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“Somebody’s here,” North said, scanning the lot. A few trucks, a handful of sedans, most of the vehicles domestic, most of them low- or mid-trim models. Nothing flashy. Nothing one of the Mosses might drive, North was fairly sure.
Then Shaw pointed to a patch of shade along the side of the building. Golf carts were parked there, and on the back of each one, silver letters suggested the owner:Pastor MossandPastor Moss, which must have meant the older and the younger, andBrother Moss, which must have been Gid. Of course, North thought. They lived on the fucking campus—why not drive a golf cart the hundred yards from your house? Hell, they probably thought they were being humble. Jesus probably drove a golf cart.
When they tried the front doors, they were unlocked. The lobby was vast and cool and a pool of shadows, and the building had the unnatural silence of a space that was meant to be noisy and full of bodies. It didn’t look like any church lobby North had ever seen. He wasn’t a church expert, but he’d seen enough to know some of it was standard fare—a cluster of seating, faith-promoting pamphlets, religious artwork that had the distinction of being both sentimental and banal at the same time. In most of them, Our Lord and Savior looked like he’d be better off running a MyFans. Why was it so important to show that the Redeemer of the World had abs?
That was where similarities ended. The lobby also had a coffee shop, with a roll-up counter door that was currently closed, and a blackboard listing expensive iced drinks for worshippers to enjoy while having their souls saved. There was a popcorn machine, dark and empty and clean. A rock-climbing wall dominated one side of the lobby, apparently in case someone felt the need for a burst of high-adrenaline rappelling in the middle of a sermon. North even spotted a religiously themed pinball machine, and the way it was set up, it looked like you were shooting the pinballs right at the Lamb of the World’s nuggets.
No one came to see what they wanted. No outraged guards with assault rifles burst through the doors. Nobody even asked for a donation, and North thought they were missing their opportunity because if he were going to become religious, and Shaw didn’t make him become a witch or a warlock or high priestess of whatever-whatever (there were probably hats involved), this would be the church for him. He’d recommend one of those arcade games they had in bars, the one where you were hunting a deer, and the little plastic rifle was mounted on a swivel. Maybe they could change it up. Maybe instead of deer, you could be hunting liberals.
Hallways opened on the left and right, and North gave each a quick look. A few doors stood open, lights on, and they appeared to be offices. It probably took a good number of people to keep an operation like this running smoothly. Instead of trying one of the halls, though, he crossed to the wall of doors at the far end of the lobby—eight pairs of steel doors. Lots of doors for moving lots of people.
On the other side, he looked into a space that seemed like a combination of a sports arena and a TV production studio. Stadium seating rose on three sides of the stage, and North wondered how many people might be able to fit in the room—in the thousands, he guessed, and that was probably a conservative estimate. The stage itself was framed with equipment: lighting rigs, cameras, a sound board. The pulpit looked like it had previously done service on the Starship Enterprise. An enormous metal cross hung on the wall behind the stage, but LED screens mounted everywhere dominated the space, ensuring everyone had a good view of Pastor Moss.
All of those details registered in the first moments that North scanned the room. Then his attention fixed on the handful of people gathered near the stage: Gid and his brother Jed, their mother, and the old Pastor Moss.
The Mosses didn’t seem to have noticed North and Shaw yet. Gid slouched in a director’s chair. Mrs. Moss sat next to her husband in the lowest row of the stadium seating. Old Pastor Moss’s head hung to the side, and his eyes stared unblinkingly into the dimly lit expanse of the sanctuary. Jed was the only one who seemed alive in that moment: he held a sheaf of papers and was pacing back and forth in front of the stage.
“If it’s going to be a cruise,” Jed was saying, “don’t we need to tie that in somehow?” He took a pen from behind his ear, held the pages against his leg, and crossed something out. “Walking the Waves with Jesus? Something like that?”
“People respond better when there’s a catchy name,” Mrs. Moss agreed. “We saw a sixteen percent jump after we transitioned the food pantry to Peter’s Pantry.”
“Ride the Wave of Faith,” Jed said, mostly to himself. “Ride Your Personal Wave of Faith. Riding Your Wave of Faith to Jesus.” He made a noise and shook his head.
“Gideon?” Mrs. Moss said. “What do you think?”
If Gideon had been cast in a faith-promoting movie, North thought—perhapsCowabunga!: Riding Your Faith to Jesus 2, The Curse of the Shaka Wave—he would have been playing the part of Sulky Rebellious Teenager. He slouched in the director’s chair, not making eye contact with anyone, and he waited long enough after his mother’s question for the pause to become an insult. Then he said, “I think it was my idea. And you said I was going to give the sermon this week, and you said I could tell people about it—”
“Yes,” Mrs. Moss said, in that church lady voice, “and that was before you fucked everything up. Jed, let’s go with Walking the Waves with Jesus.”
Jed scribbled on the page again, muttering to himself, and Gid shrank further into his seat. Sullen, yes, North thought as he started the voice recorder on his phone and walked toward the stage. But something more. Angry, maybe. They were about to find out.
They were halfway to the stage when Mrs. Moss turned and looked at them.
“Sorry to interrupt,” North said. “We just wanted a word with Gid.”
Gid scrambled around to face them. Jed looked up from his notes. Old Pastor Moss wheezed and started to fall sideways before Mrs. Moss caught him. The movement seemed reflexive; she didn’t even have to look.
“You need to leave,” Mrs. Moss said. “Right now. As of this moment, you’re trespassing, and I won’t ask you again.”
“Do you want me to—” Jed began.
Mrs. Moss cut her hand through the air, and Jed stopped.
“Gid,” Shaw said, “you can either talk to us, or you can talk to the police. It’s going to be better if you talk to us.”
Gid swallowed, and although his gaze didn’t move to his mom, it did shift a little in her direction. He didn’t look good: his rockabilly hair was flat, his eyes were baggy, and the rumpled tracksuit looked like it was stained with food. Even under all that spray-on orange, he paled.
“Did you hear my mother?” Jed began.
Mrs. Moss moved her hand again, and Jed fell silent.
“Gideon’s not going to talk to you,” Mrs. Moss said. “And he’s certainly not going to talk to the police. Chief Somerset can contact our lawyer if he’d like to talk with Gideon, and then our lawyer will advise the best course of action.”
“The best course of action.” North snorted. “The best course of action would be to tie these two in a sack, drop them in the river, and start over.”
Jed gasped. Gid’s eyes got huge. But Mrs. Moss, steadying her husband again, only watched North. She was so white; he was struck by it again. And the bob of white hair. And the white daisy pinned to the lapel of her gray jacket.
“Sorry, Jed,” Shaw said with a shrug. “But you two are kind of duds.”
