Grits And Glory. Ron Benrey

on his forehead was beginning to color.

      She watched Dave climb into the ambulance. “Do you want to ride with us to the hospital?” he shouted. “You look more than a little shaky yourself.”

      Ann ached to say yes. She didn’t want to be alone inside a sealed-up church—not with Richard Squires lying dead outside, half-buried under a pile of rubble. There was plenty of room for her next to Carlo and Sean. Everyone would understand if she bugged out.

      Everyone except Ann Trask. The administrator of Glory Community Church had to stay at her post as long as Gilda threatened the town.

      Ann shook her head. “I can’t leave.”

      She expected Dave to argue with her, but he didn’t. “It’s a short run to the hospital. Expect us back in less than ten minutes.” He killed the three floodlights atop the ambulance and yanked the rear door shut. The vehicle’s white, red and amber warning signals spun to life, illuminating the jagged remains of the steeple piled next to the Storm Channel’s broadcast van and casting bizarre shadows in the parking lot.

      Then the ambulance drove away, leaving almost total darkness in its wake. Ann wished that she’d remembered to switch on the exterior light above the church’s side door.

      She tugged her rain hood forward and tightened the drawstrings. Not that the hood would make much difference. She was soaked to the skin inside her clothing—what were a few more drops of wind-driven rain dripping down her neck?

      It hardly made sense to seek a few minutes of shelter inside the church, but she decided to check if anyone had telephoned in her absence. A quick glance at the answering machine in her office told her that no one had called. She made it back to the parking lot in less than five minutes, a moment before one of the police department’s four-wheel-drive SUVs, a boxy truck decked out with red and blue strobe lights, entered from King Street. Dave must have notified the emergency command center that Richard had been killed. She cringed. Why hadn’t she thought to call Rafe Neilson first?

      Probably because you’re more shocked by Richard’s death than you’re willing to admit.

      The SUV stopped next to the crippled broadcast van, inches away from Ann. Its headlights lit up the wreckage of the crushed steeple, making Richard’s red boots look especially garish compared to the mostly white chunks of smashed wood.

      Rafe slipped out of the driver-side door and Phil Meade exited the passenger side. Their faces, alternately lit by blue and red flashes, seemed surreal, but Ann could see anger glowing in Phil’s eyes as he strode toward Richard’s body.

      “Are you okay?” Rafe asked, approaching Ann. Ann took comfort in his strong, caring voice.

      “I don’t think what’s happened has sunk in yet,” she said. “It doesn’t compute that Richard is dead. He was killed in such a weird way.”

      “Weird happens,” Rafe said, “both for the bad and the good. The broadcast van was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So was Richard Squires. But as far as we know, no one else in town, or the county for that matter, has been seriously injured. One dead and two wounded is a lot better than we hoped for a few hours ago.”

      “Praise God for that.”

      Phil’s booming voice overpowered the wind. “Praise God indeed for good news, Miss Trask, but not for the way that you deal with crises.” He brought his face inches from Ann’s, close enough for her to see raindrops dribble off his nose. “Your foolish stubbornness killed a wonderful man. I hope you’re satisfied.”

      Ann flinched as the impact of his words hit home. Phil Meade blamed her for Richard’s death.

      She pressed her lips together to control the fury she felt. No way would she give Phil a close-up view of her anger. She would behave like a professional manager, no matter what he said to provoke her.

      Rafe stepped between Ann and Phil. “For the tenth time, Phil, you can’t blame Ann for Richard’s death. She didn’t bring down the steeple—that was Gilda’s doing. Hurricanes are dangerous. Everyone who stayed in Glory understood the risk. Including Richard Squires.”

      “For the eleventh time,” Phil shouted, “there’s only one reason that Richard is dead. Ann Trask panicked when she couldn’t start the generator, because she’s too young and too inexperienced to handle routine problems.” He clasped his hands to his temples and shook his head, an extravagantly complex gesture that Ann read as a signal of his bewilderment.

      “I don’t understand the leaders of Glory Community Church,” he said. “Why would you guys put someone in charge of your building during a storm if she can’t prime a simple diesel fuel pump?”

      Ann felt her anger surge again when Phil spoke about her in the third person, as if she weren’t there. She leveled her index finger at him. “Richard kept the generator in good running order. We were supposed to call him immediately if anything went wrong.”

      “If anything major went wrong,” Phil replied, with a generous wave of his hands, “or if circumstances truly required the generator to be operational. The very last thing Richard wanted to do this evening was leave his job at the emergency command center and deal with a trivial generator glitch. He did it because you don’t know diddly about diesel engines, and because you seemed scared stiff of the dark. That’s what he told all of us before he left.” He glanced at Rafe. “You were there—you heard Richard moaning and groaning about going to the church. Tell her I’m right.”

      Ann’s anger quickly turned to concern. Rafe’s unhappy expression told her that everything Phil had said was true, which meant that Richard’s gracious “I should have tested the generator this morning” had been nothing but a polite fib, spoken to cover how he really felt.

      That doesn’t change my reason for calling him.

      Words came rushing out of her mouth.

      “I called Richard this evening because I had to. A major hurricane was about to hit Glory. A backup generator is an essential piece of equipment at an emergency shelter. It has to work reliably. The generator was Richard’s responsibility, not mine. If he’d maintained it properly, I wouldn’t have needed his last-minute help.”

      Ann watched a vein begin to throb in Phil Meade’s temple.

      “You’re plainly inexperienced,” he said angrily, “but I didn’t expect you to also be mean-spirited. How dare you blame Richard for your own ineptitude?” He stretched to his full height and went on. “Shame on you! Richard deserves better than that.”

      Phil spun around and made his way back to Richard’s body.

      “I give up,” Ann said to Rafe. “Phil is determined to blame me.”

      “Phil’s upset about Richard and not in a mood to listen to reason.”

      She stood still as Rafe gently brushed away a little puddle of rainwater that had collected on the brim of her hood.

      “Richard was in charge of the generator,” Rafe went on. “He often told people that keeping it running was part of his ministry at Glory Community Church.”

      “Even so, I’d better smooth things over with Phil.”

      “Good idea,” Rafe said, “but give him a chance to calm down before you try. He’ll come around after he’s had some time to cool off.”

      Ann knew better. Phil might never “come around.” She had embarrassed him earlier by forcing him to back down. He was the sort of person who didn’t forgive and forget. Especially not now that he’d discovered her Achilles’ heel—her so-called fear of the dark.

      “I started my new job at the church just a few months ago,” she murmured to herself. “The last thing I need right now is an influential enemy questioning my competence.”

      God, why do You keep putting me in this position?

      Sean felt something squeezing his arm. He opened