Preacher Fakes a Miracle

4. Bates Bank and Trust, Rich Hill-1

Bates Bank and Trust, Rich Hill

Friday Morning

The man who had recently wanted Evan dead now sat across the desk from him. Stuart Shackleton, chairman of the bank, top wiz of the local Masonic lodge, and visionary land developer, had at one time simply judged the preacher’s existence inconvenient. Just four months ago, Evan had the temerity to investigate — even after Sheriff Otis had closed the case — why his friend Bob Taggart had put a g*n to his chest and blown a hole in his generous heart.

And then, of course, there was the small matter that Shackleton coveted Bob’s family farmland for reasons it would take a real estate speculator to understand.

The question was, “Who benefits?” And the answer was Bob’s widow Edie and her lover, this slick money man. They had plans for the family farm that didn’t involve its current tenants. But in the end, Evan had to admit no one else but Bob had pulled the trigger.

Driving someone to suicide might not be a crime, but it’s certainly a sin.

Now Shackleton was making nice — or pretending to.

The summer heat had come early, and it was a steamy June in the farmland around Rich Hill, Missouri. But Shackleton’s climate-controlled office was as cool as the fellow’s demeanor. Not knowing the subject of their meeting nor its degree of formality, Evan had worn his only sport coat, a decidedly uncomfortable wool tweed. Shackleton had on what must have been one of his many Italian silk suits, no doubt from a walk-in closet as big as the trailer Evan called home.

“You’re wondering why I asked you here today,” Shackleton began. Evan had expected the man to pour on the charm, but his earnest sobriety seemed oddly out of character.

His topic, whatever it is, has humbled him. If it’s about Bob’s estate, it’s early to be talking. The probate court doesn’t even have it on the docket yet.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to pray with you” was all Evan said, assuming the banker would take it as a kindly attempt at humor.

“You might be wrong there,” Shackleton muttered, needlessly adjusting the position of the single sheet of paper on his enormous, glossy desk. Evan couldn’t help noticing a simple gold wedding band on one of the fellow’s manicured hands, a hefty Masonic ring on the other.

“I’m sorry,” Evan said, supposing he’d misjudged the situation. “It’s your wife, then? Do you want me to see her?”

Shackleton shook his head. “Ann’s the same — yesterday, today, and tomorrow. They don’t know s**t about dementia and even less about sustaining quality of life.” His gaze locked on the document as he frowned into it as if staring at it might cause some hidden message to emerge. “No,” he swallowed hard, and he didn’t look up. “It’s my son.”

Fearing he’d been slouching disrespectfully, Evan straightened himself in the chintz-upholstered guest chair. “I didn’t realize you had —”

“Luke’s been in a… special school… for some time now.” Shackleton looked uncharacteristically embarrassed as he added softly, “Not a lot of people know.”

“Oh my,” Evan said. “Your wife, your son. That’s a heavy cross to bear.”

“Thanks for your sympathy, Reverend, but I’m not religious enough to think in those terms. Bad things happen to good people and vice versa for no good reason. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure where I stand these days.”

I’m not ordained, but perhaps now is not the time to correct him on that point.

“So, is there some new concern with your son?”

“Luke. His name is Luke.” Again, the man didn’t look up. “I’d like you to go see him, if you would.”

Evan swallowed hard and simply said, “Sure. Whatever I can do. Anything I should know?”

Shackleton stood and then so did Evan. The banker handed him the paper, which was a formal authorization for his visit to Myerson Clinic. Then Shackleton said, “He’s a sweet, sensitive boy. When he was six and he was in public school, he’d get all jumpy in class, and they said ADHD. A few years later, he was moody, and it was bipolar disorder. Now it’s supposedly schizophrenia. He says he hears voices.”

“I see,” Evan said, although he could only guess at the implications, and took the paper.

“And,” Shackleton heaved a mournful sigh, “They’re saying he’s molested some girl.”