How to Write Short Stories And Use Them to Further Your Writing Career by James Scott Bell

Author:James Scott Bell [Bell, James Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Compendium Press
Published: 2016-11-07T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

"Chapter and Verse"

by Jeffery Deaver

Copyright © Jeffery Deaver

From his collection More Twisted. Used by permission of the author

“Reverend . . . can I call you ‘Reverend’?”

The round, middle-aged man in the clerical collar smiled. “That works for me.”

“I’m Detective Mike Silverman with the County Sheriff’s Department.”

Reverend Stanley Lansing nodded and examined the ID and badge that the nervously slim, salt-and-pepper—haired detective offered.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing involving you, sir. Not directly, I mean. Just hoping you might be able to help us with a situation we have.”

“Situation. Hmm. Well, come on inside, please, Officer . . .”

The men walked into the office connected to the First Presbyterian Church of Bedford, a quaint, white house of worship that Silverman had passed a thousand times on his route between office and home and never really thought about.

That is, not until the murder this morning.

Reverend Lansing’s office was musty and a gauze of dust covered most of the furniture. He seemed embarrassed. “Have to apologize. My wife and I’ve been away on vacation for the past week. She’s still up at the lake. I came back to write my sermon— and to deliver it to my flock this Sunday, of course.” He gave a wry laugh. “If there’s anybody in the pews. Funny how religious commitment seems to go up around Christmas and then dip around vacation time.” Then the man of the cloth looked around the office with a frown. “And I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you. The church secretary’s off too. Although between you and me, you’re better off not sampling her coffee.”

“No, I’m fine,” Silverman said.

“So, what can I do for you, Officer?”

“I won’t keep you long. I need some religious expertise on a case we’re running. I would’ve gone to my father’s rabbi but my question’s got to do with the New Testament. That’s your bailiwick, right? More than ours.”

“Well,” the friendly, gray-haired reverend said, wiping his glasses on his jacket lapel and replacing them, “I’m just a small-town pastor, hardly and expert. But I probably know Matthew, Mark, Luke and John better than your average rabbi, I suspect. Now, tell me how I can help.”

“You’ve heard about the witness protection program, right?”

“Like Goodfellas, that sort of thing? The Sopranos.”

“More or less, yep. The U.S. Marshals run the federal program but we have our own state witness protection system.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. But I guess it makes sense.”

“I’m in charge of the program in the county here and one of the people we’re protecting is about to appear as a witness in a trial in Hamilton. It’s our job to keep him safe through the trial and after we get a conviction—we hope—then we’ll get him a new identity and move him out of the state.”

“A Mafia trial?”

“Something like that.”

Silverman couldn’t go into the exact details of the case—how the witness, Randall Pease, a minder for drug dealer Tommy Doyle, had seen his boss put a bullet into the brain of a rival. Despite Doyle’s reputation

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