Godless

by James Dobson

  “Pardon my language,” Troy said. “I guess I no longer consider the label breeder offensive. It’s sort of become a badge of honor.”

  Alex smiled in Hakim’s direction. He had always wondered how the young father of four managed to support his own brood plus an aging mom by selling hot dogs and brats. Hakim was one of the bright spots Kevin Tolbert wanted to help. He was also one of the breeders scorned by the cultural elite.

  Alex looked back at Troy. “What was that advertising slogan again? ‘Come home’?”

  “‘Go home,’” Troy corrected. “Actually, ‘Go home to a more peaceful passing.’ Julia said the agency hopes the ads will drive an increase in volunteers among two target demographic groups.”

  “Which groups?”

  “What they would call debits who are reluctant to die in a clinic, and people with religious sensibilities.”

  “What do they think ‘religious sensibilities’ means?”

  “You’d have to see the storyboards,” said Troy. Alex didn’t follow. “They’re sort of like pencil drawings of the final production. Julia took shots of them for me.”

  Troy pulled out his pocket tablet. “Here, take a look.” He tapped a few times and extended it toward Alex with one hand while blocking the sun with the other. “They plan to float beautiful images of family togetherness and rainbows behind the words home and peaceful passing as if advertising a religious experience instead of mass suicide.”

  Alex thought for a moment. “Drink the Kool-Aid,” he finally whispered in disgust.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, it just reminds me of something that happened last century. A cult leader named Jim Jones led a group of disenfranchised down-and-outers to leave the country and create a commune he called Jonestown. They moved to Guyana, South America. He eventually convinced his congregation to kill their own kids, about two hundred of them, by forcing them to drink Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. Then the adults did the same. It was one of the largest mass suicides in history. The parallels to what’s happening now are nauseating.”

  Troy took a bite of his hot dog while waiting for more.

  “Jones convinced hundreds of his followers that they should all die together as part of a mass ‘translation.’”

  “Wait,” said Troy. “He called their suicides ‘translation’?”

  Alex nodded soberly. “Believed it would free them to all live together on another planet. I can just imagine him using the same ad strategy: ‘Join me to go home to a more peaceful place.’”

  A long silence before Troy spoke, angrily. “But this Jones guy only convinced hundreds. So far the Youth Initiative has convinced, or rather coerced, millions.”

  He paused.

  “Please, Pastor, will you help us counter this ad campaign?”

  Alex weighed the request in his mind. It would feel good to help mobilize pastors to speak out against a practice he had come to hate. He had always wanted to condemn the transition industry. But ministers were supposed to reach people with the good news of the gospel, not alienate them by addressing divisive issues. At least that’s what he had always been told.

  We can’t force our beliefs onto unbelievers.

  We should win their hearts and let the Spirit of God change their minds.

  But this wasn’t about imposing Christianity onto unbelievers. It was about exposing a lie that had begun to ensnare his own congregation.

  “A simple declaration of what you believe about human dignity,” Troy was saying, “that’s all we’re looking for. Nothing negative or attacking. We want to entice people toward the beauty of thriving families. I have the stats to make a no-nonsense, pragmatic argument for our proposal. But we need someone to make the moral case. If you write the document and arrange meetings with some of the more influential pastors in town I know we can make this work.”

  Alex knew he wouldn’t refuse even as he searched for an excuse to say no.

  “I’ll do it,” he finally said.

  “Great!” Troy pounced, rattling off a list of ideas the pastor might consider incorporating into the document.

  “Listen, Troy,” Alex interrupted while inconspicuously wrapping his half-eaten brat in a napkin. “Why don’t you just send me your thoughts and let me look them over before I draft the letter.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll try to carve out some time this afternoon to get started.”

  “Thank you, Pastor. I really appreciate your help on this.” Troy stood to leave, but sat back down when he realized Alex hadn’t moved. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I need to tell you something in complete confidence.”

  Troy appeared concerned as he nodded consent.

  “I’ll need to navigate this thing carefully with the church board,” he explained. “I’m pretty sure I’ll face some intense opposition.”

  “To what?”

  “They won’t like me saying anything that might offend those with loved ones who’ve volunteered or those willing to include the church as a transition beneficiary.”

  Troy’s jaw dropped.

  “I know,” Alex continued. “But that’s the reality I face.”

  Troy thought silently, then snapped his fingers. “What if I speak to them?”

  Alex began examining the possibility in his mind.

  “When’s the next board meeting?” asked Troy.

  “This coming Tuesday night, but—”

  “Then let me attend,” said Troy. “I’ll explain what we want you to do and why.”

  Alex considered the suggestion. A successful, respected businessman like Troy Simmons could easily field objections from the bullying Phil Crawford. Risky, perhaps, but no more risky than moving ahead without board approval. Alex would not, after all, be speaking as a private individual, but as a representative of Christ Community Church. He needed their support. Or, at the very least, their reluctant consent.

  “That might be a good idea,” answered Alex. “Can you come to my office at eight o’clock Tuesday evening?”

  “I’ll be there,” Troy said while bounding up from the table. “And don’t worry about a thing.” He rapped his knuckles against the table as if to promise good fortune. “I’m sure they’ll support your role in this effort.”

  Alex wasn’t so sure. He stood up, carefully concealing the uneaten portion of his lunch in his palm until he could find a discreet trash container.

  “Here you go, Pastor!” said Hakim, enthusiastically offering Alex a second brat.

  “Oh, um, thank you, Hakim,” he fumbled. “But I better say no this time.”

  “I’d love a second,” Troy intercepted, clearly in the mood to celebrate.

  One man’s triumph, thought Alex, is another man’s anxious stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Matthew had barely slept a wink in the thirty-six hours since receiving and ignoring the assignment. His mind remained fixed on a mystery. How had Serena Winthrop known his former alias, A Manichean? Even more troubling, what did she know about its history? His history?

  It had been a year since Matthew had sat in a chilly jail cell after being falsely accused of the assassination of Judge Victor Santiago. The charge hadn’t stuck. The police knew Matthew had been elsewhere at the time of the murder. But they never stopped suspecting his involvement as a possible coconspirator. Santiago had been the presiding judge in an appeal involving a wrongful death decision against NEXT Transition Services. The case, it turned out, had had enormous economic and political importance. But it had also affected Matthew’s inheritance, which was why he had been so eager to correspond with the judge. He wanted to explain the real-world impact Santiago’s ruling would have on lives such as Matthew’s. Harmless enough, especially since he never signed his actual name. But somehow, someone had learned of the letters and used them to frame Matthew for a crime he hadn’t committed. That someone, he realized, must have been the woman now calling herself Serena Winthrop.

  “This project i
s highly confidential, Mr. Adams,” she had explained during the hiring process. “The company asks that every member of my team use an alias.”

  She had told Matthew they would need the utmost confidentiality in order to achieve “plausible deniability for both the contractor and the company.” That’s why Ms. Winthrop had given Matthew different names for each assignment.

  Jed Smith.

  Randy Collins.

  Chris Marlow.

  And finally, A Manichean, the name he had used when writing to the judge.

  Matthew assembled the pieces in his mind. Ms. Winthrop worked for NEXT Inc., the company that had had the most to lose, or gain, from the court’s ruling.

  After Santiago’s death the case had been reassigned to a new panel of judges that later decided in favor of NEXT.

  The police never found the actual killer. And Matthew never learned who had sent the final, threatening note.

  Fast-forward one year. Ms. Winthrop recruits Matthew to help NEXT test a new at-home transition service. She never reveals who recommended him for the job. Like a fool, he never insists, too flattered by the offer.

  It appeared the person who had framed him for murder had also hired him to kill.

  Matthew suddenly felt like a blind kitten stalked by a ravenous dog. He could hear the growling and smell the lust. But he couldn’t see the menace or path of escape.

  He reluctantly clicked the bouncing image on his tablet, the third message from Serena Winthrop in the past twenty-four hours. The first had rejected his request that she give the assignment to another associate. The second had requested an explanation for his negligence. The third would probably threaten to dock his pay or, he could only hope, fire him.

  MR. ADAMS:

  IT HAS BEEN NEARLY EIGHT HOURS SINCE I LEARNED OF YOUR FAILURE TO CARRY OUT YOUR MOST RECENT ASSIGNMENT. I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. PLEASE CALL ME WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE.

  SERENA WINTHROP

  He dialed the number. After a single ring he ended the call. Typing a short reply would require less courage.

  DEAR MS. WINTHROP: I QUIT.

  Ten seconds after tapping the send icon Matthew heard the ping of an arriving message.

  PLEASE, DON’T DO THAT. CALL ME.

  Everything inside Matthew wanted to ignore the request. But he knew escaping would not be so easy. He swallowed hard while tapping REDIAL.

  “Thank you for calling, Mr. Adams.”

  “Who are you?” he asked irritably. “And what part did you play in the death of Judge Santiago?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. What part did you play in Judge Victor Santiago’s death?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said indignantly. “Was he a client? You know I don’t handle such things myself. I told you, I head up research and development, not field services.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Ms. Winthrop. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But I do know that you dropped the ball on a very important assignment yesterday. The cleanup crew arrived two hours after the scheduled transition for Charity Randall only to discover her still very much alive.”

  “I sent you a message asking you to reassign the case to someone else.”

  “And I rejected that request. We need more than eight hours’ notice for that kind of change.” Oddly, she sounded more like a boss correcting a delinquent employee than a predator licking its chops. “I didn’t hear back from you so I ended up reassigning Ms. Randall’s case to a different associate who took care of it this morning.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did. Which is unfortunate for you, Mr. Adams, since the woman had a rather large estate. Your commission would have been substantial.”

  Matthew couldn’t decipher whether Ms. Winthrop was toying with him.

  “That’s why I encourage you to take some time to reflect on your decision before walking away. I realize it can be stressful, especially lately since we’ve been trying to work through a backlog of cases. Under normal circumstances we like to give our associates a day in between assignments. We haven’t been able to do that lately, for which I apologize.”

  Is this for real? Matthew wondered.

  “I’ve been very pleased by your work to date, Mr. Adams,” she continued. “And you’re on the ground floor of what we believe will be a substantial growth industry in the years to come. Please, for your own sake, I hope you’ll take a few days to reflect before jumping ship.”

  “Ms. Winthrop,” Matthew said in the most professional voice he could muster. “I appreciate your concern and apologize for the difficulty I created yesterday, but we both know the real reason I decided to quit.”

  “Do we?”

  “A Manichean,” Matthew answered.

  A moment of silence.

  “Ms. Winthrop?”

  “I’m here. Go on.”

  “Where did you get that name?”

  “I thought I explained that earlier. We always assign an alias to protect the company and the associate.”

  “Please, Ms. Winthrop, I need a straight answer.”

  “I’m giving you a straight answer, Mr. Adams. The company insists that we use pseudonyms in order to—”

  “What do you know about this specific pseudonym?” he interrupted.

  “Nothing. It came with the assignment form like all the others.”

  “So you didn’t choose it?”

  “I never select the names.”

  “Who does?”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Winthrop, I need to know who gave you that name.”

  “I can’t say,” she answered.

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Can’t. I receive the assignment documents from the central office. Alias names are already included. I just pass them along.” She sounded embarrassed. Apparently Serena Winthrop held a less elevated post than she had led Matthew to believe. She was, it seemed, a lovely go-between rather than a serious decision-maker. But a go-between for whom? And for what?

  “Does that name mean something to you?” she asked. “I must admit it’s one of the most unique I’ve seen.”

  “Listen,” said Matthew. “I think I’ll take your advice. You know, spend some time thinking about my decision.”

  “I’m glad,” she said warmly.

  “In the meantime, I’d appreciate you removing me from the list of active associates. I’ll get in touch with you if and when I decide to take another assignment.”

  Matthew ended the call while breathing a hesitant sigh of relief. Serena Winthrop was not, as he had feared, a prowling animal stalking its next victim. But that only meant the real peril remained somewhere out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Julia examined each of the vaguely familiar faces around her listening to their pastor read. Apart from her husband and Alex she didn’t know anyone’s name. A relative newcomer to the church, Julia hadn’t given much thought to which of her fellow worshippers served on the board of directors.

  The meeting was already under way by the time she and Troy arrived. Pastor Alex skipped formal introductions. Julia nodded briefly at the collection of welcoming grins, her only connection to the individuals who would decide whether “An Open Letter to Our Elected Officials” would see the light of day. It read:

  An Open Letter to Our Elected Officials:

  We, the undersigned, wish to express our gratitude for your service to this nation. You play a crucial role in the God-ordained institution of government and we pray that you will be given strength for the task and wisdom for the challenges that lie ahead. As members of the clergy from a variety of religious traditions we, like you, seek to ease the suffering of hurting people and to nurture health in an ailing society. The Hebrew Scriptures state that when the righteous rule, the people rejoice. As spokesmen and spokeswomen for many of the people under your authority, we
pledge our support and assistance in your effort to do what’s right for this great nation. Toward that end we feel compelled to bring to your attention a growing concern over how some of the policies enacted in recent years are affecting the communities we serve.

  First, difficult economic times have accelerated the already alarming decline in birthrates, further strangling off the only trickle of life capable of nourishing a rich garden of human thriving. All of our religious traditions uphold the beauty and priority of parenthood. And, despite the technological, social, and political pressures that make it increasingly difficult to do so, the most devout among us make the sacrifices necessary to bear and rear a new generation. We consider these families to be bright spots in an ever-darkening society. Will you join us in the effort to encourage and support those willing and able to shine the light of hope that radiates from the face of every newborn child?

  Our second concern is directly related to the first. A shrinking pool of natural families has created an equally pressing crisis on the other end of the demographic continuum. Too few young and healthy bear the burden of a rapidly aging population. This state of affairs has created an economic strain on the entire society. Cultural elites derisively label the weak and vulnerable “debits” unworthy of life. The younger generation has come to resent rather than honor the old. But all of our faith traditions consider every human being worthy of dignity and protection, including those with graying hair and waning memories. Will you join us in the effort to defend the dignity of the aging and disabled among us?

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” said the man wearing an agitated frown. “Would you read that last line again?”

  The pastor paused and looked up from the document. “Of course,” he replied while shifting nervously in his chair. “It says, ‘Will you join us in the effort to defend the dignity of the aging and disabled among us?’”

  The gentleman shot a glance toward a fellow skeptic, then back in Pastor Alex’s direction. “What, may I ask, do you mean by defend their dignity?”

  “I’d be happy to answer that,” interjected Troy, prompting Alex to breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m not sure how much you know about the Youth Initiative, Mr.—?”