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Authors: Lesile J. Sherrod
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Savant?”
“Let him know that I have fellow contacts who would also like to meet with him at his earliest convenience. His backing is imperative to our progress, so we are expecting nothing less than his full support for all of our plans. Please convey that message to him.”
Anthony stared again at the sloppy handwriting.
You meet with Haberstick at two o'clock.
You will make the right decision.
It was one-thirty now. Anthony refolded the note and put it underneath some papers in his desk drawer. Marvin sat across the office at a computer workstation, nodding his head and tapping two pencils to the continuous beat pounding through his headphones.
“Here comes my part! Yes! Aw, man!
Ooh, ooh, yeah!
” He sang, not realizing how loud his voice was over the music blaring from his headset.
Anthony looked at the clock. One-thirty-seven.
I really need to talk to someone.
The note. The man at the Solomon Grill. The meeting with Haberstick. Everything. Anthony was beginning to feel more unnerved. He picked up the phone and dialed Terri's cell-phone number. Her voice mail came on immediately, signaling that the phone was turned off. He dialed Pastor Green's number, first at church, and then his home. Surprisingly, there was no answer at either.
I guess that just leaves You to talk to, huh, Lord?
Anthony reached for his little green Gideon New Testament.
I need a word from You, Jesus.
Some strength, some peace.
He flipped through the thin, worn pages until he reached Hebrews chapter thirteen. “For He hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. So that we may boldly say, The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me,” Anthony read quietly. The sacred words poured like oil into his troubled soul.
Kent Cassell took another deep gulp of coffee. The waitress at the Solomon Grill had given it to him just the way he liked it—black, with no sugar, or cream, or any of that other frilly stuff. Kent's wife, Mona, often laughed at him, wondering how he could guzzle down such a bitter-tasting liquid. But even she expected nothing less from a man who had the stamina of a mountain lion waiting patiently to single out and then pounce on his prey.
That was how Kent felt at the moment, sitting in his dark green sedan near the parking lot of Haberstick Associates. He had been working steadfastly on this case ever since the regional office of the FBI had contacted the small sheriff's office of Shepherd Hills.
Kent had been on the verge of becoming sheriff himself nearly a year ago. That is until he began asking questions about some local politicians' fund-raising techniques. It seemed that the more information he got, the crazier his life became. First there were the untraceable phone calls to his home made by a silent caller who hung up as soon as the phone was answered. And then there were the repeated break-ins into Mona's home day-care business that left her feeling jittery and him embarrassed. Here he was a cop, and he didn't even know what was going on or how to stop it.
The final straw was a serious hit-and-run accident that left him with a permanently damaged knee. After the crash the momentum of his investigation seemed to fizzle away, as did any legitimate leads into who had run into his old police cruiser.
Following the accident, Mona's anxiety turned into hysteria. Kent decided to remove his bid for the sheriff's seat, but he kept his internal departmental connections strong and started his own private detective business. Sheriff Malloy, Kent's close friend and former colleague, usually informed him of any new developments before the rest of the department knew anything.
Malloy was the one who'd told Kent about the FBI's inquiry into local political matters. Kent, hungry for justice and closure, immediately took the case full-time. This was personal.
He did not trust politicians. And he didn't trust preachers either. Kent was convinced that both were in it for the money and would do
“Let him know that I have fellow contacts who would also like to meet with him at his earliest convenience. His backing is imperative to our progress, so we are expecting nothing less than his full support for all of our plans. Please convey that message to him.”
Anthony stared again at the sloppy handwriting.
You meet with Haberstick at two o'clock.
You will make the right decision.
It was one-thirty now. Anthony refolded the note and put it underneath some papers in his desk drawer. Marvin sat across the office at a computer workstation, nodding his head and tapping two pencils to the continuous beat pounding through his headphones.
“Here comes my part! Yes! Aw, man!
Ooh, ooh, yeah!
” He sang, not realizing how loud his voice was over the music blaring from his headset.
Anthony looked at the clock. One-thirty-seven.
I really need to talk to someone.
The note. The man at the Solomon Grill. The meeting with Haberstick. Everything. Anthony was beginning to feel more unnerved. He picked up the phone and dialed Terri's cell-phone number. Her voice mail came on immediately, signaling that the phone was turned off. He dialed Pastor Green's number, first at church, and then his home. Surprisingly, there was no answer at either.
I guess that just leaves You to talk to, huh, Lord?
Anthony reached for his little green Gideon New Testament.
I need a word from You, Jesus.
Some strength, some peace.
He flipped through the thin, worn pages until he reached Hebrews chapter thirteen. “For He hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. So that we may boldly say, The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me,” Anthony read quietly. The sacred words poured like oil into his troubled soul.
Kent Cassell took another deep gulp of coffee. The waitress at the Solomon Grill had given it to him just the way he liked it—black, with no sugar, or cream, or any of that other frilly stuff. Kent's wife, Mona, often laughed at him, wondering how he could guzzle down such a bitter-tasting liquid. But even she expected nothing less from a man who had the stamina of a mountain lion waiting patiently to single out and then pounce on his prey.
That was how Kent felt at the moment, sitting in his dark green sedan near the parking lot of Haberstick Associates. He had been working steadfastly on this case ever since the regional office of the FBI had contacted the small sheriff's office of Shepherd Hills.
Kent had been on the verge of becoming sheriff himself nearly a year ago. That is until he began asking questions about some local politicians' fund-raising techniques. It seemed that the more information he got, the crazier his life became. First there were the untraceable phone calls to his home made by a silent caller who hung up as soon as the phone was answered. And then there were the repeated break-ins into Mona's home day-care business that left her feeling jittery and him embarrassed. Here he was a cop, and he didn't even know what was going on or how to stop it.
The final straw was a serious hit-and-run accident that left him with a permanently damaged knee. After the crash the momentum of his investigation seemed to fizzle away, as did any legitimate leads into who had run into his old police cruiser.
Following the accident, Mona's anxiety turned into hysteria. Kent decided to remove his bid for the sheriff's seat, but he kept his internal departmental connections strong and started his own private detective business. Sheriff Malloy, Kent's close friend and former colleague, usually informed him of any new developments before the rest of the department knew anything.
Malloy was the one who'd told Kent about the FBI's inquiry into local political matters. Kent, hungry for justice and closure, immediately took the case full-time. This was personal.
He did not trust politicians. And he didn't trust preachers either. Kent was convinced that both were in it for the money and would do
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