Chapter 1 FOUR DAYS BEFORE he died, a thirty-year-old backhoe operator named Hollis Farley drove thirty miles to the Wal-Mart Supercenter in Marble Falls, Texas, and purchased a four-thousand-dollar sixty-inch plasma television. It had a high-definition screen, of course, along with a built-in digital tuner, picture-in-picture, and, as the salesman put it, "a whole shitload of pixels." Whatever those were. All Hollis Farley knew, standing in the store, was that Jessica Simpson was spilling out of her Daisy Duke shorts in a manner that made him proud she was a fellow Texan. He couldn't sign the receipt fast enough. Back at home, Farley drank a six-pack to celebrate. Then he yanked his malfunctioning nineteen-incher loose from its moorings and heaved it directly out the back door, where it landed with a crash next to a rusting Hotpoint stove and a vermin-infested mattress with stains of dubious origin. Next, he set about hanging and connecting the new unit, an undertaking that, in Farley's semi-inebriated state, consumed the better part of the afternoon. The tricky part was climbing onto the sagging roof of his mobile home to replace the cables to his satellite dish; raccoons had gnawed through the old ones. Once he had everything hooked up, Farley grabbed the remote control and prepared to enjoy more than three hundred channels of jumbo-sized American entertainment. He thumbed the on button with a child's sense of wonderment and anticipation. Everything worked perfectly, and even Farley, a tenth-grade dropout, recognized the irony when the first thing he saw was the smiling, progressively scanned visage of Peter Boothe. Or, as he was better known, Pastor Pete. Betty Jean Farley loved her little brother to pieces, even though he had half the sense of a cigar-store Indian, bless his heart. A good-looking boy, that's what all her friends said, but any dumber and you'd have to water him. That's why Betty Jean felt obliged to come over once or twice a month to check up on her only sibling and maybe do a little light cleaning, which wasn't a bad deal, since he usually mowed her lawn in return. Good thing she stopped in, too, because on this particular Sunday evening, she found that Hollis had completely lost his mind. There in one corner, under his prized ten-point mule deer, was a television the size of a picnic table. "Sweet Jesus, Hollis, when did you get that thing?" she asked. "This morning. Just finished hooking it up," he replied, distracted, his eyes glued to the set. He was lazing on the sofa, shirtless, wearing denim shorts and a cat diesel cap, his unshaven face reflecting the blue light from the television. A sixteen-ounce Budweiser was tucked between his knees. "You gone 'round the bend or what?" Betty Jean asked. No reply. Hollis was watching a religious program, which should've set off warning bells. Betty Jean had only seen her brother pray once in his life, years back, during the Super Bowl, when Emmitt Smith was slow getting up from a tackle. "Well, you're gonna have to take it back, that's all there is to it. I hope you saved the receipt." No answer. He often ignored Betty Jean when she griped at him, but this was different. Like he was in another world. She let out a sigh of impatience. "You hear me, Hollis? You can't afford it." Still no reaction. Betty Jean continued, saying, "Tell me you didn't put it on your credit card. You realize you're paying eighteen percent? Per annum." The words made her shudder with disgust. Eighteen percent was for suckers. People like Hollis, bless his heart. But Hollis didn't appear concerned in the least. All he said was, "You know who that is?" Betty Jean glanced at the TV, where a preacher in an expensive suit was addressing a massive audience, all of them dressed in their Sunday best. The preacher's face was aglow with passion. It's true, friends! Only God can deliver the life of abundance you deserve! Remember: "Wealth and riches shall be in his house, and his righteousness endureth forever." That means you are worthy of God's most gracious blessing! All you have to do is open your eyes and watch for it! Betty Jean shook her head in exasperation. Honestly, why did she even bother? Hollis was old enough to know better. On the other hand . . . she had to admit, the new TV had a heck of a picture. Speaking of watching, don't forget that my latest DVD, Breaking Bread with Jesus, is now available for the low introductory price of only $19.95! Betty Jean reluctantly perched on the edge of the sofa, which groaned under her significant weight. She knew she shouldn't let up on her lecture; after all, Hollis needed new tires, new work clothes, and a whole bunch of stuff more important than a television set. But wow, she felt like she was in the middle row of a movie theater. It was that good. She could only imagine watching Grey's Anatomy on that screen. The dramatic tension would be unbelievable. It'd be like having Dr. McDreamy right in her living room. Now that she thought about it, she remembered that most stores had a thirty-day return policy. She figured it wouldn't hurt to let Hollis keep his new toy for twenty-nine days. But the religious program stumped her. Why wasn't he watching sports? "That there's Peter Boothe," Hollis said quietly, as if he'd sensed her puzzlement. Betty Jean recognized the name, all right. Pastor Pete. Everybody in Blanco County had been hearing it lately. Peter Boothe was tall and slender with a boyish face. A nice-looking man. Midforties. Big white teeth and curly brown hair. He had a twangy country accent and a soothing voice. Except . . . Betty Jean didn't know what it was, but there was something vaguely creepy about the man. Sort of a cross between Mr. Rogers and a used-car salesman. She glanced at Hollis and saw an expression of utter satisfaction on his face. She had to wonder: Has Hollis found God? Wouldn't that be a hoot? Little Hollis, born again. But there are times when you must also be a giver in life! Because you have the power to help spread the sacred word of Jesus Christ! The camera cut to an elderly woman in the audience, who was nodding vigorously. You can give your time! You can give your talents! Betty Jean suddenly had an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She knew what was coming next. Or you can make a financial contribution that will help me reach out with God's message of eternal hope. An address popped up on the screen, and Betty Jean said, "Hollis, you ain't planning to send this guy any money, are you?" He seemed almost hypnotized. "Hollis?" Finally, he looked at her, and, to her relief, she saw the same old Hollis. Mischief in his eyes. This was the kid who'd turned a cow loose in the principal's office during his sophomore year. He grinned and said, "Hell, no. It's the other way around." "What the heck's that mean?" she asked. Hollis had a strange sense of humor sometimes. He made a face like he knew something she didn't, but he never answered. Which was a tragedy, because if he'd told her what was happening, or if Betty Jean had pressed a little harder, maybe things wouldn't have worked out the way they did. It wasn't but four days later that her baby brother--poor, overextended Hollis Farley--was gone. Died on his backhoe, just the way he'd have wanted it. Betty Jean hoped they didn't administer some kind of IQ test at the Pearly Gates, or Hollis would be stuck forever on the outside, looking in. Bless his heart. Copyright (c) 2008 by Ben Rehder. All rights reserved. Excerpted from Holy Moly by Ben Rehder All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.