Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) (25 page)

My hand stopped nanoseconds from perforating his face and I said, “Are you stalking me?” My hand dropped to my side. “You tracked me down here? I thought your ankle was damaged, and I know your driver’s license has been revoked. What did you do with Albert Miller?”

“He thinks I’m at the meeting at the senior center. Those old people are always yammering about something. I went out the back door.”

“The local press, a journalist, is inside, Bob.” Why did I care? Was I protecting him? Was I totally nuts? Wasn’t this contributing to his sins? Wasn’t it time I stopped second-guessing myself and gave a lot more thought to the man who was attempting to remove the keys from my fingers? I pulled my hand out of his reach; he tried to grab them back. There was no wrestling because I would have won, but the death grip on my hand had hurt.

I squeaked, “What do you want?” Maybe if I hadn’t seen him at the casino, totaled the IOUs in his office, or gotten an earful of his pseudo self-righteousness, I would have been a little more understanding. Alas, I was not.

“Let’s talk in your car. Drive someplace quiet and private. We must talk alone. I’m your senior pastor, remember? This is an order.”

Thank you, I do have a brain inside this head, and the man gave me the willies. “No, Bob. We won’t just drive someplace quiet. We can talk here.”

“Have it your way, Youth Pastor Angieski. Which is your title for now,” he ground out the words, waiting for me to unlock the passenger side.

I did, then rolled down the windows, although there was not a breath of breeze. “What do you want to say?”

“Earlier today. The casino where you walked in on me. It was just a friendly game, a diversion from the stress of my job. Nothing more.”

“There were lots of chips on that table, Bob. I don’t know much about gambling, mind you, but chips are money. Right?” Where was this going? What could I do to counsel him? My addictions tended toward chocolate, spas, and expensive hairdressers. I could afford two out of three, and I often dreamed of spas.

Now it was officially dark in the parking lot, yet I could feel him looking at me. I tried my death stare, but his buggy eyes were locked on mine.

“How could you, a woman, understand what it’s like to be a man of responsibility?” His body started to straighten as if a sermon was forming and his jaw worked up like he was chewing a wad of bubble gum. Then he said, “I was there doing God’s work.” He snapped his fingers. “Yes, God’s work is mysterious and hallelujah.”

I guffawed, which included snorting, a la Sandra Bullock in
Miss Congeniality
. “That’s rich, Bob. Give me a break.”

“I am not surprised that this is beyond your limited feminine thinking. I was there, like Jesus who went to talk with the sinners, the ladies of the night, the tax collectors. Do you see that? Don’t you know my job, um,
our
job is to be with sinners and not saints?” His voice boomed as if from a pulpit before an admiring audience of thousands.

“Bob, cut the malarkey.”

“Pastor Jane, Pastor Jane, Pastor Jane,” came the voice, with a singsong quality. “There are sinners everywhere, the fields are ripe. The sinners all need our Lord Jesus Christ. Just say ‘hallelujah’ to that, woman, say it with me.” He was waving his arms. He turned.

I wasn’t hallelujah-ing a nut job and watched his arms fall to his lap.

Even in the twilight, Bob’s eyes were spooky, best seen in a Stephen King movie and not in my SUV in a deserted parking lot. My mouth could have used an order to shut up, but it didn’t. “You weren’t in that poker game to save souls. You were there — ”

“I wasn’t going to bring it up to them until the game was over,” he snapped. “Wanted to show ’em that the Lord can work wonders with money, winning at poker if they’ll just believe.”

“But you were losing.”

“Never, you’re looking at a winner. I am a winner, woman. Frankly, women cannot understand such matters.” His chest puffed out, but the eyes blinked like he was off his meds or on a sugar buzz.

I tried to remember I was attempting to communicate with a sociopath but couldn’t stop trying to use logic. “Bob, if you’re gambling as much as you do, you’re a loser in life. Besides — ”

“Hold it right there, Miss Virgin Purity, you are so wrong. And you call yourself a pastor. How dare you preach to me? Look at you, a woman who cannot even hold on to her own church. You travel around the country as an itinerant minister, hoping some poor schmuck of a preacher will die, and you’ll sneak in and fill a real man’s shoes. You’re the loser, big time, no doubt. Even the District Council knows it. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Why in the world do you think you were sent here? It was so you could learn how to preach from a real man. From me.”

Perhaps there was truth coming from the mouth of a maniac, but I’d had enough. “Get out of the car, Bob.” My hand was on my cell phone. “Get out of the car right now or calm down. I will not have you insult me as you’ve been doing.”

“I’m not a loser,” he said. His voice had switched to that of a recalcitrant child.

“What of those promissory notes in your office, in the credenza? You’ve lost nearly a half million dollars. Whose money is it?” Accusing him was not part of any plan. It jumped out when I wasn’t thinking.

“How dare you pilfer through my desk? Have you no shame?” He opened the door but didn’t budge. “I’ll report you to the District Council. I’ll do it tonight.” He pulled his phone from his belt.

“Please. Call now, if you’d like. I’ll chat with them, too.” Maybe I should play poker, because he seemed to believe me, as he didn’t touch the phone.

“Everything is legitimate with our financial statements at the church. You’re not going to get dramatic now, are you? I can do without all that whining and whimpering.”

“Have you heard me raise my voice? Have you seen me become hysterical?” I do, but hadn’t yet in his presence, which was a miracle in my book.

He cleared his voice, and an arm went up as if he were in back of the pulpit. The booming voice was there again. “I’ve been a minister for twenty-two years, twenty-two good years, I say. I’ve been an excellent steward of our church money, including our building fund.”

“I didn’t say anything about the building fund, Bob. Is that where the money is coming from?”

“Money that is left in the bank earns squat, but this has nothing to do with you or your frilly goody-goody female notions.”

“Who else knows?”

“Forget this conversation, darn it all, if you know what’s good for you. You will forget it.” He inhaled the words. Then suddenly the anger turned 180 degrees, and he was sobbing.

I let him blubber. “When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.” Trust me, at that second I would have rather jumped on a scale with my weight digitally displayed on a scoreboard as big as a football field in a stadium filled with supermodels then talk to Bob.

We sat in the darkened lot for too long. I listened to my breathing and then Bob’s. Finally he spoke. “You know, I could stop you from ever telling anyone we had this conversation.” He looked straight ahead. “I could. I’m strong, you know.” His voice was once again filled with pouting sounds, whiney, craziness that now sounded frighteningly rational. “Here’s the plan. We’ll drive out to that truck stop in Barstow, but you won’t ever get that far because I’ll dump you out. I’ll wipe my prints from the car — yeah, I do watch crime shows — and tell everyone how you confided that you were going off with some truckers for a good ol’ time.

“I’ll just leave your car there and hitchhike back here to Vegas. Hitch a ride with someone who doesn’t know me. I’ve already had questions about your abilities from the congregation. No one will really be shocked, especially after I put your name on the prayer chain saying you need spiritual counseling. There have been numerous complaints about your style of dress. You don’t look like a minister, madam. It’s rumored you’re living in sin. Why, even Delta asked about your sexual orientation. I’ll tell them you were having one-night stands with truckers. You just went off with one. That’s it.”

He was talking about doing away with me like I might wonder if I should supersize my Taco Bell order. I couldn’t speak; it felt as if I were in a bad dream or reading an Anne Rice chiller starring yours truly.

He turned and stared at me. “Worst case? The District Council wouldn’t argue that you’re unpredictable to put it kindly since we’ve all seen your permanent record with its scores of infractions and complaints. As for the money, if they ever find it, well, I didn’t get a degree in accounting to mess up something this little. But now, Pastor Jane, it’s all messed up. Because of you.” His voice went from a whisper to a shout that rocked the car.

The man was certifiable and to quote him, “that was putting it kindly.” Me? I was in deep water with no life preserver in sight. “Get out of my car or I’m screaming bloody murder.” Just then the life preservers came into sight as I looked in the rearview mirror. I turned and pointed, and he followed the point. “Get out now, Bob. See those little ladies in back of the car?” I’d never in my life been so tickled to see the buscias. In full force. I waved with both arms out the car window. I shouted, “Yoo-woo.” It saved my bacon.

Bob’s faced changed to look like a frozen pizza, blotchy and brittle as I opened the car door. “Buscias? Over here. I’ve changed my mind. I want to meet your handsome young men, men who need wives.” I looked back at Bob and sneered. “You’d best vamoose. These ladies won’t leave me alone for quite some time.”

The gaggle of buscias swarmed closer, the intensity of the chatter directly attributed to the amount they’d consumed of the three C’s: cookies, cakes and coffee. They were in rare form for matchmaking, and I was in their crosshairs.

Bob winced, swore, and opened the car door. He put a foot on the pavement and turned to me. “You win, Jane. I will be praying for you that you forget this entire conversation. I will pray for you, but remember, I have the power of the District Council right here.” He put out his hand, palm side up, and ground his thumb into the spot where a heart line might have been. “Yes, I’m leaving but, madam, watch what you say. I’ll be watching you. Never doubt, I can and will make your measly little life even more revolting than it is. And do it any time I choose to.”

With that, he left, crouching so the women didn’t see him leave as the buscias descended on me. I knew I’d be trapped with their version of
The Bachelorette in Vegas
as they mentally had me marrying Smiley, Dopey, Mopey, Donder, or Blitzen, or whatever my prospective grooms were named. Bob was gone, and I was about to hug the breath out of the ladies for saving me from my untimely demise at the hands of Pastor Bob Normal. I’m not enough of a Pollyanna to ignore that Bob wasn’t down for the count, but a girl can catch her breath between rounds. That was all I needed.

• • •

The next morning at VBS, not one child ate crayons. No one puked or had a little accident. We didn’t even need to call the paramedics. I was in the kitchen helping to organize lunch bags to take to the mission when Tom called. I ignored his message.

Later a courier delivered the adoption papers from PSA, which I would fill out that afternoon, then drop off. The PSA had to be stopped before another kid like Mikel was dumped on the street to die. How would my filling out the papers help? Call me clueless. It seemed in this spot any action was good.

I purposely avoided getting near Bob’s office but met Vera in the kitchen, where she was sipping coffee. “Pastor’s ticked today and stormed out with some kinda’ business on the Strip,” she shrugged.

Poker tables on the Strip was closer to the truth, but I kept my trap shut, and thank you, I can do that once in a while. If I could get proof that he’d threatened to murder me, he’d be dealing poker in the slammer. Honestly, who would believe me, a new minister with a criminal record, against a pillar of the religious community?

The day was hot and dry and it dragged. With the adoption forms completed, I drove to the PSA offices to find the doors locked. Had the police arrested the scoundrels?

This good and happy thought crumbled as Delta’s cream-colored Mercedes pulled into lot. She trotted the short way toward me. “Well, Jane, so good to see you,” she purred, smoothing her hands over the hips of a pearl-colored linen suit, teetering up the sidewalk in pink stilettos. “Did we have an appointment, Pastor Jane? Not a problem, unless it matters to you.” She giggled and jingled her bracelets. “Oh, what a week. One benefit event after another. PSA is in heaven’s hands with all the publicity we’ve been getting.”

“I could have a few minutes?” I asked, still marveling at her balance in those shoes.

“I really wanted to spend time alone with you, um, telling you about how we’re bringing so many dads and moms together with babies. From the money that’s pouring in day after blessed day, why, we can help more babies.” She kept fumbling for something in her hot pink, snakeskin-motif leather bag the size of Rhode Island. “Oh, you know the money isn’t the reason why we are doing this. Of course, you do, since you know Bob. You are so lucky to be working closely with him.” She sighed. “Although he’s not really my type.”

I swear there was longing in her eyes, and I knew what type she preferred. After last evening, I also knew Bob too well for what he was: a maniac. When I finally got to bed, I’d tossed plenty, thinking of what could have happened if. Thanks to the buscias, it never came to “if.”

Still fishing in the bag, she said, “Now, don’t get me wrong, the babies and their adoptive parents are the stars of this. Did you see me on KTNV this morning? I had a half-hour interview, little old me, on the news. It was fantastic.” Bracelets banged and bobbled as she dug more deeply into her purse. “Where are those naughty little office keys.?”

“Delta, could we talk about the children?” It was now or never. “I have concerns regarding the handicapped kids.”

The fumbling stopped and then started again as her pancake makeup seemed to get brittle. “All of our children are guaranteed to be perfect, flawless, right as rain. Unblemished in every way.”

We stood at the locked door. She fumbling. Me waiting. Even though we were in the shade, the heat had melted her multi-layered foundation, and midnight blue eye shadow was crinkled at her crow’s feet. The mascara looked like she was becoming a raccoon, and her blush now matched the color of her purse.