Forsaken (5 page)

I watched him for a moment, then looked out across the lake. For the first time that evening I noticed
crickets chirping. In the distance a red light blinked on and off—a radio or television tower, I supposed. The night had swallowed the mesas that jutted so insistently into the horizon at sunset. Now it seemed everything twinkled, everything was a star or was brightened by starlight. I sucked in a long breath and let it out, and noticed that the air had turned crisp.

It seemed forever since I had felt cool.

When I turned back to Chad, he had quieted down, but one leg continued to work back and forth in the dirt. Although his arm still covered his head, there was an open spot near the crook of his elbow where I could see his hair just above his good ear. I leaned over and pointed the pistol just there.

Then I squeezed the trigger.

ELEVEN YEARS AFTER DAD was murdered, Simon Mason hired me. At first blush, it would be difficult to imagine an employer and employee less suited to one another. In little more than a decade, the plain-spoken son of a Dallas electrician had risen to become the world’s most recognized Christian evangelist.

Even though we both lived in Dallas and he had an incredibly high profile, I hardly gave a thought to the man until the moment he called me on the telephone. What slight thought I
had
given him tended toward a caricature of television evangelists.

In other words, I assumed he was a greasy-suited charlatan.

That view had been reinforced only weeks before I met him when
The Times
ran a Sunday feature labeling him “The Best-Known Christian on the Planet.” In response to that bit of hyperbole, Simon placed a well-publicized call to the Vatican, where his call was promptly accepted. He reportedly assured the Pope that those words had been the paper’s, not his. He reportedly handled the situation with such sincerity that the Holy Father issued a press release to the effect that they both played on the same team—though presumably Simon dressed in the Protestant locker room—and His Holiness appreciated Simon’s work in advancing the ball for Christ.

While Simon was molding himself into a first-round pick in the worldwide evangelical draft, I had done less to recommend myself to the squad. At first, things went well enough. I blew the doors off my entrance exams and attended Texas A&M on a full-ride scholarship. I graduated in three years with a major in sociology and a minor in business administration. My interest had always been criminal justice, though, and immediately after graduation I trained as a security specialist with the Dallas police SWAT unit.

After a year, on an impulse, I applied to the Secret Service. To my surprise I got hired, primarily, I’m sure, because of the well-publicized story of how I had dispatched two serial rapists at a Texas Panhandle campsite. Newspapers throughout the country had treated me as a tragic heroine, while the local authorities felt so sorry for me that they displayed a pointed lack of curiosity about the close-range shot to Chad’s head. The Secret Service
apparently determined that a female with that sort of calm under fire was just what they were looking for in a political climate that prized diversity.

I served four years in Washington and received two decorations for my work. One, in particular, recognized the “extraordinary commitment” that I demonstrated to a certain Arab dignitary from a tiny Middle Eastern emirate that was a particularly helpful ally to the United States. While working on the president’s advance security team for an international conference on democracy, I foiled an assassination attempt on the sheik with what I will politely call my backside. The region’s top surgeons labored for the better part of thirty minutes to remove three pieces of shrapnel from my left buttock.

The next morning most of the major American papers ran front-page photos of the dignitary standing next to my hospital bed, smiling broadly while handing me a medal signifying his nation’s second-highest honor. The headlines can be summed up by the
Tribune’s:
“Secret Service Hero Works Tail Off for Democracy.”

That’s where my government career peaked.

To say that I was drummed out of the Service would be an exaggeration, but I definitely didn’t receive a farewell dinner and wristwatch. During the conversation in which my supervisor nudged me toward retirement, he said that I had developed quite a reputation, which was true. The combination of the Panhandle killings and the Dubai incident had made me into probably the best-known Secret Service agent since Kennedy’s assassination.

Unfortunately, my Service account had some debits as well as credits. I was widely viewed as an agent inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. While I had never hurt anyone, I had shot out two tires and a security camera—all intentionally. (I won the Service’s marksmanship contest three years straight.) In a service that doesn’t do much shooting, that placed me in rarefied air.

More to the point, though, my supervisor noted that rumors about after-hours drinking and carousing had not enhanced my career standing. After all, propriety was one of the minimum requirements of the Service. He suggested that perhaps I should get some professional help, which angered me so much that I stalked out and headed for the nearest bar. There, as I vaguely recall, I picked up another in a long series of nameless, faceless, and generally shiftless guys in my continuing quest for the answer to the question: Are there any good men left out there?

With the promise of referrals from a Service eager to see its most publicized female agent leave quietly, I resigned and moved back to Dallas. Within weeks I opened Pasbury Security, whose strategic plan included the slogan, “Dallas businesses’ choice for tough security assignments.” The phrase didn’t exactly roll trippingly off the tongue, but it must have worked. By the time Simon hired me, my company was already the best-known private security firm in the Southwest. And I was in a considerably stronger financial position than most twenty-nine-year-olds.

While my professional life was checkered, my personal life was blighted. I didn’t drink every day, or even every week. But when I did drink, I drank too much. When I drank too much, I had a destructive tendency to become sexually aggressive. That led to a depressing pattern of poor choices in men—the sort of choices that one would expect from a half-sauced woman on the prowl. I spent far too many nights sleeping in strange apartments, with one hand on a loser’s bare chest and the other hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle. To characterize me as a young woman tumbling toward the cliff’s edge would be accurate, except that a fair segment of the population would not even consider me that young anymore.

I realize many people would be appalled that I can describe so flippantly a life drifting toward disaster. Many others, however, will understand perfectly. They are the ones who understand what it is like to work later than everyone else in the office because they have nothing to return home to but an empty apartment; the ones who dread weekends because they can only wander the malls alone so many times before the store clerks begin to pity them; the ones who lie in bed at night and cry because they don’t understand why they can’t be charming enough, or pretty enough—or good enough—to not be alone anymore. Those people will understand. Humor helps. Flippancy helps.

Crying changes nothing.

In any event, fate did not appear to be dragging Planet Pasbury and Planet Mason on a collision course.
In fact, we were orbiting in different solar systems, which is why he was the last person I expected to be on the other end of the line one Saturday morning in March when my cell phone beeped and woke me. I was sprawled on the couch of my office, a rambling loft in a rejuvenated warehouse near downtown Dallas. Wherever I had been the night before—and that recollection did not immediately come to me as I shook off sleep—I had found it more convenient to crash at the office than to make my way farther north to my apartment.

The phone beeped again. I rolled onto my back, freeing my left hand from between my hip and my leather Euro sofa. I must have slept on the hand for quite a while, because it felt like a giant sponge dangling from my wrist. I couldn’t flex the fingers quickly enough to make them useful, so I dragged myself into a sitting position and slapped my bare feet onto the hardwood floor. The room smelled of bourbon—stale, open-all-night bourbon, but still good stuff. I scratched one foot with the other and kicked over the bottle on the floor next to the couch. Fortunately, it was nearly empty. Only a few drops slid out onto the floor before I righted the bottle and reached for the phone. “Hello.”

“Taylor Pasbury?”

The floor was cold; my toes curled reflexively in an effort to generate warmth. I tucked one foot beneath me and tried to pull the hem of my black cocktail pants over the toes of my other foot with my sponge hand. “Speaking,” I grunted. One of the advantages of being in the security business is that clients
actually prefer a certain level of gruffness, particularly from a woman.

“I’m glad I caught you in your office. This is Simon Mason. Fred Skilling, at Skilling Oil, gave me your name.”

“That was thoughtful of him.” I tried to run my hand through my hair. The night on the couch had turned my usual gentle waves into a twisted mess that clumped in auburn hives about my neck and shoulders. I worked at the knots with my fingers.

“I’d like to talk to you about taking charge of my security. Is this a good time?”

I’m sure that most people go through their entire lives without receiving a phone call from someone famous. Because of my time in the Service, though, I had received many of them. I’m not bragging; it’s just a fact. That is why it is odd that the name Simon Mason, which by then was already more recognized around the world than the Secretary of State’s, did not register with me at all.

“Mr. Mason, I appreciate your call, and I hope that I can help you, but my office hours are Monday through Friday, eight-thirty to five-thirty. If you’ll call back then, my assistant will set up a time for you to come in. She keeps my calendar. I couldn’t even tell you right now where I’m going to be next week.”

“I’m sorry to bother you on Saturday, Ms. Pasbury, but I’ve got a big Weekend of Glory celebration in Chicago tonight and tomorrow. I’m in Chicago right now. I was hoping you could come to at least one of the
events and take a look at our set-up. We’ve had some threats. The FBI has convinced me we should take them seriously.”

I sat up straight. “You mean, you’re
that
Simon Mason?”

He chuckled. “Well, I’m not certain who
that
Simon Mason is. I’m the one who’s a preacher. Have you heard of me?”

It had to be a prank. I tried to recall what male I had been with the night before. After a few muddled moments, I realized I had come back to the office alone, so I ran the male half (okay, quarter) of my telephone contact list through my mind to identify the most likely practical jokers. No one stood out. But my head hurt. I didn’t feel like wasting any more time. “Mr. Mason, would you mind if I gave you a call right back? I’ve got something going on here . . . uh, I left some water running. If I could just get that taken care of. Uh, is there a number?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“It’s not just water, uh . . .” I spotted my space heater sitting on the floor next to the couch. “There’s a space heater too . . . with the water, I mean. Dangerous combination. Is there a number?”

He cleared his throat. “Sure, I can give you the number here at the Palmer House. I really don’t want to talk about this on my cell phone. Have you got a pencil?”

“I have one right here. Let her rip.” I had neither a pencil nor any intention of playing along with this stupid game. I held the phone away from my mouth and
yawned as he repeated the number slowly. “I’ll call you in just a few minutes, Mr. Mason. Thank you.”

“I’ll only be here for another half hour. Can you call by then?”

“Oh, certainly.” By this time I was studying a spot where the nail polish on my big toe was peeling. I had paid way too much for that pedicure to have the stuff coming off after two days. “I’ll talk to you real soon, Mr. Mason. Good-bye.” I clicked off the phone and was just setting it on the end table when it occurred to me to check his number in the incoming calls directory. I hit the menu button and clicked through to the folder. The number was in the 312 area code. Chicago.

I jumped up and brushed my hands over the wrinkles in my silk blouse, as if I thought Simon Mason was going to walk through the door of my office at any minute.

Realizing that panic was not a strategy, I took a deep breath and forced myself to think. I needed confirmation. I dialed information and asked for the number of the Palmer House in Chicago. It matched. Great, he really was Simon Mason. And now that he had had a few minutes to reflect on my running-water-and-space-heater story, he had without question concluded that I was a moron.

I had to find a way to make the story plausible. A space heater and running water—I had it! I dialed the Palmer House and asked for Simon’s room.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Mason? It’s Taylor Pasbury.”

“Well, that didn’t take long. I hope everything is okay.”

It occurred to me that I was about to lie to the world’s most famous preacher. It was a victimless lie, though, which helped. “I may as well come clean with you, Mr. Mason.” I gave him an embarrassed laugh. “I was getting ready to take a bath when you called. That’s why the water and the space heater were a problem.” I silently applauded my clever escape.