Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(10)

Either I was in a bit of trouble for what he witnessed last night, or something else was brewing on the horizon that he felt it necessary for God's intervention.

What he didn't know is that the God he'd always prayed to had left the building, and I'd replaced Him with every intention of finally seeing to the needs of His forgotten people.

On my feet, I offered a hand in greeting. "Mr. Holmes. It's a pleasure to see you again. What brings you out so early in the morning?"

"Bank called," he announced gruffly.

Ah, I thought, another land owner in need.

"Let's take a seat, Mr. Holmes, and discuss your problem." Giving him a sympathetic smile, I fought not to let my expression reveal my true thoughts. Once a man's livelihood is challenged, he's much more receptive to intervention - even if such intervention goes against what he would normally do in his life. Gentry was an esteemed member of the community, but it was his brother - Sheriff James Holmes - that interested me more.

Seating himself in a pew, Gentry's expression shadowed with concern. I leaned on the back of the pew in front of him, my legs crossed at the ankles, my hands clasped loosely over my thighs. "Tell me the trouble you're facing."

"Crops have been low," he mumbled, his eyes not meeting mine due to the shame he felt to face losing his farm. It wasn't easy on a man's pride to accept failure, to believe that his ability to care for his family has been lost to him. "I fell behind in mortgage payments, did everything I could to catch up, but without the proper weather-"

His voice trailed off, his palms scrubbing over his face as he pondered what he could do to save not only his farm but his pride. "That property has been in my family for generations. All the way back to my great grandfather. The only reason I had to mortgage it was to pay for several failed seasons." Glancing up at me, his normally sharp gaze was dulled by worry. "I can't let the property go. It's my son's future."

Patience, Elijah...Don't jump too quickly.

"Tell me what the parish can do to help. Is it prayers you're seeking? Comfort, perhaps, that God has a plan?"

Gentry's forehead wrinkled, his eyes glaring up at me in part question, part anger. "I want to know about what you showed us last night with that woman. Are there really-"

He scrubbed his hand over his face again, modern day reality warring with his spiritual beliefs. "Are there really demons, Father?"

My lips lifted at one corner before I could force my expression back to neutral. Keeping my voice at a low whisper, I answered, "I believe so, yes. Unfortunately, the way this country has gone, the lack of belief in the Almighty brought about by atheism, other religions and this innate need for progressive thinking, has made it difficult for the Church to fight the battles that need to be fought."

Eyes lifting to me once again, he settled back in his seat, relaxing more with the topic of conversation. "Doesn't God take care of that evil? Isn't our belief strong enough for him to help us?"

"Have you read your Bible?" I asked. A question for a question, it was the best method to make a person believe that the ideas you're feeding them are their own.

"Of course, I have," he answered indignantly.

"Then you know the answer to that question. It is through our belief that God grants us the tools to combat evil. We have many tools, some of which have been lost to the modern world."

"What are you saying, Father?"

Gripping my fingers over each other, I dropped my gaze to my shoes, gave the question time to linger before offering an answer. "I'm saying that, as a whole, we no longer actively combat the evil that plagues this world. We've become complacent, have forgotten the violence implicit in the assault against that which attacks us. If you know history, you know that not all battles have been fought with prayer alone."

He nodded his head, silently considering my words, struggling to make sense of them. "In a situation like mine, where does the evil exist? Is it in my family? Myself? The bank?"

I smiled, not one that reached my eyes denoting happiness, but one that was sad, resigning to the truth of our discussion. "The bank, perhaps. Money is the root of all evil, is it not? But then, our society runs on money, making everything evil to a certain extent. I don't think there's much to be done about that."

"What can be done, then?"

Edging him closer and closer, I was careful with my words, both their meaning and the speed with which I delivered them. Conversion wasn't a hatchet job, it was more precise than that, the use of a fine scalpel sometimes necessary in order to gain what was needed. "You said the crops have failed repeatedly. Despite your prayers, I assume."

"Despite everything," he grunted.

"Perhaps," I offered, "it has nothing to do with you personally, but the town. The evil that infects it. Look what happened to poor Annabelle Prete. What could have happened to the woman you saw last night during my demonstration."

"How do we stop it, Father? How do we fight against it?"

His sharp gaze was pinned on me, his hands wringing over his lap. Desperation oozed from his pores, his mind ripe and open, waiting for the answers that would relieve him of the problems in his life. I needed him to find those answers, while I simply walked beside him to the conclusion.

Lifting my gaze to meet his, my lips pulled into a tight line. "How do you suppose we should handle it?"