The Turning Page 5

  Heather waited until the doors opened and the crowd spilled into the lobby to ask the young woman, “Are you all right?”

  The act of blinking caused another tear to escape. “I’m—I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look at all fine. Are you here by yourself?”

  “My parents are coming in this afternoon.”

  “Well, that is then and this is now. Have you had breakfast?”

  “I was just going for coffee.”

  “Would you like to sit with us?” Heather did not wait for the woman to respond. Instead, she did the same kind of thing that had welcomed so many newcomers into their church. She acted as though they had been friends for eternity. “This is my husband, John. Why don’t you and I sit down over here while he goes and buys us coffee. How do you take yours?”

  “A small latte.”

  “Coming right up,” John told them, listening to his wife pour a verbal ointment on the young woman’s sorrow. He did not need to hear the words to know that Heather was doing what she did best. Making things better.

  Their Times Square hotel probably had been built in the early eighties, and its former grandeur had turned slightly seedy from the hard use of countless tour groups. The lobby was vast, like an indoor stadium and just as noisy. The tiled floor and distant ceiling and marble-clad walls reflected back every sound in a constant wash of noise. The line in front of the Starbucks stand was long. John didn’t mind. He had nothing better to do with his day.

  Then he saw her.

  The Starbucks stand fronted a three-way split in the lobby, to his left the main bar, right was the sunken area holding the hotel restaurant. Between those two was a long sitting area, with wire-backed chairs and metal tables for the coffee drinkers, and a long, high table where businesspeople stood to work their laptops, and more tables with chairs, and finally a wall of glass overlooking Times Square. Seated at the first table near the windows was a woman he had seen in countless photographs and on television. Ruth Barrett was the widow of Bobby Barrett, one of the great evangelists of the twentieth century. Since her husband’s death, she had become well known in her own right, speaking and writing about Christians maintaining a strong prayer life.

  The woman looked stricken by some deep, afflicting burden.

  “John, dear—” Heather was touching his arm, turning him around. “We’re going to move over by the windows. It’s so noisy back there I can’t hear what Jenny is saying.”

  “Sure. Fine.” He watched the two women pass by Ruth Barrett’s table, already back in their conversation, Heather bent low so as to catch the young woman’s words. He hesitated a long moment, then decided there was no reason not to do exactly what his wife was doing. Even with someone as famous as this woman. He stepped out of line, approached the table, and said, “Mrs. Barrett, you look as sad as I feel.”

  He half expected her to offer the sort of practiced dismissal that anyone famous had to use as armor. Instead, she looked at him carefully, then asked, “Are you the reason I am here?”

  “Ma’am, I don’t—” John caught himself beginning an act of denial. He took a long breath, then released the words, “Truth is, I have no idea. But maybe, yes, ma’am. Just maybe.”

  She studied him carefully. “Then I suppose we had better have a word and see.”

  She waited at her lonely table while John ordered their coffees, then helped him carry the cups back toward the far wall. It was much quieter over here, the tables spaced farther apart. All of them were occupied, mostly by people on their own. Heather watched his approach with a puzzled look until she recognized who it was walking beside him. When they arrived, Heather said simply, “Oh, my goodness.”

  “Mrs. Barrett, this is my wife, Heather Jacobs. I’m John. And this young lady, sorry, I don’t…”

  “Jenny Linn. It’s an honor, Mrs. Barrett. My parents think the world of you. As do I.”

  John asked an olive-skinned gentleman at the next table if he could spare a chair. The table on the man’s other side was occupied by a large black woman whose round features were creased with worry or concern or…John hesitated in the act of sitting down. He looked at the tiny woman seated beside Ruth Barrett. Jenny Linn looked as sad as ever. But what held him was how, despite the vast difference in size, Jenny Linn reflected to a remarkable degree the African American woman’s expression.

  “What is it, John?”

  “Just a second.” He walked over to the woman’s table. “I’m really sorry to be bothering you, ma’am. But I was wondering, are you doing okay?”

  She started to snap at him. He could see the flash of ire, the intake of breath, like she was going to level him with a verbal barrage. But then she stopped, and her features seemed to melt. “I feel convicted by every wrong I have ever done.”

  “Ma’am, can I ask, are you a follower of Jesus?”

  To his astonishment, it was not just the woman who responded. The olive-skinned man seated at the next table mirrored the woman’s astonishment. She demanded, “Now why on earth are you asking a total stranger a question like that?”

  “Because,” John replied slowly, carefully, “I wonder if maybe we’re all here for the same reason.”

  “And what reason is that?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  The woman revealed a smile that completely transformed her face as she stood. “Ain’t that the thing, now.”

  “I’m John Jacobs. That’s my wife, Heather. And Jenny Linn. And the lady—”

  “I know who that sister is. I’ve been watching and listening to her all my life.” She was not quite as tall as John, but made up for it in muscular girth. “I am Alisha Seames.”

  “Would you care to join us?”

  “That table already looks crowded.”

  The olive-skinned man rose to his feet. “Please, I am wondering, would you perhaps have room for one more? We could move the two tables together, don’t you see.” He spoke with the precise diction of one who translated as he shaped the words. “For I too am drawn here by reasons that I do not understand. And I can only hope that it is my Savior’s voice I have been hearing.”

  6

  “… pierced themselves with many griefs …”

  NEW YORK CITY

  Trent Cooper sat at a narrow table against the stockroom’s rear wall. He turned on his cellphone, checking the time again. He hated having to rely on a stranger, particularly at this most important moment of his entire life. But he could not manage what he needed on his own. Success hinged upon the guy doing what he had promised, and delivering on time. Trent checked his watch, which showed the exact same time as his phone.

  He had never worked so hard. And he had always worked twice as hard as everyone else. He was painfully aware of the slight indent running from his upper lip to the base of his right nostril. His tongue traced around the soft dimple in the top of his mouth where the doctors had filled the opening that in most people was solid bone. Whenever he was extremely nervous, he could feel the soft tissue vibrate when he spoke. The speech therapist, a young woman with caring eyes, had told him to look beyond such sensations and focus on the people he wanted to reach with his words. She had spent as much time building his confidence as she had working on his speech. Her whole demeanor had changed when she talked about taking control of his destiny, doing the most with what he had, rising above his difficulties, using them. She had challenged him in ways that no one else ever had. Certainly not his parents, who accepted their humble station with quiet resignation.

  He was brought back to the present by the ringing of his cellphone. “This is Trent.”

  “I’m here,” the voice said.

  Trent released the frenzied tension with a tight sigh. “You’re late.”

  “I’m at the door. And I’ve got the goods. That’s what matters most, right?”

  “Five minutes.” Trent cut the connection, left the stockroom, and forced himself not to race down the hall. He passed through the reception area
and approached the younger of Barry Mundrose’s two assistants.

  Gayle finished her phone conversation and smiled at him, offering a professional friendliness that meant nothing. The woman was utterly beautiful…and cold as glacial ice. “Mr. Cooper, how are you this morning?”

  “Scared to death.” He was also so excited his heart was racing faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “And totally committed.”

  She nodded gravely. “That is probably a healthy attitude to take.”

  “I need the money.”

  “And I have it for you.” She turned to the credenza imbedded in the wall behind her desk. The central door revealed an electronic safe. She applied her thumb to the fingerprint reader, then coded in the access. “How much this time?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  She counted out the bills, put them in a blank envelope, then wrote the amount in her pay book. “Sign, please.”

  As he did so, he was in close enough to say without being overheard, “Thank you for not making this harder than it already is.”

  “Mr. Mundrose has always approved of spending money to make more money. Emphasis on the word more.”

  “Understood.”

  “And you still won’t tell me what you are using this money for.”

  “If you insist, I will. But secrecy is vital. So I’ve made a careful accounting of every cent, and as soon as this presentation is done, I’ll give you the full breakdown.”

  “Very well, Mr. Cooper. But sooner or later, you will have to learn the lesson of trust. That is, if you survive long enough.”

  He breathed the day’s first easy breath. “Thank you. Again.”

  But she was not done. “You already have spent four hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars. That is not the most expensive outlay of anyone who has been granted such an opportunity. But it’s close.”

  He finished the thought for her. “Either this works, or there won’t be enough of me left to make a greasy stain.”

  She gave him her brightest smile. “So nice to know we understand each other.”

  Trent picked up the manila packet and took the elevator to the ground floor. The entrance to Barry Mundrose’s suite of offices was around the corner from the building’s main doors. The security guard standing duty in the small foyer knew him now, and hefted the box Trent had left with him that morning. The guard’s flat gaze said it all. Trent was just another desperate young executive. They came, they went. Very few stayed around long enough for the guard to even learn their names.

  Trent’s contact stood in front of the building’s main entrance, doing a tight little two-step in time to music in his head. Overhead the sky was slate grey, so the guy’s sunglasses were out of place. But Trent didn’t need to see the guy’s pupils to know he was in low-altitude orbit.

  In another era, the guy would have been called a trendsetter. They came in all shapes and sizes. Most of them were hopeless cynics who had no talent for actual creativity. So they clawed down the artists who threatened their space, and lifted up those who in turn lifted them. They were a disparaging, pessimistic bunch, whose humor dripped with venom. They loved nothing more than the quick line that destroyed a dream, a life. But Trent was not here because he liked the guy.

  Beyond them, Times Square was filling up. The people were mostly young, and they chattered with an animated electricity that Trent could feel in his gut. Most of these new arrivals were dressed as vampires, werewolves, ghouls, and a bizarre mix of all three. It said a great deal about Times Square that few people even gave these newcomers a second glance. Trent wanted to gawk and smile and go race over and talk with them. Because their presence meant the first part of his plan was in place. But only the first part. And just then he had to play the hard guy in order to make this trendie understand that his job was not done. Not by a long shot.

  The trendie was dressed like a depraved yuppie vampire—skin-tight black jeans and pointy-toed loafers and a starched dress shirt, with a black cloak connected by what appeared to be a solid gold chain, and bloodstains dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Well. You certainly took your time getting here,” the guy said, sounding like he had his nose pinched.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.” Trent passed over the box. “Forty top-of-the-line digital mini-recorders, as promised.”

  “There’s no way they will give these back.”

  “All I want are the memory chips,” Trent assured him. “And some really solid footage.”

  “They understand, and they’ll deliver.”

  “They better, for your sake.” He passed over the envelope. “Twenty thousand.”

  Disdain fought with greed on the trendie’s wasted young features. He accepted the cash with two bony fingers. “Really, here on the street, how gauche.” His tone dripped with cynicism.

  “There’s another twenty for you this afternoon.”

  The trendie stopped in the process of opening the envelope. “Say again.”

  “I know you expected me to argue over the cost. Or at least insist on paying only part until after you delivered. But the cost is not as important as the results. I need you to do what you said, and I need you to be on time. You will have three minutes’ notice. No more. Get it right, and your payout is doubled. Tell me you understand.”

  Something in Trent’s expression stifled both the disparaging quip and the nasal inflection. “I read you loud and clear.”

  “Do this right, and you can count on me for a regular assignment.”

  Trent turned and went back around the corner. He meant what he had said. He desperately needed someone who could help set audience trends, and who would be loyal to Trent personally. Barry Mundrose had a personal cadre of his own trendies, but Trent could not afford the risk of one of them running to their boss with word of what he had planned. He had not even used Barry’s in-house headhunter to find his own trendie. Trent had paid an outside agency five thousand dollars to track the guy down. Then he had given him just twelve hours to deliver.

  But it was all worth it. If he succeeded.

  His entire project depended upon delivering a complete and utter shock to the corporate system.

  Trent reentered the side doors, nodded to the security guard, punched the button, and stepped into the elevator. He checked his watch, and instantly was flooded with an adrenaline rush. He was not afraid anymore. His heart hammered so fast he heard the blood sing in his ears. There simply wasn’t room for fear.

  He checked his watch another time. The hands looked frozen.

  Thirty minutes and counting.

  7

  “You led the people whom you redeemed …”

  NEW YORK CITY

  The man’s name was Yussuf Alwan, from Damascus. “In Syria, before the civil war, I was a doctor. A surgeon. When the fighting reached my city, I escaped with my family to Beirut. My brother, he runs a business there. My wife and two daughters, they are safe, thanks be to God. I train at the NYU hospital for my certification. When this is done, my family, they will join me.”

  Ruth Barrett was smaller in person than John would have expected. But beneath the grandmotherly smile and kindly gaze, he suspected was a core of tungsten steel. She asked Yussuf, “And you are a believer?”

  “Since time beyond time, yes, madame. The legend of my family is that we were in Damascus when the apostle Paul himself came and recovered his sight and spoke the words of salvation.” Yussuf was balding and portly, probably in his forties, and he once might have been quite handsome. But the strain of a homeland torn apart by war was evident in his features and his gaze. “For many in Syria, faith is a tradition, you understand? It is heritage.”

  “Not a living faith?” Ruth responded.

  “Yes, is so. But my family, we were part of the home-church movement. You have heard of this, perhaps? Missionaries come from the west. They speak of renewal. Of fellowship with all people. Sunni, Shia, Alawite, all united under the banner of Jesus.” He stared out the window, at the crow
ds milling about Times Square. “And now I am here in this place.”

  Since he had brought these folks together, now John had resumed the role he felt most comfortable with, which was as a silent observer. A man as big as he was could not easily disappear in plain sight. But he tried.

  Or rather, he would have. But his wife had other ideas. Heather kept shooting him looks, and when that didn’t work, she finally said, “John, dear, what are you waiting for?”

  Which meant he really had no choice but to clear his throat, and lay it out. The voice in the sanctuary. The trip to the Lake Erie jail, wondering if that was all there was to it. Then the call to come to New York. And the weight he had felt on his mind and heart ever since arriving here.

  When he was done, Jenny Linn shifted in her chair and related her own tale. She described the incredible peace she had made with her father, the trip, the conversation with her parents that morning. Then Alisha related her own experience, the voice in church, the visit with her sister. How her work selling radio advertising brought her up here to the company’s home office every other month. But how her morning’s meetings had all been canceled. Which was why she was sitting here.

  Then Ruth Barrett described the sense of God having been there in her little study that past Sunday morning, waiting for her to arrive, impatient for her to listen. So she had done as she felt called, and come to New York to visit the daughter who had walked away from her faith, and now lived out of wedlock with a young man Ruth refused to even name. And who was not the father of either of her daughter’s children.

  Then Yussuf spoke again, relating how the previous Sabbath marked the end of a surgical rotation in trauma care, how the gunshot wounds had brought back all the violence and hardship of his homeland, how he had gone to church seeking only to escape, and instead had found God waiting for him. When he finished, it was Heather who asked, “Did you feel called by God to do something?”