It was so easy to
snowball these rubes the past few years. His easy charm, ready smile and cultured
good looks liberated the fat wallets of the men and the congested inhibitions
of the women. Everyone was searching for salvation and the good Reverend was
there to provide them all with a breathless release. Since he rolled into town
three years ago, the good Reverend had managed to fill the church with almost
every woman in town. They, of course, brought along their husbands and
boyfriends (some of whom held the same closeted desires as the women) with
their trusting natures and fat money clips. The Reverend had a gravity about
him that attracted wealth, lust and allegiance.
He walked into the
market, effortlessly sliding down the stalls and pretended to ignore the quiet
whispers of the giggling housewives, searching for a speck of gossip to fill
the void in their shallow lives. Feeling
a touch on his sleeve, he turned and his synthetic smile quickly retreated into
a contemptuous sneer. Looking first left and right, he angrily spat, “I told
you never to speak to me again!”
She blinked, her long
lashes brushing her cheeks, and said, “But I need to talk to you.” Leaning
closer she paused and lowered her voice. “I think someone knows.”
He studied her for a
moment, searching his thoughts carefully for the appropriate answer to her
statement. “Nobody knows,” he whispered, “this was planned meticulously. You
need to leave . . . now!” His raised voice accented the “ow” of the last word and
a few people close enough to the veiled conversation turned to look and then
quickly circled away. All that was left was the two of them and the subtle
squeak of shopping cart wheels racing towards an unknown destination.
She smirked at the faint
hint anxiety she heard in his voice. She knew the power she held over him and,
if word got out to the congregation, that she could expose him. “I told you . .
. someone knows. What are you going to do about it? We’re both screwed here if
any of this gets out.”
His face twisted, lost
in the mimicry of perplexed thoughts. “Who? Who could possibly know any of
this?” He half asked, half stated to nobody in particular. The metallic hum of
the air conditioning unit echoed off the silence that surrounded them.
Finally, she broke the
silence, “look, just come with me to the chapel, you’ll see what I’m talking
about.” Her face was distorted with purpose and that earlier arrogance was
rapidly being replaced by the realization of her own collusion with the
Reverend.
The chapel was an old
brick building built in the early 1900’s that was originally a restaurant and
served as a welcome respite from the confines of prohibition in the 1920’s. It
was somewhat like the town itself, weathered from years of mild winters and
dry, dusty country club summers. The Reverend understood the importance of a
good location’s ability to connect the history of small towns like this to the
citizenry. The success or failure of starting up in a new town relied on the
ability to create an instant connection with the community. Rehabilitating an
older piece of architectural nostalgia was the first step to gaining loyalty,
parishioners and their cash. Not all small towns are fading away under the
oppression of a blue collar nightmare, there are plenty out there flourishing
with bored townspeople looking to make a wholesome connection.
“Come into the
kitchen,” she said to him with a sense of urgency in her voice. “I came in this
morning and saw the freezer door unlocked.” A look of apprehension fell upon
her face as she quietly whispered the next words. “I think one is missing.”
“You’ve got to be
kidding me?” The Reverend asked with uncertainty, trying to shield himself from
the true gravity of the situation. “Are you sure it’s only one?”
“Look for yourself . . .
we’re screwed. I had to tell you. I’m out. . . I’m out. I’ve taken my share of
all the money and I’m heading to Mexico today. I suggest you do the same.” She
turned and dashed out of his sight, her heels clicking rapidly on the hard oak
flooring.
The Reverend barely
took notice of the sounds of her escape. Cold sweat trickled gooseflesh across
his skin and his brain began to drive eagerly at the walls of his skull,
looking for a quick escape. He grasped the cold metal handle of the walk in
freezer and flung open the door. It dully rapped against the far wall and the sound
resonated throughout the empty building.
With a laser focus, his
eyes fixated upon the shelf. He sank down and dejectedly sat on the floor and
slid his hand up to his temples and vigorously rubbed, trying in vain to ease
any tension. The other organs he had harvested from the bored housewife, looking
for a respite from her lackluster life were there. Black-market bullion he
called them, more valuable than investment portfolios or diamonds. He glared at
the abandoned space next to the lungs and fixated on the barren perch where the
heart previously sat.
