Soon After Read online

  Soon After

  Sherryle Kiser Jackson

  www.urbanchristianonline.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - No Rest for The Weary

  Chapter 2 - Battin’ Down the Hatches

  Chapter 3 - Like Doubting Thomas

  Chapter 4 - The Preacher’s New Robe

  Chapter 5 - A Tale of Two Pastors

  Chapter 6 - Darkness Becomes Light

  Chapter 7 - Three White Lies and a Gag Order

  Chapter 8 - A Consuming Fire

  Chapter 9 - A Game of Cat and Mouse

  Chapter 10 - Hope Not Dope

  Chapter 11 - A Battery of Tests

  Chapter 12 - The Rightful Renegade

  Chapter 13 - Dinner with Bridezilla

  Chapter 14 - Blanche is Back

  Chapter 15 - Can you keep a secret?

  Chapter 16 - A Bump in the Road

  Chapter 17 - The New It Girl

  Chapter 18 - A New Attitude

  Chapter 19 - An Elevated View

  Chapter 20 - Not so Wise Counsel

  Chapter 21 - Her Epiphany

  Chapter 22 - Bent on Intent

  Chapter 23 - A Mutual Agreement

  Chapter 24 - The Man Cave

  Chapter 25 - The Bedside Clinician and the Heavenly Prescription

  Chapter 26 - Motion of Discovery

  Chapter 27 - The Fate of the Fire

  Chapter 28 - A Bishop’s Worth

  Epilogue

  Reader’s Guide Questions

  Urban Christian His Glory Book Club!

  Notes

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  To LB Kiser, my dad and Delores B. Kiser; your parenting was the perfect blend between bravery and vulnerability, traditional rigidity and flexibility. The epitome of compassion, you let me and Monique see the dents in your armor and let us learn from them. Next to Christ, you are my heroes.

  Acknowledgements

  I never wanted to write a sequel, let alone, a mystery of sorts. I am a Christian fiction writer with heaven, not the hell of crime scenes and jail in my view. But I went there. It was indeed a journey that started in January ’09 when my executive editor, Joylynn Jossel, advised that I neither put anymore time nor another book between my debut novel, Soon and Very Soon, and its sequel. So thanks, Joylynn, for that.

  I wanted to be a career writer, so this was the test. I had to turn this around in nine months. I knew it could be done. All good writers, Cleage, Briscoe, Dickey, and the dynamite Christian fiction authors, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Victoria Christopher Murray and all the Urban Christian authors write on a schedule, right? They show me the tireless effort of writers that create, edit, market, and promote all inside of a year. I met some great people and learned some invaluable lessons at the ’09 Faith and Fiction retreat, as well as the ’09 National Book Club Conference. What an amazing job and undertaking of authors, Tiffany L. Warren and Curtis Bunn respectively, to bring together readers and writers on such a grand scale.

  I think it was Victoria Christopher Murray, who many affectionately dub as the godmother of modern Christian fiction, that talked about her recurring character, Jasmine as a franchise character in one of her interviews. I thought about that when bringing back Willie and Vanessa Green. Whole NBA teams are built around a franchise player, and the Greens as a newlywed couple that live between ministry and insanity had not finished telling their stories to me. What do you know? There might be a part three. Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.

  Thanks to all that dispensed legal advice, Christine Northern, Crystal Evans, and Tonia Fergueson. It’s convoluted to me. Did I interpret that right? To Lisa A. Herb at ATF and Joy Copeland who pointed me in the direction of a series of books to begin my fire investigations research, I appreciate the help.

  Ms. Ella Curry, your manifold blessing is on the way for helping me and the world of Black literature as a whole. I know no one who works as hard as you.

  To all my friends, family, saints, sorors, boosters, and road dogs, thanks for taking the ride with me to the brink of insanity.

  Sherryle Kiser Jackson

  Prologue

  Alexis Montgomery, the local assignment reporter, didn’t hear her Channel 7 production assistant re-enter the editing room. She was listening to old voice tracks from the Harvest Baptist Church fire story she broke nearly a week previous on Easter Sunday and a subsequent report recorded earlier. Martie Hamilton plopped down beside her and began unpacking his dinner.

  “It’s dying, Martie,” Alexis said, dropping her face to the desktop. “My piece is dying right before my eyes.”

  “What happened? You were so adamant at this morning’s production meeting that this was a story with legs—good enough for the Inside 7 segment. Everyone was saying, the new girl has got spunk. She’s already figured out how to work the system and get resume-worthy air time. I thought you were going out to do another remote after that speed camera’s piece you covered this afternoon. Sunset is catching up with you, kiddo.”

  “No one has any free time. I can’t pay a crew to go out, and what’s the use? It’s the same charred and crumbled mess. I must have been high off of Frappuccino this morning. I’ve been so concerned finding the right story to get me more air time and beat those jerks on assignment at the other station to the anchor chair, that I’m stuck. I thought I’d get clearance to walk inside by now, detail the damage, you know, or to at least get a fire official to shoot some footage for us. That’s it. The building’s taped off, and I’m waiting for the magic word.”

  “So much for passing out Starbucks gift cards to the Bureau secretaries and other informants around town,” he said with a smirk. “You’re playing anchor on assignment. There is a long road to the anchor chair, darling. Very few find that golden story, become the golden guy or gal of the station, and have their profiles framed out every night on nightly news, especially in this area. It’s too much going on. Sorry to put it to you this way, but you’ve got the community beat, not politics, not sports nor high-crime. You’re the low man on the totem pole. By the way, Stan told me to give you the heads up. The Marc train derailment that happened mid day will have two remotes tomorrow, Greenbelt and New Carrolton. You’ll be splitting yourself in half tomorrow. But if anyone can do it, it’s you, Milky.”

  Alexis winced at the nickname she has tried hard to shake. She garnered that nickname back home in the small town of Kannapolis, North Carolina where she started out, also on assignment. She was known to do anything for a story, kiss babies, handle animals, and demonstrate stunts. While reporting on the county fair she stepped in to demonstrate how to milk a cow. The oversized cow doused her with more than a fair share of milk. Because she was reporting live, she continued her interview with the dairy farmer, unknowingly giving the tri-state area an eye full of her ample bosom through her white blouse. The film made it to a national blooper show when the pig of a camera man who couldn’t manage to shoot the frame from eye level sent a copy of it in. It ran repeatedly.

  Needless to say, she got a lot of unwanted attention. It was like the beauty queen turned weather girl. Alexis was offered the most bizarre assignments. Any opportunity to get sweaty or dirty for the good of the story was given directly to her. She was quite popular, but for all the wrong reasons. She was a journalist. She wanted to be taken seriously. So she left the station choosing not to be pigeon-holed into the role of media eye candy.

  Alexis watched Martie open a bag of chips and shook a few on his Reuben stacker before pressing the rye bread with the flat of his hand until
the chips snapped like twigs and the thousand island dressing seeped out the sides like sap. She didn’t want him to see her sulk, so she took possession of his half-empty bag of chips as she thought about her story. She certainly didn’t spend time setting this story up just to start another assignment. That would give another available reporter, or worse, an anchor the chance to revive the story when the truth was uncovered. She didn’t know why, but she had faith in this story as an investigative piece. She should have gone out to do more leg work in her spare time—spoke to some more people in the community.

  “The big boys agreed to run the follow up. It can’t be that bad.” Martie noticed her pained expression and offered her the other half of his sandwich with a nod of his head.

  “It’s like day old carryout,” Alexis whined.

  “It’s not like we’ve never warmed up leftovers on network news before. Let’s hear it.”

  Alexis pushed the PLAY on the machine that timed her new voice recording-over to the week-old footage of the burnt and hydrant soaked church building.

  This is Alexis Montgomery for Channel 7 news. You might remember on Easter Sunday we brought you our first report of a fire at a local church. What was unusual was the praise vigil that brought previous members back to this edifice in memorial to their former church home. As we’ve been reporting, the Harvest Baptist Church located in the 8900 block of Lincoln Avenue in Capitol Heights, Maryland remains taped off from everyone but authorities as an ongoing investigation of the Easter morning inferno continues. Sources tell us officials from both the PG County Fire Department and the local sheriff’s department have ruled out electrical failure, but are guarded as to the actual cause of the blaze. What we do know is that early estimates of $400,000 dollars in damages have been increased to a little over a half a million. The question remains—was this fire a random act or intentionally set? This last but important detail has to be determined before plans of rebuilding can begin.

  “It ran at five and six. Didn’t even make the recap at seven before the World Report. I can kiss the Inside segment goodbye.” Alexis spoke of the local weekly news magazine that was similar to 60 Minutes, which was the closest a newbie like her got to anchoring if the story was right. She had seen some assignment reporters have the great fortune of covering a windfall of a story that garnered those recurring weeks with the host, Lizzy London, at the anchor’s desk.

  “Might run at eleven, but won’t have a chance without a fresh remote and a fresh angle. Six A.M., New Carrolton Metro station—interview commuters inconvenienced by the Marc train situation,” Martie said.

  She would be there. She had to if she wanted to keep her job, but she wasn’t interested in any derailment story. The Harvest Baptist Church story fascinated her. The building reminded her of her church home and of her grandfather who was the pastor there. She didn’t see too many of these small congregations thriving in the midst of the mega ministries in the DC Metropolitan area. Even some of the most historic ministries had upgraded or had a face-lift or two. The people she saw that Easter Sunday decked out in their Easter apparel were rooted in faith and the traditions of the church.

  Alexis missed her old church that was the center of her rural community. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been able to find a church home that suited her after moving to the metropolitan area and breaking into broadcast journalism. Her grandfather had been concerned that she’d lose her soul chasing her dreams to the big city. In addition to leaving the sexist station, she was trying her best to outrun the ghost of shame she had tried to leave behind in Kannapolis.

  “There’s something there. There is more. I’m going out on my free time tomorrow to find it.” New determination was in her eyes.

  “What is it about this story? I don’t get it. This is not like that string of church fires in Alabama. This is one isolated case—an act of God. Isn’t the mark of a good journalist to know when to move on? I’m afraid you’re going to lose your objectivity going after your perception of truth.

  “For one thing, this church has got a cast of characters a mile long. I’ve kept a list from my initial report,” she said, consulting a notebook full of notes. There is the former pastor who conveniently moved on after a nasty split from his members a few months before the suspicious fire, a deacon who sparked the whole rift, a new pastor who stands to get a new building depending on the insurance figures, and a homeless guy who is like a renegade that found Christ and now is hungry for a pulpit and a willing ear.”

  “There’s your stories right there. Pitch them to the Inside 7 producers.” Martie put his hands up in a revelatory gesture.

  “I’m tracking down a few, but I don’t want to work a tabloid piece, Martie. I’m a serious journalist. Besides, if this thing swings the way I think it will, the aforementioned better have good lawyers lined up. Mark my words: that church didn’t burn down by itself.” She indicated to him that he had a glob of Thousand Island dressing left in the corner of his mouth, which he promptly took a napkin to.

  “Many reporters on assignment have built a successful career on tabloid-ish, or what I like to call human interest stories. The really great ones know how to mix both. Go after your stories. I’ll back you at the next production meeting.”

  “Thanks, Martie.”

  Just then her Blackberry vibrated. A text from her source at the fire department who she met after the first story was telling her to check her email. She remembered extending him a generous fifty dollar coffee tab for allegiance. Alexis strained her eyes to make out the miniature scanned report that was on its way to the office of the Prince Georges County Fire Marshal and Maryland State Fire Department marked with the magic word–arson. She didn’t need Martie’s backing. All of a sudden her story had sprouted legs and was walking.

  Chapter 1

  No Rest for The Weary

  Willie Green strolled leisurely from the front entrance of the Pleasant Harvest Baptist Church to the office suite. He was keenly aware that his feet were confined to his dress shoes and his neck was noosed by his tie. As busy as his year had been combining churches with his wife, the couple decided to take an early vacation, a free frolicking Spring Break, like college students take. It started Easter Monday and lasted one blissful, congregation-free week. After seven days and six nights of sleeping in, walking along the Jersey shoreline, and dinning out at the quaint restaurants of Cape May, it was official. He had to go back to work.

  He spotted Luella, their administrative assistant, on the telephone as he cleared the corner. He could tell by the tilt of her head and the coil of telephone cord around her finger that she had been conversing for a while and that the call was a personal one. Their absence had not offered her time off, but rather had offered a more relaxed work schedule. He cleared his throat to announce his arrival.

  “Goodness, Pastor. You scared me,” Luella said, pausing to say goodbye to someone who had enough sense to quickly relinquish the call. She stood up. “Sorry.”

  With a wave of his hand, Willie assured her that she hadn’t committed any cardinal sin. “Next time I’ll announce myself with a chorus of ‘Sign me up for the Christian Jubilee’.”

  The joke was lost on her. She was a young woman with an old name. She couldn’t be any older than thirty. Good home and business school training, but a bit too staunch for his taste. Give him personable over professional any day, like his old church clerk and mother-figure, Mae Richardson, who had passed away right before their churches combined. Willie and Luella hadn’t quite bonded, but Willie could understand why she and Vanessa meshed so well. His wife was all business, all the time. She would give Luella an itemized list of things to do with a timeline, then lock herself away for hours working on a project. Willie was always stir crazy locked in his office too long and craved social interaction by noon.

  “I figured since it was after eleven that you and Sister Pastor were taking another day off. Where is Sister Pastor, by the way?”

  “She’s taking another day. Like y
ou said, sometimes you need a vacation after your vacation.” He covered his mouth with his hand as if to let her in on a secret. “I think she just wanted a Willie-free day.”

  Willie had thought certain that Vanessa would be ready to return to the church operations as well. He had always known her to quickly move on to the next thing. She had outlined at least four sermons while they were away that he knew she wanted to cross reference with the catalog of sermons she kept on her office computer. Plus she was involved in the planning of both the upcoming Trinity Conference and the Church’s 50th Anniversary.

  He gave her a lecture about being present, enjoying the moment, and not taking too much work with them on their vacation. Once she got the idea, he figured it was taking her awhile to switch back out of relax mode. Willie nudged her at 8 A.M. and then again at nine thirty when he finally got up to eat and get dressed. She rattled off some excuse from their four poster bed as if he were her employee and she was calling in sick.

  “Well, I certainly have missed you two, and so have the fifty or so people who’ve called or left messages for you all,” Luella said in her chipper cadence.

  As if on cue, her desk telephone rang at that moment. Willie listened as she acknowledged the caller with a perky and polite Pleasant Harvest greeting. “As a matter of fact, he’s right here,” Luella said, banking the call before he could object.

  “So much for getting situated,” Willie murmured as he looked for a place to rest his briefcase.

  “She’s on line two.”

  “She?” Willie asked. His finger was poised on the receiver.

  “Alexis Montgomery, a reporter for Channel 7.” She referenced a pad on her desk. “Called twice while you were away and once this morning. That would put her at the top of your call back list.”

  Willie put up a finger to halt further explanation as he tried to figure out for a moment the possible nature of the call. “Hello, this is Pastor Willie Green.”