Flee From Evil (6 page)

Boy had she.

“He felt it best that since everyone knows about his past, that his behavior is above reproach and transparent. No chance for rumors. He never counsels anyone unless there is someone out here who can see him, and the blinds to the office are open.”

It sounded like a fishbowl. “What about the person being counseled?”

“They can sit on the other side where they won’t be visible in case they become upset.”

Vince’s constant chatter stopped, and he returned his phone to the cradle. Cassandra couldn’t take her eyes off the man behind the window as he opened a drawer of his desk and grasped something from it. He dropped his head back into the large office chair and closed his eyes, holding the object in both hands as if it brought him life. Finally, his eyes opened, and he placed the object back into the drawer.

He stood, causing Cassandra’s heart to pound. Why was she here? This idea was pure stupidity. Did she really think she could face this man again and tell him what she thought of his scam?

The office door swung open and he rushed out. “Yolanda, did the home for the mentally challenged ever call?”

“No, Pastor Vince.”

He rubbed at the black goatee that now graced what once had been a smooth, always tanned, jawline.

Cassandra swallowed the lump in her throat. How could she even speak to this man?

“They said they were going to send us someone to help with janitorial work.” His eyebrows knotted, his breaths seemed shallow.

“I know that, Pastor Vince.” Her voice was soft as though to calm the man’s agitated demeanor. Yolanda lifted her hand in Cassandra’s direction. “Your ten-o’clock is early.”

He stiffened. “Cass—um, Mrs. Whitaker, why don’t you come into my office?”

Cassandra’s facial muscles jerked as her gaze dropped from his face to her shoes. She stood, entered the office, pulling the chair in front of the desk back a few inches to afford less of a view to the woman outside the window.

Her muscles seized at the click of the door shutting. Trapped.

A dramatic pause followed the sound before Vince finally moved behind the desk and found his seat. He didn’t say anything. It was almost as if he thought she should be the first to speak.

She couldn’t.

“Cass—”

“Don’t call me that.” The name felt like tiny bits of broken glass slicing through the inside of her veins.

He drew in a breath. “Cassandra—”

~*~

“It’s Mrs. Whitaker to you.”

This was a bad idea. Vince didn’t know why he’d gone along with it. But he couldn’t pass up the opportunity while Kat’s eyes were on him at the hair salon, and after hearing Isabella sobbing in the bathroom. He knew something needed to be done. Why had God sent Cass to be his savior? Maybe because she’d been his savior, of sorts, before.

“Mrs. Whitaker.”

Could green eyes harden like steel? Apparently.

“Let’s just clear the air, here,
Pastor
Vince.”

“I’d like to.” He didn’t dare look at her. The heat of her anger seared through him.

“I’m not here because of you.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“Or because you made a plea for that poor girl.”

“I—”

She held up her hand. “I’m here because I need a job,” she sucked in a breath, “and an excuse not to go to your church on Sundays.”

He resisted the little smile that tugged on his lips. He knew that would work. “Yes, I am well aware how much you loathe me and need to be out of my presence.”

“Loathe you? Do you think this is a joke?”

He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. It traveled along her designer suit that seemed to see a few years use, with frayed edges and slightly worn spots, then met her eyes again. “This is not a joke to me either, Mrs. Whitaker.” His lips almost stumbled over the too-distant name. “I really need someone to design this program, and you appear to be the one most qualified.”

She pulled a stack of papers out of her brief case and plopped it on his desk. “Then, this is how it’s going to be.” She located a page with a list of addresses. “These are the churches with special needs programs in the Baltimore-Washington area, currently. I will be visiting each on Sundays for the next several weeks to observe how they work. I will interview church leaders and members with special needs children, and will report on my findings once I’ve finished.”

Vince’s left brow rose involuntarily. Who was interviewing whom? Maybe it was best to let her have her way. Clearly, she knew her stuff.

“I will also be conducting a needs assessment with leaders of the surrounding community—”

“I’ve already done that.”

Cassandra stilled, the look in her eyes reminding him of moments together when she shared her passion for helping others. Her hope, way back then, had been to be involved in program development for those in need. He remembered her chatting on and on about how important a needs assessment was in order to make sure the program met the desired goal without duplicating services. Her idealism seeped into the cracks he’d laid open to her, breaking through the veneer of his self-absorption. Did Cassandra remember those conversations too?

“Uh, well. Good. I guess I won’t need to do that.” Her lashes lifted as her eyes hardened. “I’ll need to see what you’ve done to be certain it is adequate for our purposes.”

“Of course.” He fished through a drawer and handed her a copy.

She stood, gathered her purse and briefcase, leaving her notes on his desk. She pointed a finger at him. “You stay away from me, and maybe we can make this work.”

Vince swallowed.

“I don’t know how you’ve hypnotized my mother.” She looked around. “Not to mention the rest of this congregation, but it won’t work on me. If I could, I’d tell my mother what you are.”

He only stared. Usually good with words, none came now. None were adequate.

“But you know I won’t do that, don’t you?”

“Cass—” His jaw hardened at the flame in her eyes. “You can tell her whatever you think she should hear.”

She pivoted. The air in the room swirled with the force of the opening door.

Yolanda stared after Cassandra as she strode out of the office. “Well I guess you didn’t hire her.”

Vince’s forefinger ran the edge of his goatee. “Actually, I think I just did.”

~*~

Cassandra shook so hard her keys rattled when she attempted to open the car door. She flinched at the screech of tires as a sports car with tinted windows burned rubber against the asphalt in the parking lot. Was the driver showing off, or escaping from someone? After a meeting with Vince Steegle, she suspected nefarious intentions around every corner. She’d have to learn to calm herself. After all, she’d be working for the man. The thought almost brought convulsions. She dropped into her seat, dragged her briefcase across her chest to the passenger seat and closed the door before leaning her head on the steering wheel.

One. Two. Three breaths.

She must be desperate.

The pages of the needs assessment crinkled as she dragged them from her bag and flipped through them. Her eyes burned as they scanned the pages listing statistics from schools, interviews with medical professionals, and concerns from church personnel in the area. Had Vince really done all this? He’d summarized literature on special needs programs, and written a thorough argument for including a ministry at Water’s Edge Community. No wonder the church agreed to pay the part-time salary she’d be collecting.

All this at the hands of the man who’d pretended to be interested in her dreams and plans, her idealism, making her feel important, wanted, loved … only to use her in the end. Had he really been absorbing her constant chatter on the shores of the inlet as they laid in the sun, listening to the water lap the sand? She flipped the pages again and shook her head. The report looked exactly like something she’d produce if she had the means. How did he know how to do this?

Surely, they taught it in his divinity courses. She shook off the intimacy of the alternative. Why did she feel so exposed? Something about that man always made her that way. Only before, she’d also felt protected by him. Now, she knew it only made her more vulnerable to his selfish desires.

She’d never let that happen again.

Cassandra folded the report in half, then quarters, and stuffed it deep into her bag. She’d have to insert her key into the ignition with wavering fingers. She cranked the reluctant SUV engine. It sputtered as it rolled backwards, out of the space. “Hold on girl. I’ll get you to a doctor soon.” Kat’s husband, Billy, owned a garage. When would Cassandra have the funds to do all of what needed fixing? Just a few more weeks—her first paycheck from Vince—and she might chance a meeting with the repair man.

The car hummed for a few seconds, giving Cassandra hope, before lapsing into its usual clunking. She calmed before realizing the worst. If Cassandra spent her Sundays checking out other churches without her kids, Mom would be taking them to Water’s Edge. Oh, no no! This would not work. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Probably because her pulse pounded in her ears every time the subject came up. Typical Vince. She could never think straight in his presence. He wormed his way into her brain and made it impossible to see clearly.

But what harm could he do her kids?

Plenty. Even though she couldn’t come up with a method at the moment. Still, that man could wrap Attila the Hun around his pinky.

The car coughed. Cassandra’s shoulders sagged. She had few choices these days. She’d work this job, collect a paycheck … and prepare to deprogram her kids after the brainwashing they’d receive at the instigation of Vince Steegle.

~*~

Vince headed toward the men’s room down the hall, his mind still burning from the meeting with Cass. He couldn’t clear the image of her hatred. It played over and over again as though on unlimited battery life. He needed to consult with someone about this new business arrangement with a woman who couldn’t stand him, but knowing John’s long-time relationship with the family, he also knew it couldn’t be the senior pastor.

Could Billy Lewis advise him? He was an elder at the church, and Vince’s best friend. Vince shook his head. He knew what Billy would say.

A large man with dark hair, glasses, and olive skin, stood stock-still inside the glass front doors.

Vince approached. “Can I help you?”

The man twisted an envelope in his grip. “I lookeen for Passa Vince.”

Vince stepped closer. “I’m Pastor Vince.”

The man’s eyes lit with the grin. He thrust the wrinkled envelope forward.

Vince took it. He hesitated before lifting the flap to look inside.

The man nodded for him to proceed.

Vince unfolded the letter and read:

Pastor Vince,

I am the janitor you asked for. I will work very hard for you. I will make you proud, and I love the Bible.

Amit

“So, Amit, you love the Bible, huh?”

The man revealed his crooked teeth with an emphatic nod of the head. “Spessily Pwovers. I wearn quick.”

Amit must have been dropped off by the home for mentally challenged adults Vince had contacted. “That’s great, Amit. We love the Bible, here, too.” He flipped the envelope back and forth, as well as the page to see if any letterhead could be found. Nothing. Didn’t they usually send a staff member from the home to help acclimate the residents to the position? Vince shrugged. “Okay, Amit, let me show you the janitorial closet.” Vince gestured for the man to follow.

He jerked forward. “De fear of de Lord is de beginnin’ of knowledge, but fools despise woosdom an’ discpwin.”

Vince nodded as he strode the corridor. “Very good.”

“If sinnaws entice ‘ou, do not give in to dem.”

“Wow. You’ve got a great memory.” Vince figured it was his savant skill. Well, if anyone lost a Bible, they could always grab Amit. It made him think of the end of that Denzel Washington movie.

Vince opened the small closet, noting all the chemical detergents scattered on the top shelves and cleaning devices littering the floor. Rags, sponges, and scouring pads were piled into a large bin. It’s clear, since looking to transition to The Home residents, church staff had not taken much pride filling in the position. Would this simple man know what to use for what?

Amit gasped. “Oh no!” He pulled the bleach bottle from next to the ammonia bottle. “No mix. Could die!” He grabbed a few more cleansers and placed them on different levels of the shelves.

Vince backed against the wall to make room for his task. Amit pulled some sponges from the box and placed them next to the bathroom cleaners. The dust cloths were piled by the spray wax and the toilet brushes by the toilet cleaner.

Amit clapped his hands, surveyed the new system, and sighed. “Aw bettaw.” He turned to Vince and startled. “’Ou still here?”

Vince nodded.

Amit wiggled his fingers as if to make him go away.