The REM Precept Page 5

  Watching the television show was bad enough, but seeing it in person was even more unsettling. Alex didn’t have a clue how the reverend had drawn so many back in with his old conniving ways, and he didn’t care. Thirty years without Jonas Perch on the scene had likely saved countless families from the same financial burdens his had gone through, and he wasn’t about to let the so-called reverend create another empire built on deceit and a gross perversion of the truth.

  The mere sight of Perch made Alex want to leave, go home, and take a shower, but he stood resolute, pretending to listen while tuning out the service, instead going over the plans in his head he’d had in place ever since he heard a patient in the hospital talking about the old televangelist who was alive and well and back on the scene at an unassuming church in north Georgia.

  The man up front droned on, and before Alex knew it the music had been cued and the congregation rose. He snapped out of his trance as he watched one of the altar boys move to the front, holding the felt bag on a stick that had come to represent Jonas Perch’s personal collection plate. Purse latches clicked and wallets flopped open as parishioners prepared to gather their seeds to sow into the hands of the persuasive reverend. A line formed near the front, and soon the entire congregation stood and waited for their turn to pay their respects to Perch’s version of the Gospel.

  Alex stepped into line halfway in, fumbling for something in his pocket as he slowly made his way to the front. It wasn’t long before once again, he was face-to-face with Perch. A look of concern arose on the preacher as Alex approached.

  Uneasily, “Well, ahem,” Perch said. “I’ve been watching you all week. Haven’t tithed once.” A sly grin crossed his face. “But I’m happy to see you’ve finally seen the light.” He looked to the altar boy, who held the bag on a stick closer to Alex.

  Alex wasn’t having it. Without saying a word, he swiped the purple felt bag out of the way, grabbed Perch by the wrist and dropped a locket into his open hand, then closed it. “Belonged to my grandmother,” Alex said. “I think she’d want you to have it.” Perch started to speak, but Alex had already turned to walk toward the exit.

  Puzzled, Perch was forced to regain his composure as the next person in line stepped up to tithe. He donned his trademark grin and fell back into character, shaking hands and kissing babies and trying his best to ignore the disturbing gut feeling that this wasn’t the last time he was going to see the ominous young man in the overalls.

  ***

  After the service, Perch stood at the front door and watched several pairs of red taillights shrinking in the distance as the last of the churchgoers left, driving home with spirits full and wallets empty. Once they were out of sight, he stepped back in, drew the blinds, and walked to his office in the back.

  Normally, he reserved this time for counting his money. But not tonight. Instead, he reached into the bloated felt bag, sifting through cash and checks and prayer request letters in search of something a little heavier near the bottom.

  The locket.

  He pulled it out and tossed the bag to the side, then sat on the corner of his desk to analyze the silver piece of jewelry under the lamplight. Something was written on the front, but the years had obscured the letters. He leaned closer and tried to make out the words, “In Som, In Som—Sommer? Somner?” he moved on to the last word, “Veritas. In Som-something Veritas … Huh. Sounds Latin.”

  Puzzled, he opened the locket. Inside, two small and faded black-and-white pictures of a man and a woman lay on each of their respective sides. Perch hadn’t a clue who they were, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure what the message was that the mysterious man in the overalls was trying to get across.

  No matter, Perch thought with a shrug as he dropped the locket back into the weighty purple felt bag. Business was booming, and that was bound to draw a few crazies out of the woodwork every now and then. Besides, if the man were a real threat, Perch figured, he would have done something by now. And if he was just waiting for the right moment to strike, well, Perch hadn’t carried a snub-nose .38 special for the last thirty years for nothing.

  He took his bag, walked back to the front, flipped the lights off, and locked up. Outside, he gave the front door an extra tug or two for good measure before walking around the building to his car parked in the back. The side alley was dark and overshadowed by the shopping center to the left, effectively blocking any light that would’ve carried over from the streetlamps scattered across the parking lot out front. A full moon tried to peek out from behind a thick gathering of clouds, but the silvery light was scarce.

  The hard soles of Perch’s $1,500 designer leather shoes clacked ominously down the dimly lit passageway as the preacher asked himself why in God’s name he had parked in the back in the first place. But he already knew the answer. In a word: greed. Hours before the service he had been determined to make room for as many cars as possible in the front parking lot, because that one space—the space he could’ve taken for himself—could’ve been The One.

  And who was The One? Why, that one donor—that’s who. The one person who would show up out of the blue, fall head over heels in love with the reverend’s message, demeanor, and mission, and decide to turn over everything they owned this side of Jordan to Perch—for the sake of the church, or course. The One was a unicorn of sorts, talked about often, but seldom seen. A heavy-handed giver. Benefactor of the highest degree. Perch had had donors like that before, but they were few and far between. What would have happened if The One had made plans to attend a service, only to discover there was nowhere to park? Perch’s superstitions wouldn’t allow him to bring about misfortune by saving a long walk to the front.

  So he walked into the darkness, turning the corner at the back of the building, his car just a few yards away now when a deep voice resonated from the shadows at the left.

  “Well hello, Reverend.”

  “JESUS!” Perch yelled, dropping his purple felt collection bag. Hands free, he instinctively reached for the gun holstered on his ankle, but fumbled it on the draw. A dark silhouette quickly kicked the pistol across the asphalt and out of reach.

  Shaken, Perch asked, “Who are you? Wha—what do you want?”

  “I think you know exactly what I want,” the man said. The clouds broke, and the full moon cast a silvery beam across Alex’s face as he stepped forward into the light.

  “You,” Perch said. “You’ve been harassing me all week.” He looked down to see a gun in Alex’s hand. “Fine, fine, FINE!” he said as he kicked the purple felt bag toward Alex’s feet. “Take it! Take all of it!”

  The gunman looked down and chuckled. “You think that’s what I’m here for?” He shook his head. “Naw, man. I don’t want your damn blood money. I just want you.”

  “Whuh—what do you mean? Just who in the hell are you?”

  Alex raised the gun and said, “Just a fan, Reverend. Just a fan.”

  Perch closed his eyes and winced as his assailant squeezed the trigger, but the shot never came—only a dull thud, followed by what sounded like dead weight hitting the asphalt. He opened his eyes to see a man standing over Alex, firm grip on a leather club, the hunter lying unconscious at his feet.

  “Jesus Christ!” Perch said with a sigh of relief. “Young man, I believe you just saved my life!” A flood of emotions overwhelmed the reverend as he stepped forward to give the man a hug, but it was apparent his rescuer had no time for cordialities. Perch stopped short of the man as he hoisted Alex’s body up and dragged him to a black, unmarked sedan parked a few yards away.

  Confused, “What are you doing?” Perch asked. “Shouldn’t we call the police or something?”

  The man lay Alex down, walked back to the reverend, and flipped open his wallet. “Sorry for the scare, Mr. Perch. But this is a matter of national security.” Perch read the ID aloud. “Kovic, Colin. Department of Defense …” The wallet flipped shut, and Kovic went back to dragging the body away.

  “I’m sure it goes without
saying,” Kovic said between labored breaths, “that you’re not to discuss what you’ve witnessed here tonight. Are we clear?” Kovic asked the somewhat rhetorical question as he opened the car door and stuffed Alex’s body in the back seat. Perch was speechless, but as Kovic took one last, hard look back at him before stepping into the driver’s seat, the fear written on his aging, creviced face in the moonlight was all the mysterious assailant needed to see.

  For once in his life, the fast-talking reverend’s lips were sealed.

  .

  Chapter 6:

  Sitting Ducks

  Paul sat in a rocking chair, hands in his pockets, breath still showing from the brisk night air as he stared blankly into the creek waters just a few feet away from the front porch. He rocked and watched the moonlight sparkle on the surface; twinkling diamonds that multiplied tenfold each time the surrounding clouds departed. Claire sat adjacent to him on the porch swing, her attention focused on the rhythm of cicadas an hour deep into what was sure to be a nightlong performance. The two had been speechless for most of the evening as they stood watch at the cabin’s entrance, giving Ford and Reed some time to catch up on a little sleep inside.

  After a long silence, Claire finally addressed the elephant in the room. “He’s not coming back,” she said.

  Paul ignored her.

  “If he were,” she continued, “he would have been back long before now. What I can’t figure out is why he took off in the first place.” She chewed her thumbnail and waited for a response. Finally, “I mean, you know him better than anyone, Paul—”

  Agitated, “Apparently not.”

  “You can’t think of any reason why he’d leave? You said you two used to go fishing up here together. Anywhere you can think of he’d be right now?”

  “Not a clue. I haven’t been up here in years,” Paul said. “You think it’s possible he got into an accident?”

  “He left the gas cans, Paul. Full gas cans. He never intended to go to the market. He duped us. I just can’t figure out why.”

  “Yeah, I know. You said that already.”

  “Well, dammit,” Claire said as she stood up, “there must’ve been some good reason for him to take off like that! Some ulterior motive for getting us up here and leaving us high and dry.”

  “I think you may be overthinking things,” Paul said. “It’s a scary situation we’re in here, Claire. It’s just as reasonable to think he’s scared. Got spooked or something.” He turned his wrist to check his watch. “It’s only been a couple of hours. Maybe he just needed to blow off a little steam. It’s too early to tell if he completely bailed on us.”

  Claire said, “Well all I know is the longer we wait, the more we’re at risk.”

  “At risk of what?”

  “Do we really know where Alex has been for the last six months? Of course not. We only know what he’s told us. Who’s to say he isn’t working with Kovic, with the CIA?”

  “If that were the case,” Paul said, “then why would he tip us off at the monastery?”

  “Build trust before turning us in.”

  “Come on, Claire! You’re a better journalist than that. In what world does that explanation add up?”

  Claire crossed her arms and paced the porch. “It doesn’t add up, Paul. That’s the point. I don’t know what to make of Alex taking off like this—all I know is I have a bad feeling about it. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s to always trust my instincts.”

  The screen porch opened with a screech and Donny walked out. “I’d have to agree with Claire on this one,” he said. “Something just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Thought you were asleep,” Paul said.

  “Too much on my mind. Plus, our young accomplice snores like a son of a bitch.”

  “He still out?”

  “Like a light. Kid could drink five Red Bulls and still sleep through a hurricane. Never seen anything like it.” Donny took Claire’s spot on the porch swing and asked, “So what’s the move here? You guys think we should go looking for Alex?”

  “No point,” Claire said. “He hasn’t broken down on the side of the road somewhere; he took off on purpose. For all we know, he could be halfway back to Atlanta by now.”

  Paul asked, “So what do you suggest we do, Claire? Pick up and leave? And go where exactly?” He gestured to the empty driveway. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re currently short a set of wheels.”

  “So, we just stay here and wait indefinitely?”

  “She’s got a point,” Donny said. “Doesn’t matter if Alex double crossed us, or if he went for a drive to clear his head. Can’t stay up here forever just waiting for him to show back up.”

  Paul was growing tired of the tone coming from both Claire and Donny. Alex had absolutely no reason to betray the group, and even if he did, he would have done it long before now. The fact that Alex’s tip-off had helped aid their escape should’ve been enough for Paul, but Claire’s insinuation that something was amiss had gotten the gears turning in his head. What if she was right? What if the tip was all part of a nefarious plan to rein in the outliers on their own accord? Maybe Kovic and Company hadn’t had time to deploy field agents to the scene before the outliers fled Atlanta. If that were the case, and Alex was playing Benedict Arnold to the group, then it would have made sense to feign loyalty to the outliers, build trust by warning them of an imminent assault, and then lead them to an isolated location while waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

  It was a disheartening possibility, but the more Paul thought on it, the more he couldn’t deny it was a valid one. “Okay, okay,” he said as he rose from the rocker. “Let’s just say for a minute Alex has gone and betrayed us. That would mean we’d have to get out of here fast. But we don’t have a ride. So, if the CIA were closing in right now, what are the odds we could make it out on foot?”

  “Slim to none,” Claire said. “The moment Alex disclosed our location they’d form a perimeter ten miles wide monitoring every movement from highways to hiking trails.”

  Donny rocked the porch swing and looked out into the night. The moon was shining like a spotlight with bushed batteries. Clouds came and went, further blocking any light that would be essential to covertly navigating a way out. “Even if we left now,” he said, “we’d probably just wind up walking in circles.” He pointed, “I mean look out there. It’s bad enough trying to find your way out of the big woods in the daylight. One hour of hiking around in the dark and we’d be lost.”

  “He’s right,” Claire said. “If they’re closing in on the area, we’d stick out like a group of drunk campers tromping through the woods with flashlights, looking for a place to piss in the middle of the night.”

  “Not to mention the fact that we don’t even know where we’re going,” Paul said. “I mean the whole point of coming up here was to get off-the-grid long enough to come up with a plan that would expose the CIA’s involvement in this illegal program. We also can’t forget it wasn’t Alex’s idea to come up here—it was mine.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not in on it,” Donny said.

  “No, but we’ve been up here for three days. If he were going to betray us, then why now?”

  “Biding his time.”

  Paul was growing more frustrated with the argument by the second, and Claire took notice. She stepped in and said, “Okay, there’s no point in talking in circles here. The fact of the matter is we don’t know what Alex’s intentions are, and both scenarios hold weight. Add to the fact that it’s pushing midnight and we’re stranded in unfamiliar territory, and I think there’s only one play here.”

  “Oh yeah?” Paul said. “And what’s that?”

  “We wait till first light. If Alex isn’t back by then, then we’ll have our answer, and we’ll hightail it out of here.”

  Donny scoffed. “We’re just supposed to wait around here like a bunch of sitting ducks?”

  Claire pulled a flashlight from her pocket and handed it to h
im. “Here ya go, Don. If you want to take your chances making it out of here tonight, be my guest. Just watch out for the coyotes and wild hogs. I hear they can get pretty aggressive should you cross into their territory unannounced.”

  Donny clicked the light on, then off again, then shook his head. One look at Claire and she knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “So if that’s that, then we might as well get inside and figure out where we’re heading tomorrow. We’ve got a little less than six hours, and personally I’d like an hour or two of sleep before leaving, so let’s get to it.” She walked inside, and Donny followed. He held the screen door open for Paul, who turned and paused for a moment before walking in.

  “If you’re out there, Alex,” he whispered to the woods, “you’d better get your ass back here, fast.”

  Chapter 7:

  The Road to Creekside

  Alex sat in the back seat of the Crown Victoria and studied the dark silhouette of a man driving him into the night as the green odometer light outlined his abductor’s profile. He squinted hard and tried to adjust his eyes to the shadowy car interior, but it was no use. He would’ve asked just who in the hell the guy was, but the duct tape plastered across his typically loquacious lips put an effective halt to any back seat back talk.

  Minutes passed without meeting another car on what seemed to be a deserted two-lane highway, and for a moment, Alex wondered if he’d ever come across another living soul again. Finally, an eighteen-wheeler passed and the headlights illuminated the sedan’s interior, giving Alex a brief glimpse of the driver’s profile. He tried to put a name to the face, but he didn’t recognize him. The moment passed like a lightning strike, and once again, they were riding in the dark.