The Ambition

by Lee Strobel

  Snow looked back at her, skeptically. “Yeah …”

  “Just hear me out. If you’re sincere with him, if you’re empathetic, if you’re personal, if you’re pastoral — well, there’s the chance that this could work in our favor. It might soften Strider toward you and the church. Maybe he’d feel less motivated to nail a pastor who had gone out of his way to be there for him in a time of need.”

  Snow didn’t try to hide the look of disgust spreading over his face. “You know what, Debra? I’m really getting sick of those kinds of political calculations.”

  III

  Art Bullock collapsed backwards into his swivel chair, almost dropping the phone. “Wait a second, start from the beginning,” he said, leaning forward over his desk and supporting his head with his free hand. “What happened?”

  “As I said, this is Detective Robert Markey, Chicago homicide. I’m investigating the attempted murder of Garry Strider this morning. Your name came up and I want to ask you a few quick questions before we send someone out there to take a more formal statement.”

  “Attempted murder of Garry Strider? I don’t — what do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “I’ve been in a staff meeting for most of the morning.”

  “Someone blew up his car and critically injured his girlfriend.”

  Another wave of nausea and confusion and dread and fear swept through Bullock. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He shut his eyes tightly, as if to try to close out the world.

  “Hello? Reverend Bullock?”

  “This is terrible,” Art said finally. “What about Mr. Strider? Was he hurt?”

  “He wasn’t in the car.”

  “And the woman — what’s her name?”

  “Gina D’Orazio.”

  “How badly was she hurt?”

  “She’s critical; that’s all we’re authorized to say at this point. Do you know her?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But you know Mr. Strider.”

  “He’s been working on an article about our church, yes. We talked a few times. That’s about it.”

  “Well, I’m following up on a possible lead right now, and as I’m sure you can appreciate, we have to move quickly. I need to know whether you sent Mr. Strider an email this morning.”

  “Me? No. No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you have an email account by the name of PastorArtB@gmail.com?”

  “No, that’s not mine. What’s this about?”

  “Then you didn’t ask Mr. Strider to meet you at a place called Kaffee für Sie this morning and bring along a package you had given him?”

  “No, I didn’t. What package?”

  “Did you ever give Mr. Strider a package of any sort?”

  “No, I haven’t. What’s this got to do with the bombing?”

  “We’re not sure whether there’s a connection or not. The route from Mr. Strider’s home to Kaffee für Sie would have taken him right past the place where the triggering device for the bomb was concealed in a trash can. So we’re not sure if this was a ploy to lure him down that path. That’s not the route he typically would have taken to work.”

  Art’s mind was racing, his heart pumping, his fingers slick with sweat. How much should he say? How much could he say? Where does the line of confidentiality end and the need to protect lives take over? My God, this woman — was he inadvertently responsible for her injuries? He couldn’t stomach the thought. And if McKelvie and his friends were trying to silence Strider and destroy the tape, then isn’t he the next logical target? Or would his vow of confidentiality protect him? And where in the world is the tape?

  “Reverend Bullock? Are you there?”

  “Uh, yeah. Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry — this is just such an awful turn of events.”

  “Yes, I know it’s a shock. But let me ask you one more thing: why would someone falsify an email under your name and tell Mr. Strider to bring a package that you never gave him?”

  The pause seemed like an eternity. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?” was all Art could say.

  “No,” replied the veteran detective. “Not yet.”

  IV

  “You’ve reached Garry Strider’s cell phone. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Garry, this is Art Bullock. I just heard about Gina. I’m so sorry that this has happened; I want you to know that I’m praying for her. Look, Garry, I need to speak with you. Actually, I don’t know how much I can disclose, but we’ve got to talk. I need to — well, I’m not sure what to do or what to say, but I want you to know that I didn’t send you an email this morning. I know you’re scrambling right now; I’ll come over to the hospital tomorrow and we can talk. Stay strong, Garry. I’ll see you then — and in the meantime I’m praying for you and Gina.”

  V

  Reese McKelvie didn’t even wait for Buster Marshall to close the door before he let his anger spew.

  “What the hell is going on?” McKelvie shouted, his voice booming through the adjacent courtroom where a few lawyers and clerks were milling around in anticipation of the afternoon session. Stunned, they cocked their heads toward McKelvie’s chambers, one clerk so startled that she dropped an armload of manila–jacketed files, which went spilling over the hardwood floor.

  “Please, Judge, shh! They’ll hear you all the way down the hall!” said Buster, raising his index finger to his lips. He secured the heavy oak — and soundproofed — door behind him. “I just got the news flash myself.”

  Draped in his black robes, McKelvie was pacing back and forth behind his desk, shaking his head, his face flushed and knotted in a grimace, his hands balled into fists.

  “Of all the stupid—” he began, his voice lower this time. He rubbed his face hard with both hands, then glared at Buster. “Can you believe this?”

  Marshall, who learned about the bombing from the Examiner’s text alert, took a step toward the judge and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered.

  “First there was O’Sullivan,” said McKelvie. “I didn’t protest that. It was already done, and he was the weakest link in all of this. And to be honest, I was holding out hope that he had just gotten in the way of a random robbery.”

  McKelvie slumped into his chair, the springs squealing in protest, and pulled his robes tight around himself. Marshall, running his hand over his close–cropped hair, half–sat on the corner of his desk.

  “And now this!” McKelvie exclaimed, his voice rising again as he rammed a fist into his open hand. “What’s Bugatti thinking? When I told him about my meeting with that pastor, I never thought he’d do something this stupid. Doesn’t he know the heat this will bring? Doesn’t he know about the Bolles case?”

  “The what?”

  “Don Bolles — it’s a famous case from the ‘80s. You’ve never heard of it? He was an investigative reporter in Arizona and the mob blew him up with a car bomb.”

  McKelvie’s recollection was accurate, except that it was in 1976 when six sticks of dynamite were detonated on the underside of Bolles’ car in a parking lot on Fourth Avenue in Phoenix. He died eleven days later, after both legs and an arm had been amputated in a futile effort to save his life. Among his last words: “They finally got me. The Mafia.”

  “You can’t believe the heat that the Bolles case created,” McKelvie said. “Reporters flocked to Arizona to investigate. And what do you think is gonna happen here? Strider will rip this city apart, looking for whoever did this to his girlfriend — and his buddies from the Trib and the New York Times and ABC and every other news organization are going to help him. You don’t kill reporters. And you don’t try to kill a reporter but take out his girlfriend instead — that’s mixing stupidity with incompetence. Think of the outpouring of sympathy this will create. What was Bugatti thinking?”

  Sobered by the judge’s outburst, Buster sat motionless, head down. At last, he looked up at the judge and said, “The tape. What about the O’Sullivan
tape?”

  “I assume Bugatti was smart enough to handle that. My guess is that he somehow arranged for it to be in the car when it was bombed. He’d better be right. I’m telling you, Buster — this is big, big trouble.”

  McKelvie swung around in his chair to gaze out the window as the two of them pondered their situation. Occasionally, McKelvie would emit a heavy sigh and shake his head, his chins wagging.

  Suddenly, Marshall’s eyes got wide. “You know what I’m thinking?” he asked. The judge didn’t even turn around. “If Bugatti is stupid enough to kill a guy named O’Sullivan and to try to bomb the toughest reporter in town, then would he hesitate to flatten a judge?”

  McKelvie sat unmoved for a beat, then swung around to face him. “What? You’re not serious!”

  “Think about it. Five people could blow this deal wide open — O’Sullivan, Bullock, Strider ‘cuz he had the tape, and you and me. Well, O’Sullivan’s dead. Bugatti already tried to hit Strider. If I were Bullock, I’d be hiding under the pulpit. That leaves the two of us.”

  McKelvie was squinting as he followed Buster’s logic. “Naw, he needs me too much. And talk about heat — the FBI would chase him to the grave for killing a judge. No, Buster, we’re okay.”

  “You sure?”

  The judge hesitated, his voice a little less confident this time. “Yeah. Chances are we’re fine. I’m his biggest asset. But we’ve got to get a handle on this.”

  “How?”

  “I want a sit–down. With Bugatti. And quickly.”

  “That takes a week to set up even under normal circumstances — and these ain’t normal circumstances.”

  McKelvie became even more adamant. “Go through the usual channels, but I want to meet with him ASAP.”

  “It won’t be easy — “

  “I don’t care how hard it is. Bugatti’s out of control. I’ve got to find out what he’s thinking and what he’s planning. In fact, I want his worthless brother there too.”

  “Tony? Look, boss, I don’t know if — “

  “You tell him how angry I am. You tell him this isn’t optional. You tell him we’re meeting at midnight tomorrow, same place as last time. You don’t ask him — you tell him.”

  Buster held out his hands as if to shield himself. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. It’s time for me to take control of this situation, one way or the other. Everything’s at stake here — my career, my future, my reputation. I’m not about to let these thugs take me down. I’ve got other options.”

  “Like what?”

  “Just set up the meeting. You can be sure of one thing: I’ll have the last word. One way or the other, I’ll come out on top.”

  VI

  When Eric Snow slowly ventured into Gina’s room at Advocate Illinois Masonic Medical Center in Chicago’s Lakeview neighborhood, the bed was empty, the sheets in disarray, the monitors unhooked and turned off, and a disheveled Garry Strider was hunched over in a brown vinyl chair, his hands massaging his eyes underneath his wire–rim glasses.

  Snow paused, surveying the scene. “Garry?”

  Strider looked up; his eyes were puffy and red, and there was soot smeared on his green knit shirt and blue jeans. He was clad in slip–on shoes with no socks.

  “Well, Reverend Snow,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “After all this time trying to get an interview, we meet like this.”

  “Call me Eric. You alone?”

  “They had a hard time reaching Gina’s parents. They’re on their way from Green Bay.”

  Snow took another hesitant step into the room. “And … where’s Gina?”

  “Surgery. They just took her. It’ll be a while.” He motioned toward an adjacent chair. “Have a seat if you’ve got time.”

  Snow sat down. “Garry, I’m so sorry this happened. What have the doctors told you?”

  Strider looked at him, then his eyes flooded; he blinked several times to chase away the tears. The edges of his mouth quivered. He tried to speak but his voice caught; he cleared his throat once, then again.

  “It’s not good,” he managed to say. “Bad burns, broken pelvis, broken legs, compound fracture of her right arm, thermal injuries to her airway — she inhaled hot gases. But the doc said the most serious is the closed–head injury.”

  “From the trauma?”

  “Yeah. It was one of those rare times that it was good she wasn’t wearing her seat belt. The blast unhinged the door and she was thrown out, but the trauma caused her brain — look, I didn’t understand the details. I guess her brain was literally pushed back and forth against the inside of her skull. Intracranial hemorrhage, he said — bleeding that’s putting pressure on the brain stem. He said they had to operate right away.” He paused. “He said to prepare myself, that this is very serious stuff.”

  Snow leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms on his legs. “Man, I’m sorry. Did she say anything?”

  “She’s been unconscious the whole time. We couldn’t get a pulse at the scene, but the ambulance got there quickly. They got a pulse, but it was weak. They’re listing her as critical. The doc said he had to be frank with me — this brain injury is a tough one.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Strider shrugged. “Everything’s in the hands of the surgeons now.”

  “Any idea what precipitated this?”

  “I wish I did.” Strider leaned back in his chair. “I know I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. That comes with the job.”

  “I saw the cops down the hall and the squad car at the entrance. Are they here to protect you?”

  “They’re investigating the bombing, yeah, and keeping an eye on me. Actually, your pal’s name came up in the investigation.”

  “Who?”

  “Art Bullock.”

  “Art? How so?”

  “I got an email from someone identifying himself as Art; he wanted me to bring a package he’d given me and come meet him at a coffee shop this morning. The cops told me they talked to Art and he doesn’t know anything about it. And there never was any package. I’m not sure if the email is related to the bombing or not, but the route to that meeting would have taken me past the transmitter that set off the bomb.”

  “Hmmm. That’s really odd.”

  “Well, a lot of people know that I’ve been investigating the church for a while. That’s no secret. Anyone could have surmised that I knew Art Bullock. But still, it doesn’t add up.”

  “Can they track the email electronically?”

  “They’ve been trying, but whoever sent it has covered their tracks pretty well. It was no amateur.”

  “Yeah, somebody clearly went through a lot of effort to get you. Are you nervous about that?”

  “I’m more concerned about Gina.”

  Snow nodded. When his next words came, they were slow and tentative. “Look, Garry, I know it may not be your thing, but would you allow me to pray for Gina?”

  “You should have brought Dick Urban,” Strider replied. “He seems to have the best track record with stuff like this.”

  “You’ve seen with your own eyes how God can answer prayers.”

  Strider shifted in his chair. “Eric, you can pray all you want. I’m certainly not going to stop you. But isn’t it a bit ironic to be praying for her at this point?”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, if God exists, he could have intervened to stop the explosion in the first place. Or he could have let me get blown up — I don’t believe in him anyway, so in his eyes I probably deserve it. But Gina — well, she really loves him. Yet he allows her to get maimed like this — and now we’re supposed to pray? Now, after she’s burned, after she’s broken, after she’s bleeding? Can’t you see the irony in that? Or the stupidity?”

  Snow didn’t flinch. “You know, Garry, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that times like these aren’t
the best for theological debates.”

  “Better to keep this on a purely emotional level, right? We shouldn’t think too much?”

  “That’s not what I mean. Yeah, we could talk about why God allows bad things to happen. Philosophers have debated this for centuries. At least Jesus was honest about it.”

  “Honest?” he scoffed. “In what way?”

  “He said that in this world, there will be suffering. We live in a place where God gave us free will so we could choose to love him and others, but some people make the choice to hurt each other. But Jesus said we should have courage, because he has overcome the world. And right now, Garry, I think you could use a little courage, a little hope. This isn’t a philosophical crisis you’re in; it’s a personal crisis. You need a personal response from the one who suffered beyond measure.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Reverend: if you can guarantee that Gina will rise up off that operating table and walk away — her burns healed, her bones mended — then fine, I’d say go ahead and pray — and I’ll join you. But we both know that ain’t gonna happen.”

  “I have faith that he’ll hear us. I have faith that he loves her and will never abandon her.”

  “What kind of faith do you have, really? Little Hanna gets her sight and hearing restored; old Harold walks on legs after a lifetime of polio. And what’s your response? You resign! You leave the church. You paper over your convictions and start a nonprofit that’s a transparent PR ploy. Eric, you’re one of the biggest reasons against believing in God.”

  “Garry, I—”

  “Because if God is real, if he’s performing miracles in your own church, then why would you try to keep it secret? I’d think you would be telling the world about it instead of downplaying it. And why would you want to abandon the church to become just one more politician in the cesspool of Washington? Either you’re doing it for your own ego, or you don’t have as much faith as you pretend.”

  There was no response from Snow.

  “I think deep down that you’re as much of a skeptic as I am,” said Strider. “Only you’re much more cynical.”