Secret Agent Minister

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?