there? Given a moment to ponder, the dolt on the other end of the phone line finally understood. It wasn’t Sam Ballat’s neck on the line. It was his.

  Sam let the phone drop into the cradle, glad to be rid of any contact with the worm who’d come to him, hat in hand, promising all and, so far, delivering naught.

  Maybe …

  He fingered the phone receiver. Maybe he should make another call to an associate he knew he could trust. Send that person after the worm, reminding him that prayer didn’t matter when you had no soul. Which the worm didn’t. Because he’d sold it.

  To Sam.

  He let his hand fall away. No, give him time. See what he does in the next day or so. You can always call later.

  Ah, the voice of reason. How he treasured it. What a pity those old fools at the church didn’t do the same.

  Prayer.

  How fascinating that people still believed in such an archaic concept. Prayer to some supposed almighty being who watched over them, shifting lives like pawns on some celestial chessboard, all according to His children’s whims.

  Ridiculous.

  He wove his fingers together, lips drawing to a smile as he remembered his grandmother teaching him an old poem.

  “Here’s the church …” Her soft voice warm in his ear, the hint of peppermint on her breath as she demonstrated hands, palm to palm, linked by interwoven fingers.

  “Here’s the steeple …” His child self had been captivated as she pressed her wrinkled forefingers tip to tip, thumbs side to side.

  “Open the doors”—Paper-thin hands parted at the heel, rotating so soft fingers come into view—“and see all the …”

  Fools.

  He closed his eyes, brushing aside the tender voice of love. The voice that promised so much and delivered nothing.

  His hands dropped to his sides as his smile slid from his face. Not, of course, the way his dear grandmother taught it. But far more accurate.

  For who but simpletons and fools would believe some all-powerful being actually cared one iota about their pleas and requests. Still, there was a kind of poetic justice in it all, seeing as it was belief in prayer that had kept his enemies from taking any real action.

  He splayed his hand out against the cool glass of the window. Enemies might be a bit harsh. Opponents. Yes, that was better. Though they could hardly be considered serious opposition. What he wanted, he got. It was just that simple.

  He stood, walking around the massive teak desk, hand caressing the imported wood, and went to survey the world out his expansive window. Portland held such promise. So many opportunities for growth. For profit. Opportunities that were his, and his alone. Yes, because they brought him money. But not because of the money itself.

  No, money was just a tool—admittedly, a very effective tool—for bringing his plan to fruition. And no one was going to stop his plans.

  Not small-minded legislators—or their lackey inspectors—all of whom tried to impose ridiculous rules and regulations.

  Not his competitors, who lacked the conviction to make hard decisions, no matter the cost.

  And certainly not a bunch of silver-haired, wizened old men devoted to a so-called God that couldn’t protect them. For a moment one hand clenched at his side, then he eased it open, flexing the fingers. His gaze drifted to the phone.

  Perhaps it was time to flex something else.

  Two strides carried him to his chair, and he reached for the intercom. His secretary’s response was immediate.

  “Yes sir?”

  Satisfaction drew his lips into a smile. Let others set so-called reasonable hours. His employees stayed as long as he needed them. No questions asked.

  Or they didn’t remain his employees.

  “Susan, get Mr. Wright on the line for me.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he let his fingers tap out his impatience on the desk. Susan probably knew the number by heart. He used Mr. “Wright” more than any other associate. The play on words made him laugh. Or as close to laughing as he ever got.

  Susan’s voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Wright holding for you, sir.”

  Of course he was.

  He hit the speaker button. “Wright?”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Plenty.” He explained
the situation, and as he’d expected, Wright knew exactly what to do.

  Which, he thought as he disconnected the call, was why he’d given the man that name.

  His associate was, ever and always, the right man for whatever job came up. Few others were so dependable. So capable.

  So willing to do whatever it took to get the job done.

  Were he a man given to humor, he’d be laughing. Instead, he let one finger stroke the smooth wood of his desk.

  The old fools could kneel until doomsday, whispering prayers until their voices gave out. Nothing they did would matter.

  That property was his.

  FIFTEEN

  “A friend can tell you things you don’t want to tell yourself.”

  FRANCES WARD WELLER

  “The heartfelt counsel of a friend is as sweet as perfume and incense.”

  PROVERBS 27:9

  A storm was brewing.

  Rafe didn’t need The Weather Channel to know it. All he had to do was look at the set of Tarik’s shoulders. The grim glint in his eyes. The creases in his brow.

  Oh yeah. The kid was bugged. Big time.

  Rafe had been waiting all night for Tarik to start talking, but this had to be something big, because the boy didn’t say a thing. Just sat there, school books open on the table in front of him, tapping his pencil against the page. The same page.

  For an hour.

  Finally Rafe went to take the pencil from the boy’s fingers and set it on the table, then he shut the book.

  Tarik sat back in his chair with a thud. “What? You got a problem?”

  Rafe sat in the chair across the table and met the boy’s burning gaze. “No. But I think you do. So spill. ¿Que pasa?”

  For a moment Rafe thought the kid would digress, jump up from the table like he used to in the face of any conflict or perceived slight. Maybe even send the table flying. He’d done that once or twice too.