Relentless (17 page)

Bishop Jones drove home from the church in a blinding downpour of rain. Bishop considered the modest beginning of his ministerial service which began so many years ago. Times had changed. His car glided onto a private winding road lit by small silver lanterns ushering him to a circular drive. The light coming from the stone water fountain situated in front of the house guided the bishop's steps until he passed a set of mahogany double doors. He pulled into the garage around back and entered the house through the rear.

Seconds after he entered the house, he'd punched his security code into the alarm panel, and was meandering toward the front of his house with his heels clicking along the marble walkway. He was quickly greeted by his wife who was at the top of the staircase. “Ellis, I was worried about you in this rain. When I left church, you said you would be home in an hour. That was almost two hours ago.”

“I know, I'm sorry,” he offered hanging up his trench coat and hat in the hall closet. “I had an unexpected meeting, and time got away from me.” Bishop Jones trekked up the stairs, disrobed, and took a quick shower. He hoped the hot water would warm his bones and relax him enough to let go of his run in with Deacon Burton hoping he'd done enough to rectify the situation. He'd agreed to a pay raise. He'd spoken to Jill and Simmons, admonishing them both. Bishop had reaffirmed the vows of matrimony with Simmons, although there was no guarantee he was going to adhere. Bishop was exhausted.

Half an hour later and Bishop Jones was snoring overcome by a deep sleep and the comfort of his wife cuddled up next to him.

The quiet of the dark bedroom was interrupted with a whispering wind sailing past their open window and someone calling his name. Bishop Jones's eyelids popped open; he turned to look at his sleeping wife then spanned the dark room for movement. There wasn't anyone or anything present. Bishop figured it was the wind. He rolled over facing the window and the bishop fell fast asleep. This time a brisk wind whisked through the window rattling the blinds and he heard the voice again. Jones sat straight up in bed, turned on the bedside lamp and searched the room with his bulging, wide eyes. With nothing and no one in sight, he shook his wife. “Did you hear that?

“Hear what?” she moaned.

“I can't believe you didn't hear the voice calling my name.”

“Ellis, I can't hear anything but your snoring. Go back to sleep, dear. It was probably just a dream.”

Bishop Jones panned the room again. The bedroom door was shut and so was the door to their master bath. His wallet was lying on the dresser and his wife's jewelry box didn't look disturbed. With both index fingers pressed in his ears, he jiggled his fingers back and forth attempting to clear up his hearing. Maybe it was a bad dream; although he rarely had those. When he did, it was only after eating something spicy before bed. He turned off the light, kissed his wife on the cheek, and laid down in the dark waiting to hear his name called again. The piercing red numbers of the clock located on the bedside table sliced through the darkness displaying two-fifteen in the morning. He'd heard no voice and had no sleep for the last twenty minutes. Weariness took over and sleep once again cradled him.

A stirring deep within wouldn't give him rest. Anxiety was rising, building. Jones tossed off the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and rushed to the window. Twirling the arm of the window crank, he watched the glass slide snuggly into the windowpane. He yanked down the latch locking it into place. His wife rolled over in bed sleeping comfortably. Jones crossed the wide space of the room shoving open the bathroom door and the two walk-in closets. Each was empty and void of sound. Out the bedroom and into the hallway, he leaned over the staircase railing stretching his vision in the dark and straining his ears only to hear the silence that clutched the air.

He didn't know if it was the Lord's prodding he was experiencing or his conscience gnawing away at him. Either way the message was clear. The bishop needed to have another session with Simmons and this time the young minister had better get the message. Bishop Jones headed up to his office on the third level. He shut the door behind him and knelt down in front of the leather sofa accepting that prayer was his only way to silence the voice denying him both sleep and peace.

After having slept on his conversation with Bishop Jones, Deacon Burton remained confused. He couldn't think straight. There was something fishy going on between the bishop, Jill, and Minister Simmons. He could smell it but nobody was talking except for Jill, an admitted drug abuser. He stood in his driveway wondering what to do. He could accept Bishop's half-baked explanation and forget about Minister Simmons's cash contribution and walk away. No one in the church would have to know. Besides, what exactly did he know? He fumbled with his keys the same way he was fumbling with the truth. He leaned against the car and stared at the ground. Sometimes ignorance was a blessing, he admitted. So long as he didn't know anything, he didn't have to do anything. Once he had knowledge, he was accountable. There was no way around his position. The ringing sound of righteousness cried out from the depths of his spirit. It was too loud to ignore. So, he didn't try.

“Lord, show me what to do,” he prayed softly and got into the car. He decided to set his troubles aside, go see his niece, and let the Lord work out the mess. There should have been a sigh of relief laying this on the Lord, but honestly he didn't feel much better. He knew there were some people who could pray and release everything to God. That wasn't him. He started the engine and pulled off.

Fifteen minutes later he was in West Philadelphia pulling up to a soul food diner. He took his time getting out since his niece wasn't expected for another twenty minutes. He wandered inside, carrying a load of worry. He found a seat and a menu but no peace. After a short while, he saw his niece approaching the table. At least that's what he'd called her since the day she was born to his childhood friend thirty-two years ago. She wasn't blood, but his niece was definitely family.

“Hey, Uncle Steve,” Sonya said giving him a peck on the cheek and pulling up a chair across the table from him. “Am I late?” she asked opening the menu.

“No, not really,” he responded unable to season his words with any resemblance of warmth or enthusiasm. His favorite niece usually got a better reception, but today he didn't have any to spare.

Both perused the menu saying nothing.

“What are you getting, Uncle?” Sonya questioned closing her menu. “Remember this is my treat.”

“Then I better get the sweet potato pie and the cobbler, because I don't know when this day will happen again.” He grinned but couldn't muster a full heap of laughter.

Finally the two placed their orders. One got smothered turkey wings and the other fried catfish. “I started to get the potato salad, but I decided to stick with greens, yams, and a side of mac and cheese. The same as we get every time.” Deacon Burton heard his niece chattering but didn't process a thing. “Did you hear me, Uncle?”

“No, what?” he said kind of embarrassed.

“Never mind; how's Auntie and the boys?”

“Oh, they're fine. Junior is growing fast and Mark is a good kid.”

“I need to come by and see them,” she said. Deacon stirred the straw in his glass and let Sonya's words hit the floor. She immediately responded. “Uncle, what is going on with you?”

“What?” he asked startled.

“You're barely talking,” she said as the waiter placed their food on the table. Sonya seemed to pause long enough to get all the dishes situated.

Every inch of the table was crammed with a dish. The smell of fried catfish usually had him mesmerized to the point where he had to take a bite in order to calm his craving. This afternoon, he poked his fork at the fish.

“Okay, now I know for sure something is wrong.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because no one plays over a plate of greens and fried catfish, especially nobody in our family. Are you sick?” she asked appearing concerned.

If he'd answered yes, there would have been an element of truth in his response. He was sick to his stomach about the church. The nagging ache of accountability wasn't going to let him walk away in blissful ignorance. His spirit continued crying out, louder and louder. No attempts at quieting it had worked.

“Don't tell me nothing because clearly it's something.”

“I'm all right.”

“No, you're not. What's going on?”

He squirmed in the seat. She was very perceptive; always had been, even as a child. Law was the right field for her, and he was proud of her job any day except this one. She wasn't going to back off. He'd visit, package up his meal, and get out of there before she figured out too much.

Before he could speak, she admitted, “I'm the one who should be downtrodden.”

“Why?”

Sonya set her fork down and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “Well, you know my boss, Maxwell Montgomery?” Deacon Burton didn't know the attorney personally, but between Sonya and the local news, he knew of him. Who didn't in the Philadelphia area? “He almost fired me.”

“You're out of a job?” he said sitting up.

“No, I was able to keep my job, but it was a close call.” She gathered a fork full of greens. “Much closer than I ever want to experience again.”

“What happened?”

She bit into the leafy greens, as he waited for her to speak. “He found out I was a member of Greater Metropolitan.”

“Wait a minute, how does going to church get you fired?” he asked totally confused. Sonya chewed more food and wiped her mouth again. She paused and chewed some more. “Sonya, what does the church have to do with your job?”

“Huh,” she exclaimed. “I might as well tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Deacon Burton said becoming increasingly anxious.

“He's investigating the church,” she replied burying her gaze into the yams.

“What kind of investigation? And don't hold back. Tell me what's going on.”

“Okay,” she barked. “He believes Bishop Jones is in the center of illegal dealings, and that's all I'm going to say.”

She offered very little. He had to find out more. If he had to, he would drag the details out of his niece. “What kind of dealings?”

“Honestly, I don't know. He hasn't told me. He's been very hush-hush.”

“Really,” Deacon Burton said, assuming the investigation involved the prescription drugs. His zeal smashed to the floor, but he couldn't let Sonya see the extent of his dismay. To believe Bishop Jones and Minister Simmons actually had some mess going on in the church was almost too much to digest. They'd both lied to his face, too. He felt sick to his stomach and pushed the plate of food away.

Sonya continued. “He was going to fire me because I was a member of the church, and he thought I was working as a snitch.”

“That's crazy.”

“I know, right. I was surprised he'd believe something like that about me. I've been nothing but loyal to him. It just goes to show how intense he is about this case. You can trust that if he's putting this much effort into the investigation, somebody at Greater Metropolitan is headed for a brutal defeat in court. You can be guaranteed, it won't be Maxwell Montgomery. That much I know for sure.”

Deacon Burton grew more vexed with each sentence. By the sound of Sonya, Bishop Jones and Minister Simmons were going down, but he didn't think it was right for the church to go with them. He had to step up and do something to save the congregation and distance the church and its reputation from the callous acts of two greedy men.

“When is he going to make this public?”

“Not sure,” she said wiping her fingers on a napkin. “I'm pretty sure he hasn't gotten all the information he needs, otherwise the church would have heard from him by now,” she said scraping the remaining mac and cheese from the small bowl.

“Maybe I can help him.”

Sonya flashed her gaze in the direction of her uncle and said, “How?”

“By telling him what I know.”

Her disposition spoke volumes. She drew in closer to him, placing the crumbled napkin onto her mostly eaten plate of food. “Please tell me you're not a part of any craziness at the church,” she said wearing the shroud of fear.

“I'm not involved, but I know who is.”

“Are you serious?” she asked as her eyelids widened. He nodded too ashamed to acknowledge verbally. “So, you want to tell Mr. Montgomery what you know?”

“I think so,” he said figuring this was the answer to his prayer. He'd asked for guidance before meeting his niece and now he had it. Walking by faith, he knew there were no coincidences. He was supposed to meet with Sonya at this precise hour. She was supposed to share her news about the attorney's investigation. He was convinced there was divine order associated with him reaching out to the attorney. There was a quick gut check, but he shunned it off. Truth had to reign or he would be no better than the perpetrators. It was decided “I'm sure I want to meet with him. Can you arrange it?”

“Absolutely, if you're sure this is what you want to do.”

“It is,” he said without thinking. It was best that way. Too much thinking was bound to lead him away from where he had to go.

“On second thought, you better call him directly. I don't want him to think I'm involved. I really would lose my job. I'll give you his number. Call him, but don't mention my name.”

“All right.”

Sonya hesitated and then said, “You realize this will put Bishop Jones in big financial trouble, because Maxwell Montgomery doesn't bother going to court unless he's asking for millions. The church will probably end up paying the settlement for the bishop, and it won't be cheap.”

“I can't worry about what-ifs. I have to do the right thing before God. Write his number down for me. I will call him when I get out to my car. I want to meet with him as soon as possible,” Deacon Burton said, pulling the fruit cobbler toward him and taking a large spoonful. His appetite was returning. The catfish was cold and the greens, too, but the sweet taste swirling in his soul was sufficiently satisfying. Peace was entering the restaurant and approaching their table. He sighed relishing the soon-coming relief.