“There were plenty of weaknesses, though. I was still basically unemployed, which is not the best jumping-off point for any new career. I had no college education and no Bible training. I was a single parent, with all of the time demands that go along with that. I had no public speaking experience, and as a matter of fact the thought of speaking in public pretty much terrified me. I didn’t have a single connection anywhere in the preaching business to get me started.” He took another drink of his coffee and made a face. “This stuff is like mud.”
I smiled. “It’s been sitting there for hours.”
He pushed his mug away. “Anyway, as you can imagine, when I looked over my list, it wasn’t a close call. There were practically zero reasons to think I could become any kind of a preacher. So I decided to look for a real job. I answered an ad at a local radio station, hoping to work my way into a sports talk show. Funny, but that’s how God started me in my ministry—with a job that I took because I didn’t seriously think I could be a minister.” Simon chuckled. “God must have realized that my baldness wouldn’t be a liability on the radio. I’d been on the radio for a year or so, and someone from my Sunday school class suggested I start working some stuff about faith into my bits on the show. I used real light things at first. People liked it. Before long I was being asked to speak in front of groups. It all snowballed from there.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I guess I’m the classic example of how God uses even the bad things in life to accomplish something good. If Marie hadn’t died, there is no way I would be a preacher today.”
I glanced at the shoe box. He followed my eyes and placed his hand on the lid. “I’ve been talking to Marie tonight. In the bedroom.”
I shifted my weight and scratched at the shadow of a cigarette burn that someone had buffed out of the tabletop.
“Don’t worry, Taylor, I’m not crazy.” He patted the lid of the shoe box. “This is how I talk to her.” He opened the lid. Inside was a stack of envelopes, many of them faded and yellow. Some had been opened and some were sealed. He poured them out on the table. Each envelope had Marie written in ink on the front. “I write her letters. I’ve been doing it since the first Christmas after she died.”
When he talked about Marie, the muscles in his face and neck relaxed. I wondered what it would be like to be good enough to have that sort of effect on a man. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound inconsequential and stupid. I cursed myself for being just that—inconsequential and stupid.
“You think I’m crazy.” He turned the box on its side and raked the envelopes into it. “I shouldn’t have shown you this.”
“No, stop.” I couldn’t help myself. I reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I was just trying to keep from crying.”
“Why would you cry?”
I waved my hand in the air. “Oh, I cry a lot. It’s a real problem.”
He turned the box upright and laid the lid crossways over it. “That’s hard for me to believe. You seem . . . well . . . pretty tough.”
I straightened my back. “I am pretty tough.”
He smiled.
I wiped at my eye with my hand. “Let’s face it, who wouldn’t cry? You’ve been writing letters to your deceased wife for more than fifteen years. That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Now you are crying. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Like I said, I do this a lot.”
A few of the envelopes were still scattered on the table. He picked one up and ran his fingers over Marie’s name. “It’s just that sometimes I want to talk to her so much that I almost can’t stand it. I lie in bed and close my eyes and think what it would be like if I could touch her hand one more time. Sometimes I can feel it— her skin on my fingertips. I want to reach out and hold her . . . but I open my eyes and she’s not there.”
That did it. I got up and picked up my purse from the floor. I pulled out a tissue and sat back down at the table.
He nodded at the letters. “This is the closest I can get to her, and it helps. So I write.”
I wiped under my eyes with the tissue. “I can’t imagine anyone loving me that much.” I could have kicked myself for saying it; this was not about me. I crumpled the tissue and shoved it in the pocket of my jeans.
He waved the envelope that was in his hand. “Tonight I talked to Marie about Kacey. I asked her what I should do.” He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “That’s the issue, isn’t it? It’s a matter of who I love and how much. I think I must have loved Marie too much, and now she’s gone. I must love Kacey too much, because she’s gone too.”
“What do you mean, you loved them too much?”
“I think I loved them more than I love God. Maybe that’s why they’re gone.” He dropped the envelope back on the table.
“Why would God be angry that you loved your wife and daughter? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
He didn’t answer.
“Wait a minute. I know that you’re the preacher here, but that’s not the way things are supposed to work, is it? I thought God wanted us to love each other.”
He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “He does, but not more than we love him. ‘Anyone who loves his father or mother or son or daughter more than he loves me is not worthy of me.’ That’s straight from Jesus’ mouth. You can look it up in the Bible.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I wouldn’t be able to find it anyway. Surely that’s not meant literally, though. If it were, God would seem petty and jealous.”
“You want jealousy? ‘I, the Lord your God am a jealous God.’ You can find that in the Ten Commandments.”
“That’s in the Ten Commandments? Okay, fine. Even if it is, that was two thousand years ago. It was a different time.”
“Was it? Do you think I’m the first one ever to be put in this position? The Romans forced Christians to watch as their wives and children were tortured. But those people didn’t deny Christ. At least some of them didn’t. Do you think that people back then loved their families less than I love Kacey?”
“I don’t know, but what difference does it make? That was then. This is now. Maybe more was required of them because of the circumstances.” I cradled my coffee mug in my hands, but it smelled so bitter I couldn’t bring myself to take a drink.
“Really?” He narrowed his eyebrows. “How were their circumstances so different? They stood by their faith when it was under attack by people who wanted to wipe it out. They died, and their wives and children died. Eventually even the Romans began to sympathize with them. What those Christians did changed the world. If they hadn’t been willing to suffer, to allow their families to suffer, who knows if Christianity would have taken hold? They accomplished something that in the big picture was more important than an individual life.”
“Fair enough, but Christianity is here now. It’s established. That sort of thing isn’t necessary anymore.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Remember what Hakim said? There are billions of people in the world who don’t know Jesus. A billion of them are Muslims. Are we supposed to ignore them because we’re comfortable suburban Christians, half a world away? Are their souls unimportant?”
“Hakim may have been involved in kidnapping Kacey. I’m not sure he’s the guy you should be quoting.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about that. I can’t believe he was involved in this. If he was a terrorist, wouldn’t he have had the bomb in his car? Besides, I doubt that Muslim terrorists are infiltrating seminaries. Even if he was involved, though, it wouldn’t make what he said any less true. What about the people he talked about, the people of Lebanon, the Middle East? Who is responsible for saving them?”
I crossed my arms. “That’s a bit parochial, isn’t it? Who says they need to be saved? They’ve got their religion, and we’ve got ours.” I should have blushed when I said that. I didn’t really
have any religion to speak of— but this was an argument, not a confession.
He turned his head away, and his neck flushed. When he turned back, he said, “Look, I don’t even know what parochial means. I’m no philosopher, and I’m not a college professor. All I know is that I believe that if they don’t accept Christ, their souls will be lost. There’s no other way to put it.”
“And they believe that if you don’t believe what they believe—Muhammad and Allah and all that— you’re the one who will be lost. Who’s to say you’re right and they’re wrong?”
He shrugged. “Only God will say. I can’t force them to believe what I believe, and it’s not my duty to force them. But it is my duty to tell them so they can decide for themselves. If I don’t do my best to tell them, how will God judge me if I am right?”
“Fine, but what does that have to do with Kacey? You can still preach to anyone you want. Kacey doesn’t have to die for that. You don’t think God wants Kacey to die, do you?”
He stood, walked to the window, and looked down toward the street. “No, I don’t think God wants Kacey to die. But I also don’t think he wants me to go in front of a hundred million people and deny that Jesus is the Savior of the world. Can’t you see? Carrying the Word to those people has to start somewhere with somebody. Maybe this is what everything has been for—the crazy rise of my ministry, the fame. Maybe it’s all been building to this moment, this sacrifice. This could be the purpose that God has for my life. If it is, and I let him down now, hasn’t it all been for nothing? I would have done more harm than good with my life.”
“What do you think Marie would want you to do?” I glanced at the box of letters on the table. “Do you think she would want you to let Kacey die?”
He turned. “Do you think I want Kacey to die? I’d rather they torture me! And, no, when Marie was here on earth, I know she would have told me to save Kacey. Knowing what she knows now, though . . . I don’t know. She’s with Jesus. She knows the secret, the answer to the mystery.”
For once I agreed with Elise. I thought the decision was simple. The terrorists told him exactly what he had to do to get Kacey back. He didn’t have to climb a mountain. He didn’t have to put himself in danger. He just had to say a few words that no one in the world would believe were true. I figured he got a lucky break. But now I at least understood what I couldn’t have imagined before—how Simon could agonize over whether to save his own daughter’s life.
He put his elbows on the table and grasped his head in his hands. “Why couldn’t they have kidnapped me? I would gladly die in Kacey’s place. But it’s not me, it’s Kacey, and I love her so much. Do you see what I mean? I love her too much.”
I walked around the table and put my hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been put in a horrible situation. A situation no human being should ever have to be in. But one thing I know with certainty is that you don’t love Kacey too much. I’ve never been a religious person, but I believe in God. It doesn’t take a theologian to tell you that God wants you to love Kacey every bit as much as you do. Even a person like me knows that.”
He lifted his head and looked into my eyes. It occurred to me how inappropriate this scene would seem if someone were to walk in. The two of us alone in a hotel room—after midnight. Maybe I should take my hand from his shoulder? But it wasn’t inappropriate, and I couldn’t move. He needed a human’s touch. He needed Marie’s touch, and Kacey’s touch, but he couldn’t have them. So I left my hand where it was, and I wanted to do even more. I wanted to hold him close and comfort him.
In hindsight, I guess that was the moment I first began to wonder what I really felt for Simon Mason.
“What do you think I should do?”
I couldn’t believe he was asking me, of all people. I couldn’t even manage to live my own life. But I was glad that he asked. It had been a long time since my personal opinion had mattered to anyone. “I don’t know what you should do, because I don’t have the faith you have. I know what I would do, though. If Kacey were my daughter, no power in heaven or earth could keep me from saving her. If it required my soul to be damned, then it would be damned.”
He moaned.
“Simon, if you say the words, no one will believe you mean them. Not one person on earth. Not even God. If he loves you, there must be some sort of dispensation for this, because in this situation his requirements are just too difficult. You’re only a human being.”
“Only a human being. Funny, but that’s exactly what I said to Marie in my letter tonight. I’m just a human being, and what God expects me to do is too hard. Does he really expect me to sacrifice my own daughter for him? Who could do such a thing? But who knows? Maybe he’ll save me yet. When he asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, he stopped the knife before Abraham could bring it down. Maybe he’ll stop the knife for me, also. I can only pray. Because what kind of parent would I be if I let my own daughter die? And what kind of preacher would I be if I denied Jesus?”
“I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”
He moved away slightly, just enough that my hand fell away from his shoulder. “Thank you for talking to me. I didn’t want to be alone. I think I’ll go to bed now.” He got up, gathered the remaining letters into the shoe box, and walked toward the bedroom.
“Simon?”
He turned back toward me.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll pray for Kacey tonight. And I’ll pray for you too.”
He smiled. “Thank you,” he said and walked into the bedroom.
When the door closed behind him, I sat down at the table and pulled my sweatshirt up to cover my face. I didn’t want Simon to hear me when I cried. I don’t know how long I sat there at the table like that, but before I got up to leave, I lowered my head. “God, you know what kind of person I am, and you have no reason to listen to me. But you’ve got so much reason to listen to this good man who loves you so much. And you’ve got so much reason to help Kacey. Please help them.”
I raised my head and looked around the room. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Maybe I was expecting God to swoop in and pat me on the back. Nothing happened except that I felt a little bit of the tension unwind in my shoulders. I supposed that was part of the bargain with praying. A person received some small amount of comfort. It helped me to think that with the millions of prayers going up for Simon and Kacey, they might receive some small comfort too. I picked up my purse and walked out the door.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
BY THE TIME I awoke the next morning, word of the terrorists’ demand was on every one of the major networks and all over the Internet. Police had found Cheryl, the intern, in an abandoned warehouse outside West Chicago. She was tied up but otherwise okay. The limousine driver had disappeared, and the FBI believed he was in on the kidnapping. The police were interrogating employees of the limo service.
Unfortunately, Cheryl could provide little useful information other than that the attackers wore black ski masks. In the meantime the FBI confirmed Simon’s instinct about Hakim. They questioned and released him, convinced he had nothing to do with the kidnapping.
The search for Kacey focused on a giant triangle, with vertices at Chicago, Rockford, and Milwaukee. The FBI admitted, though, that the kidnappers could have doubled back and taken her south of the city. The potential search area was so huge and the leads so few that they were looking for luck more than anything else.
Simon, Elise, and I were to meet Michael Harrison at 11 a.m. I had an hour to kill in my hotel room, so I made a pot of coffee, propped two pillows against the headboard, and sat down on the bed to watch the news. It was the top of the hour, and as I flicked from station to station, Simon and Kacey were the lead story everywhere. I settled on the Instant News Channel, where anchorwoman Summer Harcomb moderated a discussion with an imam, a Baptist pastor, and a rabbi.
“This is not Islam, and these criminals are not Muslims.” The dark-bearded imam’s voice rose as he spoke. “The Brotherhood of Midwester
n Muslims condemns this heinous terrorist act in the strongest terms. We are asking all Muslims in the Chicago area to cooperate with the authorities in their effort to find Kacey Mason and bring her back to her father.”
The rabbi pushed his glasses up with his index finger. “I am happy to hear that you condemn the atrocity these animals have visited on this poor young woman,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I only wish that you were as vocal in your condemnation of suicide bombers who target innocent Jews on the streets and in the cafes of Israel.”
The camera moved to the pastor, a younger man with thinning blond hair and eyebrows that moved when he spoke. “Millions of people around the world—”
From off-camera the imam’s voice interrupted him. “Wait just one minute, please, Reverend Hale.” The camera swung to the imam, who was wagging his index finger in the air. “I want to address the statement that was just made. We have been crystal clear on this point, and I want all Americans to understand this. We condemn all terrorist acts, whether against young girls in the United States or innocent civilians in Israel. I want to repeat what our organization has said many times: There is no justification for violence targeting innocent civilians anywhere. None.” He slapped his palm on the table.
Summer nodded. “You’ve made the same statement on this program several times.”
“Ah, but we must pay close attention to the words that the imam uses,” the rabbi said. “Notice that he refers to innocent civilians. And I would like to ask him to clarify that statement. Does it apply to all civilians, sir, or just to the ones deemed by these fanatics to be innocent?”
The imam tapped his index finger on the desk, next to a copy of the Quran that rested in front of him. “All civilians, period. That is our position and always has been.”
The pastor held up a slender hand. “One thing I think we can agree on is that our prayer at this time is for Kacey Mason’s safe return, and for these criminals to be brought to justice.”
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