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  Black was trouble, more than any of them could guess.

  Then why wasn’t she fuming with rage? Why was she just looking at her hair in the mirror, thinking that it looked quite good? And she was the purest of this bunch, that was no secret.

  “He’s the devil,” Paula said.

  “Well, he sure has a strange way of showing it,” Katie said.

  Paula turned and walked toward the door. “He’s the devil.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PARADISE

  Wednesday night

  THE PARADISE Episcopal Church was packed to the gills by six forty-five Wednesday evening. Stanley Yordon scanned the restless crowd from the door that led to the baptismal. People milled in the aisles, leaned over pews swatting at each other playfully, snapped at children. They had come out of the woodwork, dressed in jeans and muddy boots—some wearing cowboy hats, others packing holsters. Goodness, who did they think this man was? Wyatt Earp?

  Some of the community’s more influential residents were dressed for church, in coats and ties and dresses and the whole bit. Well, good for them. Showing the house of God a little respect never hurt anyone.

  He stared out at his congregation, which had been turned inside out by this preacher who claimed to be sent by God. Marsuvees Black. Claimed God pulled his car off the road and told him to bring grace and hope to Paradise. The problem was, God didn’t speak to people like that anymore. Maybe he used to, to Abraham or Moses or the apostle Paul, but not now, and certainly not here in Paradise, Colorado.

  In Paradise, God spoke through Sunday services and potluck and bingo. God spoke through community, even communities like this one, which looked like it might split at the seams.

  He held out a hand to Blitzer’s boy, Matthew. “Whoa, slow down there, son!” The kid ignored him and ran past, then down the far aisle, yelping like a native.

  Coming apart at the seams. Thank God he was leaving for a quarterly board meeting in the morning. He could use a break from this bunch.

  He stepped toward the platform. This was his church. He didn’t care if the pope himself was coming. No one would trash his house. He leapt to the podium and flashed that preacher’s smile he’d learned back in seminary. He leaned into the mic.

  “Okay.” Feedback squealed through the auditorium. He flinched and backed off. Of the two hundred men, women, and children stuffed into the church, fewer than half turned their attention to the podium, feedback and all.

  “Is this better? Okay, let’s settle down, folks.” The clock on the back wall read six fifty-nine. Black planned to arrive at seven. “Seven o’clock sharp, Stan,” the preacher had said. “I’ll be here and you can bet your pension on that.” For starters, no one called him Stan—his name was Stanley. He didn’t care if Black didn’t know; he hadn’t liked the flash in Black’s eyes when he said Stan, standing there on the church steps like he owned the place.

  “Let’s have some quiet here.” His voice rang across the sanctuary.

  Most of the adults complied, hushing at the sound of his deep voice. Nancy once told him his voice was commanding. Like a general’s voice. He lifted a hand to the crowd.

  “Let’s take our seats, friends.”A flurry of movement across the room signaled their obedience. Within ten seconds most of the flock faced him attentively, waiting for his next words.

  Most, but not all. Small, scattered groups yammered on as if his request meant nothing at all to them. These were the unchurched. Uneducated, unchurched heathens. You have to either beat them over the head with a tire iron to get their attention, or ignore them entirely.

  How could a man just waltz into town and have these sheep eating out of his hands so easily? Black had supposedly pulled off this miracle of his in Steve’s bar, but that wouldn’t account for such a crowd, would it? On any other day the seasoned farmers sitting in the pews would scoff at such a tale. But not today. Today they had flocked here to see more. It made no sense.

  He glanced down at Chris Ingles. The man had run around town like a plucked goose, showing off that stupid ear of his. Yordon didn’t know how it was that Chris had grown and lost a wart, but there had to be some trick to it. The man sat there with an open mouth, like an idiot. If Chris came to my door looking like that, I might want to check things out too. The man’s flipped his lid.

  Stanley Yordon smiled on, showing none of the anger that rose in him. “Okay, people . . .”

  The baptismal door on his right swung open, and before he could say another word, the scene before him changed.

  For starters, every eye jerked to his right and stared wide, as if an apparition of the Virgin Mary had just lit the wall. And with the shifting of eyes came a sudden and complete silence.

  Black had arrived.

  Yordon turned his head to the right, aware that his mouth still lay open, readied to deliver its blow to the heathens.

  Marsuvees Black stood in the doorway dressed in black. Yordon’s tongue dried up. Goodness gracious, he’s the devil. He shut his mouth and swallowed.

  Black’s deep blue eyes slowly scanned the crowd. His feet were spread wide, his hands hung loosely like a man ready to draw. When the preacher’s eyes reached Yordon, they stopped and stared for a long moment. And then his mouth lifted into a smile—a preacher smile, Yordon thought. The man stepped toward the platform.

  Yordon cleared his throat, scrambled for words.“Ah . . . thank you,” he said.

  Feedback screamed through the sanctuary again. He winced. Ah . . .thank you? Thank you for what? Compose yourself, man.

  “Sorry.” He grinned stupidly. “Let’s all give Mr. Minister Black a round of applause.”

  Mr. Minister?

  He stepped away from the pulpit and began to clap as Black took the stage, beaming that plastic devil smile of his.

  Marsuvees Black stepped up to the pulpit and dismissed him with a nod.

  Yordon felt one of the guest chairs at the back of his knees. He sat heavily.

  The congregation stared. Then someone started with the clapping that spread through the building.

  Black absorbed it, spreading his arms like a rock star at the end of a show. A cool wind from the air conditioner lifted thin wisps of black hair off his shoulders.

  “Thank you,” Black finally said. His bass voice rumbled over the crowd. “Thank you very much.” He raised a hand and the sanctuary fell silent.

  “Funny thing happened this afternoon,” Black said. “I was driving my ’83 Buick along the highway, thinking how good it was to be alive on God’s beautiful green earth, wondering where I should go, when my engine locked up, right out there by the sign that says, Paradise 2 Miles. And then I heard God’s voice speak clear and loud. Go 2 Paradise, he said.” Black drew a two in the air. “Bring grace and hope to the lost town of Paradise, he said.”

  Eighty-three Buick, huh? That’s not what Chris Ingles said.

  Steve Smither sat on the front row, leaning forward in his seat. His wife, Paula, sat stiff like a board. There was an unattractive white streak in her hair—undoubtedly one of Katie’s experiments.

  Steve had served as a deacon since Yordon suggested he take the post two years ago. Paula had run the Sunday-school program for—what?—three years now. She had a heart for the children.

  Claude Bowers sat down the bench from Steve. Now there was a leader. Big, conservative, and quiet, but when he did speak, people listened. Except for Katie, of course. Funny how he ended up with Katie, who didn’t have a conservative bone in her body. Big Claude and beautiful Katie.

  Yordon thought all of this on the fly, in the same way all preachers think a thousand thoughts on the fly while looking out at their congregations.

  Black lowered his voice a notch and continued. “So here I am,my friends. Here I am. And I assure you not one of you will remain unchanged when we’re through here. Not a one.”

  The preacher let the words ring through the auditorium. At first no one responded. They just stared at him, some skeptical, some eager.<
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  “How do we know what kind of power you really have?” Steve asked. His voice rumbled through the silence.

  Black did not respond.

  “Or if it’s really real?” someone else shouted.

  This time a chorus of that’s rights and amens filled the room. Good. As Yordon knew they would, most of his people weren’t buying Black’s nonsense.

  “Shut . . . your worthless traps,” Black bit off. Not loudly, but distinctly and with a slight quaver.

  The words took the breath out of the room.

  “And consider it a warning, because the man of God can only take so much doubt.”

  Silence.

  Black softened. “Chris Ingles, rise.”

  Chris jumped to his feet.

  “Show them your ear.”

  Ingles jerked his right ear forward and those closest to him strained for a view. “You had a wart behind your ear?” Black asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And now it’s gone, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Black put both hands on the podium and studied the congregation. Chris sat.

  “Did I tell you to sit, Chris?” Black’s voice was low, deep. Threatening.

  Chris stood.

  “Stick out your tongue, Chris.”

  Chris blinked, as if he hadn’t heard right.

  “Go on, son. Stick out your tongue for everyone to see.”

  Chris hesitated then thrust his tongue out.

  Yordon leaned to his right for a better view.

  Gasps filled the pews nearest Chris, who jerked his hand to his mouth and felt his tongue.

  “Ahhhh!” Chris jerked his hand away. “Ahhhh!”

  “He’s got a huge wart on his tongue!” someone blurted. Cries of alarm filled the auditorium.

  “Whadth happen?” Chris slurred, and Yordon wondered how large this supposed wart was.

  “Shut up! Sit down.”

  Chris was feeling his tongue again. “What—”

  “I said shut up! Sit down!”

  Chris dropped to his seat.

  “What I give, I can take, see?” Black let that settle in.

  Yordon was sure the preacher hadn’t actually healed Chris. Now he had his proof. He should be standing about now and confronting Black head-on. But he didn’t.

  “Do I have your attention?” Black asked.

  No one answered.

  “I said, do I have your attention? ”

  Dozens of yeses came at once.

  “Good. Now, when I say that I’ve come to bring grace and hope, I may mean something altogether different than what you think. My kind of grace and hope is full of life, my friends. A real trip. Not that you have to agree with my definitions of these two most holy words. I’m not here to ram anything down your throats, no sir. But we’re on dangerous ground here, and I strongly suggest you pay attention.”

  Black walked to his right where a pewter goblet that he’d requested sat on the altar. No bread or crackers, just a goblet filled with wine. For communion, he’d said.

  Yordon had filled the goblet with grape juice.

  “Before we learn how grace and hope will change your lives,” Black said, lifting the goblet,“we’re going to remember.”He held the cup out.“Remember how things were before grace and hope came to town.”

  He sniffed the contents, paused for a moment, then seemed to accept Yordon’s insubordination and walked back to the pulpit.

  The man held the cup just below the pulpit. He was wiping his fingers on the edge of the goblet as if . . .

  Yordon leaned forward with surprise. If he wasn’t mistaken, Black was wiping a gel-like substance into the goblet! What on earth did the man think he was doing? Surely he didn’t expect anyone to actually drink . . .

  Unless he was poisoning them.

  Black plunged his hand into the cup, causing some of the grape juice to spill at his feet. He swirled his fingers around a few times, then extracted his hand and flicked juice from his fingers back into the goblet.

  Yordon came to his feet, terrified and outraged at once. “That’s enough! No more theatrics.” He stepped forward but didn’t have the resolve to toss Black aside by the collar, as he fleetingly envisioned.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to step down,” Yordon said. “I don’t know who you think—”

  Black brought his hands together with a thunderclap. He lifted his right hand for all to see. There in his palm sat a large red apple.

  No goblet.

  Yordon groped for his seat.

  “Do you remember?”Black asked the congregation, ignoring Yordon.“First there was an apple. The fruit of pleasure. All was good. Do you remember?”

  Stony silence.

  “Do you remember, Stan?” Black snapped without turning.

  “Yes.” The question and his own response caught Yordon off guard.

  Black tossed the red apple into the air. “And then there came . . .”

  When he caught the apple, it wasn’t an apple.

  It was a brown snake.

  “The snake,” Black said.

  A gasp filled the room. Some shouts of alarm. Black held the three-foot snake by its midsection as the serpent lifted its head, testing the air with a long flickering tongue.

  “But we know what happened to the snake, don’t we?”

  Slick as a magician, Black slid his hand to the reptile’s tail and cracked the snake like a whip.

  Crack!

  The blurred snake became a rigid object roughly two feet in height. A dark wooden cross.

  “The snake was defeated.”

  The congregation was evidently too stunned to react this time. You could stuff an apple up the sleeve. You could hide a snake past the cuff. But not this hefty cross.

  “And that defeat gave us the fruit of the vine once again.” Black slammed the cross against the pulpit, where it vanished in a horrendous crash. Wobbling on the surface was an apple, which he held up for all to see.

  The same red apple he’d started with.

  “Do you remember?” Black called out.

  With his free hand, he lifted the goblet of grape juice. Yordon hadn’t seen it reappear. He held the apple above the goblet and squeezed it. The fruit compressed like a sponge, and juice flowed into the cup.

  Black opened a dry hand for all to see—apple gone. He lifted the cup high. “Do this in remembrance.”

  The congregation responded in an indistinct, astounded chorus. “Drink from this cup, the hope of my gospel.” Black paced, goblet extended to all. “Drink, Chris. Drink, my friend. Show them.”

  Chris hesitated only a brief second before stumbling into the aisle and hurrying to the front. He took the goblet from Black and waited for some kind of encouragement.

  “Just a sip. Don’t be greedy. There are a lot of thirsty souls in this place.”

  Chris tilted the cup, sipped, then handed it back to the preacher.

  “Go on, show them your tongue.”

  Yordon didn’t have to look to know what had happened. But the cries of approval confirmed his guess. The wart was gone from Chris’s tongue.

  Chris was feeling his tongue with both sets of fingers.

  Black addressed the congregation. “I want all of you to take a sip of this wine in remembrance. If you think for a second that you’ll catch something, I can assure you that the only thing you’ll catch is God’s wrath if you don’t drink.”

  He held the cup out to Ben Holden on the first pew. The man hurried forward, took the goblet.

  “Pass it and drink!” Black said, spreading his arms wide. “Drink the living water and embrace hope.”

  Ben sipped, then passed the cup. It wound its way down the line.

  “That’s right. Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink.”

  Stanley Yordon stared at his congregation, struck by his own powerlessness to stop this incredible charade. His earlier wonder at Black’s miracles had been replaced by a firm belief that the man was nothi
ng but a bag of tricks after all.

  Who would use such obvious gimmicks to impress a crowd? Please. An apple, a serpent, a cross, an apple. A Vegas entertainer could pull that off. He wondered how much Black paid Chris to play along with the wart business.

  But watching Claude and Steve and Paula and the rest drink from the goblet, Yordon lacked conviction that he had the power to do anything other than make a fool of himself.

  Black was saying something, but Yordon wasn’t hearing. A few members let the cup pass by. But far more drank. Out of fear? Out of hope? Out of fear. Mostly fear. It had to be fear.

  “. . . have the choice to follow my way or his way.”

  Yordon froze at the last two words: his way.Unless Yordon was mistaken, Black had motioned his way when he spoke those two words. His way. But then he could have been mistaken, because he hadn’t actually seen it. Still, a cold sweat replaced the heat under his collar.

  “And believe me,” Black continued, “many of you will be tempted to go the old way. I don’t blame you really. You’ve been stuck in the same old ruts for so long, you wouldn’t know grace or hope if they both smacked you upside the head at the same time.”

  Someone chuckled in the back.

  “Well, let me tell you something, when I say grace, I am talking Grace, with a capital G, not some ambiguous theological term that preachers throw at you to impress the snot out of you. I mean GRACE. Capital G-R-A-C-E. Liberty. Freedom.”

  Black stepped out from the podium and opened his huge hands wide.

  “And when I say hope, I mean HOPE, like,‘Man, I really hope I can have that. I want that.’”He closed both hands into fists. “I have to have that.”Black’s voice swelled to a crescendo. “Hope like, ‘Get out of the way, that’s mine!’ hope!”

  Black breathed heavily. Yordon stared, at a loss, still not sure what the preacher was driving at, still wondering if the man really had meant him when he said his way.

  “Now, if any of you are looking for that kind of grace and hope, I’m bringing them to you. Grace and hope are here.” He stood perfectly still, glaring at two hundred frozen faces. “You follow me and I’ll rock your world, baby. I’ll show you how to trip. Things will never be the same again.”