by Brian Hodge
Sanctum sanctorum; Paul entered the suite. The place looked bigger than his entire apartment. Across an acre of carpet, sitting ankle-over-knee at one end of the sofa, was Dawson himself. No different from before, still in his suit, though perhaps looking more tired. He stood in greeting.
“I’m glad you came, Paul,” very cool, cordial. No offer of a handshake; perhaps one surprise a night was enough. He gestured toward the fellow near the door. “You two have already met, though not formally, I suppose. This is my aide, Gabriel Matthews.”
No hesitation of a handshake here. Gabriel’s grip was hard and confident, and whatever it was he did, Paul bet he was quite good at it. A compact man, with quick, precise movements, no wasted motion. And little excess warmth. A stalking panther came to mind.
“Sit, please, sit.” So odd to hear Donny speaking one on one, no impassioned vocal theatrics. While they planted themselves on the sofa, Gabriel clicked off the TV and some unknown black-and-white movie vanished, and then he sat before a glass-topped table to pore over a stack of papers.
“I don’t mind telling you, you certainly caught my attention tonight.” Donny smiled, steepled his fingers. “You must have had a very compelling reason for doing that.”
Paul was fidgeting at his end of the sofa, comfort elusive. He finally decided it wasn’t the furniture’s fault.
“Something’s been going on in my life,” he said, “and I can’t talk to just anybody about it. You’re the only one I know of that might help.” Deep breath, hold, release. Might as well jump in with both feet. “I can do the same thing you can do. I can heal people.”
Media veterans knew how to roll with the punches, keep the unexpected from getting the better of them. Takes one to know one, and while nobody else might have noticed, Paul saw it: He had clearly taken Donny by surprise. The rapid blinking gave him away.
“You know, Paul, I’ve come across, mmm, two dozen people who have told me the same thing and they couldn’t prove it.” The skepticism was understandable, though not wholehearted. He had, after all, brushed against something that sent him to the floor.
“I can, if you want. If you had somebody who was sick, or hurt, or…” And how ghoulish this must have sounded, asking for someone in pain as if placing a deli order. Just to prove a point.
Gabriel looked up. “If he needs a chance to prove himself, maybe we owe it to him.” He clearly had found the conversation more interesting than his reports. “I assure you, it’ll never get past this room.”
Donny pursed his lips in thought. “What do you have in mind?”
“Just a little something. Excuse me for a second,” leaving the table, disappearing into a short hallway. Tinkering noises next, sounded like a bathroom, and Gabriel returned with something in hand. “You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you?”
A twin-track razor was in Gabriel’s fingers, and Donny’s eyes widened. “Gabe? You don’t need to—”
Smiling, shaking his head, “It’s the only way to be sure. It’ll just be a minor wound.” He touched a finger to his lips, hush. “Really. I don’t mind.”
The intensity and commitment of these people could be a little creepy. Paul watched in queasy silence as Gabe placed the razor’s pivoting head across a fingertip. A hiss of drawn breath, slice, the twin blades cutting horizontal. For a moment, nothing, pale parallel wounds, then bright blood welled up, and he set the razor aside. Drip, drip.
“I don’t think anyone could deny that’s a proper cut.” Gabe leaned in, showed his bleeding finger for Donny’s approval, then moved before Paul. “It’s up to you.”
The gauntlet of challenge, sure, two could play this game. The familiar tautness within, the flush through nerves and blood, and he reached for Gabe’s finger, felt the slippery warmth.
It took less than a second.
Drawing his hand away, Gabe wiped the blood clear of the cut, found there was no more cut. The skin was unmarred by so much as a hairbreadth of scar. He stood, staring at his finger, oblivious as Donny leaned in agape.
“That was too simple.” Paul wanted to laugh with giddy relief. He’d been asked to perform on demand like a circus freak and he hadn’t choked. Tables momentarily turned, and he in charge, told Gabe, “But please, you don’t have to give me anything worse.”
Gabe, still staring, bloody finger healed and whole. Gabe the statue, Gabe the stunned. Ten seconds, fifteen, and his mouth moved silently, and when he finally looked up, the belief was there. Oh yes. Total. He excused himself, stepped toward the bathroom again to wash up. Quiet. So reverentially quiet.
“How long,” Donny finally said, “have you been able to do this?”
“Since early summer.”
With the barriers down, Paul plunged into the unabridged version. The House of Wax and Stacy Donnelly, then the others, progressing from there. Gabe was back, and Paul had a most attentive pair of listeners who didn’t interrupt. Strangers, the both of them, and not even remotely close to the types he considered kindred souls — these ramrod, suited types were aliens — but still, they listened. They believed. And moreover, they cared.
“So what is your problem with this?” Donny asked. “What you’ve described so far is an absolute blessing.”
An urge to laugh in the preacher’s face, let’s twist the old adage, shall we? This silver cloud has a very dark lining.
“I’ve had … accidents. Things have gone wrong, somehow, when I’ve been upset.” He wanted to stall, to window dress the gruesome truth, but there was no way to pretty it up. “I think it can go both ways. I can inflict sickness and injuries in the same way, and — and I can’t handle the thought of doing that to people.”
There, out in the open, for better or for worse. If he peered into Donny’s eyes and saw disgust, revulsion, he would understand. These were to be expected. But no, Paul saw nothing of rejection. Care and concern, the very things he’d longed for, and never mind the earlier misgivings, the fear of this man being a fraud. A fraud he was not. No fraud could heal so sick a soul with a glance of acceptance, and Paul knew he had made the right choice after all in coming here.
I feel like my soul is coming apart…
But not anymore.
Donny could scarcely believe his ears, let alone what his eyes had shown him to be true. Here on his doorstep, circumstance had dropped a foundling seeking guidance. And such a foundling.
The Lord indeed works in mysterious ways.
Self-control, more important now than ever, he had to keep a lid on the excitement he felt bubbling up within. Because Paul Handler was not looking for an attaboy and pats on the back, he was seeking a sympathetic friend who could help him sort out the confusion. And what had he just said about inflicting illness…? So very difficult to concentrate right now…
Because here was the real thing. Almost immediately he was pouncing on the obvious ramifications: I have to win his trust, I just have to. I could always have used him for the ministry, but he might be the one to bring Mandy back. Mandy.
Donny strolled over to the suite’s bar, asked Gabe if perhaps they could have a little privacy, had to ask again to get Gabe out of some persistent vegetative state. What was with him, anyway? The rational efficacy, overwhelmed by the irrational? Could be. Donny poured a pair of 7-Ups on ice, returned to find Paul hunched forward onto the sofa, chin on fists. Self-contained.
“Tell me something. What you just demonstrated.” Donny nodded in the vanished Gabe’s direction. “Is it always dependable? Or does it come and go?”
Paul straightened. “It’s always worked, as far as I know. Once it started, I can’t think of any time when it wasn’t there. I could feel it.”
“Incredible, just incredible.” There was no need to feign awe, this was certain. Donny studied him. Paul wasn’t much older than Donny himself had been that day in Alabama. So raw, so vulnerable, in need of a confidant. A little soul-sharing could flow both ways. “Works every time. I admire that in you, Paul. Because it means you’ve actually go
t a better batting average than I have.”
Surprise became mutual.
“It’s true. I can’t always count on it one hundred percent. Usually I can, I’m sure you’ve seen that on my show, as well as tonight. But sometimes? Sometimes I run across someone who defies my best efforts. Who knows the reasons why?” Amazing, how easily the pseudo-truths slid from his lips. But surely there could be no harm in a few fibs when serving a far greater good.
“I want to show you something, a piece of my past.” Donny slipped momentarily into a bedroom, brought back a Bible he explained had been his as a teenager. Dog-eared and worn, not the impressive tome he carried onstage. He pulled an equally worn snapshot from the back. “This was taken eleven years ago. That day was a turning point in my life.”
Paul studied the picture, a younger Donny Dawson with his arm around some raw-boned kid with eyes of idiot bliss. The kid was grinning like a loon as they stood before a clapboard building. Mundane in the extreme — except for the clotted gore spread across the boy’s chest. Nobody could smile with that much blood on them, could they?
“The preacher of the church behind us took that and mailed it to me. Not fifteen minutes before, the boy you see there was pinned under a tractor when it tipped over. His rib cage? Crushed. I was preaching at a tent revival when it happened right in front of us, and not a one of us knew what to do for him. So I prayed. I lifted my voice to Heaven and I asked for help harder than I’d ever asked for anything.”
“And it worked?”
“Right before our eyes. His wounds healed. In seconds. And I knew right then where my path was to lead.” Donny took the picture again, stared back into such long-ago days. Better days? In a way. Everything had seemed so clear then, black and white. Too much gray in life and the world these days. “But ever since then, I’ll be honest, there have been times when I just couldn’t restore a body to health. But I’m sure the Lord has a good reason for holding it back, do you see what I’m saying?”
Paul nodded, and surely it was by divine prompting that Donny was managing to push all the right buttons tonight.
“Just as there must be a good reason for the troubles you’ve had. Maybe God’s trying to tell you something, did you ever think of that?”
Paul cocked his head, clearly the first time he had considered this. “I never really looked at it that way, no.”
“How many times have you had your accidents?”
“Twice.”
“And were they good people? Tell the truth, now. The real character of these people. Was it good and kind and God-fearing?”
A rueful shake of Paul’s head, reluctant. “No. No, they weren’t.”
“I had a feeling as much. And you say these happened when you were upset?”
“That’s right.”
“There you have it, I think.” Diagnosis complete. “Life’s upsets come along when our life itself is out of order. What you’re being told is that your present life is not what it should be. Think hard now, haven’t you been feeling that way lately?”
Paul bowed his head, and Donny had seen it all before. The sinner come face to face with the calamity of days near and far, the accrual of transgressions come due with a vengeance. God alone knew what sins he was remembering, from lust to pride to adultery to having other gods before the one true. Never a pretty sight. He stood convicted, yes, but not alone.
“I’ve had some problems,” Paul finally admitted.
“I know you have, it’s obvious enough.” Donny stood, pacing to the window. Market Street traffic, never still, and he let the curtain drop. “I really do believe you should think about making some major changes in your life. Something that will help you accommodate your gifts a little more harmoniously.”
“Like what?”
“Right here and now, I can tell you’re a man of character. You’re a man of compassion and concern, and I know you want to do the right thing.” On went the persuasive smile, so helpful when soliciting extra contributions. “I’m offering you the chance to come work with me. In an environment that will keep you free of the stress that’s twisting your gift into something wicked.”
Paul went wide-eyed. “Just pack it all in here at home and drop everything?”
“Well, yes, it would mean moving to Oklahoma City.” I can’t push him, can’t force him too far too fast. “But Paul, home is where people truly love you and accept who and what you are.”
“I don’t know about this,” slowly shaking his head. “I mean, everything I ever worked for is here now.”
“But are they works that are going to last? Our works are going to undergo a trial by fire come Judgment Day, the Bible makes that plain. Are your works going to last? Or will they burn up?” An abrupt snap of his fingers. “I’m giving you the chance to use your gifts in a way that’ll do the most good for the most people. At a starting salary of, say, twenty-five thousand dollars a year? Plus rent-free living quarters, if you want. The choice is yours, of course. But when the Lord comes knocking, you have to be the one to open up. He never forces the door, Paul.”
This would take time to sink in, of that Donny was painfully aware. No immediate answers, much as he wanted one, to know that Mandy’s days in her coma were numbered. If he could have throttled cooperation out of Paul, well, that would be worth a try, but the decision had to be his own. Or at least appear so to him.
So there they left it, a standing invitation that could be accepted at any time. Donny jotted down the tour’s remaining itinerary, plus his home phone and the day he would once again be there. At Mandy’s side.
And when Paul left, the future was so close, Donny could taste it, could have laughed with glee and torn his hair out in the same moment.
So close, yet so far away.
Caught between two worlds, now this was indeed the worst of dilemmas. Two worlds, and alone in both, entirely. The inner Gabe, submerged for years beneath subterfuge; the outer Gabe, still vital to maintain the image of Dawson loyalty and professionalism.
He’d played the role for so long, though, it was tough to say where it ended and the true Gabe began. You steep yourself in something for five years, an entire life lived under pretense, wouldn’t some of it seep in by osmosis? When do the fibers of two separate lives intertwine? And how great the pain when they are newly torn apart?
I despise the hypocrisy he stands for, and Gabe shut his eyes in self-examination, but I will miss Donny when this is ended.
Hyatt lobby bathroom, public access, where cleanliness was more than hygienic, it was a fiscal consideration. Pants around ankles, he sat in one of the stalls. Focus, he badly needed to get focused. Too many thoughts careening about, it was like trying to listen to a roomful of screaming children and make sense of each one.
From a jacket pocket he pulled a small clamp, spring-taut metal, and pressed it open. Reached down and snugged part of his scrotum into it, release, and oh the pain the pain, shuddering, I have to be worthy of this, a quick spasm and it was over, he was right again. Deep breath, and his head began to clear. He stood, pulled underwear up, tucked his burdened genitals within, then up with his pants.
Focus. He could function again, on all levels.
In the world of Dawson Ministries, a minor kink had arisen tonight. Disaster from Donny’s viewpoint, bringing him down again less than an hour after Paul Handler’s departure: Their unit director, who supervised the camera crew and couriered each week’s film to Oklahoma City for editing the Sunday show, had been taken from the convention hall to a hospital. Emergency appendectomy.
Another potential ministry embarrassment, but Gabe had soothed Donny, not to worry. On the off-chance that it did go public, they could release a disclaimer saying it had happened when Donny was simply unavailable.
Regarding Sunday’s show, Gabe himself could take a redeye flight out of Lambert Airport back to Oklahoma. While any peon could babysit the film to the studios, Gabe was the only other one Donny trusted to put the show together properly. See? No pro
blem, you can sleep after all, Donny.
So much for the latest drama within the world of Dawson Ministries.
But there was that other world, wasn’t there?
The hidden world of The Quorum.
And this was what had set his imagination soaring and soul aflame. Everything he’d worked for, everything he’d been trained for, everything he considered himself beneath the layers until what was true and fundamental was reached — it had all been validated this night.
We found him. After twenty-eight years we found him.
And when he placed that transatlantic call from a lobby pay phone, the call answered at just after six in the morning Scotland time in the western Highlands, at the estate by the loch, Gavin’s shout of joy made all the years of sacrifice worthwhile. It was the call Gavin had always been hoping would rouse him from sleep. The call Gabe had hoped he would be the one worthy enough to make.
Little scapegoat lost.
Who now was found.
Chapter 19
It was the best omelette he’d ever eaten, quite possibly the finest use of eggs Mike Lancer had encountered anywhere, period. Edie Carson was one surprise after another.
The previous afternoon, he’d achieved enough trust so that she invited him to stop by for breakfast before the grimmer task of exposing Amanda Dawson to the world. Mike thought it was the least he could do to provide. After rousing himself from bed at an unholy six-fifteen and showering, he left the motel, then grabbed breakfast at a convenience store on the way to Edie’s. A box of Hostess Ding-Dongs and a couple bottles of Jolt — the true power breakfast, screw Wheaties — guaranteed to keep you chugging for hours. Edie had been horrified.
Yeah, well. Omelettes with cheese and ham and chopped vegetables were pretty good too. Coffee, strong and black, he couldn’t complain. Even her kitchen was nice and bright, clean, except she had a thing for those stupid cutesy country decor geese. Nobody’s perfect.
“Now isn’t this better?” Edie said across the tiny table.
“It’s digestible,” deadpan, then a grin, my compliments to the chef.
