“Deputy Beaudare, to you.”

“Now you’ve got it. Remember, the sheriff thinks you’re worthless. See what you can do to change that.”

Mallory had finally concluded that the new deputy had been planted by the feds, and not the state. It was the delayed fingerprint report that decided her. She had no worries about the serial number on her Smith & Wesson. She had altered that computer entry years ago. But results of the fingerprint search should have come back to Sheriff Jessop long before now.

A homicide case would get a high priority. Just the name Mallory, her age and description would have a large array. But she gave the sheriff credit for coupling ‘Mallory’ with ‘Kathy,’ which narrowed the field. So the feds were holding out on Jessop, but why?

When the sheriff returned, his deputy was once again standing in the corridor beyond the bars, holding on to a plastic bag full of feathers. Tom Jessop cast an approving eye over the tidy cell. “Good job. I guess you’re ready for something a little more challenging. You remember Mr. Butler, don’t you? The giant with the big nose?” The deputy nodded.

“I want you to drive down to the fairgrounds and wait on him till he’s ready to be escorted back to Dayborn. And try not to put any dents in the car. It’s all we got till Travis’s unit is out of the shop.”

When Lilith had quit the cell block, the sheriff turned to Mallory, and she smiled at him. It was her first friendly overture to this man in all the days she had been his prisoner.

He wore the startled look of sudden recognition, and then his face relaxed. “Now that’s my Kathy.” He said it softly. It was almost a sigh.

And Mallory was still smiling when she said, “Step into my office, Sheriff. Pull up a chair.”

“Oh, the sign,” said Malcolm Laurie, waving it off as though Charles had simply misunderstood the message of miracles for sale. Or perhaps it was a typographical error in four-foot block letters. “It’s a commercial world, isn’t it, Charles? I have to relate to my flock any way I can.” The smile of the charming boy was back.

“So you don’t actually sell the miracles?”

“Oh, sure I do. People don’t trust what they don’t pay for. They’re more inclined to believe in things that cost hard cash. In my line of work, belief is ninety percent of the job. Hell, it is the job. If Christ came back today and gave His Sermon on the Mount for free, who would turn out for the show?”

“I believe that sermon was catered with magical loaves and fish to feed the multitude,” Charles countered. “I’d turn out for that.”

“Hey, Mal!” A man with a clipboard was coming toward them. He had the same general features as Malcolm, except for his eyes, which were small and dark. This man was being introduced to him as Fred Laurie. While Malcolm attended to the clipboard, Charles was distracted by the sight of the sheriff’s car pulling into the parking lot. The promised escort had arrived, and he should be saying goodbye to Malcolm soon.

When Fred Laurie had left them, he asked, “What sort of miracles do you sell, Malcolm?”

“Whatever you’re in the market for.”

Over the head of the smaller man, Charles saw Lilith Beaudare alight from the car and look around. Now she had picked him out of the crowd, an easy feat; he was the only person of abnormal height and wearing a three-piece suit. As she was striding across the field, a drunk stumbled into her path and engaged her in conversation. A group of people passed in front of Charles and blocked her from his view. “Suppose I bought a miracle that would let me get away with murder?”

Malcolm’s smile hovered in the zone of bemusement. His eyes flickered with the bright work of running calculations and taking measurements. “Every miracle comes with a caution and a guarantee. The scales of heaven and hell are balanced, and every destructive act exacts a terrible price. So you may decide you don’t want that kind of miracle.”

Now it was Charles who was confused. Was Malcolm taking the literal meaning of getting away with murder? Was this a more common request than he had supposed?

The small group of people passed on. Lilith was visible once more, and in heated conversation. The drunk looked rather pleased with himself, and even more pleased with her.

“What if that’s the only miracle I want to buy?” Charles continued to watch over Lilith as the drunk was moving closer to her. But she was smiling at the reeling man, and so Charles saw no cause for alarm. He turned back to face Malcolm, and reiterated, “Would you sell me that miracle?”

“Yes, but it would cost you dearly.” There was a silence now. Perhaps the salesman of miracles was gearing up for the barter, only waiting on Charles to ask the price so the dickering could begin. But Charles remained silent.

“My guarantees are good as gold,” said Malcolm. “Written in the name of the Lord.”

Charles smiled at the tie of gold and religion which rather neatly summed up the core philosophy of the New Church – payment first, rapture later.

‘But, as I recall, Charles, I already offered you one miracle for free. Have you lost faith in that one – maybe because you didn’t have to pay for it?“

Charles ceased to smile, for now the game had become more intricate. He could no longer hazard a guess at this man’s strategy.

He looked beyond Malcolm to the unexpected sight of the drunk railing at the feet of the young deputy. Now the man was rolling on the grass, tears streaming down his face, as the deputy knelt beside him, forcing his hands behind his back and cuffing him. A much bigger man was standing over them, screaming at her, “That was a damn kidney punch. You punched him when his back was turned!” The drunk’s large champion raised his hands in angry balled fists.

Those fists came down to his sides very quickly, as the deputy rose to her feet in one graceful and fluid motion, her hand lightly touching on the handle of her holstered gun. The trio was too far away for Charles to hear what was not hollered, but the big man raised one hand in the calming gesture of Okay, enough said. He then backed away from the deputy with both his hands splayed out to say, Hey, no harm done. Obviously, he had decided that Lilith’s hitting the drunk when his back was turned was not such a criminal offense after all.

Lilith Beaudare was smiling as she entered the sheriff’s office with her prisoner. She had safely delivered Charles Butler to his hotel in the square, and also bagged this fine, but highly intoxicated trophy. The drunk seemed a bit too docile, though. Perhaps she had punched him too hard. She did wish he would show a bit more life, a little more angry resistance to make a better impression on the sheriff.

She bundled the drunk up the stairs, gripping him by one arm, as much in an effort to keep him from falling down as to direct his steps. When they were through the door and standing in front of the first holding unit, she was searching her pocket for her key ring when she glanced into the middle cell.

Mallory was gone.

The sheriff was standing at the back of the closed cell with an empty holster. He was staring out the bars of the window, hands in his pants pockets, his head angled to watch the foot traffic at the mouth of the alley. He was within easy hailing distance of help, yet not calling out.

Of course not. Neither had Lilith called out when it had been her turn to lose a gun.

Now the sheriff turned and saw her standing there, gripping what he could see of an arm in a red shirt. Lilith looked back at her prisoner. The drunk had seen nothing of the sheriff yet. The man’s unfocused eyes were cast up to the ceiling, perhaps looking there for flights of angels to carry him home. She pushed the drunk back to the door at the end of the cell block.