Like Sheep Gone Astray (35 page)

“You need to stop ignoring me. You can't just treat me any kind of way. If it wasn't for me, your plans wouldn't be going half as good.” She snarled as she rebuttoned her shirt. Her eyes bored right into his, doing her best to hide her resentment, her shame. Maybe she really did deserve better than this.

“I'm sorry, Nikki, if you have been feeling ignored. You know how I feel about you, but it's been important for me to stay the course. We're too close to completion now. Don't mess this up.”

Nikki did not mistake the tone in his voice. Her gaze dropped as she mumbled her words.

“I'm sorry about everything I did yesterday. I wasn't thinking. I was just ...” A sigh ended her sentence. “Look, I gotta go. I left Devin with a neighbor this morning. She's probably wondering where I am.” She turned to leave, making sure to keep her head up high as she let her swaying hips escort her out of the room. She had her pride to keep.

“Nikki?”

She turned around for a second to see what else he had to say.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she said, imitating the deep, rich cadence of Reggie Savant's voice.
Stupid fool
. She so much wanted to come out on top, beat everyone at their own game. But now she wasn't sure how.

There was nothing else for her to do but pick up Devin.

The wait in line at the pharmacy had been more than excruciating. The wait standing over the narrow white stick on the bathroom sink was enough to push Terri over the edge.

“What's it say?” Cherisse called from the other side of the door. “Remember, one pink line means no and two pink lines mean yes.”

“I know, I know. I have the directions right here and you read them to me five times on the way back from the pharmacy.” Terri bit down on her lip until blood threatened to break through her skin.

“So? Are you pregnant or not?”

“Will you wait? Come on now, give this thing a chance to work. It's only been ten seconds, and the box said it could take three minutes.”

Ten more seconds passed by in silence and then Cherisse yelled through the door again.

“Anything?”

There was no response.

“Terri, talk to me. What are you seeing?”

Some more long seconds went by and then the bathroom door squeaked open. Terri was holding the stick away from her body as if it were radioactive material. She held up the two pink lines for Cherisse to see before flicking the pregnancy test into the bathroom waste-basket.

They walked back to Cherisse's den in silence. Terri collapsed onto the daybed, pulling her knees up to her body and laying her head on top of them. Cherisse sighed from the nearby armchair.

“There is no way I'm giving that man a child.”

“I know.”

“I've worked too hard and got too much going for me to be dragged down by dirty diapers. I don't have the time or desire to be cleaning up anybody's poop, Anthony's or his baby's.”

“I know.”

“I don't have a choice. I'm taking care of this tomorrow.”

“I know, Terri. I know.”

His best attire, a brown double-breasted suit, white shirt, and checked-print tie, were draped over the kitchen chair. A pair of brown loafers and wool socks sat outside the hallway closet door. Eric Johnson looked at the clothes, inspecting for any missed wrinkles or stains, and then smoothed out a sheet of crinkled paper. It was a speech he'd prepared weeks ago to present to the Shepherd Hills City Council. There was no point in throwing it in the trash, he assured himself, ashamed that he had resorted to that action earlier in the day. He may be the last one standing on his side out in the battlefield, but he was still standing. The war was not over yet.

Daylight had just slipped away from the Sunday evening. That gave him only a few more hours to perfect his presentation for the council. The vote for or against CASH's bid to build was scheduled for Tuesday morning, and Eric had one last chance to make a positive impression. He was scheduled to speak sometime during the Monday legislative session. If he was there alone, then so be it. But he would be there. God had brought him too far to quit.

He read and reread his speech far into the night, making notes, adding lines, crossing out words. A rapid knock close to eleven-thirty jerked him out of his concentration. It must be his neighbor, Miss Angelique, needing flour, or some eggs, or milk, he figured. She had a knack for showing up at his door all hours of the day or night, asking for a teaspoon of this, a cup of that. Eric quickly pulled on a pair of gray sweats and opened the door with a metal canister full of flour in his hand. A cop stood staring at him.

“Mr. Johnson, I need to talk to you.” Sheriff Malloy pushed his way past Eric into the small living quarters. His eyes glanced over the stacks of papers and brochures piled throughout the kitchenette and living room.

“Is there a problem, Sheriff? Any news about who destroyed my office?”

“No, I don't have anything new. Right now I'm working on a homicide that occurred around four o'clock this morning. Are you familiar with a Dontay ‘Snap’] Peterson?”

“I know who he is. Was.” Eric fought back the lump in his throat. Focusing on CASH throughout the evening had been enough distraction to keep his mind and heart off the shooting. Eric was not ready to revisit the heartbreak just yet. There were too many pieces.

“Peterson was in that phone booth by the basketball court down the street. You can see it out of your window.” The yellow tape and chalked outline was an easy view beyond the chipped windowpane that separated the living room from the sleeping area. “According to phone records, Snap was in the middle of a call when he was gunned down. Those records indicate your phone number as the one he dialed. Do you live alone, Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes.”

“So it's safe to assume that Snap was talking to you when he was gunned down.”

Eric paused a moment before answering yes, unsure where the conversation was headed.

Malloy must have picked up on Eric's hesitation, for he quickly added, “I just want to know if you heard anything right before he was killed. You are our last contact with him, so you may be able to help us in our search for the killers. We know that it was a drive-by. Were you looking out the window as you spoke to him?”

“My phone cord is too short to reach the window.” “I see. Did you hear any voices or peculiar noises during your conversation with him, or did he say anything that led you to believe that he thought he was in imminent danger?”

Eric shook his head. “Everything happened so fast. Snap was ... He sounded a little on edge, but that's not uncommon for him. He was somebody that always seemed to be watching his back. As far as voices or sounds go, the only thing I heard was the screech of the tires right before the gunfire and the shots themselves. I don't know how much help I can offer you beyond that.”

“Okay.” The officer scribbled some notes in a pad and then looked back up at Eric. “Thanks for your time. I'll probably be contacting you again soon.”

Eric walked him to the door. “I hope you're able to find out who did this. Snap had his issues, but I believe—I know—he had the potential to do and be better.”

“Yeah, it's a shame.” Sheriff Malloy was on the top step of the landing before he suddenly turned back to ask Eric one more question.

“Tell me, what were you and Snap talking about? Why was he calling you so early in the morning?”

“Personal problems.” Eric left it at that, not wanting to divulge more information than what he knew himself.

“His? Or yours.” There was no question in his final two words.

“Snap and I talked a lot. I tried to be there for him, and in his own way, he was there for me.” Eric saw the change in Malloy's eyes. Any hint of friendliness had iced into a steely blue.

“Have a good week, Mr. Johnson.”

Eric watched as Sheriff Malloy descended the steps and then looked out his window to see him leave not in a squad car, but in a dark-colored Thunderbird.

“What was that about?” Eric wondered aloud as he picked up his speech again.

Anthony searched for a place to lay his head on the vast stretch of highway before him. He did not know what had made him think he would be able to begin a ten-and-a-half-hour journey without getting some shut-eye. He finally found a small motel, the Vagrant's Inn, about a two-hour drive outside of Sharen. He checked in and collapsed onto the double-sized bed, afraid to pull the frayed green comforter down for fear that he would have to get back in his car to find another motel. The room was about the size of his garage with a bathroom that made him want to use the Spot-A-Pot across the street at a construction site, but he was grateful to have some time to catch up on both sleep—no matter how uncomfortable—and his own investigation.

It wasn't a bad trip. It had been worthwhile, he assured himself. At least he'd been able to see Aunt Rosa, although she'd had no clue who he was. And he had eliminated stones to turn over in the quest to research his father. He would just have to start picking up pebbles, sift through sand if necessary, to get the information he needed.

Anthony firmly believed God was nudging him to learn about his father and his finances. He was sure his feet were being directed as he kept his mind in a state of prayer and seeking. It all had to come together somehow.

Before he closed his eyes, he offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. “Thank You, Jesus, for loving me enough to forgive my shortcomings and giving me a chance to pursue what is right and honorable before You. I know that however this ends, I'll be closer to You on all accounts. I long to stay in a place of transparency with You so I may know that my heart reflects Yours.

“Lord, whatever else I need to know, whatever else I need to learn, I know it will get me to the place You want me to be. Father, as a new generation of the Murdock family enters this world, I pray that any seeds of unrighteousness that have been planted throughout our family line will be exposed and uprooted so we can have a family tree that is fruitful and pleasing unto You.”

Anthony stretched out across the bed, feeling the weight of sleep falling heavily upon him. He strained to keep his eyes open to concentrate as he finished praying. “There may be more bumps and painful turns on this road, but I know that at the end is a destiny that is for Your glory and my good. My lifelong pursuit of money has led a broken me to You, but now I am whole and rich in Your mercy, wealthy in Your grace. Thank You for showing me who I am so that I can trust You to be who You say You are—the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Be my all, Jesus. In Your name I pray, Amen.”

As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what Terri was up to. He'd stopped dialing her cell phone just before he'd gotten to Sharen, deciding that the next time he spoke to her it would be to tell her good news. With the baby, there was no need upsetting her more. He fell asleep dreaming about him and Terri and the baby bouncing through green fields of tall grasses and dragonflies. Together, the three of them. There was no way she meant what she said about a divorce. They would be together. The three of them.

Kent came to with a start as Mona nudged him awake. Sitting on the deck of the Trinity, the water bobbing the fifty-seven-foot yacht in early-morning darkness, only beckoned Kent back to dreamland. The soft-spoken prayers and scripture readings did little to halt the lull. Only when a sudden soprano burst forth with a song about the beauty of the earth did he lunge forward.

“Who—what?” He looked over at Mona seated next to him. She looked completely caught up, her eyes glazed with tears, her hands clenched together in her lap.

They were sitting in a rough circle: the Englands, a couple of older businessmen dressed in suits, a middle-aged woman with her hands resting atop a Bible, and a married couple who looked to be in their late sixties. The sun was just beginning to surface over the water, yellow and orange rays spilling across the ocean like an opened bag of marbles. The glassiness of the sea met the purple-tinged sky in a single demure kiss. Kent took in a breath of salty air, struggling to stay awake.

“We are glad to welcome new friends with us this morning to enjoy the glorious sunrise,” Clyde said as the song turned into a melodic hum. “We praise God for each new day. Morning by morning new mercies we see. I thought for a quick meditation today we could talk about the mercy God shows us through His providence.”

Mona squeezed Kent's good knee and smiled. She really seemed to be enjoying these spiritual talks, he noted. A woman who'd tried everything from Yoga to self-help books to calm her short-wired nerves, Mona was soaking up these Bible studies and discussions with a calm exuberance he'd never before seen in her.

They all turned to Philippians 4:19. More out of politeness than interest, Kent looked at the passage over Mona's shoulder. She still clutched the little New Testament given to her the day before.

But my God shall supply all your need according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus
.

Kent looked at the words, tried to listen to the short devotional discourse Clyde was giving, but soon found his mind drifting back to the questions he'd been unable to leave behind in Shepherd Hills. When the others began to join the discussion, offering their thoughts and life examples of divine intervention, he quietly excused himself and slipped away.

He easily found the small room Clyde had told him about with the fax machine and worktable, nestled between the main salon and the guest cabin. It was a high-tech office aboard the otherwise plain-looking yacht. Whoever had owned this before really invested a lot of money in his business, Kent concluded. He slipped on his glasses and picked up the receiver, quickly dialing the number to the precinct. It was early—Malloy might not be there yet. The phone rang and rang. He hung up and dialed again. This time it was picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” A woman answered.

“Jessica, it's me—Kent.” He recognized the voice of the receptionist who sat at the desk right in front of Malloy's office. “Is the sheriff in?”

“He hasn't come in yet, and probably won't be here until later this afternoon. He left a message on my voice mail saying that he had some fieldwork to do this morning. Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Cassell?”