“Gabriel Carpenter?” the reporter asked as the trailer door swung open.
“I’ll get him,” the light-haired young man answered. A moment later Gabriel appeared in the doorway. She repeated her question.
“Reverend Gabriel Carpenter, yes,” he answered. He was tired, but he didn’t want it to show.
“Oh, of course, my apologies.” Gabriel had already consigned her to his mental hell for people who misused sarcasm. “I’m Kim Hwan from the Birmingham Post-Herald. May I speak to you?”
“I suppose,” Gabriel answered, wishing he could close the door in her face, but aware that this was generally a bad idea when dealing with the press.
“I hear you’re involved in a custody dispute?”
“This is true.”
“On behalf of a,” she looked down at her notebook, “Shannon Finley?”
“My fiancee, yes,” Gabriel didn’t like the tone of this conversation.
“Ah, yes,” the reporter made a note. “And why do you want to take the boy Peter Finley away from his eldest sibling?”
“His sister would like custody of her brother because she loves him and cares for his well-being.”
“And why wouldn’t she want him to see his brother, then?”
“Seeing is not the issue, Miss Hwan. She’s concerned that her elder brother lives in a Satanic hippie compound.”
“Can I quote you on that?” she asked.
“Oh, please do,” Gabriel nearly growled in response.
“And what would you say to someone who questions the boy’s well-being here?”
“I would say that a stable, traditional family unit of a strongly religious background is the best upbringing a child could hope for.” He wasn’t sure he liked where this woman was going.
“And if one quiestioned the stability of your ‘traditional family’?” Her smile was sharp, like she was ready to pounce.
“What do you mean?” He definitely didn’t like where this was going.
“There have been a lot of reports that your fiancee has been seen with a rather unsavory character, one Hunter Buchanan, who’s been implicated in a number of cases of fraud and confidence schemes.” She was looking at a list, Gabriel could see, and he suddenly felt a bit sick to his stomach.
“Hunter’s my stage manager. Of course he’s around her. Who’s accusing him of fraud?”
“Oh, that would be me,” came a quiet voice with an accent Gabriel couldn’t immediately place. It annoyed him that he hadn’t noticed the man with the reporter before now.
“And you are?” Gabriel asked.
“Chase Charleston, formerly of New Orleans,” he held his hand out. “Greg and I used to have a lot of fun together, back in the day.”
“Fun?” Gabriel echoed as he automatically took his hand. “Wait, Greg?” This new man was looking at him like he was dinner, and it made Gabriel very nervous.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Chase asked in a tone that said he plainly knew Gabriel hadn’t. “Gregory’s his legal name. He changed it once he started to get a bit of a reputation as a conman.”
“Am I supposed to take your word on this?” Gabriel asked.
“No,” Kim chimed in, “but you might find interesting the rap sheet for Gregory Buchanan, complete with photo at the top there.” She shoved the paper triumphantly in Gabriel’s face and it was all he could to not to roll it up and smack her with it.
“I–” he forced himself to stop and take a deep breath. “I am very disturbed by these accusations. I will speak to Hunter about them. Thank you for bringing them to my attention. I do not, however, think it has much bearing on the custody case.”
The reporter opened her mouth, but Gabriel wouldn’t let her get a word in. “For now, I think this interview is over.” The door shut in her face. When Kim turned around, Chase had disappeared.
“Looking for ‘Hunter’, no doubt,” she muttered as she pulled out her cell phone.
“Neil.”
“It’s ‘Pan’ these days, actually.”
“Well, then, Pan,” she snickered. “The exercise is underway. Your preacher looked spooked about Gregory and Chase has wandered off, presumably to annoy someone other than me.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Kim.”
Kim frowned at the phone. “You know he’s casting you guys as a bunch of crazy Satanists, right? They eat that shit up like butter down here.”
“Oh, I know.” Tinny laughter came over the phone. “We’ll take care of that, don’t worry.” Then the line went dead. Much as Neil, or Pan, or whatever he was calling himself at the moment could frustrate her, she had to admit he’d never failed when he promised her a story.
