Walter looked out at his congregation, his eyes misting over. Even the sight of Norma Crenshaw and her widowed minions sitting in the front row, their pinched judgmental faces looking up at him in the pulpit, left him feeling grateful. How fortunate it was that he had not heeded his initial impulse and abandoned his flock. The thought that he’d almost lost it all due to his own weakness filled him with shame, but the fact that he’d been rescued from his transgressions by the benevolent grace of The First People’s Bank made him marvel and wonder at the amazing intricacies of life.

The Lord worked in mysterious ways.

Walter cleared his throat. “We will, as always, begin with a hymn, ‘Bringing in the Sheaves,’ page 34 in your hymnals. But first, we will hear from Mr. Worthington, manager of The First People’s Bank, who has a few thoughts he would like to share with us all. Mr. Worthington?”

From behind him stepped the manager, who proceeded to provide his institution with a free ad, pointing out members of the congregation who had already started banking with First People’s, and comparing the benefits they would be receiving with those of parishioners who had made a different choice.

Walter stood to the side, watching. Wasn’t there something in the Bible about Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the temple? It seemed to him that there was, but his thoughts remained fuzzy, his brain unable to focus, and while he knew on some level that that was one of the most famous stories in the New Testament, one of those with which even nonbelievers were familiar, he could not for the life of him recall any specifics.

How was that possible?

He didn’t know, but he stood there patiently, as he had promised he would do, until Mr. Worthington had finished his spiel, whereupon he thanked the man before again telling everyone to turn to page 34 in their hymn books.

After his final sermon of the morning, after the last parishioners had gone home, Walter retired to his office, feeling weary and drained. If before his mind had been fuzzy, now he was merely exhausted. Outside, a monsoon was brewing, thunderheads gradually overtaking the eastern half of the sky, an increasing humidity making up for the drop in temperature that resulted from dark clouds now blocking the sun.

Walter turned on his office lights, sat down in his chair.

And the lights flickered.

His pulse quickened as he glanced around the room. Sure enough, a figure was standing in the doorway.

Pickering.

If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that the man had appeared just as the lights sputtered.

Did he know better?

“What can I do for you?” Walter asked.

The man stepped into the room. “Another favor.”

Walter looked at him, resigned. “What is it?”

“One of your parishioners. Ms. Leslie Patrick.”

“What about her?”