Don't Blame the Devil (19 page)

“There's no way I'm telling these folks that Delilah is my mother,” Jessie whispered to Tamara. Any outing of their dirty laundry would stay in the family hamper that night.

Marty didn't know what to think. One minute she wanted to hug Delilah like Jesus would, and the next she wanted to go Jeffrey Dahmer and just go cannibal on her.

By the time the prayer meeting was over, Delilah was so happy she'd hung around. She didn't know it could be so entertaining. Delilah delivered her testimony, without prompting, diva-style. By the time she'd finished her customized account of God's goodness with a healthy dose of her celebrity status woven out of fact and fiction cloth, New Hope had a star.

But the star still needed a ride home.

D
elilah rode in the back of Jessie's car wondering why the others weren't feeling as good as she did. “Lord, have mercy. I truly enjoyed that prayer meeting tonight. Is this the way it always is?”

“No,” Tamara hissed, “it's usually a bit more authentic, not quite so
Showtime at the Apollo.”

Delilah was sandwiched between Sister Marty and Tamara because the trunk was full and they'd had to put some things in the passenger-side front seat. “I just love that Mother Johnson. She knows her church stuff.”

Jessie stopped trying to avoid a headache and just went with it. At least the pain would keep him from killing her.

“So, Delilah,” Sister Marty asked as nicely as she could, “did you ever decide what dish you and I should cook? Remember, we both were going to bring foods that complemented each other.”

Delilah thought about the question. Any other time she'd say something offhanded, but not tonight. She was still feeling the spirit or something akin to it. “Well, Sister Marty, what's your best dish? We can start with that, because I can pretty much cook anything.”

Tamara kept her eyes straight ahead, almost piercing the back of her father's neck with her stare. Only now and then, when loud, piercing sounds of a fire truck or a police siren blasted as they raced to wherever they were going, did she turn her head.

As Sister Marty and Delilah went back and forth over what recipes and foods should go together, Jessie drove on, wishing both the women would just shut up.

“It's getting late. Anybody heard from the deacon?” Jessie asked the question aloud because he'd just realized that he hadn't.

“I haven't even thought about old Thurgood all day, except when Mother Johnson brought him up.” A scowl appeared on her face for a second, but Delilah wasn't letting anything rain on her parade. He could wait.

“I was supposed to hear from him earlier, but I haven't,” Sister Marty said.

“Has everybody checked their cell phones?” Jessie asked as he used his still aching hand to pull his from his pocket. He needed to keep his good hand on the wheel.

“There's no sense in me checking mine,” Delilah replied. “My BlackBerry is in the red.” She stopped and laughed at her own joke, knowing she hadn't paid the bill because she couldn't.

That left Tamara and Sister Marty to check theirs. There were no messages.

The car became quiet. Too quiet. But the deacon was a grown man, free to come and go as he pleased, Jessie thought. Either that or the old man was avoiding him. “Let's see what's happening.” Without thinking, Jessie turned on the police scanner he kept connected to his dashboard. But the question still hung in the air. “Let's give the old dude his space. What trouble could he possibly get into? Aren't I riding with all the troublemakers in his life?”

That last statement broke the ice and the women laughed. One by one, each of the women raised her hand. “I know I'm a troublemaker.” Delilah burst out laughing even harder than before. Marty and Tamara followed suit and claimed the same status. “I guess we're the bane of that poor man's existence,” they all said together.

But no sooner had the laughter from the backseat begun to die down, than Jessie turned up the sound on the scanner. Without another word or checking to make sure the women in the back had on seat belts, he did a sharp U-turn and sped back toward New Hope.

J
essie hadn't realized he was using both his good and his bad hand to drive. All he knew was he'd heard over the police scanner that unit cars had been called to New Hope Assembly. It was the code that meant serious trouble was happening at New Hope. As long as he was a cop, on duty or off, nobody would violate his church. The women hung on for dear life as Jessie weaved in and out of traffic with one hand laying on the horn.

Not one police car pulled him over, not even as he followed close behind a NYPD swat unit. His gut instinct told him something bad had happened. He was going against his police training to let on-duty police answer the call.

Arriving at New Hope, Jessie pulled up as close as the police would allow. “Y'all stay in this car,” Jessie told the women as he hopped out.

The women watched Jessie rush over to one of the police officers who was apparently in charge of crowd control. They saw Jessie pull out his shield and duck under the rope.

Jessie had barely cleared the rope before Delilah, Tamara, and Sister Marty were out of the car.

The ladies sprinted over to be near the rest of the crowd. The first church member they saw was Mother Johnson, and she was talking to a detective with his shield hanging off his belt. It shone even in the darkness. Mother Johnson appeared animated as she flailed around. By the time they reached her, she was almost out of breath.

“He's not one of our regular crazies,” Mother Johnson explained to the detective. “I tried to tell him the center was closed, but he didn't want to hear it. And then one of the deacons walked in and the boy pulled out a gun. The deacon tried to fight him off….” She started swinging her pocketbook. “It was a good thing, too, because I was gonna whup that young boy's arse in the name of—”

Mother Johnson stopped in midsentence. As soon as she saw Delilah and the other women she beckoned them over. As well as she knew both Tamara and Sister Marty, it was Delilah—her new best friend—whom she spoke to first. “Oh Lord, Sister Delilah, now don't you worry none. They gonna save him as soon as they can locate him…. I know your prayers and worship are still circling heaven 'bout now.”

“Worry about whom?” Delilah asked, knowing full well that the two women had only one man in common. “You can't be serious.”

Delilah was short enough not to have to duck too low to get under the rope, so she didn't. And neither did Sister Marty or Tamara. They didn't need any special discernment to figure out what Delilah knew.

Evading the police barriers was easy for Delilah. She'd had years of experience avoiding the police for one scrape or another. Her mind spun. She wasn't familiar with the area. There were too many bushes and undergrowth, and the streetlights were dim. She'd outrun Tamara and Marty. She wasn't quite sure where she was, but it didn't seem like it was that far from New Hope. She couldn't see that well in the dark, but she could hear. The sounds of the police seemed distant.
Oh Lord, did I run the wrong way?
She spun around almost like a top and still didn't hear any signs of Tamara or Marty.
Dammit, Thurgood, where did that fool take you?

Could it be the young man was spaced out on drugs and would hurt Thurgood? “Jehovah-shammah, in your name,” she prayed, “I don't want anything to happen to either Thurgood or that crazy young man. They're both your children, Father….” Yet as hard as she prayed, she still didn't know where to start looking for the deacon.

Yet Jehovah, being almighty and omniscient, heard Delilah's prayer just as He had weeks ago when He'd set things in motion. But then, God never left anything to chance. And so things had happened to bring her to where she stood; knee-high in some low bushes that were clawing at her legs.

“You don't wanna do this, young man!”

The voice was low and Delilah didn't know how close she was to them, or if it was Thurgood she'd heard. So she pushed her body like a sprinter, circling the higher bushes so as not to make any noise. She made her way toward the direction of the voice.

Delilah couldn't believe her eyes when she stopped and looked behind the bushes.

Under the moonlight she could see vaguely that the young man didn't look any older than Tamara. But he was dressed up in a business suit. Who wore a business suit to a crazy interview? He had dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail. She would've certified him crazy without paperwork. He had a maniacal smirk as he held what looked like a gun at the deacon's side. It scared Delilah speechless.

He looked completely insane as he pushed the deacon ahead of him as they walked out from behind the bushes.

Like a deer in the headlights, Delilah still hadn't moved. Not even when Jessie stumbled upon her and found the deacon in trouble.

“Stay put this time!” Jessie hissed. He was in full cop mode without his police radio and only a gun as he shoved Delilah to safety.

Jessie almost missed his chance. He'd crouched just before looking the deacon straight in the eye when the young man suddenly looked away. He could almost hear the sigh of relief as the deacon, with his hands raised in the air, nodded just slightly. Jessie knew the deacon had seen him.

“…Like I'm trying to tell you, young man. It's not worth the headache. I've been to prison myself. I know.”

“Old nigger, please. That line won't work with me. I'm a grown-ass man—I'm no baby. I can do a bid. Can you do death?”

“I ain't worth shooting, son. Hell, I'm still wearing a conk.” Where that came from the deacon would never know. It just sounded like the right thing to say at that moment.

For the first time, the young man laughed. “Is that what that is around the old dome? What happened to the inside of it?”

Wasn't a damn thing funny about that.
The deacon kept his arms up and his mouth shut.

The young man suddenly swung his head to the side as his eyes darted around the area. The moon was getting brighter by the minute. They couldn't remain where they were and he was tired. Hunger pangs shot off noisy rumblings from inside his stomach. He needed to find someplace where he didn't have to use his hands to control the old man. But he wasn't putting down the gun and he knew, hands up or not, the old man would continue to put up a fight.

The shed nearby was small, but the young man could tell it wasn't locked. It looked as though someone had removed all the donated clothes and whatever else folks had thrown away to clear their consciences.

It took the young man another second to realize how bad that idea was. There was only one way in and out; so what was the point. He'd become trapped in some bushes like a wolf with an old goat.

As much and as often as the deacon testified about trading in his gangster for a Bible, he realized at that very moment that he should've reserved just enough of his gangster for such a time as this. Jessie was probably less than twenty feet or so away, and the deacon wasn't sure what to do.

He had at least forty years or better on the kid. The deacon hadn't had a physical in almost six months, but even he knew he couldn't take the young man down and live. If he moved wrong he'd either get shot by Jessie or the kid, or have a heart attack.

Another movement caught the deacon's attention. He didn't react at first, waiting to see if the young man had seen it, too. Deacon Pillar craned his neck to make it seem as though he were getting a cramp, and then he saw her. It was Delilah peeking over a bush. He'd know that white mop of hair anywhere.
Should've known my old ride-or-die gal wouldn't be too far away from our son.

“Look, young man,” the deacon conspired, “my arms are tired and I gotta take a leak. Don't you feel like pissing, too?”

The young man said nothing. It was too late. They'd been discovered. The deacon and the young man saw the prayer posse at the same time. It took several members of the prayer posse peeking out from the other side of the shed to take things to another level. The police had done a miserable job of trying to control a crowd of determined church folks.

The New Hope Assembly prayer posse quickly held hands and quietly prayed, and would've remained that way if they hadn't seen the gun. Seeing the weapon took their beloved deacon's dire situation to a new and more dangerous level. They cut and ran so fast it was as though they'd never been there.

At least they alerted the police before they left the area completely. Some of them made it to the New Hope Center and rushed inside yelling, “The deacon and the gunman are outside by the old clothes bin.”

Tamara took off, with Sister Marty trying her best to keep up. Neither remembered exactly where the clothes bin was located. They'd gotten to the third barrel before they bumped into Delilah, who immediately gave them the evil eye. “Where y'all been?” she whispered and then pointed over to Jessie. He'd just raised his gun, prepared to fire.

“Look, son, I told you I need to piss. Now I'd like to do it while I still got some feeling left in my hands. Besides, you with your bad self have scared those others off….”

“Piss on yourself or whatever. Just shut yo' damn mouth before I shoot it off.”

Once again, the deacon shut up. He'd barely had a chance to get all the feeling back in his lip from Delilah's beat-down.

The deacon was just about to go ahead and let the pee go where it may when he saw the young man had never taken the safety off the gun.

Jessie suddenly lowered his gun. He hadn't seen Tamara and Sister Marty inching closer to Delilah. But he did see over Delilah's shoulder the outline of several men moving slowly and crouching in the distance. He estimated that they were about ten yards from where the young man held the deacon.

Tamara hunched Sister Marty before she turned slowly and followed her father's gaze as it swept over Delilah. Whatever questions she was about to ask became stuck in her mouth. “Daddy,” she whispered, and pointed. “Those cops gonna get somebody hurt or worse.”

She, too, recognized the outline of helmets, and for a brief moment a light from a nearby lamppost exposed their automatic rifles and dark bulletproof vests.

The deacon didn't have time to do a lot of thinking about what to do next. Anything he hadn't thought of or about before was too late now.

“Drop it! NYPD!”

The first sound Deacon Pillar heard was a strange whirring that seemed to zip past him like an angry bee. He never heard another sound. One moment the kid had a gun pointed at the deacon's side. The next moment, he felt the young man's weight as he collapsed upon him.

“Move it. Move it out!” Three members of the New York City swat team rushed from out of hiding. They had their guns drawn. They raced toward Jessie, who held his gun high with his good hand and his other hand holding his shield, making sure the swat team saw it.

As they raced forward, somehow Delilah had hiked her dress above her knees and taken off. It was an old habit for when stuff hit the fan and she needed to move freely. No sooner had she seen the young man fall than she'd made her move. She never looked to see if Tamara or Marty followed. Delilah raced toward the young man with a rock she'd picked up. If he wasn't dead or dying, she was gonna bust him upside his head with it. She never gave it a thought that the cops might've thought she had a weapon, too.

“Everybody get back!” The command was loud and clear to every onlooker.

But Delilah wasn't an onlooker. She was Thurgood Pillar's wife. They'd need more than a swat team to stop her.

Delilah ducked and dodged. By the time she got to the other side of the bushes the police already had the deacon by his arms, helping him to get up off the ground.

“Thurgood,” Delilah screamed, “Thurgood!”

The deacon was never so happy to see her…until he saw her. “Calm down, Dee Dee. Stay back and don't move a muscle.”

Just that quick Delilah reverted back to her hardheaded self. She didn't know if she was coming or going. Was it a dream or a nightmare? “Don't tell me what to do, Thurgood!” Whatever it was, Delilah wasn't having it until she heard a voice say, “Drop your weapon!”

Delilah's head jerked in the direction of the voice. She turned around just in time to see what the deacon was trying to tell her. A cop had his automatic weapon drawn.

“Last time, miss. Please drop your weapon.”