Forsaken (6 page)

“You have a bathtub in your office?”

This was a great example of how I sometimes completely overlook the obvious. Now that Simon Mason had voiced the question that would have been obvious to ninety-nine out of any randomly selected group of a hundred people, I—Old Number One Hundred—was stuck. I could cling to the implausible story that, yes, I did have a bathtub in my office. (After all, doesn’t everyone?) But if we ended up working together, he was going to see my office eventually. I decided to throw myself on the mercy of a man of God, not so much from contrition as from a sense that the road of lies I would have to travel to get clear of this would be long and winding and far too exhausting.

“Okay, I’m going to give a confession. I’m not just a liar, I’m a serial liar. There is no water. There is no space heater. And there is no bathtub in my office. When you called, I didn’t believe it was really you. I was sure it was someone playing a joke on me. So I gave you that excuse about running water and the rest. After I got off the phone, I figured out that it really was you. I think
you can deduce where it all went from there.” I held my breath.

He began to laugh—a clear-throated, energetic laugh—and I wondered if he might be younger than I imagined. “You know, I thought I was the only one who ever got caught in a dumb white lie.”

I scratched my head. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me that
you
lie?”

“I try not to make a habit of it. But, yes, I’ve told a lie or two. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth.” He paused. “It really is the truth. I wouldn’t lie about lying.” He laughed again.

Now, I was beginning to wonder about him.

“Listen, if perfection is one of your requirements for taking on a new client, we should cut this off right now.”

“No, that’s not a requirement. If it were, I would have a short client list, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes, I think you would.”

I walked over to my desk and picked up a pen and note pad. “So, Mr. Mason—I mean,
Reverend
Mason— what kind of threats have you received?”

“First of all, call me Simon. Okay if I call you Taylor?”

“Sure.”

“Actually, I haven’t personally received any threats. The FBI tells me that I’ve been the subject of terrorist chatter.”

“You mean National Security Agency chatter?”

“I don’t know. What is the National Security Agency?”

“It’s an agency that monitors communications around the world for the U.S. government. Very secretive. These days they focus a lot of their attention on terrorist organizations.”

“Well, apparently it didn’t take a lot of sleuthing to uncover this threat. They tell me it’s been posted on Web sites run by Islamic terror groups.”

I scratched out notes as he spoke. “So you’re being threatened by Muslim terrorists?”

“That’s what I understand.”

“What exactly is the nature of the threats?”

“It’s not completely clear, but the educated guess is that they want to kill me.”

“Of course. That’s why they call them terrorists. But
why
do they want to kill you?”

“I don’t know. The FBI supposes that it’s simply that I’m a prominent Christian. You know, culture war. And haven’t you heard? I’m as famous as the Pope.”

“Yes, I read that. Congratulations.”

“What a joke.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s not true. And it’s not helpful to what I’m trying to do, that’s for sure.”

“What
are
you trying to do?” There was a pause. I leaned forward and quickly added, “I need to understand more about your business’s—sorry, I’m not used to working for preachers—I mean your ministry’s goals.”

“My job, as I see it, is to lead people to the truth. The truth is Jesus, because he can save people’s souls.
It’s that simple, which is lucky because I’m not any great intellect. I’m a pretty simple guy.”

I had to give him credit. He had a disarmingly genuine delivery of the
I’m-just-a-simple-preacher
thing. I was a long way from buying it, though.

“Anyway, I’m a much easier target than the Pope, there’s no doubt about that. For most of my security I rely on the auditoriums where we hold our celebrations.”

I shook my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t have a security team? You’re an obvious target for any number of radical groups, not to mention hundreds of kooks.”

“Look, I’m not some big shot in the way that you probably think. Fifteen years ago I was just a local sports-radio host. On weekends I traveled around preaching to groups that were sometimes smaller than twenty people. This fame thing came on quickly and snowballed to the point where it’s ridiculous. If it weren’t for the people it allows me to reach, I’d say no thanks.”

I sat back down on the sofa and shifted the phone to my other ear. “That’s good background. Let me get some more basics. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

“I have about fifteen minutes right now. I can make more time later.”

“Okay. First, your family. Wife? Kids? Do they travel with you?”

“My wife died seventeen years ago. Ovarian cancer.”

I wrote
wife dead
on the note pad. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful for you.”

“It was. But God uses everything for his purposes, even tragedies.”

“So you think God planned for your wife to die?” I might have phrased that better if I had given it some thought. I heard him take a deep breath before he spoke.

“No, God didn’t give Marie cancer. Genetics did. God did have mercy on us, though. We had five years together before she died. And for three of those we had Kacey, also.”

“Is that your son?”

“Daughter. She’s twenty now. She goes to Southern Methodist University in Dallas.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-four.”

“Does she travel with you?”

“Kacey?”

“Yes.”

“Generally only in the summers, but she is here with me in Chicago. Travel doesn’t work very well for her with school and all.”

I wrote
daughter 20, no travel.
“Does she live at home?”

“She lives on campus during the school year and at home in the summer.”

“There are no other children?”

“Just Kacey and me. That’s our family.”

“You say you’re in Chicago for a meeting?” I set down my pad and pen and walked over to the small refrigerator behind my desk. I took out a bottle of water.

“Yes, at the Mid America Center. I’d like you to come up and take a look, if possible. I know this is short notice. Do you think you can make it?”

Was he kidding? This was the juiciest security assignment in America. “I think I can juggle some things and make it work. How about if I call you back in ten minutes or so after I check my schedule?” It’s never good to seem too readily available.

“That’s fine. Please don’t be longer than that, though. I have to leave for the auditorium. We’ve got a rehearsal.”

After I hung up, I danced around the couch and whooped. Simon Mason, the best-known Christian on the planet, was about to make me the best-known security consultant on the planet. How they would envy me back at the Secret Service. It was only 10:45 in the morning, but this day was starting out right. That called for a celebration. I set my bottle of water on the end table and picked up last night’s bottle of bourbon. There was just enough left for a healthy slug.

THE TAXI’S HEADLIGHTS SPARKLED off fat, wet snowflakes that drifted down in lazy zigzags as the driver edged past a line of tour buses near the entrance to the Mid America Center in Chicago. Each bus had a sign of some sort in the window—
This Bus Headed for
the Promised Land
or
Jesus Rocks at DuPage County Bible
Church
. With a tweaking of the signs’ language, I could as easily have been arriving at a Bulls game.

The air was just cold enough to allow the snow to gather in tiny drifts against the curbs. Winding lines of pedestrians flowed like narrow tributaries from the parking lots toward the arena, converging into broad streams at the crosswalks. Their momentum swept them along in
clusters, families and friends huddled against the chill. As they moved, snowflakes swooped onto their jackets and hoods, sat up for an instant as if looking around, and then disappeared into wet splotches.

Blue jeans and sweaters appeared to be the favored dress for the evening. I brushed lint from my gray wool skirt, which had seemed a solid, businesslike choice when I was packing. Now it seemed I was going to look like an English nanny at a rock festival.

I twisted my fingers in my bangs, a habit I developed as a child when I triggered a crisis by losing my chewing gum in my hair. My mother, in the midst of one of her bad spells, pulled out her scissors and gave me something that I recall as essentially a crew cut. Whether it was actually as short as that, I couldn’t swear, but she definitely intended it to punish. It served its purpose well. She sent me to school, where I sat alone and bawled while three-quarters of the kids in the second grade pointed at me and laughed. It really wasn’t so bad, though; it’s only stuck with me for about twenty years.

I’m often reminded that one thing hasn’t changed since then: My sense of style is pathetic.

As if my fashion choice for the evening had not been bad enough, I left Dallas in such a rush that I forgot to check the forecast. Though I brought a raincoat, I packed nothing that would prepare me for a winter storm. I had no idea whether this was the beginning of a March blizzard or just seasonal flurries.

I leaned forward and tapped the driver. “Are we supposed to get much snow?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s just lake-effect stuff. It shouldn’t amount to much. Tomorrow is supposed to be sunny and nearly fifty degrees.” Several cars in front of us moved away from the curb, and we finally arrived at the drop-off point. I paid the driver and stepped onto a thin layer of slush that coated the edge of the walk.

At Simon’s request, the FBI had briefed me by telephone on the threats, which were vague as to possible means but quite specific as to the target. Whoever these people were, they wanted Simon. I had no idea what to expect from his security operation or what exactly I was supposed to do that evening. I would have to play it by ear.

Simon had warned me that though tickets were free, they were still required. I followed his instructions and picked up my ticket from the will-call window near the entrance. Once inside the building I dragged my rolling suitcase down the concourse, clattering in and out of the streams of people. I’d never been to a religious event in a place like this. I was surprised that the vendor kiosks, with the notable exception of liquor stations, were open for business. The warm smell of popcorn drew me toward a skinny vendor in a White Sox cap. I checked my watch. I was already a half hour behind schedule. There was no time to eat. I tacked back out into traffic.

As I made my way through the concourse, I scanned the crowd. It was a much younger group than I had expected. I even passed a fair number of tattoos and body piercings. After I’d walked a quarter of the way around the building, I spotted the roped-off door that Simon had described to me over the phone. Above it was a red sign with white letters:
Private—No Admittance
. Two Chicago policemen sat on folding chairs just inside the ropes. As my suitcase and I rattled up to the rope, the taller of the two—a pale, skinny guy about my age—stood and held up his hand. “Sorry, this entrance is for the Mason team.”

“I’m Taylor Pasbury. Reverend Mason invited me. He said he would leave my name with security.”

“We don’t have any names, ma’am,” the shorter one said. “You’ll have to turn around and head back that way.” He pointed toward the concourse.

“Is there anyone you can check with? I’m a security consultant, here to work with Reverend Mason’s security team.”

The cops looked at each other and smiled. “Security, huh?” the short one said. “You look like you could be packing some heat. We may have to frisk you.” He poked an elbow in his buddy’s side.

“Hotter than either of you boys will ever get. Now, you’ve shown you’re clever. Would you mind going in and checking with Mr. Mason? Your boss isn’t going to like it if the
Tribune
reports that two Chicago cops were harassing one of Simon Mason’s people—and a woman at that.” Though I knew he’d only been joking, my Sig
Sauer .357 semi-automatic really was in my luggage. I was hoping they wouldn’t check.

“Hey, we were just having some fun,” the skinny one said. “No need to get worked up about it. I’ll go check.” He ducked inside the door.

That left the short one and me trying to look at anything but each other. He pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and studied some handwriting on the first page.

“Are you a Simon Mason fan?” I preferred verbal awkwardness to silent awkwardness.

“I’m Catholic—” he scribbled something—“we don’t go for this show biz stuff. I wouldn’t be here at all, but my wife’s been on me to work more overtime to pay off the Christmas bills.”