The Turning (10 page)

Alisha said, “Those poor people. Can’t they—?”

And all the electronic billboards surrounding Times Square went blank.

The sudden absence of lights was so shocking, it silenced even the mob. The police also stopped their whistles and looked around, fear evident on many faces, as though waiting for some bomb to go off.

Looking back, John often thought that was exactly what happened next.

At once, all the neon signs flashed back on, this time showing the same electric blue background, the huge silver letters shouting at them from every direction, every angle.

Hope Is Dead
.

The crowd went wild.

T
rent Cooper had slept a grand total of nine hours over the past four nights. And he did not care. Sleep was for creeps. Sleep was for the audience. Sleep was for people who weren’t traveling in a Bentley. To Teterboro Airport. Where he was going to climb aboard a private jet and fly to Hollywood. Who needed sleep?

“What are you smiling at?”

Trent glanced at Edlyn Mundrose, flying with him to LA. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He really didn’t care. “Everything.”

She pulled another file from the briefcase open between them. “You need to buy some new clothes.”

“No time.” He really didn’t mind her coldness. Or her cryptic way of measuring each word like gold. “Less money.”

“Gayle.”

“Yes, Ms. Mundrose.”

“Give him the envelope.”

The lovely secretary from Barry Mundrose’s office was riding in the front passenger seat. She turned around far enough to hand Trent a manila folder. “Sign, please.”

He accepted the file, opened it, and found himself looking at a check for one year’s salary. He read, “Eighty-two thousand, four hundred and seven dollars.”

Edlyn said, “We are closing out your current contract, Mr. Cooper. The page attached to the check is your termination agreement.”

When he had first been offered the job, Trent had been astonished at the precise salary offer. It could not be divided into monthly amounts that made sense, then or now. Not that Trent had complained. “I don’t understand.”

Barry Mundrose’s daughter did not even bother to look up. “You are no longer an employee of the advertising division. Where you go,
if
you go
anywhere
, now depends upon you delivering.”

He stared at a check that represented his entire annual salary, and more money than he had ever held in his life. “So this check …”

“Call it a golden parachute. Or maybe a signing bonus. It all depends.” She gave him two seconds of those glacial eyes. “You copy?”

He signed the document, pocketed the check, and handed the file back to Gayle. “Absolutely.”

“Good.” She plucked out another folder. “So make time and buy some new threads.”

He looked down at himself. He had dressed for the trip in his best jeans, black, and what he’d considered a nice enough jacket, tan. Freshly laundered dress shirt, pale blue striped. Polished loafers, even if they were a couple of years old. He had never given his clothes much attention. The whole dress-for-success attitude was so dated. Only now, as the Bentley pulled up by the gates leading to the private aviation terminal, he felt like a hobo knocking on a stranger’s back door.

Gayle must have noticed his unease, because as Edlyn stepped out and strode impatiently away from the vehicle, Barry Mundrose’s secretary said, “I think you look very nice.”

He could have hugged her. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let Ms. Mundrose get to you.”

“All bark and no bite, is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh, no, not at all.” She was very grave. “Edlyn’s bite is highly poisonous.”

The Bentley’s driver hefted two Louis Vuitton cases from the trunk and followed Edlyn Mundrose inside. Trent was secretly relieved to see Gayle pull out a valise of her own. It meant she would be traveling with them. Even if she was there to serve Edlyn and not him, he liked the idea of having an ally on this first journey. Trent was fully aware that Gayle, if need be, would stand back and watch the corporate carnivores take him down. She had probably watched it happen any number of times. But she was the nicest person he had met inside the company’s HQ, and it felt good to have her along. Great, in fact.

Of course, the fact that she was stunningly beautiful did not hurt at all.

They followed Barry Mundrose’s daughter through the lobby and out the rear portal, where a pilot saluted Edlyn and took her cases from the driver. He smiled a brief welcome at Trent and Gayle, but his attention remained firmly upon Edlyn as they crossed the tarmac and climbed the stairway.

The Gulfstream was the most ostentatious demonstration of power that Trent could have imagined. It contained a kitchen, a fully equipped bar, a conference room, twelve reclining seats, three bunks, a bedroom, and a bathroom whose shower was walled with alabaster tiles. All the bathroom taps were gold plated.

They had settled into their seats and had taken off when a phone rang. Gayle answered with the ease of a woman well versed in private flight. She handed Trent the phone and said, “Stone Denning for you.”

Stone Denning was one of the most powerful directors in Hollywood. He was a notorious figure who loved a good fight almost as much as he did a wild party. He had boxed in university and liked to invite his stars to go a few rounds. When on location he always staked out a nearby ring and traveled with several pairs of gloves. The lollipops who ran the entertainment shows loved him. Stone Denning was always good for a story.

“This is Trent Cooper.”

“That means exactly what to me. Nothing.”

Trent ran through several responses, and settled on, “Thank you for the call, Mr. Denning.”

“Turn that jet around. I won’t have another corporate weasel come waste my time.”

“Not even a weasel who’s bringing you ten million dollars in extra advertising?”

Silence. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m the guy who’s traveling to LA to deliver a check.”

“Nothing from Mundrose comes without strings.”

“You’re right there. I have the money and the proposition.”

“Give it to me now.”

“Can’t do that, Mr. Denning. I need half an hour of face time.”

“How many other weasels are with you?”

“Just one.” On a hunch, he passed Edlyn the phone. “He wants a word.”

Barry Mundrose’s daughter did not even look up from the file in her lap. She just took the phone and said, “What.” Edlyn listened for ten seconds, then broke in with, “Do what he tells you, Stone.”

Trent took back the phone. “When and where, Mr. Denning?”

The director had grown sullen. “Bel Air Hotel bar. Six o’clock.”

Trent did not confirm because the director had already hung up. He handed the phone back to Gayle, then turned to Edlyn and asked, “Ms. Mundrose, would you like to hear me repeat my mantra?”

She might have smiled. It was hard to tell, a quick flicker directed at the papers covering the table before her. “Sure. Why not.”

“I owe you.”

This time, Trent was certain she smiled.

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

B
arrett Ministries was headquartered in the rolling hills of Westchester County, about ninety minutes from New York City. The land had been bought back in the sixties, when most of the region had been horse country. Over the years, however, Westchester County’s meadows had sprouted a new crop of mansions, and pickups had gradually been replaced by New York limos.

The feed stores were mostly gone, and what once had been farming villages now housed boutiques catering to the wealthy newcomers. The Barrett enclave remained a small exception to the rule, however. Their hundred and eighty acres filled a shallow valley with peace. The main structures contained a hotel, a conference center, a chapel built to hold seven hundred, an outside arena that could hold two thousand, and a sprawling network of offices and seminar rooms and broadcasting studios for both television and radio.

While they were still recovering from the Times Square spectacle, Ruth invited the entire group to travel back with her. She had not made a big deal of it, saying in her quietly emphatic way that they needed to gather and pray for guidance.

So John used his meeting as a test. His company was the nation’s largest shipper of fresh produce, and John was assistant manager for the Midwest depot, a high-stress occupation if there ever was one. The company’s fleet of four hundred and nineteen trucks, two-thirds of which were refrigerated, had to be accounted for on an hourly basis. Delays meant rotten produce and lost profits. Transport companies operated on hair-thin margins. Every fluctuation in gas prices, every storm, every problem with a driver or an engine, was cause for worry. Their company succeeded because they were reliable.

That morning, John entered the offices of the world’s largest importer of foreign-grown produce and laid out all these facts, while his heart and mind remained filled with the emotions and images of a previous day. Twice he had to stop and clear his throat, as the recalled sensations threatened to overwhelm him. The managers heard him out, then being New Yorkers they tried to whittle him down. Normally John would have sweated bullets over such negotiations. But today he just couldn’t be bothered. He told them the terms were the terms, rose to his feet, and thanked them for their time.

In the evening, his company’s senior VP phoned with the news that the group had accepted the deal, and wanted him to personally supervise their operations. John asked for an extra week’s vacation. The vice president pointed out that John’s own manager was barely recovered, and a deputy from Baltimore was handling the depot. John thanked the man for the opportunity, asked him to reconsider about the vacation, and hung up. Then he simply waited. Either it happened or it didn’t. Five minutes later, the VP called back and agreed.

John probably should have been amazed at how everyone was gathered downstairs in the lobby the next morning. Yussuf was there with Aaron, the two men having taken annual leave from the hospital. Alisha described how her company required all leave to be scheduled months in advance, but a friend had needed to shift her plans, and so here she was. Jenny Linn introduced her parents, and related how she had accepted the job offer from a New York publisher, and had ten days before she needed to report for work. They were still coming to terms with how natural it all seemed as the van drove them into Westchester County.

Even so, they were a subdued bunch that gathered on Ruth Barrett’s front porch. The broad veranda overlooked a grassy vale of springtime green. Blooming dogwoods and cherry trees marked the long drive that meandered alongside the stream. A glade of oaks and maple lined the hill that hid the ministry complex. Traffic thundered softly from beyond the hills to John’s right. Here there was sunlight and birdsong and a crisp breeze.

It was Jenny Linn who said what he was thinking. “We should do something.”

“We are,” Ruth said. A cane rested on the floor beside her padded rocker with its embroidered cushions. Something in the set of her mouth left John convinced she did not wish to discuss whatever ailment was afflicting her. “We are waiting on God.”

But he wanted it known that he agreed with Jenny’s sentiment. John pointed to the world beyond the valley. “Out there is a group aiming on robbing the world of hope. Stealing it away, like thieves in the night.”

“And what precisely do you intend on doing?”

“Whatever it is we’ve been brought together to do,” Jenny said.

“Which is exactly what we are doing.” Ruth reached to the side table holding a pitcher of lemonade and untouched glasses. She took up a much-used Bible, opened it to Acts, and read words from the first chapter.

John nodded in time to the telling, about the final meeting between the disciples and Jesus. About Jesus telling them to wait there in Jerusalem. John could scarcely hold back until she was done to say, “I know all that. And I’m telling you, we need to go out there and
do
something.”

“Ever since I got here,” Alisha agreed, “I’m feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.”

“Like electrodes were planted in my flesh,” Yussuf agreed.

“Only days ago we were merely a few believers who listened to God and he brought us together.” Ruth’s chair made a gentle rhythm on the varnished floor as she rocked. “Three days ago, we were burdened by God’s sorrow. Now we all share a need to go and
do
. I take this as a good sign. But it is not enough.”

“We need to plan,” John said.

She smiled at him, like she might at a well-intentioned but wayward child. “No, friend. We need to
wait
.”

“I don’t know if I can,” John said.