Dangerous Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Page B

depression in the roadbed could have concealed the man who tried to kill me. I had felt both frustration and relief when, mid-afternoon, the bottom of the gray heavens opened, and a cold, brittle rain drenched us. Neither Reece nor I could have gone any farther. We had walked back a half mile to my Jeep, and I had driven the deputy to his patrol car parked at Allied Concrete’s rail yard, the spot where we had begun our search. The two-vehicle shuttle had saved the time and effort of hiking all the way back to the start.
    The rain still beat against the dining room window, but I was no longer wet and cold. I was starving. Fortunately, I stared at a table laden with Thanksgiving proportions.
    Mother had included Fats McCauley at the Sunday evening feast. He and my Uncle Wayne had brought the Coleman boy’s casket over by hearse, and it had been easy to convince Fats to stay for dinner. All of us called him Travis to his face, but at three-hundred-plus pounds, “Fats” was the nickname most commonly heard around town.
    When the dinner plates had been smothered in fried chicken, coleslaw, crisp cornbread muffins, and mounds of mashed potatoes coated with brown gravy, the flow of conversation trickled to limited exchanges of observations on the weather and compliments on the food. My mother, satisfied that each had been well-served, joined in the discussion.
    “Was your meeting this afternoon important?” she asked Pace.
    The preacher looked up from a drumstick and laughed. His face cracked into hundreds of weathered crevices, and he pushed back the strands of gray hair that dangled from his high forehead. “Are you saying some Methodist meetings are unimportant, Connie?”
    Mom blushed. She knew he was teasing, but his question embarrassed her. “Oh, no,” she rallied. “I’m sure it was very important if the bishop himself came.”
    “Yeah, that old coot,” said Pace. “If Gabriel sounded his trumpet tonight for Judgment Day, Bishop Richards would organize a committee for how the Methodists should respond. We’d be the last in line at the Pearly Gates.”
    “No,” said Fats. “If it were bingo night, the Catholics would be behind the Methodists. Especially if they held double cards.”
    “At least a bingo game ends,” said Pace. “Well, I’m not being very Christian now, am I? The bishop is all right. Somebody has to make the tough decisions and weigh their theological implications. He leaves me free to wander the mountains serving my three little churches.” The Reverend took a second bite from the drumstick.
    “And the meeting?” asked Susan.
    Pace smiled as he swallowed. “Should have known I couldn’t duck the question. The bishop is assigning a young seminary graduate to assist me. Just for a couple months. You know, ride the circuit, get out of the classroom and into the flock.”
    “Who is he?” Susan asked.
    Reverend Pace winked at me. “Quite a sexist assumption. It’s ‘Who is she?’”
    “A woman? A woman preacher?” Fats McCauley’s eyes widened at the astonishing prospect.
    “I haven’t actually seen her,” replied Pace, “but the name Sarah Hollifield implies we won’t be sharing the same tailor.” The preacher rubbed the lapel of his worn tweed sport coat. “She’s driving over from Asheville with the bishop tomorrow. I’m not sure he is so keen on the idea of a woman ministering to the mountain folk, but she applied and it would reflect poorly on modern Methodism if she were denied the assignment.”
    “What do you think?” asked Susan.
    “If the mountaineers accepted me, a wet-behind-the-ears Duke graduate, forty years ago, anything is possible. Sarah Hollifield will get my full support. God’s work is done by a multitude of hands, male and female.”
    “God moves in mysterious ways, doesn’t She,” said Susan.
    “Humph,” grunted Pace. “I’ll leave that question for the bishop and a committee.”
    The business telephone rang as Mother served coffee and