Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  She expected to see great historic dramas, evangelistic rallies, large stadiumpacked events, well-known musicians, athletes, writers, and speakers. She saw some of those, but not nearly as many as she anticipated.

  What she did see were innumerable people she’d never heard of. More than anything, she saw old women on their knees. She looked through the portal and listened to their prayers. Most often they prayed for sons and daughters, husbands and brothers and grandchildren. They also prayed for pastors and missionaries. She saw a familiar dress, a woman on her knees praying for Dani and Clarence and Marney, Harley and Obadiah and their pastor. And especially for Ellis.

  “Mama!” Dani half expected the old woman on her knees to stop praying and look up at her, but of course the portal only worked one way, and it was her mother praying not now but those many years ago.

  Watching her mother day by day, Dani witnessed innumerable acts of faithfulness, seldom seen and seldom appreciated, but each kept track of carefully by Elyon, the Watcher and Rewarder. She continued to walk through this place, fascinated by the people she saw. Many of these faithful old women were black. A disproportionate number, it seemed to Dani. Perhaps because these women knew how to suffer, they also learned how to hope. Perhaps because they had so little earthly power, they felt more compelled to call upon heavenly power.

  Clarence arrived at the deli ten minutes early, thinking that for once he’d get there before Ollie. Wrong. There he was, sitting in the corner with coffee and pastry.

  “Clarence. I’ve just got fifteen minutes, so I’ll cut to the chase.” Ollie was unusually brisk. “I didn’t tell you I called the four big Portland abortion clinics. They weren’t very cooperative. Had to get warrants to see their records. Looked them over yesterday afternoon. Turns out Leesa Fletcher was scheduled for an appointment at the Lovepeace Clinic August 23. So I see this little notation next to her name. When I pressed them on it, I found out she didn’t make the appointment herself. Someone else made it for her. From what I gathered, sometimes the girl’s parent or the boyfriend or the boyfriend’s mother or sister or somebody makes the appointment and tries to talk the girl into coming. Well, they couldn’t tell me who made the appointment for her, except the receptionist thought maybe she remembered it was a man and assumed it was her boyfriend or father. Anyway, Leesa never showed up for this appointment—thanks to your friend Sue running interference. And there’s no record she ever got the abortion anywhere else, not in this city anyway. The medical examiner who did the autopsy is out of town, so we have to wait on that mystery.”

  “Something else has been bugging me,” Clarence said. “Let’s say Harper paid these guys for the hit. First, would he really pay them before getting confirmation they’d done the job? And if he did pay them, wouldn’t he demand it back when he found out they hit the wrong house?”

  “The thing is, what could he do?” Ollie said. “Take them to court because they killed the wrong people for him? These are politicians, not Mafia bosses. They can’t afford to demand justice from everybody. They mess with the guys they pay and maybe those guys will turn on them. Who knows? Politicians can afford to lose other people’s money. But they can’t afford to have the people who do their dirty work get unhappy with them. I figure they just wrote it off as a loss.”

  “I guess that’s possible,” Clarence said.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Ollie said. “The week before the murder, we’ve got two voice calls and one fax from Norcoast’s private line to Harper’s. There’s no documentation of what’s said in a voice call unless someone records it, which in this case is highly unlikely. But a fax, now that’s worth pursuing. Where there’s a fax, there’s a good chance there’s still a record.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, whether you print out hard copy and hand fax it or you send it directly through a fax modem, if you type it on a computer it’s likely been saved to the hard disk, if not deliberately, by an autosave feature.”

  “I’ve been in Norcoast’s office,” Clarence said. “Don’t know how much he uses it, but he has his own computer.”

  “Of course I can’t get to it without a warrant. But I’d sure love to explore that hard disk.”

  “If you had access to it, what would you do?” Clarence asked.

  “First, I’d look under the word processing program and see if there’s a ‘fax’ or ‘letter’ subdirectory. I’d see if any letter was saved on the dates the faxes were sent, August 27 and 29. In fact, I’d check any file anywhere saved on those dates. Then I’d use a global search program. Look for all text files containing the name Harper. Then I’d search for his fax number. If that didn’t turn up anything, I’d use Norton Utilities or something similar to unerase every file I could, even the partials.” Ollie looked at Clarence’s scribbling hand. “Why are you taking notes on this?”

  “I’m a journalist. I can take notes whenever I feel like it. You’re sure you can’t get legal access to that computer?”

  “No way I’ve got probable cause for the warrant. It’s circumstantial evidence and hunches. That’s enough in a dictatorship, but this is the land of the free. Bummer, huh?”

  “I think,” Clarence said, “tomorrow I’m going to pay a visit to Norcoast’s office.”

  Ollie raised his hands in the air and stood up. “I don’t want to hear anything about what you’re doing tomorrow. This conversation is over. Have a good lunch.” He walked away. They still hadn’t ordered. Clarence had never seen Ollie turn his back on a meal.

  “Councilman Norcoast’s office, Sheila speaking.”

  “Hi, Sheila, this is Clarence Abernathy from the Trib. Listen, I’m wanting to do a column on some of the highlights of Councilman Norcoast’s career.”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful. This would be a positive column, right?”

  “Oh, sure. I’ve been spending time with Reg lately, and I feel I owe him some good press. But I’d like this to be a surprise. Reg is out of town, right?”

  “Yes. He won’t be back until Saturday. Mr. Gray’s with him. And Jean’s at a seminar in Salem. It’s kind of a ghost town here today. Just me and a part-time secretary. Do you want me to fax you some information on Mr. Norcoast’s accomplishments?”

  “Well, with all his accomplishments there’s probably quite a bit to sort through, isn’t there? Tell you what, if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, how about I just come over and look through what you have? I could bring my laptop computer and maybe work on the column there. Would that be all right?”

  “Oh, sure. That would be just fine.”

  “Great. I’ll be over in an hour. And remember, let’s keep this a surprise until the column’s done, okay?”

  Driving from one part of the rainy concrete city to another, Clarence longed for the endless towering Doug firs of the woods, tantalizingly close to Portland, yet on busy days as far outside his reach as if he were on Mars. No longer living in the suburbs, his grandest taste of green was the cultivated park blocks of Portland, the trees and flowers here and there, tiny oases in the inner-city desert. They were reminders of a better place, but poor substitutes for it.

  Clarence looked forward to tomorrow’s weekly Wednesday ritual. He would put his bike on the car rack, head out to Gresham, and ride his beloved Springwater Corridor Trail.

  Maybe tomorrow the dark clouds will be gone. Maybe there’ll finally be some sunshine.

  “Hello, Mr. Abernathy.” Sheila bubbled with enthusiasm. “I’ve pulled a number of files. I think you’ll find them helpful.” She pointed to a six-inch stack.

  Clarence groaned inwardly as he looked at the pile he’d have to pretend to be interested in. After a half hour of Sheila’s PR efforts, he finally said, “This is great. I’ll just get going on my laptop here and sort things through. You sure this isn’t a bother?”

  “No problem. I can’t wait to see the column.”

  “You know what? I forgot to leave a few things my editor needs at the Trib. I’ve got th
em in my briefcase. Mind if I use this to send them over?” He pointed to the fax machine next to Sheila’s computer.

  “No problem. Help yourself.”

  Clarence pulled a few things from his briefcase. He positioned his body between Sheila and the fax machine, lifted the cover, took the gum from his mouth, and wedged it and a bent paper clip underneath the rollers. He closed the top and attempted to send a fax.

  “Am I doing something wrong, Sheila? I can’t seem to get this working.”

  Sheila came over and tried to get it going, without success. “Well,” she finally said, “I could open up Mr. Norcoast’s office, and you could use his fax.”

  “You don’t think he’d mind? That’d be great. In fact, why don’t I just bring in my laptop and set up in there, if it’s no trouble. That way I’d be by the phone and fax.”

  “I’ll be right here if you need me,” Sheila assured him after unlocking the door to Norcoast’s office. She kept the door wide open, Clarence noticed.

  “Thanks. You’re too kind.” He faxed some random pages to his own attention at the Trib.

  Before sitting at Norcoast’s desk, Clarence scanned the room, not wanting to make his move too quickly. He looked at Norcoast’s Hall of Fame, where the councilman was glad-handing everyone in the state with any name recognition. He looked where he’d seen the picture of him shaking Norcoast’s hand. He was surprised to see it wasn’t there anymore. It had been replaced. He looked around—it was nowhere to be found. Seeing it up there had irritated him. Seeing it had been taken down did the same.

  Maybe I’ve fallen from grace with his highness. If he finds out what I’m doing now, I certainly will.

  Clarence reached over and turned on Norcoast’s computer. It beeped as it came on and he hoped Sheila thought it was his laptop. He moved Norcoast’s keyboard over in front of his own. He felt relieved to see the familiar face of Windows 95. He ran Explorer and examined directories and subdirectories. Under Winword, he saw the subdirectory “letters.” No subdirectory “faxes.”

  He called up the letters and was disappointed to see only a couple dozen, none in late August. Obviously Norcoast had Sheila type most of his letters on her computer.

  He hit Tools, Find, Files or Folders, then chose to search the entire hard drive. Under date modified he put August 29. He ran it. Two files came up. They weren’t text files, they were database files. When he opened them they showed nothing. He deleted the date designation and chose Advanced. Then in the “Containing text” box he typed Harper and clicked “Search.” Immediately a dozen hits came up. He checked each of them. Nine were from two years before when he worked in this office. Three were more recent, but none was later than June. He looked carefully. Nothing.

  He took a three-inch disk out of his laptop and put it into Norcoast’s machine. He then ran the program Norton Utilities—Data Recovery. After churning and whirring for fifteen seconds, thirty-eight erased files popped up on the screen. One of them had the date August 29. It was a tiny file, its condition listed as “good.” He double clicked, and it popped up on the screen.

  “Harper: Counting on you to do the job. Make it soon.”

  Eleven words. More a telegram than a fax. Seemed hardly worth typing and printing, except it had the advantage of not being subject to handwriting analysis, fingerprinting, or the easy discovery of hard copy. Whoever deleted it obviously didn’t understand that nothing is unrecoverable until it’s overwritten.

  “The job.” What job? “Make it soon.” How soon? Clarence contemplated the fact that four days after this message was sent from Norcoast’s office to Harper’s, Dani and Felicia had been shot.

  Dani saw men of all colors helping young impressionable boys. They gave them time and attention and guidance. Holding their hands, playing catch with them, eating hamburgers with them, helping them with homework, reading to them from the Bible. These men had carved out a place of eternal recognition. Their efforts with these boys had survived the Shadowlands, though their houses and jobs and bank accounts and yard work and what they had built with their hands had not.

  Dani was repeatedly surprised to see so many modest earthly acts so greatly heralded. Here was a hard-working man getting up out of bed every morning at five o’clock to go to a menial job where he worked long hours to provide for his family. Day after day he did his work without complaint. Here was an exhausted young mother feeding and rocking her crying child. She was asking God for help, for strength to make it through the night, to be the best mother she could be.

  Here was a pastor’s wife, opening the door to someone in pain one more time when she wished she could rest and have her husband to herself. She saw a young couple who earned a Christmas bonus give it all to their church’s famine relief offering. Here was a young man struggling with sexual temptation but remaining pure, drawing on the resources of Christ.

  She watched a shoeshine man. Wait a minute … she knew him. Yes, it was Uncle Moses, who shined shoes in a Chicago train station for thirty years. As she watched, Moses asked God to give him just the right opportunities to share his faith that day. “God, this is my ministry. Send me just the ones you wants. Help me shows them your love.”

  A businessman came up to the shoeshine station. Dani somehow saw through his briefcase to the revolver inside and realized he intended to take his life. For some inexplicable reason he’d felt compelled to get his shoes shined before leaving this world.

  “How’s life treatin’ you, sir?” Moses asked him.

  “Not that good.”

  “I knows how that feels. But when it’s not goin’ so good, I remind myself how much God loves me.” The man stared at him blankly.

  “He proved it, you know,” Uncle Moses said.

  “Proved what?”

  “How much he loves us. That’s why he sent the very best. He sent his Son Jesus to die on the cross and saves us from our sins.” The two men talked for a while. Moses gave him a booklet called Steps to Peace with God and walked him through each step. “I’d like to give you a Bible too,” he said.

  Dani watched in fascination as the poor joyful shoeshine man shared the best news in the universe with the rich miserable businessman. She wondered at how often in the Shadowlands she’d confused wealth and poverty, success and failure.

  “There she is, that’s my niece Dani!” This voice came not from the portal but from behind her. She recognized it immediately.

  “Uncle Moses!”

  “Let me introduce to you my good friend Mr. Gary Schoen.” Dani extended her hand to the white man, the businessman she’d just watched her uncle share his faith with.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I owe so much to your uncle.”

  “It’s Elyon who baked the bread,” Moses said. “I was just one beggar tellin’ another where to find it!” He laughed from deep within, reminding Dani of her father.

  After talking with them, Dani walked up to Torel, himself studying one of the acts of obedience forever enshrined here.

  “I knew that once they died,” Dani said, “unbelievers would have no opportunity to go back and relive their lives on earth, this time choosing Christ. But I never thought about how we believers would have no second chance to go back either. No second chance to take advantage of the opportunities, to live our lives over again, this time for Elyon’s glory. I don’t miss the old world. But with all its pain and difficulty, it truly was a land of opportunity. A place of second chances.”

  “What is your life?” Torel quoted. “You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”

  “Teach us to number our days,” she quoted back, “that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

  “The children of God,” the angel said, “have in heaven all eternity to celebrate their victories. But they have on earth only a very short time to win them.”

  As he did every Wednesday, Clarence arrived at the Tribune at 5:30 A.M. so he could get in a full day by 2:00 and head out early to make his ride on the Spri
ngwater Corridor Trail. The day was cool and overcast, with a light rain and dark threatening clouds. There wouldn’t be many people on the trail, but that was fine with him.

  The farther he got toward Gresham, the more he anticipated the ride. As usual he planned to ride hard the first five or six miles. Then he’d turn around, leisurely making his way back, straying off the trail to reward himself with a mocha. It was a ritual, a small but important one that helped bring order and sanity to a life that had recently been short on both.

  Clarence rode hard his first leg, then headed up Eastman to Coffee’s On to sit down with his double caramel mocha. After looking through the Trib for ten minutes, he checked his watch and realized he needed to get going to make it home in time to shower, eat, and go to Bible study. He took the coffee cup, still one-third full, and carried it out with him, riding one-handed.

  He felt unusually tired. Perhaps the stress was catching up with him. He cut through Gresham Park and rejoined the bike trail. He felt funny, as if his blood sugar was dropping. Fortunately, he knew the sugar in the mocha would kick it back up soon.

  Clarence rode past Hugo the Rottweiler, feeling increasingly tired, his head aching and vision narrowing. He pulled over at his usual rest stop, the trailside bench.

  What’s wrong with me? I feel so …

  He pulled out of his bike pack a box of raisins to ward off an insulin reaction. He felt so tired, so weak. He chewed the raisins, feeling the numbness, then laid back his head on the bench.

  Got to rest a little. Then I’ll feel better.

  He slipped into unconsciousness.

  Clarence woke up slowly, shivering, his toes popsicles.

  Where am I?

  It was bottom-of-the-ocean dark. He felt disoriented. Was he home napping? Wait, the waterbed must be leaking. It was hard and wet. And who opened the windows? He was freezing. He rolled to get away from the dampness and fell two feet to the ground. Where he expected carpet, he felt gravel.