The Father
Thursday afternoon, he sat in his office in the church building, writing Sunday’s sermon. He’d decided to speak about loss, how pain and grief were essential to appreciating life’s joys, how suffering was an integral part of God’s master plan.
He had assumed things would move on quickly, that the women would avoid talking about Juliette’s baby in an effort to put it all behind them.
He’d been wrong.
Those cackling hens wouldn’t shut up.
The hidden microphones he’d had installed in their work barn and bunkhouse brought him no end of discussion about how the “poor little thing” had been “taken much too soon.” No matter how many times he reminded the women that death takes a person to God’s holy realm and was something to celebrate rather than mourn, the death of Juliette’s baby hung like a dark shroud over the refuge.
Ecclesiastes 3:1–8 was the go-to verse for times like these.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time for war, and a time for peace.
His sermon would make it clear that the time for mourning and weeping and speaking about the tragic loss of Juliette’s child was over. It was now time to heal, laugh, and shut the fuck up.
His radio crackled and Jebediah’s voice came over the airwaves. “Father, that female police officer is on the ridge again.”
Damn it to hell! “What’s she doing?”
“She has a biker pulled over. It looks like she’s giving the rider a ticket.”
Two of his men had encountered the cop and her dog when they’d been fishing earlier in the week. They’d told him she’d asked some questions. How long they’d lived in the refuge, how many people belonged to the People of Peace. Her questions could have been simple small talk, idle curiosity on her part. After all, she hadn’t issued them a citation for the expired fishing licenses, and she’d told them she and her partner enjoyed the lake. The park was the perfect place to let a K-9 out to do its business. Still, she sure seemed to drive by the church on a regular basis. None of the other officers in their area had taken such an interest in them. And the fact that she and that detective had tried to gain entry to the grounds, well, that didn’t sit well with him. He had a feeling something more was going on here, and that the “something more” involved the baby.
He pressed the button to respond to Jeb. “Find Juliette,” he said. “Get her back in the silo out of sight. Take her through the woods so you won’t be spotted.”
“Yes, Father.”
He whipped out his cell phone and placed a call. He hated spending money on lawyers, but he didn’t see another way. Just like there was clergy-penitent privilege, there was an attorney-client privilege. Good thing. He didn’t want law enforcement to find out the truth. Not that he was going to tell the attorney the exact truth, of course. Just something close enough to the truth to get a useful legal opinion.