Keeping Faith Read online

  At that, Ian almost laughs. He wouldn't live in this state if it were the last place on earth. "Give me an hour and I will."

  He leads them to an Avis dealership and rents a car, signing it out on a Pagan Productions corporate credit card. Mariah remains in the background near a bank of phones, unwilling to risk being seen by someone who might later identify her or Faith. As he returns with keys in hand, Ian checks his watch and scowls. He has less than an hour to get to Michael.

  "Do you know where you're going?" Mariah asks as they turn onto the interstate.

  "West. I thought it might be better to get outside the city." And closer to Lockwood.

  "You drive like you know your way."

  "I come here a fair amount on business," Ian lies. "There's a little place in Ozawkie that rents cabins on Perry Lake. I've never stayed there, but I must have passed their sign a hundred times. I figured we could stop up there and give it a try first."

  "Can we go swimming?"

  Ian grins at Faith in the rearview mirror. "Don't think your mama's gonna let you swim when it's this cold. But I can't imagine she'd get angry at a little fishing."

  In a while they turn off and drive across the flats from Missouri into Kansas. Mariah glances out the window, staring at stubbled fields where corn was recently harvested. Faith's nose is pressed to the glass. "Where are the mountains?"

  "Home," Mariah murmurs.

  As Mariah looks at the beaten shacks that comprise Camp Perry, she tells herself that beggars can't be choosers. She and Faith might have found more luxurious accommodations, but, as Fletcher has said, they'd also be easily traced. She watches him circle the manager's office and knock on the door, then step up and peer into a window. When no one answers, he shrugs and walks toward the car. "Looks like--"

  "Can I help you?"

  A little old lady with the look of a wren about her opens the door of the manager's office. "Why, yes'm, you can," Fletcher says, his voice dripping with charm. "My wife and I were hoping to rent one of your charming establishments."

  Wife?

  "We're closed for the season," the woman says. "Sorry."

  Fletcher stares at her for a moment. "Surely a good Christian woman like yourself would be willing to make an exception if it furthered the work of Our Lord."

  Mariah nearly chokes on her tongue. "Mommy," Faith whispers from the backseat, "how come he's talking weird?"

  She cranes her neck back. "Ssh. He's putting on a show. Like a play for us to watch."

  "Jesus told me to pack it all up October first," the woman says.

  "That is a pure shame, ma'am." Ian shakes his head. "Because He told me to listen to His voice right here at Camp Perry." He comes forward, extending a hand. "Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I'm Harry Walters, a preacher from Lou'ville. This here's my lovely wife, Maybelle, and my daughter Frances."

  "Frances is a fine name," the woman says. "My maiden aunt's name."

  "We thought so ourselves."

  The woman cocks her head. "You say you're a preacher?"

  "That I am. And a musical one at that. I'm the director of the Greater Kentucky Hymn Sing, and this year the Lord's called me to fashion a few new tunes in His name."

  "I been to those hymn sings myself. Always did believe in offering up a joyful noise."

  "Amen, ma'am," Fletcher says.

  The woman throws up her hands. "Well, who am I to stand in the way of the Lord? I can't promise you regular housekeeping, but I imagine I can poke around and find some sheets yet." She walks back into the manager's house, presumably to find a key.

  Ian Fletcher turns toward Mariah and Faith and gives a nearly imperceptible bow. Mariah bursts out with a startled laugh. The nerve of the man! He approaches the car and opens her door. "Maybelle, honey," he says, smiling hugely, "looks like I got us a temporary home."

  "Maybelle? You couldn't have picked Melissa, or Marion, or--"

  "I like Maybelle. It seems bovine."

  Mariah glares at him, then turns to the backseat. "Come on, Faith--"

  "Frances," Ian interrupts.

  "Whatever." She helps Faith tug her knapsack from the car as the old lady comes out of the manager's house.

  "You got bungalow seven. I go to bed at nine o'clock, and I don't care if it is Jesus you're singing to--you make sure it's quiet then." She turns and leaves them to their cabin.

  Crossing the threshold, Ian becomes another person entirely. "Christ. Did someone die here last summer?"

  Mariah, standing in the doorway, cannot fault his observation. To call the cabin rustic would be a stretch of flattery. A ratty braided rug with numerous stains graces the floor. Off the central room are two doors, one leading to a bathroom the size of a closet and one leading to the only bedroom. There's a coffee table, a frayed plaid couch, and a battered kitchen table, on which rests an assortment of mismatched, dusty Tupperware.

  "This is gross." Faith scowls. "I don't want to stay here."

  Mariah immediately forces herself to smile. "It's an adventure. Like camping out, except we have a bed." She peers into the bedroom. "Well, one of us has a bed."

  Ian snorts. "You and Faith can sleep in it. I'll risk the communicable diseases growing on the couch." He sits down heavily on it and bows his head, his shoulders shaking in silence. For a stunned moment Mariah thinks he might be crying, but then a guffaw spills out of him as he tips back his head. "God, if my producer could see me now," he says, wiping his eyes. "The Winnebago is a goddamned palace compared to this."

  It is at the mention of his producer that Mariah realizes what's been niggling at the back of her mind. She's terrified of being recognized, although she and Faith are still far from familiar faces. However, Ian Fletcher is a household name, a celebrity. And yet he can walk up to the Avis counter without causing a rush of fans; he can pretend to be Preacher Harry Walters and no one recognizes him. "How come?" she asks quietly. "How come she didn't know you?"

  Ian grins. "This is the Bible Belt, sweetheart. We got hymn sings and little old ladies who want to please Jesus, but not a huge population of atheists. I've got a built-in disguise here, because I'm not real high on the must-see-TV list of most of these religious folk."

  Mariah raises a brow. "You couldn't have known by looking at her that that old lady's never seen your show."

  "I'd stake my bets."

  Annoyed by his certainty, she crosses her arms. "Because she's elderly? Because she couldn't see through your snow job?"

  "No, Miz White." Fletcher leans forward and flicks on the battered TV set to reveal a screen of static. "Because she doesn't have cable."

  By the time Ian gets to Lockwood he's an hour and seventeen minutes late. He's left Mariah and Faith at the cabin with the excuse that he's going to find food at the market. Now he flies into the recreation room, where he usually finds Michael. Peering through the door, he sees Michael still sitting in his usual corner, tossing down cards.

  Tempered with the wash of relief that Michael's waited for him is the bitter realization that there's nowhere for him to go.

  "Hey." Ian pushes inside and draws up a chair. Sweat runs down his temple, but he doesn't remove his coat just yet. He knows the routine; first Michael has to acknowledge him.

  A red card falls. Then a black one. Ian rubs his temple against his collar.

  "Three-thirty," Michael says quietly.

  "I know, buddy. I'm an hour and twenty minutes late."

  "It's four fifty-one. Twenty seconds. Twenty-two seconds. Twenty-four--"

  "I know what time it is, Michael." Irritated, Ian shrugs off his coat.

  "Three-thirty. Three-thirty on Tuesday. That's the time that Ian comes." Michael begins to rock gently in his seat.

  "Ssh, Michael. I'm sorry now. I won't let it happen again." Recognizing the warning signs, he moves slowly, holding his hands up as he comes closer.

  "Three-thirty!" Michael yells. "Three-thirty on Tuesday. Not on Monday. Not Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday! Tuesday