What he told people was that he would settle down only when he found The One. The perfect woman, the lady of his dreams, someone gorgeous yet tough. He’d yet to find her, though a few had come close, and he was convinced that if he settled on someone else, just to get married and shut everyone up, then Miss Right would appear, and he’d feel like a fool for not having waited for her.
There was no way the woman in the tracksuit could be The One—she was a member of that fruitcake religious organization, for starters—but he’d be damned if she didn’t look the part.
Just figured. He sees a woman that looked as if she could be The One, but she happens to be a nut job. Life was crazy like that.
He wouldn’t have minded popping her partner, though, the short, stout dude with the pale face and boulder head who’d talked all that crazy shit on the phone, but there was no point. They weren’t going to find anything in the house. Anthony and Lisa had left over an hour ago, and there was nothing inside that would tell these freaks where they had gone.
He hoped Anthony would contact him soon. Shortly after they’d left, he’d uncovered some interesting stuff on Kelley Marrow. He’d e-mailed it to Anthony’s account on Jarhead, as he had asked, but was antsy to talk to him about it.
Binoculars pressed to his eyes, he watched his house. He hadn’t drawn the blinds on one of the windows facing him—it was a window to his master bedroom—and he saw the woman flick on the ceiling light and step inside, gun drawn. She quickly swept around the room, ponytail swaying.
He licked his suddenly-dry lips.
He felt like a Peeping Tom—one watching his own house. How nuts was that?
She peered inside the closet, the master bath. He was glad that he’d maintained his Marine discipline of keeping his living space totally squared away. You could have eaten a meal off those tile floors in the bathroom and bounced a quarter off the tightly drawn bed sheets.
Concluding her search, she switched off the light and left.
He sighed, lowered the binoculars. After this, he could use a cold shower.
Perhaps twenty minutes later, the intruders left the house via the patio door. They were empty-handed. They blended into the forest like shadows, and were gone.
He wondered if he would see the woman again. He hoped that he would, and face-to-face next time. He had to know if she really believed all the crap her partner had been saying. Just out of curiosity.
He waited a few more minutes, and then he took his guns and entered his house through the rear door.
Nothing appeared to be out of place. Except one thing—the lid on the trashcan bulged, as though packed to capacity, and he saw something gleaming underneath.
Bomb?
Carefully, he lifted the lid with the barrel of the shotgun.
“What the hell?”
The can was full of empty beer bottles—every bottle of the twelve-pack he’d been keeping in the refrigerator, looked like. Underneath the bottles, he glimpsed squashed cans of soda, and a brand-new, unopened bag of potato chips.
At the sink, a residue of beer foam clung to the basin.
Automatically, he knew the short, nutty guy had been responsible. Probably thought beer, chips, and soda were sinful. Freak must’ve been dropped on his head at birth.
He was going to look through the rest of the house, when he noticed one other thing out of place, too.
All of the rental property keys that had been hanging on the rack in the kitchen were gone.
33
The house featured a living room with large curtained windows that overlooked the front yard, so Anthony and Lisa bunked in there. Lisa curled up on a cream-colored fabric sofa, while Anthony reclined on a matching armchair that he moved nearer the windows, to keep a close watch on Mike’s property a few doors down.
A Glock 19 and a Colt .45, both loaded, lay on the glass cocktail table, and he had the Beretta 9mm on a lamp stand beside his chair. He did not expect that he would need to use the guns while they occupied the house, but keeping firepower close at hand had become a matter of necessity that night.
Funny how his long-time obsession with hardware was paying off, at least in giving them greater peace of mind.
He’d plugged the new cell phone into an AC outlet to charge the battery. Although he’d wanted to call Mike to give him the number and let him know they’d gotten settled in okay, cellular service was not yet activated. According to the instructions, it could take up to an hour for the phone to be ready for use.
Lisa had quickly tumbled asleep. Sneakers on and using an extra jacket as a blanket, she slept clutching a throw pillow, legs drawn up to her chest, mussed hair covering her face. She was as beautiful in repose as she was awake—even after they’d spent the last several hours on the run.
Silently, he promised her that he would get her through this ordeal alive and unharmed.
The only sounds were the rhythmic patter of rain, and Lisa’s hushed breaths. He wanted to sleep, too, but he could not close his eyes without hearing the fanatic’s choir-boy voice.
We represent the truth. We shine a light in the darkness. We are subduing the earth to prepare it for the King’s arrival. Dominion will be ours . . .
From his military experience in the Middle East, he’d learned that the worst part about facing an enemy insanely committed to a wacky cause was that he would never back down. He did not believe in negotiation or compromise; annihilation of those who opposed his will was the only acceptable conclusion. Death in the service of the mission was welcomed as the path to martyrdom, whether that meant the undying love of seventy heavenly virgins or some other absurd prize.
How many of these cultists were out there? Hadn’t Bob said they were everywhere?
The thought made him shudder.
He decided to occupy his restless mind by skimming Bishop Prince’s book. A floor lamp provided soft light for him to read by.
The Keys to the Kingdom was comprised of ten chapters. The chapters had titles organized by “keys,” such as, “Key # 1: God Wants You to Be Happy,” “Key# 2: How to Ask God for What You Want,” “Key # 3: You Reap What You Sow,” “Key # 4: Let Go, and Let God,” “Key # 5: Fortify Your Temple,” and so on.
It was a slim volume, barely two hundred pages, written in plain language that could have been digested by a fourth-grader. It was heavy on New-Age style, personal fulfillment jargon, and oddly short on nuts-and-bolts theology for a book written by an ordained pastor.
In the chapter, “God Wants You to Be Happy,” the bishop explained that God was committed to giving you the desires of your heart, no matter how minor they might be. It was appropriate to petition God for blessings such as a plum parking spot at the local supermarket, the best table at a posh restaurant, or that pair of designer shoes you wanted. The key to receiving these benefits was to “believe you are highly favored by God.” Do that, and God would shower you with treasures, as if God were little more than a super-duper ATM that dispensed gifts to those who punched in the correct PIN.
In another chapter, tithing to your church—“sowing a seed for the Kingdom,” in the bishop’s phraseology—was declared a required practice of all godly people. Anthony understood that churches relied on donations in order to fund their operations, and he took no issue with that—but instead of the average ten percent, the bishop stated that a twenty-five percent portion of a believer’s gross income was the only acceptable tithe in the eyes of God, because God, according to the bishop, “expects and deserves better than an average contribution.”
In the same chapter, the bishop made his case for why pastors, “the shepherds of the flocks,” deserved to be supported in grand fashion by their congregations: housed in mansions, dressed in tailored Italian suits, decked out in fine jewelry, driven in luxury cars, and flown in private jets. The historical Jesus, in the bishop’s worldview, had been a wealthy man—apparently, carpenters had been high rollers back in Biblical times—and had therefore set an example for shepherds and their floc
ks to follow. Tithing twenty-five percent to your church would not only allow your pastor to live the ostentatious lifestyle he deserved, you would also reap the harvest of the “seeds” you sowed, too, which often manifested as a job promotion, an unexpected windfall, a new car, maybe even a new house.
Throughout the text, cleverly interwoven with testimony, devotions, and simple “believe God loves you and you’ll be happy” success lessons, were the bishop’s strident views about “the Kingdom of God.” The Kingdom, he argued, was not some heavenly destination in the hereafter. It was the present world, and it was the responsibility of “God’s Army” to subdue the earth to God’s will, a task which, when completed, would herald a new golden age.
Governments, schools, economic systems, mass media, and all other aspects of society should possess a “Kingdom Agenda.” The Kingdom Agenda meant no separation of church and state: laws should be written, executed, and adjudicated based exclusively on Biblical principles. The practice of “false religions” should be a felonious crime. Science textbooks used in schools should be revised to reflect the “Biblical interpretation” of nature and science, and the teaching of opposing theories and doctrines should be banned. Any sexual practices deemed “perverse” should be punishable as a crime, even if practiced in the privacy of one’s home between consenting adults. Popular culture should be cleansed of “demonic influence” and reshaped to fit wholesome standards.
As Bishop Prince wrote:
Secular society celebrates the wicked, the immoral, the perverse. When will we, the righteous inheritors of the kingdom, the chosen of God, rise up to claim that which is ours? When will we march with God to cleanse the Kingdom of depravity, sin, and evil? When will we seize dominion of the Earth, which the Lord charged us with in Genesis? When? I’ll tell you when, my friend—we will arise now!
In the closing chapter, Bishop Prince extended an invitation for the reader to visit one of his New Kingdom Churches, to learn the joys of becoming a “servant of the Kingdom.” A listing of the church’s locations was included. The church’s headquarters, the “Kingdom Campus,” was based in Austell, Georgia; they had an additional twenty-two satellite churches across the United States, and eleven churches overseas. Total worldwide membership was said to be two hundred and eighty thousand souls.
When Anthony closed the book, the needle of his intuition was vibrating like a dowsing rod above an underground well. He placed the book on the cocktail table, hands trembling.
On the sofa, Lisa sat up. Her eyes were open and alert.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said.
“I was.” She shook her head. “Bad dreams.”
“I haven’t slept at all. I’ve been reading.”
“Oh?” She glanced at the book on the table. “Any thoughts?”
“Bishop Prince is our guy. I was suspicious when you told me about his church printing the Bible . . . but now I know for sure.” He tapped the book cover.
She shifted on the cushions, folding her legs underneath her. “Do tell.”
“First, a little background on his Santa Claus god philosophy.” He picked up the book again, cracked it open. “According to the bishop, if I pray for a good parking spot the next time we go to the store, and if I’m living the life of a loyal, favored servant, then I’ll get the primo spot.”
“A parking spot?” She frowned. “That’s a tad bit trivial.”
“My thoughts, too. I thought if God was inclined to grant prayers, it would be for something a little more significant than giving someone a parking space near the front door. But what do I know? I’m not a bishop.”
“What else does he say?”
“That Jesus was rich, and because of that, pastors deserve to live like hip hop moguls. Mansions, tailored suits, Bentleys, the whole nine. At the congregation’s expense, of course. Oh, and if you tithe twenty-five percent of your gross earnings and pray every day, you’ll get that Benz you’ve been wanting.”
“Typical prosperity preaching,” she said, lips curled as if she had tasted something sour. “That’s been popular ever since Reverend Ike rolled up to his pulpit in a mink-lined Rolls-Royce.”
“Reverend who?”
“Ike. It’s not important—he’s only one of many who teach a prosperity doctrine. By telling people that Jesus was rich they justify their own desire to accumulate money and material possessions.”
“My memory of the Bible might be failing me, but wasn’t it Jesus who said it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven? Didn’t he say the meek shall inherit the earth—not those wearing minks?”
“That’s exactly what he said in the Gospels, yeah. Bishop Prince and a lot of others like him manage to put their own twist on the scriptures, though, to suit their ends.”
“Why do people fall for that?”
She shrugged. “He taps into something people want to hear, I guess. Don’t forget, I’ve seen this guy in action, Tony—he’s very persuasive. He knows how to push your buttons and make you open your wallet.”
“Let’s move on to the important stuff,” he said. “In the midst of all that prosperity nonsense, he talks about ‘the kingdom,’ taking dominion of the earth, and placing the ‘servants of God’ over everything. Government, schools, media, law enforcement—you name it, sweetheart, they want to control it. I’m a little rusty on my grasp of forms of government, but it sounds like he wants to set up a theocracy”
“A government run by the church,” she said.
“Specifically, his church.”
“He says that in the book?”
“It’s all there—conveniently sandwiched between his lessons on how to make God give you your dream home.”
She was nodding. “Feed the masses what they want to hear, meanwhile, you’re inserting ideas related to your true intentions.”
“Demagogues, dictators—that’s how they tend to work,” he said. “They don’t rise to power on a platform of stripping away personal freedoms and liberties. No one would support them if they did. They entice people with promises of wealth, security, abundance, happiness, divine blessings.”
“They appeal to our basic human needs,” she said.
“Including our need to believe we have opposition, an enemy. In the bishop’s case, the enemy is anyone who doesn’t believe in his agenda—the ‘unrepentant sinners’ who are ruining the world for the true believers. His definition of unrepentant sinners is pretty broad, too: most mainstream scientists and media, anyone who doesn’t go to church every Sunday or who practices a different faith . . . writers like me who aren’t creating ‘wholesome’ entertainment.”
“How nuts,” she said, scratching her head. “Can we say, for sure, that Bishop Prince’s followers are the ones we’ve been running from?”
“The fanatic who called us uses a lot of the same jargon as Bishop Prince,” he said. “He spoke about subduing the earth, taking dominion, all that crap. And let’s not forget that New Kingdom Church printed the Bible that Bob gave me.”
“All of which is suggestive, though not totally conclusive,” she said. “For the time being, though, Bishop Prince is the only suspect we’ve got.”
“I’m trying to figure out how my dad could’ve been involved with him and his church. What else do you know about them?”
“Only what I’ve already told you. If we could go online, we could do some research.”
“I can’t connect my laptop to the Web here—there’s no wireless network for me to tap into,” he said. “Come morning, we can drive around, maybe find a connection at a coffee shop.”
“In the meantime, we’re back to square one,” she said. “The Bible that Bob gave us. Up for any more transcription?”
“I’m too wiped out to look at that or anything else.”
Yawning, he dropped the bishop’s back onto the table. He avoided looking at the man’s face. He was no closer to understanding why the photo haunted him, and thinking about it s
erved to only deepen his fatigue.
“We ought to try to get some sleep,” she said. “Both of us are exhausted. A few hours’ rest will do us some good.”
“What about your bad dreams?”
She smiled wearily. “If you hold me, maybe you can keep them away.”
34
They lay together on the sofa, Lisa curled atop him, head resting against his chest. The floor lamp burned on the other side of the room, leaving them submerged in shadow.
Outside, a fresh storm brewed. Rain attacked the roof and windows with growing violence, and he heard, faintly, a crack of thunder that sounded like distant rifle fire.
Drawing deep breaths, he gazed at the dark ceiling, trying to ignore the turbulence outdoors and surrender to sleep. He was stuck in a maddening state between sleep-like-a-stone fatigue, and nerves frayed just badly enough to keep him suspended on the thin edge of wakefulness.
Apparently plagued by her own brand of insomnia, Lisa said, “We never did resume our conversation from lunch.”
“What was it about? So much has happened since then it feels like we were at lunch a week ago.”
“We were talking about having a baby.”
“Oh, yeah, that.”
She laughed. “Yeah, that.”
He stroked her hair. Although both of them were exhausted, he sensed that she had brought up the subject to try to recapture some semblance of normality, a sense of how their lives had been before chaos had come crashing in. Perhaps it would ease the transition to sleep and keep the nightmares at bay.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said. “I still don’t want kids right now.”
“You said, ‘right now.’ That means you may want them later. This is progress.”
“I feel the same. I wouldn’t want to bring a child into this world.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve said that before. But you’d make a wonderful father.”
“How do you know?”
“You appreciate the value of a father.”
Covenant Page 15
