“I’ll pray continually for swift recovery,” Owsley said.

“Lord willing, I’ll get back to my work. My only regret is having to abandon my daily pastoral responsibilities, and several projects that I’ve had to delay.”

“I have no doubt you’ll soon be back doing God’s labors, sir.”

Schrum blew out a breath at the enormity of it all. “It’s a large undertaking. Especially the media end. Are you on the television, Pastor Owsley?”

“Twice a week in Mobile. The show is rebroadcast on the Alabama Christian cable channel.”

“How many of the faithful watch?”

“Sixty or seventy thousand.”

“The Crown of Glory channel is seen in twenty million homes a week. What do you think of that, son?”

“Those are some numbers, sir. A lot of souls.”

“You probably passed Andy Delmont outside, Pastor, my stalwart companion.”

“His voice is a gift from God, Reverend. My wife has all his albums.”

“I discovered young Andrew over a decade ago, a singer in a family gospel choir and unknown outside of his small congregation. Now Andy’s albums sell in the hundreds of thousands. We all need exposure, wide audiences. Larger ministries bring in more donations and do more good.”

“Yessir,” Owsley said. “I understand.”

“I want to get back to my first point, my unmet responsibilities. Let me ask a personal question, Pastor Owsley, if I may.”

“Of course, sir.”

Schrum studied the ceiling as if looking beyond for guidance. The eyes returned to Owsley. “Did you ever over-promise, Pastor?”

Puzzlement. “Like how, Reverend?”

“Let’s say it’s the end of a life and you’re called to the hospital. You know in your heart the person is soon destined for the arms of the Lord. But because of their love, the despairing family isn’t ready to let go yet. Have you ever offered hope in the face of the actual reality?”

“With faith, there is always hope.”

“So you hold out hope to the family … even knowing the inevitable, that God’s will is about to be done. Because you love the family. And you want them to feel better?”

Owsley nodded slowly, uncertain of where the conversation was heading. Schrum took Owsley’s hand and drew him closer. “I want to speak next on the subject of hope and promises, Pastor Owsley. Just me and you, two men of God in a quiet room. Will you grant me that?”

“I will give you anything you ask, Reverend Schrum.”

Schrum nodded to Johnson and Uttleman who crept from the room and closed the door. Uttleman turned to Johnson. “Do you think Amos will convince Owsley?” he said softly.

Johnson looked over his shoulder at the closed door. “You never know what Amos will do, only that in the end, it will be perfect for Amos. You, me, Eliot Winkler … we’re all made to play along.”

“You’re saying—”

“Remember when Amos met with Eliot … Amos gasping, on his last breath, claiming he didn’t have the strength to complete the project? Not on a daily basis … remember? He said it twice.”

“I remember, but—”

Johnson continued down the hall, shaking his head. “Amos just got himself out of a lunatic promise and passed it over to Owsley. He can now relax in Key West, drink his fill, have one of his little guilt-wallows, and let Delmont play him pretty songs all day. Not bad, right?”

“You mean he’s jerked everyone around from the start?”

“Wake up, Roland. It’s what Amos Schrum does.”

27

Frisco Dredd crouched inside the windowless van and sucked from a bottle of water, his eyes again searching the cream apartment complex on the south edge of Wynwood, the property bordered by tall palms and bright flowers. Thanks to Darlene Hammond he now knew the address of Sissy Carol Sparks, whore and destroyer of great and Godly men. Hammond, another whore and temptress, was currently answering to God for her sins, the ashes of her earthly body lying beside a little-used road at the edge of the Everglades.

He’d done what he could for Hammond, made the preparations, used the correct materials, sending her soul to Heaven with crackling flames and a cloud of dark and holy smoke. Weeping on his knees and asking for his own forgiveness as he asked for hers.

“… for unto you, Lord, I make this sacrifice in Your holy name and beg for her forgiveness for her sins and blasphemies …”

The whore might still be saved. The Lord was merciful.

A car turned the block and Dredd’s senses pricked up. But it was a pair of hipster males in a red Miata convertible who continued down the block, aiming for downtown Miami.

Dredd again slumped low in the seat and drew another drink from the water bottle. He knew where Sparks lived and how she made her money. He’d wait all day and all night, if necessary.

Time meant nothing to a warrior for God.

Owsley had been in the Schrum house for forty minutes when another vehicle swung into the drive, a limo pulling a trailer. The car pulled past Nautilus to the parking pad in back, Nautilus repositioning himself to watch two burly men remove an elaborate motorized wheelchair from the trailer. They were obviously private security, which piqued Nautilus’s interest.

The beefy boys helped an elderly man into the chair. Though looking frail, he seemed resolute, advancing full throttle for several feet before jerking to a halt, one of the tires jamming into a fissure in the patio.

Nautilus watched as the security types struggled to free the wedged tire while the chair’s occupant cursed and pressed controls, the chair’s power belt shrieking. Powering the motor would burn it out, but neither of the hired hands looked ready to explain that to the boss.

Nautilus jogged over to lend a hand. “Easy on the power, buddy …” he said to the chair’s occupant as he bent to add his hands to the task, “you’re gonna wreck the motor. Lay off the juice and we’ll get you free.”

The man’s face spun to Nautilus, his eyes pinpoints of fury in the wizened face. “Get the hell away from me, boy,” he hissed. “I got all the help I need.”

“Boy?” Nautilus said. It had been a long time.

The others gave a grunting thrust and the chair lurched free. Without thanks or a backward glance the man accelerated across the yards, the security guys hustling to catch up.

Nautilus dismissed the old crank. He opened the newspaper and read in the warm sunlight, happy to be alone.

He’d read for ten minutes, then heard a “Hello” from the sidewalk. He turned to a man in his mid forties, slender and attractive and dressed in an ice-cream suit with a jaunty Panama on his head. Though the pedestrian wore sunglasses, he did Nautilus the courtesy of removing them to speak, his blue eyes sparkling as if alight with secret knowledge. There was something familiar about the visage, but it eluded Harry Nautilus, who flicked a lazy salute.

“Good morning.”

“Anything interesting in the paper?” the man said.

“Usual crapola,” Nautilus said, holding it up. “I’m done. You want it?”

“That’s very kind of you.” The man approached and took the folded paper. If anything, the proximity enhanced Nautilus’s feeling that he’d met the man before, but he also knew he hadn’t.

Weird.

The elegant man spun on his heels like a dancer, a move so smooth it was disconcerting. He continued down the block whistling, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You”.

Bemused by the encounter, Nautilus was trying the tune himself when Richard Owsley returned in the company of the big man and the mousier guy in glasses. They had shaken hands politely when Owsley had arrived, but they embraced upon departure, exchanging broad smiles and happy words. The cranky old fart was still inside the Schrum house.

The trio dropped their heads in prayer for several seconds before Owsley came to the car, sitting tentatively in the rear seat, as though dizzied by the previous hour.

“I trust your meeting went well, Pastor,” Nautilus said when Owsley closed the door.