Missing Witness (50 page)

Then, Bible in his hand, Joppa stepped away from the pulpit.

“And the letter we find in the mailbox today is Jonah chapter 1, verse 3.”

The congregation, hands in their laps, just stared.

Jonathan read verse three.

“But Jonah ran away from the Lord…”

Then Jonathan said it again.

He repeated the verse a third time.

He reminded the blank, unmoved faces in the sanctuary how God had commanded Jonah to preach to the great, dreaded, pagan metropolis of Nineveh.

But Jonah would not.

So he ran away instead. To a port city. He paid the fare and boarded a sailing vessel, thinking to escape from the burden of God's command.

But God was there in the port city. Watching. And waiting.

Then Jonah buried himself in the hold of the ship as it slowly left the harbor waters; as wives and loved ones waved goodbye to the captain and
his crew. As the vessel departed the safety of the shoreline, bound for faraway ports.

But God was there, Joppa told them, down in the hold of the ship. Watching. And waiting.

And a mighty, frightening wind rose up. So powerful that it rolled the ship, and rocked it violently, and crashed cold, raging waves as tall as buildings down over its deck, and shook the mainsail like a branch on a tree. And the sailors—tough, mean, and courageous though they were, were dumbstruck with fear.

But God was there, amid the storm, and the waves, and the wind.

And Joppa explained, his voice ringing like a bell, how Jonah confessed his sin to the crew—that his disobedience was the cause of the storm—and pleaded with them to throw him into the ocean.

And when all other measures had failed and the ship was about to sink, they tossed Jonah into the roiling, rolling chaos of the sea.

And the storm was stilled.

But Jonah went down, deep down. Sinking into the dark of the ocean depths, seaweed wrapping around him like a green funeral garment.

Joppa lowered his voice to soothe, like the lullaby of a mother.

“And God was in the midst of the sea with Jonah. Yes, He was there too. And He appointed a mammoth fish to swallow Jonah up. To save him. To protect him. And from inside the confines of that huge fish, its belly stinking with half-digested fish and ocean water, Jonah sang out a prayer, a song of praise. And he sang it to God.”

Then Joppa closed his Bible. He walked away from the pulpit into the full view of the congregation.

“This verse, and this message from God's Word, has at least two things to tell us today. All of us. Both me and you. And if you miss this, you may miss your eternal destiny. It's that important.”

There was a hush.

“First. There is no running from God. People try to run for a variety of reasons. Out of pain, perhaps, or guilt. Or fear. So we run. What do we use as the means to try to escape God's voice? Drugs. Relationships. Careers. Money. Sex. Recreation. Possessions. Maybe even a position of authority, pridefully pursued, in the church itself. Anything to try to drown out the quiet little voice—the polite knock on the door—the reminder that we have necessary business to take up with the great God of the universe. So we run. But never successfully. Always, and ultimately, destructively. But He is still
there. Always there. Saying, through His Son, ‘Come to me, all of you who are heavy-laden. And I will give you rest.'”

Jonathan paused. He heard no movement within the sanctuary.

“And here's the second thing,” he continued. “There are runners from God right here in this place today. I was one of them. And so are some of you. Maybe most of you. Perhaps every one of you. Is it going to take some huge tragic event that swallows you up and spits you out onto dry land before you stop running—and begin walking back to the Lord?”

Jonathan knew what he had to do.

“Everyone close their eyes.”

A few members of the congregation looked at each other suspiciously but then complied.

“With head bowed, I want to ask you a question. If there is a runner from God who wants to stop running, who wants to come to the Good Shepherd of their soul for forgiveness, and restoration, and salvation—if there is someone out there like that, then tell God. Tell Him by raising your hand.”

A pause. An uncomfortable silence. There were no hands raised in the auditorium. Just members of the Safe Harbor Community Church squirming in their pews—whose only prayer now was that this embarrassing situation would end, and end quickly.

Jonathan surveyed the sea of bowed heads. Unmoving and unyielding.

There was a momentary flush of despair, of utter failure, that coursed through him. But he was not going to give into it. He had spoken the message, come what may.

And having done that, he reassured himself that it was enough.

He gave a somewhat clumsy benediction and closed the service.

The occupants of the third row quickly emptied the pew and, to a person, moved quickly up to the front of the church, where Reverend Jonathan Joppa was still standing.

Almost all of the other members of the congregation remained in the sanctuary, milling about.

“Reverend Joppa,” Minnie Metalsmith declared, “it really is too bad it had to come to this. But it's not as if you weren't warned. Wes, give him the notice.”

Her husband mumbled something, produced a single sheet of paper, and handed it to Joppa.

“Tell him what's in the notice, Wes,” Minnie said sharply.

But before Wes Metalsmith could speak, Jonathan took the paper and began reading it.

“Don't bother, Wes,” he said. “I have a pretty good idea what this is about.”

He read the formal notification from the church board advising him that, in their regular meeting to be conducted momentarily, they would be seeking a vote of the congregation to remove him as pastor of Safe Harbor Community Church.

The charges were nebulous.
Causing disharmony in the church. Failing to meet the needs of the congregation. Neglect of duties.

“You have a right to be heard,” one of the board members said.

“Sure I do. But I won't be staying for this meeting. My life here…my ministry among you, that is my defense. If that doesn't satisfy you, I'm not sure any speech I could make would.”

With that, Jonathan Joppa excused himself and walked through the muttering congregants.

He would make his way to the pastor's study and then to an adjoining room, where Hank was sleeping in his dog bed.

Then he and Hank would take a long walk together and try to sort things out.

71

A
T LONG LAST
W
ILL GOT A CALL
from Glen Watson at the repair shop, indicating that his beloved Corvette was repaired. It was late Monday afternoon, and Will had just finished spending a day visiting with Fiona at the hospital, proudly holding their beautiful baby boy. Fiona was scheduled to be discharged the next day.

Will dropped off his rental car and called for a cab to take him to Glen Watson's shop.

The nor'easter that had blown in on Sunday was slowly beginning to wane. There were only mild gusts and fine mist. The driving rain and howling winds had gone.

As the taxi driver smiled and took Will's fare, she remarked, “Weatherman says it's finally going to start drying up. We're finally going to get some clear weather.”

Will smiled. As he stepped out of the taxi, in one corner of the drab sky a ray of sunshine was breaking through.

He spotted his Corvette in a corner of the lot. It looked like Glen had washed and polished it after finishing the repairs.

Will strode into the office to settle up the bill. Glen Watson was sitting behind his cluttered metal desk.

“Sorry it took a little longer than I expected,” he said, “But I consider your car a work of art…I wanted to make sure I did it right.”

“I appreciate that,” Will replied, “and thanks for babying my baby. And speaking of babies…my wife just had a baby boy! His name is Andrew.”

Glen rose to congratulate him and shook his hand vigorously.

Then Watson glanced around the office as if he had a secret to share.

“Yeah, and congratulations on winning Reverend Joppa's case. I heard about that. Read it in the newspaper.”

“Thanks.” Will eyed Watson. The auto mechanic obviously had something on his mind. Some thought he was struggling with.

“I heard that Blackjack Morgan was in the courtroom every day of the trial,” Watson was carefully studying Will's reaction.

“That's right. We found out he had an interest—a legal interest in the outcome.”

“An interest in Stony Island?”

“That's right. Why do you ask?”

Glen Watson grabbed a grease rag and wiped his fingers, then reached into his right-hand pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper.

He opened it up. Then he looked Will in the eye.

“I always had a feeling about Morgan—you know, after Boggs Beckford had that car accident. I looked at the steering components of his car. And to me, it looked like it had been tampered with. I mean, a pinch bolt in the rack and pinion just doesn't fall out like that. Somebody loosened it. And then Morgan kept coming, asking me about what I found. And what I told the sheriff's department. And that kind of stuff.”

There was a pause. Will gave Watson a questioning look.

“The point is,” he continued, “Morgan brought his truck in to me…he comes here regularly to get it serviced. And there was a little fender bender in my parking lot. I had to climb into the truck and drive it into one of the bays. So I look down on the seat. And there is this black velvet bag. Kind of strange-looking. I suppose I should have minded my own business…but knowing Morgan the way I do, I get curious. So I look inside. There is this piece of shell. And I'm thinking…why in the world would Morgan be keeping this piece of seashell next to him in his truck? So I flip it over and there's some writing on it. It looks like…like ink. Something that penetrates deep into a shell. It's a little faded but I can still see it. So I write down what I see. And here it is.”

Watson presented a small scrap of paper to Will.

He stared at the markings Watson had made—

    
ET    Oct?    Nov? 11th  1717.

“
I thought this might be important,” Watson said, “especially when I heard the rumors flying around town. You know…Carlton Robideau…one of Blackjack Morgan's divers…spreading rumors around town that they had discovered some kind of treasure on Stony Island. I thought you were the right person to tell. I wasn't too sure about what month was written on that shell, though…”

“Can I keep this?” Will asked, pointing to the note.

Watson nodded and walked him out to his Corvette.

Will waved goodbye, drove a few blocks away, and then pulled onto a side street that led down to the ocean. He parked near a pier, where he could hear the searching, roaring tide.

Will stared at the inscription jotted down by Watson.

At first it made absolutely no sense.

He took the paper, took his shoes and socks off, and headed across the sand dunes to the beach.

The storms had driven most of the tourists away from the beach. There were only a few walkers and children digging for shells. Will walked along the firm, wet sand, staring at the inscription on the piece of paper—for a good half hour as it slowly grew dark. As he headed back to his car, he wondered,
What do these hieroglyphics mean? Anything? Nothing? No, they must mean something
.

E–T. That could stand for Edward Teach. But then, does it refer to something else?

But then there was the date of 1717, with the month of October or November before it. It would be no mere coincidence if the initials of Edward Teach were also inscribed on a seashell. The date corresponded with the zenith of Teach's power and exploits.