Preacher Fakes a Miracle

4. Bates Bank and Trust, Rich Hill-2

Evan hesitated outside Shackleton’s office to read the authorization letter.

Addressed to Doc Wilmer? That quack? Is he in charge of everything?

Besides being the administrator of the Myerson Clinic, the good doctor was also St. Clair County’s Medical Examiner. This letter was, in effect, blanket permission to pry into the treatment and welfare of Shackleton’s beleaguered son. People always seemed to be handing Evan powers of attorney, even when he hadn’t asked for the responsibility and didn’t want it. He’d just about worked through the issues surrounding his friend Bob Taggart’s suicide. That was a heap of worry he hadn’t expected to take on. He’d been hoping for a breather and the prospect of not having to visit Sheriff Chet Otis for anything but a friendly chinwag.

And schizophrenia? No wonder Shackleton is so unhinged. He must be really stressed to come to me for help.

Shackleton’s secretary, Dot Meineke, noticed him puzzling over the document. She asked in a soft, polite voice, “Something I can help with, Preacher?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Evan said softly, hoping he didn’t sound rude, and walked out.

In the parking lot, Evan headed back to his practical, if distinctive, loaner vehicle. It was the robin’s-egg-blue Fiat Cinquecento that Zip had loaned him after Evan had traded away a battered but serviceable gray Taurus in what he thought was a win-win swap for a candy-colored, tricked-out Mustang. The owner of record had been three months behind on her payments, and after Evan’s inspired workout deal, Zip had owed her money. But Evan’s boss had honored the deal, secretly baffled at how cleverly the preacher had done the math.

I don’t know which line of work gets me into more trouble — counseling sinners or chasing deadbeats. And somehow tracking down debtors makes people think I’m a detective? Problem is, I’m just good enough at it to be dangerous — especially to myself!

And now I’m cup-bearer for Stu Shackleton? How did that irony come about?

But how do you say no when your gut tells you the angels might be trying to lead you somewhere?

Back when Zip had given him the car to use, Evan had thought twice about the deal and then hid the car away. At the time, a person or persons unknown had had it in for him, including possibly Shackleton, and driving around in an outsized Easter egg was not exactly low-profile. But now the Taggart case had been mostly put to bed (or, more accurately, parked in the courts). And Evan didn’t fear for the safety of his person anymore. So he had fetched the secreted vehicle from its cache in old Arthur Redwine’s barn. And Evan was now proud for the locals to associate its distinctive appearance with his comings and goings. He’d been tempted to name the little car Ms. Naomi, after his dear-departed fiancé. But he judged he should reserve that honored name for a classier vehicle — if he ever owned one. Driving the petrol-sipping puddle-jumper was a kind of testimony to his role as crusader — like the Batmobile — but for an unassuming man of the cloth who wouldn’t mind at all if people laughed when they saw him coming.

Forgiveness, prayers, and reminders of godliness. We deliver! Just because I get those guest preacher gigs, some people want to see me as their pastor. Sure, visiting the sick and the dying is expected of a minister. But I never took the job!

The almost-but-not-quite-ordained minister supplemented his token guest-preacher income by working as skip tracer for Zed Motors, the local Ford car and tractor dealership. His itinerant gigs in the pulpit didn’t pay all that much, but Evan could point to local fame as a confessor and sage advisor in compensation. It also didn’t hurt that, when trying to collect on a car loan, the debtor was intimidated by having to deal with a presumed messenger from On High. For the most part, people in these parts took their religion seriously, even if some didn’t practice it with any regularity.

And, for sure, none of those farmers was about to be caught dead in an Italian kiddie-car. Evan would probably have the use of the Fiat until its wheels fell off.

* * * *

Evan was hardly surprised to find Naomi sitting demurely in the passenger seat of the Italian subcompact. The fact that her soul had left this earthly plane three years ago hadn’t stopped her from appearing at odd times, doling out advice, often being downright argumentative. But Evan hated to admit most times she’d eventually been proven right.

“So, what is it now?” she asked impertinently as if she didn’t know. (As a manifestation of Evan’s longing, she knew everything he knew, but not much more.)

Evan tossed his wool coat in the back seat as he got in, slammed the driver’s-side door, loosened his collar and his tie, and started the engine. Before he replied, he cranked down the window because the day was getting hot and the cooling system in the little bug was hardly up to it.

“Shackleton’s kid, a teenager. Says he hears voices.”

Go ahead. You’re going to tell me I’m just as crazy.

Instead, she went off on Shackleton. “Well,” she mused, “all that psychosis had to come from somewhere. Don’t tell me you’re going to go and forgive the man.”

Before he put the car in gear, Evan took a moment to reflect. Then he said, “You know, if I don’t, who will?”

But to say I forgive him doesn’t mean I trust him now.

“This boy is going to be trouble,” she said flatly. “And it won’t be just him. He lives in a world of hurt.” Then before she dematerialized, she added cryptically, “You only have a day or two.”