Nothing Sacred

“My mother doesn’t give a shit what you think,” she said, her words sharp, clear. “She thinks you—and all preachers—are frauds. She doesn’t respect you or believe anything you say. Go tell her whatever you want. It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you think we’re all frauds?”

“Yeah.” She let go of her skirt. Bounced her fingertips against each other.

“Really?” David couldn’t let that tiny crack in her demeanor go unnoticed. It was the long run that mattered.

“Yeah,” she said, looking up with angry eyes that gave away far more than she probably wanted to. “All that faith stuff you talk about—the angels and the love that comes back to you, the way we can shape our own reality—is all a bunch of crap. Just pretty words that desperate people cling to, and when you say them, folks give you money.”

David fe

lt a stab of pain. Not so much for himself, but for Martha Moore. If she had any idea how much her anger with Pastor Edwards was affecting at least one of her children, she’d be devastated.

“I can take care of myself, Pastor Marks. You’re correct about one thing. I have the right to my own choices. I am in control of my own destiny. And I think you’d better stay out of it.”

She stood. Turned.

“Whoa.” David was tempted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. He settled for a sharp enough tone to stop her in her tracks.

“Before you make blanket pronouncements, you might want to listen to them well enough to understand them properly,” he told her, emulating her tone. “The choices I’m talking about are largely spiritual in nature. People don’t get to live life exactly as they decree, young lady, and that’s something you’re going to find out whether you choose to or not. We have laws in this earthly existence that every one of us must follow. We have laws in this country, this state, this town, that govern our behavior, as well. You are required to follow not only those laws, but also the directives of your parents. If you don’t, you’ll have to pay the consequences.”

She blinked. Lowered her eyes.

“In spite of what you think, I do care about the people in my church. I care about your mother and firmly believe that she’s suffered enough. So I’m going to be watching you, Shelley.”

She glanced up, her lips twisted, her eyes filled with belligerence. “Whatever,” was all she said.

“I just want you to know that whatever you were doing out there, if you want to stop, if you ever need help of any kind, at any time, my door is open to you. Anytime, Shelley, day or night, you can call or come by, and we’ll deal with things, and I’ll keep it quiet.” That was what he was sworn to do. He was protected by Priest-Penitent privilege when something was revealed to him in his capacity as a minister.

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t look away, either.

“However, eventually I’ll find out what’s going on. Whether you believe it or not, I believe in divine guidance and I trust that it will lead me to the truth. And,” he said, taking a step forward when she started to move, “if I find out on my own that you’re doing anything morally or criminally wrong, I’m not bound by my position to remain quiet. As a matter of fact, because I’m your mother’s minister and therefore her spiritual adviser, I’m bound to disclose to her whatever I discover.”

With a disrespectful shrug of one shoulder, Shelley made a dramatic exit. But not before David had seen the fear in her eyes.

The child, Martha’s little girl, was still in there.

He only hoped she got help before that child disappeared for good.

THE OLD MOTEL DIDN’T look as if it had ever been all that much, even in its heyday. It was a long, unimaginative, stucco-sided building with a tiled roof and identical doors stationed at equal distances along its length. There were no sills or shutters to relieve the stark look of the windows, no overhang to give the concrete stoop even a hint of being a porch. Now that long building was faded and cracked, the stucco chipped in places. The roof was pockmarked with patches of raw wood where tiles had fallen and never been replaced. Those identical wooden doors were cracked and peeling, and a couple of the windows had towels hanging instead of curtains.

By the middle of March, Martha knew every inch of the exterior of that building by heart. The week before, Becca had organized an unofficial round-the-clock surveillance of the building in an attempt to give the town a chance to take action against this terrible thing that had happened. Of course, the idea was to give much-needed assistance to Greg and his limited staff. He’d finally agreed, and it had taken only a few hours of phone calls to fill every time slot with two-person teams. Martha knew her stakeout partner far better than she would have liked.

Pastor David Marks was, if nothing else, an interesting man.

“So, you were friends with this guy, fished with him, golfed with him, trusted him with your personal investments—”

“Which he managed well enough to make a profit for me,” David interjected from his relaxed position behind the wheel of his Explorer. Unlike him, Martha had opted not to use the recline feature on her seat.

There was something more intimate about that than she wanted to experience.

“You were friends with his wife, ate with them often, mourned with them when she miscarried their child, hired her to work at the church….”

“Is there some reason you’re repeating the whole thing back to me?” His voice was bored.

“And then,” she continued, ignoring him, “without even coming to you, a preacher, about his troubles, he pulls out a gun and shoots his wife. You testify against him and spend the next seven years—until the day he dies—visiting him in jail.”

She’d been asking David questions to pass the time while they watched the building for any sign of another visitor to unit 14, where Ellen’s horrific experience had taken place.