Secret Agent Minister

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.