“No,” Megan said. “I refuse to believe that was luck. I gave up my final hour with my son for a reason, Doug. It has to be a good reason. I was up on that rooftop to save Gerry Fletcher for as long as I could or—or—” Her voice broke.
A knock sounded on the door.
Benbow glanced up and waved the person inside. “What is it, Corporal?”
“Sir,” the corporal said, “I’m looking for a Miss Jenny McGrath. I was told she was in here with you.”
Jenny turned around and looked at the young corporal. “I’m Jenny McGrath.”
“Yes, miss,” the corporal said. “I’m sorry to inform you, miss, but there’s been an accident.”
“An accident?” Jenny’s heart jumped inside her chest.
“Yes, miss. It’s your father. He’s in the hospital in Columbus.” The corporal hesitated, looking unsure. “It’s pretty bad. They said you should hurry.”
Church of the Word
Marbury, Alabama
Local Time 1409 Hours
Seated at the desk someone had brought into the cramped office space at the back of the church, Delroy stared down at his daddy’s Bible. Over the years, reading that book, remembering how his daddy had read to him from it and elaborated on all the stories of the Old and New Testaments, had brought Delroy a lot of contentment and peace.
That had all seemed to end when Terrence had been killed. Almost the same day that he had learned the news of his son’s death, Delroy had laid that Bible down, packed it away, and not looked at it. He’d used other Bibles in the intervening five years, but his daddy’s Bible had been a grim reminder of God’s seemingly hollow promise to Delroy Harte, the young boy.
Delroy put his forefinger in the Bible to mark his place, then rubbed at the leather exterior where his daddy’s blood had soaked in all those years ago. No one knew why his daddy had been killed. Josiah had been at the church by himself that night, and circumstantial evidence—the description of the car, the gun being owned by Clarence Floyd’s dad and being a unique German pistol from World War II, and the fact that Josiah had given young Clarence a dressing-down in public over his use of harsh language around women—wasn’t enough to hold him for questioning, according to the district attorney. There’d been no chance of convicting Clarence Floyd for murder.
When the congregation had met Delroy this morning and shown him the office, he’d taken his pictures from his duffel and put them on the desk. Pictures of his daddy and momma, Terrence, and Glenda now shared space atop the empty desk.
He glanced at the legal pad in front of him, not surprised to find that he hadn’t taken a single note. There hadn’t been any notes the last time he’d looked either.
Daddy, Delroy thought, I got a lot of people out there waiting on me, expecting me to have something powerful to tell them. I look inside myself and I find I don’t have one thing to say. Was that why I was brought here? To say nothing?
He looked at Glenda’s picture. She hadn’t been back. It looked like Phyllis was going to be proven wrong about that. He should have bet her. At least he’d have had twenty bucks to show for his trouble.
Daddy, you and God are going to have to help me out here, but I definitely feel like I’m in over my head.
After a brief prayer, he went back to searching through the Bible, trying to find something right, something that he could give the people who had shown up. Hundreds of sermons lay at his fingertips. Over the years he had delivered them all, getting so they came with practiced ease.
But what do you give folks looking straight down both barrels of the Tribulation?
Looking up, he glanced at the small TV set on the corner of the desk. The news station showed a brief piece about Nicolae Carpathia and the United Nations; then it shifted over to Penny Gillespie at Fort Benning, Georgia. Curious, Delroy reached over and turned up the volume.
“—no excuse for this morning’s brutal attack on a fine woman like Mrs. Megan Gander,” the news reporter was saying. “Unfortunately, no one in the courtroom seems predisposed to keep Major Trimble from badgering her.”
Delroy continued listening for a few moments, thinking how bad it must be to face the kind of prosecution and persecution Megan Gander must be going through. He said a quick prayer for her, then reached up to turn the television off.
At that moment, a young man in uniform pushed through the crowd in front of the provost marshal’s office. He waved a rectangular box at Penny Gillespie. “Ms. Gillespie. Ms. Gillespie.”
The reporter finally noticed the young man and brought him up to her.
“Ms. Gillespie, my name is Private Lonnie Smith. I’m stationed here at Fort Benning.” He took a deep breath and looked out at the crowd surrounding him, as if noticing for the first time he had their complete attention. Nervously, he turned his attention back to Penny Gillespie. “I was there that night. When that boy, Gerry Fletcher, fell from the rooftop.”
“You saw that happen?”
Delroy was intrigued. Maybe Mrs. Gander was getting a break, and it sure sounded like she was in need of one.
“More than that,” Private Smith said. “I filmed the whole thing on my video camera.” He pushed the rectangle at her. “This is it.”
Penny took the tape. “I don’t understand. Why haven’t you come forward before now?”
“Ms. Gillespie, I didn’t think they’d actually try her for anything. That boy vanished. She didn’t have anything to do with that. It was God who did that.”
“I know, Private Smith. But that’s not what Mrs. Gander is on trial for.”
“I understand that now. I was just—I
