“What did you do?” asked Serge.
“We thought it was a sign from God,” said Agnes. “We began seeing all those ads on TV for reverse mortgages, and it sounded like the answer to our prayers . . .”
Buford nodded. “But then we mentioned it to Tyler from our congregation, and he told us that those reverse things were the biggest racket going. They’d gouge us on the interest rate, then compound it, not to mention hidden up-front costs.”
“Let me guess,” said Serge. “He offered to help you with a better deal?”
“Told us that a conventional equity loan from an upstanding local bank would accomplish the same goals but on much better terms. He even went and got the loan documents from the bank—”
Serge held up a hand. “I’ve seen this movie before. Then he asked you to sign some title documents that the bank needed for collateral. And the next thing you knew, the bank called to report a loan problem with the title, and the sheriff was at your door saying your home had been sold and you needed to leave.”
“The deputies were so nice,” said Agnes. “They told us they had investigated and knew exactly what was going on. But their hands were tied because, while it was totally immoral, it was also totally legal.”
Buford nodded again. “And the people who bought the house were another retired couple who used their entire life savings. What can you do?”
Serge took a seat on the steps next to them. “This one really breaks my heart. The reverse mortgages on TV are generally legit—it’s the lone wolves you have to watch out for. Scams in this department have gone so sky-high in Florida that it’s an epidemic waiting to make the press. Worst of all, the predators come to town and weasel their way into positions of trust. The newest trend is joining churches to prey on your virtue and trust in a fellow worshiper. Let me guess: Was this Tyler character in the choir?”
“How’d you know?” asked the pastor.
“And he just joined your congregation?”
“Two months ago,” said Donovan. “Seemed like the greatest guy. Explained he had just relocated for employment, and that his wife and children would join him as soon as the school year ended up north. He even showed me their photos.”
“Probably came with the wallet,” said Serge. “I’ve heard enough. I assume Tyler has made himself scarce.”
“Nobody’s seen him since the sheriff knocked,” said Buford.
Serge shook his head again. “Anything at all I can go on to track him down?”
“Not really,” said Agnes.
But Serge noticed the pastor making a furtive head tilt out of their view. “Serge, I’m sorry there’s nothing you can do, but it was kind of you to stop by. Why don’t I walk you back to your car?”
“How gracious.” Serge looked down. Kick. “Coleman, time to get up.”
They all met back at the Plymouth.
“Look, I don’t know who you are,” said the pastor. “Undercover law enforcement? Private investigator from Tyler’s last victim? Bank auditor? But something tells me it’s information you can’t divulge for professional reasons.”
“That would be accurate,” said Serge.
“I may be a pastor, but I’m not naive about the world.”
“Really?” Serge looked toward the edge of the street. “You had me fooled by your sign.”
“What?” Donovan turned. “Whoa. ‘Missionary Position.’ Slipped right by me.”
“Not everyone’s an editor.”
“What I’m getting at is that I did research on the Internet, and I found out about the angle you were describing,” said the preacher. “How these predators are increasingly using churches as their hunting grounds. I rarely curse, but this was more than I could take.”
“Understandable.”
“I also read how they move on before the locals can figure out their dishonesty, but the land is too fertile in Florida, so they can only go so far.”
Serge rested an elbow on the roof of the car. “What are you trying to say?”
“The pastors around these parts keep up with each other. Personally, we’re not the Internet types, but our chat rooms have their purpose,” said Donovan. “Usually it’s positive, like how to pump up congregation attendance. But this time I put out a warning on this Tyler guy so it wouldn’t happen to anyone else in the area. I also posted a photo that my secretary was able to grab from the last video of our choir performance.”
“I think I see where this is going,” said Serge. “Where is he?”
“Goes by ‘Nicholas’ now.” Donovan pointed north up the empty road splitting wild meadows. “Pastor four towns up gave me the word. Joined his church two weeks ago. He’s keeping an eye on him so he doesn’t pull anything before we can explore our options.”
“When is the next service with the choir?” asked Serge.
“Started at noon.” The preacher checked his wristwatch. “That gives you forty minutes max to catch him before he leaves.”
“How long a drive?”
“Hour.”
Four Years Earlier
A tiny cork ball rattled around the inside of a small metal enclosure. It had an extension that fit in a coach’s mouth. A shrill whistle blew for the hundredth time that afternoon. But this time it was followed by the head coach storming onto the field.
“Dougan! Get over here!”
The player trotted up. “What?”
The coach grabbed a fistful of the wide receiver’s jersey between the numbers. “You quit on that play! You were practically walking like my grandmother at the end of your route!”
“But it was a screen to the other side—”
“And now you’re arguing with me?”
“No, sir.”
“You never, ever quit on a play! You always run through the whistle!” The coach released his grip on the uniform. “Stadium steps! Now!”
The other players winced as Dougan removed his helmet and jogged toward the stacked rows of aluminum benches.
“Helmet on!” the coach yelled after him.
Another collective cringe.
Stadium steps were the worst. The punishment took place where the parents sat for all those Friday-night games under the lights. The punished player ran up the steps all the way to the top row of the viewing stands, then down, then up again, over and over as lactic acid built up in the legs and muscles cramped. But that was no excuse. You kept going without end in sight until the coach mercifully called you back to the field. Then, hopefully, lesson learned.
The exiled receiver’s cleats began clanging off the steps. The rest of the players got the message. There would be no more letups before the whistle this day. Play resumed back on the field with noticeably renewed purpose. The blocking harder, pass routes fully run, tackles like car accidents.
It was now taking two or three whistles to stop each play.
Lamar Calhoun was on the sideline, bent forward with hands on his knees, studying the technique of his starting halfback taking a delayed handoff and waiting for the block to open daylight next to the noseguard.
Another assistant coach stepped up next to him, the same one as the day before. Receivers coach named Odom. “Lamar, isn’t that you-know-who?”