Godless (24 page)

Kevin braced for impact.

“A word of advice.”

“What's that?” Kevin asked.

“You would do well in this town to remember people elect politicians, not preachers. I suggest you focus your efforts on the economy and leave moralizing to the clergy.”

Kevin nodded indifferently at the comment before returning to his table. Angie leaned in close to ask how it had gone. “I could see the steam coming out of your ears all the way over here. Who was that man poking you in the chest?”

“His name is Dimitri.”

“What did he want?”

“To give me a bit of advice.”

She waited.

“He said I should talk about the economy and leave moralizing to the clergy.”

Angie shrugged dismissively. Kevin had received similar “advice” before.

That's when it struck him.
The clergy.
Of course
!

“I'll be right back,” he said while getting up from the table like a battered athlete limping back onto the field.

“Where are you going now?”

“I need to call Troy immediately.”

Alex was
starved. That's why he had suggested Troy Simmons meet him at a hot-dog stand located about three blocks from the church. They sat at his usual table, adjacent to the small grill owned by Hakim, a first-generation American. Hakim's parents had fled Egypt shortly after what many labeled the “Arab Spring,” which had turned into a dangerous winter for devout Christians in the region. Hakim's mother, still alive, was so proud that her son operated his own small business and that their pastor frequented the stand whenever he could find an excuse.

As usual, Alex ordered the kosher brat. As usual, he smothered it with mustard and washed his first bite down with a swig of orange soda. But this time he felt a gurgling sensation in his gut thanks to Troy's unexpected request.

“Why me?” he asked after swallowing hard.

“First, because I trust you,” Troy began. “I'd still be keeping Christ at a safe distance if not for the time you invested in Julia and me last year.”

Alex smiled at the recollection of a hesitant couple entering his home to join his weekly Exploring Christianity chats. Troy had participated more enthusiastically than Julia at first. But both had eventually come around.

“Second, because you're good with words. We've been sitting under your teaching long enough to know that you have a keen intellect and the ability to make difficult ideas accessible.”

Alex accepted the compliment with a slight bow of the head. “You're kind,” he said. It was nice to know someone in the congregation appreciated his effort to craft sermons of substance.

“And, perhaps most important of all, you understand the urgency and difficulty of what we're trying to do.”

He did. Alex admired Troy Simmons and his partner, Kevin Tolbert. But he didn't envy their task. To take on the transition industry was no small feat even for men with a proven track record in business and, more recently, politics. Alex knew himself unqualified for the first. He felt uneasy with the second.

“So you want me to write up the document?”

“We do,” said Troy. “We're calling it ‘An Open Letter to Our Elected Officials.'”

Two faces came to Alex's mind. His wife, Tamara, would smile proudly when she found out her husband had been asked to play a small part in opposing the transition industry. His chairman, Phil Crawford, would not. But then, he didn't need to know about it. What harm could possibly come from spending a few hours crafting a letter for Troy and Kevin to use in their efforts?

“And that's all? You just want me to write the letter?”

“Well,” added Troy, “we'd also like you to persuade other ministers, priests, and rabbis in the area to join you in signing the letter. Julia thinks we can get a national media agency to pick up the story. You know, a group of Denver-area ministers holding Washington accountable.”

Alex's stomach clenched. He examined his partially eaten brat. He placed it on the plastic table.

“Is there a problem, Pastor?” asked the ever-attentive Hakim while wiping his hands on a grease-splattered apron. “I can make you another if you wish.”

“No, thank you, Hakim,” said Alex while forcing himself to nibble and grin. “Excellent as always.”

Alex turned back toward Troy, the real source of his indigestion. He recalled the conversation with Ellie Baxter. Her husband had paid a price after entering the fray of the most contentious issue of their day. It still made him mad: a pastor who, despite years of faithful service and effective impact, was forced from his position just because he took seriously what the Scriptures said about marriage. He could just imagine his own board's reaction should he make such a public statement on the Youth Initiative.

“Why not ask ministers in the Washington, D.C., area instead of Denver?” asked Alex.

Troy chuckled at the suggestion. “I could probably count on one hand the number of D.C. ministers who oppose the Youth Initiative.”

“Of course,” Alex said weakly.

“Besides, Denver has two advantages. First, the convention is happening here. And second, I love the idea of Kevin giving his bright spots speech in the same city where he grew up as a boy, a city where pastors like you challenge national leaders to support parents and respect seniors: a one-two punch that might catch the attention of a national news outlet. Julia calls it
earned media
because we could never buy the kind of coverage we might garner from a story they consider controversial. We can't compete with a hundred-million-dollar ad campaign, but we can build momentum among those who are, by and large, religiously active. You know,” Troy said with a wink, “the breeders.”

Hakim, overhearing the comment, scowled in Troy's direction.

“Pardon my language,” Troy said. “I guess I no longer consider the label
breeder
offensive. It's sort of become a badge of honor.”

Alex smiled in Hakim's direction. He had always wondered how the young father of four managed to support his own brood plus an aging mom by selling hot dogs and brats. Hakim was one of the bright spots Kevin Tolbert wanted to help. He was also one of the breeders scorned by the cultural elite.

Alex looked back at Troy. “What was that advertising slogan again? ‘Come home'?”

“‘Go home,'” Troy corrected. “Actually, ‘Go home to a more peaceful passing.' Julia said the agency hopes the ads will drive an increase in volunteers among two target demographic groups.”

“Which groups?”

“What they would call debits who are reluctant to die in a clinic, and people with religious sensibilities.”

“What do they think ‘religious sensibilities' means?”

“You'd have to see the storyboards,” said Troy. Alex didn't follow. “They're sort of like pencil drawings of the final production. Julia took shots of them for me.”

Troy pulled out his pocket tablet. “Here, take a look.” He tapped a few times and extended it toward Alex with one hand while blocking the sun with the other. “They plan to float beautiful images of family togetherness and rainbows behind the words
home
and
peaceful passing
as if advertising a religious experience instead of mass suicide.”

Alex thought for a moment. “Drink the Kool-Aid,” he finally whispered in disgust.

“What's that?”

“Oh, it just reminds me of something that happened last century. A cult leader named Jim Jones led a group of disenfranchised down-and-outers to leave the country and create a commune he called Jonestown. They moved to Guyana, South America. He eventually convinced his congregation to kill their own kids, about two hundred of them, by forcing them to drink Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. Then the adults did the same. It was one of the largest mass suicides in history. The parallels to what's happening now are nauseating.”

Troy took a bite of his hot dog while waiting for more.

“Jones convinced hundreds of his followers that they should all die together as part of a mass ‘translation.'”

“Wait,” said Troy. “He called their suicides ‘translation'?”

Alex nodded soberly. “Believed it would free them to all live together on another planet. I can just imagine him using the same ad strategy: ‘Join me to go home to a more peaceful place.'”

A long silence before Troy spoke, angrily. “But this Jones guy only convinced hundreds. So far the Youth Initiative has convinced, or rather coerced, millions.”

He paused.

“Please, Pastor, will you help us counter this ad campaign?”

Alex weighed the request in his mind. It would feel good to help mobilize pastors to speak out against a practice he had come to hate. He had always wanted to condemn the transition industry. But ministers were supposed to reach people with the good news of the gospel, not alienate them by addressing divisive issues. At least that's what he had always been told.

We can't force our beliefs onto unbelievers.

We should win their hearts and let the Spirit of God change their minds.

But this wasn't about imposing Christianity onto unbelievers. It was about exposing a lie that had begun to ensnare his own congregation.

“A simple declaration of what you believe about human dignity,” Troy was saying, “that's all we're looking for. Nothing negative or attacking. We want to entice people toward the beauty of thriving families. I have the stats to make a no-nonsense, pragmatic argument for our proposal. But we need someone to make the moral case. If you write the document and arrange meetings with some of the more influential pastors in town I know we can make this work.”

Alex knew he wouldn't refuse even as he searched for an excuse to say no.

“I'll do it,” he finally said.

“Great!” Troy pounced, rattling off a list of ideas the pastor might consider incorporating into the document.

“Listen, Troy,” Alex interrupted while inconspicuously wrapping his half-eaten brat in a napkin. “Why don't you just send me your thoughts and let me look them over before I draft the letter.”

“Of course.”

“I'll try to carve out some time this afternoon to get started.”

“Thank you, Pastor. I really appreciate your help on this.” Troy stood to leave, but sat back down when he realized Alex hadn't moved. “What is it?” he asked.

“I need to tell you something in complete confidence.”

Troy appeared concerned as he nodded consent.

“I'll need to navigate this thing carefully with the church board,” he explained. “I'm pretty sure I'll face some intense opposition.”

“To what?”

“They won't like me saying anything that might offend those with loved ones who've volunteered or those willing to include the church as a transition beneficiary.”

Troy's jaw dropped.

“I know,” Alex continued. “But that's the reality I face.”

Troy thought silently, then snapped his fingers. “What if I speak to them?”

Alex began examining the possibility in his mind.

“When's the next board meeting?” asked Troy.

“This coming Tuesday night, but—”

“Then let me attend,” said Troy. “I'll explain what we want you to do and why.”

Alex considered the suggestion. A successful, respected businessman like Troy Simmons could easily field objections from the bullying Phil Crawford. Risky, perhaps, but no more risky than moving ahead without board approval. Alex would not, after all, be speaking as a private individual, but as a representative of Christ Community Church. He needed their support. Or, at the very least, their reluctant consent.

“That might be a good idea,” answered Alex. “Can you come to my office at eight o'clock Tuesday evening?”

“I'll be there,” Troy said while bounding up from the table. “And don't worry about a thing.” He rapped his knuckles against the table as if to promise good fortune. “I'm sure they'll support your role in this effort.”

Alex wasn't so sure. He stood up, carefully concealing the uneaten portion of his lunch in his palm until he could find a discreet trash container.

“Here you go, Pastor!” said Hakim, enthusiastically offering Alex a second brat.

“Oh, um, thank you, Hakim,” he fumbled. “But I better say no this time.”

“I'd love a second,” Troy intercepted, clearly in the mood to celebrate.

One man's triumph, thought Alex, is another man's anxious stomach.

Matthew had
barely slept a wink in the thirty-six hours since receiving and ignoring the assignment. His mind remained fixed on a mystery. How had Serena Winthrop known his former alias,
A Manichean
? Even more troubling, what did she know about its history?
His
history?

It had been a year since Matthew had sat in a chilly jail cell after being falsely accused of the assassination of Judge Victor Santiago. The charge hadn't stuck. The police knew Matthew had been elsewhere at the time of the murder. But they never stopped suspecting his involvement as a possible coconspirator. Santiago had been the presiding judge in an appeal involving a wrongful death decision against NEXT Transition Services. The case, it turned out, had had enormous economic and political importance. But it had also affected Matthew's inheritance, which was why he had been so eager to correspond with the judge. He wanted to explain the real-world impact Santiago's ruling would have on lives such as Matthew's. Harmless enough, especially since he never signed his actual name. But somehow, someone had learned of the letters and used them to frame Matthew for a crime he hadn't committed. That someone, he realized, must have been the woman now calling herself Serena Winthrop.

“This project is highly confidential, Mr. Adams,” she had explained during the hiring process. “The company asks that every member of my team use an alias.”

She had told Matthew they would need the utmost confidentiality in order to achieve “plausible deniability for both the contractor and the company.” That's why Ms. Winthrop had given Matthew different names for each assignment.

Jed Smith.

Randy Collins.

Chris Marlow.

And finally, A Manichean, the name he had used when writing to the judge.

Matthew assembled the pieces in his mind. Ms. Winthrop worked for NEXT Inc., the company that had had the most to lose, or gain, from the court's ruling.

After Santiago's death the case had been reassigned to a new panel of judges that later decided in favor of NEXT.

The police never found the actual killer. And Matthew never learned who had sent the final, threatening note.

Fast-forward one year. Ms. Winthrop recruits Matthew to help NEXT test a new at-home transition service. She never reveals who recommended him for the job. Like a fool, he never insists, too flattered by the offer.

It appeared the person who had framed him for murder had also hired him to kill.

Matthew suddenly felt like a blind kitten stalked by a ravenous dog. He could hear the growling and smell the lust. But he couldn't see the menace or path of escape.

He reluctantly clicked the bouncing image on his tablet, the third message from Serena Winthrop in the past twenty-four hours. The first had rejected his request that she give the assignment to another associate. The second had requested an explanation for his negligence. The third would probably threaten to dock his pay or, he could only hope, fire him.

He dialed the number. After a single ring he ended the call. Typing a short reply would require less courage.

Ten seconds after tapping the send icon Matthew heard the ping of an arriving message.

Everything inside Matthew wanted to ignore the request. But he knew escaping would not be so easy. He swallowed hard while tapping
REDIAL
.

“Thank you for calling, Mr. Adams.”

“Who are you?” he asked irritably. “And what part did you play in the death of Judge Santiago?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. What part did you play in Judge Victor Santiago's death?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she said indignantly. “Was he a client? You know I don't handle such things myself. I told you, I head up research and development, not field services.”

“Don't play dumb with me, Ms. Winthrop. You know what I'm talking about.”

“No, I don't know what you're talking about,” she said. “But I do know that you dropped the ball on a very important assignment yesterday. The cleanup crew arrived two hours after the scheduled transition for Charity Randall only to discover her still very much alive.”

“I sent you a message asking you to reassign the case to someone else.”

“And I rejected that request. We need more than eight hours' notice for that kind of change.” Oddly, she sounded more like a boss correcting a delinquent employee than a predator licking its chops. “I didn't hear back from you so I ended up reassigning Ms. Randall's case to a different associate who took care of it this morning.”

“Did you?”

“I did. Which is unfortunate for you, Mr. Adams, since the woman had a rather large estate. Your commission would have been substantial.”

Matthew couldn't decipher whether Ms. Winthrop was toying with him.

“That's why I encourage you to take some time to reflect on your decision before walking away. I realize it can be stressful, especially lately since we've been trying to work through a backlog of cases. Under normal circumstances we like to give our associates a day in between assignments. We haven't been able to do that lately, for which I apologize.”

Is this for real
? Matthew wondered.

“I've been very pleased by your work to date, Mr. Adams,” she continued. “And you're on the ground floor of what we believe will be a substantial growth industry in the years to come. Please, for your own sake, I hope you'll take a few days to reflect before jumping ship.”

“Ms. Winthrop,” Matthew said in the most professional voice he could muster. “I appreciate your concern and apologize for the difficulty I created yesterday, but we both know the real reason I decided to quit.”

“Do we?”

“A Manichean,” Matthew answered.

A moment of silence.

“Ms. Winthrop?”

“I'm here. Go on.”

“Where did you get that name?”

“I thought I explained that earlier. We always assign an alias to protect the company and the associate.”

“Please, Ms. Winthrop, I need a straight answer.”

“I'm giving you a straight answer, Mr. Adams. The company insists that we use pseudonyms in order to—”

“What do you know about this specific pseudonym?” he interrupted.

“Nothing. It came with the assignment form like all the others.”

“So you didn't choose it?”

“I never select the names.”

“Who does?”

Silence.

“Ms. Winthrop, I need to know who gave you that name.”

“I can't say,” she answered.

“Can't, or won't?”

“Can't. I receive the assignment documents from the central office. Alias names are already included. I just pass them along.” She sounded embarrassed. Apparently Serena Winthrop held a less elevated post than she had led Matthew to believe. She was, it seemed, a lovely go-between rather than a serious decision-maker. But a go-between for whom? And for what?

“Does that name mean something to you?” she asked. “I must admit it's one of the most unique I've seen.”

“Listen,” said Matthew. “I think I'll take your advice. You know, spend some time thinking about my decision.”

“I'm glad,” she said warmly.

“In the meantime, I'd appreciate you removing me from the list of active associates. I'll get in touch with you if and when I decide to take another assignment.”

Matthew ended the call while breathing a hesitant sigh of relief. Serena Winthrop was not, as he had feared, a prowling animal stalking its next victim. But that only meant the real peril remained somewhere out of sight.