Free Caught Redhanded by Gayle Roper

laptop, added a couple of lines about the police seeking Ken Mackey to talk with and sent it to Mac, too. He would cut as needed to fit today’s edition.
    As a result I was able to go straight from the police station to my interview with Tug Mercer of Good Hands after one quick stop at a Turkey Hill Minit Mart to grab a Diet Coke and a cream-filled Tastykake coffee cake.
    Tug was a big blond man, not so much tall as large. His navy polo shirt with the stitched Good Hands logo stretched over his shoulders and body, but he wasn’t lumpy or chubby. Just solid. Impressive. When he shook my hand and gave me his open smile, I automatically smiled back.
    “I’m more surprised than anyone at what Good Hands has become.” He sat behind his desk with me facing him in a sturdy molded plastic chair. His office was in an old house that belonged to one of the churches in town and had been converted into cheap office space for various Christian enterprises. The office walls held pictures of before and after houses, doubtless Good Hands projects, as well as several framed prints that showed collections of hand tools or plumbing equipment or architectural paraphernalia. A manly office appropriate for one who oversaw the repair of dilapidated homes.
    “How long has Good Hands existed?” I asked
    “The idea first came to me twelve years ago,” Tug said, “but it took two years to figure out exactly what it was that God wanted me to do and the best way to do it.”
    I looked up from my trusty notepad. “Explain.”
    Tug leaned back in his chair. “I was sitting in church minding my own business when I got the idea of helping needy people in substandard housing in Chester County. It was one of those God-thoughts that is so outlandish that you automatically doubt it. One proof that the idea is from God is if it doesn’t go away but continues to eat at you. This idea eventually ate me whole.”
    He grinned happily at the memory of being consumed with his God-thought. I liked Tug and his enthusiasm for what he considered his call from God. I could easily see him with a tool belt around his waist and a hammer in his hand. I wondered if Mac realized how much of a faith story this article was going to become.
    I checked the tape recorder on Tug’s desk just to be certain the wheels were still turning. They were. “What did you do before you got the idea for Good Hands?”
    “I taught school. I loved it and the kids. Often in the summers I took students to help out in Appalachia through the Appalachia Service Project. We helped repair houses, fixing and painting and building all kinds of things. So when the idea for Good Hands first came to me, I knew what would be involved. Trouble was, I didn’t want to leave my teaching.”
    A knock on the door drew both Tug and me.
    “Sorry, Tug, but we just wanted to say hi and goodbye before we go home.” A pretty, petite woman with huge brown eyes and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail stood in the door. “I forgot you had a meeting.”
    Tug jumped to his feet. “Come on in, Candy. Meet Merry Kramer from The News. Merry, my wife, Candy.”
    “Hi, Merry.” Candy Mercer gave me a brilliant smile as she held out her hand. After we shook, she met Tug at the corner of his desk. He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She reached up and patted him gently.
    Behind Candy slouched a girl I judged to be about fifteen or sixteen, much fairer than her mother, several inches taller and many pounds heavier. Her daddy’s little girl, at least physically. She would have been pretty except for the sullen look and the heavy black makeup rimming her eyes. She wore a baggy black T-shirt and a black pair of sweatpants in spite of the warmth of the day. Her round cheeks were pale and her brown eyes sad.
    “And this is Bailey,” Tug said. He smiled at Bailey as he gave her cheek a kiss, too. “We’re trying to decide if she’s turning goth on us and hasn’t gotten all the way there yet or if she