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  He knew that Bishop Hemphill was about as interested in being a smuggler as he was in taking it upon himself to clean that house he lived in. True, the bishop relished all the goods he had acquired. But he was a cash man—the kind of brother who didn’t feel right unless he had his hand wrapped around a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. The bishop wasn’t trying to find a place in the ranks of the smuggling trade. What he really wanted was something that would put hard, cold cash (lots of it) in his hand to use to purchase some things that couldn’t be displayed in a house.

  Chief turned onto the grassy road leading to the main section of the farm. Denzelle hadn’t missed Chief’s watch or the quality of his shoes and the cut of his clothes. He had also noticed how self-assured and comfortable the man was around wealth and power. Now he understood, looking at all of this land. This farm was not the property of a poor agrarian African family. These people were rich and they had been rich for a very long time.

  They pulled up to the main house, which Denzelle suspected held a lot of surprises on the inside. He smiled and thought about how many black people back home were always careful not to display too much of their actual wealth. It was always better to let people think that you didn’t have anywhere near what you actually possessed.

  Denzelle glanced over at the bishop and knew that he was not in the know about who this family really was. Shame—because these were some people a sensible bishop would want to come to the church, get saved, and become some powerful allies to the Seventeenth District. The operative word, however, was sensible. Judging from that outfit Bishop Hemphill had been sporting yesterday, he didn’t appear to have a reasonable supply of sensibility.

  Chief hopped out of the Land Cruiser and went to embrace Uncle Lee Lee. It had been over a week since he’d been out here, and he was eager to be back home. While he liked being in an urban area, the folks working for the Americans’ Seventeenth Episcopal District got on his nerves. Plus, Chief missed his wife, who was standing there with open arms. He ran to those arms, savoring the love and security he felt. His mistresses offered good comfort. But none of them could hold a candle to his wife.

  Chief held his wife close, and then remembered his home training. He let her go, reluctantly, to introduce Rev. Flowers to his great-great-uncle—the patriarch of their family. He was about to present the bishop to Uncle Lee Lee. But Rucker had hopped out of the Land Cruiser, too, and run across the road to where his uncle’s wife’s sister lived, before Chief could open his mouth. He started to send one of his nephews to get the bishop, but changed his mind when Uncle Lee Lee’s sister-in-law ran out of her house and into Rucker’s arms.

  Chief cracked a crooked grin and shrugged when Rev. Flowers stared at him with raised eyebrows. Clearly, there were things on this farm that Rucker Hemphill lusted after. One was that fine-looking woman across the street. The other was big enough to get him out here in the boonies. That second reason had to be a doozy to get Bishop Hemphill out in the country. Rucker Hemphill didn’t look like the kind of black man who liked being in the country—on either side of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Uncle Lee Lee liked Denzelle the moment he shook the young preacher’s hand. At first he wished that he had been the one sent to run the Seventeenth Episcopal District, then quickly reneged on that notion when it dawned on him that Rev. Flowers was smart, shrewd, and an honest man. He liked that but didn’t want to have to do business with him around. Plus, the preacher had too many ways like a cop for his comfort.

  Denzelle liked Uncle Lee Lee, too. This was a smart man, with his feet planted firmly on all of this good, rich African soil. And when Uncle Lee Lee told him his age, Denzelle had to take a second look at this old man, with that fine and lush-looking woman hanging on his arm. Ninety-five years old and pimping like a big dog in his prime. What in the world was this old man up to? And more importantly, what did it have to do with Rucker Hemphill? He caught Chief watching him and quickly reined in his curiosity. Denzelle liked Chief but didn’t want to ever have to get into an altercation with the man, and then have to kill him.

  After a delicious lunch and a good nap, Denzelle woke up to discover that Bishop Hemphill, Chief, and Uncle Lee Lee were sequestered in a back room talking about something he definitely wanted to hear. He eased down the hall and tried to find a safe place to eavesdrop but changed his mind when he noticed that two of those very friendly relatives he’d eaten lunch with earlier were close by with guns in shoulder holsters.

  “Umph,” Denzelle muttered to himself, “these people have their own militia.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you, preacher?” one of the men asked. He had a very thick accent, which caught Denzelle by surprise. He had gotten used to listening to Chief’s and Uncle Lee Lee’s impeccable English.

  “I was looking for somebody to hang out with,” Denzelle answered, thinking that was such a lame explanation, and then relaxed when he realized they weren’t sure what he was talking about. Both men were now looking at him as if he had one of those little tiny boogers hanging on the tip of his nose.

  “I mean, I was wondering if anyone was up for showing me around, a game of cards, or just sitting on that nice porch and talking. I’m bored silly.”

  “No one available for that, preacher. But you are our guest, and welcome to walk around the land at your leisure. This is a lovely farm and you can entertain yourself with nature.”

  Denzelle sighed and nodded. He’d learned a long time ago about trying to argue with some Africans who had already made their point. He said, “Thanks, man,” went back to his room, and sat down. Maybe he needed to read his Bible.

  “Naaahhh,” Denzelle mumbled, and surveyed his surroundings. No TV. No radio. He lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. That got old quick. He sat up. Maybe a stroll around this farm would be just what the doctor ordered.

  Denzelle picked up his shades and headed out to explore the farm before one of those brothers decided that he didn’t need to be cooped up in that room, and took him on a walk around the farm at gunpoint. Denzelle had been pissed off when they told him to go for a walk and then started laughing at him. But now he looked upward and thanked the good Lord for this blessing in disguise.

  He didn’t need to be with anyone right now. He knew in his gut that what he needed to know was out there on this land. He walked around, enjoying the sights. This really was some beautiful land.

  Denzelle walked quite a distance before deciding to head back to the main house. He would use his compass to help him find his way back, using a slightly different route. He felt a nudge from the Lord, urging him to go south, which was down and away from the main enclave of family and their houses. There was something in this section of the farm, which was confirmed by the rows and rows and rows of every kind of watermelon imaginable. He had never seen this many watermelons in his life.

  It didn’t take Denzelle long to roll up on that old raggedy shed. It was in sharp contrast to the other buildings, which though simple and unassuming, were very well kept. This thing looked as if it would crumble to the ground if you ran your palm across the side. The Lord nudged at him a second time, and Denzelle knew that he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this shed.

  He looked around and made sure that no one was nearby before stepping onto the porch. He stood there for a moment debating whether or not he should go inside. He knew it was okay when the nudge in his spirit was so strong Denzelle felt as if a hand had shoved him up on that rickety porch and to the front door.

  Denzelle reached out toward the doorknob and then suddenly drew back in fear. What if the door was locked, and then the floor gave way under the weight of his muscular frame? That would be very embarrassing and could get him shot, or his butt kicked. He breathed in and out, looking up, and whispered, “Can a preacher get some help down here?”

  Suddenly his heart was flooded with the words from 2 Timothy 1:7.

  For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power a
nd of love and of a sound mind.

  Denzelle felt relief pour all over him and he closed his eyes, whispering, “Thank You, Lord.” He tested the floorboards and discovered that the building was a whole lot sturdier than it looked—a revelation that made him more determined to go inside and investigate. There was something in here.

  He saw those huge spiders as soon as he walked in. It was a pretty good deterrent but Denzelle wasn’t scared of spiders like most people. Plus, he was well educated on the various species, and had studied up on the bugs and spiders in Mozambique before getting on that plane. Nonetheless, he still didn’t want one of those bad boys hopping all over him.

  Most of the spiders were over near a shelf with some grubby-looking pickle jars filled to the brim with nasty-looking grayish-brown powder. He opened the top of one of the jars.

  “Good laaawwwd,” he exclaimed, and then remembered to lower his voice. “Whew… eeeee… that is some funky stuff. Smells like butt, toe jams, and stanky underarms.”

  Denzelle pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at his eyes. He’d never smelled anything like that that wasn’t in the toilet waiting to be flushed away. He swallowed hard and braced himself. He took in a deep breath, dipped a fingertip into the jar, and put the tiniest amount possible on the tip of his tongue. Denzelle gagged and put his hand over his mouth to make sure it didn’t come back up and out onto the floor. It tasted three times worse than it smelled.

  But on the bright side, he knew it wasn’t poison. People didn’t leave lethal poisons out for the simple reason that if they had the poison, they intended to use it and/or sell it for profit. And if they were planning on doing either of those two activities, they wouldn’t want that stuff lying around so that the law or some enemies could find it.

  His stomach was queasy and he felt as if he might have a huge bout of diarrhea. But in less than a minute he started feeling better. And in roughly three minutes Denzelle Flowers was feeling like a million bucks. He was glad this stuff wasn’t poison because he sure would have been a dead man, it worked so fast.

  Denzelle’s achy shoulders and his legs, tired from the guns weighing down his ankles, felt better. The mild headache, which had been bothering him all day, was gone. And even though he was still tired, he noticed that he was feeling unusually energetic. In fact, he felt he could run around this farm several times without giving a thought to stopping.

  As nasty as this stuff tasted, Denzelle couldn’t help but wonder why Uncle Lee Lee was hiding it. He wished he could run out and talk to Uncle Lee Lee himself, and ask him about this stuff, and then find out what it would take for the man to go the legitimate route and patent it. He thought about the potential benefits for fellow FBI agents who were working long hours under very dangerous conditions, and soldiers in combat situations. He could make a killing if this old man would work with him.

  Denzelle was excited and decided that he was going to find a way to broach the subject with Uncle Lee Lee. He put the top back on the jar and walked to the door, peeping out the broken window to make sure that no one was close enough to see him coming out of the shed. When all was clear, he eased the door of the rickety shed open, then stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed himself poking the door with such potency it sounded as if he were knocking on it with his fist.

  Denzelle looked down past his waist, eyes stopping right above his thighs, and almost screamed. He’d never seen anything like it—not on his body. He hadn’t even known there was that much to him. And it would have been an impressive sight, if a fine and sexy sister from his home state of North Carolina had been standing there to ooohh and ahhh over this remarkable scenery. But that was not the case, and here he was standing in this predicament without anyone to appreciate the view. Sometimes life was not fair.

  Right now, however, he needed his body and his mind to be at one—not going in completely opposite directions. So Denzelle tried to distract his own body by thinking about every ugly girl who had tried to get next to him. It didn’t work, though. He was in such a rigid state that thoughts of the ugly girls made things worse—they were, after all, girls. And in the dark, they could become cute for a second or two.

  The situation wasn’t getting better. And it threatened to get worse when he heard people outside the shed, and it was clear that they were looking for him. He slipped all the way back inside and eased away from the windows, hoping that one of those big spiders wouldn’t get on him.

  Someone walked up on the porch, looked around, and then walked off. Denzelle let out a deep breath. He began to pray that his body would be restored to the state it had been in before he walked his big bad self up in this messed-up shed and tasted the powder from Hell. He heard them calling his name, and was relieved to know that Chief sounded worried. That was good. They would be more likely to believe him when he gave them the sob and woeful “I got lost” tale.

  That boy let those people look for him for another twenty minutes, until he was sure that his body had receded to a more normal and comfortable state. He sneaked back out of the shed and wandered around, following their voices. Then, he decided it was time they found him. They all looked relieved when Denzelle appeared, looking like he was so happy to see them. Chief was glad the young preacher had not found that shed, and couldn’t believe he had been dumb enough to go off alone in a place he knew nothing about.

  Chief patted Denzelle on the shoulder and said, “You Americans are so impetuous—always running off to explore something new. You better be more thoughtful before you go off like that next time, preacher. Remember, the last time some Africans walked off like that, they were shipped across the water to become Americans.”

  “Sorry, Chief,” Denzelle said, hoping he looked contrite and relieved to be found. He was glad to be around a bunch of men because they would be less likely to look at the part of his body capable of displaying the last remnant of the effects of that powder. Well, he certainly hoped they wouldn’t want to look at him like that.

  When they got back to the house, he would have been home free if they had not gone past Uncle Lee Lee’s wife’s sister. She sneaked a look at the young pastor and winked when she knew no one was paying attention to her. She liked the bishop but he was an older man. The powder worked wonders for him. And she could only imagine what remarkable things it would do for a man Rev. Flowers’s age.

  While the rest of the evening was pleasant enough, Denzelle was more than ready to go back to Bishop Hemphill’s compound, and even more ready to get to the airport so he could put his feet on American soil.

  Despite finding the miracle potion, Denzelle hadn’t found anything that could be used to snatch Rucker Hemphill out of this spot and sanction him to the never-never land of being a located bishop. Because he knew that is exactly what Bishop Jennings was planning to do—and that he wanted to get this unpleasant task over with before the Triennial General Conference began.

  Now, the FBI? They were after something completely different. Denzelle’s boss, Greg Williams, had started getting more disturbing reports that one of the smuggling cartel’s command centers in North Carolina was looking to become the hot spot for drug trafficking. And Greg was beginning to get concerned that somebody in the Gospel United Church’s group of Africa-based bishops would in some way aid and abet this endeavor.

  Even though Denzelle had seen a lot, he hadn’t seen enough for Agent Williams to get a warrant to search the alleged supply centers in North Carolina. But what he had seen made him suspicious that Bishop Hemphill was going to get Chief’s family to fix him up with enough of that nasty powder to take to the Triennial General Conference in Durham. And since Denzelle was a praying man, he knew when the Lord was trying to tell him something.

  Chief had them up and out early the next morning. He knew the bishop was anxious to get back to the compound because an extra shipment was due in by late evening. He glanced back at Denzelle, who was trying to get comfortable in the backseat of the Land Cruiser. The more he thought about it, the less he beli
eved that Denzelle had gotten lost. He just hoped that the preacher had not gone to their new storage building and found all of that stuff from the shipment that had just come in. He liked the young preacher, and would definitely have had to kill him—which would have made him sad.

  Denzelle, who didn’t want to be bothered with Bishop Hemphill, stretched out across the backseat and closed his eyes. Rucker pulled out a cigar and trimmed the end. He loved a good cigar on a long ride. Chief put on an Anita Baker cassette tape. He loved the way that woman sang. She had a voice that made him think of the sky, late on a starry night. And listening to Anita Baker would make the trip back to the compound seem shorter, and definitely more pleasant. He’d been waiting on this tape, and was happy to find out it had come in with the last shipment.

  Denzelle was a guest of Bishop Hemphill for a week. He was ready to go back home but couldn’t leave until he could get a good flight out and hopefully get more information than he’d accumulated so far. On day six Chief came by and went off with the bishop to the library. This time there were no relatives with guns guarding anything, and Denzelle was determined to find out what the deal was with the bishop and this family.

  He knew that wherever it was, Chief and the bishop were going to discuss it in that library. At first, Denzelle tried walking back and forth in front of the closed library door. But that got old quick when a servant kept asking him if he needed anything. He thought about sitting down in a chair near the door, then changed his mind. That would be more conspicuous than pacing at the door.

  There had to be a way to get this information without drawing attention to himself. There was. Denzelle went outside and found a seat on one of Rucker Hemphill’s fancy stone benches near an open window. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. It was a library window. Denzelle couldn’t have had it better than this, if he had gone and opened the window himself. He could hear everything.