Ruth Ann said softly, “Amen.”

Before he started the engine, he glanced from his mother-in-law to his secretary. “Would either of you like to go home?”

“I’m rather tired,” Faye said, her hands folded securely in her lap. “It’s been an exhausting afternoon.”

“Aren’t you feeling well, Mama?” Ruth Ann asked.

“I’m quite all right, just tired,” Faye replied.

“Perhaps John Earl should take you home.”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Faye said. “I should go to the prayer vigil. Every prayer is important.”

“If you don’t feel up to it, I can easily drop you off at the house on our way,” John Earl said. He didn’t love his mother-in-law, didn’t even especially like her, but he put up with her for Ruth Ann’s sake. And also because it was his Christian duty.

“Please don’t make such a fuss over me. I want to go to the prayer vigil.”

After a few moments of silence, Erin said, “I’d very much like to accompany y’all, if you don’t mind my tagging along.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” John Earl assured her. “The more people asking God to help Reverend Kelley, the better. There is great strength in numbers. Having so many voices rising up to heaven will certainly gain the Lord’s attention.”

Ever since the Decatur minister had been set on fire four days ago, the citizens of Dunmore and the surrounding small towns and the cities of Athens, Decatur and Huntsville had been praying for his recovery. According to reports on Bruce Kelley’s condition, the poor man’s every breath was drawn in agony. And although all clergymen and their families had become wary and vigilant, John Earl and many others had stood at their pulpits this past Sunday and proclaimed that God would protect them and that the monster who had killed four innocent men would soon be caught and punished by man’s laws.

This evening at six o’clock, before Wednesday night services at their own churches, the good Christians of Dunmore would meet at the black Baptist church, where Reverend Phillips would lead them in a thirty-minute prayer vigil. Patsy Floyd had phoned John Earl yesterday morning, and they had discussed the matter.

“Dewan Phillips came by to see me quite early,” Patsy had said. “He would like to invite all the area churches to join his congregation Wednesday evening for a prayer vigil for Bruce Kelley. I was wondering if you’d help me get the word out as quickly as possible.”

He had, of course, agreed, and when he had telephoned other clergymen, not one had declined the offer. John Earl expected the small black church to be filled to capacity, possibly overflowing.

Tasha Phillips stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck. She loved him with her whole heart. He and their unborn child were her reason for living.

Dewan lowered his head and kissed Tasha, his mouth warm and moist, great tenderness and love in his actions. He cupped her buttocks and held her close.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked him. “I’ve looked out into the sanctuary. It’s nearly full, and it’s only twenty till six. I never imagined so many people would actually show up here this evening.”

“Why?” he asked, a soft smile curving his wide, full lips. “Because I’m a black minister and this is a black church?”

“There would have been a time when-”

“Things change. Slowly and with great difficulty, but they do change. The people of this town are coming together to pray for a man of God. A good man who has devoted his life to others. Any petty differences and age-old prejudices are being set aside for a greater good.”

Tears misted her eyes. “I love you, you know. You’re my husband, my lover, the father of my child”-she glanced down at her belly-“and my hero.”

“Don’t put me up on too high a pedestal,” Dewan warned her. “After all, I’m only human.” He pressed his cheek against hers. “And later tonight I’ll show you just how human.”

Tasha giggled softly. He kissed her again and then shoved her gently backward as he slid his hands down her arms and grasped her hands in his. “I need a few moments alone to talk to God and prepare myself.”

“I’ll be sitting in the front row,” she told him as she eased her hands out of his. “I’m so very proud of you.”

Tasha left him alone in the small study at the back of the church. She opened the door to the sanctuary and paused before entering, amazed that the church was now almost filled to capacity and the deacons were bringing in folding chairs to place in the aisles.

She didn’t know Reverend Kelley, but she had met his elder daughter, Kim Randall, through her community service, and her heart went out to the Kelley family. The life of every clergyman in the region was at risk, including Dewan’s life, a thought she could hardly bear. But everyone had to be wondering who the killer would target as his next victim.

With her head held high and a brave expression on her face, she entered the sanctuary and found her spot in the front row between Deacon Fuqua and his wife, Dionne.

She leaned across and spoke to the deacon. “Should someone adjust the air-conditioning? With so many people packed inside the church, it’s bound to get hot.”

“It’s being done,” Deacon Fuqua told her. “Can you believe this crowd? I see God’s hand in this prayer vigil that Dewan organized.”

“God’s hand is in everything my husband does,” she said.

A flurry of activity up on the podium at the front of the sanctuary gained Tasha’s attention. The members of the choir, decked out in their white and gold robes, were taking their places and preparing to sing God’s praises. She closed her eyes, her every thought a prayer for all those whose hearts were heavy tonight.

Patsy and Elliott Floyd had arrived in time to find seats in the middle aisle, a few pews from the back of the building. As she glanced around, Patsy was pleased to see so many of her parishioners here this evening. She had sent out e-mails to the entire congregation and made numerous personal phone calls. Tonight’s prayer vigil was of great importance on several different levels. First and foremost, Bruce Kelley needed the combined strength of this type of group praying. Second, holding this vigil at the black Baptist church went a long way toward bridging the gap between black and white Christians in the area. Third, this was an example of how all churches, regardless of their doctrine, could support one another. And coming together to pray for one of their own would bring strength and comfort to the ministers and their families who were living each day with fear in their hearts.

As they sat quietly side by side, Elliott reached between them and took her hand in his. They had been married for nearly thirty years, and they had stayed together through thick and thin. They had argued often in the early years, mostly because Elliott had never been at home and she’d been trapped there with two toddlers. She had not been as understanding as she should have been. After all, Elliott had been holding down a part-time job and putting himself through law school. The bills had piled up, and even a new tube of lipstick had been too expensive for their tight budget. Seven years into their marriage, she’d had an affair which had nearly destroyed their union. But because of the two children they shared, they had stayed together. And they’d both been miserable.

Then, twenty years ago, Patsy had experienced a minor epiphany and realized that she had been called to preach. It had not been some miraculous moment when God spoke directly to her in a loud, commanding voice. Actually the exact opposite had happened. In her efforts to bring her children up in the religion in which she’d been raised, Patsy took her son and daughter to church every Sunday, and one Sunday a visiting missionary spoke to the congregation about her years of service to the Lord. In the quiet corners of her heart, Patsy had sensed that she, too, should be spreading the gospel and giving aid to the less fortunate.