by Tim LaHaye
"But insurance ..."
"Covered only a percentage. The loss was actually much greater than the fifty each."
"Jimmy, surely you had no illusion that this was my own money, that I could just consider it easy come, easy
go."
"I figured as much. I'm sorry."
"I am into a lender for the whole amount. Now I want the other fifty back right away, and--"
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"Nicolae! You must know I can't do that. The documents are clear and binding. Our only hope to salvage this loss is to make the project work. We're starting from scratch, and it will take your remaining fifty and our fifty to have a chance."
"I cannot and will not default on a hundred-million-dollar loan, Jimmy. Get serious."
"I hope you don't have to sue us, Nicolae. I tried to warn you of the risks. I even tried to talk you out of this. But your enthusiasm was shared here, and I'm still confident--"
"Sue you? Jimmy, I will destroy you! Whom do you think you are talking to?"
"I hoped a friend."
"Friendship is left at the door when a hundred million is on the table. Did you expect me to just sit and take this? Do not dare touch the other half of my investment if you do not want an injunction slapped on you this very day. You will be hearing from my lawyers regardless, but I warn you not to proceed with the rest of my money."
"Nicolae, be reasonable. My counsel tells me the investment from you is secured and that we are free to proceed, which we plan to do."
Nicolae slammed down the phone and summoned Leon.
The older man arrived and sat passively taking notes, letting Nicolae rave.
Nicolae paced about his office, staring out at the mountains.
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Finally Fortunato got his attention and raised a hand. "Sit, sit," he said. "You have options. Legal ones, no. Mr. Corona is right. You can tie them up, but they could counter-sue and win damages if you unduly delay them from trying to salvage this."
"So what options?"
"One big one."
"Just tell me, Leon."
"Stonagal."
"Oh no. I could never. First, I would have to explain why I went elsewhere for the original funds."
"And why did you? Just to exercise some independence?"
"Of course."
"Noble but foolhardy. Don't look at me that way, Nicolae. I mean no offense. Hindsight and all that. You must agree it would be much easier to be into Jonathan Stonagal for this money than the Intercontinental. He has the muscle to get it back. The bank has only the law, and the law is on the side of Corona."
Carpathia dropped into a chair. "I cannot fathom bringing Stonagal into this. I want the bank to use its muscle. And I want to ruin Corona and Tismaneanu."
"No, you don't."
Carpathia looked up, surprised. "I do not?"
"Tismaneanu, yes. He used your own man to hurt you. Corona, it seems to me, acted in good faith. Losing an investor's fifty million is egregious, of course, but ruining them only hurts you more. Help them. Get them what they need. More money, if possible, maybe from
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Stonagal. And if you believe in their technology, they could make you rich beyond your dreams."
"But I do not want to be so beholden to Stonagal! To anyone!"
"You would not be beholden to him. He would merely see it that way. He likes to keep people under his thumb. You do not respond well to that, nor should you. Play his game in order to get what you need, and when the time comes, pay him off and turn your back on him."
"Right now that does not seem possible. Dig myself out of a one-hundred-million-dollar hole?"
"Fifty."
"Oh, that makes it more manageable."
Fortunato smiled. "That's my future king. But tell me, Nicolae. Are you truly unaware that Stonagal owns the lion's share of Intercontinental Bank?"
"Oh, he does not! His affairs are quite public."
"Apparently not all of them, if one of the leading businessmen in Europe is unaware."
"The Intercontinental? I have been using his money all along? Are you serious?"
Leon nodded.
"Do you think he knows about my loan?"
Fortunato shot him a double take. "Do I think Jonathan Stonagal knows who has secured a hundred-million-dollar loan from one of his banks? Yes."
"Do you think he has an inkling that I did not know of his involvement?"
"Now that is a great question. It would behoove you to convince him you were fully aware all along."
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Since her salvation, Irene had to admit that she had not experienced a plain, otherwise-unexplainable answer to prayer. Until she walked into the care facility that housed her in-laws today. The first step over the threshold saw her awash in unconditional love and compassion for Mr. and Mrs. Steele that made her temporarily forget how their son was treating her.
She felt even worse for considering using them as pawns in her game of getting back at Rayford. Where had her altruistic plan gone, the one that called for her surprising him by encouraging his golfing?
Irene found Mrs. Steele napping and so visited her father-in-law. She was surprised to find him other than agitated. Usually he was bound to the bed or locked in his room or being followed by aides as he wandered. Now he lay in his bed, gazing out the window.
"Hi, Dad," Irene said softly, so as not to startle him.
Rather, he startled her. He turned with a smile and said, "Irene. How kind of you to visit."
"You remember me?"
"Of course. How're Ray and the babies?"
"Everyone's fine. But they're not babies anymore."
"I know. Chloe has to be twelve by now."
"Very good."
"How bad am I when I can't remember?"
There was a question for the ages. How honest should she be? He deserved the truth. "Pretty bad, Dad. I miss you when you're not really with us."
"And that's fairly often?"
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She nodded. "And you're often agitated."
"That part I'm aware of," he said. "So frustrating. So embarrassing. Irene, it's terrifying. I am sort of conscious of what's going on, but I can't make things come together in my mind."
"How often are you lucid, Dad?"
He cocked his head. "Not often, I'm afraid, and not for long. I worry each time will be the last. Sometimes I awaken in the night and I feel clear as a bell. I start reminding myself of everyone's names and their ages, and I fight to keep it all straight. Then I fall asleep and wake up in a fog again."
"No wonder you're agitated."
"That's not the only reason."
"It's not?"
He shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if my life was wasted."
"Wasted? You were a good husband and father and businessman. You provided jobs and goods and services. You raised a successful son."
He looked away. "Yeah. But... something. I don't know. Something was missing."
"I know that feeling," Irene said. "For a long time I felt something was missing from my life. Wondered if that was all there was."
He turned back to her and nodded. "Sometimes."
Irene felt the urge to hurry, believing she had just a brief window of opportunity. She didn't want to overwhelm him, but when might she get another chance like this?
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"Dad, I came back to God. That's where my peace and contentment and satisfaction come from. Do you feel like you're all right with God?"
"I don't know," he said, looking down. "And now, see, you've got me confused."
"No! I don't mean to do that. We're just talking here. You said something seemed to be missing from your life. I'm telling you I felt the same and what made a difference for me. That's all. We can talk about it another time."
"I want to talk about it now, but--"
"But?"
He shook his head and his breathing came faster. "I'm ... I'm ... I can't, ah--"
"It's all right, Dad. We can take
a break."
He pressed his lips together and looked at her pleadingly. "You see?" he said. "You see what happens? Words are hard. I--I have a son, right? And, and my wife. Is my wife all right? See? I can't even remember her name. Is she here?"
"She's napping, Dad. She'll be in to see you later."
"And you are?"
Irene was crestfallen and apparently couldn't hide it. "I'm your daughter-in-law, Irene. Married to your son, Rayford. We have two kids. Chloe is twelve. Raymie is four. You want to see pictures?"
The old man's face contorted and his lips trembled. "No," he rasped. "No thank you." And he swore. "This is what happens."
Irene stood and gently touched his arm, but Mr. Steele
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wrenched away and rolled onto his side, his back to her, still shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she said. "I didn't mean to trouble you. I just want you to know that God loves you and wants to be everything you need. He cares about you and doesn't want you to feel empty."
Mr. Steele fell still and his arm slipped from his side, his hand flopping onto the bed in front of him. Irene tiptoed around to see if she could detect any light, any life, any response in his eyes.
But he was asleep.
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THIRTEEN
Cameron Williams was a bit of a loner. He had his friends on the Princeton campus, primarily international finance student Dirk Burton of Wales, whom he had interviewed for a school-paper feature. But Cameron had finagled his own private room as soon as he could manage it, and by the time he was an upperclassman with his sights on an internship--and eventual position--at Global Weekly , he had become one single-minded young man. Literally.
He still enjoyed dating, but he ran from any girlfriend or even acquaintance who hinted at caring for him in a real way. Girl pals accused him of fear of commitment. Maybe they were right, but he didn't think so. He had a one-track mind; that was all. There weren't many Princeton students with as modest a background as his, and had it not been for his stellar college test scores, his high
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school journalism awards, and his extensive extracurricular involvement, he likely never would have gained admittance to an Ivy League school. He had been involved in every club and activity he could find--except the choir, because he couldn't carry a tune in a barge.
Once at Princeton, Cameron had become determined not to just stay, but to make and leave his mark. He had to work, of course, but to kill two pigeons with one pebble, he took a job as a stringer for a local paper. He shone there so early that they kept offering him a full-time job. Cameron didn't want to offend his boss, so he brushed aside the offer with the excuse that he had to finish college first.
The truth was, his sights were set much higher than a local paper. He told Dirk Burton, "If I graduate from Princeton and have no other offers, I will feel like a colossal failure."
"No worries," Dirk said. "Somehow I think you'll succeed all right."
That said, Cameron Williams threw himself into every assignment for the little rag. He started covering high school sports and school-board meetings, of all things. The full-timers resented the attention he got from editors when his little stories seemed to gleam with import. He eschewed the standard who, what, when, where, why, and how inverted-pyramid formula and got to the point in the first paragraph.
Old-timers on the staff would start a high school basketball story with something like: "The Arlington Cougars extended their win streak last night with a 64-60 victory
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over the visiting Wheeling Falcons behind a 20-point effort from senior guard ..."
Cameron's bosses would circulate his story of a similar game for everyone to see, especially with a lead like: "Jim Spencer's four-point play with less than a minute to go in the third quarter proved the turning point in last night's basketball game between ..."
"You see?" the grizzled sports editor would tell the rest of the staff. "Get to the heart of the matter right away. These other stories are fill-in-the-blanks, and I've seen 'em a thousand times."
Cameron peppered his pieces with quotes not only from the coaches and players but also from fans and even referees. And his coverage of what might otherwise have been dead-boring school-board meetings crackled with drama, even if he had to embellish it.
The fly vigorously rubbing his forelegs together on my knee during last night's meeting of the District 211 school board was the highlight until council member Fred Kinsella referred to the chairwoman with a gender-based epithet. That woke the rest of the board, the fly, and me. The inciting issue was ...
But the story that launched Cameron Williams's career was one of those serendipitous events that falls into the lap of the person who finds himself in the right place at the right time. He found no joy in the circumstance, however, because the event was tragic almost beyond words.
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He had been lounging in the editorial office, gassing with a couple of photographers, when one was summoned to the scene of a horrible accident. "Wanna come, Cam?" the photog said, strapping on his cameras and grabbing his coat.
Cameron checked his watch. His ball game didn't start for another hour, and the scene of the accident was on the way. He followed the photographer to a tiny suburban subdivision that had seen better days. They picked their way around and through emergency vehicles to where an ambulance waited, its lights off. A man leaving for his evening shift at a local factory had backed over and killed his own toddler son in the driveway.
Cameron immediately began interviewing the first cops on the scene. He was informed that the victim and the father were in the kitchen, and everyone was just giving him a moment before they transported the body to the morgue.
He signaled the photographer, and they slipped in the kitchen door. The curtains were closed and the room was dark, save for a light directly over the kitchen table, where the tiny body lay, wrapped head to toe in a dirty white sheet. The father sat before his child with his back to Cameron and the photographer, his forehead on the table, shoulders heaving. It was clear he had not heard them enter.
Cameron glanced at the photographer, who lifted his camera and aimed at the poignant scene. Just then the father slowly lifted his hands and put one atop the covered head of his son and the other over his ankles.
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Cameron could only imagine the perfection of the composition in the frame of the camera.
The picture would tell the whole story. The room was dingy; the overhead fixture isolated the dead boy and his grieving father, abject with guilt, gently touching--blessing--the child he had killed. Cameron waited and waited for the click of the shutter and hoped it would not interrupt the man's reverie.
The photographer stood there for what seemed hours while Cameron remained transfixed, thinking only how sensitive he would have to be to ask the man a question or two once the boy was carried away. It was awful work, a terrible obligation, and yet it was his job.
Finally Cameron turned and noticed the photographer frozen in the moment. The man lowered his camera, lips pressed tight, and slipped behind Cameron and out the door. He had never pressed the shutter.
Cameron followed him out. They could fire him, but there was nothing to ask the father. Rather, Cameron followed the photographer all the way back to the office and interviewed him. His short feature entitled "The Greatest Photo I Never Took" was picked up by wire services and papers all over the country, won nine journalism awards, and was a Pulitzer finalist.
A month later Cameron stood at the window of his dorm room taking in a spectacular lightning-and-thunder storm that threatened to flood the quad. There was little he enjoyed more than such displays of natural phenomena. He would soon have to make his way across campus to the student newspaper office, and if the rain didn't let
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up, that would be fine with him. To actually be out in it with only an umbrella and a jacket, that was best of all.
As he was gathering up his stuff
to leave, he took a call from his brother, Jeff, in Tucson. Jeff was the homebody, the commoner, the sensible one, not off chasing dreams out of his league on the East Coast. He was already married and had two young kids.
"Hey, Jeff," Cameron said, ever trying to ignore the tension and maintain family ties. "How're Sharon and my niece and nephew?"
"Oh, you know. Good, but Sharon's still trying to get me saved."
Cameron laughed. He'd wondered, as had many others, when Jeff married a thoroughgoing church woman. Jeff and Cameron had been church and Sunday school kids all their young lives but quit going as soon as they had a choice. On that they were agreed. It just didn't seem to make sense. They saw no connection between what was being taught and how the family conducted itself at home. Their parents were honest and pleasant enough, but whatever they got out of church seemed for Sundays only. It wasn't even discussed during the week.
Cameron's parents were still faithful attendees, but they resented that their church was apparently not good enough for their daughter-in-law. Sharon continued to go to the church of her youth, and she took the kids. Jeff went on special occasions, and it was plain to all that Sharon, wonderful as she was, considered him lost.
"I've got to get going, Jeff. What's up?"
"It's Ma."
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"What about her?"
"Looks like cancer, Cam."
"Cancer? I didn't even know she was sick."
"She wasn't. It was sudden, but it's also bad. I'm pretty much running the business now so Dad can be with her most of the time, but they're giving her only a few months."
"A few months!"
"You'd better plan on being here over the holidays, Cam. Probably be the last time you'll see her."
"Oh, man."
"What?"
"I'm dead broke, Jeff. Maybe you or Dad could lend--"
