by Tim LaHaye
Dr. Graham had taken Joey down the six steps that led to the lower deck. There the master stateroom, on the port side aft, awaited. Its angled king berth, heated towel racks, and private bath were fit for a king. The VIP port guest stateroom with queen-size bed was equally luxurious.
He had found Joey’s gasps amusing as they toured the salon with its U-shaped, leather bench sofa and highly polished dinette. The space was bathed in soft, indirect lighting. The fully equipped galley with island wet bar was draped in an elegant blend of cherry and mahogany wood paneling. The floor, covered in an off-white, thick berber carpet, was accented with chrome trim.
Even now, two hired catering attendants buzzed between the main and lower decks. They served appetizers, topped off drinks, and prepared to grill shrimp and steak on the integrated electric grill adjacent to the aft swim platform.
The sun, now a red fireball, hovered just above the Philadelphia skyline in the hazy horizon. It cast a splash of color across the surface of the Delaware River. The winds were low, the water calm. The night was off to a good start, with one exception.
Jenna.
Dr. Graham checked his watch, annoyed and concerned that Jenna was almost twenty minutes late. She was as punctual as anyone he’d ever worked with. What’s keeping her? he thought.
“Please forgive me, but I’ve got to ask,” Joey said, swirling his glass of white wine.
“Shoot.”
“What’s something like this go for these days?”
“You in the market?” Dr. Graham said, raising an eyebrow.
Joey smiled. “Never mind. It was probably rude of me to ask. Something like this is way out of my league.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Dr. Graham said. “One-point-eight, to answer your question.”
Joey almost choked. “As in million?”
Dr. Graham tilted his glass as if to say, “Yes.”
He studied Joey with an amused interest. Joey, dressed in his khakis and navy blue and white Hawaiian shirt, was not what he would have pictured as a newspaperman. True, he had told Joey to come casual. Still, Dr. Graham had expected somebody a little less GQ-looking.
In any case, Joey had a refreshingly unstuffy appeal. Even though they had spent less than an hour together, Dr. Graham was already convinced they could do business.
Lots of business.
An attendant holding a tray approached and inquired about their drinks.
Joey placed his unfinished glass of wine on the tray and said, “Maybe I will have that beer after all.”
Dr. Graham tapped the rim of his glass indicating more of the same and then dismissed the waiter with a nod.
“As soon as Jenna gets here,” Dr. Graham said, “I thought we’d cruise up the Delaware and gawk at the fat-cat mansions just north of Riverside, New Jersey.”
Joey relaxed against the back of his chair, his arms dangling at its sides. “This is all very nice of you. Can’t say I’ve ever had this kind of red-carpet treatment from any of the other advertisers with our paper.”
Dr. Graham took it as a compliment but sensed a slight hesitation in Joey’s voice.
“Blame it on this,” Joey said, tapping the side of his nose, “but the reporter in me wonders if there’s somehow a catch.”
“That’s what I like,” Dr. Graham said, “a man who isn’t afraid to speak his mind. And, while we all have to make our little compromises along the way, don’t worry. There’s no catch. There’s just this.” He reached into a pocket, withdrew a thick manila envelope, and then tossed it into Joey’s lap.
Joey picked it up. “What’s this, my friend?”
Dr. Graham leaned forward. “That’s $5,000—cash.”
Joey looked around as if he were in the middle of a drug deal. He peeled open the f lap and peeked in. A banded wad of $100 bills was stuffed inside. He brought the money to his nose, as if smelling it would somehow assure him this wasn’t a dream.
Dr. Graham sipped his drink. He winked. “Consider it a bonus or, if you like, a goodwill gesture.”
Joey pointed to himself. “You think I need this?”
“I know you need it,” he said. “And, in case you’re wondering, our agreement stands. We agreed to a referral fee of $25 for every customer who answers our ad running in your paper. Naturally, my office will send a check for that total each week. Let’s just say that this, however, is an added token of my appreciation for the opportunity to work with such a fine young man.”
A fresh round of drinks arrived.
“And another thing,” said Dr. Graham as he took a beverage from the waiter’s tray. “I understand your paper has experienced the same rodent infestation we have.”
Joey met his gaze with a blank stare.
“I’m not sure I know—”
“Oh, I believe you do.”
Dr. Graham paused for effect. “He’s been spreading around his slanderous venom, gross misrepresentations, and flagrant lies with his little white envelopes.”
Joey nodded. “Now that you mention it, I know the pest.”
“Then, as you know, such vermin will spread their diseased ideas unless they’re properly mitigated,” Dr. Graham said, offering a single wink in his left eye. “Like cancer, it’s always best to stop it in the early stages.”
Joey swallowed. “There’s nothing like a good ending to a bad story—as it were.”
“I agree.” Dr. Graham raised his glass to make a toast. “By midnight tomorrow, your rodent population will be greatly reduced.”
Joey raised his glass.
“And, here’s to many future . . . bonuses.”
A woman stood at the gate to Pete’s Marina, camera in hand. She rested her left elbow on top of a three-foot brick wall to balance the Nikon F-15 and its bulky 300x telephoto zoom lens in the palm of her left hand. With her right hand she manually focused the lens until the two men on the boat were crystal-clear.
The rapid-fire, auto-advance feature whirled as she pressed the shutter release with her right forefinger.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
She looked up from the viewfinder, adjusted the angle of her position, and then pressed her eye to the camera. She zeroed in on the man on the left. He held a tan envelope.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Chapter 20 Wednesday, 5:35 p.m.
Stan’s heart was about to explode. The instant he left the Total Choice Medi-Center, he hustled over to Kinko’s and made copies of Faith’s chart. Standing over the copy machine, he had half expected someone to burst through the double glass doors and haul him off to jail for snatching the confidential information.
As if the fear of getting busted wasn’t enough of a heartstopper, he decided to go directly to Pastor Morton. Even though the man had f lipped out at him in the hospital, this time Stan was bringing good news. That should count for something, he figured. Armed with a copy of Faith’s file, Pastor Morton should be able to at least get the clinic to pay Faith’s hospital expenses.
Stan pulled into view of the Mortons’ house, a one-story, light blue cottage framed by a front porch. The steepled roof over the porch was supported by four white pillars. Stan, embarrassed by the way he had taken advantage of Faith, almost couldn’t bring himself to look at the bench swing mounted on the right side of the porch.
He rolled his car to a stop by the curb. An internal alarm in the front of his brain went haywire. It screamed, “Do Not Enter!” as if he were about to enter a biohazard area.
Pastor Morton, hammer in hand, was bent over a sign that read, “For Sale by Owner.” With a final series of swings, he pounded it into the freshly cut, pint-size yard. His white T-shirt was soaked through in spots. He wore an old fishing hat; his sneakers were caked with grass trimmings. A lawn mower, an edger, and a gas can sat on the sidewalk. Stan guessed Pastor Morton was done for the day, which was a plus. At least he hadn’t arrived while Faith’s dad was busy.
He cut off the engine, grabbed a copy of Faith’s file, and then stepped out o
f the car.
“She’s not here,” Pastor Morton said, annoyed. He straightened up to his full height in a slow, unhurried movement. His fingers gripped the hammer so tight his knuckles whitened. “I would prefer that you weren’t, either.”
Stan took a deep breath. He wasn’t about to let this man get the better of him. “Wow, she’s still in the hospital?”
“What if she is?” Pastor Morton said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt. “This is none of your business, Stan Taylor.”
Stan took a baby step forward onto the sidewalk. He put his hand in his left front pocket and then tucked the file under his arm. “I tried to call—”
“It’s disconnected.”
“I know; that’s why I came, Pastor,” Stan said, inching forward.
“Son, maybe your head has been banged around too many times on that football field. So I’ll say this once again and pray that it will register this time.” He raised the hammer and pointed with it to the street. “I want you to get off my property. Stay away from Faith. And stay out of our lives.” He whirled around and stomped toward the house.
Even though his words stung, Stan left the safety of the sidewalk and took two steps into the yard. “Hey, Pastor. Doesn’t the Bible say something like, um, ‘Forgive one another’?”
Pastor Morton stopped on the second step with one foot resting on the deck. He didn’t turn to face Stan. “I have forgiven you. But if you’re looking for a happy Kodak moment, you’ve come to the wrong place. Now, leave me be.”
With that, Pastor Morton crossed the short distance to the screen door, opened it, stepped inside, and allowed the screen door to hit the jamb with a bang behind him.
Frustrated, Stan turned back toward his car. What was the point of trying to talk to that guy? Here he had good news but wasn’t even given the chance to share it. Not to mention that he had taken a huge risk when he smuggled Faith’s file out of the clinic.
Stan climbed behind the wheel of his car. If Pastor Morton wanted him to leave, then fine. That’s exactly what he’d do. Let him miss out on the good news he was bringing. Why bother with the old crab? As if in answer to his question, one word popped into his mind.
Grace.
Stan remembered talking about grace with Jodi and Heather last night over pizza. Jodi said grace was a gift. She said grace was something we didn’t deserve and something we couldn’t earn. Stan was about to start the car when a voice somewhere in the back of his mind prompted him to consider what grace looked like in this situation.
After all, as a football player, he didn’t usually think in terms of grace. The opponents always got what was coming to them. Like they say, fight fire with fire. Naturally, the whole concept of grace was foreign to him. And yet he had experienced God’s grace several weeks ago when he gave his heart to Christ.
Stan thought, So, God, you want me to suck it up and march in there anyway and give this to him—is that it? Stan clenched his teeth for a long minute. His head fell back against the headrest. In the silence that followed, a peaceful sensation eased over him like a spring breeze. Okay, here goes nothing, he thought as he got out of the car. He walked to the house, stepped onto the porch’s gray floorboards and moved to the screen door.
With a tap on the frame, he said, “Pastor Morton?” He squinted through the screen door and saw Pastor Morton through the mesh. He sat in the shadows with a glass of water and a towel over his shoulder but didn’t answer. He wiped his head with the towel.
“Look, Pastor,” Stan said, talking through the screen. “I came because I have some seriously great news. I just need a minute.”
Pastor Morton drank the rest of his water and placed the glass on the floor between his feet. He cleared his throat. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.” He waved Stan off, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and then buried his face in his hands.
On impulse, Stan opened the screen door and stepped inside. He knew he was probably pushing it, but he also remembered something he and Jodi had read in the Bible. Jesus had challenged his disciples by saying, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” Although he was a young believer, he still felt as if he should try out the peacemaker role, especially in this situation.
Stan sat on the edge of the well-worn brown sofa positioned under the front window. He placed the file on the coffee table between them. As he settled in, he almost blurted out, “I come in peace,” but decided it sounded too much like Buzz Lightyear.
Stan rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles just as his coach had done on many occasions in the locker room before delivering a pep talk. “Okay. Um, please, hear me out. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I got this from the clinic where”—Stan suppressed a cough—“where Faith got messed up.”
Pastor Morton looked up. His face drained of what little color he had. “I’m in no mood for your crazy talk. If this is one of your pranks—”
Stan shook his head. “I promise you, it’s not. If you don’t believe me, look at this.” Stan pushed the file across the coffee table.
“Why should I?” he said, dabbing the towel around the base of his neck. “Like I said, I’m not interested.”
Stan felt like jumping across the coffee table to shove the papers in his face. “Sir, that’s Faith’s file . . . from the clinic.”
Pastor Morton stared, his face a mixture of disbelief and amazement. “That’s impossible. They denied—”
“I know.”
Pastor Morton leaned forward in his chair. He carefully picked up and cradled the paperwork in his hands as if he had been handed a newborn. He reached and gathered his reading glasses from the end table, put them on, and started to pore over the information. After a full three minutes, he said, “I don’t understand. Where did you get this? You know someone who works at this place?”
Stan nodded. “Well, sort of. It’s kind of a long story. Today was my first day.”
Pastor Morton stared over the edge of his glasses. He motioned with a hand for Stan to continue.
“See, my friend Jodi works at a local newspaper,” Stan said, rolling his head around his neck. “She had been working on a story about clinics . . . like this place. She got a tip that some pretty far-out things were going on. So she suggested that maybe I get a job to see for myself.”
“You steal this?”
Stan scrunched his nose. “Well, sir, not really. It was about to be tossed into a shredder. I’d say it was one of those God things where I happened to be in the right place at the right time, you know?”
Pastor Morton looked back at the pages.
Stan said, “I figured they either made a mistake by tossing this out, or—”
“Or they were covering up their tracks. Is that what you think?”
Stan shrugged. “Yeah, looks that way. The main thing is, you and Faith have proof she was there when . . . when she got, you know.” Stan swallowed as he stood to leave. “Anyway, I hope this helps, and I really am, um, sorry about what you and Faith are going through . . . because of me.”
Pastor Morton pointed to the bottom corner of the page. “Do you know whose initials these are?”
“Dr. Victor Graham’s,” Stan said. He started for the door.
Pastor Morton rose from his chair and crossed the room to the front door. “Do me one favor, will you?”
Stan looked down. He thought he knew what was coming. He was sure Pastor Morton was going to remind him to stay away from Faith. “What’s that?”
Pastor Morton put a hand on Stan’s shoulder and gave it a surprisingly firm squeeze. “I was wrong to take out my anger on you. Will you forgive me for coming down on you so hard?”
Surprised, Stan looked up and offered him a quick smile. “Yeah, sure thing.”
Pastor Morton kept his grip on Stan’s shoulder. “See, I guess I’ve been mad at you because, well, if my daughter were to die because of this . . . ,” he said, swallowing hard. “What I’m trying to say is that . . . Fa
ith is not ready—”
“How’s that?”
Pastor Morton released his hand. “I’m embarrassed to say this, Stan, but I’m a preacher and my own daughter doesn’t share my faith in God.”
No wonder, Stan thought. It wasn’t just the fact that Faith had embarrassed her dad by sleeping with a jock like him—as wrong as that had been. What could be worse than to think your kid might die without believing in Jesus?
This time, Stan reached out and squeezed Pastor Morton’s shoulder. “You know what? I’m gonna pray that God answers your prayers for Faith.”
“Thank you, Stan.”
Stan stepped through the doorway and then, standing on the front porch, turned around. “There’s something else . . . and it’s kind of a biggy.”
“What’s that, son?” Pastor Morton said, his glasses resting on the end of his nose.
“I’m no expert, but if I read that chart right,” Stan said with a nod in the direction of the papers, “Faith wasn’t even pregnant.”
Chapter 21 Wednesday, 5:36 p.m.
Women’s Services,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “This is Delores.”
“Excuse me, but is this the Total Choice Medi-Center?” Jodi asked, rechecking the number she had dialed. She figured she’d do a little investigative reporting since Stan was running late.
“Yes. How can I serve you?” said Delores, her voice warm and inviting.
“Um, I think I may be pregnant,” Jodi said, knowing full well since she was a virgin that would be impossible. “Gosh, my dad will, like, kill me if he finds out I’m . . . you know.” She pretended to sound nervous and hoped she wasn’t overdoing the drama.
“I’m so glad you called,” Delores said. “This is a very personal decision, and I’m here to help. Would you mind telling me your first name?”
