Absolutely true, but not the whole story.
The real draw was the young man who played lead guitar for the Harvest Sons. A ringer for Luke at that age, obviously filled with startling promise and easy prey for a gold-digging agent. The boy’s image had haunted Luke, who was impressed to the point of distraction during the hours he’d studied the video. He’d been drawn to Houston by a force too big to fight. He was on a mission to satisfy himself that the kid named Eric would not suffer the same fate as Striker Dark.
Pastor Ken looked at his watch, stood and motioned for Luke to follow. “The band uses the main sanctuary to practice before the evening service. Let’s go see if the Sons live up to their reputation.”
“Sir—” Luke paused before standing “—I should warn you about my no-nonsense style. I don’t mince words and I’ve been known to step on more than a few toes. But it works for me and I’ll pit my results against anybody’s any day.”
Ken smiled, grabbed another bite of candy and tossed one to Luke. “As I recall, Jesus was a pretty direct communicator.”
“Yeah, and look how popular He was with the Pharisees,” Luke quipped, and the two men chuckled as they passed through the doorway.
Saturday afternoons were always a time of bustling activity at Abundant Harvest. Claire made a habit of being on-site each week whether or not she’d signed up for volunteer work. By all standards this church had a large congregation with a perpetual need for unscheduled help. Arriving early, she parked at the outer edge of the lot, collected her purse and book bag and began the hike toward the main sanctuary.
She stopped short at the sight of an unmarked black truck and matching gooseneck trailer that stretched across a half-dozen parking spaces. The combo would be commonplace at Savage cycles, however, in the church parking lot it was an unexpected and imposing sight.
Shrieks of obvious delight and the excited yapping of a dog drew her thoughts from the black rig. Claire changed her course and followed the sounds to the temporary classrooms positioned behind the youth center known as the Hangar.
“Hi, Miss Claire!” a gaggle of girls called. Three high school seniors perched with legs swinging on the tailgate of a friend’s muddy pickup. Their attention was immediately diverted by barking and laughter.
“What’s all the fuss?”
“The guys are teaching this puppy to play Frisbee,” one of them explained. “He’s a natural but he doesn’t want to give it back after he catches it. Brian and Eric will be too tired to play for the service tonight if they keep this up.”
Peals of laughter rose from the growing crowd of high schoolers. Claire navigated the parking lot to the edge of the grass, where lively activity was in full swing. At the sight of a yellow Lab pup, a stab of anguish shot through her heart as she remembered the scene only hours earlier. But this well-groomed dog sported a red bandana around his neck, brandished a white Frisbee in his mouth and proudly ran the boys a merry chase.
Brian dived for the animal’s skinny hind legs and missed by a long shot. The dog whirled about, trotted back to where Brian lay facedown in the grass, dropped the Frisbee on the boy’s head and woofed in chorus with the kids’ laughter.
Claire took in the relaxed scene, wondering if these youngsters had any idea how fortunate they were to be so carefree. At their age she’d had precious little time for weekend afternoons of games and laughter. There were voice lessons and costume fittings, rehearsals and rounds of competition.
Even in the quiet of her room at night she never forgot that one small mistake could cost her everything. After her father left to chase his dreams, the life she and her mother salvaged depended upon vigilance and dedication. To secure her tuition at the acclaimed private school she had to have scholarships. She had to win pageants.
She had to look and sound perfect.
Light glinted through the trees as the sun dipped toward the western skyline, reminding her the afternoon was winding down. Her chance to practice in the sanctuary was slipping away. Tomorrow morning’s solo would challenge her vocal range and she wanted one final sound check, so she headed toward the main auditorium.
By design, every aspect of Abundant Harvest Church was contemporary. Shunning the traditional redbrick chapel with a long center aisle, the church founders had opted to invest their building funds in an economical and practical 70,000 square foot warehouse-style structure.
The facility known as the worship center served as a sanctuary for weekend services. When the hundreds of folding chairs were stored away, the expansive room became a double-sized gymnasium for after-school activities. Each week visitors made notes on their welcome cards expressing approval of the spacious accommodations, including a stage with state-of-the-art audio/visual equipment.
Familiar with the Saturday evening sound crew, Claire waved to the figures, barely visible through the darkened window of the control booth, and climbed six steps that led up the right side of the stage.
“Good afternoon, Claire,” the pastor’s voice boomed from the speakers.
She raised her hand, palm outward, against the glare of lights being set for the evening service.
“Hi, Pastor Ken.” She waved a response into the darkness.
The band’s self-appointed stage manager, Dana Stabler, positioned a microphone before Claire. The petite brunette was a quirky teen who tried on personalities like other girls experimented with nail color. Today she was hip-hop, all decked out in baggy jeans and a football jersey.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Give me a minute, Dana.” Claire turned her back to the mic. After practicing some warm-up scales, she dropped her chin and offered up a silent prayer. Then she turned toward the light and removed the microphone from its stand.
She inhaled through her nose and opened her mouth to begin. Before the first note rushed across her vocal chords, a voice intruded.
“One moment, miss.” A polite command, not a suggestion.
With her mouth gaping open in surprise she felt and probably looked like a hungry guppy. Her lips clamped together with a small “umph” as she waited for some cue to continue.
“Go ahead, please,” the voice instructed.
Claire closed her eyes to concentrate and recall the note to be sung a cappella, without accompaniment. Once again she filled her lungs, parted her lips and began to breathe the high C. The note started softly, low in her chest, then crescendoed over the course of several seconds into a force of sound that filled her head and resonated in the open hall.
She’d tilted her head back from the mic allowing the sound to float heavenward. A high-pitched squeal pierced the moment. Her head and eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance.
“Sorry about that,” was the curt response from the booth.
“Is there a problem?” Claire asked, knowing her voice held a hint of the annoyance she was feeling after the back-to-back interruptions.
“There’s a new guy in the sound booth.” Dana’s pierced eyebrows drew together apologetically.
“I noticed.” Claire curved her lips into a wry smile.
“Take it from the top,” the male voice suggested.
“If you’re sure.” She squinted against the lights.
“I’m sure.” There was amusement in his otherwise brusque tone. “I’m also sure less vibrato will make your intro more powerful.”
“Excuse me?” No one had criticized her skills since she’d fired her last vocal coach.
“Control the vibrato, if you can,” the man