Chasing Mercy

Chapter 2

I felt grateful to my father until the next day.

"I have to drive that?" I pointed, disdain levied at the large, 1957 powder blue (technically "Larkspur blue," my father reminded me) Chevy. The whitewalls gleamed with a recent cleaning.

"She'll get ya wherever ya need to get, she will," he insisted. "I got to mow for Marvin today, and Mrs. Creeley asked me to trim her shrubs tomorrow, so I need the truck for a few days." Despite retiring as a plumber, my father worked on the side doing odd jobs, often including yard work.

I wore sling back heels, a bit-too-short-for-church skirt and my favorite dark blue sleeveless blouse. Deciding to visit Children of the Harvest Tabernacle had been a last minute decision, but when the background checks on the pastor revealed little, I decided some in-person recognizance was needed. Perhaps I just felt guilty for taking so much money for so little result. Nonetheless, I hadn't planned on having to get there in a tank.

My father tossed me the keys, and they soared past my outstretched hands. Retrieving them from the ground, I rounded the vehicle, ignoring my father's chuckle as I jammed the key in the ignition. The Chevy lurched to life, stuttering like a poorly oiled tractor. With a final glare at my father, I depressed the accelerator and release the car into its slow exit from the driveway.

Not being able to drive over 35 mph ensured that I was late to the service. It also gave me time to organize my thoughts. Pastor Hugh Gardener lived a clean life, with the exception of his driving record. He'd received eight speeding tickets in the last four years, though he'd managed to evade losing his license. Before that, nothing existed on his record. Which irked me. How'd he manage to avoid speeding tickets so thoroughly prior to four years ago? I'd done a national database search, checking public records and found nothing. According to the online biography courtesy of the church's website, he hailed from Boston, so I'd call their records office on Monday to ensure that I hadn't missed anything. But unless cops in Boston ignored speeding pastors... But then, neither could I find any references to Hugh Gardener ever having a driver's license in the state of Massachusetts. Not impossible, but hard to believe the man had only been driving for four years.

While there was no crime in not having a sordid past, it didn't make a whole lot of sense, and I had to hand it to Sarah Lynn, she'd gotten my curiosity fully engaged. I figured it couldn't hurt to meet the guy, get a feel for his energy, and my own gut response to him.

The massive church sat on the corner of two main roads, and I stared up at the huge glass doors that ensconced the lobby. They knew how to build an impressive building, I considered as I crossed the parking lot. A few spaces were marked off for the staff, two of them marked "office staff," while three were marked for pastors. A gorgeous, low-slung BMW convertible occupied the “Senior Pastor” spot, its shimmering silver hide winking in the sunlight. Shepherding the flock must pay more than I realized, I pondered as the doors swung open gently under my hand, my feet treading without a noise on thick, ruddy carpeting. The paint smelled fresh, and the dark wood furnishings spared no expense. A greeter met me at the doors, pressing a bulletin into my hands and guiding me wordlessly to the sanctuary doors. With expert precision, the old man pointed me towards an empty seat at the end of a pew, and I thanked him with a nod. I slid in beside a woman with curly hair and a perpetual smile.  

The group of musicians who looked better suited to tax accounting, played soft ministrations behind a thin, reedy man with dirty blond hair who was praying into a mic resting against his cheek. 

"Dear God, we beseech you to have mercy on us, to forgive us our trespasses. It's been a hard week for some of us..."

While he droned on, I glanced around. Sarah Lynn sat near the front, her blonde curls gathered on top of her head, her arm around the back of an older man I supposed was her father. A fair-sized crowd filled the rows, about 200 or so people I estimated, with more in the balconies. Elegant, stark chandeliers edged the ceiling, and the interior had a surprisingly modern aesthetic. While I hadn't spent much time in a church since my junior high years -- about the time when my mother gave up instilling the fear of God in me and instead relied on my fear of my father -- I figured this had to be a recent and fairly pricey remodeling job.