THE RUNAWAY PROPHET
Also by Michele Chynoweth
The Faithful One
The Peace Maker
Praise for Michele Chynoweth’s Other Novels:
The Faithful One
“It often seems that the great characters of the Bible are so far removed from us. We sanitize them and dehumanize them. The Faithful One puts the character of Job into a whole new contemporary light. The story makes his struggles so much more tangible and relatable to today’s audience. Kudos to Michele Chynoweth for helping us get a better handle on what Job may have gone through. It certainly makes my struggles seem much smaller!”
—Gus Lloyd, Host of “Seize the Day” on The Catholic
Channel, Sirius XM 129 & Author of
Magnetic Christianity and A Minute in the Church
The Peace Maker
“The race to The White House is set to be an interesting one. No one knows who may be the next one to claim the office and both Leif and Darren are extremely passionate about reaching that goal. Leif, the humble horse trainer from Kentucky, and Darren, the rich boy from New York, are pitted head to head. But there is more to this battle than meets the eye. Both Darren and Leif have things to hide in their past and they’re determined to defeat each other, no matter what it may mean for them in the end. It’s going to be up to Chessa, Darren’s wife, to ensure that both of them are able to escape from the battle unscathed… The Peace Maker by Michele Chynoweth is the type of story that many young women have lived in one way or another. Many of us have been like Chessa, caught between the one we love and doing what’s right, but how can you decide what’s right when your heart and your mind are conflicted?”
—Five Star Review by Samantha Rivera
for Readers Favorite International Book Awards
THE
RUNAWAY
PROPHET
A NOVEL
MICHELE CHYNOWETH
New York
The Runaway Prophet
A Novel
© 2016 Michele Chynoweth.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published in New York, New York, by Morgan James Publishing. Morgan James and The Entrepreneurial Publisher are trademarks of Morgan James, LLC. www.MorganJamesPublishing.com
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ISBN 978-1-63047-807-0 paperback
ISBN 978-1-63047-809-4 eBook
ISBN 978-1-63047-808-7 hardcover
Library of Congress Control Number:
2015915620
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“Those who cling to worthless idols
forfeit the grace that could be theirs …
Salvation comes from the Lord.”
—Jonah 2:8-9
DEDICATION
To all of my readers, from the critics to the fans and everyone in between—thank you each and every one for spurring me on to continue this challenging yet rewarding journey. I do it because I believe I am called to serve you. I hope I help not only entertain you but also help you hear God’s message.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My profound thanks go to the following people who made this novel better: for his well-versed biblical perspective, Pastor Patrick “Bo” Gordy-Stith of Whatcoat United Methodist Church, Delaware; for his FBI consultation, Andrew P. “Andy” Black, Supervisory Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation Office of Public and Congressional Affairs, Los Angeles Division; for his help with US Naval authenticity, Joe Potak, former crew member of the USS Merrill, DD-976; for their boxing and writing expertise, former middle-weight champion boxer Dave Tiberi and writer Mark Crouch; for his oft-visited experience with Las Vegas, Mike Leppert; for their sharp editing advice, Angie Kiesling and Janet Angelo; for their outstanding proofing skills, Judy Sweeney and John Styer; and for his unwavering support, my husband Bill Chynoweth.
PROLOGUE
Rory Justice covered his mouth and nose with his shirtsleeve as he opened the door to the hotel suite. The stench hit him squarely in the face like a two-by-four. The air in the room, laden with the smell of cheap perfume, foul body odors, stale beer, burned-out cigarettes, and day-old pot smoke made his stomach lurch, and he fought not to gag.
He stood in the huge living room of the suite and surveyed the damage: a table lamp overturned with the shade ripped … a few pizza boxes with the congealed remains of an uneaten slice that now attracted a fly … two dozen or more beer bottles and several empty liquor bottles of whiskey, vodka, gin, tequila … stains of various hues on the cream-colored carpet … couch cushions strewn about … cigarette butts randomly tossed and black burn holes in the upholstery… one of those life-sized, blow-up plastic dolls with the O-shaped mouth now partly deflated and slumped against a chair … various drug paraphernalia lying across a coffee table … and a jagged hole in the wall.
Rory hadn’t seen the bedrooms or the bathroom yet, but he could hear a man’s guttural snoring and knew it was his coworker and roommate Jim Smith, a three-hundred-twenty-pound pasty-skinned man prone to allergies, upper respiratory difficulties, and a whole range of other health problems due to his weight.
Things really got out of hand, Rory thought, assessing the damage with disgust. Anger welled up within him as he realized that his coworkers had made this mess in his hotel suite, and he would probably have to take some responsibility. There is no way I’m paying for this.
And then the memory of his part in it all surfaced as the fog in his brain lifted, and he cupped a hand over his mouth, stifling the nausea that rolled up inside, not just from his hangover, but from the sudden fear and regret that gripped him.
The woman. Rory slowly recalled, as if in slow motion replay, leaving the party with her, a bottle of cheap champagne in one hand, her waist in the other, headed for his coworker Chad Weeks’s room, which he had asked to borrow for the night. He couldn’t even remember her name, but the image of her appeared in his mind’s eye—white-blonde hair, b
ig pouty red lips, and huge brown eyes. She was curvy, some would say voluptuous—the opposite of Haley, his wife.
The woman had been invited to the party with the other young women. Everyone had eventually paired up, and he hadn’t wanted to spend the night with her at first, but she had insisted, and he had felt much too intoxicated to resist. Besides, his marriage back home was a sham anyway.
What have I done? Remorse and anger, both at his coworkers from AdExecs and at himself, paralyzed him. If only I hadn’t listened to these guys and let them have the party in my room; if only I hadn’t come to Las Vegas in the first place, none of this would have happened.
Rory had worked in the advertising industry since graduating from Ohio State University, not because he particularly liked it, but because it seemed the easiest way to get a job with his marketing degree. He started out as a “go-fer” at the Columbus Dispatch where he had interned during his senior year, then worked his way up to senior account executive. During a meeting where he was pitching the Dispatch’s latest media offerings to AdExecs, Rory met the advertising agency’s CEO, Everett Major, known locally as the dean of marketing.
After visiting the agency’s suite of offices in a sleek high-rise building and learning about some of the huge ad campaigns the company had conducted for several big-name clients, Rory decided to apply for a job.
“You look like a fine, upstanding young man,” Everett told Rory during his job interview. “A little green, maybe, and very serious for a man in his thirties, but hang around with us for a while—you’ll loosen up, and maybe learn a thing or two.” The boss gave him a sly wink, but Rory wanted the job so badly that he didn’t think anything of it at the time.
Rory had always been content working for the Dispatch. He had a loyal client list and didn’t have to hustle to meet quotas or bring in new clients. If he felt he had a choice, he would not have wanted the position at AdExecs and all of the pressure and stress it would probably bring. But Haley encouraged him—well, if truth be told, threatened him at the time. She told him she wanted to cut back her hours as a paralegal and spend more time with their two school-aged children, and they desperately needed the money. “You’re an idiot if you don’t take the job,” she said. So he acquiesced.
Their marriage had already started to crumble, before the trip to Vegas three years later.
Mr. Major and nine AdExecs associates made the four-day trip to the annual marketing convention that October, flying in from Ohio to McCarron International Airport. It was Rory’s first business trip with the firm, and he had just been promoted from assistant account executive to associate.
When the airport taxi pulled up in front of Caesars Palace shortly after dusk that warm Thursday evening, Rory could feel his mouth hanging open as he took in the glittering lights of the casino resorts that lined the Las Vegas Strip from end to end, each one more magnificent than the next.
Entering the lobby, Rory was amazed at the gold and marble statues, the vaulted ceilings, the rows of high-end shops with haute couture, and the constant din of the slot machines that filled the sprawling casino. It’s everything they said it would be, he thought, feeling like he had finally “arrived.”
The next morning some of the guys went to take a dip in the resort’s outdoor pools after breakfast. Since they had more than an hour before the conference was scheduled to start, Rory joined them, figuring he would swim a few laps. But the pool was more of a party scene, Rory realized, gazing at all of the bikini-clad women and fawning guys, drinks in hand, mingling in the water.
So he sat in a lounge chair in his swim trunks and polo shirt sipping a glass of orange juice, listening to his co-workers complain about their hangovers and losses from the night before, pretending to sunbathe but secretly wanting to be in the pool so that he could feel like he was one of the cool guys.
Rory had to pass the hotel casino several times a day on his way to and from his room to the conference halls where the seminars were held. He stopped once to watch out of curiosity as a man plunked down hundreds of dollars on a game of poker. How could people throw away so much money? Haley would kill me. Still, he did play the slots a few times. He was in Vegas after all.
The following morning, he took a half-mile walk to get some exercise and was approached on every street corner by men flicking cards with pictures of scantily clad women offering a good time if you called the eight hundred number listed or visited their website. Women in fishnet stockings and low cut tops shouted at him, saying they’d do him a few favors for a reasonable price. Rory felt a strange mix of excited curiosity and uneasiness, and hurried back to the safety of the hotel.
That final night, though, Rory wasn’t able to hide from all of the city’s temptations.
It was the company’s annual big night out, Mr. Major’s special way of saying thank you to his associates for their hard work all year. It was kept a surprise for first-timers like Rory.
It all started innocently enough with dinner at the Luxor, the pyramid-shaped resort with Egyptian lion statues at its entrance. A few of the guys who had been to the Luxor in the past laughed and chattered with anticipation.
Halfway into dinner, Rory figured out why his coworkers were so excited. The deluxe prix-fixe dinner package also came with tickets to the Fantasy show. In his naiveté, Rory entered the auditorium assuming it was some circus or magic show like the Cirque du Soleil acts he had heard were prevalent in Vegas. Instead, after having a large shot of sake that he had let them talk him into drinking, he found himself sitting in a front row seat watching topless women dance and strut across the stage to the blaring beat of disco music. Then, under the guise of going for dessert, he was duped into going with the guys to the hotel’s famous and exclusive nightclub, Lax.
A tipsy Chad Weeks stood next to Rory in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd waiting at the VIP entrance, the young new hire’s face flushed with enthusiasm. “You have no idea how hard it is to get in,” Chad whispered, pointing to the hundreds of patrons in the regular line waiting to gain admittance. “Those poor slobs will never make it. This is the chance of a lifetime. All the celebs come here. I think we have a private loft too. I hope to get some action tonight, if you know what I mean.”
Rory felt embarrassed just listening to Chad’s over-eager rants. He was wondering if maybe he should take a cab back to Caesars instead when Jim grabbed his arm, and he felt himself being pulled into the dark, narrow entrance.
It’s literally like entering the gates of hell, Rory thought, trying not to worry where the night was headed. His head pounded with each loud, synchronized beat of music, and his heart raced with anxiety.
The entrance was made of black, wrought-iron gates. Inside, it was so dark he could hardly see a foot in front of him. An usher led them along a maze of dim corridors with a flashlight until a glowing red light loomed ahead, the inside of a cavernous club, where girls in six-inch spiked heels and tight, shiny dresses that barely covered their bottoms writhed around, some with male partners, some with each other. Rory’s group was led upstairs to a dark red lounge with low, plush couches and recessed rooms and iced tubs of vodka. “All for us,” Mr. Major said proudly, winking at Rory. “Fellas, welcome to the AdExecs private party.”
Several young women seemed to appear out of nowhere, sidling up to them, and minutes later Rory found himself on the crowded dance floor in the midst of a foam party. A few hours later, they were headed back in cabs to Caesars, the girls in tow, to continue the party.
And then Jim volunteered to host it in their suite.
By the time Rory protested, it was too late. He was simply outvoted by his colleagues, and then Everett Major cajoled Rory, saying that since he and Jim had gotten the biggest room with the best view—and Mrs. Major had flown in that day to join him, so he couldn’t use his own luxury suite, of course—Rory’s suite was the perfect location. Plus, Rory had been told early on in his career at AdExecs not to deny the boss unless he had a life-or-death reason.
So they finally persuaded Rory to not only host the party with Jim but to join in the festivities. “Harmless fun,” they said. “We’re all married too, the wives will never find out,” they said. And of course, they added, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
This is all their fault, Rory fumed as he stood in the middle of the mess left from last night’s party.
He wandered into the bathroom and averted his eyes from the stopped up toilet and instead looked into the mirror. Staring back at him was the reflection of a thirty-five-year-old, discontent, white advertising account executive. Usually clean cut and clean shaven, Rory sported a five o’clock shadow and dark gray circles under his bloodshot eyes. Unremarkable was what he usually thought when he saw his mirror image: medium build, not thin or fat, not muscular or flaccid, with average looks, a head of dark brown hair, plain features, and dull, gray-green eyes. But now a second observation consumed him, holding his thoughts hostage: guilty.
It’s your own fault, you know, his self-conscience silently told the guy looking back at him.
And then self-righteousness joined the debate in his embattled head. No, actually it’s not the guys’ fault, nor mine. Haley is really to blame. If she had showed me any attention over the past few years, I wouldn’t have had to seek it here. Besides, it was only a one night stand. She’ll never find out.
But you know, the tiny voice of reason chimed.
Suddenly all of it—the voices, his anger, worry, remorse—were instantly forgotten as he heard a whimpering sound coming from one of the bedrooms.
It wasn’t Jim, who was still snoring. No, this sound came from the other bedroom, he was sure of it.
And it became clearer as he listened. Rory knew with a growing fear that what he was hearing was the muffled cry of a woman.
His trancelike state broken, Rory rushed toward the sound. He stopped still in the bedroom doorway. Lying barely covered with a gold-colored silk sheet on the king-sized bed was a gaunt woman of Asian descent. Her wrists were bound to the headboard with scarves, and her mouth was covered with a piece of duct tape.
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