by Hunt, Angela
“I’m only a college intern,” Mandi said, sounding defeated. “But yeah, I’m helping her with this note story.”
“Then I’ll tell her we talked. There’s no sense in us keeping anything from you, is there?”
“Not at all.” The girl laughed. “She’s got me doing all the grunt work.”
Julie forced a sympathetic sigh. “Well, I’ve done my share of gopher work, so don’t despair. Okay—so Peyton’s appointment is scheduled for this afternoon?”
“She wanted to see him today,” Mandi said, rustling pages again, “but when she called the pastor’s office they said he couldn’t see her until tomorrow. So she’s scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning. She’s coming home right after.”
“Eleven, good, that’ll give me time to get my crew together. And that was Pastor Hargrave, right?”
“No, Manning, Timothy Manning. Do you need the address?”
“No thanks, hon, I’ve got it right here.” Julie jotted the name on her tablet. “All right, I suppose we’re all set. Keep up the good work, Mandi, and remember—mum’s the word about me. Peyton won’t want anyone in the newsroom to know until we’re a little further along.”
“No one?”
Was that suspicion in the girl’s voice? “Well,” Julie searched her memory and came up with the name. “Nora knows, of course. But she wouldn’t want you to say anything, either.”
“Got it.” Mandi giggled. “I told Peyton this would be like going undercover!”
“Hmm.” Julie dropped her pencil and picked up a cigarette. “Thanks, Mandi. You’ve been very helpful.”
NINE
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 27
Traveling on the Wings of Hope
By Peyton MacGruder
“The Heart Healer” is a regular feature of the Tampa Times
Dear Reader:
By the time most of you read this I’ll be in St. Louis, Missouri. There I will call on a man I’ve never met and give him news he is certainly not expecting. I’ll be bearing a message from beyond the grave in the hope he’s meant to receive it.
We’re still searching, but so far we have found two people who fit certain criteria the note seems to require. I will have no way of knowing for whom the note was written until after I’ve talked to each prospect, of course. I’m hoping for some sign or intuition or understanding so we will all know, without a shadow of a doubt, whether or not a prospect is the note’s intended recipient.
The people I will visit within coming days won’t be able to discern much from the appearance of the note itself. The paper is plain white, without ornamentation or embossing, and the ink seems to have come from an ordinary ballpoint pen. But I’m hoping for some second sight into the matter. I’m hopeful that one of these prospects will recognize the slope of a letter or the shape of a word. I’m waiting for the right person to catch the shadows of concern upon this note, and recognize them as a familiar love.
What would you say to a loved one if you had only a few seconds to impart a last message? What language does love speak?
Some of you speak love with wine and roses. For others, “I love you” is best said by breakfast in bed, carefully set-aside sports sections, or nights out at the movies, complete with buttered popcorn.
Children spell love T-I-M-E. So, I think, do older folks.
Teenagers spell it T-R-U-S-T. Sometimes parents spell love N-O.
But no matter what the letters, the emotion beneath the wording must be tangible, demonstrable, and sincere.
That’s what I’m hoping to find on this leg of my journey. Some concrete sign of a love strong enough to impel a man on a doomed plane to send a message to a child no longer within reach.
Wish me well, friends. I’ll report back in two days.
From a Days Inn motel room in St. Louis, Peyton called Mandi and learned that the obit search had turned up only one other survivor whose first name began with T: T. Crowe, daughter of James Crowe of New Haven, Connecticut.
“That’s it?” Peyton asked, pressing her fingers to her temple. “We don’t have anything more than a first initial?”
“I followed up by calling the funeral home who handled James Crowe’s arrangements,” Mandi said, a smile in her voice. “Fortunately, the guy there was talkative. T. Crowe is Taylor Crowe—ever heard of her?”
Peyton searched her memory, then sighed. “No. Somebody we know?”
“You wouldn’t know her personally, but you probably hear her music every day. Taylor Crowe is the best-selling songwriter of our generation. She writes for everybody— Celine Dion, Faith Hill, Anita Baker, the Backstreet Boys—”
Peyton scowled as someone in the next room thumped against the wall. She’d barely slept because a busload of teenagers had pulled into the motel shortly after her arrival. She couldn’t prove it, but she strongly suspected they were bouncing each other off the walls in the room next door.
“Name a song.”
Mandi didn’t hesitate. “‘Yesterday my sorrows came and washed my fears away,’” she sang, warbling over the phone. Then she laughed. “Recognize that?”
“Vaguely—but I think the problem lies in the singing, not the song. Yeah, I know that one. Okay, she’s famous. That’s good. Great for public interest.” Peyton raked her hand through her hair as a sudden thought struck. “Oh, brother! James Crowe was from Connecticut? That’s quite a hike—bad for Nora’s expense account. She wasn’t thrilled to hear that I wanted to go to St. Louis. She’ll freak when I tell her I need to take another out-of-state trip.”
“Well—that trip might be a problem.”
“Whaddya mean, a problem? Where does this songwriter live?”
“That’s a tough question, and I’ve been working on it all morning. Her only address is a P.O. box in Los Angeles. There’s tons of material available on her, but not much of it is personal. I’m not finding very many clues.”
“You’re doing great work.” Peyton murmured the compliment almost without thinking, then blinked to realize she meant it. Mandi had definitely risen to the occasion.
“Well—” She clicked off the dates on her fingers. Two more interviews meant two more columns, plus the report on Timothy Manning, and an additional wrap-up. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, Peyton’s last “Heart Healer” would run on July fourth—Independence Day. How fitting—especially if Nora still wanted her out. Though King seemed certain Peyton had pulled her fat out of the frying pan, she wasn’t convinced.
“Are we completely positive there are no more T names?” she asked. “We’ll need to cover all the bases before we can wrap up this series.”
“I’ve checked and rechecked,” Mandi insisted. “I’m as sure as we can be.”
“Okay. Next order of business: Did you fax the biographical info on Pastor Manning? I’ll need to review it before I get to the church.”
“It should be waiting in the motel lobby. I faxed it ten minutes ago, along with an extra copy for you-know-who.”
Peyton frowned into the phone. “You think I have a gremlin in my suitcase or something?”
“Never mind, I know I’m not supposed to know. But I do know, so it’s okay. But I won’t say anything.”
Peyton lifted her gaze to the ceiling. What was the girl babbling about? No telling what sort of rumors were circulating in the newsroom, especially with Carter Cummings spouting off in his misguided attempt at matchmaking. King was probably out of the office today, so the rumor mill had ground out a report that he and Peyton had slipped away together . . .
Just what she needed—sheer tittle-tattle. She cleared her throat. “Listen, kid, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but I really don’t have time to work it out. So just keep quiet about whatever, and we’ll talk about it when I get back.” She searched her brain for any last-minute items on her task list and found nothing. “I guess that’s it, Mandi. You’re a lifesaver. Tell the Dragon Lady you deserve a raise.”
Mandi giggled. “I’m not here to make money,
remember? Interns are supposed to gain experience, not wealth.”
“Well, plan on me taking you to lunch in a couple of weeks when this is all over,” Peyton said, rising with a sense of relief. Three prospects for the note would be far easier to handle than ten. “Thanks a bunch, kid. See you tomorrow.”
After calling to confirm her appointment with Reverend Manning, Peyton walked to the motel lobby to collect her fax, then took it back to her room with a Diet Coke and a bag of Peanut M&M’s—not exactly a healthy breakfast, but it would hold her until she could grab lunch at the airport.
She’d learned one thing from her bizarre meeting with Mary Grace Van Owen: it would help to have as much information as possible up front. (If she’d known, for instance, that King’s friend collected realistic baby dolls and didn’t believe in air conditioning, she probably would have postponed that interview indefinitely.) Even so, one of Mary Grace’s admonitions kept replaying in Peyton’s mind: Go to the interview empty-handed. Ask one question, then sit still and listen.
Peyton had never conducted an interview without a preprinted list of questions, a tape recorder, and a notepad and pen. The one and only time she left the notepad at home her tape recorder’s batteries had died, so she’d had to frantically pull the quotes for an entire column from her memory. Mary Grace’s advice contradicted everything Peyton had been taught, but the woman’s insights had been impressive, even a little unnerving. Maybe she knew something.
Still, while Peyton might try going into an interview empty-handed, she refused to go empty-brained. She would internalize all she could from the bio sheet Mandi had faxed, plus she’d memorize a few questions about Reverend Manning’s relationship with his father. Only with an hour’s worth of material stored in her memory would she even attempt Mary Grace’s nonstandard interview technique.
She had already gleaned a few facts from the elder Mr. Manning’s obituary. Though he had lived in St. Petersburg at the time of the crash, sixty-four-year-old Winston Manning had been born in Wichita, Kansas. He’d been an insurance salesman before retirement, and was survived by two children and six grandchildren.
Since the obit did not mention a wife, Peyton suspected the late Mr. Manning had raised his family in Kansas, then moved to St. Petersburg alone. With a son in St. Louis and a daughter in Brooklyn, he probably cut his ties to the old community and fled to Florida, where the sun shone nearly every day and residents paid no state income tax.
She popped the top on the can of soda, then ripped open the yellow bag and tossed a few candies into her mouth. Happily munching, she scanned the grainy fax of the son’s biographical sketch.
Since 1996 Timothy Manning had served as pastor of the First Fundamental Church of Kirkwood, a suburb outside St. Louis. He married the former Debbie Wyndam in 1989, and the couple had three children, Kelsey, Kenyon, and Karrie. Apparently, she noted with a wry grimace, he and his wife were exceptionally fond of alliteration.
Manning had graduated from the University of the First Bible Fellowship in ’88, and had received an honorary doctorate from that same institution in ’97. His church had received numerous honors, as had he: Outstanding Young Man of America, ’96-2000; Who’s Who in American College and Universities, ’84-’88; and Church Grower of the Year, 2000. According to the Fundamentalist Monthly, his fifteen-thousand-member church was the second-largest Bible-believing Fundamentalist fellowship in the United States.
Peyton blew a stray hair out of her eyes as she lowered the page. Not much useful information here, and nothing at all to indicate what sort of relationship existed between Timothy and his father. They’d been separated by distance at the end, but few American families weren’t.
After brushing her teeth and packing her overnight bag, she took a cab from the Days Inn to Manning’s church. The First Fundamental Church of Kirkwood, an octagonal brick structure adorned on the street side with tall white pillars and a set of concrete steps, rose from the corner of North Kirkwood and West Adams like a monument.
“’At’s one big church,” the cabdriver said as he peeled a receipt off his pad. He handed it over the seat and sent a crooked smile Peyton’s way. “’At preacher is all over the TV on Sunday mornings.”
With her overnight bag in one hand and her backpack in the other, Peyton stood uneasily on the sidewalk as the cab pulled away. She hadn’t visited a church since Michael from the sports department married Marjorie from the news, and the wedding hadn’t taken long— certainly not long enough for Peyton to pick up any church lingo. The pastor hadn’t said much outside the typical wedding litany—We are gathered here in the presence of God and these witnesses—so she hadn’t gleaned a single thing that would help her interview Reverend Timothy Manning of the Kirkwood Fundamentalists.
At least she had an official appointment. She’d called his office early Tuesday morning and assured the secretary she wouldn’t take up more than an hour of the pastor’s time. The secretary had seemed reluctant at first, stating that Tuesday afternoon was booked solid and Wednesday mornings were the pastor’s study time and he preferred to keep those hours uninterrupted. But when Peyton said she was coming all the way from Florida to interview him for a newspaper, the secretary had an abrupt change of heart.
Gripping her suitcase, Peyton ascended the concrete steps and entered the building through a pair of tall white doors. They opened into a thickly carpeted foyer, empty except for two tables, one on each side of the yawning space. An assortment of brochures covered the tables, and Peyton glanced at them. Ten Reasons Why God Supports Conservative Politics, Ten Things God Cannot Do, and Order Your Timothy Manning Videotape Collection Today.
Curious as to what God could not do, she opened the brochure and read:
God cannot lie. God cannot save one soul apart from faith and grace in Jesus Christ. God cannot turn away one soul that comes to Him according to His terms. God cannot bless men apart from faith.
God cannot fail to answer prayer when unwavering faith is exercised. God cannot change His eternal plan. God cannot refuse to guide His children. God cannot deny His care for His own. God cannot refuse to forgive a child adopted through faith in Jesus Christ. God cannot break His promises.
“I’ve wandered into the Church of God Cannot,” she murmured, replacing the brochure in its stack. Without any clear direction about where she should go, she opened another door—one of four in a soldierly row—and stepped into the sanctuary.
The cavernous space was dense with quiet and completely unpopulated. Subdued overhead lighting reflected off polished pews. A wide aisle cut through the center of the huge room, and television cameras stood at center, right, and left positions, while another perched on the edge of the right balcony. All were trained, even in repose, upon a monstrous podium at the center of the stage.
She was staring at the wooden pulpit, trying to envision what sort of man would stand behind it, when a voice spoke. “May I help you, ma’am?”
Turning, she saw an older man wearing a blue work shirt and dark pants. He carried a whisk broom and dustpan.
“I’m looking for the pastor’s office.”
The man’s face crinkled into a smile. “That’s in the building behind this one. Brother Tim should be in his office now. You follow that aisle”—he pointed toward the wide center pathway—“and go through the next set of doors. You’ll see the office building right in front of you.”
She smiled her thanks and followed the center aisle toward yet another squadron of doors. How many people actually attended this church? Common sense told her that the fifteen thousand on the membership rolls couldn’t actually attend services each week—they’d need a stadium to hold that many. She was no expert on pew size, but this place looked big enough to hold about three thousand people, maybe more if people packed the pews.
After passing through yet another foyer and descending another set of concrete steps, she saw the office building—a squatter, less regal version of the sanctuary. Fortunately, a series of signs gave d
irections to church offices, the nursery, and rest rooms. Following directions for the office, within five minutes she found herself in the carpeted sanctuary of Reverend Timothy Manning.
“You must be Peyton MacGruder.” A genteel-looking, white-haired woman rose from behind the desk as Peyton stepped through the open doorway.
“I am.”
“Pastor is expecting you. Let me tell him you’ve arrived.”
Peyton would have enjoyed a moment to look around and gather impressions, but apparently her call had piqued Reverend Manning’s curiosity. Less than ten seconds after the secretary disappeared into an inner office, she returned and gestured to Peyton. “Come right on in, Mrs. MacGruder. Pastor’s waiting for you.”
“It’s Ms.”
The secretary lifted a brow. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
Leaving her overnight case in the outer office, Peyton took nervous steps toward her first prospect.
Timothy Manning, as it turned out, looked nothing like the rotund television preacher of Peyton’s imagination. The man who stood behind the desk wouldn’t come close to six feet even in platform shoes, and his slender frame looked more suited for running than Bible thumping. He wore khaki slacks and a blue dress shirt, with a navy tie hanging loosely from his neck. He did wear his hair in the slicked-back style favored by media evangelists, but the brown eyes that smiled at her from behind a pair of contemporary eyeglasses seemed warm and friendly. And he was young—her age, or even younger.
After shaking his hand and murmuring her thanks for his willingness to see her, Peyton took the seat he offered. Remembering Mary Grace’s admonition, she folded her hands in her lap and resisted the urge to fidget.
