From the muffled cheering, I was sure that Cashdollar had been announced, and had probably taken the stage. I looked behind the furniture, still not sure what I was looking for. A three-tiered bookshelf was set into the rear wall, and I glanced at several of the titles. Most of them were what I would consider religious works. The Record of Christian Work, Pauclass="underline" A Work In Progress, Institution of the Christian Religion, and others.
I scanned the three shelves and turned to the outer room. I can’t say what caused me to look back at the shelves, but there, on the top shelf, was a gold book. A Bible. I slowly walked back and, stretching, I reached as high as I could and pulled down the large volume. It felt surprisingly light in my hand. The roar of the congregation grabbed my attention.
“Daron.”
“Skipper.” I walked to the other room.
“Daron, you’ve got to see — ”
He didn’t even look up. “Here, on the computer. Man, the other night I didn’t look deep enough. Listen to this — ” He looked up for just a brief moment. “LeRoy writes this shit. I can’t believe he keeps this on record.”
“What? What did he write?”
“Listen. You’re not going to believe it.”
I listened.
“The crusade has led us to this. Fred Long. Enemy combatant killed in the war. Michael Bland, enemy combatant. Killed in the war. Barry Romans, enemy combatant, killed in the war. Walter and Stan, trusted sacrificed soldiers.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus. Anyone could copy this. Download this. The man is crazy. I can’t believe it. I fucking cannot believe it.”
I shuddered and my hands were shaking. We both looked at each other, realizing the implications.
“Skip, we need some more evidence.”
“Christ, you’ve almost got a signed confession. Daron, we’ve got to get out of here. This is bullshit.”
“Give me something else.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Try to find something. We need to nail these guys.”
“Why?”
Styles ignored me. “Look, here.” I tenatively walked behind the desk. There on the screen was a short paragraph, a note that LeRoy had written to himself.
Daron Styles. Reason for Bland’s overdose. $800 in cash that came up missing. Styles killed Bland for the money. When feds start getting warm, give them information on Styles.
“That’s why.”
And if they thought we were spying on them, they’d find a way to turn over information on us. James, Em, and me. Em had possibly killed Bruce Crayer with a frying pan and, if they had a clue about that, we could be in big trouble. So, like a dumb-ass, I decided to listen to Styles and look for whatever I could find.
Walking back into the living area, I listened carefully. Every quiet moment from the tent made my heart jump. Every eruption of applause caused me to catch my breath. My hand caressed the cover of the golden Bible. I hoped it would calm me a little, but it didn’t. The cover on the book was leather and it had been dyed a deep gold. The letters on the front were raised and simply read, T HE H OLY B IBLE. Was it Cashdollar’s book? It was beautiful, almost awe inspiring, but our brief conversations about the book and its importance as to what had happened to us seemed insignificant. This was the real deal.
“Hey, Daron.” I shouted in a coarse whisper. He needed to see this.
No answer. It occurred to me that he’d left. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave me, if he thought there was the least bit of trouble. And he’d just uncovered a boatload of trouble. I glanced at the doorway. There was no sign of him.
Running my hand over the gilt-edged pages, I realized I was holding something of true beauty.
“Hey, Daron.” Nothing. Then a sound outside the trailer. Maybe footsteps or a shovel turning over dirt.
I flipped open the first couple of pages and rested on Genesis. Chapter 45, verse 18 should have been one of Cashdollar’s slogans. Ye shall eat the fat of the land. I opened the book partway and I swear my heart stopped. I coughed to start it again. The hollow shape of a handgun was cut into the pages. The shape was there. The gun was not.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
F or at least a minute I gazed at the perfect shape of a handgun carved out of the pages in the book. I tried to grasp the situation. Cashdollar, carrying the book everywhere he went. Cashdollar, carrying a gun, even to his revival meetings. Cashdollar, being in Washington, D.C. the same day that Senator Fred Long was shot, carrying his gun-toting Bible. Who would ever question a minister with a Bible? Who could ever question his intentions, question his geographic location, question his reason for anything? For God’s sake, the guy was Preston Cashdollar. Beyond reproach.
Finally, I walked into the main room, the book in my hand. “Daron,” he sat in the small swivel office chair behind the desk, eyes staring, his life having oozed from the deep, blood-red gash in his throat.
Deacon Thomas LeRoy stood next to him, an eight-inch knife in his hand. “Ah, Brother Skip. So you are one of the culprits as well?”
“Jesus.”
“Praise him. He is why we’re here.”
I tried to catch my breath. Styles was dead.
“Put down the book, brother.”
“You killed Daron?” It wasn’t registering.
“He broke into our office. And, we have suspicion that he may have murdered a gentleman who used to work for us.”
“Michael Bland?”
“You see?” LeRoy, held up the knife, waving it in the air. “Mr. Moore, it’s obvious you’re involved as well. When I call the police and tell them that you broke into our office — that you both may have committed murders, well — ”
“Murder?”
“Bruce Crayer, Mr. Moore. I think someone in your little band may have killed him.”
It was tough, grasping the situation. Styles was dead. And LeRoy was blaming me for Crayer’s possible death. All of this in a matter of seconds. I closed my eyes for a brief moment and tried to regroup. Not more than two minutes ago Styles was reading a list of the sins of Thomas LeRoy, LeRoy’s startling accusation regarding Styles, oh my God, Styles, and now -
“You killed Walter, the bodyguard.” I blurted it out. He’d never admit to that.
LeRoy shook his head slowly. Almost as if he disapproved of my statement. “Walter was a soldier in the war.”
I stood in the room, physically frozen, with the Bible clutched tightly in my hand. “A soldier?”
“Let me explain. In Christ’s work, in the Lord’s mission, all is fair. Our mission, the Cashdollar crusade, is to destroy the oppressor.”
“The senator? Fred Long?”
He captured me with his cold gaze, and he tapped the blade of the knife in his palm.
“And Barry Romans?”
I tried to look into his eyes, to see if I was getting through. They were lifeless. And the steel blade kept beat to a silent tune.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to keep going. “And this has nothing to do with the amount of cash you receive? Come on. Every time you pull one of your stunts, your donations go through the roof. You and Cashdollar figured out that when people die, you make money. A lot of money. Am I right?”
I was shaking. Styles was four feet from me, blood running from his neck. To make it worse, his eyes were open, as if he was taking this all in. It was all I could do to keep it together.