Paul Brown stepped up to the pulpit. It was a warm Wednesday evening. The auditorium was filled a little more than usual due to the nature of the church business meeting that he was about to call to order. Deacons Brandon Hayes and Chuck Krankovich sat off to one side and the song leader, Mr. Davidson had just returned to his seat alongside his wife in the front row. Several people milled about, making their way to their seats as they returned from a short break following the midweek prayer service.
A lot had happened in the last twelve days since leaving Tunoa, thought Paul. The tragic murder of Pastor Williams. His own unexpected appointment as interim pastor. Arnold Narsch's attempt to force him to sell the church. Dan Logan's spectacular salvation and sudden death. Then there was the mysterious hole that had opened up in the woods behind the church. Surprisingly, it was now the source of a small stream gurgling up out of it. And now, well, now it was time to start the meeting.
"Good evening," began Paul. "If we could have every one seated, I would like to open our May business meeting." The last few stragglers sat down as he continued. "Let's bow our heads and open with a word of prayer."
After prayer, Brandon and Chuck reviewed the old business and presented the church financial report. Offerings had been generally good in April, said Chuck, though the missions fund was lagging behind a bit for the month. The only old business to deal with had to do with re-roofing the church. Most agreed that it needed some work and should be taken care of now that the weather was becoming nicer. Brandon said that he would call around and get some estimates before the final decision was made.
As the meeting moved on to new business, an air of excitement seemed to grip the congregation. Paul looked at Karen who smiled back encouragingly. Ben and Alex fidgeted nervously in their seats. Paul felt a bit nervous himself. "I believe we have some new business to discuss," he announced.
Chuck Krankovich rose from his seat and walked to the pulpit. "As we all know, a great tragedy struck our church just over a week and a half ago. Pastor John Williams was taken from us suddenly, stuck down by the act of evil men. According to our constitution and as the result of a special business meeting ten days ago, Paul Brown was appointed to serve as our interim pastor. He has also served, along with Deacon Brandon Hayes and myself, on the pulpit committee to help locate a new pastor for our church. I would like to announce that the committee has identified the man we believe God has provided to pastor this church." He paused as he stepped to the side. "Deacon Hayes, if you would please."
Brandon rose and walked over to join Chuck. "I realize that it has only been a short time since we constituted the pulpit committee. However, I believe that God has blessed our efforts and has already provided a man who is more than qualified for the job. A man who is well aquatinted with our church and well known by most of you. A man that both Deacon Krancovich and I can heartily recommend. A man that, with a little persuasion, even my nephew was willing to endorse." He paused as a few good-natured chuckles rippled over the congregation.
Paul felt a little embarrassed as he listened. He smiled and shifted his weight from foot to foot awkwardly as his uncle continued.
"The pulpit committee would like to recommend and put forward our interim pastor, Paul Brown, for approval as our new pastor. Do we have a motion to that effect?"
A beaming Bill Bartlett jumped to his feet. “I move that we accept Paul Brown as the new pastor of the Wildwood Baptist Church!”
“I second that motion!” called out Willie Sykes.
“We have a motion on the floor,” announced Brandon, “All in favor, say, øAmen’!”
“AMEN!” shouted the congregation as one.
“Any opposed?”
No one spoke.
Paul stood quietly himself as his uncle turned toward him. Karen winked at him from her seat.
“Paul, on behalf of the deacons and congregation, I’d like to be the first to extend the right hand of fellowship and welcome you as our new pastor.”
Paul reached out and grasped his uncle’s hand. A couple of cameras flashed as they shook hands and then embraced warmly. Chuck Krankovich stepped up alongside of him, congratulating his as well.
Karen rushed up to the platform with Ben and Alex. Paul hugged each of his kids briefly before hugging Karen. “Guess we’re not heading back to Tunoa anytime soon!” he laughed in her ear.
On the other side of town, Arnold Narsch straightened his tie as he paused outside his father’s office. Bracing himself for a verbal onslaught he pushed open the door and walked warily through.
His father, Simon Narsch, looked up at him coolly from behind his desk but did not say anything. Arnold stood uncomfortably while his father returned his attention to the contents of a manila folder that lay open on the desk in front of him. An ornate Black Forest cuckoo clock in the corner ticked loudly, marking off the moments of an uncomfortable silence.
“Father—“ began Arnold.
Simon’s raised his hand abruptly, cutting him off before he could say anything more. Several more uncomfortable minutes passed in agonizing silence. Even time itself
seemed to pause, waiting for the elder Narsch to speak. Arnold felt like he was a child again when his father would force him to stand before him, waiting silently for his verbal assault over the slightest infraction or failure.
Slowly, Simon closed the folder and looked up. His voice was icy and disdainful as he finally addressed his son. “You know, of course, that you have failed me once again.”
Arnold winced as if he had been physically struck. Chastising himself for allowing his father to see him react, he fought to maintain his composure.
“The shamballah opening, thanks to your ineptitude, is now permanently closed. Our family has been searching for the shamballah point for generations. The power it would have allowed us…” His voice trailed off for a moment.
Arnold shifted his bulk uncomfortably, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
The intercom on his father’s desk buzzed suddenly, interrupting them.
Simon stabbed a bony finger down on the intercom. “Yes?” he demanded impatiently.
“Sorry to disturb you, Sir,” came a slightly tinny voice, “But there are two gentleman here to see you. Sgt. Hunt from the Wildwood Police Department and Special Agent Josh McKay from the FBI.”
“That’s odd,” thought Arnold as he father said to send them in. “What would they be doing here?”
The door opened as Sgt. Hunt and Agent McKay entered the office. Simon stood up as Agent McKay walked to the desk. Arnold noted curiously that Sgt. Hunt remained near the door, behind him.
“Mr. Narsch,” said Agent McKay, holding up several folded papers, “I have an arrest warrant for your son, Arnold Narsch, and a search warrant for his offices.”
Startled, Arnold’s eyes widened abruptly at the news. “What! You can’t be serious! What do you mean, an arrest warrant? On what charges?”
McKay turned to face Arnold. “Arnold Narsch, you are under arrest for the murder of Mr. Daniel Logan, conspiracy to commit murder in the case of the Reverend John Williams, and the attempted murder of Reverend Paul Brown.”
Arnold’s face flushed as Sgt. Hunt stepped up with a pair of handcuffs. He stumbled backward, dropping his cane, as Sgt. Hunt grabbed his arm. “This can’t be happening!” he told himself.
Agent McKay picked up the walking stick and examined its bronze tip.
“No!” denied Arnold, panicking. “I had nothing to do with those deaths!”
McKay twisted the end of the walking stick and a hidden needle sprung out. A clear, yellowish liquid glistened at its tip. “Wanna bet the lab guys identify this as the same poison that killed Williams…and Logan?”
Arnold couldn’t believe what he was hearing and seeing. “I’ve never seen that!” he cried. “That can’t be mine! Somebody must have switched it!”
“Looks like one of kind to me,” observed Agent McKay, running his fingers over the highly polished mahogany shaft. Turning it over he traced the ivory inlay and examined the ornate, ebony raven’s head at the top. Tapping a finger on one of the bronze opal eyes he continued, “Nope, don’t see too many of these around.”
The cold metallic click as Sgt. Hunt snapped the handcuffs in place was like a stake in Arnold’s heart. His knees buckled under him and he slumped to the floor. His sudden deadweight nearly pulled Sgt. Hunt down as well. It all seemed like a nightmarish hallucination.
Looking up weakly, he cried out, “Father! Father! Help me!”
His father’s hollow reply gave him no comfort. “O my son Arnold, my son, my son Arnold! How could you besmirch our family like this?”
His head spinning, he allowed Sgt. Hunt to pull him to his feet and toward the door. Before they got there it opened and a strangely familiar figure walked through accompanied by a much younger man who looked to be his son.
Puzzled, Arnold looked at the two men intently as they walked by. He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not possible!” he told himself as he watched his father walk around his desk to greet the two. “He can’t be here. He died in Haiti 25 years ago!”
The man turned and smiled malevolently at Arnold. The newcomer almost seemed to relish Arnold’s confusion and despair. It was as if he knew more about recent events then would have been expected.
A sudden realization penetrated the swirling madness of disbelief engulfing Arnold, bringing focus to his thoughts. Could he have been set up? If so, how? Why?
“Arnold,” called his father with a mocking tone, “Have you no words of greeting or congratulations for your long lost brother, Simon, and his son, Colin? Simon will be replacing you as CEO here at Narsch Industries.”
Marshalling the last vestiges of strength and dignity he had left, Arnold slowly pulled himself together. Raising himself up to his full height, he looked his brother coldly in the eye. “Father always did like you best—even if he did leave you for dead in Haiti.”