Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

The press was salivating. You can never have too much bad news. I was just glad that we — Em, James, and myself — were being left out of it.

James sat on the driver’s side, Em sat on the passenger side, and Styles and I stood on the ground as the newscaster finished his report.

“And finally, on a related note — ” I think we all held our breath, “- radio talk-show host, Barry Romans, died early this morning of gunshot wounds he suffered yesterday morning while walking not far from Ocean Drive. Reverend Preston Cashdollar had been highly critical of Romans’ political stands, and there were rumors that the shooting may have been related to Cashdollar’s criticism of the radio celebrity. Again, talk show host Barry Romans, forty-eight years of age, dead of gunshot wounds.”

W e’d gone in early and still were relegated to the rear of the tent. They were packed in and hundreds of people were left outside to listen to the speakers. The morning service was delayed until nine thirty and I found out later the park had to shut off attendance due to the overflow crowd.

The morning ministry was conducted by a young black guy who lacked the power and the punch of Cashdollar. He opened with prayer, and given all that had gone on, given the fact that we were still relatively unscathed, except for my forehead, I closed my eyes and said thank you. I didn’t know what else to do. He then read scripture. I looked it up later and it came from the book of Matthew. The message didn’t surprise me.

God greatly rewards those who trust in him fully, often beyond what they could imagine.

The three of us sat in the tightly packed tent, noticing the police officers stationed at the end of several aisles. I don’t know if they thought there might be more gunplay or what, but I was hoping we’d seen all the dead bodies we were going to see for a long, long time.

The first collection was taken, and I couldn’t even fathom how much money was put in the plates. The worse things got, the more money Cashdollar and crew seemed to collect.

The minister thanked the congregation, and moved behind the center podium.

“My friends, we are gathered to worship the Lord. To thank him for our bountiful blessings and to ask him to help us build more followers from this foundation. Most of you are here because you are believers. You are followers. You understand the need to give so that you may receive. However,” he paused, taking a long time to switch gears, “however, many of you came today to see what all the commotion is about.”

There was a rumble in the enclosed area. Murmuring, some nervous laughter.

“Last night, there was,” and he paused again, as if he was searching for the right word, “there was a lot of activity on our campgrounds. We feel you should know what happened, and we have asked someone involved in that activity to talk to you. On behalf of Reverend Cashdollar and our collective family, let me introduce Deacon Thomas LeRoy.”

LeRoy stepped out from the side of the big stage and walked to the center. From any distance, the man cut an imposing figure. From his closely cropped hair to the brilliant shine on his shoes, the man moved with style and grace. Maybe even more than Cashdollar, Thomas LeRoy was in charge. Confident to the point of being cocky, he surveyed the assembled masses. The minister handed him a wireless microphone and LeRoy stepped to the edge of the sixty-foot structure.

“Early this morning, as you have undoubtedly heard, Reverend Preston Cashdollar was shot behind this tent.”

The murmuring grew in intensity, the assembled people talking to each other, acknowledging their ignorance of the shooting.

“Please, let me continue.” He waited, letting the voices die down. When he was in total control again, he continued. “The Reverend is in good condition, and was not seriously wounded.”

A light applause grew, and within thirty seconds the crowd was on its feet, applauding, stamping their feet, shouting amens, and whistling. Cashdollar was their guy, and they wanted a speedy recovery.

When it died down, after two or three minutes, LeRoy continued. “Sadly, Walter Bradley, one of the reverend’s loyal friends and bodyguards, was killed in the gunfire.”

“There’s a spin.” James looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Is LeRoy going to admit killing him?”

The crowd murmured again. I doubted if any of them knew Walter.

“Yesterday, Reverend Cashdollar told this assembly that there was a threat on his life. This morning, someone acted on that threat. We now know who that person is. It is a man who we trusted for many years, a man who many of you know.”

Em leaned over. “Is he really going to tell everyone that Walter shot Cashdollar?”

“This morning, we found the body of the killer.”

The suspense continued. The buzz under the canvas was audible. This is why they’d come. I half expected another collection before LeRoy told them it was Walter who’d shot Cashdollar.

“The body of Stanton Barnes, a food vendor on our grounds, was found in his trailer, where he apparently took his own life. Although all the evidence is not collected, we feel that the same gun used to shoot our Reverend Cashdollar, the same gun that killed Walter Bradly, Reverand Cashdollar’s trusted bodyguard, and possibly the same gun that was used to kill, yes kill, Barry Romans, was the gun that Stanton Barnes used to take his own life.”

“Stan?” James threw up his hands. It made no sense at all.

“I s anyone going to address this?” Em stood in the rear of the truck, cleaning off my grill and the frying pan. “We just heard a story that we know isn’t true.”

James took a deep breath. “Em, we’re the only people who know that it’s not true. And what if we report this and they don’t believe us?”

“We can’t just let it go.” She paused, then, “Oh my God. You’re right. What if they don’t believe us? They don’t listen, and Thomas LeRoy starts looking for us.”

“As it is, nobody knows that we know.” I was still trying to wrap my brain around the situation. They were blaming Stan for shooting Cashdollar and killing the bodyguard, Walter. If we told the truth, there was a good chance LeRoy and company would come after us. “Nobody knows, Em.”

“But we do, Skip. We’re not going to be able to live with ourselves. We have got to tell someone.”

“There are two things I need to tell you.” Styles was separating paper plates and cups as the four of us worked in the truck, getting the meat ready, cooking up the onions and peppers, and getting ready for one heck of a rush. There were more trucks, vans, and SUVs than I’d seen all weekend. Three trucks with satellite dishes on the top and station call letters on the side had pulled up next to us. Three cop cars were parked up by the tent, and three armed officers stood duty by the exit as people filed out from the morning service.

“First of all, I found out who the FBI plant is.”

I about dropped the spatula. “You waited this long to tell us?”

“My informant told me this morning. And the good news is, it’s not you.”

James put a thin coat of oil on his stove-top grill and started the first burgers of the day.

“All right, smart-ass, who is it?”

“Crayer.”

“No.” Em was helping me with the vegetables.

“Yes. But he’s not FBI.”

I had a hard time following him. Most of the time. “He is or he isn’t?”

“He works for them. He’s not an agent. Apparently, they brought him in right after the senator, Fred Long, was murdered. Maybe three years ago. It’s been his job to infiltrate the group and see what he could find out.”