Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) by Thomas L. Scott

dash identifying my truck as an official state vehicle.
    A landscaper was spreading fertilizer on the grass. Parts of the sidewalk were covered with the chemical granules and they crunched under my boots as if I were walking across a crushed shell parking lot, the kind you find in ocean side towns of the deep south. Four sets of double glass doors with reflective tint separated by square brick pillars fronted the building, and when I was less than ten feet away they all opened at once as a throng of people exited the building and made their way to the parking lot. The scene reminded me of quitting time at the factory where my grandfather had worked his entire life. My mom or my grandmother would sometimes take me along to pick him up and we’d sit at the curb or on the trunk of the car and then the steam whistle would blow and the men would pour out of the factory like the inside of the building was on fire and about to explode.
    I had to stand aside and wait for the first wave of people to pass before I could get inside the building. The lobby area of the church was bigger than I expected. Hundreds of people clustered about in small groups, talking or laughing, and some even held hands in a circle, their eyes closed, their heads bowed in prayer as if they had to put in one more request to God before they left the building. There was a café of some sort along the eastern wall of the lobby serving coffee, tea and croissants, and the aroma of the prepared treats washed over me and made my stomach rumble. Small tables with open umbrellas in their center holes lined a vertical railed enclosure where people sat and talked with one another, their faces full of hope and joy as if perhaps they were the chosen few who were lucky enough to have found their heaven on earth. Next to the café was a bookstore where still more people browsed the aisles while others waited in line to pay for their literary selections. Across the lobby on the opposite wall a large area separated by red-roped stanchions contained a maze of multi-colored tube slides, the kind you see in the children’s section of fast food restaurants. Dozens of children ran and happily climbed the ladders then slid down through the tubes, their hair full of static electricity when they popped out the bottom. I turned back around and looked at the doors through which I had just entered feeling a little like Alice must have felt when she followed the rabbit down a hole and ended up in a mystical place that made no sense to her at all.
    A number of the children and younger adults wore beaded bracelets on their wrists, the ones with WWJD on them and even I knew the letters stood for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ Though I am not religious by nature, I thought if Jesus were here, he would in all likelihood wait until everyone had safely left the building and then burn it to the ground.
    I turned in a slow circle, looking for the office area or an information kiosk and that’s when I noticed two men as they approached me. They both were very large and very ugly. Well, Jesus loves us all. Their biceps bulged hard against their matching sport coats. Though one was slightly taller than the other, they looked almost exactly the same. Shaved heads, thick necks, bulging muscles, and arms that seemed just a bit too long. Mouth breathers.
    The shorter one spoke, like maybe the taller one didn’t know how. “Reverend Pate is in his office and is expecting you. Follow us please.” The smaller of the two men took two steps forward and motioned me to follow, but the larger man, the one who spoke, positioned himself behind me. I glanced up at the ceiling and for the first time noticed the cameras mounted inside tinted plastic domes, the kind you would see in a casino or a bank. I was sure we were being watched, but by whom or how many remained a mystery to me. The three of us walked through the lobby area and then down a short corridor and into the administrative office area of the