“If that was my plan,” he said, “I would have just taken you to the top floor of the Encore and saved myself the mileage.”
As the neatly dressed valet attendant entered the vehicle, Aren made his way toward the paved walkway that led to the lobby entrance. Allison followed close behind.
“Well I hardly think this is a church,” Allison said.
“Hardly,” Aren said. “There’s a church service tonight, but we probably won’t get to talk to the pastor until after nine, if at all. This will just give us a place to crash afterward. We can head home tomorrow.”
“What about your show?” Allison asked, jogging to keep up with him.
“Dark tonight.”
After they entered the lobby and crossed the shimmering tile floor to reach the check-in desk, Aren asked the desk clerk if they had two rooms available for the night. Allison was equal parts relieved and disappointed.
“We have two deluxe rooms available for tonight,” replied the chirpy young female clerk. “If you’re looking for something a bit more spacious and well-appointed, we also have junior suites available. These rooms have some of the best views at the hotel. And then, of course, there are the presidential suites, which are just amazing from top to bottom.”
“Perfect,” Aren said, barely letting the woman finish her sentence. “Two presidential suites.”
At this point, Allison was visibly annoyed. What was this guy trying to prove? The hotel was already inordinately opulent on its own, and now he was booking not one, but two presidential suites. He was definitely showboating, and Allison was not impressed.
The clerk, on the other hand, appeared not only impressed but downright enamored. She enthusiastically typed away at her small computer and booked the two rooms on Aren’s behalf, while periodically looking up at him and offering a coy smile. Aren didn’t even seem to notice, giving Allison the impression that he was used to such attention.
The clerk handed Aren and Allison their keycards, each of which featured a full-color photo of the Mission Inn, and Allison stole a quick glance at the receipt in Aren’s hand. It was nearly seventeen hundred dollars for one night. This was just getting out of hand.
“Are you trying to impress me or something?” Allison asked as they walked toward the elevator.
“What do you mean?” Aren asked.
“I mean, presidential suites? Come on. I would have been just as happy with a small room at Motel 6, or better yet, just driving home tonight.”
Aren shrugged as he pressed the elevator button. “I like nice rooms,” he said, “and it would have been kind of a dick move to get myself a presidential suite and get you a shoebox hotel room. Just try to enjoy it. It’s only money.” The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside.
It’s only money, Allison thought. Must be nice to go through life with that mindset.
Their first stop was Aren’s room on the fourth floor, located on a narrow wing that overlooked the central courtyard and dining area. A red brick entrance led into a palatial room complete with Greek-inspired columns, century-old wood furniture, and semi-circular windows. Along the far wall, a narrow staircase ascended to a second story walkway, which was lined with intricate wrought iron gates and contained a large window with a complete view of Downtown Riverside.
“This is what I’m talking about,” Aren said, stepping into the room and across the tan, Moroccan-inspired carpeting.
“Why didn’t you just get one room?” Allison asked. “This seriously looks more than big enough, and I have no problem sleeping on a rollaway bed if you’re worried about your girlfriend getting jealous. This all just seems like...a lot.”
Aren turned to her. “I haven’t had a girlfriend in almost six months. But you’re welcome to sleep wherever you’d like.”
“Oh,” Allison said. “Sorry for making assumptions. I don’t really know that much about you, except what I gleaned from the internet.” She slowly turned from him, studying the designer table lamp near the door and doing her best to hide her delight at learning of his single status.
Aren took a seat on the floral sofa. “I’ve never been great at the whole relationship thing.”
“So what happened?” Allison asked, taking a seat beside him. “With your last girlfriend, I mean.”
“Michelle? Honestly, I tried doing the exact thing you’re doing to your niece. I tried pushing her more and more into Dominic’s game, hoping it would lead to some big ‘gotcha’ moment and then we could take him down once and for all. Then one day, when I was giving her tips on how to vomit on command, she screamed ‘you need help’ and stormed out of my house. That was the last time I ever saw her. She was right, too.”
He stared off into space for a moment, a hint of sadness in his blue eyes. “It’s like I said,” he continued, “someone always gets hurt.”
Allison wasn’t sure if he was talking about Michelle or himself, but she decided not to press the matter any further. The mention of her niece had reminded her of something else. Kristen had left several voice and text messages on her phone, and she had yet to respond. She pulled the phone from her pocket and examined the growing list of green notifications on her screen, all of which were from Kristen. All except for one.
A single missed-call notification was labeled from “Jack Sinclair.” There was no voicemail message. Just an ominous missed call. She had completely forgotten about Cassidy’s father and was absolutely clueless as to what she would say to him. What could she say?
“I need to make a couple of phone calls,” she said, standing up and staring at her phone. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
She exited through the massive wooden entrance door and positioned herself on the exterior fourth-story walkway, an architectural marvel lined with tall flying buttresses. She then leaned over the wrought iron railing and admired the bustling courtyard far below. After hesitating for a few moments, she unlocked her phone and returned Jack’s call.
As she listened to the first and second ring, she recalled a lesson she had embraced very early in life. If you have no idea what you’re going to say, press on anyway. The longer you stand around obsessing in vain over the perfect words, the more you prolong your anxiety. The right words will come when it matters.
After the third ring, there came a click. “Hello?” a male voice said. The voice didn’t sound somber as Allison had expected. Rather, it sounded impatient and annoyed.
“Hi,” Allison said with obvious confusion in her voice. “It’s Allison. Allison Lockwood. I’m returning—”
“I know who it is.”
“Oh. Okay. Um...sorry I missed your call. I’ve been meaning to get back to you. I was just, uh…”
“Where is my daughter?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? I fucking paid you to prevent this from happening. Now I’ve got fucking police knocking on my door telling me that my daughter is missing and may be dead. And I haven’t fucking heard from you once since I wrote you that check. I should fucking sue you for taking my money and letting my daughter get killed.”
Allison was stunned, unsure of how to respond. This man’s daughter may very well have been murdered, and he was getting uptight about their business arrangement? Some people had very strange ways of grieving.
“Look,” Allison said, “I’ve been on this day and night. I went to Dominic’s church. I reached out to your daughter. I’m in California right now trying to find Dominic’s old pastor and get some answers. Believe me, I’m working as hard as I can, and I’m not giving up on this.”
“No, I think it’s time for you to give up” Jack shouted. “You have been completely fucking useless. I’ll see you in court.” He hung up.
Allison stared at her phone, her heart pounding.
“Is everything okay?” Aren asked, noticing her distraught stare from the doorway.
“Yeah,” Allison said, her eyes locked on her dim screen. “Just...everything’s good.”
After that disarming interaction, she didn’t have the energy for another phone call, so she responded to Kristen’s many messages with a single text reply: “Sorry for delay. Change of plans. Don’t do anything, I’ll handle it. Have fun @ Disney.”
Three hundred miles away, Kristen was gazing at her phone’s reflective screen, confused. School was out, and she was waiting for her grandmother to pick her up in front of the administration building. All around her, enthusiastic teenagers—excited to be free from the shackles of academia for the remainder of the day—laughed and high-fived one another, sharing the day’s gossip and chatting about their evening plans. Kristen, though, stood alone, confused and crestfallen.
I said I was sorry. She was convinced that she had betrayed her aunt’s confidence with last week’s dramatic performance at Dominic’s service. I can do better. I’ll prove it to her.
20
Magnolia Community Church was located just a few blocks south of the Mission Inn, away from the archaic urban architecture and nestled among the city’s flashier, more contemporary-looking suburbs. Rather than fading Art Deco theaters and cathedral-inspired churches, the streets were lined with trendy coffee shops, cozy yoga studios, and newly opened poke restaurants.
The church itself looked more like the Google headquarters than a house of worship. Several large buildings—some stucco and some glass—were separated by a lush lawn replete with cobblestone walkways, towering orange trees, and colorful rose bushes. There was a cafe, a full-sized restaurant, a bookstore, a concert hall, and even an overflow theater designated specifically for people with dogs. The complex was so large that it contained a fully illustrated directory like the kind seen in shopping malls.
Aren and Allison crossed the enormous parking lot and made their way onto the church grounds, surrounded by hundreds of mostly-college-aged men and women. The young crowd wore trendy attire, gripped hot coffee tumblers, and chatted about everything from the latest TobyMac single to the best Gelato shops. For a Wednesday night, the church was really hopping.
Though the sun was setting, Aren insisted on wearing a large pair of black sunglasses. This was in addition to his gray hoodie and black Volcom hat.
“You can at least take the glasses off,” Allison said as they walked toward the main sanctuary, a palace-like structure consisting entirely of glass walls. “I really don’t think anyone’s going to recognize you here. This doesn’t strike me as a Vegas crowd.”
“You’d be surprised,” Aren replied. “Half the women I take backstage are born-again Christians. They’re so sexually repressed that they’re actually some of the easiest scores.”
“Charming,” Allison said. “And you’re sure your girlfriend left you because of Dominic?”
As throngs of enthusiastic churchgoers marched into the stadium-like sanctuary, Allison and Aren walked along the perimeter of the building and ventured down a long hallway in search of Pastor Doug Hansen’s office. The service was set to begin in twenty minutes, and they hoped they might be able to track him down before he made his way to the pulpit.
At the end of the long hallway was a large, formal reception area with a velvet sofa, a coffee maker, and a large crucifix painting. A reception desk stood between the waiting area and the glass double doors that led to the church offices. Allison and Aren needed to get past those double doors, but their path was blocked by a young woman seated at the reception desk. Allison cursed beneath her breath, realizing that getting an audience with a megachurch pastor was like trying to get backstage at a U2 concert.
“Hi there,” said the enthusiastic blonde receptionist. She had the sweet voice of a twelve-year-old Girl Scout but the gray pantsuit of a fifty-year-old civil litigator. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Yes,” Aren said, “I was wondering if we could have a few words with Pastor Doug.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the girl replied.
“Unfortunately, I don’t.” Aren removed his hat and glasses. “I’m actually a professional magician, Aren Anzalone. I don’t know if you’ve seen my work or not.”
The girl’s face lit up. “Oh yeah! I think I saw your TV special. Are you the one who did that escape from Alcatraz?”
Aren chuckled. “Yeah, that was me. Wow, you must be one of the eleven people who watched that special.”
Allison thought for a moment. She did vaguely remember a network TV special from about five years ago in which a magician was locked in a real Alcatraz cell and forced to escape from both the prison and the island. She had no idea that Aren was the magician in that special. Of course, five years ago, she had no idea who Aren Anzalone even was.
Aren leaned toward the girl and placed his elbows on the reception desk, smiling warmly. “So, here’s the deal. I’m working on a major documentary, and I’m only in town for tonight. I was really hoping I could just get a few words with your pastor, and then I’ll be on my way.”
The girl smiled from ear to ear and picked up the black phone receiver on her desk. “I’ll just see if he’s available.” She dialed a number and began muttering to someone on the other line.
Aren stood up straight, turned to Allison, and winked. In response, Allison just rolled her eyes.
The girl hung up the phone and smiled. “Right through these doors,” she said, rising to her feet. “It’s going to be the third door on the left. Just walk right in. He has to start the service pretty soon, so you’ll need to be quick.” She pulled open one of the glass doors and gestured for Allison and Aren to enter.
“Thank you so much!” Aren said, giving her a polite bow. “You’re doing the Lord’s work.”
Allison rolled her eyes again as they stepped into the next hallway.
When they entered the pastor’s large, glass-walled office overlooking a private courtyard, Allison was somewhat surprised by the man’s appearance. In her mind, she had been expecting a Joel Osteen type: handsome, perky, and fit, with a warm smile and a great head of hair. Wasn’t that what megachurch pastors usually looked like? Pastor Doug was quite the opposite: short and stout with a prominent mustache and thinning brown hair. He looked to be about forty-five, and his faded brown sweatshirt suggested that he was not the “Listen to me and God will make you rich beyond your wildest dreams” type. He appeared surprisingly blue collar, even if his enormous office did have its own waterfall.
Pastor Doug rose from his large oak desk and shook his guests’ hands. Before he could utter a word aside from “hi,” Aren took the lead.
“Thanks so much for taking the time to meet with us,” Aren said.
“Of course,” the pastor replied. “Welcome to Magnolia. So you’re working on some kind of documentary?”
“Yes. I’m Aren Anzalone, the director and writer on the project, and this is my producer, Allison.”
Allison smiled warmly but remained quiet.
Pastor Doug nodded. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about this film?” He returned to his large swivel chair, and Allison and Aren sat down across from his desk.
“Well,” Aren continued, “I don’t know how familiar you are with my work—”
“Not at all,” the pastor said, to Aren’s visible disappointment. “Kristy says you’re some kind of big shot in the magic world.”
“I mean, I’m no David Copperfield, but I do okay. I’m actually known as much for my atheism as I am for my magic, though. I guess you could say I’ve been pretty outspoken over the years.”
“Well, you’re certainly welcome as a guest in my church,” the pastor said. “I was an atheist for much of my young life, so I certainly understand the doubts that people have.”
“You see,” Aren said, “this is why I would love the opportunity to schedule a real sit-down interview with you for my documentary. It’s all about the tension that exists between atheists and believers and whether or not it’s possible to find any common ground. I’m looking to interview prominent atheists and believers alike about the struggles they have with thei
r own convictions and demonstrate how, at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to figure out the same stuff.”
The pastor thought for a moment. “I’d like to learn a bit more about the film before I commit to anything, but I like your premise.” He was calm and pensive when he spoke, looking Aren directly in the eyes and seeming sincere without having to show any outward enthusiasm.
“Oh, of course,” Aren said. “I can send you some of the footage I have so far, to give you a better idea of what I’m working with. So far, I’ve got interviews with Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, Joyce Meyer. But you were actually the first Christian minister on my wish list. In a way, you sort of inspired the documentary. That’s why I wanted to pitch it to you in person rather than over the phone.”
Pastor Doug crossed his arms and rested them on his large stomach. “How did I inspire it?” he asked.
“Well, one of the biggest gripes I’ve always had about Christianity is Christians themselves. I would always use this one guy as an example: The Las Vegas Exorcist, who’s sort of a minor celebrity in my town. A few months ago, I found out that he used to go to this church. So I started looking up your ministry and listening to your sermons to get a better understanding of what made this guy lose his mind.
“But when I started listening to you, what I heard didn’t sound crazy to me at all. It actually sounded very sensible and heartfelt, to the point where I actually started to question a lot of my preconceived notions about Christians.”
“That’s very nice of you to say,” said Pastor Doug. “I believe in preaching the Word of God in a very straightforward and common-sense way. No sugarcoating, no fancy whistles and bells. I think the Bible speaks beautifully for itself.”
“Well, you’re not such a bad speaker yourself, and I’d love to have you in my film. I think it’d be a great asset. I’ll send some stuff over.” He stood up in his chair, and Allison followed suit.
“Okay, I look forward to it,” the pastor said, remaining in his chair.
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