Sinner

by Ted Dekker

  Elliot Marshall, president of the National Association of Broadcasters, stated at a televised national conference that the government had just committed “the most flagrant act of legislative irresponsibility in U.S. history” by amending the Bill of Rights, which began with the specific phrasing “Congress shall make no law . . .” but that the American people deserved such severe repercussions. “Let us hope,” he said, staring past bushy eyebrows into the camera, “that history forgives us.”

  The bottom line was that everybody wanted to be heard and nobody wanted to listen. But Darcy had changed all of that here in Washington. And now she would make them listen in the most sacred of all halls.

  Located in the north wing of the Capitol building, the Senate chamber was a massive expanse that dwarfed the White House in both spaciousness and prestige. Royal blue carpet mapped the floor, surrounded by eggshell-white walls and populated with rich brown desks. A broad center aisle separated each political party, and three rows of chairs over-looked the room from the balustrade above.

  She’d dressed in a blue business suit, one of seventeen of varying designs and fabrics that Annie had tailored for her five days ago, immediately following their successful meeting with the president. Darcy knew within ten minutes of sitting down across from President Chavez that as long as they could gain access to the right people over the next five days, they would succeed. He’d breathed in her words, converted wholeheartedly, and offered unlimited support in the initiative’s passage.

  Today, Billy sat behind and to her right, legs folded beneath a Queen Anne chair that had been given to the Senate as a gift by the Duchess of Wales before Darcy was born. His weapon was his mind, and he wielded it with a small PDA that transferred the notes he thumbed into the keypad to the prompter in front of her.

  Hardin, D, 2 + 2. Religious Right concerns.

  Which meant that Senator Hardin, a senior Democrat who sat two rows back and two seats over, was struggling under the excessive strain that had come from both his office and the House of Representatives.

  The tension was a welcome advocate for Billy and Darcy. Together, they would motivate the Senate toward a resolution, like Mozart conducting an orchestra—every note and strain had to be perfect, he with his ears, she with her voice. There would be no second chances.

  Darcy looked at the white-haired senator, who sat back frowning, tapping his pencil’s eraser on the desk. “I realize that the Religious Right has come out of the woodwork regarding this resolution,” she said. “The Christians and the Muslims are screaming bloody murder as we have expected. Try to muzzle a Doberman and he will try to bite your fingers off. Try to silence a bigot and he will turn his hatred on you. God himself understood this when he gave the Ten Commandments, restricting free speech. False witness in court was treated with stoning. This law we have before us today doesn’t call for the stoning demanded in the biblical times, but it is critical we level appropriate punishment at those who spurn the Constitution of these United States as amended yesterday.”

  She watched his lips flatten, his throat bob as the conviction in her words resonated with some deep place of agreement in his psyche.

  Darcy had spoken for less than ten minutes, and she already knew that they had the majority votes needed to pass the National Tolerance Act. It would provide federal provisions to enforce and prosecute the new terms of the Bill of Rights as a public bill, with the necessary appropriations included, to be voted on by the House of Representatives that very afternoon.

  But she pressed them with her gift in this final push to change history, speaking in this language she now affectionately called Washington lingo.

  “I have no doubt that each member of this Senate has been exposed to more hate mail and public contempt than ever before. With the power vested in each of you comes the responsibility to act, to engage in direct interdiction with these events. Yes, we’ve seen the vitriol on the news networks. Even out front of this building. There are rabid fanatics who have plagued your office lines with threats simply because you responded to the president’s—no, the nation’s—call to this session. I would ask you then, senators, delegates of our union—if the call to action has been heralded by civil unrest, social upheaval, and rampant crime, then when is the time more appropriate to call for a vote to stem the tide of recent violence and social distrust? When?”

  The sensation of power had become her drug. Sweat veneered her face and cooled into ice from the air-conditioning and the wide-eyed stares of the Senate before her. Yes, it was her drug. She made no attempt to deny Billy’s caution.

  “Both houses have passed the resolution to amend the Bill of Rights. The president has signed it. Seven out of nine Supreme Court Justices have defined its interpretation as necessary and true to the durability of the Constitution. What we are asking of you, what I am asking of you today, is that this resolution, the National Tolerance Act, be acknowledged according to the urgency of the nation’s need.”

  She paused and allowed a few breaths. Enough time to convey the exhaustion brought on by her passion, enough time to scan her prompter for an update from Billy.

  She scanned the room slowly, seeking the strong to weaken, but she’d weakened so many over the past five days that only a few remained fixed to their convictions. Sixty-six men and thirty-one women, all dressed for business, watching her with glassy-eyed stares.

  With great conviction comes great emotion. Perhaps more than anything it was this emotion that attracted Darcy to her undeniable power. Never had anger and contempt flared so hotheadedly than before she’d taken the stage when they’d gathered to vote four days earlier.

  And then never so many tears.

  “The power of the vote brings all of us into this chamber. The responsibility of legislation. As an American citizen today, I ask . . . even demand that you act to deescalate the conflict. Make examples of yourselves as legislators by voting to support, enforce, and prosecute the National Tolerance Act. Sign it into law. History will remember you, but only if you act with definitive unity and decisive speed. A nation of hurt and disaffected people look to you to put your feet down and say ‘This is enough.’ It stops here. If you do not, thousands of municipal, state, and federal law-enforcement officers will be abandoned, without the support of the nation and the provisions and appropriations that this act supplies.”

  She loved the flow of words over her tongue.

  “I realize that I’m only one voice, brought here to address you as a favor to the Senate Judiciary Committee; but when you look into my eyes you will know that I am the voice of the people,” Darcy said. “This great country called the United States of America was founded because a few sought true freedom. They sailed for this land and endured terrible hardship for that freedom. They were the outcasts, the few who cried out for the right not to be trampled by oppressive beliefs. Now to preserve that freedom, not for a few who are black or white,Muslim or Christian, but for all, regardless of race or religion, you must pass this act”—she held up the sheaf of paper and shook it—“this law, which will deny any man the right to insult, defame, or degrade anyone’s right to be black or white, Christian or Muslim!”

  Her voice rose, and the truths mixed within her words washed over them with a conviction that they could not possibly understand.

  “We are Americans, and that is enough for us to cling to.We can unite, as one body. As one voice. With one thing in common. We are states, united in freedom, and I say that our freedom comes from our unity, and not from our differences!”

  Tears snaked down the cheeks of some. A few still retained set jaws, but not without a struggle.

  “I say let no man be called unequal for the color of his skin! Let no woman be called a witch for her faith! Let no child be denied the sanctuary that this land offers their sacred beliefs.”

  She was almost yelling now.

  “Stop the bigotry. End the violence. Break the impasse. Pass this law. Make history. Today!”

  The chamber e
rupted in thundering applause. A senior senator from Connecticut was the first to stand to her feet and call out her support. “Hear, hear!”

  She was joined by five, then fifty, then all but a dozen.

  Brian Kinnard watched from the balustrade, emotionless, arms crossed, dark glasses affixed to his face.

  Darcy lowered the transcript of the resolution and raised a hand to silence them. She read the summary at full volume, aware that the power behind her words was seeping into their minds like an addictive intoxicant.

  “‘This resolution, the National Tolerance Act, is a public bill, enveloping the national body of the United States and territories governed by the federacy. As by law, any occurrence of public expression that implicitly defames, denigrates, insults, or otherwise casts aspersion upon the race of persons of similar or dissimilar race shall be considered a personal attack of heinous nature upon that person’s intrinsic value as a citizen as well as upon the moral character of that person, and as such, is to be considered a hate crime in that it brings into question the equality of all persons. The unalienable rights of all people are as protected as they are endowed, and each person is entitled to embody those things that are in their ethnic nature without harassment, molestation, denigration, or defamation.’”

  A slight pause for effect, though she hardly needed it.

  “‘As by law, any public expression of religious faith that implicitly defames, denigrates, insults, or otherwise casts aspersion upon the beliefs of persons of any other religion shall be considered a personal attack of heinous nature upon that person’s intrinsic value as a citizen as well as upon the moral character of that person, and as such, is to be considered a hate crime in that it brings into issue the equality of all persons. Similar expressions of religious faith made in the privacy of individual places of worship or within the freedom of private domiciles are protected by the right to assemble and the right to free speech as provided by the First Amendment in the Bill of Rights of the U.S. Constitution. A place of worship shall be defined as a publicly recognized structure that has been licensed by each state in accordance with federal laws. A private domicile shall be defined as the private dwelling of any persons in accordance to each state’s residential zoning requirements.’”

  Darcy dropped the document on the podium.

  “Give an example for the House of Representatives to follow. Give your country this law today, and history will smile on you all.”

  Then she left the stage, sweat standing out on her pores like dew. It had completely soaked her blouse.

  Billy squeezed her elbow as they left. The drowning roar of the Senate followed them. “Congratulations,” he whispered in her ear. “I think you just sealed the deal.”

  And she did, one hour and thirteen minutes later, with a vote of 83 to 17.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  * * *

  Day Seventeen

  THE EPISCOPAL church on Main Street, Paradise, Colorado, was packed to the collar on Friday night, although there was only one liturgical collar in the building that Kat could see. That being worn by Father Stanley Yordon, who stood at the podium, trying to hush the excited crowd of three hundred who’d filed in over the past twenty minutes.

  The auditorium’s ceiling rose thirty feet to a single center beam, from which hung three huge bronze chandeliers. Pews padded in a maroon upholstery ran down both sides of a center aisle. A large wooden cross hung at the focal point in the center of the stained glass wall behind the platform. It was the first time Kat had actually been inside a church, and she found the environment rather moving. The church was at least symbolic of her new faith.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.”The priest’s voice boomed over the black speakers on either side of the platform.“No need to turn this into a barn. Please take your seats.”

  Kat sat between Kelly, who sat quietly with her hands folded, and Paula Smither, who’d taken it upon herself to introduce her around since their arrival earlier this morning.Her husband, Steve Smither, owned Smither’s Barbeque, the local gathering place for a closely knit community of Paradise’s movers and shakers.

  Before her trip to Paradise, Kat had never set foot outside of greater Las Vegas and Boulder City, but she’d seen enough movies and been exposed to enough U.S. history to imagine that Paradise was trapped in a thirty-year-old time capsule and had made no attempt at escape.

  For example, although their lives were tied to the Net like the rest of the modern world, in the Smithers’ home, where Kat was staying, the computer Paula used to do her shopping was wired to an old flat-panel monitor rather than the all-in-one wafer screens that had replaced the bulky boxes ages ago. She’d even seen a juke box in Smither’s Barbeque.

  More than the old technology that seemed prevalent in Paradise was the age of the people themselves. There were plenty of gray heads and plenty of children, but very few people between the ages of twenty and forty, which apparently was the popular age for locals to leave the time capsule for a taste of the new-fandangled world, as Paula put it, before they returned to settle down.

  Mostly white. A few of mixed race like her, but even then, Kat stood out. Paula had spent the better part of the afternoon traipsing her around the town, meeting the neighbors, visiting the tiny grocery store, the salon, the recreation center, the few mom-and-pop shops. She’d advertised Kat as if she were a prize from the local fair. Kat had never felt so important in her life. She’d asked Paula why all the fuss.

  “No fuss, they’re just friendly.” Paula paused. “And you have to understand that Johnny’s a bit of a legend in this valley. You have to be something pretty special to come home with him.”

  There had been no helicopter, not this time. Johnny, Kelly, and Kat flew into Grand Junction and took an hour-long cab ride to Paradise. The street was deserted when they’d placed their bags on the board-walk and walked into Smither’s Barbeque unannounced. Steve Smither was there with half a dozen others, eating lunch. Johnny’s mother, Sally, was there.

  You’d have thought that Moses had just come home. The image of Sally flying across the room, chased by her own shriek, and throwing her arms around Johnny’s neck was one Kat wouldn’t forget.

  Steve had his cell phone out and started a chain of calls that brought twenty people running to the bar and grill. In the space of five minutes, Paradise had come fully awake.

  They made a tremendous fuss over Kelly, Johnny’s fiancée, demanding to know all the arrangements and heaping him with suggestions when he said that there were no arrangements yet. They demanded it be a fall wedding on the church lawn. Kelly would be a beautiful, stunning bride. Johnny had really caught a fine woman.

  Kelly took it all in, blushing, saying all the right things, but to Kat she looked out of place. Like a high-society type in Mayberry. Then again, that could be the instinctive protectiveness coming out in Kat. She was, after all, Johnny’s spiritual daughter. He’d said so himself.

  Guest accommodations were settled after a lot of back and forth over who got to host whom. Johnny would stay with his mother, naturally. Sleep in his old room.

  Everyone else wanted both Kat and Kelly, but they divided themselves between Katie Bowers and Paula Smither. Katie would put Kelly up in her son’s old room. He lived in Amarillo with his wife now, she was proud to point out.

  Paula Smither staked a claim for Kat by hooking her hand around Kat’s elbow and letting it remain there for a good ten minutes. She would put Katrina up in Roland’s old room, she said.

  Then Johnny left with his mother and Kat hadn’t seen him since. That’s what the meeting was for, to see Johnny. Hear his plan. The news had spread.

  Father Yordon’s call for quiet hadn’t stilled the conversation between the pews.

  “Never changes,” Paula said to her, leaning so that Kat could hear. She swept her dark brown hair behind one ear. “You give people a little money and they lose all their manners, even the ones who had manners
to begin with.”

  Most of the residents were farmers who grew exotic Paradise apples that were exported to Japan, where they sold for ten times the price of domestic Fuji apples. The valley’s soil composition had changed thirty years earlier, resulting in an unusually sweet fruit unique to this single valley. Only so much land could support these trees farmed by these people. Their apples were rare; supply and demand dictated the rest.

  When Kat had asked Steve why they sent the apples all the way to Japan, he’d winked and told her that no one in Paradise was beyond taking a healthy profit. The farmers might look dated, but they were by no means poor. Paradise was a small Eden, as rich as an oil field and much more beautiful.

  Kat had no idea what they did with all their money. They all drove late-model cars, the only real sign of progress in the town, but not the flashy kind she would find on Las Vegas Boulevard any night of the week.

  Johnny had managed to talk the judge and the school into granting her variances for a two-week sabbatical, which he claimed was critical to her progress and emotional stability—all true, because she wasn’t sure she could have stayed in Boulder City, not knowing what she knew.

  Which was what?

  That the kingdom of light was buzzing all around them.

  That the darkness she’d once walked in wasn’t taking it without complaint.

  That Johnny wasn’t going to take it lying down, so neither would she.

  “People!” Father Yordon kicked it up a notch. He probably faced the same unresponsive crowd every time he took the platform. There was no frustration on the gray-haired man’s narrow face. This was only part of the ritual, and both he and the congregation had their roles to play.

  “Now he yells at them, they’ll listen,” Paula said. But even her expression of disapproval included a wink and a nod.

  Kat looked at the woman’s twinkling eyes set in a comfortably round face. Steve sat by her side with arms and legs crossed, dressed in jeans and a black shirt. That was another thing—none of the farmers dressed much like what she imagined farmers would. Jeans, sure. But they likely shopped at Dillard’s rather than Wal-Mart. Dresses, but not cheap ones. No flannel shirts. Lots of expensive leather jackets. No cowboy hats or even boots. But then, what did she know about rich farmers who sold exotic Paradise apples to the Japanese for a killing?