Chapter 4: The Serpent's Hiss

Chapter 4: The Serpent's Hiss

The day after sending the email was a study in controlled patience. Arthur Vance did not check his inbox every five minutes. He did not sit by the phone, waiting for it to ring. To do so would be to cede control to anxiety, and Arthur was a man who relinquished control to nothing and no one. Instead, he spent the morning in his workshop, the rhythmic rasp of a hand plane shaving micro-thin curls from a plank of cherrywood filling the quiet space. He was restoring the dashboard of a '67 Mustang, a project that required a steady hand and an unwavering focus—the very qualities he was now applying to the demolition of Pastor Albright’s life.

Each smooth pass of the plane was a meditation. He thought of the six elders, picturing them opening his email. The accountant, a man named Henderson, would see the numbers first—the $22,000 liability. The car dealer, Peterson, a man whose entire business was built on reputation and customer satisfaction, would fixate on the photographs, on the sheer, brand-damaging ugliness of the act. They would talk. A flurry of texts, then calls. A hastily arranged meeting, perhaps. They would not be able to ignore it. The evidence was too clean, too absolute.

It was just after noon when his phone, resting on the corner of the workbench, vibrated against the wood. The harsh buzz was an alien sound in the calm of the workshop. He finished his pass with the plane, set it down gently, and wiped his hands on a clean rag before picking up the phone.

The caller ID was an unknown number. He had expected a call from one of the elders, their name familiar from his research. This was something else. A flicker of curiosity broke through his icy calm. He swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear without a word.

Silence for a beat, then a hiss of ragged breath.

"Is this Arthur Vance?" The voice was young, stretched taut with a fury that made it crack.

"This is he," Arthur said, his tone level and uninviting.

"You son of a bitch." The words exploded from the speaker, raw and uncontrolled. "You godless son of a bitch! Who the hell do you think you are?"

Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly. He recognized the voice from the church website’s promotional videos. The sneer that the smile couldn't quite hide. It was Mark Albright, the Youth Coordinator. The serpent’s offspring. He had not expected this. He had aimed his missile at the command structure, and the first shrapnel had hit the pastor's son. It was a more direct hit than he could have hoped for.

He remained silent, letting the young man’s rage spill into the void. His silence was a wall, and Mark Albright threw himself against it again and again.

"Going behind our backs! Trying to ruin my father! Trying to destroy our family! All over a little bit of rent money? Are you that pathetic? That greedy?"

A little bit of rent money. The casual dismissal of the $22,000—the theft, the squalor, the sheer malice of the act—was breathtaking in its arrogance. It confirmed everything. This wasn't just the pastor’s sickness; it was a family disease.

"I simply sent a business correspondence to the relevant parties," Arthur said, his voice as calm as a frozen lake.

"Business correspondence?" Mark shrieked, his voice rising in octave. "You call that a business correspondence? You sent pictures! You sent that… that stupid text message! You're trying to get him fired! Him and me! Do you know what you've done?"

So, the elders had shown them the full dossier, Arthur thought with a grim sense of satisfaction. And they've threatened both their jobs. The panic was the feedback he'd been waiting for. It was the crackle of the fire catching, the groan of the structure beginning to fail.

"I presented the facts of the situation," Arthur stated, turning his attention back to the cherrywood plank, examining its grain. He was giving the call, and the panicked boy on the other end, only a fraction of his attention, an insult more profound than any shouted retort.

"Facts? What about grace? What about forgiveness?" Mark spat, the words sounding hollow and rehearsed, a perversion of the faith he supposedly represented. "My father is a man of God! He serves the community! And you're trying to tear him down over some drywall and a misunderstanding! It's unfair!"

Unfair. The word hung in the air. The sheer hypocrisy of it was almost sublime. A man who had systematically cheated, lied, and stolen from him, whose final communication was a laughing emoji, was now sending his son to cry foul.

"Your father had every opportunity to speak with me," Arthur said, his voice dropping, taking on a hard, flinty edge. "For two weeks, he ignored my calls. Instead, he chose to send a text message. I assume you've seen it."

There was a sputtering on the other end of the line. "He… you don't understand the pressure he was under! You don't know what's been going on!"

"I know what twenty-two thousand dollars in damages and theft looks like," Arthur countered, the number landing like a hammer blow. "I also know what mockery looks like. Your father felt it was appropriate. I am simply responding in a language his employers will understand."

"You're a godless old bastard," Mark hissed, the venom raw. "You'll get what's coming to you. God doesn't stand for snakes like you."

The irony was rich enough to choke on. The son of the swindler, the beneficiary of the lie, was calling him a snake. Arthur almost smiled. The panic was turning to pathetic, empty threats. This was the prelude to surrender. The serpent was hissing, but it had no fangs.

He had heard enough. The purpose of the call, from his perspective, had been achieved. He had confirmation. He had a direct measure of the family's desperation. He had listened to the rage and felt the panic vibrating through the phone. There was nothing more to be gained from the conversation.

"Mr. Albright," Arthur said, his voice now utterly devoid of warmth, as cold and final as a closing tomb. "You have confirmed that your father received my evidence. Thank you. That is all I needed to know."

"Wait! You can't just—"

Arthur pressed the red icon on the screen, ending the call.

The silence of the workshop rushed back in, absolute and profound. The only sound was the faint hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He placed the phone back on the workbench, face down.

The serpent had hissed, and in its frantic, profane rage, it had told him everything. The elders were acting. The Albrights were cornered. Their shield of piety had been shattered by the simple, brutal force of the truth. The panic he had heard in Mark’s voice was not just fear of losing a job; it was the terror of public exposure, of the comfortable façade being ripped away to reveal the grasping ugliness beneath.

A slow, cold satisfaction settled over Arthur. This was better than a quick payment. This was the twisting of the knife. This was the stripping away of pride, the humiliation of the arrogant. The frantic, panicked rage on the other end of that line was the sweetest sound he had heard in months. It was the beautiful, undeniable prelude to victory. The next call, he knew, would be very different.