Secret Agent Minister
Lenora Worth

To Merline Lovelace and the participants

of her workshop Four Steps to Perfect Plots

at the 2006 Written In The Stars NOLA STARS

(North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors)

conference. Thanks to all of you for

giving me this story idea!

And special thanks and acknowledgment to

paratroop and skydiving instructor Jim Bates at

aero.com for his help on how to “let go of a plane.”

Any mistakes were my own!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ONE

Someone was going to have to explain about the dead body in the bathtub. Really. That thought kept running through Lydia Cantrell’s head as she looked from the grotesque body of a wide-eyed dead man wearing a bloody suit to the shock-filled stare of the surprised and very alive man standing in front of her.

Then her practical mind went into overdrive. She would probably have to explain how she’d wound up in Pastor Dev’s hotel room late at night, only to find him wearing a bright red action figure T-shirt and old, faded jeans, while staring at the body in the tub, his expression filled with shock and something else Lydia couldn’t quite figure out, something that looked like anger and resolve. Since she’d never seen Pastor Dev angry, she couldn’t grasp what was happening or the strange look she saw in his deep blue eyes.

And she certainly couldn’t grasp his attire. Lydia rarely saw Pastor Devon Malone dressed in anything other than a nice suit and interesting tie, so she was a bit taken aback, seeing him in jeans and a T-shirt and realizing that the man was built like a regular weight lifter and football jock all rolled into one mighty good-looking package. That, and the body in the tub, really set Lydia into a tizzy.

But she had come here for a reason. A very legitimate reason. They were supposed to go over Pastor Dev’s notes for his speech the next day. They were attending a statewide religious conference in Atlanta, Georgia. That’s why Lydia was in his hotel room tonight—to help him go over his notes and make sure his speech was tip-top.

Pastor Dev was funny that way. He was thorough and very detail-oriented. He liked to do things the right way. Some implied he was a perfectionist, but Lydia called that just plain hardworking and dedicated. That’s why the man was such a good minister. His speech, entitled “Pastoral—Finding Inner Peace in a Troubled World” would, of course, be excellent. Everything about Pastor Dev was excellent, in Lydia’s mind, at least. Which was why she refused to believe there was a dead man in the room, or that Pastor Dev had anything whatsoever to do with it.

Closing her eyes to the image of the dead man, Lydia thought about how people would react to a young, impressionable girl of twenty-five visiting a single man’s hotel room late at night, but she kept telling herself this was all beyond reproach—if you didn’t count murder, of course. This was Pastor Dev after all. Even the church matrons who’d ridden the bus up to Atlanta with them had given this meeting their blessings. Because they knew Lydia and the pastor had work to do—God’s work. And because Pastor Dev was always a perfect gentleman. Everyone knew that.

And there had been a chaperone present—Pastor Dev’s roommate. Except his roommate and mentor, Pastor Charles Pierson from Savannah, was in no shape to chaperone, since he was the dead man in the bathtub.

Lydia thought about all the people who had put their trust in Pastor Dev and her. This certainly wouldn’t sit well with the church members back home in Dixon, Georgia. It was where Pastor Dev preached and Lydia worked as his secretary ever since she’d come back with a business degree from the University of Georgia.

And she’d worked hard to get the job at the First Church of Dixon, because she had decided instead of building a career in some big company with stock options and a great 401K plan, she wanted to work for Pastor Dev. She’d fallen in love with him one Christmas during her senior year at UGA, when she’d met him at her parents’ annual Christmas Eve open house. He was the new preacher, single and just a few years older than Lydia. And he was so good and sweet and kind, she knew immediately that he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

Only, he still didn’t know that. Because, though Lydia made goo-goo eyes at him all the time and twirled her long, dark blond hair each time he came to stand by her desk back in the church office, he’d never once noticed a thing about her or her feelings. He was always too preoccupied with taking care of church members—he was so very dedicated that way.

Lydia felt safe with Pastor Dev. He was such a mild-mannered, quiet man, and she just knew she was perfectly safe with him even now, with that horrible body staring up at them.

But she had to admit things looked mighty suspicious with Pastor Dev standing there all shocked and surprised and looking from the body back to her with a kind of dread.

Finally, Lydia managed to speak. “I know you didn’t kill that man, Pastor Dev. Please tell me you didn’t kill your roommate?”

“Of course I didn’t do this, Lydia,” he replied, a soft plea in his words. Then he just stared at the body, that strange look on his face.

While she waited for an explanation, Lydia reminded herself that Pastor Dev was so quiet and focused, so kind and polite, so good and solid, that he could never lift a hand in brutality or violence toward another human being. The man was a walking example of what being a true Christian was all about. Period. End of discussion.

So, Lydia asked another question. “If you didn’t kill your friend, then who did?”

Devon Malone heard the doubt in Lydia’s appeal. And because he couldn’t explain things, he repeated his words. “Lydia, I didn’t do this. You have to believe me.”

Lydia Cantrell, of the South Georgia we pioneers-settled-this-town-with-wagons-and-mules Cantrells, apparently wanted to believe him. She bobbed her head. “I do believe you. I do, Pastor Dev. But—”

He grabbed her by the hand, hauling her into the room as he shut the door. Which really threw him and her both, since he had never tried to touch her, not even so much as touch a strand of her hair or press his fingers along her arm as he opened a door for her. He’d always followed proper decorum when it came to his relationship with Lydia. But now, he had her by the arm, tugging her along with him as he grabbed equipment and weapons out of a steel briefcase. A briefcase he’d hoped never to use again.

Lydia looked at him in surprise. “What’s with all those fancy gadgets?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “You don’t even carry a cell phone like most normal human beings.”

It was true. He rarely bothered to use the computer they’d had installed two years ago at the church office. He mostly devoted his time to reading the Word, and taking care of members’ needs and visitation. Dev was a stickler about visitation—always going out amongst his flock, sharing their good and bad times. Graduations—even from kindergarten—weddings, births, medical emergencies, cataract surgeries, deaths, anniversaries, christenings, baseball games, soccer matches, birthdays and retirements. You name it, Pastor Dev was there to celebrate it. The rest of the time, he worked on preaching the word of the Lord. And while he preached and tried to forget the past, Lydia sat in her same pew each and every Sunday, as devoted as ever. She was like a guiding light out in the congregation. A guiding light he refused to lose, ever. And now, she’d been exposed to the ugly side of his life. The secret life. This could get very messy, very fast.

As Lydia watched Pastor Dev gather strange little gadgets involving beepers and bullets, they heard a commotion at the hotel room door.

“Don’t open it,” he said, his fingers working at loading weapons and clicking against a slick cell phone. His whole expression had changed. He looked dangerous.

Lydia watched, awe and fear overcoming her. “What’s going on?”

He grabbed her again. “Lydia, do you trust me?”

She didn’t even have to think about that. “Of course, I do, Pastor Dev.”

“Then you need to listen to me and follow my instructions, do you understand?”

She bobbed her head. “Yes. But—”

He hushed her with a finger to his lips. “No questions now. No time to explain. We have to get out of here.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have to take you with me. They must be watching. They probably saw you come into the room. You’re in danger.”

“Oh, okay.”

Lydia was completely baffled now. Why was she in danger and where was he taking her? And why on earth was Pastor Dev talking to her in that Mission: Impossible kind of voice, so intense and husky and brusque, so very different from his regular soft-spoken drawl?

“What’s happening?” she managed to squeak out, even as they heard the banging on the door again. “Is this some sort of joke? I know how you and your buddies like to pull jokes on each other.”

“No joke, Lydia,” Pastor Dev said, guiding her to the adjoining room. And he now had a big gun in his hand. A sleek-looking gun with a long, thin barrel. It reminded her of something out of a spy movie. And she had no idea where it had been before. Probably inside that steel case he had hidden inside his real suitcase. Good thing they’d taken the bus to Atlanta. He never would have made it onto an airplane with all those gadgets or that gun.

Because Lydia stood frozen, staring at the gun, Dev shook her gently. “Lydia, I need you to be alert. Stay focused, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We have to get out of here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lydia, honey, are you with me?”

He moved close enough to see the solid fear in her pretty eyes. “Lydia?”

“I’m with you,” she whispered, slowly moving her head again. “But I sure would like to know why we’re getting out of here. I mean, we can’t just leave your friend in the bathtub. We should call the police. We should—”

“No police,” he said, his tone firm. “I’ll explain everything later, I promise,” he added in a soft whisper, his fingers brushing through her bangs.

She nodded and said, “Okay.”

Then Dev reminded himself that she was probably in shock. Things had taken a distinctively different swing from the original plans. And getting Lydia involved in a life he’d tried to put behind him was definitely not in the plans. But he couldn’t change that right now. He could only try to protect her.

“Let’s go,” he said, throwing a dark shirt toward her. “Put this on to camouflage yourself.”

Lydia put on the shirt. “This smells like your laundry detergent,” she said as he tugged at her sleeves. “I know which brand you use. I saw it on your To Do list one day. Not that I’d ever snoop.”

Dev ignored her chatter. Let her chat. Lydia was a talker, especially when she got nervous. Right now, he had to focus; he had to get her out of here. “Button up,” he ordered, keeping his tone firm.

She hurriedly buttoned the big shirt over her demur summer sweater, a dazed expression on her face.

“Ready?” he asked, his no-nonsense gaze focused on her as he looked directly into her hazel eyes. Dev wondered if she knew how much she meant to him. He’d have to tell her one day.

She nodded and held tight to her tote bag. “I think so.”

Dev worked quickly to get them through the locked door to the empty room adjoining theirs. Putting a finger to his lips, he motioned for Lydia to stay quiet as he waited for the right moment. They managed to sneak down the hall just as the intruders came bursting into the other room.

“We’re going to take the stairs down to the street,” he explained, his voice back to normal now. Almost too normal. He stayed calm and in control, for Lydia’s sake, but taking fourteen flights down to the street wasn’t exactly a leisurely stroll. And leaving a room with his dead best friend in it wasn’t too good, either. But he’d deal with that later. Much later.

“Okay,” Lydia said. What else could she say, since she couldn’t take her chances on the elevator and meet up with those Very Bad Guys? Her mama and daddy didn’t raise a complete idiot, after all.

So down the stairs they went, flying so fast Lydia wondered if her sensible black Easy Spirit pumps were even touching the steps. But she was glad they were durable enough for someone on the run. She was amazed she didn’t even get a blister. And she was also amazed that they didn’t get shot. Lydia could hear the Very Bad Guys clunking down the stairs above them, the sound echoing like a death knell each time they rounded another floor. Then just as they reached the seventh floor, she felt the whiz and ping of a bullet ricocheting off the stairwell, very close to her head.

Screaming, Lydia put a hand up, as if that would stop a bullet from killing her. The look in Pastor Dev’s eyes told her the same thing. For once, the man looked scared. Scared for her, since he grabbed her and held her tight.

“Keep running, Lydia,” Pastor Dev said to her, pushing her in front of him. Of course, he would be the gentleman, even in such a desperate life-or-death situation, so he naturally put himself in harm’s way between her and the VBGs. That was a relief, until she started worrying that he’d get shot and then he’d be dead and she’d never grow old with him, or have his babies or be able to be the pastor’s wife like she’d dreamed about for the last few years. Not to mention, the VBGs would still be after her. And she’d be all alone, wondering how she’d somehow wound up in Pastor Dev’s hotel room with a dead body in the bathtub. Not to mention, having to explain all of that to the entire congregation.

But, she thought as she ran ahead of him, hadn’t Pastor Dev asked her to trust him? Knowing that there was much more to this story, Lydia put her trust in God, praying to Him to help them out of this situation. Right now she only knew three things for sure. She was still in love with Pastor Dev, the Very Bad Guys were still chasing them and they were both in a whole lot of trouble.

TWO

So now they were on MARTA—the Metro Atlanta Rapid Transit System—heading north. Lydia was riding through the city on a commuter train at a very fast speed, sitting by a man she thought she knew. But she realized as she watched Pastor Dev jab at a sleek black PDA, that she didn’t really know this man at all. Since when had he owned a BlackBerry, for goodness’ sake? Her mama would laugh out loud at that notion.

Thinking of her mama and daddy back in Dixon, Lydia felt hot tears pricking at her eyes. She normally was a stand-up kind of girl, good in a pinch, solid in a crisis. But she had to admit, this was a bit much even for someone with her strong constitution. She didn’t know what to do, so she clutched at her loaded tote bag, glad, at least, that she had her own supply of obsessive-compulsive ammunition tucked into the many pockets and packets inside. She had a cell phone—that might come in handy. She had Tylenol and Advil and a little bit of touch-up makeup. Okay, that was maybe a bit vain, but Lydia liked to look her best around Pastor Dev. Which meant she also had some of those travel toothpaste samples. And sample sizes of everything from deodorant to hair spray—all bought with her hard-earned money at the big discount store out on Highway 19 back in Dixon. And boy, had she earned her salary tonight, she thought, her feet hurting from all that pounding and running all over Atlanta.

And she also had a combination diary and day-book, which she was itching to record in right now. She’d always kept a diary, since she’d been old enough to form letters, as her mama liked to tell it. This mess tonight was gonna be a doozy of a story, she decided. But she wasn’t at all sure how it was going to end.

By this time, it was very late and she was so tired she could barely hold her eyes open, so she missed the blur of skyscrapers that turned into suburbs as they headed out away from the city. She missed the ancient old oaks and the tall pines whizzing by. She didn’t even notice the constant stream of traffic along Interstate 75. All she could see was her own shocked reflection in the dark window of the train. That and the image of Pastor Pierson’s bloody body. She wanted to cry about that, but she couldn’t find the tears. Yet. So she prayed for the dead minister, and for the evil person who had killed him.

Lydia had never felt so alone and frightened, even if Pastor Dev did seem like he could handle this situation.

Then it hit her—she could at least call her parents and let them know she was all right. She started digging in her tote, then proudly pulled out the little silver picture phone she’d bought at the big mall in Albany.

Dev watched her, knowing what he was about to do would only confuse her even more. He grabbed her hand, then gently took her phone away. “Don’t do that, Lydia.”

“I need to call my parents,” she said, giving him a hurt look.

Dev figured she was wondering why he seemed so distant and businesslike. But he had to think; he had to figure a way to get her out of this mess.

Lydia’s hurt soon changed into frustration. Just a tad irritated, she said, “Give me my phone back, please.”

“Not just yet,” he said, pulling out his own top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art, shiny black Treo. “We have to wait for further instructions.”

Further instructions?

“Oh, okay.” She gave him a wide-eyed look after he pocketed her plain little phone.

Dev hated to treat her this way, but if she called home, they could easily pinpoint the signal. “I know you think I’m crazy,” he said, a twist of a smile playing at his lips, “but it’s very important that you do not make contact with anyone. It’s too dangerous, not just for you but for your family, too. Do you understand?”

“Too dangerous?” She stared over at him, her shock evident, her disbelief shimmering in her eyes. “Oh, okay,” she said, not looking okay at all. “Honestly, you sound so condescending. I’m not some child about to have a tantrum.” Before he could respond, she gave him a no-nonsense look. “You know what? I’ve had about enough of this game. You need to tell me what on earth is going on. Because I’m tired, I’m hungry and I’m getting mighty cranky. And that won’t be good for either of us.”

Now she had Dev’s complete attention. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who could change from mild-mannered to dead serious in the blink of an eye. Thinking he’d better do something quick to calm her bad mood and make up for his rudeness, and because he didn’t have time for theatrics, he gave her a long once-over look, then pulled her against him and said, “Rest.”

“Huh?”

Not a very sophisticated response, Dev thought, but she had been fighting mad, so now she probably felt a bit off-kilter and befuddled by his quick mood change.

“Rest, Lydia,” he said again, reaching around to tug her head against his shoulder. She felt like a small, fragile doll in his arms. “Just rest and then I’ll explain everything. You don’t deserve any of this, but you do deserve some answers.”

“I sure do,” she said into his T-shirt, causing him to become very much aware of her nearness. Then she mumbled, “Where’d you get this shirt, anyway? You never wear T-shirts, except during basketball camp and volleyball games.”

Dev decided he could at least talk about that, hoping it would make her forgive him for dragging her all over Atlanta. “My nephew, Scotty, gave it to me. To keep me safe.”

Something about that confession must have tugged at Lydia’s heart. Her next words were all husky with a little catch of emotion. “That is so sweet.” Then she glanced up at him, her pretty angled face close to his. “I didn’t even know you have a nephew.”

“He’s six.” He felt the rumble of surprise moving through her. He didn’t talk about Scotty much. “My sister’s kid. They live up north. I don’t get to see them much, but at least he’s safe. Last time I visited, he was having an anxiety attack about starting first grade. I gave him a little pep talk and told him he was my hero. I knew he would be strong and courageous, for his mother’s sake.”

Dev heard her let out a sigh, then he held his breath as she snuggled deeper in his arms. He’d never realized how fresh her shampoo smelled—like apples and cinnamon.

“Now Scotty loves school. He told his mom I helped him to be strong. He wanted me to feel safe, too, so he sent me this shirt for my birthday. I promised him I’d always carry it with me whenever I travel. I just slipped it on tonight, because, well, because I miss him and I had him on my mind.”

He wanted Lydia to understand that Scotty’s safety was important to him. Just as her safety was important to him, too. So maybe she could forgive him for being so brusque with her before. “I’m sorry, Lydia.”

“For what?”

“For snapping at you. I have to protect you. I’m responsible for you.”

“It’s okay,” she said, her words sounding sleepy. “That must be a very special shirt.”

“It is. Scotty told me he said a prayer for me when he helped his mother wrap it.”

“Now that just makes me want to cry,” she whispered.

Dev prayed she didn’t do that. But her voice sounded shaky. “I’m glad your shirt is so blessed.” Then she wiggled closer and drifted off to sleep, the rattle and hum of the fast-moving train seeming to soothe her frazzled nerves.

Dev closed his eyes, too, then he kissed the top of her head while he held her there in his arms, against his blessed shirt.

Lydia woke with a start, trying to remember where she was. When she looked up to find Pastor Dev staring down at her, and looked down to find herself settled nicely into the crook of his strong arm, she gasped and sat straight up. “What—”

“The train’s stopping. End of the line. We get off here,” Pastor Dev explained. A little old lady across the aisle smiled over at them.

And as usual Lydia said, “Oh, okay.” Until she remembered everything that had happened—dead body, bad guys, strange gadgets, a memory of a gentle kiss on her hair—she’d have to get back to that one. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere north of Atlanta,” he replied as he tugged her to her feet. “Near Roswell, I believe.” But he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he glanced all around, his dark eyes on full alert mode. But he was kind enough to let that little old blue-haired lady pass first. He checked the front of the passenger car, and the back, again and again. He gave other passengers a hard, daring stare which seemed to make all of them quake in their boots. Except the grandma. She simply smiled her sweet, wrinkled smile and held on to her sensible black purse as she slowly ambled her way toward the train doors.

Pastor Dev did one more search. “I think we’re safe. Let’s go.”

So they got off MARTA along with a few other people—probably night workers coming home from the city. It was very late, actually early morning, the wee hours, as Lydia’s mama would say. She’d never stayed out this late in her life, even in all her sorority days at UGA. But then, she reminded herself, things on this night were not at all what they seemed.

And neither was the man pulling her away from the cluster of passengers heading to their parked cars or waiting rides. She worried about the old woman. Did she have a ride home? Was she all alone in the world?

But Pastor Dev didn’t give Lydia time to visit with the old woman. Lydia watched as the spry woman shuffled off in another direction.

“What now?” she asked, breathless from being tugged at a fast-footed pace across the cracked commuter parking lot.

Pastor Dev stopped underneath a large oak tree. As if right on cue, his fancy phone beeped. “Yes?” he said into the phone. Then he said something really odd. “Have we put out a search for any lost sheep?”

She had to blink at that one. But she’d figured out not to ask questions, not when he was in that instruction mode, anyway. So she just listened. That’s how she’d learned so much in school. She was a good listener.

“Copy,” he said into the phone. Then “Where is the way to the dwelling of light?”

If Lydia hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was quoting scripture. Job, if she remembered correctly. She had always been good at memorizing Bible passages back in Sunday school.

But then he said, “Yes, I understand.” And that was that.

“We have to go,” he told her after he put the tiny phone away. “I have to get you to a safe place.”

She looked around. The train was gone. The carpoolers and night shift workers were gone. They were all alone at a train station somewhere in North Georgia. She glanced around, seeing the lights of the city miles away. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“We walk,” he said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Then he kept right on talking in that calm, normal voice. “It’s not seemly—you and I running off together. I have to consider your reputation. I need to get you to a safe house where there are highly trained chaperones who can help me watch over you. Before I leave.”

That got her dander up. “What did you say?” she asked, stopping and digging her heels into the asphalt. It still felt warm from the spring day. Or maybe that heat was coming from the steam rising inside of her.

He turned, let out a sigh. “Lydia, you shouldn’t be here. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

And because that kind of sounded as if he cared about her just a tiny bit, she cut him some slack. But she still needed answers. “Nothing will happen to me if you’ll just tell me the truth.”

He stood there, his eyes touching on her face before he glanced off into the darkness. “We need to find a vehicle.”

“No, you need to tell me the truth.” She skipped two beats, giving him ample time to chime right in, then she let him have it good and proper. “Look, Pastor Dev, I’ve known you for close to three years now and…well, never in those three years have you ever so much as raised your voice at me. But tonight, tonight, something changed. I mean, besides the dead man in your bathtub and that big, scary gun, and those goons chasing us. You changed right in front of my eyes. And I do believe that means you owe me some kind of explanation.” Then she took off, her pumps pounding pavement. “You can talk while we walk.”

He caught up with her right away, reaching for her swinging arm. “Okay, all right. But the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

“I can’t be safe if I don’t know what I’m fighting.”

He considered that for a minute. “You’re right. And you’re a very smart woman.”

“Well, at least you’ve noticed that about me.”

That comment made him frown in that kind of confused way men do when they don’t understand the underlying meaning. But she let it slide. As much as she’d like to have had a real heart-to-heart with the man, what she needed more was concrete information.

“Go on,” she said, coaxing him like a teacher coaxing a kindergartner.

“You’re right about me. I’m not what I seem.”

“I got that right after you pulled out that big gun,” she snapped back. “Not to mention the dead man.”

He frowned again, a new respect for her in his eyes. “Before I came to Dixon, I was…something besides a preacher.”

“Uh-huh. What?”

He let out a breath. “After I got out of seminary school, I was approached by a very elite organization and asked if I’d like to join their ranks.” He shrugged. “I fit the profile exactly. Athletic, excellent grades, exemplary conduct. Single and young. And very devoted to the Lord.”

“You do fit all those qualifications,” she blurted out. Then she put a hand over her big mouth. “Keep talking.”

He gave her another strange look, but continued. “This organization is so top secret, that I couldn’t even tell my immediate family what I would be doing. I had to use a cover.”

“A cover?” Lydia shot a glance over at him. He looked completely sincere. “You mean, like a spy?”

“Yes, something like that. But more like a Christian operative.”

“A Christian operative?”

“Yes. I’m like a soldier, only I don’t work for the government. I work for the church.”

“You’re a soldier? For the church?”

She knew she sounded stupid, but Pastor Dev didn’t look at her as if she were stupid. Instead, he looked at her as if he were hoping she’d understand. Which she didn’t.

“I know it sounds like something out of a science fiction novel, but I’m telling you the truth. And before I go any further, you have to promise you will not divulge anything I’m telling you. It could mean your life.”

She stopped on the side of the road. “Well, when you put it that way—”

He whirled her around so fast, she felt as though she was back on that train. “I’m serious, Lydia. This is not a game. We are in a very dangerous situation.”

The way he looked at her gave her hope, even while his words scared her silly. He looked as though he really cared about her. “Okay,” she said in a tiny voice. “I’m sorry.”

Then he touched a hand to her hair, sending nice little shivers down her backbone. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this.”

“I’m here now,” she said, her practical nature taking over. “Might as well spill the rest, so I can be prepared.”

He smiled then. “That’s what I like about you. You are so organized and sensible.”

Wow, that kind of remark could sure go to a girl’s head, right? Now Lydia was even more anxious to find out what he’d gotten her involved in. “Just tell me, Pastor Dev. So I can help you.”

He stood back, then started walking again, his eyes ever alert to the shadows along the highway and the forest noises off along the fence line. “For ten years now, I’ve belonged to an organization called CHAIM. That’s Hebrew for ‘life.’”

“Nice,” she said, suddenly caught up in what he was saying. “What does this organization do, exactly?”

He stopped again, and put his arms on hers. “We save people.”

Lydia’s heart thumped against her rib cage. “As in?”

“This is the secretive part, Lydia. My parents thought I was off doing missionary work, but I wasn’t—at least not in the usual way. CHAIM stands for Christians for Amnesty, Intervention and Ministry. We go into other countries and rescue Christians who are in danger.”

Lydia let that soak in, then put a hand to her mouth. “You mean, you’re some sort of special ops agent?”

He nodded. “Yes, I was for seven years before I came to Dixon. I had to retire from the force. We’ve saved hostages, we’ve helped stranded Christian missionaries out of volatile situations, and we’ve rescued good, honest people who’ve found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because we don’t work for the government, we have our own set of rules. We try not to do any harm—we just get in, get out, and save lives on both sides.”

“So you’re not violent and mercenary?”

He looked away, a darkness settling in his eyes. “Only if we have to defend ourselves or the people we’re helping.”

That thump in her heart was at full throttle now. “How? Why? I don’t understand.”

“I know it’s hard, seeing me in such a different way. But you’re safe as long as you’re with me. You have my word on that.”

“But if you’re retired—”

He glanced around. “Someone wants me permanently retired. Whoever killed Charles Pierson obviously thought they had me.”

Lydia’s heart sputtered. She couldn’t breath. Hadn’t she figured this out already, since she’d been chased and shot at? But hearing him say it out loud made it so real. “You mean, you might have been the one—”

His voice went low. “I gave Charles a key to my room, and told him to meet me there. I had to talk to another colleague before our meeting to discuss my speech. Charles went up ahead of me. They must have ambushed him. It should have been me.”

She stared up at him, flabbergasted at what he was telling her. “You could have been killed tonight?”

He nodded. “Yes. I’m out of CHAIM and no one, not even the other operatives, knows where I’ve been assigned. But someone has breached the security of the entire organization. Just to have me killed. And I’m pretty sure I know who that someone is.”

Lydia’s whole body was shaking now. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think beyond the fact that Pastor Dev might have been killed tonight. Up until now, she’d wanted to believe it had all been some sort of mistake, that they weren’t the target. She looked back up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. And then she started shaking so badly, she felt sick to her stomach. With a rush, everything that had happened came at her, causing her to grow weak. “You could have been killed.”

He touched his thumb to her chin. “I might still be killed, Lydia. And you right along with me, if they find us. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

He caught her in his arms just before she passed out.

THREE

Dev hated to bring Lydia out of the relative peace of her little fainting spell. But he had to, so he carried her to a big stone bench. “Lydia, wake up.” He held her in his arms, scoping the spot just as the little old lady they’d seen on the train came charging around the corner.

Obviously trying to focus, Lydia lifted her head and spotted the woman. And in her usual Lydia way, said, “How nice. She’s worried about us.” While Dev went into combat mode, Lydia sent the woman a reassuring smile. Then asked, “How long has that nice little lady been tailing us, anyway?”

“She’s not so very nice, and she really isn’t a lady at all,” Dev whispered. There she stood, glaring at Lydia and Dev through her bifocals. And she was packing more than just antacid and Advil.

Even in her stupor of confusion, Lydia seemed to figure things out. “That woman’s gun is much bigger than yours, Pastor Dev.”

“You can say that again.”

The woman aimed the gun right at Lydia and Dev. Then she spoke. “‘Will your riches, or all the mighty forces, keep you from distress?’”

“Job again,” Lydia murmured, her shock obviously bone deep. And it was about to get worse, Dev thought.

Everything after that was in fast-forward. Dev pushed Lydia down into the leaves and grass behind the bench, his hand on her back. “Stay down,” he hissed.

Since Lydia seemed paralyzed with fear, staying down wasn’t a problem. She cringed low as Dev managed to position himself behind the concrete back of the bench, trying to protect her with his body. But her head came up in spite of his best effort as she strained to peek at their assailant.

Then she gasped. Probably because she saw what Dev had already figured out. The old lady wasn’t actually a woman. She was a he. A wiry young man dressed like an old lady. And that man was trying to kill them. Shots clinked and pinged all around them, but Dev didn’t let that bother him. He kept Lydia’s head down, his body protecting hers, and kept himself out of the line of fire. While he waited for his chance.

Amazed and paralyzed with fear, Lydia watched him—but it was like a slow-motion dance of some sort, surreal and bizarre. He stood, then crouched forward, all the while firing that big-barreled gun at the enemy. One of the shots hit its mark. But Pastor Dev didn’t kill the VEP—the Very Bad Guys had been elevated in Lydia’s mind to Very Evil People. Pastor Dev shot the man in the leg, causing him to drop his weapon and roll around in agony. The wound must have hurt something awful from the way the man was screaming.

“Don’t worry, I just maimed him,” Pastor Dev explained, in a tone he might use to say, “Don’t you just love long walks in the woods, Lydia?”

“What if he tells someone about us?” Lydia asked as Pastor Dev sank back behind the bench.

“He won’t. Because then he’d have to explain his presence here. And he was never here. Neither were we.”

“Part of the cover?”

“Yes.”

Lydia put her hands over her head and closed her eyes, thinking of her nice little garage apartment back in Dixon. She loved that tiny apartment. It sat right over an old train depot that had been converted into a thriving antiques and collectibles minimall, complete with a country diner, both run by Lydia’s Aunt Mabel. She thought of the wonderful view of downtown Dixon—which encompassed about one square block. She thought of the great old live oak right outside her window, and the Carnegie Library and the Dixon Pharmacy and Soda Shoppe, safe, secure places with ready supplies of books, ice cream, hair spray and flavored lattes. What more could a girl ask for?

Right then, Lydia could have used a white chocolate mocha latte. She wanted so badly to be back in her four-poster bed with the frilly magnolia-embossed comforter and sheets, reading a good novel from the library, her beloved portrait of Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh in Gone With The Wind hanging on the long wall opposite her bed. Her cat Rhett would be curled up beside her on the bed, his one black patched eye contrasting sharply with his white face. Oh, how she wished to hold Rhett.

“Lydia, are you all right?”

She heard Pastor Dev’s words echoing across her mind, tugging her away from that peaceful, normal scene and back to the dark, scary not-so-normal woods. “I’m just dandy. Where’s that strange old woman?”

“She—he’s over there in the bushes, moaning.”

“Should we help him?”

“No. He won’t die. He’s trained to stop the bleeding.”

“That sure makes me feel better. What now? Will he try to follow us?”

“No. He’s injured. He’ll have to report back to his superiors that his mission has failed.”

“And just who does he work for? Surely not CHAIM?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? And that’s what our mission is all about. We have to find out who’s behind this and who sent him.”

“Do you have an idea?”

“I have a theory. But I have to get to a secure place before I can figure this out.”

They heard more moans, but Lydia didn’t feel as much empathy now for the old woman–possible killer.

“Not my problem,” she said, getting up to brush off her clothes. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Good idea.” Pastor Dev looked around, probably thinking there were others lurking in the shadows. Or maybe Lydia was the only one thinking about that possibility.

“We’ll cut through the woods until we reach the river,” Pastor Dev whispered. “Then we’ll find a way to get to our next destination.”

Lydia didn’t even know they were near a river, but a few miles later, sure enough she could hear a soft gurgling off in the distance. The Chattahoochee? Or maybe all that gurgling was coming from the bleeding man in the granny wig who was probably hobbling along after them.

“What will be our next destination?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“New Orleans,” Pastor Dev said as he shoved her into the shadowy oaks and pines.

She gave him just enough time to get them hidden, then stopped. “I can’t go to New Orleans. My parents would have a royal hissy fit about that.”

“I’ll be with you,” Pastor Dev said in that condescending, I-know-best voice. “You’ll be safe.”

“Not in that city. My grandmother says the French Quarter’s a regular den of iniquity.”

Taking her by the hand, he stalked through the woods as if he knew exactly where he was going. “Not all of New Orleans is like that, Lydia, and besides, you don’t have any choice. Those are my instructions.”

“To get us to New Orleans?”

“Yes. We need to get out of Georgia.”

“Is the dwelling of light there—in New Orleans?”

He shook his head, then let out a sigh. “You are so smart.”

She refused to let flattery stop her. “Just answer me.”

“Yes—that’s a code for a safe house. Can you trust me?”

“You said I don’t have any choice.”

He gave her a long, steady look. One of his commando looks. “I’m sorry about that. Do you trust me?”

“I’m trying, Pastor Dev. But you have to admit this is all a bit new for me. You might need to give me a few minutes to adjust.”

“Okay. Take all the time you need. But remember, you have to listen to me and trust my decisions.”

“Okay.”

They walked along in silence for a few minutes. Lydia used the time to pout. She liked to be in control of any and all situations and right now she felt completely out of control. “Can I at least call my parents now?”

“They have been apprised of the situation.”

Lydia stopped again, then glanced over at him. “They have? Who did the apprising?”

“We have operatives everywhere. The situation has been explained in detail. Your parents know you’re safe and with me.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

In a lightning move, he tugged her close. Which, in spite of her pouting, did make her feel better. “You shouldn’t be here, Lydia,” he said, his gaze moving over her face.

That soft-spoken, regret-filled statement didn’t set well with Lydia, since she had always dreamed of being in his arms. But she understood what he meant. Actually, neither of them should be here—technically speaking.

Lydia shrugged. “I’m here now. No use crying over spilled milk.”

Then he started laughing. That didn’t help Lydia’s mood. She backed away from him, pushing her hands through her tangled hair. “You think that’s funny?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” He pulled her back into his arms.

“It’s just that…Lydia, you amaze me. You are so practical and pragmatic. Spilled milk.”

“Well, this is a big old puddle of a mess, don’t you agree?”

He probably could tell she was getting all worked up. He didn’t try to hug her again. Instead, he stopped laughing and let out a sigh. “That is correct. A big mess that I’ve somehow managed to get a nice girl like you involved in. Not only that, but one of the best men I know died tonight. Because of me.”

What could she say to that? She’d been so scared and confused, she hadn’t even stopped to think about his friend. She couldn’t resort to bickering and sarcasm after hearing the anguish in his words. Especially his next statement.

“This is all my fault.”

Since Pastor Dev walked on ahead, she had to follow him or risk getting left out in the Georgia woods with all the varmints and bugs and men in wigs. She caught up with him, but remained silent, sending up prayers for the soul of his friend. Lydia’s mother had always told her silence was golden. Since the woods were so dark and quiet, with only the moonlight and stars to guide them, she decided it was a good time to go to God in prayer about this whole bizarre situation.

Lydia worried as she prayed, not only about herself and her life, but also about Pastor Dev. He was right. He’d lost one of his best friends back in that hotel room. Now she reckoned he was grieving in a kind of delayed reaction way. And what about Reverend Pierson’s family? How was anyone going to explain this to them? What about the authorities back in Atlanta? Would they be hushed up, or would Lydia’s and Pastor Dev’s names and pictures be plastered all over the news? How would they ever get out of this?

She asked God all of these questions as they walked along, then she asked Him to show them the way. Lydia knew in her heart that Pastor Dev had to be telling her the truth, but she wondered how in the world such a good and decent man had become involved with killers and thugs. Then she reminded herself CHAIM was supposedly a Christian organization, meant to help those in need. And that would mean sometimes having to deal with dangerous, unscrupulous people.

He’s one of the good guys, Lydia, she reminded herself as she chanced a glance over at him. Remember that. Then she tried to imagine all the places he’d been, the horrible things he’d seen in his operative days. And he’d said he had to retire? What did that mean? Not, I retired, but I had to retire. There was a big difference in that particular wording. And just who wanted him dead?

He’d said he thought he knew who.

So she asked him. “Who’s behind this?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“But you think you know, right?”

“I’m pretty sure, yes.”

“Did you do something bad, for someone to want you dead?”

Dev didn’t speak for a while. Their feet crunched on leaves and twigs, each sound causing Lydia to walk closer to him. He grabbed her hand to keep her from tripping against his feet, since she was like a shadow right at his heels.

“I didn’t do anything bad,” he finally said. “I did do something that made some people very angry at me. But I had my reasons.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t explain it right now, Lydia. I’ve got people investigating things. It’s very complicated.” That was an understatement. He didn’t know where to begin.

“Yeah, well, it would have been nice to be forewarned about…your past life. I’ve known you for a while now, and I never would have guessed—”

“That’s how CHAIM wants things. We’re trained to fit right in, wherever we go. Sometimes, we fit in too well.”

“You can say that again. Are you even a real preacher?”

He looked over at her, masking the piercing hurt her doubt brought. “Of course I am. I attended seminary in New Orleans. I trained to be a minister. I just got sidetracked for a while.” Then he shook his head. “No, that’s not exactly correct. Being in CHAIM taught me more about being a Christian than anything else, even preaching.”

“I guess so, what with all the deception and intrigue. I’m sure that comes in handy each Sunday when you’re quoting the Gospels to all the good, decent folks back in Dixon.”

“I know you’re confused and angry,” he said, taking her hand again. “But my experiences in CHAIM have helped me with my messages each Sunday. My past life has taught me compassion, and understanding and unconditional love.” Then he squeezed her hand tight. “Lydia, I can’t bear you being angry at me. But I certainly don’t blame you.” He let out a long sigh, his hands dropping to his side. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with Lydia. She was too innocent for this. “If I’ve lost your respect, then I truly am lost.”

That comment shut her up, good and proper. But she glowed in her silence, and she didn’t exactly feel like pouting anymore. He wanted her respect above all else? Did that even hint at any type of feelings he might have for her, other than those of friend and coworker and fellow Christian?

Lydia swallowed hard, prayed for guidance, then said, “You did have my respect, and you still do. I just wish I’d had your trust so you could have told me about all of this.”

He pushed a hand over his face. “It’s not a matter of trust. CHAIM doesn’t allow us to give out information. We tell no one. We don’t share the details of our jobs. That would put too many people in danger. And I think someone has done exactly that—given our identities and our locations away. There are people all over the world who’d like to see all of the CHAIM operatives dead.”

“Starting with you?”

“It looks that way, yes.”

“But now that I know about CHAIM, can’t you give me a few more hints? I need to be prepared for the worst.”

He heaved them both up an embankment, then stopped to take in the lay of the land while Lydia stopped to marvel at his strength—not just his outer physical strength, but an inner core that now radiated around him and made him seem powerful and heroic in her eyes. And made her wonder, yet again, just how many secrets he was carrying.

Too tired to figure all that out, Lydia concentrated on their surroundings. The woods were shrouded in a blanket of gray moonlight, the river glistened like a silver necklace. She could hear the rustling of forest creatures off in the distance. At least, she hoped it was forest creatures and not humans dressed in disguise, coming for them.

Since he just stood there like a good-looking block of stone, she reminded Pastor Dev again. “I need to understand. I like details, I like to be organized and prepared. So I need to know everything, just in case.”

He got moving then, his boots stomping through the underbrush. “No, you don’t. You just need to do exactly as I say, for your own protection and safety.”

She hurried to catch him, then stopped to stare at his retreating back. “Will you ever tell me all of it? I mean, why we’re really being chased and what you did to cause this?”

“Probably not. You’re better off not knowing.”

And that’s the only answer she got. He refused to give her the details—for her own protection, of course. Lydia was getting mighty tired of being kept in the dark for her own protection. But then, what choice did she have? Right now, she could only follow the man she loved as they marched blindly along.

So she stomped after him in her sensible pumps, so very glad that he at least thought she was amazing, practical and pragmatic. The compliments couldn’t get much better. The man might be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he didn’t have a clue as to a woman’s heart. Not one clue.

Lydia didn’t know where she was going to wind up after this. Right now, she just had to find a way to survive New Orleans. If they ever got there. But after what happened when they did get there, Lydia would have rather stayed hidden in the woods of North Georgia.

FOUR

“Why New Orleans?” Lydia asked an hour later as they drove over the Alabama state line, heading for Mississippi and eventually, Louisiana.

Pastor Dev shifted the gears of the beat-up Chevy truck he’d managed to “buy” off a kid near Marietta, his eyes straight ahead on the back road they were taking to the Interstate. Lydia didn’t try to figure out how he’d arranged to buy the truck, but then, finagling a truck from a teenager in the middle of the night was only one of his many talents, she imagined.

“I told you, there’s a safe house there. It’s the least likely place anyone would look for us.”

“Now that makes sense,” she replied, tilting her head back on the rough fabric of the seat. Then she glanced over at him again. “Are you sure about my parents? I don’t want them to worry.”

“They know you’re safe.”

He wasn’t much for giving out unnecessary information. And now that Lydia thought about it, he’d always been that way. Not a big talker—about himself. But he could talk a bobcat through a pack of bulldogs, faithwise. Was that the mark of a good minister? Or the cover of a man full of secrets?

Tired of all the questions running amok inside her head, she decided to try a different tack. “What happens in New Orleans? I mean, do we just sit and wait?”

He shook his head. “No, you rest and I work.”

“Work? What kind of work?”

“I have to locate my superiors, let them know I’m okay. I’ll need to give a thorough report, then wait for further instructions.”

Lydia was getting mighty tired of this “further instructions” business. She didn’t like being undercover, not one little bit. But she didn’t want to ruffle Commando Dev’s already riled feathers, so she tried to sound excited. “That should be interesting.” Then she closed her eyes. “What about Pastor Pierson?”

He didn’t speak for a full minute. Lydia slanted her eyes to watch him for signs of wear and tear. “Are you okay?”

Pastor Dev tapped the steering wheel in a soft gentle cadence, then glanced at the NASCAR-emblazoned key chain that dangled like a necklace around the truck’s rearview mirror. “Arrangements are being made. The official report—a break-in and robbery.”

“What about us? What’s the official report on us?”

“We were in a different room. We were never there.”

“They switched your room?”

“Yes. To protect you. And to keep my cover. The official report will be that we had to leave the conference suddenly. After a few days, the official report will be that we’re on a working retreat.”

Lydia felt her dander rising, but she held back. “Y’all like to stretch the truth to the limits with all this undercover stuff, don’t you?”

“It’s for our safety and protection.”

“Yeah, there is that.”

He didn’t answer, and Lydia felt small and petty for being so snippy. But then, it was late and she was tired and still suffering from shell shock. And since she hadn’t been through the school of special ops etiquette, she thought she was doing a fairly good job of winging it.

“So Pastor Pierson’s family thinks he was attacked and robbed? And that’s it?”

“That has to be it. And that is the truth. He was attacked.”

But Lydia could tell by the way he stated the obvious, that wasn’t all of it. One of his best friends was dead, and she could see the weight of that pulling at Pastor Dev’s strong shoulders. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Me, too. Get some rest, Lydia. We have a long way to go.”

Then he went completely blank, effectively shutting her out. Lydia felt the burn of tears in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to give in to the need to cry herself a little river. So she prayed, her eyes closed, her mind emptying of all the questions and the unpleasant images. She put an image of the Lord front and center in her head and held to that image as she asked Him to protect them. And while she prayed, she wondered if might made right. If the need for the better good of all made up for the small sins of omission. If the end justified the means. Was this all in the name of God? Or was this man’s way of misinterpreting God’s word?

Either way, Lydia was in the thick of it now. There was no turning back. She needed her faith now more than ever. And so did Pastor Dev.

Dev exited off the Interstate at a little roadside rest area just past Montgomery, making sure they were in a secluded, hidden spot. Glancing over at Lydia, he was relieved to see that she was sleeping, her head pressed against the window, her hands crossed in her lap. Good. She needed her rest. The poor woman had never been through anything like this night, he was sure. He knew this simply because he knew Lydia. She was a good girl. Everyone loved Lydia. Everyone.

Dev opened his door and deftly hopped out of the souped-up truck, careful not to wake Lydia. He needed to breathe. He needed to think. He needed to pray.

So he went to an old stone picnic table, which sat in clear view of the truck, his mind alert to the sounds from both the highway and the hills behind them. He’d forgotten how tense this work could make a man. He’d forgotten how complacent he’d become, living in Dixon, preaching God’s word. But he hadn’t forgotten all the years of being in CHAIM. How could a man ever forget that?

God’s word? What is that now? he wondered as he placed his head in his hands and tried to gather his thoughts.

Someone had breached a very tight-knit security. Someone had taken a mighty big risk.

“Do you want me dead so much?”

Had he said that out loud? Dev looked around at the moonlit little roadside park, a discarded soda bottle winking at him in the dark while he wished his former friend and colleague could answer that question for him. So much water underneath the bridge; so much pain held captive in his friend’s lonely heart. “Are you the one, Eli?”

To keep his mind sane, Dev once again checked his Treo. No messages. He half expected to find one from his rogue associate, telling him exactly where the next hit would be—just because Eli was that kind of guy—precise and brilliant and apparently past the breaking point. But there was nothing. No messages from his superiors, or his wayward friend or from the Lord, either. So he sat in the dark and pondered and prayed as he thought of dear, sweet Lydia, so trusting, so innocent, so…Lydia. He went over everything inside his head, wondering if he still had it in him to do this kind of work. He was rusty, softened by the kind folks of Dixon, softened by the kind eyes of the woman sleeping in the truck. He’d actually believed it was all over and behind him, all this secretiveness and espionage, all this creeping into darkness. He’d hoped—

He glanced back at the truck and thought of Lydia. What must she think of him now? What happened to his hopes and dreams now?

He felt completely hopeless, completely alone in the dark. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to revolt, to run. But he couldn’t do any of those things. So he just sat there, staring at the truck, his mind centered on the woman inside. As he sat, he relived the horrible moment he’d found his hotel room door open and saw his friend’s body slumped over in the bathtub. And somehow, he’d known that his safe, blessed life in Dixon was about to change. If only he’d had time to warn Lydia, to save her from all of this.

He’d never forget the look on her face when she’d walked into that room. Her fear and revulsion still shocked Dev to his core. How he wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. But what if he failed?

Dev did what he’d always done in tough situations. He turned to God. “‘With my whole heart have I sought thee,’” he quoted from Psalms. “O let me not wander from thy commandments.’”

And then he wept.

Lydia thought she heard weeping. Coming awake with a gasp, she followed that with a groan. Her neck felt as if someone had twisted it into a French braid and her head didn’t feel much better. It pounded and tightened as if someone were truly pulling her hair and twisting it without mercy. She couldn’t remember where she was. Then, as memory pushed through her disorientation, fear replaced all of those concerns.

She was alone in the truck.

“Pastor Dev?” she croaked, her eyes adjusting to the still, dark countryside. She sat straight up, pushing at her hair, her gaze moving over the moon-dappled woods. A tattered white plastic grocery bag hung like a flag of surrender off a moss-draped live oak, and the moon lounged with a smirk right up there in the night sky. An unfamiliar fear gripped Lydia, making her take in several rushed breaths. She wanted away from this place. But where was Pastor Dev?

And then she saw him.

He was sitting on a picnic table a few feet from the truck, a dark, somber silhouette with his head in his hands. At first, he looked so still and unmoving, Lydia thought she was just imagining him there. But then, she saw the slight shaking of his shoulders and heard the intake of a long, shuddering sob.

Lydia’s fear dissipated like a cloud parting for the moon. Her heart lurched as she went into overdrive, opening the truck door to make a straight run toward him, her pumps echoing across the asphalt with a clip-clop cadence.

“Pastor Dev?” she said, not stopping to think of her actions as she grabbed his hands. They were wet with tears.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with torment before they became fully alert and clear. Then he tried to push her away. “No.”

“Yes,” Lydia said, determination and love bringing out her fiercely protective instincts. She might not be highly trained in undercover maneuvers, but she was extremely skilled in the compassion department. “Yes.” She pulled him into her arms, her whispers filled with her own tears. “Let me help you. Lean on me. Let me help you, please.”

He stared at her long and hard, an armor of pain and confusion shining in his eyes, then he pulled her into his arms and held her while he cried, rocking back and forth against her, his head on her shoulder, his big hands clutching at her back, until her shirt was as wet as his own.

Lydia cried, too, because it tore her heart apart to see this strong, solid man in such bad shape. She knew he was just having a delayed reaction to seeing his friend murdered, and to whatever forces had pulled him back into that other life. What man could handle that? Not even one as strong and sure as this one, Lydia thought, as she held him and stroked a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

He pulled away to look up at her, his eyes so soft and misty and full of a dark longing, Lydia wondered if she were dreaming. For a single heartbeat of a second, she thought he might kiss her. But instead, he pushed at her, then jumped away from the table as if the solid stone was on fire.

“We need to get back on the road,” he said, wiping his eyes with a swat of his hand.

“Okay.”

Lydia’s heart fell apart with a shattering like little fractured bits of stained glass falling from a window. She stared after him, then she followed him back to the dark truck. She wanted to wake up safe in Dixon. She wanted to get up and drink her two cups of coffee and get dressed and walk down the street to the church, where she’d find various volunteers waiting to help her with her duties there. And she wanted to find Pastor Dev sitting at his desk eating a banana muffin from Aunt Mabel’s diner. He would offer her a bite. She would decline, but she’d bring him an extra cup of coffee to wash it down. She wanted that so much.

She wanted normal back.

And she wanted Pastor Dev back.

They drove over Lake Pontchartrain as the sun was rising behind them. A fine mist of fog rose off the lake, rays of newborn sky filtering through to wash the dawn in bright white-pink light.

“We’ll be safe here,” Pastor Dev said, his voice weak and hoarse from not speaking. Not since his meltdown at the roadside park, at least.

Lydia had honored his need to remain silent. She had some thinking of her own to do. Now she could tell he was trying to reassure her.

“I’m a burden to you, aren’t I?” she asked now. “You’re stuck with me—with protecting me.”

His smile was rusty. “I don’t mind that burden.”

Something inside Lydia deepened and widened at that simple statement. He was that kind of man. He’d gladly carry the burdens of those he loved.

Does he love me? she wondered now, wishing, hoping and praying. Then she told herself to shut up. Don’t be selfish. Please get us out of this, Lord. Keep him safe. That would be enough for a lifetime, Lydia decided.

“I’m sorry you have to watch out for me.”

He looked over at her as they came across the Mississippi River into New Orleans. “Don’t apologize, Lydia. None of this is your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either,” she replied, watching for signs of distress.

But he was back to being Commando Dev now, all business with brusque, curt replies. “Yes, it is. But I don’t have time to explain that right now. I need to brief you.”

Brief her? Lydia accepted that things were probably about to get dicey again. “Go ahead.”

“The safe house—it won’t be all white picket fences and magnolias in a garden.”

She let that soak in, her mind reeling with images of dark, smoke-filled alleyways and double-locked doors. “Keep talking.”

“It’s called Kissie’s Korner. It’s in the Quarter.”

“My mama—”

“Would want you safe,” he finished before she could voice her mother’s disapproval.

“Not in a place like that. It sounds so—”

“Decadent?” he asked with that tight little smile.

She didn’t dare look at him. “Yes.”

“It’s a blues club. Some of the best blues and jazz musicians in the world have passed through Kissie’s place. But that’s just a cover.”

“Uh-huh. So you’re telling me that even though this place sounds like the devil’s playground, it’s really as squeaky clean as a church pew?”

He actually chuckled. “Ah, Lydia, I’m almost glad you’re with me on this.”

That caused her heart to glow just like the dawn all around them, bright and full of hope. “Thanks, I think,” she said to hide that glow. She had to keep reminding herself she did not want to be here. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Kissie’s Korner is a very clean place, faithwise. Kissie takes in troubled teens, turns them toward the Lord and sets them on their way. She’s probably saved more teens in her thirty-five years of being an operative than anyone else on the planet.”

“That is mighty respectable.”

“Kissie is a good-hearted woman. She loves the Lord and serves only Him. She doesn’t put up with any bunk, I can tell you.”

“Drunken, rowdy blues players constitute bunk in my book.”

“Kissie doesn’t allow for any of that kind of stuff. Her place is a coffee bar.”

Lydia’s mouth fell open. “Nothing stronger than caffeine? I don’t get it.”

“Neither do the ones who try to pull anything. She boots them out, but they usually come back, begging for redemption. Kissie is that good.”

“Wow.”

“Wow is right,” he said as he steered the truck down a narrow street just on the fringes of the French Quarter near Louis Armstrong Park. Then he parked and glanced around, his eyes doing a recon roll. “We’re here.”

Lydia looked up at the massive house in front of them, a soft gasp of shock shuddering through her body. It looked so old and dilapidated she had to wonder if it had been here since the beginning of time, or at least since the beginning of New Orleans. Two-storied and painted a sweet baby-blue, the house leaned so far to the left, a lush hot-pink bougainvillea vine actually floated out and away from it. The house reminded Lydia of an old woman holding a lacy handkerchief. The tall, narrow windows were surrounded with ancient gray-painted hurricane shutters. Antique wrought-iron tables and chairs filled the lacy balconies and porches. Petunias in various clay pots bloomed with wild abandonment all around the tottering, listing porch, while a magenta-colored hibiscus flared out like a belle’s skirt right by the steps. And a white-lettered sign over the front porch stated Kissie’s in curled, spiraling letters that matched the curling, spiraling mood of the house.

“This is a safe house?”

“Completely safe.” Pastor Dev came around the truck to help Lydia out. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?”

“You will, won’t you, Lydia?”

The way he looked at her, the way he asked that one simple question, made Lydia feel as sideways and unstable as this old house, while the look in his eyes made her want to stand tall and believe in him with all her heart.

“I guess I have to, now, don’t I?”

His smile was as brittle as the peeling paint on the house. “Yes, I’m afraid you do. Because, I have to warn you, this is only the beginning.”

“Oh, great,” Lydia said, using humor to hide her apprehension. “You mean, there’s more ahead?”

“Lots more before it’s over,” he said. “They won’t stop until they find us.”

And this time, he wasn’t smiling.

FIVE

“Get yourself on in here, man, and give Kissie a good and proper hug.”

The tall, big-boned woman stood at the door of the leaning house, the colorful beads on her long dreadlocks bouncing against her ample arms and shoulders. She wore a brightly patterned silk caftan that swished each time she chuckled and smiled. And she smelled like vanilla and spice.

That was Lydia’s first impression of Kissie Pierre, code name, Woman at the Well. Lydia watched as the voluptuous Kissie grabbed Pastor Dev and hugged him so tightly, he nearly lost his breath. But he didn’t seem to mind. He returned Kissie’s exuberant hug with one of his own, a gentle smile on his face as he winked at Lydia over Kissie’s cocoa-colored shoulder.

“It’s good to see you,” Pastor Dev said as he came up for air. Then he turned to Lydia. “Lydia Cantrell, meet Kissie Pierre.”

“Mercy me,” Kissie said, grabbing Lydia by her arm, her big dark eyes widening with glee, her gold bangles slipping down her arm. “You sure are a pretty little thing.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said, the heat of that praise causing her to blush. “And thank you for…helping us.”

Kissie cluck-clucked that notion away. “Part of my job, honey-pie. That’s why I’m here. Now y’all come on back to the kitchen and let me get some decent food and strong coffee in you.”

Pastor Dev guided Lydia through the long, cluttered “club” part of the establishment. Lydia cast her gaze about, feeling as if she were in a forbidden zone. She saw reds and burgundies on the walls and in the furniture, plush Victorian sofas and dramatic Tiffany-style lamps, tassels and fringe in gold and bronze, and a huge white grand piano that sat in a prominent place by the floor-to-ceiling window in the front parlor. Across the squeaking, creaking worn wooden floor of the wide hallway, another room was filled with bistro tables and chairs and a gleaming mahogany bar along one wall. A huge sign running the length of the bar stated “Commit your work to the Lord, and your thoughts will be established.”—Proverbs 16:3.

“I just don’t get it,” Lydia whispered, the paradox of this seemingly decadent place running amok in her pristine mind. “I don’t see any alcohol behind that bar.”

“That’s the point,” Pastor Dev said into her ear. “It’s a cover, remember. The coffee bar works just fine. But Kissie makes it pretty clear that if you enter this establishment, it won’t be to drink liquor and carry on. She offers tea, lemonade and a full range of coffees, as well as all kinds of sweet treats. It’s more of a coffeehouse than a real bar, and her patrons know that.”

“But Kissie has her faith right out there for all to see, right along with her dreadlocks and her coffee and chicory,” Lydia retorted. “How can she get away with that and still run a blues club?”

“Kissie can be very persuasive. She’s like a preacher and a party girl all rolled into one neat package. Since she also lets wayward teens live here, she won’t allow any shenanigans. And that’s what makes everyone love her so much,” he said with a little grin. “Trust me.”

There was that request again. Lydia thought about that, thought about Kissie and wondered how many strange people she was going to have to trust before this was all over. Her notion of a proper Christian included a church dress and a set of pearls—not a bright orange-and-brown silk caftan, shiny gold hoop earrings and two gold teeth to match.

But then, maybe her notions were just a bit narrow-minded and preconceived. Kissie did have a brilliant, loving smile and she had helped lots of people to the Lord, according to Pastor Dev.

Plus, her coffee smelled divine and those cinnamon rolls she slapped onto gold-edged china did look too good to pass up. When she added two slices of crisp bacon, Lydia decided Kissie was her new best friend.

“Thank you,” Lydia said as Kissie handed her a cup of coffee and passed the cream. “I’m starving.”

“’Course you are, child.” Kissie glanced from Lydia to Pastor Dev, a serene smile on her face. Then she motioned for the teenage girl she’d called Jacqueline to leave the kitchen. Jacqueline gave them a blank look, but walked out of the room. Kissie waited a couple of seconds. “I’ve been briefed.” Then she shrugged toward Lydia. “SOP.”

“Standard operating procedure,” Pastor Dev clarified.

“With a special urgency, of course,” Kissie added, her voice low.

Lydia glanced up, amazed that the woman’s laid-back tone had changed to all business now. Watching Pastor Dev and Kissie, she could tell things were about to get serious.

So she took a long drink of her coffee and let out a sigh of relief. For some strange reason, she did feel safe here in Kissie’s Korner.

For now at least.

A couple of hours later, Dev peeked in on Lydia. She was sleeping in one of the dark-shaded upstairs bedrooms, her skin pale against the purple floral sheets and lavender satin comforter, her hair fanning out like golden-brown wheat against the shimmering pillow. Dev watched and listened, glad to hear her steady, peaceful breathing. Maybe she would get the rest she needed so much.

But there would be no rest for him.

So he headed downstairs to the room in the back that served as Kissie’s office. The room with all the computers and monitors and cameras. The official CHAIM room.

“How’s our baby girl?” Kissie asked as Dev entered the long, dark area that had once been a sleeping porch. Neither the sun nor the moon reached this place now. The area had been completely sealed off, a secret place hidden from most that frequented this establishment. There were no windows and a small door hidden behind a kitchen cabinet. Anyone who might notice would just think it was a storage room. Not even Lydia would see this dark corner.

“She’s fast asleep.”

Kissie nodded, causing her long braids to fall against her plump shoulder like fringe falling from an afghan. “Poor baby. This ain’t easy.”

“No,” Dev said, closing his eyes to his own fatigue. “I’m sure the food and the hot shower helped.”

“She’ll be okay. I got a man posted nearby, watching. The whole system is on high alert, of course.”

“Good. What’s the word from upstairs?”

Kissie smiled at his reference. It was a little joke amongst the CHAIM team, and a gentle reminder that none of them was really in charge. God was their main boss.

“Well, the higher-ups are not happy. They believe one of their own has turned rogue. There’s the law, and then there’s the law of CHAIM, you understand?”

“Only too well,” Dev replied, remembering his days as a full-time operative. One did not mess with the system. But apparently someone had.

“So do I have new orders?”

“To sit tight right now,” Kissie replied over her shoulder as she hit buttons and flipped switches. “You’ll receive word soon. But not here. The message will be posted at a different location. Probably somewhere else in the city.” She sat down in front of a flickering computer monitor. “So, let’s see the latest. We’ll look for any unusual activity out there.”

Dev watched as numbers and codes flashed by. “What if it’s Eli, Kissie?”

“Of course it’s Eli, honey,” Kissie replied. “No one else would dare break the CHAIM brotherhood. But Eli always was a bit of a renegade, even after he turned his life over to the Lord. It makes sense that he’d be the one.”

Dev ran a hand over his shower-damp hair. “Eli was one of us, one of the best. And because of me, he’s out there on his own now. I can’t decide if he’s truly gone insane, or if he’s just trying to get my attention.”

“Murder could indicate both.”

Dev stared at Kissie, the pain in her eyes matching what he felt in his heart. “I can’t believe he’d deliberately murder someone—even me. It just doesn’t add up. Whoever did this got the wrong man. That’s not like Eli. He’s more thorough. He wouldn’t kill another person just to get to me. He’d just kill me and get it over with. But Eli was—is—a good man. Or at least he was until I blew the whistle on his extracurricular activities and ruined his life.”

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