James Butler

CHAPTER 1

Boston Evans, nine years old and small enough to pass for seven, extended her arm out the window of her mom’s Range Rover. Or as Boston called it, the Ranger. She curled her compact fingers in the wind. She found that if she held her arm the wrong way, the wind shoved it backward, too powerful for her to resist. But if she held her fingers tight enough and turned her palm facedown, the whipping winds whooshed around her hand, and it felt like she was flying. She did this for several minutes, experimenting with different angles, but eventually tired of the game.

Pulling her arm in, she leaned her head back against the seat, letting the wind blow her hair in every direction. She imagined she looked like a lion with a fuzzy mane, and when Daddy turned his head and smiled at her, she made claws of her fingers and growled.

Daddy was driving and Boston’s eyes ran over his face. He was pretty. No, the word for boys was handsome. That’s what Mommy told her. Boston thought she had the handsomest daddy in the world and the prettiest mommy, too. Mommy reclined in the seat in front of Boston. Mommy’s hair was dark, like the night sky, and curly. Nothing like Boston’s hair. Boston’s hair was blonde like Daddy’s. Except for the patch on the back of Daddy’s head where his hair was going away. She hoped that never happened to her.

She reached a timid hand to the back of her head and felt the thickness of her hair. It didn’t feel like any was missing. That was good.

She looked back out the window, the wind stinging her eyes. Far below the road, the ocean waves made foamy bubbles on the beach of the Pacific Ocean. Like God’s bubble bath. But between them and the water was a huge cliff covered in trees. It must have been five hundred and twenty-two feet. Yep, it had to be. Exactly five hundred and twenty-two.

She sniffed at the air. Mommy had said she could smell the salt from the water. Boston couldn’t smell anything, but maybe grown-ups had better smellers than kids. Either way, it was a nice thought.

An idea popped into her head and out of her lips as she rolled her window up to block out the wind and noise. “I wanna make You Tube videos.”

“Oh, really?” Mommy turned in her seat and crinkled her nose at Boston the way she did when she got tickled about something. Her smile was wide. “And what are you going to make videos about?”

Boston kicked her feet and rolled her eyes. “Anything, Mommy. Maybe Barbies, or puppies, or math.”

Behind the wheel, Daddy chuckled. “I hate to break it to you, kid, but I don’t think you’re going to have much of an audience if you do math videos.”

“Okay, not math, but Christa’s brother, Turk…”

“Tuck,” Mom cut her off. “His name is Tuck, honey.”

Boston ignored the correction. “He does stuff about video games.”

“You don’t like video games,” Dad peered at her in the rearview mirror.

“Daaaadd.” She made the word long and slow, like when Mrs. Watts wanted to really make a point about something at school. “Turk…”

“Tuck,” Mommy repeated.

“…said you get a dollar every time somebody watches it.”

“I think he was pulling your leg, honey.”

“What?” Boston said.

“You don’t get that much money for a view on You Tube. Maybe he just wanted you to think he did so he could impress you. Maybe he likes you.”

“Ewwww. Mommy, that’s gross.” The chant came unbidden, something she didn’t really understand the meaning of, but something all of the girls on the playground recited in a sing-song voice any time they were bothered by the little boys from the class. “Boys are users and losers so use ‘em and lose ‘em.”

In the front, Mike and Ruby Evans both gasped. Boston immediately felt like she had said something wrong. After a moment Daddy said, “I don’t think you should say that, Boston.”

“Why not?”

Daddy cleared his throat. “Just don’t, okay? Where do you get this stuff, anyway? Is your mom letting you watch soaps?”

Mommy made a huffing sound. “Of course not. What have you been letting her watch, Michael Wayne Evans?”

Daddy didn’t answer. Mommy had used his long name, like when Boston was in trouble.

“I don’t like Daddy’s movies. They’re all guns and blood and bad words.”

Daddy squirmed.

“Uh-huh.” Even from behind, Boston knew Mommy was giving Daddy a dirty look.

Daddy looked guilty. “They’re not that bad, Ruby.”

Boston knew better and she bet Mommy would fuss at Daddy later when Boston wasn’t around. Daddy was in trouble, and Boston found it funny. “Yes, they are. Remember that one where the robot shot the guy in the face and his head exploded and there was brains on the ground?”

“Mike Evans,” Mommy slapped him on the arm.

Mike took his hands off the wheel long enough to shrug his shoulders while keeping his eyes glued to the road. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“Don’t lie, Daddy. Jesus doesn’t want you to lie.”

Ruby clapped her hands in approval. “That’s exactly right, Boston. At least someone in this family has a conscience.”

“People die in war.” Daddy made a pinched face. “It’s realism.”

“Fighting robots?” Boston snickered.

“Fine then. It’s realistic for the future. It really wasn’t that bad. Jake recommended it.”

Mommy gave a sound that was something between a snort and a laugh. “Oh sure, blame someone who isn’t here to defend himself. I doubt he recommended it for our child.” Mommy shook her head and winked back at Boston who giggled then tried to sit up higher in her booster seat.

After a while, everything got quiet again, and Boston kicked her legs to the beat of a song in her head. The song had no words. Just notes she made up. She sighed, contented.

It was only two weeks since Christmas, and the holidays had been great. She got to play Mary in the manger scene at church, and they had a real baby. The baby’s name was Charlie. He was Mrs. Gibbon’s little boy, and he was a happy little guy. He only cried once during one of the practices, and that was because he had a stinky diaper that made Boston’s nose burn. But that was just –

“Mike!”

Boston jerked as Mommy’s voice shattered the quiet in the Ranger.

Ahead of them, coming around a long curve, a semi had blown a tire. Boston saw it all like slow motion – the driver of the rig, a man with a beard and a baseball cap, yanked on the steering wheel trying to get control of the truck as it sort-of wobbled from the blowout. He swerved into their lane, coming right for them.

Suddenly, the big truck filled their windshield, and Daddy tried to swerve too. He pulled to the right to miss the truck, but it still hit them on the left side. There was a big crunching sound and they were rammed farther to the edge of the road.

Mommy and Daddy were screaming. She was screaming. The Ranger slid off the road, over the embankment, and began to tumble.

CHAPTER 2

At ten minutes until two, Pastor Jake Wilson pulled into the parking lot of 3254 Westbury Street in Atlanta, GA, found a fortuitous parking place near the building’s entrance and swung his Hyundai Santa Fe into it. He killed the engine, exited the car, and grunted as his thirty-five-year-old body protested when he stretched from the two-hour trip up from middle Georgia. He was too young to have such aches and pains. Maybe it was just his current level of stress.

He gazed up at the five-story office complex in front of him. It was impossible to see into the mirrored windows as they reflected the afternoon sun, stinging his eyes. Anyone could be watching him from behind those windows, and despite telling himself he was being paranoid, the feeling ate at him.

He whipped his phone from his pocket and dialed the number for his best friend, Mike Evans. Mike lived in California with his wife and daughter, Jake’s goddaughter, and was returning from a trip today. Jake needed to hear his friend’s voice again. They’d spoken the day before.

“You’re worrying about nothing, Jake. Tyndale loves you. You’re like a son to him. You’re not in any trouble.” Mike’s words played over in his mind as the phone rang, but this time all Jake got was Mike’s voicemail. He considered trying Ruby’s cell but decided against it.

Jake sighed and shoved the phone back in his pocket, ran his hands over the front of his shirt in a futile effort to smooth out the wrinkles caused by his seatbelt, and shut the car door before moving to the entrance twenty paces from his parking spot.

The automatic doors swished open with an accompanying rush of warm air infused with the scent of cleaning solvent. They always kept this place pristine.

Despite the relative stillness of the parking lot, the first floor of the state headquarters of the New Creation in God denomination was a bustle of activity. On either side of the space were glass-walled offices. Behind most, men and women sat at desks typing on computer keyboards or talking on phones. Each office had a stencil on the door denoting the position of the occupant – Director of Evangelism, Georgia Missions Director, State Secretary, and so on. Directly ahead, a young woman sat behind a marble-topped welcoming desk that mirrored the pattern of the marble floor.

He stood for a moment, his eyes taking it all in, everything as he remembered it. So many memories.

Jake willed his feet to move, and as he approached, the young woman behind the desk tilted her head, gazing up at him. “Can I help you, sir?”

Jake pushed himself forward, his lips curling up in what he felt was an obviously forced smile. “Hi. I’m here to see Bishop Tyndale.”

“Of course.” The girl was appropriately cordial while remaining businesslike. “What’s your name?”

“Jake Wilson. I have an appointment.”

The young woman pursed her lips and glanced at a ledger – something Jake thought ironically outdated considering the computer sitting to her right – and nodded after a moment of searching. “Sure, Pastor Wilson. Mr. Tyndale’s office is on the fifth floor. You’ll see his office as soon as you get off the elevator.”

Jake nodded. In truth, her instructions were superfluous. He could have made his way blindfolded as many times as he’d followed that exact route. As she returned to whatever task she’d been consumed with before his intrusion, he plodded to his left to the bank of elevators and punched the “UP” button with a quick jab. Once inside, he took a deep breath, the musky-metallic smell of the lift familiar but not comforting.

The doors closed and the elevator climbed, contemporary Christian music playing through the speakers as it rose swiftly to deposit him in front of the office doors of the State Administrative Bishop.

Jake crossed the hall and pushed through.

The waiting area inside was ornately decorated with two leather couches on opposing walls, each facing identical black coffee tables. Directly ahead, sitting behind another desk, was a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Her disposition on first inspection was considerably sterner than the young woman downstairs. Jake thought he remembered her name was Susan. She was looking at a computer monitor and pecking away at the keys, but stopped as Jake came in and strode across the office to stand in front of the desk.

“Hi. I’m Jake Wilson. I have an appointment at two to see Bishop Tyndale.”

“Of course, Pastor Wilson. We’ve been expecting you. If you’d like to have a seat,” she gestured to one of the sofas, “I’ll let Bishop Tyndale know you’re here.”

Jake gave a polite, nervous nod and moved to sit.

State Administrative Bishop William Tyndale was a long-time friend and mentor to Jake. He had been influential in getting Jake his pastorate at Life Church in Warner Robins, a church that some on the board felt was too large to be taken on by such a young, upstart minister. The politics of the denomination often dictated that you didn’t get appointed to a large church until you had done your time in the “trenches”.

After several minutes, the door behind the secretary opened and Bishop Tyndale emerged. He walked quickly to erase the distance, his pupils large and welcoming, and took Jake’s right hand as Jake stood. Tyndale was in his early seventies, his gray and white hair thin and wispy, but his embrace belied strength still in his body. Despite his age, he was full of energy and life, and as such had always been an inspiration to Jake.

Tyndale leaned back from the hug, his hands still on Jake’s shoulders. “Jake. It’s so good to see you. Sorry to keep you waiting. Please come in.”

He led Jake back the way he had come and held the door to the office open.

Tyndale said, “Barbara,” – not Susan, Jake noted – “make sure we’re not disturbed for the next hour, please.” The secretary nodded as Tyndale closed the door behind them, and Jake swallowed hard at the ominous implication of the words.

The office was much the same as Jake remembered. It was a simple setup with Tyndale’s desk sitting in front of the left wall so that the older man could turn and look out at the city without having to spin his chair all the way around. Heavy bookcases lined the opposite wall, filled with all manner of religious books and commentaries, some so old and brittle that they looked like they could crumble into dust at any moment. Even from across the room, Jake could smell the rich aroma that only an ancient text could give off.

The lighting of the office was soft, save for the sun blazing through the window that took up the entire outer wall, but even that was stilted by the dark tint on the windows. Tyndale hated fluorescent lighting, and as such, preferred desk and floor lamps as his primary sources of illumination. The effect was normally calmative, reminiscent of the way Jake had set up his own office at Life Church, but not today.

“I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee, Jake.” The old man stepped to a KitchenAid coffee maker resting on a counter next to a small sink and mini fridge. “I also have sodas.” He gestured at the fridge. “Care for anything?”

“No thanks. I’m good.” Jake tried hard to read the older man, but so far, he only seemed genuinely pleased to see Jake.

Tyndale made a cup of coffee – black – as Jake slid into one of the chairs facing the desk. The familiar surroundings felt cold to him, and he closed his eyes, sighed.

Tyndale made his way back to the chair behind his desk and plopped down in it, his eyes bright. Jake didn’t say anything. Only watched as the man drank a sip of his coffee. Tyndale wrapped wrinkled fingers around the cup and took a deep breath of it like it was incense.

“Are you sure you don’t want some?” He gave the mug a little tilt in Jake’s direction.

Jake forced a laugh and shook his head. “Don’t really have a taste for it. The only way I like coffee is if it’s a Starbuck’s Frappuccino with enough sugar to choke a bull. Not really good for the waistline.”

Tyndale guffawed. “Like you need to watch what you eat.”

Jake had been blessed with one of those metabolisms that devoured anything he took in regardless of how unhealthy it was. It was a good thing, because he had a voracious sweet tooth and drank sodas like water. Still, he maintained a slim physique, something his staff members often complained about with good-hearted derision. Jake had the sneaking suspicion that one day it would catch up to him, but for now, he was content to take his chances. Besides, his job left him little time for working out.

Tyndale, however, had always struggled with his weight. He had tried more diets and workout gimmicks than most, and he had done well in keeping his weight in check. But it had been difficult for the older man.

Jake felt a sudden wave of nostalgia, remembering the many church conventions with Tyndale. It had been some years now since he and Jake had attended one together. Jake had learned so much during that time. Tyndale had treated him like a son, carefully guiding and instructing him. He’d given Jake a masterclass in pastoring that rivaled any doctorate program in the country. Jake had been unbelievably blessed to have that friendship, something for which he would always be thankful.