Reward of the Wicked

By Patrick McWhorter

A missionary preaching a social gospel in Central America has his life’s work broadsided when an evangelistic crusade brings hundreds of natives to a true knowledge of the Savior. Not only are the salvations of his own "people," his cultic arch-enemy, and a presumed unreachable witch doctor a slap in his ineffective ministry’s face, but he learns the all-American teacher running his school is a drug dealer in a murderous drug cartel. The sweet pastoral life he had is over. And death comes calling with a vengeance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick McWhorter
• Release date: Mar 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310862694

Patrick McWhorter

Born in a small town in Georgia, Patrick McWhorter, along with his mother and four siblings, lived in his grandparents’ shotgun house in a mill village. Eleven people occupied the two-bedroom house rented from the textile mill where his grandmother worked. After his father abandoned the family, Patrick’s grandfather, a musician and songwriter who painted houses to care for his family, became the inspiration for McWhorter's creative bent. When his mother remarried, the brood moved to a residence built underneath the screen of a drive-in theater. After high school, his college aspirations were postponed due to military service that included a year in Vietnam. Afterward, he returned to Georgia, earned a degree in Journalism, and began a career in advertising that would span more than 35 years. He has been married for 28 years to his lovely wife, Laurie. They have two wonderful sons, 25 and 21. Recently retired from an advertising agency, the author has published a print book about faith (Faith is a Three-Legged Stool) and has written six novels. He spends his spare time working with his wife in a resale business, and enjoys hobbies such as backpacking and journalling. He occasionally teaches Christian classes at a nursing home and at a street mission. McWhorter sometimes publishes under the pen name, P. V. Mack.

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Reward of the Wicked

Published by Christian Day Publishing Company at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Patrick McWhorter

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Reward of the Wicked

PROLOGUE

"Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked."

Psalm 91:8

The heavy odor of blood permeated the alley.

An otherwise ordinary Sunday afternoon in the village of San Miguel, it was a time when people rested. However, the constable, Juan Enrique Sánchez, paced the narrow cobblestoned width of the alleyway as if to escape the smell of death. He would have no rest until he was rid of the body and the problem. This smell. This horrible, tentacled smell surrounded and oppressed him with accusations of his ineffectiveness as an officer of the peace.

No, it was he who needed peace right now. And rest.

Sweat darkened his shirt at the collar and under his arms. He must try not to appear even slightly inadequate in the eyes of the curious villagers gathered at the open end of the short alleyway, even though he felt completely incapable of handling the situation facing him now. He had parked the old Chevy near the alley's entrance to keep people back and to block visibility of the body that lay on the dirty stones before him. He could not recall another case of cold-blooded murder in his small village. San Miguel had none of the problems the large towns in the district had, not even the crime plaguing villages of similar size in the north. An occasional fight between men drinking too much cerveza, or the theft of a chicken, yes. But murder, no.

He spotted his reflection in the dusty window of his road-weary patrol car. The person he saw did not appear to be in control. He straightened his cap. It signified authority. That and the pitted revolver weighing down the holster that hung from his pants’ belt. The rest of his uniform consisted of faded blue pants and a shirt that was close enough in cut and color to be a uniform shirt, though without the epaulets that would have confirmed the matter. The guaraches did not look official, he knew, but someday he would have shiny black shoes or even boots to complete the appearance of authoritative control.

Go! he commanded a group of five edging its way around the corner of the wooden building. He was glad his voice sounded authoritative and firm. Go to your homes! he said a bit louder. This is police business.

The people craned their necks for a last peek, like so many turkeys awaiting their turn at the chopping block. Some were straining to see even as they obediently scurried from his view.

The officer felt relieved that no one would witness his plea for help from the police chief of the largest town in the district, San Carlos, or hear his explanation that he knew nothing about investigating a drug murder. Most would understand that this was not a normal occurrence in San Miguel and would forgive his inexperience. But would they forgive his fear and the ingratiating call to San Carlos?

Such crimes in San Carlos were not unusual, at least not during the last several years. Officer Sánchez had not missed the stories. People said that a powerful man had made San Carlos his home, that he had purchased much land and several buildings in the town, and that he also owned people. It was said that some of the people owned by this man were city officials. Including police officers.

A shiny black and white patrol car pulled to a stop at the end of the alley, blue lights flashing. The word, POLICIA, was inscribed in large black letters on the white door, and underneath it, SAN CARLOS. The blue lights quietly ceased flashing as the driver opened the door and emerged slowly, dramatically. The figure was that of a powerfully built man, confident and self-assured. He adjusted a pair of American sunglasses whose convex mirrors effectively obscured his eyes. His appearance seemed to have been carefully adapted from North American movies.

"Jefe! said Officer Sánchez as he rushed to greet him. Thank you, Jefe, for coming so soon." The lowly officer reached for the Chief's hand and shook it, then withdrew it as though he suddenly remembered just who this person of stature was.

The Chief was oblivious of the lesser officer's handshake, so transfixed was he on the body that lay crumpled facedown beyond the older patrol car. He strode past the officer and stood beside the front passenger-side fender of the old car, a dozen feet short of the body. There he performed his examination. The body was that of a male approximately thirty years of age. Two small bloody spots glistened on the back of the victim's American-style warm-up jacket. Both arms lay under the front of the torso, as though the man had grabbed his belly in falling. Thickened blood, partly soaked into the dirt between stones, gleamed under the right elbow.

The village officer joined the Chief beside the car. "It appears to be a murder, Jefe, he offered timidly when the Chief did not speak. Because of drugs, I think."

The Chief's head turned quickly toward him, the mirrors flashing brilliantly with a burst of light captured from the sky. You are wrong, Officer Sánchez, said the Chief.

The officer was shocked. But, but what...? he sputtered, attempting to grasp the Chief's meaning. Do you mean that you do not think it is related to drugs?

Certainly! said the Chief. He turned his face toward the body again. And you are mistaken about murder!

Not murder? The officer laughed nervously. With your permission, sir, he said, and proceeded toward the body, gesturing to the red stains as though the other man did not see them. These places in the back are where the bullets went in, and...

Suicide is a terrible matter, don't you agree? interrupted the Chief. The force of his voice clearly signaled his intention to pursue a charade. He stepped closer to the body and cocked his head at an angle, leaning nearer to see the profile of the dead man's face. The victim was clearly a native dressed in Western attire. A man gambles away his hard-earned money, said the Chief. Or perhaps he beats his wife, and she leaves him. He becomes despondent. And before he can discover that all will turn out well, he kills himself. Such a tragedy! All this he spoke without emotion or animation in his voice.

The village officer's mouth hung open. He blinked several times, comprehending the man's words but resisting the underlying implication.

We have many such suicides in San Carlos, continued the Chief. Stupid people, who fail to understand that life is full of rewards. The Chief's unsmiling face turned back to the police officer; this time his hidden eyes seemed to lock directly on the man.

But..., insisted the village officer, daring to challenge the man of authority. Let me show you this. He picked up a loosely folded newspaper from the ground beside the corpse. Unwrapping it shakily, he showed the Chief his gruesome discovery – a man's hand, severed across the palm as with a single blow from an ax or machete. This was under the body.

The Chief gave the object a mechanical glance, then turned back to the officer and removed his sunglasses. His dark, hooded eyes were cold and glaring, his mouth, curled in distaste.

My friend, he hissed impatiently. Stupid people have much to lose, and this one lost everything. Life is full of rewards for the intelligent. But he was not intelligent. A slow, malevolent half-smile appeared. Your choice, he said, is to be stupid or intelligent. Which will you be?

The village policeman’s mouth dried as he stared at the official. The hard, unflinching gaze that met his caused him to look away quickly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing, and sought to gauge the seriousness of the threat implicit in the man's words. Here lay a murder victim – unquestionably a murder victim – and here a respected official was not only denying the facts, he was suggesting complicity with a cover-up. Was he actually demanding, or simply asking rhetorically? And, did this mean he had something to do with the murder, or perhaps with the powerful man in San Carlos?

Fear consumed the village policeman, seizing his throat and stomach. Before he could respond, the low muffled growl of an automobile engine filled the alley. Both policemen turned their attention toward the street behind them, where a black limousine with darkened windows had stopped just beyond the Chief's shiny patrol car. The doors remained closed, the occupants apparently observing, or perhaps overseeing. The imposing presence of the car suddenly answered a question for the policeman – the Chief had not asked rhetorically. He was giving the man a choice to live or die. The policeman's stomach lurched, and nausea swept over him, so great was his dread. The last thing he had expected upon calling to San Carlos for help was to face death. Yet he had to answer, and his answer would mean life or death for him.

The police chief continued to look at the car, seeming to draw strength and greater confidence from its presence. His creased uniform, his powerful bearing, the semi-automatic pistol at his side – everything about the man suggested invincibility. When he finally spoke again, his authority and power were overwhelming.

What is your choice? he demanded.

The village officer's eyes fell to the ground. Nearly every function of his body wanted to fail, and he fought spasms in his stomach that said he was about to vomit. Sweat collected suddenly at his neck and temples. What choice did he have? He had children. A wife. He did not want to die. He had a pistol in his holster that had so many times provided his only necessary confidence, but in this moment it seemed completely useless. He did not have the courage to pull it.

His answer came feebly, as a garbled sound.

I did not hear you, my friend.

It was suicide, Officer Sánchez sighed ashamedly.

The Chief smiled. An intelligent observation, Officer. He looked to the black car and nodded almost imperceptibly. At his signal the car moved away with hardly a sound.

I would like to have a copy of your report for my records, the Chief commanded as he slipped his sunglasses on again and strode to his car.

The village policeman barely noticed the shiny patrol car leave. As one near death, he walked to his car, opened the door and sank to the driver’s seat, impotent and filled with shame. Moments before, he had been worried about his appearance, his cap, his reputation. And now the curse of San Carlos had reached even to him, stained him with an evil that he could nearly smell and feel, an evil that would certainly be detected by others. His cowardice felt like a slimy film upon him, exuded by an alien fear within.

He placed his hand on his revolver, gripping the handle and touching the trigger hesitantly. How could he live with himself? How would he continue as a policeman, one of the most honored positions in San Miguel? Death would be a refuge, he thought momentarily.

No, he realized, suicide was a sin one could not confess. He let go of the pistol. He imagined how his wife would treat him if she found out what he had done. He could not tell her. He could not tell anyone. Several moments passed as he fought back tears and nausea.

Presently, his gaze fell upon the grotesque object still in his hand, its blackened digits curled in vain protest. He quickly folded the bloodstained newspaper to conceal the hideous reminder of the threat to which he had sold his honor. As he willed himself to stand again, hoping for strength to return to his limbs, his eyes focused on a boldfaced line on the outer fold of the paper: EVANGELISTIC CRUSADE COMING TO SAN CARLOS.

He shook his head. The message brought awareness to him that there was One Who had seen all. God alone had witnessed his capitulation. "Dios! he whispered through tears. Holy God! What evil this must be! May You have mercy on me! Have mercy on us all!"

* * * * *

The airport terminal building in San Carlos was unusually crowded with watchful vendors and taxi drivers. Lining the broad window flanking one of the terminal’s four gates, small clusters of people waited patiently for the shiny mid-sized jet to open its door and allow its cargo of tired passengers to deplane. A worker positioned mobile stairs against the jet's fuselage, and stood at the handrail, mopping his face with an oil-stained rag. The great jet engines whistled in decrescendo while maintenance men bustled about under the craft with baggage carts and fuel hoses. When the door finally opened, a lone man, a North American wearing a khaki business suit and holding an attaché, stepped from the plane and put sunglasses on against the brilliant afternoon sky. He hesitated for a moment, studying the parking apron. Then he descended the stairs and walked a few meters to a waiting police car, where a smartly uniformed officer nodded and held the back door open for him. The police car pulled away quickly and was already off the tarmac and passing through a hastily opened chain-link gate before the smiling flight attendant, in bright blue skirt, jacket and cap, stepped onto the platform and allowed the remaining passengers to exit.

The passengers filed slowly down the stairs, bundles and children in tow, across the asphalt and into the terminal, a handful of natives among them waving to waiting family members, others drudging through the maze of vendors to the smiling taxi drivers.

Inside the terminal, a small procession of men in lightweight suits left the line of travelers, moved to the edge of the milling crowd and settled into a section of faded plastic seats.

I thought we'd never get off the plane, said one of the men, thumbing through a legal pad. Maybe the guy that got off first was with the government. Did you see the police car? He addressed his question to a man in a white suit, the apparent leader of the small group.

I saw the police car, but I don't know. There was something pretty sinister about him. He didn't seem like a government type to me. Nevertheless, he got the royal treatment by the local police.

Well, there's government and then there's government in Central America, quipped the first.

The evangelist looked at his companion, considering the thought. He raised his eyebrows and nodded without speaking.

Dropping the subject the first man, an aide, settled on a page of the pad and scanned. Let's see, a Pastor Hernandez is supposed to meet us here at three. I guess we're here a few minutes ahead of schedule. The aide turned to a third man assembling carry-on luggage onto a handcart. Don, here's Pastor Hernandez's phone number, would you mind giving him a call to make sure he's on his way? The man took the slip of paper and walked toward a pay telephone on the opposite wall.

What arrangements have been made for the meetings? Do you know yet? asked the leader.

Not yet. I spoke with the pastor before we left Dallas, and he was working on a tent. He had a sound system and a flatbed trailer, but hadn't been able to get a tent yet.

Well, the weather is great today, so it wouldn't be a disaster if we didn't have a tent. At least, as long as the weather holds. I just wish we knew whether the advance advertising and news releases were effective.

The Lord'll bring 'em in.

Oh, yes. I know. The leader narrowed his eyes thoughtfully toward a newspaper folded on a plastic seat. Its headline spoke of a rising crime rate fueled by drugs.

The evangelist looked at the man beside him. You know, I've got this feeling, Jim, ever since we left Mexico City. It's like the Lord is showing me He's going to do something special here. It's funny. This is the one place on the schedule I really didn't want to come, but I had promised this pastor I'd pray about it. And now, I really believe the Lord opened these meetings up for a powerful work. He looked at the mass of people before them and smiled with anticipation. We don't need a tent. Rain or not, there's about to be some reconstruction in this place. And God will be the Architect and Engineer.

CHAPTER ONE

The Entrance of Light

Montaña La Paz towered sedately above the tiny village of La Cabeza, its smoky peak a majestic crown to the necklace of tiny, whitewashed wooden houses that held back the jungle covering the shoulder of the mountain. Morning light struck La Paz like a shimmering gong that only the roosters heard. Their crowing announcement was the signal to start the village day.

As sunlight slowly ran down the face of La Paz and onto its beard of trees, wisps of smoke began to issue from the stone-and-mud chimneys, while dogs yawned from beneath the small porches and stretched themselves into the spotless, raked-dirt yards. Soon it would be hot in the village. The temperature would mount as the sun made its climb toward La Paz, to hover with angry heat until the tall trees of the jungle and the great peak could shade the tiny village for the late afternoon.

Ernest awoke at the first crowing and slid gently out of bed so as not to awaken Elizabeth. He recognized the soft noises from the kitchen as Felicia's preparations for breakfast, and as he slipped his pants on he was quickened by the tantalizing smell of fresh coffee.

How great it is, thought Ernest, glancing through the window to the peak, shining above the mist-shrouded forest, more than a thousand feet higher than his village. The mountain never failed to inspire his awe in the mornings.

Ernest Norton – Padre Ernesto, as the natives called him despite his explanations of Protestántism – enjoyed his dark coffee on the patio, as was his custom during morning meditations. He padded out to his chair where a cup of brown, steaming coffee, prepared exactly the way he liked it, waited on a small table.

He sat back with a sigh, took a daring sip and looked out over the low patio wall at his domain, his Christian charge. From his perch slightly above the rest of the village he watched La Cabeza slowly stir to life, a wisp of white smoke rising slowly here, another there, until their composite smell drifted to his nostrils. Ernest always enjoyed the aroma of primitive fires at sunup. It prompted the realization that he was in a barely civilized world, and reminded him of the years of effort it had taken to turn La Cabeza into a thing of beauty.

As the mist slowly disappeared and shadows glowed to light, he saw the distant smoke of Ligado, where his old rival, Larson, the Mormon, had his strongest following, and the smoke of El Fingido, outside San Carlos, where the Jehovah’s Witness, Simmons, had his gloomy mission. Ernest could not help smiling at the sight of three other short columns of smoke farther down toward the valley – Tenango, Facil and Hidalgo – representing the rest of his own flock in the mountain villages. In the seven years since the intruders, Larson and Simmons, arrived to hinder his work, they had made inroads only in the two villages between them, while Ernest had the four by himself.

He had the clinic, staffed once a quarter by a doctor and nurse from El Paso. The school also, with the full-time American teacher, Stephens, who came a year ago and built his own house just the other side of the village, and who now had taken a native wife from the valley. And one mustn't forget the electric power line brought in at Ernest's influence, the food deliveries, the outdoor movies once a month and, certainly, the Sunday service in the church building that had been recently expanded.

Ernest looked past the low shrubs beyond the patio and gazed gratifyingly at the white-painted structure, with its bell fastened proudly atop its peak of asphalt shingles. He had designed the building himself and brought a carpenter from the valley to supervise and instruct the natives in constructing it. Since it would seat more than one hundred, he would be able to bring in people from other villages as well.

He was so much farther along than Larson, despite the reputed wealth of the Mormon Church. And Simmons. Simmons did not even have a real sanctuary building constructed; it was rough timber and a thatched roof. And his house was very plain and unimaginative. Ernest shook his head at the thought. Simmons was so uncommunicative, traditional, and, yes, stubborn. How did he ever get any of the natives to follow him?

Felicia appeared with a fresh cup of coffee and smiled politely.

Thank you, Felicia. Is Mrs. Norton up?

"Si, Padre Ernesto. She is getting dress now."

Ernest nodded and lifted the cup.

"Padre! The voice came from the path leading to the road down the hill. Ernest saw three young men walking quickly down the trail. They were dressed as though going to the valley, carrying their hats, sandals and food parcels. He recognized Miguel, waving. Good-bye, Padre Ernesto. We go to the bus!"

Ernest waved as they passed out of sight beyond the patio wall. He was surprised that anyone would be leaving the village today. It was not a market day. And they were not carrying things for the market; they were dressed as for church, despite the fact they had had church service the previous morning.

Felicia, where do you suppose Miguel and the others are going today? Ernest lifted his slightly bulky frame a few inches out of the chair to see farther over the wall.

Felicia stopped beside the patio door. She seemed a bit embarrassed. "I think to a big meeting, Padre." Before she could proceed he spoke again.

What big meeting? His brow frowned questioningly at her.

"Un evangelio meeting in a big field, Padre. A man from los Estados Unidos has been there for one week. Her voice brightened. Many people have come to know El Señor, Padre. It is very exciting I think."

Ernest turned again in time to see a family of five, including the grandmother, hurrying barefoot down the path with a wave in his direction. They were also dressed in their best clothes.

A twinge of something like anxiety pricked his stomach. An evangelist from the States? I don't know anything about any evangelist in country. Ernest nodded confusedly at Felicia and she disappeared into the house. I wonder if Elizabeth knows anything about this. She hears more from the natives than I do.

Somehow the thought of his parishioners going off to town to hear some evangelist disturbed Ernest. He could not enjoy watching the sunrise. He left his coffee and went in to speak with Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. She was painting her nails at the desk in the hallway. "Do you know anything about