Free Blackwater Lights by Michael M. Hughes Page A

burly black man stepped into view. His hair stuck out in pointy, inch-long dreadlocks. The guy who had been driving the white Cadillac in the parade.
    “Can I help you?” he asked. No trace of a West Virginia accent. A definite East Coast Yankee.
    Ray smiled. “I saw your sign, in the parade. I thought I’d come to check out the church.” He tried to see through the doorway, but it was dark inside.
    “Services are over for the day.” His eyes were cold. He crossed his thick, muscled arms.
    “Oh, that’s too bad,” Ray said. “Well, is the church open? Is it okay if I just sit for a little while, since I drove out here? Just to pray for bit?”
    “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t going to budge. “We only open the church for services. Maybe you can try the Methodist church in town.”
    “Let him in.” A voice from the darkness.
    The burly man glared at Ray and held open the door. Ray stepped inside, his stomach knotting. He had hoped to sit in the back of the church during a service and maybe slip away quietly to wander the grounds to see if anything clicked.
    When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the old preacher standing near the wooden pulpit, his face shadowed. The dim light coming through the dirty stained-glass windows barely illuminated the rows of rough wooden pews. The air smelled like pine. The door closed behind him, and Ray realized if the two of them wanted to hurt him, he was at their mercy.
    The old man walked toward him. He was dressed in the same hideous white suit he’dbeen wearing in the parade. His eyes met Ray’s, but they showed only curiosity. “How may I help you, friend?” His voice was deep but quiet. His face was littered with pocks and patches of scarred pink flesh, but his features were strong and deeply lined.
    “I saw your car in the parade,” Ray said. “I thought I’d check out your church.”
    The old man nodded and held out his hand. “Then I welcome you. I’m Micah, pastor of the Church of the Open Door.”
    Ray shook his hand. Dry, rough, and firm for such a small man. “Ray Simon. I saw the cars outside. I thought I could just come in.”
    “Well, we are a little wary of strangers showing up at our door. Had some trouble, years ago. Of the cross-burning variety. You understand, I’m sure.”
    “Of course,” Ray said.
    “But now I see you are a good soul, Mr. Simon. Why don’t you have a seat?” He motioned to a pew. “We can have a little chat.”
    Ray sat. This wasn’t going the way he wanted it to go.
    Micah waved his hand. “Mantu,” he said to the younger man, “give us a little privacy, please.”
    Mantu nodded uneasily and walked outside.
    The door closed. “Ray—may I call you Ray?”
    “Of course.”
    “I never doubt the intentions of a soul who comes to me seeking counsel. The Lord delivers; I just do His bidding.” He crossed his hands in his lap. “So please, tell me: what brings you to our humble assembly?”
    “I’ve been wanting to start going back to church. But I can just come back when you have a service. I don’t want to bother you.”
    “It’s no bother at all.” He turned and the light from the window hit his face. His eyes were yellow and one pupil was cloudy. Dust motes sparkled in the thin wash of sunlight. He leaned closer. “You have the look of someone who has been touched by the Lord’s grace. Do you know the story of the Pentecost and the tongues of fire that danced on the apostles’ heads?”
    “Yes,” Ray said.
    “Then you know. You’ve been touched by the fire of His Holy Spirit.” Micah’s voice was musical, almost hypnotic in its singsong rhythm. “And that’s what brought you here, isn’t it?The spirit of the Lord driving you to the Truth?”
    “Yes, I suppose.” The preacher had a vibe similar to Crawford’s—there was a power in his presence, despite his outward physical frailty. And he had sensed that power even from a distance, the first time he’d seen Micah in the parade.
    “I can