They heard Mount Zion Holiness Church Signs Following long before it came into view. Keyboard tones carried upon the wind. A guitar and fiddle soon joined in, then the smoother sound of voices, blended in celebration.
Evelyn Adams, in the truck’s center seat, began to sing along. She matched her husband. Compact, with graying hair hanging unfettered to her waist. And she possessed a no-frills singing voice. “ – gather with the saints at the river that flows by the throne of God.”
The singers – and Evelyn – moved right on to Marching to Zion.
Peter slowed, turned from New Bethel Road onto a driveway through a copse of trees. The truck’s tires crunched the gravel surface. The grumbling of its engine shifted to a lower pitch as it muscled up the grade to a rise.
“There she is,” Peter said.
The church building stood at the eastern edge of the rise, looking just as Geoff’s letters described it. Whitewashed and boxy, clean-lined and longer than it is wide. Its tall, narrow windows glittered clean in the sunshine. An American flag rippled on a tall pole a few paces from the door.
But billowing white canvas, not Old Glory, caught Michael’s interest. Someone had pitched a big-top tent at the west edge of the rise, as if to balance out the bulk-weight of the church. The tent’s sides had been rolled up and tied off so the afternoon breeze could cool the interior.
The much-patched white canvas pulsed in and out, breathing Appalachian air. It carried the look of a land-bound sail the wind would pull away across the green sea of hills, if it hadn’t been anchored in the West Virginia loam.
Peter brought his truck to a halt near the rear of the parking lot. Another flatbed truck sat nearby, this one black, with Damascus Ministries printed on its dusty doors in faded white letters. It had to be Driscoll’s truck.
People were everywhere. Children ran across the churchyard, playing an unending game of tag. Men, young and old, stood about in groups, talking or singing. Women lugged infants on their hips, carried baskets and platters of food. Michael could already smell baked ham. Everyone wore plain clothing almost identical to Peter and Evelyn’s.
Michael had already shed his tie and coat. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, then climbed from the truck, at ease and excited at the prospect of once again facing the unknown.
“Mr. Mueller,” he called. “Strip off your watch and tie and unload the gear.”
♦♦♦
Michael followed Andy Hallaway and the elders into the tent. Unlit oil lamps hung just out of reach of the tallest man, from cords passed through loops sewn to the canvas roof. A foot-high wooden platform rested on planks, across the north end of the tent. A simple wooden lectern stood front and center on the platform, a dozen folding chairs had been set across the back.
A man stood at the lectern, studying the space. He glanced their way. Hallaway stopped just inside the tent, shifted from foot to foot, a small boy stuck outside the principal’s office. “Brother Driscoll, this here is Professor Michael.”
Driscoll climbed down from the platform and extended his right hand as he stepped toward them. “Afternoon, Professor.”
Michael took the preacher’s hand. “Hello, Reverend. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“I’d begun to worry. Lose your way?”
“We had an automobile accident.”
“Anything damaged?” Driscoll asked.
“Just my pride.”
“We all can stand to have our pride taken down a notch.”
That sounded like a jibe. Michael took a breath, counted to himself.
“Have a seat,” Driscoll said.
He and Michael sat on folding chairs in the front row. The elders pulled up chairs, circling Driscoll and Michael.
“I suspect there’s a cost to everything,” Michael said.
Driscoll’s voice took on an edge. “Yes, indeed.”
Michael could almost see gears spinning in the preacher’s head, shifting through alternatives.
“That reminds me,” Driscoll said. “There’s a matter of money to be decided.”
Michael shot a glance at Hallaway. “Beg pardon?”
Michael and Hallaway had met half a dozen times since January, when Geoff Baxter first suggested a Mount Zion project. Michael had been certain everything had been arranged.
Hallaway shrugged, offering no help. News to him, too.
“I’m talking about a contribution,” Driscoll said.
“How much do you want, Reverend?” Michael asked.
“Call me Brother Driscoll. I’m not ordained.”
“How much, Brother Driscoll?”
Driscoll remained silent. Michael stared back, waiting for the ax to fall. When it dropped, it would chop deep. He didn’t care about the money, at least not so much as he hated the idea of being played like a mark in some confidence game.
“How much?” he said again, after a time.
Driscoll nodded; he’d made up his mind. “Two hundred a night. One hundred for me. One hundred for the church.”
An elder gasped. Michael wasn’t certain which one. He wasn’t about to look.
“That ain’t right,” Peter said, rising from his chair.
Michael raised a hand, interrupting Peter. “It’s all right, Mr. Adams. I’ll pay.”
Whoever had gasped began to sputter, just like the Indian Scout motorcycle Michael drove as an undergraduate at Michigan. No wonder. Five hundred dollars had to be a quarter of the church’s annual budget. A thousand dollars was at the top edge of his budget, too, but it didn’t matter. He knew a bluff when he heard one. Driscoll didn’t want him here.
“My checkbook’s in my jacket. Do you want the money now?”
Driscoll sat still for a moment, then sighed, waved a hand. “No need to pay now. Go ahead. Set up your cameras.”
