The Sinners' Garden Read online

  Rip squinted for a few seconds and then smiled. “I get it.”

  “We better get going to service,” Welsh said, stepping to the side of the desk. “Just like that bike . . . work on you, and you’ll be all right. So will Andy.”

  St. Paul’s was both the oldest and the biggest church in Benning, and Rip was sitting in the very back pew with Andy, hearing but not listening to Kevin Hart as Hart flipped through the prayer request cards and made the week’s announcements. When Hart was finished, Pastor Welsh would give them a nod to collect the offering.

  “What are you looking at?” Rip said, nudging Andy’s leg.

  “Nothing,” Andy said.

  Andy had a peculiar look on his face. It also appeared he was having a hard time keeping his eyes off the Cochran family, about ten rows up. He was obviously checking out the teenage girl who had joined them for service.

  “Hey, Romeo,” Rip whispered. “Quit staring. Don’t be so obvious.”

  “I’m not staring.”

  “And you don’t call your mom by her first and middle name either,” Rip said.

  “I never did that.”

  “She said you called her Judith Ann. Let me guess. Mom’s just being crazy again, eh?”

  “Guess so,” Andy said, shooting him a quick glance from the corner of his eye before looking back up toward Kevin Hart. As much as he didn’t want to, Rip did the same.

  Despite Hart standing at the lectern, Rip felt good at St. Paul’s. Something about the place made it feel like home, and of all the houses God had, this was by far Rip’s favorite. The two rows of dark wooden pews that gleamed with care and attention probably could have held three times the couple hundred people who were there now. Surrounding them, stone walls and stained-glass windows led to thick beams that supported a wooden ceiling that matched the color of the pews. Rip loved that ceiling. If he had to guess what the bottom of Noah’s ark looked like, it would be the ceiling of St. Paul’s. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the ceiling was originally created to be the bottom of a ship by Detroit shipbuilder Big Quincy Hart. Legend had it that Big Quincy sold the ship bottom to St. Paul’s founders right before dying of a mystery illness in his midthirties.

  Rip glanced back at the front of the church. He’d rather listen to Big Quincy talk about how he got his virus from Typhoid Mary than listen to Quincy’s grandson’s grandson, who was still spouting off at the lectern.

  “It’s important that we do the right things to strengthen the community,” Hart said. “It’s important that we give back.”

  Being one person on Sunday and somebody else the rest of the week wasn’t that uncommon in the world, but Kevin Hart had taken it to another level. He truly was the master, so Rip leaned forward and propped his elbows up on the pew in front of him. He didn’t want to miss the tail end of Hart’s performance.

  But as he talked, Rip felt a pang of pain, what Welsh would call a holy conviction. He knew what was missing from Hart’s life. He knew because the same thing used to be missing from his own life.

  And despite Hart’s whispered claims of having more money than God, what was missing was something even he couldn’t afford, because Someone else had already picked up the tab. And even though it was absolutely free, it was invaluable.

  A relationship with God.

  Rip bit gently on his lip, unsure of why Hart’s behind-the-scenes behavior bothered him so much. But there Hart stood, speaking flawlessly with his $1,500 suit and his slicked-back brown hair.

  “We will continue to collect nonperishables all week at the Hart Industries parking lot, and our team will make sure your donations get where they need to be.”

  Our team? And I thought he wanted all those cans out of there . . .

  Yep, Hart was the perfect husband. Mr. Community. President of the congregation. Model citizen.

  If the town only knew.

  Pastor Welsh gave Rip and Andy the nod and Hart took his seat next to his wife.

  Rip stood and smiled at the poor woman who was sitting in the last row across the aisle. He wouldn’t bother holding the offering basket out to her again this week, even though she had just hit the mother lode of gift cards. Good thing, he thought. When you don’t have to worry about your kids’ next meal, maybe getting your life together will be a whole lot easier.

  Rip glanced at Judi and Heather and watched as Andy approached their row. Andy was holding his right arm out, his thin fingers holding the basket, waiting for Judi to drop the thirty dollars she and Andy gave every week. Dangling out of his back pocket were his earbuds. Rip smiled, guessing that was Andy’s way of reminding him of the replacement they discussed. Keep ’em visible 24/7 and maybe Uncle Rip will remember to buy you a new iPod . . .

  Rip reached the front row where Andy handed him his basket, and he caught Andy glancing back toward the Cochrans again. Rip smiled and gave Andy a little tap with his elbow and his nephew shook his head.

  After service, Rip and Andy sat at a long folding table across from Heather and Judi. Rip guessed that at least half of the two hundred who attended were scattered around the fellowship hall, drinking coffee, sipping punch, and tentatively planning a fund-raiser for the youngest of the Cochrans. Eight-year-old Marjo had a kidney disorder that had already emptied her family’s piggy bank, and if the latest round of treatments didn’t pan out, the last stop would be a six-figure surgery that would take deeper pockets than most of Benning had. Rip figured that Kevin and Carrie Hart would naturally be spearheading the event and that it would somehow turn into a black-tie affair. Rip quietly sipped at his coffee, knowing that he and a few other Hart employees would surely be invited. Valet and bartenders were usually a must at any event the Harts put on.

  Heather had a distant look on her face. She was probably thinking about her armed encounter the other night. She wore very little makeup, and something about the way her dark brown ponytail rested on the front of her left shoulder made her look more like a schoolkid than a cop.

  “Cheer up, Officer Gerisch,” he said. “God loves you.”

  “I know,” she said unconvincingly. “I need to talk to you later, Rip.”

  “About how you still aren’t over me and have been trying to figure out a way to ask me out?”

  “Seriously,” she said. “I’m swinging by Judi’s later and hopefully just you and I can chat for a bit.”

  “Cool,” Rip said as Andy got up and walked over to the punch table. Andy was never big on Kool-Aid and cookies, but the table was a lot closer to the teenage beauty queen who had caught his eye. Rip tapped Heather on the arm. “Check out Casanova.”

  “Chelsea sure has grown up this summer, hasn’t she?” Heather said. “Looks like Andy has found himself a little crush.”

  “That’s Chelsea Cochran?” Rip asked.

  “Sure is,” Heather said.

  The last time Rip had seen Chelsea, she was considerably shorter and was wearing a pair of glasses with lenses about as thick as Coke bottles—the type that you could burn ants with. Now she was in full charge of Cupid, and had apparently given the little guy orders to shower arrows on Andy.

  Rip looked away from Chelsea and back to his nephew. The kid had a strange look on his face. He was holding his iPod in front of him and playing with one of the earbuds. He looked confused, so Rip joined him.

  “You all right, bro?” Rip asked.

  Andy just stared at the iPod with an expression Rip had never seen. Andy put the one earbud in his ear and said, “Who is singing?”

  It was the exact same thing Andy had asked right after he had stepped on the iPod in the garage. Rip found the coincidence a little strange but dismissed it. “Is the iPod working?”

  Andy didn’t answer. He held the iPod in front of him, the cracked screen facing up in his open palm, and studied it. He poked again at the screen. Then he closed his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” Rip asked.

  “Un-Uncle Rip . . . who is that?”

  Andy started to
shake as he held the iPod.

  “What are you talking about?” Rip asked. The entire fellowship hall had gone quiet, looking their way. He took Andy by the arm. “Let’s step over here.”

  Judi stood. “Rip, what’s happening?”

  “What?” Andy yelled. He was squeezing his eyes closed.

  The whole room waited in silence until Andy stopped shaking. His eyes were still closed, but his body seemed to relax. And then he removed the one earbud. His head slowly tilted back until he was facing the ceiling. And then a broad, Stevie Wonder–like smile spread across his face as his head swayed slowly back and forth. And then he became still again.

  “Andrew?” Judi said, walking toward him.

  Rip held up his arm for her to stop, and Andy opened his eyes.

  “Kevin Frances,” Andy said sternly. He was still smiling and facing the ceiling. It looked like he was almost squinting but his eyes were closed.

  “Who are you talking to?” Rip asked, still holding Andy softly by the arm. Andy sounded like a schoolteacher taking roll. “Why are you—”

  Andy brushed Rip’s hand away and took a step back. He started looking around the room and his eyes hunted with a purpose Rip had never seen.

  “You all right, Andy?” Rip asked.

  Andy’s eyes fixed on Kevin Hart and he walked straight over to him, then raised an earbud next to Hart’s ear.

  “You okay, buddy?” Hart asked, pushing away Andy’s hand and then glancing around the room.

  Andy stared at Hart for too long.

  “Kevin Frances,” Andy said again, this time calmer, yet still fatherly.

  Hart looked uncomfortable. “What, Andy?”

  “I have searched you, and I know you.”

  Rip couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He turned to Judi, whose mouth gaped open. Rip swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to end well. Whatever was happening, the boss wouldn’t like being called out. At that moment there was no doubt in Rip’s mind that Andy somehow knew about Hart’s girlfriends . . . the cheating . . . the lying . . . but Rip was more transfixed by Andy himself. He sounded confident, and even the way he stood had a strange aura of authority and his words carried an almost parental tone. It was like he was someone else.

  Hart smiled uncomfortably and looked around the room again. “What do you mean, Andy?”

  Andy jerked, then looked confused. He took a step back and shook his head. Then he looked at Rip. “What is Mr. Hart talking about?”

  “I was gonna ask you the same thing Mr. Hart did,” Rip said.

  “Who told you to say that?” Hart asked Andy, shooting a glance at Rip.

  “Say what?” Andy said.

  Rip held out his hands and shrugged.

  Andy held the iPod up in his left palm and then pressed on it with his right index finger. He lifted an earbud next to his ear and the room went completely silent again.

  “Who was that?” Andy said. “Who was that singing?”

  NINE

  Mack’s Café was one of Andy’s favorite places to go. The brick, one-story diner sat on the corner of Old Main Street and Kingsbridge, right next to the pharmacy and kitty-corner from Benning’s only gas station, Carl’s, which still had a full-service pump for those too old or too lazy to get out of their cars.

  Mack’s was owned by a man named Ray McIntosh, an old dude with powdery white skin and dyed black hair that was always slicked to the side with some type of shiny hair goo. Mr. McIntosh had always been nice to Andy. He even gave him twenty bucks every Wednesday to climb the metal ladder and sweep the leaves and branches that fell from the big trees out back onto the building’s flat roof. Mr. McIntosh had offered fifty bucks a week last winter for Andy to go up there and shovel the snow off, but in a decision that shocked no one, Mom quickly vetoed that, naturally saying it was too dangerous and that he’d surely fall off the roof and break something.

  It only took Andy around thirty minutes to sweep, so it actually came out to around forty bucks an hour, not to mention the fifty-percent discount Mr. McIntosh gave his family whenever they ate there. With that in the mix, they always came here after church—and on most other occasions—because tightwad Judi would never drive the extra three minutes over into Rockwood to go to McDonald’s. Not when such savings were readily available at Mack’s.

  But this Sunday no one was talking about what they were ordering, their typical routine. No, this Sunday they were all about what had just happened at church. They wouldn’t leave it alone.

  “Kevin Frances?” Uncle Rip said, tapping his finger on the side of a saltshaker. “How do you know Kevin Hart’s middle name?”

  “I don’t remember saying any of that stuff,” Andy said. He thought about getting up and leaving the restaurant.

  “You said it,” Uncle Rip said. “Right to Kevin Hart.”

  Mom had her usual clueless look when she said, “You didn’t remember talking to me like that either.”

  “I swear to God I’m leaving if you guys don’t change the subject,” Andy said.

  “Don’t say ‘swear to God,’ ” Mom said.

  “Then let’s talk about your interest in Chelsea Cochran,” Uncle Rip said, giving him a teasing smile. “She’s grown up a little, eh?”

  “Let’s talk about your interest in Heather,” Andy fired back. Chelsea had sure gotten pretty, but there was no way he’d tell Uncle Rip that. Besides, Chelsea wouldn’t be interested in a kid who looked like he had a piece of pizza glued to the side of his face.

  “Okay,” Uncle Rip said. “Let’s talk motorcycles. Now that yours is all fixed up, one of these days I’m gonna bring that other hunk of junk over. Want to help me fix it up so I can ride with you?”

  “Yeah,” Andy said. “That sounds good.” It did sound good. What also sounded good was figuring out how to mess with that throttle on his own bike so he could see what it felt like to go close to a hundred.

  “Cool,” Uncle Rip said, glancing over at the booth across the aisle at a group of older kids.

  Andy didn’t recognize any of them and guessed they were from another town. What he did recognize was the stare from people when they noticed his scar. He quickly pulled his hair forward.

  “What are you guys looking at?” Uncle Rip asked. It was kind of loud and Andy was embarrassed.

  “C’mon, Rip,” Mom said. “Just ignore them.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the biggest one said in a deep voice. He had a brown crew cut and dark brown eyes. He had big arms like Uncle Rip, and Andy had him pegged as a football player or a wrestler. He finished off the last of his burger.

  “Okay,” Uncle Rip said. “I won’t worry about it, then.”

  Andy was surprised at the way his uncle handled himself. He had never seen Uncle Rip fight, but he’d heard a lot of the stories about how he was the last person anybody wanted to mess with. Maybe he was showing some of that control he preached about.

  But the football player’s friends were jostling him, clearly egging him on. Almost pushing him toward Uncle Rip.

  “You Scarface’s guard dog or something?” the kid said. Andy winced inwardly but he held it together. Over the years, he’d heard just about every name possible.

  Uncle Rip picked up his water glass and tilted it toward the kid like he was going to make a toast. “How old are you, son?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Uncle Rip’s baby finger came off the glass and pointed at the other two guys who were probably about the same age. “How about your two buddies there?”

  “Twenty and nineteen. Why?”

  Uncle Rip stared at the kid and it was clear he meant business. He looked like a guy who had just stepped barefoot on a Lego, maybe even a little possessed, and when he put the glass down and grabbed the metal napkin holder, you could see the muscles ripple in his forearms.

  “Because I got out of prison about a year ago,” Uncle Rip said. “And if you were under eighteen, I’d have no choice but to let your punk mouth slide. But seeing that
you are an adult, I think me against you three sounds pretty fair. So why don’t you and your two girlfriends go out in the parking lot and practice falling down. I’ll be right out.”

  Andy could tell by the looks on all three of their faces that they clearly thought Uncle Rip was crazy; a normal person would never take on three people. And though Uncle Rip probably hadn’t needed to mention it, the whole “I just got out of prison” bit had to have added fuel to the fear fire.

  The kid who did all the talking was silent. His other friends seemed to be ready to wade into a fight, to see it through, but not Mr. Football. He finally said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “I admire your sense of self-preservation,” Uncle Rip said, staring at the boys just long enough for them to abandon the rest of their food, grab their bill, and leave the table without a tip.

  Uncle Rip stood, reached in his pocket, then went to their table and dropped a five-dollar bill on it.

  “Thanks for having my back,” Andy said as Uncle Rip sat back down. “But you know something?”

  “What?” Uncle Rip said quickly, still clearly fired up.

  “You really need to work on your self-control. How about trying to think before you act or say something that may offend somebody?”

  “Preaching to me?” Uncle Rip said with a grin.

  Andy didn’t say anything. It felt kind of good to throw Uncle Rip’s words back at him.

  “You’re right, Andy,” Uncle Rip said. “I need to try harder.”

  Heather stood at the base of the worn wooden steps on the side of Rip’s mobile home. The exterior of the place was a complete train wreck. It had to be the oldest home in the park, and it was the only single-wide she had seen while driving in. It sat in the far back corner, under the overhang of an enormous oak tree whose shade failed to cover the collection of makeshift repairs on the ancient metal roof. Kevin Hart owned the park along with Rip’s single-wide rental. She took a step back and noticed the aluminum skirting that ran along the base of the mobile home was dented. Beneath it was a pair of Frisbee-sized holes in the ground that made the bottom of Rip’s place look like a parking garage for whatever critters were in the area. Gophers, she guessed.