Scarred Souls

By Bo Novotna

Pastor Brayden Dupree is educated, dynamic, talented, charming, and a master manipulator who has built a mega church in Oklahoma with his wife, Ava, to encourage his congregation to follow him with their wallets open and minds closed to outside influences. But what none of their loyal followers know is that Pastor Dupree and his wife are also dangerous psychopaths.
While brainwashing parishioners into worshipping him in lieu of the God they claim to follow and obey, Brayden becomes bored. Believing he is untouchable, he sets his sights on larger illegal activities that will feed his insatiable hunger for bigger trophies to display in his imaginary case. While Brayden enjoys power at any cost, Ava craves the limelight and weaving cruel webs. Without checks and balances, Brayden and Ava appear free to mollify the ravenous evil inside of them as their children, David and Samantha, the illegal Mexican family trapped working at the Dupree estate, and eventually their own granddaughter, Emily, become their victims. Will any of them escape whole or alive?
Scarred Souls is the thrilling tale of two psychopaths as they hide under the guise of Christianity and give their followers a false sense of purpose and hope while they carry out evil acts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480875814

Bo Novotna

Bo Novotna was raised in Mississippi and Texas. While growing up, Bo enjoyed creating stories and often collaborated with his father at bedtime in lieu of reading a published book. He later became a teacher and elementary school principal with a lifelong love for telling and writing stories. Today Novotna resides in San Antonio, Texas. This is his first book.

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Copyright © 2019 Bo Novotna.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-7579-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7580-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7581-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019904339

Archway Publishing rev. date: 08/16/2019

CONTENTS

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

To Johnnie

PART ONE

1

A lready lying awake, Emily heard two hard knocks through the thin paneled wall above her bed. She sat up from her sweat- soaked sheets and gave two knocks back to thank Mr. Garza, her own personal alarm clock, for waking her. She wondered if she just might have restlessly awoken from the hottest night South Texas ever had to offer. Even a bit sleep-deprived, she could not lay there another minute staring at the rickety, three-blade ceiling fan.

On mornings like this, Emily could care less that the tiny apartment had only cool water. As she stepped into the shower, she gasped at the first blast of cold, then relished it the way one would normally caress a warm, steamy bath. She took her time enjoying the lather of her mother’s favorite lavender soap and even brushed her teeth while enjoying the soap’s aroma. Anything she could do in the cool water helped delay the heat and sticky sweat that was ahead of her.

"Carol, I brought you a cup of coffee. As perky as Emily could muster, she replied, Thanks, Julia. You’re welcome, Carol. As the bathroom door closed, Emily gave her usual sigh and muttered, Dang," how she hated her new name to use in this crappy border town. Carol? How did her mom come up with that one? Then she grinned, thinking of how her mom must have been watching re-runs of the Carol Burnett Show again. Maybe she should start calling her Lucy just to get her back for the last couple of silly names. Em smirked at the thought of her mother, Samantha, calling as she waved to her while she took a bike ride around Garza’s property, "I love you, Carol! Then she would have her chance to reply, Yeah, and I love Lucy!" She smiled as she thought of how that would make her mom laugh, and she loved to hear her mom’s soft, lyrical laughter.

To successfully memorize this new false name now that they had picked up and suddenly moved to another new location, Emily would go through a rote routine in the shower. "Carol washes her hair. Carol brushes her teeth. Carol dries her hair. Carol, what will you wear today? Carol, you must remember to … Carol, you must not slip up …"

Emily did not know that her mom, Samantha, whose name was presently ‘Julia,’ was listening with a tear rolling down her face. Every new day began with Sam convincing herself that this life of running and anonymity was better for Emily than the alternative. She prayed her fears, hopefully masked successfully by taking advantage of every opportunity to create a fun and loving environment for her daughter, would pay off. Samantha prayed fervently that someday, somehow, Emily would be safe and free from danger and captivity. She did not mind Emily thinking she was strange. Sam just wanted Emily to know how she cherished her redheaded, emerald green-eyed daughter.

Thirteen years ago, she held her baby Emily for the first time. Her baby, she thought, as she cuddled the warm, chubby infant with her mass of red curls. She could not take her eyes off her beautiful, innocent child with smooth ivory skin. Even while pregnant, Sam knew she must escape and keep running if her daughter was to grow up protected, happy, and someday, ultimately free.

She also prayed that Emily would never learn the ugly truth behind their life of looking over their shoulder. Sam could not afford to care if her daughter thought she was paranoid, weird, or truly crazy. It was a small sacrifice to pay. She believed Em could learn to live puzzled with unanswered questions concerning her unusual childhood and lack of family history. There were worse ways to grow up and she was living proof. Only over her dead body would her precious baby girl grow up with the same scars she bore. Only over her last breath would that alternative be an option. As Sam wiped away familiar tears, she started to the kitchen for her own cup of coffee.

The hollow apartment door crashed to the floor and the alternative hit like the worst of storms. Emily was still in the shower rinsing toothpaste from her mouth when she heard the door crash and Sam yell, Emily run! Run! Run like … Emily heard the loud blast. Then, nothing but hurried footsteps headed her way as her young mind froze.

Mom was not paranoid. Someone really was after them. Mom’s escape plan raced through her mind. The drill they always practiced in every new location. Number one was not to check on Mom. Number two was to crawl out a window and run like hell. Be smart. Be resourceful, I’ve taught you that. Don’t look back. Look forward. Keep moving. Do not let fear overwhelm your intelligence, Mom repeated so often …

However, there was no plan if caught naked and off guard. The shower curtain ripped back and a large, Schwarzenegger- looking man slapped her across the face. He grabbed her limp body before further damage could occur by hitting the tile.

The team methodically busied themselves as if killing, cleaning and kidnapping were routine to them. Two were wrapping Sam’s body in plastic. Her face was gone by the shotgun blast. Later her fingers would be cut off, so she could not be identified if ever found floating in some remote spot along the Rio Grande.

Two intruders oversaw cleaning traces of blood and tissue—staging the hit to look like the tenants simply left the shabbily furnished apartment without paying their rent. The murderers were even prepared to replace the door.

The Schwarzenegger man carried Emily, wrapped in the shower curtain, to an unmarked van where a doctor was prepared to handle injuries and supervise Emily’s care. My God, Tiny, she’s out cold, and I believe you broke her jaw. There is no reason to hit a young girl that hard. Why didn’t you use the syringe full of tranquilizer I gave you?

"Fuck off and just fix her. That’s your job," Tiny snapped back as he threw the filled syringe at the doctor. He slammed the van doors and motioned the driver to take off.

2

M r. Garza sat on his closet floor staring at the money in his safe as if it was a pile of useless paper. His hands shook while trying to light his cigarette. He owned and managed the small four-plex apartment building on the edge of this nowhere Texas border town. The four-plex was more of a flophouse for railroad men located near Eagle Pass, Texas. These men rented the efficiency apartments to sleep when they were off their shifts every other day. Garza easily learned the schedules of the three engineers that were often back on trains at the same time.

The three railroaders were gone this grim morning and Garza made the telephone call to the number given to him the week before. That is all his instructions included besides staying out of the way this day; a day he had looked forward to arriving that had turned into the worst of nightmares. He could then retrieve the remaining $100,000 of the $200,000 payment in a brief case left at his back door. The old man had no idea this shit-storm was coming. All Garza had obsessed over was the money. Trembling uncontrollably, he could barely concentrate on his new found treasure, knowing now it was blood money and not just a shady business deal.

After Garza thought he heard the last of the vehicles leave, he slowly rose from the closet floor making sure his shaking legs would hold him. Unsteady, he made it to the back door and pulled the curtain back looking down for the case of remaining money. His last two glances were of a large set of man’s legs in army fatigues and boots before looking up at Tiny and receiving his own shotgun blast to his face.

Tiny kicked the remains of the door open, stepped over Garza’s body, and ransacked the place to look like a burglary. He saw the open safe in the closet and laughed at how the dumb ass did not even lock it. He shoved the money into his shirt. Stupid Mexican, he thought while still chuckling. He hurried out the door and jumped into an old green Ford truck waiting for him. He and the driver never conversed while meandering back to the Oklahoma Panhandle. Tears streamed down the driver’s face while the monster laughed hysterically and shouted, Wahoo that was fun!

If you’re going to do something, do it well, and leave something witchy. The large thug looked over at his driver while still laughing from all his viciousness. Hey, did you know that’s a quote from Charles Manson?

There was no comment from the driver.

3

E mily awoke to her first and worst headache. She tried reaching for her face but felt her wrists clamped to the rails. She thought about screaming, but with her mouth wired shut, any movement meant more, searing pain. Just relax, a man said in almost a whisper, Your jaw is broken and wired shut. I am giving you a drip with Phenergan to keep you from vomiting and a little something to help you sleep. Relax. All is well."

Emily knew not all was well … horrifyingly, not well at all. Even with her head filled with pain and riddled with anxiety, she remembered mom often quoting some ancient monk, All is well. All is well. All manner of things is well. Sam sometimes changed it to, All will be well, baby doll. Em remembered how she sometimes teased her mom by rolling her eyes and sarcastically asking, Are you sure that old monk was quoted correctly? Maybe he really said, All is not well. Some things are just plain loony. This would lead to a chase around an apartment with both laughing crazily and her mom shouting, You think so, smarty pants? I’ll show you whose loony!"

Deep down, life on the run with Mom had always kept them both on edge, but they never lost their sense of humor. The young girl sobbed and wondered if she would ever be happy, or enjoy a good belly laugh again without her mother. Petrified, Emily felt sure she had finally fallen off a jagged, deep edge with no hope of surviving.

As the meds kicked in and her eyelids grew heavy, a thin, pale wrinkled face with steel blue eyes peering through small, round frameless glasses appeared bent over her, almost touching her nose. He spoke deadly calm as he studied her face. His features were becoming fuzzy. She could barely focus on his cold, glaring eyes. In her ear, he whispered in a slightly high tenor, sickening sweet voice, I’ll bet you’d like to ask, who the hell I am? Well, I will tell you, my dear. I am your grandfather. Then he chuckled as if gravel was in his throat, or very possibly, your daddy."

As the monster raised his head from hers, she shut her eyes. Emily’s last thought was of reading somewhere, a quote by David Berkowitz that he scribbled on a wall: In this hole lives the wicked king. Not her usual, and certainly not her favorite genre, she was left drifting off into that very dark, murky hole.

Years Earlier

1

A va and Brayden Dupree sat eating a nutritious breakfast of oatmeal with blueberries and freshly brewed organic coffee. Brayden was glancing at the newspaper while Ava studied her Day Planner making notes and looking over upcoming events. Brayden quietly folded and laid his paper down while gazing at his lovely wife. My dear, do you have plans for today?

She answered sweetly with a tinge of edgy bitterness, Well of course I have plans. Thank you, darling for your interest. This afternoon I plan to go over our household finances, exercise to my work out routine, tidy up this old ranch house, and then get ready to attend the Tuesday Music Club. You already know what my morning will be like—the usual.

Sounds productive, Brayden said positively as he stood up and bent over to kiss Ava on the forehead. Don’t forget the kids like you did last week. They both chuckled. Oh yes. I’d better write that down. She smiled dutifully and jokingly acted as if she was reaching for her pen. Brayden walked out of the kitchen still laughing and shaking his head. He paused, turning to remind his wife, No worries my dear. Soon enough we will have a staff of pepper bellies to clean and care for the brats.

Looking up into Brayden’s face with her fake, pretty smile so endearing to her husband, Ava added, Promise?

I promise, Brayden said confidently.

As Brayden whistled his way out of the kitchen, Ava’s natural, cold demeanor returned, and her dark-brown eyes appeared as black as night. She hated those brats. Nevertheless, they came along with the package when she married Brayden. He had sole custody of them after committing his first wife to a mental institution and then divorcing her.

In Ava’s mind, she was an upper-class Georgia peach with only one set back. She was barren and now burdened with two white trash kids void of her southern, refined blood running through their veins. However, she made it work to her advantage.

To naïve and usually only Sunday morning churchgoers, she could appear to be even more gracious and tender, elevated in their eyes by mothering Brayden’s children as her own. Ava had an innate ability to turn any situation to her advantage to stay in the lime light, and she had the perfect partner that understood. Never had a married couple seemed to be cut from the very same stiff, scratchy, black and suffocating cloth that felt more like sandpaper.

2

T en-year-old Samantha sat on the floor holding David, her five-year-old brother in her arms trying her best to comfort him. Both siblings routinely woke up to their morning spankings from their step mother that ended with too hard a shake reminding them of her busy schedule, how they were to obey, do their schoolwork, and then stay quietly out of her way.

Their father often watched amusingly as he leaned against the doorway of their bedrooms, sipping coffee. It had always been abundantly clear to Samantha and David that the monsters remained united in all things, which meant having no one to turn to when so often the spankings were more like beatings.

The sibling’s schedules were set and unmovable. After their sobbing, they bathed, dressed, and ate breakfast in their room so not to dirty the immaculate kitchen. They sat at their desks in the spare room setup as a classroom and awaited Ava’s instruction. Neither had experienced the developmental play of kindergarten, birthday parties, or sleepovers with friends. In fact, they had no friends at all-only each other. Their mornings consisted of working at the chalkboard and doing endless schoolwork out of workbooks.

Thank God they were both bright children that could breeze through an accelerated, yet boring home school curriculum. Any extra effort at teaching on Ava’s part would have been disastrous and, more than likely, torturous for Sam and David. If David had any trouble not excelling with an academic concept, Samantha was quick to help him during their free time. Anything she could do to protect her little brother, Sam instinctively did to avoid the wrath of Ava.

Throughout childhood, the children lived for their free time. It was not exactly free, but it was as close to freedom as the siblings ever knew. After schoolwork, Ava was anxious to rid herself of them. They could play quietly for two hours in their rooms filled with books and puzzles, crayons, paper, and board games. Then, they could play outside, but only in the backyard on the swings and jungle gym. A sandbox was a delightful addition for David and both siblings enjoyed playing in the sprinkler on hot days.

The children’s delightful bedrooms, along with the impressive backyard play equipment, were not for Samantha and David’s enjoyment. The objective was always to appear as an above normal, loving family. Standing out was of great-importance to Ava and Brayden’s underlying goals. Samantha and David instinctively knew their parent’s agenda and sharing their abuse with anyone on the outside was never an option in their young, abused, and traumatized minds.

Brayden often worked from home, while Ava went about her busy afternoon schedule; however, he was never to be disturbed. The children knew he kept a watchful eye from his window, so they played outside quietly, and sibling rivalry was absent from their relationship. Arguing would bring pain to one or both and, after all, they were each other’s world. More than likely, no brother and sister ever loved each other as much as Samantha and David. Without the other, they could not imagine the loneliness and terror.

3

B rayden sometimes needed to be away from home in the afternoons. On those days, Samantha and David experienced the horror of being locked away in their closets-usually with bottled water. On rare occasions, and if they had been especially good that morning, they were rewarded with being locked in the same closet together with the light on. However, more frequently, regardless of their good behavior, both children suffered sadistically in separate closets locked away without a light, water, or an explanation.

After becoming accustomed to this unpredictable madness, Samantha risked tucking a flashlight, David’s favorite books, toys and puzzles, inside blankets and shoes so he would not freak out and would have some things to occupy his time. She taught him to listen carefully for the click of Ava’s high heels, so he could hide his things away and pretend he was napping—the term the monsters used for locking their children away. Samantha also made sure he went to the bathroom before the lock up. Wetting his pants was an excellent excuse to humiliate and beat him senseless. After all, mother Ava always loved to remind them that, Pain brings clarity to the mind.

Samantha, on the other hand, hid nothing in her closet. She grew to love and crave the time away from her sad, tightly scheduled life. It was truly her free space to daydream about running far away imaging various choices she could be when she grew up such as becoming a singer or ballet dancer, a painter or musician.

She often sang to herself or whiled away the hours planning her escape route along with how she would care for David. Unquestionably, she would take him with her. These nap times became her personal freedom to work such things out in her young, innocent mind. Being locked-away lasted well into their teenage years.

Unfortunately, David did not ever fare well in the closet regardless of what his sister did to help him pass the time. He became more and more withdrawn and fragile. No matter his age, his world and security were always Samantha. Without her, he was lost. Samantha often heard him weeping and softly banging his head against the back of the closet wall. She sobbed as she imagined him blankly rocking back and forth, the way she read autistic or mentally challenged children often do.

As David grew older, he would often ask Ava for the light to be off and Samantha wondered what filled his thoughts while sitting in the dark closet. She knew he was intelligent, but severely damaged emotionally. When she asked him, he would say nothing, blankly stare at her, and then hug her as if he would never let go. It was those times that Samantha’s daydreaming turned to violent scenarios of getting rid of the monsters she and her little brother were unfortunately trapped with-especially when the nap times grew longer than usual. Ava either forgot them or sadistically left them locked up.

God only knew how much Samantha loathed them-Ava, Brayden, and God himself, if he existed. Samantha often imagined God to be a psychopath like her stepmother and father. However, as her knowledge of the Scriptures grew, drilled into her extensively to impress or perform on cue, deep down Samantha held out hope that God might somehow be different.

After all, she had prayed for protection many times throughout her childhood and teenage years and often thought she caught a glimpse of God’s intervention that saved her and David’s life. Of course, it could have been sheer luck. Who knew? Who could really know? All Samantha was certain of about the concept of hope was that it proved to be a good dream, made her emotions lighter at times, and was all she really had to hold onto.

4

T he family eventually settled in the Northwest corner of the Oklahoma Panhandle, where Brayden had accepted a call to pastor a small, older, supposedly evangelical, established church of mostly wealthy blue hairs. The position was far from what he had obtained years earlier. After his divorce, he was no longer able to pastor the conservative mega church he led in Georgia. That was the rule of the ultra-conservative denomination, however, Brayden, of course, felt he should have been the exception to such a petty mandate. It had taken him by surprise when the deacons led the Georgia congregation in supporting his being dismissed without question and willing to replace him like a soiled tablecloth.

Brayden could not believe the lack of empathy for a man such as himself. This being his first church out of seminary, he expected much more grace. After all, he was exceptional, and they were lucky to have him in their presence. This dismissal would ruin his career in this denomination before it barely began.

On a Wednesday night following the usual dinner and prayer meeting, the deacons met in a Sunday school classroom to discuss an interim pastor and to begin the process of choosing members to be on the pulpit committee to search for a new pastor. The classroom door was locked from the outside and a fire broke out, burning alive all twelve of the men who had requested Brayden’s resignation.

When interviewed by the local paper, young Dr. Dupree turned on the tears and well-practiced broken voice. While shaking his lowered head, he was quoted, sadly saying, What a shame, what a shame. We can only take comfort in knowing these Godly men passed on while doing Servant work God asks of his devoted followers. My heart and prayers are with their families and the church family during this time of grief and pain.

He remembered relishing how well he slept that night. What an adrenaline rush to have pulled that off and to be leaving with a copy of his quote and photo on the front page of the local newspaper lying next to him in the passenger seat.

The juiciest thrill of course, was the request to officiate at the funeral for the twelve who died in the fire. One could cut with a knife the astounding grief in the over packed sanctuary as he pulled a television Evangelist style emotional act of sweat, tears and grief over the devastating loss of each one of the deacons. It was the most exhilarating time of his life thus far.

What a grand send-off, Brayden thought. No one gets by with dismissing me without hell to pay. He felt comfortably satisfied with getting even and felt refreshingly ready to move on to his next venture. Being turned out and snubbed by the denomination ended up becoming a great, new opportunity of freedom. Released from restraints and long-established mandates, he could now unleash his dreams that better fit his narcissistic world-view, ego driven, psychopathic personality. His parents would be happy to float his bills, as always, until he landed a new ministry opportunity.

5

T he stagnant church situated in Oklahoma just across the Oklahoma/Texas borderline was just what he and Ava were looking for. The small non-denominational church was loosely organized, independent, easily won over, wealthy, somewhat liberal, and more of a country club void of a sincere driven passion to do Kingdom work.

Brayden and his wife, Ava, also fit the bill for what this congregation was hoping for—lively feel good sermons that tickled their ears, good administrative skills, extremely social, and an added perk with Ava’s talents of playing piano, singing, leading the music and organizing retreats to entertain the women’s ministry.

This portion of the Bible belt additionally happened to contain a population of low to medium income young families that could easily be attracted to a church ministry for social reasons, though they, much like the seniors, would never admit that was mainly why they might attend church. Even with meager incomes, statistics and experience proved to Brayden that they could become consistent with their tithe and excellent worker bees if entertained and motivated correctly. For this type of folk, church was usually the only place they felt important and involving them in ministry gave them a false sense of power and purpose that was void in their blue-collar jobs.

However, attracting the younger population was stage two of his demented plan of power and greed. This area already contained old money. If, carefully manipulated by a polished, energetic preacher, the old money could become new money for Brayden.

Fabricating research, scheming, glad-handing, and panhandling hope was Braydon and Ava’s expertise and they pedaled it like all good racketeers. Every person they calculatingly chose to become acquainted with and every thought this pair ever focused on was to benefit their goal of power, prestige, and money—even if they had to ruin lives and steal to obtain it.

The Duprees also possessed impressive, well-behaved children that would not be a concern. They appeared to be the ideal family to represent their new community of faith. Appearance was, ultimately, the primary concern of this shallow church family. Another concern was to have a pastor that would take care of the mission work the church feebly attempted but strongly desired to begin in Mexico. Both Ava and Brayden spoke fluent Spanish, which would expedite a potentially impressive ministry the congregation desired to create and grow, mostly for posterity.

Brayden knew mission work was of great interest to churches and knew to accentuate this as a passion of his when interviewing for pastoral positions. Mission work was always good publicity and easy to throw a bone at to check off the annoying, but necessary command Christ gave to his disciples. Annoying to narcissists, however, necessary, in terms of a great budget line to siphon and defraud money.

Ultimately, this new opportunity was fertile ground for Brayden and Ava to establish themselves as the ultimate do-gooders beyond reproach and do what con artists do best. After gaining these wealthy seniors trust and admiration, many of the aged members trusted Brayden with their final decisions concerning their wills and property. Brayden was at his best when acting altruistic and planting, subconsciously, in the wealthiest of his members, that he was a financial genius.

Of course, the Duprees performed cautiously to be included in these final decisions and humbly accepted any sum of money along with property to continue their work for God’s Kingdom. What a slick avenue to help build an empire, Brayden often chuckled to himself, Build ‘em up, use ‘em up and watch ‘em rot.

6

A s time passed, Brayden often joked to Ava about how much she hated their first mission trips to Mexico. The blue hairs had no idea the Duprees had never set foot in Mexico. They were smoothly convinced this saintly couple was well experienced at this Godly task, due to the slick lies and Brayden’s imaginative ability to spin a good yarn.

The Duprees chose an especially poor area that would need years of help. It was safely and conveniently located just the other side of the border of El Paso, so they wouldn’t have to travel too deeply into the country. Luckily, they found a young, naive Mexican pastor, who was easily manipulated and receptive to all of Brayden’s mentoring and generosity without question.

Brayden often teased, Remember, dearest, how you just about broke the bank purchasing expensive sunscreen, designer sunglasses and hats before we could get electricity to run fans and finally air conditioning in that dump? Slipping those expenditures into the budget was always a bit tricky, he smirked.

Ava playfully scoffed, "Don’t remind me, my dear prick. Do you remember the temper tantrums I threw about me even having to go and associate with such degenerates? Thank God, you always had the forethought to get extra footage of me holding those nasty brown rug rats. Those shots skillfully inserted into slides and videos throughout the years certainly paid off nicely by bringing tears to the eyes and opening the pocketbooks of our old codgers. You are very welcome, my darling, for my sacrificial suffering," she added smugly.

Yep, tugging on heartstrings is the surest and easiest way to shake the money tree, Brayden snickered. Then they would both laugh hysterically like two successful bank robbers splitting up their loot. Brayden chuckled spontaneously when, on occasion, his petite partner danced in their bedroom and sang the lyrics to Take the Money and Run by the Steve Miller Band.

It was not long before the mission ministry grew more elaborate. The Duprees set up a fund for an orphanage that never existed. The congregation gave generously to this fabricated fund and Brayden skillfully created false budgets and numerous spreadsheets published for the congregation. He laboriously went over them with the prominent Mission committee with the intent to bore and convince them that he was being an immaculate steward of every evangelism dollar.

Reassurance was all the mission committee ultimately desired. They wanted to feel good and pat themselves on their self-absorbed backs. Then, Dupree would cheerfully report the mission committee’s progress to the congregation and in turn, the congregation passed it on to the surrounding community. It was easy, Brayden thought-so damn easy. It would have been scary to someone of less confidence and a smaller delusion of grandeur.

7

E very so often, a slide show or video was presented before worship services and The Duprees would sit back grinning internally as they watched the money increase. As time went on, the clips of David and Samantha participating in somewhat of a staged Vacation Bible School were especially lucrative.

Brayden’s research paid off when he found a small, poor, struggling Catholic orphanage that would accept any donation for what they believed was a worthy cause for their desperately forgotten orphans. Easily won over, and without question, the old nuns looked forward to any attention they could get for these needy children in their care.

No one was ever the wiser to this lucrative set up. The camera crews were hired independently, and the congregation was too old and disinterested in volunteering their time or energy to travel to Mexico. It was simply a task the blue-hairs wanted taken care of successfully—selfishly desiring to receive accolades from the surrounding communities without having to do anything but monetarily sponsor the Godly endeavor. This portion of the gig was unquestionably the first real golden egg for the Duprees.

The writer, Samuel Johnson, was oh so right when quoted as saying, The wretched have no compassion …

8

A s he had promised Ava on one Mexico trip, Brayden went alone with the goal of finding some Mexicans to serve his household. One of his somewhat, immediate plans included moving from the old ranch house to a newly constructed mansion. Brayden knew the large endeavor would require a lot of work and the extra help from hard working wetbacks would be beneficial so not to overtax him and Ava with their already busy schedules. He did not want to choose any teenagers from the Catholic orphanage in fear of the records kept by the nuns that could possibly be traced and cause problems down the road. His game board would be the loosely organized mission church.

Brayden visited the small mission church his congregation supported. Beloved by the members, the cheaply constructed sanctuary was routinely packed with standing room only when news traveled that Reverend Dupree would deliver the Sunday sermon in their own language.

As usual, he spoke of the unconditional love of God, His grace and mercy. Brayden cried his fake tears and used his broken voice to evoke emotion and admiration. He ate lunch with the congregation afterward and lapped up the gratefulness and sincere love of the Mexican people like a god. All the while, he sized up the families and searched for the most desperate and vulnerable of situations to capture his personal worker bees.

At one table, his gaze fell upon a family he remembered particularly well during the construction of the new sanctuary— the Morodo clan. This family was the poorest of all and had no other living relatives. Juanita was the oldest cousin and he guessed her to be pushing forty. She had never married, was tall, gangly, and seemingly quiet. Brayden thought Juanita not to be especially attractive, appearing more Indian than Mexican.

Juanita’s cousin, Maria, was in her late twenties or early thirties and single, also. She was short and round with a sweet face and disposition. Both women appeared accustomed to hard-work and were completely devoted to the care of Maria’s younger siblings, Ilsa and Miguel, who were