Full Speed

  "He's kinda attached to it. My cousin asked me to take him to the animal shelter, but I didn't have the heart. He wouldn't last long there. He has, uh, problems."

  Jamie looked more closely at the animal. "What kinds of problems?"

  Bud toyed with his cigar, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Well, he's deaf in one ear, and his eyesight ain't what it used to be. He's also suffering shell shock."

  "Shell shock?"

  "Like I said, my cousin did a lot of coon hunting. This here dog wasn't much of a hunter; in fact, he runs at the sight of a raccoon and hunkers down in the nearest ditch if someone fires a gun."

  "He's losing his hair."

  Bud shrugged. "Way I heared it, he was attacked by a big old grandpappy coon. Hair never grew back. My cousin says he whimpers in his sleep. Says he thinks the dog has flashbacks. You ask me, I think he's suffering from that-there post-traumatic stress disorder."

  Jamie rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, brother!"

  "And he hates country-western music. I need to tell you that up front. He goes bananas when he hears it."

  "I'll agree to buy the truck, but I'm not taking the dog."

  The hound suddenly let out a pitiful howl as though he'd understood what Jamie had said.

  "It's nothing personal," Jamie said before realizing she was talking to a dog. She shook her head sadly.

  The animal covered his face with his paws.

  "Uh-oh," Bud said. "I think you hurt his feelings."

  "Oh, jeez." Jamie pulled Bud aside. "Look, I've never owned an animal, not even a goldfish. I can't keep a houseplant alive."

  "Oh, Fleas ain't no trouble, honey. You just give him a little food and water and he's fine. Mostly all he does is sleep."

  "His name is Fleas?"

  "Yeah, that's what my cousin calls him. But I personally checked him out. There ain't nary a flea on this hound's body, I can promise you that."

  Jamie looked thoughtful. Damn. Just what she didn't need, a dog with physical and emotional problems, not to mention one who freaked out at the sound of gunfire, which she seemed to draw like fruit did flies. "I can't do this," she said.

  "OK, tell you what. You take the truck and the dog, and I'll knock off fifty bucks."

  * * * * *

  Jamie arrived in Sweet Pea, Tennessee, shortly after 5:00 p.m., just as a light mist began to fall. Oh, great, she thought. And her with a dog in the back of her truck. She stopped at a red light and glanced over her shoulder. Fleas had his nose pressed against the back window, fogging it with his breath.

  "It's OK, boy," she said loudly, even though she suspected he couldn't hear her.

  She had to admit he'd been a good traveler. She'd stopped twice to give him water and let him go to the bathroom, and she'd ordered him a cheeseburger at a fast-food restaurant when she'd stopped for lunch. Probably wasn't a proper diet for a dog; she needed to buy the poor animal real dog food. It was up to her to see that he ate right until she could find him a good home. Not that it would be easy finding somebody interested in adopting a dog with emotional problems and missing hair.

  Jamie could just imagine what Vera would say about her becoming a dog owner. Sixty-year-old Vera Bankhead, her secretary, whom Jamie had recently promoted to assistant editor out of fear and intimidation, was the closest thing Jamie'd had to a mother and was not above telling her how to run her life. "Jamie," she'd say. "You have absolutely no business taking on a dog. Why, you can't even take care of yourself."

  This was due to the fact Jamie's cupboards and refrigerator were always bare. She seldom took time to buy groceries, except for coffee and junk food. And when she'd picked up her father's smoking habit, Vera had hit the ceiling. She had promptly declared the Beaumont Gazette a smoke-free environment, so that if Jamie wanted an occasional cigarette she had to smoke it outside come rain or cold weather. Jamie had kicked the habit, only to pick it up again briefly during the past two weeks, when her stress level had been at an all-time high. Dodging bullets could put a big strain on the nervous system, she reminded herself.

  Vera would be proud to know Jamie was now making a concerted effort to keep her body as smoke-free as the newspaper office, although she had certainly craved a cigarette when she and Buford Noll had waited out the rifle-bearing lunatic in the mobile home.

  Jamie thought of Vera. The woman would not appreciate Jamie just taking off without telling a soul. Which was why Jamie had called her from Max's cell phone when she knew the woman would be out. "I'm taking a well-deserved vacation," she'd said.

  Vera would never fall for it, of course. She'd never fallen for what she'd termed Jamie's "shenanigans" during Jamie's youth and wouldn't fall for this latest scheme. It didn't matter that Jamie had already celebrated her thirtieth birthday; there would be hell to pay when she returned to Beaumont.

  The mist turned to rain. Jamie needed to find a place to stop for the night. She drove a long stretch of highway before she spied a tired-looking motel in faded aqua cinderblock with black wrought-iron railing. She passed it, then, after driving a few more miles in the downpour without spotting other lodging, turned back. She suspected there weren't many motels in a town the size of Sweet Pea.

  Jamie turned into the parking lot a few minutes later and pulled beneath a covered area in front. She climbed from the truck and managed to convince Fleas to get inside the cab of the pickup. The dog was shivering despite the summer temperatures. She had a feeling he was merely playing on her sympathy, even though he didn't look that smart. She dried him as best she could with an old towel she found stuffed behind the seat. He looked downright pitiful, what with his big soulful eyes and drooping skin. She was already proving to be a lousy pet owner.

  "Bless your heart, you've got a face only a mother could love," she told him, rolling her window all the way down so he would get plenty of air while she was gone. "Now, stay down. If the motel manager sees you we'll never get a room."

  The littered grassy area in front of the motel, as well as the badly smudged double-glass doors leading inside, should have prepared Jamie for the lobby area. The smell of cooked onions greeted her, someone obviously preparing dinner in a back room. The carpet needed to be vacuumed, and the man behind the counter wore a stained shirt. He didn't seem to hear Jamie enter; his eyes were fixed on a TV set attached high on a wall.

  Jamie stepped up to the counter. "Excuse me, but is this the only motel in town?"

  The man looked at her. "Why would you ask me a question like that? Is this place not good enough for you?"

  "No, it's fine. I just—" Jamie was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a barking dog. It was not just any dog. Fleas had decided to follow her. Damn.

  "Is that your dog?" the man asked.

  "What dog?"

  "The one scratching on the glass door."

  Jamie glanced over her shoulder. "I've never seen that dog before in my life. Do you have HBO or Showtime?"

  "No, and I'm going to have to charge you ten bucks extra for that mutt on account I'll have to spray the room after you leave."

  "Yeah, OK." Jamie reached inside her purse for her credit card. It might not be the best motel, it might not have HBO or Showtime, but it was probably the only place in town that would take a homely-looking bloodhound.

  Jamie checked in, grabbed her key, and joined Fleas outside. He wagged his tail as though happy to see her. "Thanks a lot," she muttered. "You just cost me ten bucks." She spied the newspaper stand and purchased a paper, then stopped by a couple of vending machines for cheese crackers and a soft drink. "At least I won't have to cook dinner tonight," she told the dog, who seemed to take a sudden interest in the crackers.

  She followed the numbers on the doors, counting the way toward her room. A big man stepped out from behind one of the doors and looked her up and down. He wore a grimy T-shirt and bore tattoos on both arms. Jamie offered him a stiff smile as she stepped up to the door next to his. Just her luck; they were neighbors. Not that she was surprised. It wasn
't likely she was going to run into any doctors or lawyers in a dump like this.

  He made kissing sounds.

  Jamie rolled her eyes and looked at him. "Please don't do that," she said, slipping the key into the lock.

  He grinned. "You staying here?"

  Jamie's look was deadpan as she tried to turn the key. It wouldn't budge. "No, actually I'm trying to break into this room so I can get decorating ideas."

  He stepped closer. "Is that your dog?"

  "Yeah, and he'll tear your leg off if you come near me."

  "Might be worth it. How about a drink later? I got a bottle of Wild Turkey in my room."

  "It certainly sounds tempting, but my boyfriend, Killer, is picking me up for an AA meeting in ten minutes. Sorry." The key finally turned and Jamie opened the door. "Have a nice evening." She went inside and waited for Fleas to follow before locking the door and putting the chain in place. She shoved a chair in front of the door to be safe.

  "This is just wonderful," Jamie said, glaring at Fleas. "Because of you I am reduced to staying in a hovel with dangerous-looking people. I'll never get any sleep tonight."

  His tail thumped against the ugly carpet.

  Jamie glanced about. The room was clean enough but drab and depressing with its faded moss green walls and brown bedspread. Even Fleas seemed to give it a second glance. He sank onto the floor and stared at her crackers.

  Jamie sat on the bed, opened the crackers, and shared them with him. He swallowed each one without chewing. "If we live through the night, we're checking out first thing in the morning." She opened the newspaper, skimmed the articles. One article particularly caught her eye.

  "Holy hell!" she blurted. "Reverend Harlan Rawlins is preaching at seven o'clock tonight at Sweet Pea Community Church." She looked up in alarm. "I don't have anything to wear. I don't even have extra underwear. And that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is I'm talking to a dog. How sick is that?"

  Jamie jumped up from the bed and peered out the curtain. The rain had abated and her neighbor, Brutus, was nowhere in sight. She looked at Fleas, debating whether or not to take him with her. If she left him behind he'd probably start barking, and they'd get kicked out. "Come on. We're going shopping." She grabbed her purse, opened the door, and they made a run for it.

  * * * * *

  Sweet Pea Community Church was filled to capacity when Max arrived with Dave Anderson, both dressed in uniform.

  Dave was a slender man with light brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses that had a tendency to slide down his nose. He and Max stood along the back wall of the church, scanning the crowd. A massive navy banner hung on the wall above the choir, the words Love Ministry emblazoned in white letters.

  "Do you have any idea how many germs are in this place?" Dave whispered, shoving his glasses upward with his pointer finger.

  Max shrugged. "Rawlins is offering miracle healing toward the end of the service. You might want to get in line."

  "Very funny," Dave replied.

  Max caught sight of a tall redhead in sunglasses who seemed to be making a fuss in her attempt to get a front row seat. He leaned sideways to get a better look.

  She wore a short denim skirt and a tight fire engine red tank top that fit snug against lush breasts and left very little to a man's imagination. Her stilettos showed off a pair of long, shapely legs that had captured the attention of most of, if not the entire, congregation. Rhinestones dangled from her ears and flashed each time she moved her head. She turned slightly, snatched off her sunglasses, and mouthed something to a heavy woman who seemed to be giving her the most trouble.

  Max frowned. Even if she was in disguise, it would have been impossible for him not to recognize Jamie Swift. "I don't believe it," he muttered under his breath.

  Dave leaned close. "What is it?"

  "Trouble," Max said.

  * * * * *

  The congregation burst into the hymn "Bringing in the Sheaves" as Jamie finally managed to squeeze herself between two people. She held her head high and ignored the looks of disapproval coming from the women around her, even as their husbands tried not to stare. Not that she blamed them. Her slut suit, as she had referred to it to Fleas, was way over the line, as was her wild hair. The wig had cost more than she'd planned to spend, but it looked like the real enchilada. She had floozy written all over her. She only hoped Harlan Rawlins noticed.

  Her plan depended on it.

  * * * * *

  Reverend Harlan Rawlins appeared during the last stanza of the song. He carried a cordless microphone, and he joined the singing. He had a strong, well-modulated voice, and he sang with confidence. Jamie studied him closely. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but she certainly hadn't expected him to be so handsome and polished. Vera had taken Jamie to a couple of tent revivals when she was young, but those ministers wore cheap suits and yelled a lot.

  Harlan Rawlins did not look like any minister she had ever seen. He looked like a movie star. But there was more to him than good looks. The man had presence. He exuded such charisma that it was easy to see why people followed him, why women might find it difficult to say no to his advances. The air seemed electrified, and Jamie could literally feel his energy from where she sat. She needed to remember the exact feelings he evoked so she could make note of them later. Her readers would want to know what it was about the man that had made him so successful, that made people dig deep inside their pockets to support his ministry.

  Jamie was so focused on the man that she was only vaguely aware of the shuffling of feet behind her.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Jamie glanced over her shoulder and gaped at the sight of Max Holt.

  Chapter Three

  Max looked different, his hair in a buzz cut, face unshaven. She dropped her gaze to his uniform where the name Bennett Electric was stitched across his shirt pocket. Jamie wasn't surprised to find him in disguise; what shocked her was the fact he could pull it all off and still look sexy as all get-out. She realized Max was staring at her as well.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a whisper.

  "I'm here for the same reason you are," she replied.

  Several people turned and glared at them. "Shhh!" the lady beside her said.

  Jamie suddenly remembered how things had ended between Max and her the night before.

  "Go away," she whispered. She turned and faced the front, but the hair on her neck prickled. She could feel Max's eyes on her. Well, let him take a good look at the new Jamie Swift, she thought.

  The song ended, but Harlan remained quiet and smiling. His eyes scanned the congregation; he nodded at several people he seemed to recognize.

  "Brothers and sisters, it is great to be back in Sweet Pea, Tennessee," he said. The crowd cheered. Jamie felt something at her ear.

  "Why are you dressed like a hooker?" Max asked.

  The people were so busy clapping that those around her didn't seem to notice. "I'm here to get my story, Max," she replied.

  "Dressed like that?"

  She smiled and fluttered her long lashes. They were as fake as the cleavage that peeked over her tank top. Funny what a pair of false eyelashes and a good push-up bra could do. "Yes."

  The woman beside Jamie nudged her. Jamie tossed her a dirty look but faced the front once more.

  Harlan waited until the people sat and grew quiet before speaking again. "I have been on the road for weeks, living out of motel rooms and counting off the days until my return. I'm home with my family and friends now, sleeping in my own bed, and eating home-cooked meals. Praise God!"

  This time the congregation laughed and applauded, and Harlan laughed with them, his smile enhanced by beautiful teeth that shone a bright white against his tanned face. Jamie thought he looked like he belonged in a toothpaste commercial. His navy suit, obviously tailor-made, emphasized a fit body and brought out his blond hair.

  "Dorothy was right," he said. "There's no place like home." More applause. After a moment, he grew se
rious and closed his eyes. "Let us pray."

  When the prayer ended, Rawlins walked out to the very edge of the platform. He had a habit of pausing before he spoke, as though waiting for every eye to see him, every ear to hear what he had to say.

  "You know, brothers and sisters, this ministry has surely been blessed. We've fed thousands through our outreach program, and each year our young people travel to the poorest areas, patching holes in rooftops, installing windows where families have nothing more to keep the cold out than plastic or cardboard. Yet there are still folks, our neighbors, mind you, who don't have inside plumbing or electricity. But God bless our local volunteers who have gone into these homes and donated their skills so these poor people can enjoy many of the things some of us take for granted." Another pause. "But you know, feeding people and keeping them dry and warm isn't enough.

  "Someone once asked Mother Teresa what people needed most in this world, and she had a surprising answer." He looked about the congregation. "What do you think is the single greatest need people have today, brothers and sisters?" Harlan folded his hands behind his back and paced the stage. "You know if someone had asked me that question, I would have had to think about it.

  "We see pictures of starving people in third world countries, children in cancer wards and burn centers who live with pain on a daily basis, and we see single parents trying to play both mama and daddy because of the staggering divorce rates. Many of these parents can't afford child care, so the children are left to fend for themselves. And when boys and girls don't have adequate supervision, they get into bad trouble. Where do you think they end up?"

  "In jail!" a man shouted from the audience.

  "Yes, sir," Harlan replied. "These kids get addicted to drugs, and they commit all sorts of crimes in order to support their habits." Harlan looked sad. "These young people are filling our prisons today."

  He walked over to the podium, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his eyes. "Please forgive me," he said. "This is not the sermon I had planned to give. I didn't prepare for it. But I spent a long time in prayer this morning, and this is the sermon the Lord gave me."