Like Sheep Gone Astray (39 page)

Gloria set the stack of papers back down and walked around the desk to a metal file cabinet that had more papers sticking out of its drawers. As she went to open one, her feet brushed against a manila folder sitting like an upside-down V on the floor. Its contents had spilled out and lay scattered around it. She scooped it all up, reading the name on the folder's label.

“What is this?” she muttered to herself, freezing when she saw the first piece of paper inside. It was a photograph of a serious-looking black man with a huge afro and an orange-and-black dashiki.

“The eyes.” She took the picture closer to the window to get a better view. Anthony had said something about researching his father, and this man certainly could pass as a DNA-test candidate.

She flipped through the folder one page at a time, her eyes getting slightly wider with each read.

“This man was quite the con,” she muttered as the pages and yellowed newspaper clippings crinkled softly in her hand. She gave one last look through the stack, noting only that most of what was there either referenced or came from somewhere in South Carolina.

“There's got to be something that I'm missing.” She checked her watch. She should have left minutes ago, but one more quick look-through wouldn't hurt, she decided.

She spotted a wood stool behind the file cabinet and quickly headed for it, but it was not until she was almost completely seated that she realized it had a bad leg. Using a nearby shelf for leverage she caught herself, trying to hold on to the papers and grab the dusty ledge at the same time.

“Ouch!” A cup of hot coffee spilled onto her arm, scalding her wrist and fingertips. “Where did this come from?” She gasped, her realization that someone else was there coming a second too late. Before she could regain her balance, a strong hand clenched tightly around her mouth and heavy rope bound her arms behind her. She used all her strength to kick back with her legs, but the way she was sprawled on the floor gave her a severe disadvantage. Before she could make sense of what was going on, she was alone again, attached to a pipe that ran the height of the room. Silence filled the space and nobody else was there.

She sat shocked for a long minute, until a slight trickle of blood caught her attention. Pain thumped near her wrist, and she realized for the first time that she had been cut. Her artery had been missed by millimeters. Suddenly her mind caught up with her heartbeat, a million thoughts thundering like a high-speed train. She had to get out of there. Whoever it was was going to come back, and she knew it wouldn't be to apologize.

Though her hands were tied behind her back, there was just enough slack in the rope for her to grope the immediate floor. Good: her purse was reachable. She knew she had a nail file in there, and she convinced herself that even a dull edge could help her slice away at the thick twine.

It took her more than ten minutes just to unzip the black leather bag, and another fifteen to find the metal nail file. She began sawing away at the cord with a vengeance, her strength limited by the strained position of her arms and the pain near her right wrist. When another twenty minutes had gone by, and she had only made a slight nick in the rope, she banged her head against a shelf beside her. It fell on top of her bloodied hands.

“Jesus!” Hot tears blinded her vision. Nobody would even know she was missing yet. Councilman Banks was down at city hall thinking she was at the library, and if Anthony was back, he probably would not be trying to call her from the funeral. She had to get out of there and get in contact with both of them. If she was in danger, maybe they were as well. There was nothing she could do but feel for the nail file and resume whittling away at the rope.

Chapter 17

A
nthony breathed a sigh of relief. With every change in his BMW's odometer, he drew closer to the skyline of the Shepherd Hills downtown district. It was ten after two. He would only be a few moments late for Minister Bernard Porter's funeral. The winding road that led to Second Baptist Church was a short three exits away. Figuring an hour and a half for the funeral, another hour for the burial, he should be able to drive over to the ware-house on Perkins Street by five.

He was turning on his blinkers to change lanes when he saw red-and-blue lights flashing behind him. A police car. Anthony checked his speedometer. He didn't think he was speeding. Were his lights not working? He tapped the blinkers again as he slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the expressway. He cut the ignition and put both hands on the steering wheel. No need to turn a routine police stop into a Rodney King rerun. He could see the officer approaching in his rearview mirror. It was Sheriff Malloy.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff. Is there a problem?” Anthony was courteous.

“Shut up and get out of the car! Keep your hands where I can see them!” “What's going on?”

“I said get out of the car, Murdock!” Sheriff Malloy quickly pointed a gun at him.

“Whoa, whoa, okay, I'm getting out.” Anthony stepped out, each movement slow and exaggerated as he kept his hands spread out in front of him. Cars were beginning to slow down on the freeway beside them, onlookers pointing, speeding up only when they saw the gun aimed at Anthony. “Lie facedown on the ground!”

Anthony obeyed, but Sheriff Malloy still pushed him down on his way to the pavement. Blood spattered across his teeth as he hit the black tar.

“Stay still!” Malloy continued his assault, hitting, smacking, spitting as he pulled out handcuffs, using them to whack Anthony hard just under his ear. Anthony felt like his bones were forming fault lines.

“Wait a minute, what's going on?” Anthony demanded. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up, Murdock! You know what you did. You are under arrest for public corruption, embezzlement, and bribery of state officials. You have the right to remain Silent…”

The sheriff proceeded with the Miranda rights as he roughly shoved and pushed the compliant Anthony to his cruiser, using the full force of his hands and a knee to thrust him inside. “I hope you have a good attorney, because you're looking at some serious time, Reverend Murdock!”

He watched as the sheriff dug through the trunk of his car, pulling out the bag of money that had been hidden in its belly for too long. Even as his body ached from the ruthless blows he had suffered, he felt as if a burden had been lifted off his shoulders as Malloy tossed the brown bag onto the passenger-side floor of his police cruiser. Anthony was quiet as the cruiser pulled away with him in it. A part of him had been expecting this very moment ever since the late-night “Samson” study session.
For Samson to overcome, he had to go down with the enemy
.

But even as a calmness controlled him, a realization put him on high alert. Malloy was driving in a direction away from the county jail.

“Where are you taking me?” Anthony demanded from the backseat, his wrists hurting from the clasp of metal around them, his head and neck aching with pain. “I have the right to know where you are taking me.”

“Shut up!” Malloy shouted through the grate that separated them. “There's a special holding cell for criminals like you, a place far away to keep you from spreading your brand of corruption any more throughout this city.”

“I want to speak to my lawyer. I don't know what you're doing.”

“I said shut up!” Malloy brandished a gun. The cruiser's lights and siren were not on, and Sheriff Malloy seemed to be driving casually to the outer areas of the city. He suddenly veered off road at some old railroad tracks. Anthony stayed quiet, alert, his mind pleading for direction, insight. Safety.

“Where are you taking me?” Anthony asked again as Malloy pulled to a sudden stop. What looked like an old, abandoned checkpoint station sat leaning to one side. Anthony studied the green-painted splintered wood, trying to make sense out of what was going on.

“Where are we?” he demanded again.

“Didn't I say shut up?”

Anthony never saw the billy club coming, but the sudden strike on his skull plunged him into spinning darkness.

Terri raised her car seat back to its upright position. She'd been sitting in her car, really lying down in it, in Cherisse's parking lot for a couple of hours. It was a little after two o'clock. The limousine should be here soon. The idea, this trip away from her problems, seemed a little farfetched, Terri knew, but she was not prepared to think right now. She wanted nothing more than to curl up into a tight ball and wish the world away. Closing her eyes was a start.

“Terri!” A sudden hand grabbed her through the window. “Terri, are you okay?”

“Cherisse.” She had no fire to speak.

“Oh my goodness, girl, what are you doing? My neighbor called me at work and told me someone was sitting in my parking space in front of my condo for almost two hours. When they described your Lexus, I knew something was wrong. What are you doing? Did you go to work? What happened at the doctor's office? I've been trying to reach you all day! What's going on?”

Terri could not handle all the questions. “I'm about to go away for a little while.”

“Go away? With who? Where?”

“Reggie's sending a limousine to come take me to the airport. Should be here any minute.” Terri rubbed her eyes, yawned, and rested her head back on the seat.

“Terri, I don't know if I'm liking this idea. It seems so sudden. I know you're feeling kind of bad right now. You might do better staying in a familiar setting with friends until you can see more clearly what to do next. Are you sure that you can trust Reggie like this?”

“The limo's here.” Terri pointed weakly at an old Cadillac limousine, which looked like it had seen better days, turning onto the lot. The windows were tinted and it crept along slowly, almost erratic in its direction.

“Ew.” Cherisse wrinkled her face. “The brother makes how much? And that's the best he could send you?” They watched as the limousine began a sloppy turn into another development. “Where is he going?”

“He must not see us over here.” Terri forced herself out of the car and waved her arms. The limo jerked back toward them, stopping just past Terri and Cherisse.

“Terri, I don't have a good feeling about this at all. Something doesn't feel right. I don't think you should go.”

But the chauffeur, a skinny man with a wide hat and dark glasses, had already gotten out of the limo and was holding open the door, waiting.

Terri was quiet as she skirted past Cherisse.

“Terri”—Cherisse grabbed her shoulder—”are you sure about this?” When Terri shrugged out of her grip, Cherisse called after her. “At least call me when you get to wherever you're going. I'll feel better. Okay?”

Terri said nothing as she disappeared into the vehicle, the door slamming loudly behind her. The limousine sped off.

It was Eric's turn to address the assembly. He stood in the lively room, taking his time to reach the solid mahogany podium. As he faced the legislators, he scanned the crowd for friendly faces of support but saw none. Being alone made him feel more nervous than usual. Some of the lawmakers looked ready to hear his presentation, though he questioned their motivation as they studied him from head to toe, pens in hand, brown and white faces solemn. Others looked preoccupied, checking Palm Pilots, conversing with neighbors, brushing lint off of clothes, doing any- and everything not to acknowledge his presence. A couple excused themselves to accept phone calls; one headed for the rest room.

Okay, Lord, this is it
, Eric silently prayed.
This is the last chance I have to address the city council before they vote tomorrow whether to give that tract of land to CASH or to all those other businesses. Father, please, Your will be done
. With that prayer, Eric cleared his throat and spread out his speech before him. The room quieted as he looked down at his paper.

“Good afternoon, ladies, gentlemen, honoraries, dignitaries, esteemed officials of—uh—elected officials of esteem and honored representatives, guests—uh.” He cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, everyone.” He looked up from his notes to see many of the faces smiling, snickering at him. This was not how he'd wanted to start.

“I come before you today to explain why we…why you…why I need…I'm here today to talk about CASH and what it will do for this community.” He stammered as he read. When he looked back up, the faces that were not smiling were beginning to turn in other directions, pulling out papers to read, pens to doodle.

“Forget it,” he mumbled to himself. He balled up his written speech and stepped to the side of the podium.

“Many of you here today look at me and wonder what I have to offer this county. You're looking at me standing before you and saying to yourselves, What on earth does a non-degreed, ex-drug addict that you probably passed in the streets not so many years ago have to offer the people of our community? Well, let me not keep you wondering. Let me remove the guess, end the rumors, and stop the speculation.

“I am here today to offer the community of Shepherd Hills hope. I am here to propose a second chance, maybe even a first chance, for people in our county who feel like chance has walked on by. Now, I know that you are expecting me to stand before you this afternoon and beg and plead with you to let CASH build. By now, all of you know what Bethany Village is, what it will be comprised of, the population that it will serve. I know that you are expecting me to present charts and diagrams, slide shows and statistics. But you have already received all that over the past few months; all of you have seen the handouts, received the letters, fielded my phone calls.

“So what I'm presenting to you now is
your
chance to provide hope to someone who thinks there is none. Tomorrow, you have the power to begin a building process that extends far beyond bricks and mortar, with results that will measure profits in the awakened purpose and potential of people's lives.

“I'm presenting to you your opportunity to be part of an uprising. An uprising of addicts who will get clean. An uprising of youth who will value education and won't lose their lives taking lessons from the streets. An uprising of people who've been pushed to the edges of society, pushing their way back in with new jobs, new chances, new leases on life.