by Clay Farrow
Hilton also sensed that over the past two months, Monica had begun to emerge from her suffocating depression. Three years ago, violent loss had driven her and Amanda to seek solace and sanctuary with him. Today he had a glimpse of the old Monica Fremont - the independent, self-sufficient woman he had always loved. She seemed to have taken back some measure of control over her life. Now hopefully, both could devote their full attention to raising fifteen-year-old Amanda, who had suffered an even greater loss than Monica.
7:
Los Angeles, California – Sunday
Reverend Jeremiah Gantry's Trinity of Light Cathedral had four television cameras: two behind him, at the back of the sanctuary, and two suspended from the ceiling above the choir loft, at the rear of the church. The cameras were remotely operated from a control booth behind the choir. Artificial lighting was rarely required because of the large number of tall windows, the half dozen skylights, and the brilliant white paint on the walls.
His crisp sweet tenor soared over the standing congregation. The adoring worshipers gazed up at him, transported by the purity of his voice. He rocked back from the microphone as the last words of the second verse faded into the ether. His low-slung guitar fell silent. He signaled the worshipers to join in the chorus of Onward Christian Soldiers, with a welcoming wave of his hands. Stepping to the microphone, he felt tempted to hammer out a Pete Townsend windmill chord. But no. He had accepted Christ into his heart and had to reject the urges of his previous life, abandoned so many years ago but never completely forgotten.
He had been barely out of his teens. His band had racked up four hit singles, two albums had made the charts, and they played before packed stadium crowds, which allowed a nothing-is-forbidden rock 'n roll lifestyle. Money, women, and drugs had been spent, screwed, and shot in unquenchable amounts. In three short years, smack had become his closest companion. Then he met Senator Alberto Guerra – back then it had been DEA Special Agent Guerra. Ironically, it was a Sunday morning when the senator chose to crash into his world.
The cream-colored front door of Jeremiah's mansion was torn off its hinges with a thunderous clap. A squad of agents, wearing black nylon jackets with yellow lettering, charged through the doorway, guns drawn.
"DEA," their leader shouted.
Jeremiah was alone in the living room, sprawled out on the carpet. "Hey, man," he roared, rolling onto his back. "Black and yellow. It must be Halloween."
As the agents spread throughout the eight bedroom Beverly Hills residence, rounding up assorted band members, groupies, and hangers-on, the honcho walked over to Jeremiah and prodded him with his foot. "Special Agent Alberto Guerra. On your feet, junkie."
Jeremiah knew he was too wasted to stand. He patted the carpeting. "If ya wanna talk, ya can't fib, ya gotta lie."
Alberto stooped, grabbed Jeremiah by the front of his shirt, and yanked him to his feet. "What's your name?"
"You don't know who I am?" he asked, staring at Alberto. "I'm Jeremiah Gantry, lead singer and guitarist for The Mongrels." His face contorted in distaste as his gaze settled on the man's nose. "Damn that's one ugly honker you got. What happened? It looks like it was hit by a train."
Alberto slammed Jeremiah face-first into the closest wall, then pinned him and growled, "I'll ask the questions. You answer them."
He fished Jeremiah's wallet out of his back pocket. Flipping open the billfold, he said, "Well, Jerry Gantry, your driver's license says you're Charles Ludninski." He paused, taking a second look at the license. "Which is it?"
"Jeremiah Gantry. I named myself after Jeremiah Johnson and Elmer Gantry."
"The movie characters?"
"You got it, pig."
Swatting the back of his captive's head, Alberto said, "Watch your mouth. Is Charles Ludninski your real name?"
"My real name is Jeremiah Gantry. Charlie Ludninski is just a tax name."
"What's your mother's name?"
"I don't think she'd want me to tell you," he said in a little boy voice. "She taught me never to talk to strangers,"
Alberto slapped him again. This time harder.
"Hey, man, cool it. Her name's Barbara. Why?"
Alberto didn't say a word. Stuffing the wallet back into Jeremiah's jeans, he marched him towards the front door and hustled him toward the street. Once on the sidewalk, he pushed him down the tree-lined avenue of the upscale neighborhood. "Get your ass out of here."
He may have been fried, but Jeremiah understood he had been given a reprieve by this stranger. "Why?"
"I knew your mother. She was a fine woman."
That was the beginning. Over the next two years, he frequently ran into Alberto as he sank further into the quicksand of addiction. It almost seemed as if the man was checking up on him. During those years the hits dried up, stadiums gigs ceased, and the Mongrels broke up. The money vanished into the pockets of drug dealers and the mansion became a hazy memory. At his lowest point, Alberto came to his rescue and saved him from himself.
* * * *
"Jerry," Alberto hollered, pounding on the peeling apartment door. He could hear the baby crying. "Jerry, open the door."
There was no reply. Alberto stepped back and kicked in the door as if it were a piece of cardboard. Stomping into the roach-infested hovel, he shouted, "Where are you? Where's Yvette?"
"She's out shopping," said a slurred voice from somewhere in the bowels of the tenement.
"Bullshit! She's out turning tricks or scoring."
He stormed down the hall, but when he got to the baby's room, he stopped dead in his tracks. Jerry was lolling on the floor next to the infant. Alberto took a closer look.
Jeremiah swung his head around, a broad grin on his face. "Hi ya, buddy! I'm babysitting."
Alberto didn't need a urine sample to prove Jerry was whacked out of his mind. "What the hell are you doing?"
"The kid won't stop screaming," Jeremiah giggled. "So, I'm going to make him all smiles."
Alberto darted across the room, enraged at what he saw. He slammed his fist into Jeremiah’s cheek and the junkie tumbled away from the crying child with a groan. The wailing infant had a syringe buried in a vein of his arm, the plunger cocked and ready to shoot. Alberto jerked the needle out and smashed the hypodermic against the wall.
"Hey," Jeremiah screamed, staggering to his feet. "That's my stuff. You can't do that, you owe me."
Alberto ran at him in a murderous fury, his clenched fists shaking with unrepressed rage. "You sick junkie! This is the last straw. I've looked the other way for far too long, hoping you'd get your act together. But this? Shooting up a baby? You're going to do time and get straight. And if you have any sense left in that addled brain of yours, you'll accept Jesus as your savior."
* * * *
Jeremiah gave thanks on a daily basis to Alberto and the two-year prison sentence for his salvation. In jail, he had kicked drugs and opened his heart to Christ. When he got out, he returned to Los Angeles to find Yvette had disappeared with the kid. With Alberto's help, he had rented a small rundown hall and began preaching the Lord's word. Slowly, his fiery sermons and fundamentalist doctrine gathered disciples. His audience steadily grew. Thanks to the senator, he now had a huge television audience, this cathedral, and his Runaways to Christ home. He had his life back, doing what he loved to do – entertaining and enlightening.
The crashing final chords of Onward Christian Soldiers shook Jeremiah. Struggling to clear his mind of the past and claw back the present, he unslung his guitar and looked about uncertainly. Setting the instrument in its holder, he walked unsteadily across the sanctuary and climbed the stairs to the pulpit as the congregation settled into their pews. The days of leather pants and long hair were past; now his light brown hair was clipped short and his everyday wardrobe was a dark three piece suit with a white shirt that set off his brightly colored silk tie.
The overflowing assembly of six hundred gazed up at him in rapt attention. Another five hundred thousand souls were praying at hom
e. If he did his job, most would answer his appeal to contribute to the current crusade.
Jeremiah arched his back and stretched to his full five-foot seven height. It was show time. He stared up at the ceiling, raised his arms to heaven, and dramatically shouted, "Extremism in the defense of the Lord is not a sin." He leaned forward, firmly gripping the sides of the pulpit. "No! Extremism is salvation. Stand shoulder to shoulder with your neighbor to smite the wicked. Slay the armies of Godless science."
His voice echoed through the cavernous church. Many parishioners leapt to their feet clapping with shouts of "Godless science" and "Halleluiah, Brother Gantry."
Jeremiah knew those at home would be nodding their heads in pious agreement. He reveled in the power he held over his audience. He was their shepherd. They were his flock, willingly doing his bidding.
The brown eyes of the forty-five-year-old swept over his audience, then lasered in on the television cameras at the back of the cathedral, which should be zooming in on him if the director was following the script. He was a slight man, not tall and tough like his two older brothers and father, nor was he considered as good looking. But he was mesmerizing, capable of bending most to his will with his words.
The congregation sat back down and waited patiently for Jeremiah to continue. He let the silence hover over the room for another five beats, then drove to the heart of his sermon.
"Your daughters are at risk of falling from grace if you permit those young innocents to be injected with this devil drug," he roared. "Fight any government or school board which tries to impose its wanton tyranny on the pure of heart. Forcing a supposed cervical cancer vaccine on girls as young as eleven is enticing your daughters to engage in wickedness. Gardasil is the work of Satan. It will lead tender young virgins into temptation."
Jeremiah felt his cell phone vibrating against his thigh. He had to wrap things up. "Brethren," he said in a low voice, "only you can make a difference by using your voice and your dollars. Contact your national representatives, write state governors, and send in your donation today. This blasphemy must be damned and consigned to hell. Your pledge will help me fulfill that scared trust. God be with you." Stepping down from the pulpit, he retreated across the sanctuary into the sacristy. He closed the door behind him as he dug the vibrating phone from his pocket.
"Gilles?"
"Yeah, it's me," Gilles replied. "That medicine is history."
"Never call a satanic potion, medicine," he spat.
"I'm sorry, Jeremiah. It won't happen again."
Twice today Gilles had messed up. Although the boy could be counted as one of his most devoted followers, his young acolyte certainly wasn't one of the brightest to graduate from the Runaways to Christ home.
Founded a decade ago, the home began as a shelter, but had evolved into far more than a simple refuge for street kids. A select few, like Gilles and Julie were tapped to work on special assignments under his direct supervision. For the rest, Runaways to Christ became a school, seminary, and political workshop. Graduates provided a steady stream of teachers and preachers to schools and missions in Africa and Asia. Many also served as workers for the campaigns of conservative politicians across the country. Politicians like Senator Alberto Guerra.
Jeremiah paused, weighing his options. Would Gilles' earlier phone call come back to haunt him? Michael was leaving for a mission-school in India and he debated sending Gilles and Julie with him. No, he decided, the boy was too valuable a weapon and Julie was the boy’s 120 IQ muse. "You've done well cleansing the world of an abomination."
"Maybe not."
"What do you mean?"
"The geek said he got his sample from an archaeologist in Guatemala."
"Don't worry, son, everything is being taken care of. Come home."
8:
New York City – Sunday
Dr. Ken Byers strode across the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel. He was in a hurry to check-in, but then he couldn't recall a time when he wasn't in a hurry.
Once he had completed his doctorate and established Byers as a global powerhouse in generic drug manufacturing, he looked back on his university days as the leisure years. Combining scientific ability with business acumen, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. He saw his thick glasses and deathly pallor as a testament to years of peering into microscopes and poring over accounting spreadsheets. It still rankled him that colleagues from his university days persisted in calling him 'The Generic Napoleon' behind his back, because of his short stature. His fellow scientists, if they could be called that, were envious of his success, pure and simple.
As Ken approached the front desk, a receptionist waved him past the check-in line. "Dr. Byers, welcome. It's good to see you again."
"Thank you."
"Your suite on the thirty-second floor is ready, sir," the clerk said, sliding the check-in form across the marble reception desk.
He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the form and said, "I'll need a wakeup call for five tomorrow morning."
Ken thought of his life as an endless marathon; he was always running. He had logged more than two hundred thousand miles in the company's private jet over the past twelve months. His globetrotting was accomplished with a briefcase, laptop computer, satellite phone and a rollaway suitcase. His personal office staff consisted of Gen, his executive assistant based in Seattle, and the jet's two pilots. An entourage would only slow him down.
"Five tomorrow morning? Certainly, Dr Byers," the clerk said, handing him the room's access card. "Enjoy your stay with us."
Ken dismissed the clerk from his mind as he slipped the card into his jacket pocket and walked to the lounge. Sinking into a luxurious sofa, he unzipped his briefcase and retrieved his Iridium sat phone, which tapped into the sixty-six satellites that made up the Iridium network.
He dialed Liz Dennison's cell phone. After eight rings he hung up. If he didn't hear from her shortly, he'd be forced to call Senator Guerra because he didn't know how to contact the senator's cousin, a colonel in the Guatemalan military and Liz's host.
His initial meeting with Senator Alberto Guerra had gotten off to a bumpy start. Introduced to one another by his K street lobbyist, the two men had circled each other with a good deal of suspicion and mistrust. They finally reached an uneasy truce a little less than a month ago. Ken chuckled to himself as he thought of that day in a Washington hotel room.
"Byers, are you aware I consider you a heretic?" Alberto asked as he paced back and forth between the bed and the hotel room's sofa.
Ken nodded. "And I consider you a scientific Neanderthal."
The senator burst out laughing. "At least we know where we stand. When we were introduced I was convinced you were part of some FBI sting."
"Now you know I'm not," he said, feeling that the logjam had been broken.
Alberto's smile was replaced by pinched lips and a furrowed brow. "I've heard some nasty rumors about the latest drug you've discovered. Look me in the eye and tell me I have nothing to worry about."
Ken knew of Guerra's deeply conservative religious views and had remained silent about the vaccine's side effect. He felt sorry for the deluded senator, who thought restraints could be placed on scientific knowledge. Scientists of his stature lived on a far higher plateau than mere mortals, functioned without restrictions, prohibitions or rules. Ken only obeyed the laws of science and had difficulty keeping a straight face as he said, "It's not a drug, but a therapeutic vaccine, and any concerns you might have are groundless."
He saw Alberto frown, but remained silent, staring at him intently.
Finally the senator sat on the edge of the bed and asked, "How much are you willing to ante up for the protection of your staff in Guatemala? My cousin, Colonel Miguel Rodriguez, isn't going to risk his career for nothing."
"One million seems more than fair."
Ken watched the senator furiously stroke his mangled nose. A habit, he noticed, Alberto indulged in whenever he was angry or upset. The deformi
ty fascinated him, and with every meeting there was a gnawing temptation to inquire about the cause.
"You're wasting my time, I'm out of here," Alberto snapped, grabbing his jacket from the bed and heading for the door.
"How much then?"
"Four million in my Cayman Island account. I want it in cash so there's no paper trail."
Ken weighed the stakes against a paltry four million. It was no contest when he thought of the honors that would be bestowed upon him. "Done, but you take care of your cousin."
"I'm not finished. You host six fund raisers in and around Seattle for candidates designated by me."
"Anything else?" he asked with a heavy sigh.
Alberto smiled broadly. "No that should do it."
Cradling the satellite phone in his lap, Ken slumped back into the sofa in the lobby of the Four Seasons. He had branched out from generic drug manufacturing to launch a successful research division. With more money than could be spent in three lifetimes, all he wanted now was the worldwide recognition he richly deserved, but had eluded him so far.
The Jeffers', or more correctly, the Byers' vaccine would be his legacy and would establish his place among history's greatest scientists. The prospect of a Nobel Prize was virtually guaranteed - maybe for both medicine and chemistry. The vaccine also held the promise of a cure for his daughter, Laura.
Was he deluding himself? Brad Ferry's lack of progress weighed heavily on him. Had Brad's demonstration been rigged? No, he had verified the results himself. Would the vaccine only work on certain strains of the disease? That was a question still to be answered. For now, the effort had to be directed at analyzing the sample to discover the ingredients and a method of preparation. The expected uproar over the side-effect would be short lived given the magnitude of the cure. Once the vaccine was approved, his critics, those snotty academics, would be silenced forever.
