He’d obliged.
And things had heated up, with this young, perfect woman willing to do things in the bedroom that Lorraine considered “vile” and “animal.” Even now, when he remembered mounting Peri from behind, her smooth rump pressing hard into his abdomen, those glorious breasts hanging into his willing hands, his teeth and lips pressing hard into the back of her neck, just to nip, mind you ... oh, dear Lord. It had been ecstasy, sinful, joyous ecstasy. And when Peri’s luscious warm mouth and tongue had worked her magic on him ... he’d been transported to an erotic state of pure heaven ...
“Preacher Mullins? Did you hear the question?” the cop asked, and he jerked back to the present, grateful for the desk that separated them so that she couldn’t witness the bulge at his crotch. What had he been thinking, letting his mind wander so. “Do you know Brenda Sutherland’s ex?”
“No ... uh, I knew she was divorced, of course,” he added, trying to appear concerned, “that there were some ... issues ... because of their sons, but, no, Ray Sutherland isn’t a member of the church and I’ve never even seen him.”
She asked a few more questions, nothing all that worrisome, at least concerning him, but he wondered if she’d be back. No doubt she’d start digging into his past and then his little indiscretion would come to light.
He couldn’t imagine Lorraine standing at his side again, holding his hand, lifting her tiny chin proudly in a show of solidarity and support for her unfaithful fallen husband once more.
Dear Father, why now? When things were going so well? She would leave him if all the old demons were brought to light; he knew it. He’d be further disgraced and now she was with child again, possibly the son he’d been praying for. His daughters were a joy, oh, yes, three delightful girls, eight, six and four, all with near-white hair and pale blue eyes. But this time, he was so hoping for a boy. A big, loud, strapping son who looked less ghostlike than the girls, who were carbon copies of their mother.
Lorraine was a good woman, but it would help him if she could ever just come close to having an orgasm. If so, then she might understand that all the carnal pleasures of the flesh, at least between a man and his wife, were not repulsive.
He walked to the window and stared through the frosty panes to the crèche decorating the side yard of the church. Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, all cloaked in a new mantle of snow, the angled floodlight showing off the backdrop of the stable.
Preacher Mullins had thought being banished to this godforsaken tundra had been the worst punishment possible after his problems in Arizona, but now, if what had happened in Tucson was discovered by the police and the press, he might be sent somewhere else. Just when his flock was coming together and his wife finally, at least on the surface, seemed to have forgiven him.
He bowed his head. “Father, be with me. Give me strength. Let me never fall into temptation again. Please, Father of all, lead me. Give me strength. I pray for this and all things in Jesus’s name. Amen.” Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, he hoped for divine intervention.
Today, it didn’t reach him.
The music took him away.
Soft. Melodic. Instrumental versions of traditional Christmas carols and those classical pieces associated with Christmas. Nothing frothy, light or the least bit irreverent today. He needed to feel the piety resounding in the notes that filled this cavern and resounded in his heart.
Thankfully, his new subject had quieted down. He couldn’t afford the distraction of her moans. She was past pleading with him now, nearly succumbing to her fate, so he was able to concentrate.
As he slathered the woman in water, watching in fascination as ice formed over her naked body, he felt that supreme satisfaction that comes with a job well done. She was in the perfect position, her legs bent so that she appeared to be kneeling, her head bowed, her hands folded in prayer. That had been tricky.
Moving unwilling body parts into precise position took strength, patience and a practiced eye. He’d been careful to nudge toes, fingers and vertebrae into the correct position. Now, as the water sluiced over the body, firming up, he glanced to the desk he’d fashioned out of a crude workbench, and lining it, pinned to the corkboard he’d installed, were dozens of photographs of kneeling women. He’d enlarged five diagrams that showed a praying body from different angles and was able with the freezing temperatures to ensure that his creation was in the exact position he needed.
Oh, yes.
As he surveyed her, he grinned. Her expression was perfect, serene and pensive, absolutely pious, nearly enraptured. Yes ... oh, she was ready, though there were hours of work to be done, layers of ice to enwrap her, painstaking sculpting to finish the job, but when he was done, she would be a masterpiece and so different from his first.
Of course he was talented, to deny it would be obscene, but his gift was not only special but vast. Though his work would bear his signature, no two statues would be alike. He took the time to marvel at his first piece, so near completion. It was a bit whimsical, the frozen woman, who’d been lying down as he’d molded the ice around her, now standing, her arms raised, her hands curved toward the coved ceiling of this cave. Her expression was joyous, a wide grin visible through the ice, her eyes open wide.
She was ready for display.
He felt a little sizzle of excitement at the prospect. He knew just where to place her.
With his first sculpture, he’d gone for the frivolous, happy aspect of the holidays and she’d turned out perfectly. But he couldn’t sit on his laurels, oh, no. Never. His time was limited to the frigid days of winter so he couldn’t slack off.
And he had to show his diversity. Of course. So while Number One was light spirited, with this newest piece, Number Two for lack of a better name right now, he’d taken a more serious approach, trying to create a sense of reverence. Of piety. Of pure devotion.
He doubted anyone would understand his need for perfection, the subtleties involved, but as long as he knew the depths of his dedication and talent, then the rest wasn’t important.
Humming along to the notes of the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” he felt inspiration well deep in his soul as he worked with excruciating precision. He only had a few hours, so he couldn’t afford any mistakes.
He smiled at that ridiculous worry.
He didn’t make mistakes.
Of course he didn’t.
That was just one of the things he and God had in common.