Deadline (60 page)

“Listen, Myra, I have no intention of representing fundamentalists or anybody else.” Jake’s heart was racing, but his voice remained calm. “I just want fairness and objectivity. I don’t want special treatment for anybody. Not for Christians, not for gays, not for whites, blacks, feminists, liberals, conservatives, or anybody else. I just want good journalism. And in most cases I think we do a good job. But on some issues the
Trib
is perilously close to becoming a newsletter that advocates certain causes. How about we go back to making the truth our only cause?”

“Jake,” Pamela said, “I’ve always respected you as a columnist.” Jake sensed the unspoken words were
until now.
“And I don’t mean anything personal by this. But several of us have been talking, and we’re all hearing the same concerns about your column. I don’t know what’s happened, but obviously something has. You’ve been violating a number of the principles this committee stands for. Your presence on the committee is ironic at best, and it hurts all our credibility. To be honest, it’s embarrassing to have a committee member who’s the most striking example of violating what the committee stands for. We’ve got a
Tribune
diversity and multicultural manual some of us put together.”

Pamela slid the inch-thick manual across the table to Jake.

“It was passed out to every
Trib
reporter and editor last year. Have you even read it? If you’re going to serve on this committee, you’d better! And for what it’s worth, I’m not the publisher or the managing editor, but if I were you I’d reevaluate your columns, unless you want to get moved to the religion page. I have no problem with faith or religion—I’m a religious person myself—but this intolerance has got to go. And, Jess, frankly I think before anyone is allowed to serve on this committee in the future, we need to see a signed statement that they’ve read this manual and agree with it in principle. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“What’s the point of having diversity on the diversity committee, isn’t that what you’re saying?” Clarence shook his head in dismay. “I can’t believe you people. This is the most nondiverse committee I’ve ever seen. With one or two exceptions, nothing is diverse but our sexual practices and our skin color. What you want, Pamela, is a monolithically liberal committee that embraces certain beliefs and lifestyles that by definition Bible-believing Christians cannot embrace, since the Bible doesn’t embrace them. Oh, religion is okay with you, as long as it’s religion without moral standards. Faith is fine as long as it isn’t faith in any truth that violates the current party line. What really frosts you isn’t religion or faith, it’s the idea that God could actually have some firm opinions on what’s right and wrong, and might be unwilling to change them just because we want them changed.

“Don’t you see the hypocrisy of this committee and what it’s trying to do? The censorship? The threat to the first amendment?”

Clarence looked across the group and sensed that, for the most part, they didn’t see any of this at all.

“Journalists have always fought to get Big Brother off our backs. And what’s this committee? Big Brother, pure and simple. We’re the censors with our neat little speech codes. We pounce on any expression of real diversity that steps on the toes of the special interest groups we represent.

“I want to get one thing straight here. When he came on this committee, Jake had a rep as a liberal, and that was great, right? But now maybe he’s changing some of his positions, or at least questioning the status quo. So he’s a traitor to your cause. Which proves you have a cause beyond just doing your job at the
Trib.
So now Pamela wants to make sure the diversity committee doesn’t have any ideological diversity by making people sign a statement of allegiance to a particular ideology. This isn’t a committee, people. It’s just a bunch of lobbyists crusading for political correctness!”

Six voices responded at once, at varying levels of volume and hostility. Jess stood up, waved his arms, and said, “Let’s take a break. No, let’s just break for the day, okay? I don’t want this turning into another barroom brawl! Let’s all just take a Valium. Next week we’ll start by discussing Pamela’s proposal on the diversity manual. Meanwhile, get back to work. We’ve got a newspaper to put out!”

The group dispersed even more quickly than usual. Jake and Clarence were left again, but this time Jess stayed behind a moment. He looked at them both, exasperated and disappointed, like Jake’s fourth-grade teacher looked when she caught him and Finney carving their initials on their desks. He was about to say something to them, then thought better of it. He shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room.

Less experienced in this situation than Clarence, Jake just sat there, feeling a profound sense of not being at home. He didn’t doubt the truth of what he’d said, but his yearning to be accepted was stronger than he wanted to admit. He remembered how good it used to feel to be on the common wavelength, to be liked and respected by most of the people who had just marched out of the room.

Finney saw from a distance the great city, ascending so high that even with his greatly sharpened vision it was a strain to clearly see the top. The city appeared complete from a distance, but apparently was still under construction. Finney hadn’t been told the city was off limits—there was no need for rules here—but something written on his heart told him the time wasn’t yet right for him to go there. For now, he could only stare and wonder and imagine how a city that looked so huge and so beautiful so far away must look up close.

Finney had been busily occupied watching through the portal as Zyor labored to clear a path for Elyon’s message to reach Jake’s heart. In the moment of Elyon’s triumph his friend had raised Galeed, looking toward heaven where he knew his brethren watched and rejoiced with him, where Finney danced unrestrained. But the respite was only momentary, for the twisted angels of the dark world were outraged at his redemption and redoubled their attacks on Jake. Finney had been praying ceaselessly, yet he was not weary but energized.

Finney spoke to Elyon, as he often did, not just when interceding but as a man speaks to his friend.

“I understand as never before the Scriptures describing Christians as aliens and strangers and pilgrims on earth. That place was not my home. I spent my time living in a rented room, on borrowed time. My body was weak, my vision impaired, my mind under attack. I was tempted and worn down. But everything is different now. This is the world for which you made me, the place I feel completely at home. With less than this I could never again be satisfied. Thank you, Father, for bringing me home. I realize now the best reason for loving the old world was that sometimes, in its grandest moments, it seemed a little like this one.”

In Elyon’s realm, Finney knew he was yet an infant, nursing on the milk of wonder, gaining strength and coordination that he might embark as a toddler into a universe bigger and more beautiful than anything he’d ever imagined. Yet just as he had once felt a part of him had gone from earth to heaven when his mother died, and again when Jenny left him, Finney couldn’t help but feel a part of him had gone back from heaven to earth with Zyor. Indeed, a part of him had always remained there with his family, for whom he found himself praying so often.

In a sense, he envied Zyor’s proximity to his loved ones. But he knew this, not that, was his home, and they must come to him rather than he to them. He longed for the Great Reunion. He longed to hold them all again, to play with them as one could play only in the unrestrained pleasures of heaven, to journey and explore with them, to tell stories and sing Elyon’s praises together. Meanwhile, he must be content to peer down into their world whenever he was allowed, so that he could witness their lives and cheer them on in their pilgrimage.

Finney began to understand what Zyor had said, that heaven’s focus was, in a way he would never have expected, still on earth. Finney had moved from the playing field to the stands, where he was part of a great cloud of witnesses, whose role was to watch and root for and pray for those who would finish the game. As a relay runner, he’d grabbed hold of the baton passed to him and had passed it on to others. Those who went before him had been faithful. Those who came behind him, who now carried the baton, must prove faithful too. The baton must never be dropped.

“Seeing you gaze on the great city reminds me of something I once witnessed in the dark world.”

Finney, thinking he was alone, turned to see the voice’s source. As he turned he recalled the fear that could accompany surprise on earth. Here there was still surprise, but no fear. The voice belonged to Jaltor, one of Zyor’s closest companions, who had first returned Zyor’s salute on his return from the dark world. Though everyone in this place was welcome company, a close friend of his close friend was especially cherished.

“Jaltor! Hello. Please, tell me what you saw.”

“A man and his wife, I was her guardian, returned after many years as missionaries in Africa. It was before airplanes, back when the voyage was by ship, and took months. When they finally arrived back in America, there was great cheering from the shore, and for a few moments their hearts were lifted. But soon they realized the cheering was all for a Hollywood actor on board their ship. There was no one to meet them. The man was very disappointed and struggled with bitterness. He lamented, ’After all these years serving God, after all the sacrifices, there is no one to greet us? This is our homecoming?’ But his wife, my charge, squeezed his hand and reminded him this—’We shouldn’t expect a homecoming until we come home. This world is not our home. Our homecoming will be in a far better place.”’

“You must have been proud of her.”

“I was. I took her into the birthing room for her homecoming and was there with her five years later to greet her husband at his.” Jaltor sounded deeply satisfied, like a soldier who’d accomplished his mission. He pointed now to the great city that occupied Finney’s attention.

“Your home will be in that city. The Carpenter from Nazareth is the builder. You provided the construction materials.”

Not understanding completely, Finney said, “Tell me more.”

“Jesus told you, ’In my Father’s house are many rooms; I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am you may be also.’ Do you remember how you prepared a special room for Jenny and Angela and Little Finn?”

“Yes. But how did you know that?”

“I was there in each case.”

“You were?”

“A guardian must stay close to the one to whom he is assigned.”

“But Zyor was my guardian.”

“Yes, but I was Jenny’s guardian. I was with her while she still lived inside Susan, so I witnessed all your preparations for her, and for the others.”

“No! Really? I didn’t know, Jaltor. That’s wonderful.” Finney spontaneously hugged his giant friend, who returned his embrace in a warriors restrained sort of way.

“And that is the nature of heaven, is it not? That you are always learning something new and wonderful. Do you remember how you and Susan chose the wallpaper, the cradle, the crib, the baby swing? All the effort you put into it? Elyon’s Son prepares a room for every child that arrives in his world. Your home is now ready, for your life on earth is done.

“The great city will eventually be moved to the New Earth, but only after the King has reigned on earth a thousand years. It is all written in the Book.”

Jaltor turned his eyes toward the city and spoke in measured tones.

“I too have been praying for your friend Jake. The day you died Elyon sent me to talk with him in the hospital. He didn’t know who I was, but we talked of your death and his. Even as we speak, the Carpenter has been preparing a place for him. The work of Jesus on the cross bought him the place. His first baby steps of faithfulness are already being laid up as reward to furnish the place. Jake will join us here. Perhaps it will be soon.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

M
ornin’, Jake.”

It was Nellie, one of the clerks from administration. Nellie spent her mid-morning hours delivering mail to reporter’s boxes. When there was too much mail to fit in the boxes, she delivered it directly to the reporter’s desk. Seeing Nellie at your desk was either good news or bad. It meant your story or column had touched a nerve. Jake had been seeing a lot of Nellie lately.

She handed Jake five neat packets of mail, each with a rubber band around it.

“Pushed some more buttons, didn’t you?”

Jake nodded sheepishly “Thanks, Nellie. Sorry to create more work for you.”

“It was worth it, Jake. Thank you for that column on those library newspapers. It stimulated a great discussion at our dinner table. Just like your abstinence articles. You got us thinking. Keep it up!”

“I appreciate the feedback.” He didn’t know Nellie that well, though she’d worked there almost as long as he had. For the first time ever, he felt a tinge of regret at not having gotten to know her better.

It was now the third day after his latest controversial column. This gave people one day to read the column, a second to write a fresh-in-the-mind and from-the-gut response, and the third for the post office to get it to the
Trib.
And judging from telephone calls and faxes the last two days, Jake figured they were split down the middle—warm support and unconditional commendation on the one hand; outrage and condemnation on the other. Maybe one out of five, at most, would be mixed reviews. It wouldn’t hit syndication for several days yet.

He opened the first letter. No “Dear Mr. Woods.” It was a page full of profanities. There was something oddly refreshing about honest, to-the-point hate mail. No hypocrisy and forced politeness. Too many letters ripped you to shreds, then closed off “Sincerely yours.”

As Jake opened another piece of mail, his phone rang. After vacillating whether or not to answer, he picked it up just after the second ring.

“Jake? Sutter here. You alone? Nobody’s listening?”

It was Sutter, all right, but Jake had never heard him so excited. “I’m sure you’d know, Sutter. I’d be the last to hear if I’m being bugged.”

“Very funny. This call was intended as a favor. Maybe I’ll just forget it.”

“No. Sorry. Just a little testy right now. What’s up?”

“Major stuff.” Sutter’s voice oozed with fervor. “We’ve had the big breakthrough, finally. I can’t explain on the phone. But if all goes well in the next few hours, I’ll take you on a victory march through the whole federal building tomorrow. The beers will be on me.”

“Sutter, what is it? Tell me!”

“We’re outside of town, maybe a forty-minute drive, wrapping up a big surveillance. Just got off the phone with the director himself. That’s why I called. It should be safe for you to join us if you follow my instructions to the letter. You might make it here in time to see it all come down. Interested?”

“You bet I’m interested. Where do I meet you?”

“First the customary vow of silence. No contacts with anyone, absolutely anyone at the
Tribune
, the police station or anywhere else, or the whole thing is off Got it?”

“Got it, Sutter. Just tell me how to get there.”

“It’s in a cabin, pretty remote, out in the Hillsdale area. You know the Broder Road turn off, near Sedway, by that old country store?”

“Sure, I’ve done some hunting out that way, a little fishing too. Bought worms at that store.”

“Okay, this is an old hunting cabin. About five miles past the store, take the third dirt road on the left. That road takes you back another three miles into some thick trees. Don’t stop anywhere in the area, the store or anywhere else. We’ve got reasons. We’re right on the verge, Woods. I’m taking a risk calling you, but you’ve been a big help. And they were your buddies.”

“Okay, Sutter, thanks. I’m on my way. Be there in forty minutes. Don’t do anything without me.”

Jake kept pulling up his right foot every time he got above sixty-five. It wouldn’t do to waste time or draw attention to himself by getting a speeding ticket. He had the feeling of going out on a mission, and the macho hope of getting his hands on the enemy. He turned by the country store, just closing for the evening. It was dusk.

Jake drove the five miles, found the third dirt road, and made the first two miles faster than you would if you cared about kicking up mud on your car. He slowed down for the final mile, not wanting to draw attention to his arrival.

There ahead of him was a light behind curtains in an old cabin, with a brownish late model Volvo parked down below. It wasn’t Sutter’s car, but Jake remembered seeing it somewhere. It didn’t have federal license plates, which made sense. Surveillance work was hard enough without that kind of giveaway. Jake thought of all those television and movie detectives tailing people in their bright red sports cars that screamed “look at me.”

Jake drove up slowly now, noting a shadow on the shade. Mayhew’s profile. He parked his car and hurried toward the cabin. Just before he got to the door, Mayhew opened it, to show he couldn’t be caught by surprise, Jake supposed.

Mayhew’s suit coat was snug enough for Jake to see the impression of his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, artillery in the form of a sidearm, a formidable weapon to have on your side in a skirmish. The two exchanged glances and nods, neither warm to the other, though Jake hadn’t forgotten Mayhew saving his life.

Inside the room Sutter was turned away from the door, peering intently through huge binoculars. From having dabbled in astronomy years ago, Jake recognized them as Celestron 20×80mm, powerful low-light lenses. He surmised the dual lenses would provide much better eye relief than a single barreled scope for long-term surveillance of whatever they were there for.

Sutter turned around. “Oh, hi Woods. Grab a seat. Have a Red Sangria. Be with you in a second. Yeah, Charlie, we’re lookin’ good, lookin’ good.”

Charlie? Jake noted a momentary look of surprise on Mayhew’s face as well. Maybe Sutter was just talking to himself.

Jake sat down by four empty bottles of Red Sangria, and another unopened four pack, sitting next to Sutter’s familiar burgundy briefcase. It struck him strange that FBI guys would drink on the job. Sutter seemed in no hurry, which irritated Jake since he’d broken his tail to get there.

“So … I’m here now, Sutter. Remember me? The guy you wanted over here pronto?”

No response, which irritated Jake more.

“What are you looking at?”

“Oh, you’d probably rather not know.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Pretty much what he said, bozo,” Agent Mayhew said with a smirk.

“Breaking your vow of silence I see, Mayhew. Try not to dominate the conversation, will you?”

“Smart guy. You’re gonna be changing your tune pretty soon.”

This language alarmed Jake. It was totally out of character, an inexcusable departure from the respectful professionalism of the FBI, even for Mayhew.

What’s going on here?
Jake looked at Sutter for an answer.

“You’ll have to excuse Charlie. This whole thing hasn’t been as easy for him. He never got the leads in his high school plays. Not sure he even went to high school.”

Jake stared blankly. “What are you talking about, Sutter?”

Sutter smiled broadly, enjoying drawing this out, like he was eating a pecan pie à la mode and postponing the last scrumptious bite.

Jake, still standing in the middle of the room, made a quick move Sutters direction, then slowed when he saw Mayhew reach toward his shoulder holster.

Charlie? He couldn’t remember Mayhew’s first name from the day Sutter introduced him but he was certain it wasn’t Charlie. Jake walked over to the binoculars, looking out into the now twilight. There was barely enough light to make out two images, a few feet square, propped up on rough easels of some sort, maybe thirty yards away. They were targets, both of which had been shot repeatedly, with a half dozen bullet holes within a few inches of the bull’s-eyes.

“Not bad, huh, Woods? We’re talking handguns, not rifles. Mine’s on the left, Charlie’s the right. We figure I got six out of ten kills at thirty yards, and he got eight out of ten. He’s always been just a hair more gifted in that area.” Sutter smiled at Charlie as if they were old fraternity brothers.

“Well, it takes all kinds, doesn’t it, Woods? I mean, what’s that the
Tribune’s
always saying? Celebrate diversity? Yeah, that’s us. I guess my dramatic talents more than compensate for two less kills out of ten, eh Charlie?”

Mayhew shrugged, with a conspicuous lack of affection.

“Why do you keep calling him Charlie?”

“Good for you, Woods. You’re not as dumb as you look. Come to think of it, no one’s as dumb as you look.”

Sutter laughed hysterically.

“Yeah, I believe ’Jeffrey Mayhew’ was the name I gave you. Rather dignified, don’t you think? Made it up myself. Sounds English, doesn’t it? I also like ’Colin Sutter,’ don’t you? Almost wish it was my real name.”

Sutter, or whoever he was, watched Jake closely, enjoying his reaction.

“I’m calling him by his real name, Woods, because now there’s no need to call him anything else. The production’s over. It’s a little game we play once in a while. We give out the man’s real name toward the very end. It raises the stakes, heightens the senses, increases his motivation to be sure the man who heard his name doesn’t repeat it to anybody. Of course, I don’t think Charlie really needs any extra motivation with you. I don’t think he likes you very much. Never has.”

Charlie glared at Jake, eyes riveted to him. Lifeless eyes. That was it, of course. Charlie was a professional killer. And as the reality Jake guarded himself from sunk in, he realized that this man, unlike most of the scared young men on the other side in that Asian jungle, was going to very much enjoy killing him.

Jake asked the obvious question that bordered now on stupid. “You’re not FBI?”

Sutter laughed hard and long, then looked at Charlie.

“Catches on quick, doesn’t he? No wonder he’s such a big-time journalist. Bet he just figured out Nixon was a crook!”

Both men laughed now, Sutter carelessly like a junior high boy, Mayhew ruthlessly like a particularly cruel junior high boy, but with the trained and focused stare of a professional assassin, his eyes not flinching from Jake.

“Listen, talk to me would you? I deserve that much. I helped you, didn’t I?” Jake’s nerves were real, but his survival instinct told him to act more confused and frightened than he was, not to let it appear he could offer any threat of resistance.

“That’s very funny, Woods. We don’t owe you nothin’. Well … wait a minute, I take that back. When he heard I was assigned to you, one of our associates gave you a lot of credit on the capital punishment issue. Told me it was narrowly banned by the voters, as I recall. Lots of people wanted it pretty bad, with all the guys getting off murder sentences after a few years watching TV at the pen. But you spoke out against the death penalty, said it was barbaric. Who knows? Maybe you swayed enough people to make the difference.

“Anyway, one of our best men was on death row eight years ago when the whole thing got overturned. And guess what? Six months ago he got out. He’s a friend of ours, and very good at what he does. He’s gone back to work and hasn’t lost his touch. A few afternoons of target practice and he was first string again. So, I guess we do owe you, Woods, and I’m one to pay my debts. Right, Charlie? When Jake Woods joins his friends under the dirt I don’t want him saying I didn’t pay my debts.”

Sutter rambled like an insane man.

“Take a deep breath and rest easy, Woods.” Sutter gestured out at the twilight. “I’d like it to get a little darker before we kill you. So, you have questions? How can I help you?”

“Who are you?”

Sutter laughed profusely, plopping himself on the edge of the table opposite Jake, while “Charlie” stood guard.

“Well, you’re right. We’re not the FBI. The truth is—we’re the CIA!”

Sutter was delighted with his little joke. Even Charlie’s chiseled face cracked a smile.

Good
, Jake thought.
Get relaxed, get overconfident, think you’re dealing with a coward. Good.

“Since you’re not going to repeat this, I admit I’m pretty proud of our little scam. Getting the use of the office in the federal building was a little tricky, but it’s amazing the favors you can call in when people think you’re someone else. Parts of the federal building are amazingly unsecured, once you show some good ID. Badges, wall hangings, business cards, official papers. Shoot, you can make half of those with your own computer and printers, alter some military surplus stuff, and you’re in business.”

Sutter flashed his badge again.

“This is the real thing, an FBI badge, confiscated from a man in the line of duty, God rest his soul. Not that it needed to be authentic, right? Not for you, anyway. Unless you’re more of an expert in FBI ID than I take you for.”

Jake felt like a real sucker.

“Why’d you follow me?”

“Started right after the funeral. Just in case you got wind of something. Being a mucky muck reporter and everything, we figured somebody might tip you off or you could figure out something on your own. One of our guys was on you in the deli the day you opened up the envelope and the yellow note card fell out. From the look on your face and the fact you went straight to the police, he figured something big was up. He followed you to the wrecking yard, took the pictures. Even got a view of one of the cut tie rods in the enlargement. We knew it was murder. But we still didn’t know who. The big guys met the next few days and debated what to do.”

Sutter strutted around the room like he was big stuff.

“With you investigating anyway, and since you were pals with a police detective, we figured let’s take a risk and make contact to see what you come up with. That’s when we conjured up the FBI story. We kept following you because you were out there in the trenches, conducting our investigation for us. We had to keep tabs on you. If you started going places and meeting people we didn’t like, we had to know. In our business, knowledge is survival. We took a risk with you. You put money into General Motors, you keep your eye on how it’s doing. You watch your investment. You were our investment.”