Fighting for Farmington: Destruction is Inevitable (Harmony Series Book 2) Read online

  Later that evening Brock asked Victoria if she’d like to start calling some of the potential volunteers for him.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Victoria replied. “This is your ministry, Brock. My mind is completely void of knowledge when it comes to anything construction related.”

  Somehow Brock had already known the answer to that question before he had even asked it. Grabbing his file folder, he picked up the phone and headed for the one still empty bedroom that would eventually become his office. Sitting on the floor, he nervously dialed the first number.

  “Hi, this is Brock Pearson, the new director of Laborers of God—"

  “We’re on the ‘do not call’ list. Take me off of your list and don’t call here again or I will report you to the Better Business Bureau!”

  “But—”

  The woman hung up before Brock could even tell her what he was calling about.

  That wasn’t an extraordinarily encouraging first contact, he admitted before dialing the next number on his list. Unfortunately, it was no longer in service.

  Two down. This might be more herculean than I presumed, Brock told himself before dialing the third number, only to be told the teenager had moved away for college.

  Over and over again Brock punched in numbers, getting nowhere. He couldn’t find a single person ready and available for work. He even resorted to phoning members of Central Baptist Church — the folks who had said to get in touch with them if he needed anything, but every member had one reason or another that they wouldn’t be able to assist with the project.

  Brock felt discouragement settling in. Why had God opened a door for him to take over this ministry if no one was going to work with him to get the job done? How could he be the director if there were no workers to direct?

  As the cynical thoughts performed a rain dance through his brain waves, Victoria hollered, “Honey, we have company. Those obnoxious Russells are pullin’ into the driveway.”

  The Russells? For what is the purpose of their stopover? Brock asked himself as he stood and plodded his way to the door.

  Remington ran up on the porch; as soon as he saw the door open, he wrapped his arms around Brock. “I hope you’re not still mad at me,” he spoke softly. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, buddy,” Brock replied. “And of course I’m no longer distraught.”

  Collin and Alayna hesitantly made their way out of the car and up to the house. “We understand how draining it is moving into a new place, so we brought you a home-cooked meal,” Alayna offered.

  Victoria turned to Brock and rolled her eyes. Facing Alayna again, she said, “Oh, isn’t that sweet? Thank you so much. Do come in.”

  Things were somewhat awkward for a little while, but eventually they were able to engage in some decent conversations.

  “I am uncertain of what to do,” Brock told them. “Nobody is stimulated to assist. It causes me to speculate the reason for O’Malley’s forfeiture of directorship. Perhaps he simply grew weary of individuals neglecting involvement. Society is changing and not for the finest.”

  Remington rubbed his imaginary beard. “Have you considered Noah?”

  “What about him?”

  “God told Noah to build an ark. People probably assumed he was some foolish old timer. It had never even rained before, but Noah had to go out there and start building that ark anyway. You should do like Noah did — just get out there and start constructing, even if you have to build all by yourself.”

  Titus smiled and commented, “He won’t be alone. I’ll help.”

  Remington turned toward to Collin. “How about me, Dad? Can I help too?”

  Collin and Alayna looked at each other and then questioningly at Victoria, who gingerly nodded her head.

  “If Brock can use your help, we’ll drop you off at the site every day after school,” Collin said before addressing Brock. “And we’ll make sure he wears steel-toed boots fit for the occasion. Proper footwear says a lot about a man and we’re determined to teach our son the proper values in life.”

  “If he’s helping, I’m not,” Scottie muttered. “It would be bad enough if it was just Dad and Titus. But I’m not working alongside a crybaby.”

  “That settles it,” Brock insisted. “Titus, Remington, Scottie and I will commence the project tomorrow afternoon. I’ll assemble a tabulation of materials and have the wood transported in the morning. Maybe God’ll send us some additional laborers after we take the leap of faith and begin working.”

  “Are you deaf?” Scottie scoffed. “I said I AM NOT helping!”

  “Yes he will,” Brock asserted, without as much as glancing in his son’s direction.

  Collin had been trying to mask his frustration, but something had to be divulged. “Brock, I’m not trying to put my nose where it doesn’t belong, but you shouldn’t let your boy mouth off to you that way.”

  “Excuse me,” Victoria snapped. “That is putting your nose where it doesn’t belong. The way we raise our son is entirely up to us. Just so you’ll know, we’ve tried everything with him. We’ve taken him to counseling, we’ve had him on medication for ADHD, we’ve tried reward systems, we’ve taken away privileges. Nothing works with him.”

  “Have you ever tried God’s way?” Collin asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Collin, realizing he had taken some liberties he shouldn’t have, didn’t speak another word. He pondered what he could say to smooth ruffled feathers.

  Remmy wasn’t about to let that happen. “I would imagine he’s referring to spankings,” he blurted out.

  Scottie’s face turned red, and it wasn’t from embarrassment. He was angrier than a hornet. “Shut up! I’m way too old for a spanking.”

  Remington laughed sarcastically. “No you’re not; I got one two days ago, and I’m older than you are.”

  “So…” Alayna spoke, changing the subject. “How are things going over at the church? Have you made any new friends yet?”

  9: Detective Pearson

  When he got to school Friday morning, all Scottie could think about was how he was becoming the black sheep of the family. Dad’s the expert carpenter and the director of Laborers for God. Mom’s becoming some super prayer warrior. Titus is a gifted singer. With his construction experience, he can help Dad more than anybody else probably can. Remington isn’t really living here, but still... he’s famous for always giving sound advice. He knows how to relate every situation to somethin’ in the Bible. And here I am — who am I exactly? The one nobody wants around? The one who’s consistently annoyed about something? The one nobody can get along with?

  “What are you staring at?” he growled at the blonde cheerleader sitting next to him.

  Giggling, she answered, “I was wondering if there’s a reason your shirt is snaking its way out of your zipper.”

  Scottie’s face turned redder than a beet. Attempting to be inconspicuous, he felt for his zipper. Sure enough, the girl had been right. Scottie was humiliated. “At least I don’t eat my boogers.”

  Winding her hair around her pointer finger, she said, “You’re hysterical.”

  “You’re disgusting. I saw you do it while ago. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but that’s gross!”

  His irritated classmate picked up her purple three-ring notebook and walloped Scottie on the nose. Impulsively, the boy jumped out of his seat and attempted to shove her, but Mrs. Schwanson intervened.

  “BOTH OF YOU TO THE OFFICE ON THE DOUBLE!” she demanded, pointing toward the door.

  Why do I always have to go to the office? Scottie whined internally. Nobody likes me. Not Mom, not Dad, not Remmy, not Titus… not even Mrs. Schwanson — and she gets paid to like me.

  In the office, Little Miss Pom-Poms was told it was inappropriate to hit other students, “no matter how obnoxious they are behaving.” She was assigned one hour of after-school detention. Scottie, on the other hand, was told it is never appropriate to lay a hand on a girl, not under any circ
umstances — especially not after provoking her to the point she felt she had to clobber him with her notebook. After his firm talking to, he had to call home.

  “Hi, Mom… Is Dad there?” Scottie asked.

  “No, he’s over at the work site,” Mom replied. “What’d you do?”

  “Jenny was chewin’ on her boogers and got mad when I told her that was gross. She hit me with her notebook and I got in trouble for fighting,” Scottie complained.

  “Hmm…” Victoria sighed. Let me speak to Mr. Daniels so I can hear the rest of this story.”

  I don’t know what I’m gonna do with that child, Victoria sighed as she hung up the phone.

  Getting on Facebook, she logged into a support group for parents of behaviorally challenged children where she created a post about how she and Brock had recently taken in another teenager, how they had moved on multiple occasions, and about how Scottie was having trouble adapting. She ranted about her son’s violent temper tantrums and verbal abuse.

  In no time, several comments appeared beneath her post. Suggestions that she consider altering his diet, that she take his bedroom door off the hinges until he started following the rules, that he needed to start seeing a new therapist, that she enroll him in a residential treatment center, and then there were those who demanded Victoria stop making excuses for his behavior.

  What do they know? Victoria asked herself. All of these people have misbehaving kids like I do. I need to find someone who’s already successfully raised respectful kids or who is currently parenting teenagers who seem to be decent people.

  With that in mind, she deleted the post and removed herself from the group.

  Scottie is truly wearing me out. I’m going to have to do something to get my mind off of it. I need to think about something else… anything else. Oh, I know! That Brandi woman from the salon. She was telling me someone affiliated with the ministry is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The police officer didn’t deny it. I wonder.

  With that, she sneaked into Brock’s office and got out the file folder Pastor O’Malley had handed him. There might be a clue in here, she told herself. If I can get to the bottom of this, maybe I can put a stop to the criminal activity before Brock knows anything about it.

  Flipping the folder open, she began skimming the pages. Names, addresses, and phone numbers. That’s it? How is this going to solve anything?

  A car door slammed out front. Oh, no! Brock’s back.

  Hurriedly, Victoria closed the file folder, put it back in its place, and rushed to the living room where she sat on the couch and pretended to read the newspaper.

  Brock and Titus dragged themselves through the door looking as if they had worked themselves to death.

  “Guess whose school just called?” Victoria asked.

  “What did he accomplish this time?” Brock replied.

  Victoria told him all about the phone call, about her frustrations, and even about her post on the Facebook group. “I feel like nothing we do is working,” she complained. “I’m at my rope’s end with him.”

  Brock shook his head. “I am uncertain of the solution either. Instead of maturing out of it as he increases in age, he seems to be worsening.”

  Titus developed a persnickety expression on his face. “Maybe Collin was onto something the other night,” he suggested.

  Victoria locked eyes with him. She couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you serious, Titus? Spanking a thirteen-year-old? That is absurd!... Who does that?”

  Titus smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Just an idea.”

  10: Roasted Parrot

  Brock said, “Okay men, what we’re going to be accomplishing today is preparing the cardinal framework for the dwelling. Scottie, you and Remington are going to be the gophers.”

  “If I’m gonna be a gopher, what are you gonna be? A weasel?” Scottie retorted hatefully.

  Brock laughed, “Not that species of gopher. A gopher is someone acquiring the role of going for this and going for that. In other words, you and Remington are going be responsible for delivering the necessary materials to their proper positions.”

  Scottie threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, so we’re supposed to be the slaves while you and Titus do the fun stuff?... I told you I didn’t wanna do this! Why do I constantly get stuck with the hard stuff? And why do I have to work alongside Mr. Crybaby?”

  “WOULD YOU SHUT UP?” Titus snapped, unable to mask his annoyance.

  Brock was shocked. It was the first time he heard Titus exercise such an attitude, but he was glad he did as Scottie actually listened to him.

  “To start with, Remington can you deliver us about a dozen 2x8s, and Scottie… we’ll need about a dozen 2x4s as well. Titus, I have some measurements jotted down here. Keeping safety in mind, I want you to trim this lumber down to size while I finalize the strategy for the installation of the sill plate.”

  Remington eagerly picked up a few 2x8s and carried them over to Titus. He didn’t care how Scottie felt about it; he enjoyed being a gopher. I’m gonna develop some massive muscles carryin’ all this lumber, he told himself. People won’t ever bully me again.

  Scottie was determined not to allow Remmy to show him up. Grabbing five 2x4s, he headed toward Titus. A few steps into his walk one of the boards started sliding off of his stack, then another, and then… he found himself in a pickle. Dropping them all on the ground, he stomped his right foot and yelled, “Forget this! I’m done!”

  “Back to work!” Brock ordered, glaring at the boys. “We’re not having any slackers on this venture.”

  “No problem. I quit then!” Scottie fussed.

  Titus was not in the mood. “And you called Remington a crybaby?... Grow up already, will ya?”

  Brock didn’t say a word but silently observed as Scottie angrily picked his boards up and began trodding lightly again.

  Titus nervously laid his first 2x8 across the sawhorses and measured it off. Putting the circular saw in place, the teen glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Carefully he squeezed the trigger and began sawing across the line he had drawn. Three seconds in, the saw shut off without warning — Titus had cut right through the power cord.

  “What transpired?” Brock called out.

  “Um, I —"

  “The dummy can’t tell the difference between a board and an electrical cord, Scottie insulted.

  Remington was curious as to how Brock was going to handle the situation. My dad would have killed me, he asserted. Better him than me. I’m glad I’m just the gopher.

  “Have you never utilized a circular saw before?” Brock asked.

  “I, um, well… no.”

  “You informed me you had labored in construction before.”

  “No I didn’t,” Titus replied.

  “You must certainly did!”

  “Did not.”

  “I recall it quite certainly, young man. I questioned if you had ever labored in construction.”

  Titus cut him off, “And what did I say? I told you to remember the surveillance camera and the soundboard. I never spoke a single word about construction.”

  Brock could have spit nails. “That has the same equivalency of lying. You intentionally led me to conclude you possessed construction skills, which you unmistakably do not have.”

  Titus smiled and shrugged his shoulders, “Sorry.”

  “Why do you smile about everything? Nothing is charming or even remotely humorous about deceiving someone!”

  While the guys were engrossed in their project, Victoria was involved in a covert operation all of her own.

  “Hi, I’m Victoria and I’m new in town,” she told the postmaster. As she suspected, that introduction worked like a charm.

  “Victoria? Brock’s wife, Victoria?”

  “The one and the same.”

  The postmaster removed some large boxes from the counter. “How’s that new ministry working out for you?”

  “Things are going great! My husband is in the process of bui
lding his first house for the ministry as we speak.”

  “A lot of good that will do,” the postmaster grumbled, resuming his place at the register.

  “And why is that?”

  “Another house’ll burn down before he even gets that one up. That’s the way things go around here.”

  There were advantages to small towns. Everybody talked about everything. Victoria was going to do everything in her power to get to the bottom of things and if she had to use the mouthy people of Farmington, she would do just that.

  “So who do you suppose is responsible?” she inquired.

  “Could be anybody. My guess would be money’s a key factor. The Good Book says money is the root of all evil, you know.”

  “Not to be argumentative,” Victoria corrected him, “but the Bible actually says the love of money is the root of all evil.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “It is indeed. But who could be making money off of the fires?”

  “Who knows? An insurance broker? A sawmill owner? A seller of building materials? Someone higher up the ladder in a ministry that receives donations based upon the number of houses that need to be built perhaps?”

  Victoria sighed. “You’re not suggesting the pastor has something to do with this?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just saying I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. Sooner or later the truth is going to surface. When it does, the names of everyone involved in that ministry will be ruined for life — and that most certainly includes the director and his wife.”

  Victoria didn’t like the tone of the guy’s voice, but what he said made perfect sense, whether she wanted to hear it or not. Somehow she had to figure out who the arsonist was and she had to do it before Brock got wind of her detective work.

  The next morning while the boys were in school, Brock decided to make a second round of phone calls in efforts to locate competent helpers. He started dialing everyone he hadn’t been able to speak with on his previous day of calling — the ones where either no one answered or where a voicemail had been left but had yet to be returned.