A ruling passion : a novel (82 page)

Nick had turned on the speakerphone so Valerie could listen with him. Now she scribbled on a sheet of pzpcr: finances.

"There is a way to settle most of our questions," Nick said to Olssen. 'We could look at the Foundation books."

Olssen sighed again. "To find out where the money goes. I cannot get you the books, if that is what you are suggesting."

"But you might help an accountant who wanted to look at them."

There was a silence. "I might," Olssen said slowly. "I believe they are in the offices at Graceville."

"I have the name of an accountant," Nick said, his voice level to keep hidden his growing excitement. "He's familiar with religious foundations; he's been involved in the examination of the Bakkers' books at PTL. You might want to call him and arrange something."

Olssen felt a strong distaste. He liked Nick's voice, and his careful words, and he had been filled with admiration when he watched him on television. His statement was not inflammatory; he attacked no one; he named no one; he even paid a compliment to those who were trying to bring harm to his network. It was the kind of intelligent, measured response Olssen most appreciated in a world where people too often said whatever came into their heads, without thinking of shades of meaning or possible repercussions.

But to sneak into the offices of the Hour of Grace Foundation and to turn loose an accountant who would sniff around for damaging material made him feel sick. He had come to the Foundation to bring love and comfort and help to millions who needed it, a far greater number than he could ever have reached when he was in the pulpit;

infinitely greater than he could reach through his teaching. He had come to do good; not to be a spy.

But the demonstration also had made him sick. And then there were Valerie's questions. And, most important, Nick's statement. Its civilized tone had subdy eroded Olssen's unthinking loyalty to the Foundation. "Give me the accountant's name," he said.

The next evening, when the office staff had left for the day, the Reverend Lars Olssen and Alvin Speer, CPA, greeted the guard at the door of the small house on the Graceville grounds. "Evening, Reverend," the guard said. "Let me know if you need anything."

Olssen nodded thoughtftilly. It was clear that the guard was used to seeing board members come in at night. To do what? he wondered.

He led Speer into the offices. "I know nothing about computers or account books. I'm of little help to you."

"No problem," said Speer. "I'll just be looking around."

Olssen sat in a corner; he had brought a book to read. He had considered bringing a Bible, but that seemed to be overdoing it; he had no reason yet to start praying. So he brought a novel, and tried to concentrate on it.

For three evenings in a row, until far past midnight, he read his book while Alvin Speer unftirled computer printouts, scanned columns of numbers, ffipped through files of invoices, pored over bank statements and canceled checks, and sent his fingers dancing over his calculator. On Friday night, just before midnight, Olssen finished his book. Hands folded in his lap, he contemplated Speer's bent head.

"Okey-doke," said Speer, raising his head two hours later and squinting at Olssen. "For a preliminary, this does fine. Lots of stuff here. I can write it up or I can make it verbal."

"Verbal now, if you please," said Olssen. "And I'd like it written as soon as possible."

"Okey-doke. Straight from the top—I did a little research during the days, by the way, in case you wonder where some of this info comes from. So, straight from the top. Checks come in from all over, big and litde. The names, addresses and amounts are logged into the computer, and the checks are sent to the bank."

"James Trust and Savings," said Olssen.

"No, a bank in Culpeper. All the names and check amounts are on these printouts. Problem is, the totals at the end of each day's printouts don't jibe with the numbers." He looked at Olssen's blank expression. "Somebody's programmed the computer to change the totals at the end of each printout. You add up the individual checks that were re-

ceived each day and your total is higher than the one thaf s shown."

"Higher," Olssen repeated.

"My guess is they're depositing the checks in two accounts, one in the name of the Foundation, one private. The money in the private account goes to whoever's running the show. It's an old trick, you know; lots of folks do it, not just the religious ones. So when they skim money from what comes in, they gotta make sure the total on the printout equals the amount on the deposit slips to the Foundation account. In case the IRS or somebody's looking. You got that? Remember, the Foundation takes in close to a million and a half every week. That's five to ten thousand donations every day. Who's gonna add it up by hznd} Most people just look at the totals. But I come along and add each and every number. You following me?"

"How much?" Olssen asked.

"How much they taking? I figure about ten percent."

Olssen closed his eyes. In the past year, the Foundation had received seventy-five million dollars in donations and memberships. Someone pocketed seven and a half million of that. Who? How many of them?

"'Course, that's only the beginning," said Speer. "You want the rest of it?"

Olssen opened his eyes. "I want it all."

'*Well, straight from the top. Construction costs for Graceville. I did a little calling around, fella I know in construction in Rockville and a couple others, and it turns out you're paying Marrach Construction roughly twenty percent over what you oughta be, all down the line: labor and materials. Then there's your construction loan. You're paying two percent over other loans at other banks. And your production costs for the tv shows. They're close to triple what my friend Nick Fielding pays when he has simple shows like that produced. Thafs about it. Oh, salaries are okay, high but not out of the ball park. But you've got some expenses for board members that would raise some eyebrows: cars, travel, houses, stuff like that. I see there was a corporate jet sold a couple weeks ago... you know why it was sold?"

"I didn't know it was sold."

"Well, maybe they're starting to clean up their act. A little late, looks like."

There was a silence.

"You want to wait on my conclusions?" Speer asked. "They'll be in my written report."

"Please. AU of it now."

"Well, then. You skim ten percent off donations, pay inflated con-

structions costs, an expensive construction loan, tripled production costs, and perks for your board members, and what you've got left for legitimate expenses for building Graceville and paying operating costs for the tv ministry is about fifty-six percent of what comes in."

"Fifty-six percent!"

"The other side of that, what it looks like from here, is that, over the two years it's supposed to take to build Graceville, roughly sixty-five million dollars would be diverted to Marrach Construction, James Trust and Savings, Sybille Morgen Productions, and who knows where else."

Speechless, Olssen stared at him.

"Now, I don't have any proof that any of this is illegal," Speer said, "except the skimming of the ten percent. Somebody could maybe give an interesting explanation for that, but I have my doubts. There's so much of this tv ministry stuff coming out now—it's kind of in the air, isn't it?—my own personal feeling is there's nothing good about anything I've dug up. It smells of kickbacks from the word go. So you've got a few things here. The IRS has to be told. First off, this outfit won't keep its tax-exempt status for a minute if all this comes out the way I think it will, but that's small potatoes. The big question is whether there's fraud involved: defrauding the Foundation and the government. That's a criminal matter."

Olssen was staring fixedly at him. A lifetime of helping people in need, he thought, my whole life. And now to find I've been a front man for crooks, thieves, defrauders, and all in the name of the Lord!

Speer was frowning. "You wouldn't ask me to keep this quiet. Reverend. I couldn't do that, you know. I mean, when I find evidence—"

Olssen was shaking his head. "I would not ask it. It would go against everything..." His voice trailed away. Graceville itself went against everything he believed in and taught and worked for. And he had let himself be used. He had turned a blind eye, he'd been lazy, complacent, inattentive...

"I guess I'll go, then," said Speer. 'Tou should, too. Reverend. Ifs getting awful late."

"Yes." Olssen lifted himself from his chair. He was tired, but he knew he would not sleep tonight. He had to think about what he had learned. He had to think about the future. He had to make up for his sins of sloth and complacency. Lily must be told. The other board members—for how could he be sure who was a conspirator and who was innocent?-must be told that Speer's report would soon be public. Nick Fielding must be told. His was the voice of reason that had led to

this night of revelation. Without Nick's statement, Olssen was not sure he ever would have lifted the stone of Graceville to see the dark life crawling beneath it.

Nick Fielding, Olssen recalled, was preparing a television program on Graceville. Certainly, he must be told.

Early Saturday morning, while the air still had a trace of the night's coolness, and only the joggers were out on the quiet streets, Nick received a telephone call, and then made one of his own. He called Valerie, who was just waking up, and told her she would have a program on Graceville after all.

An hour later, Floyd Bassington resigned from the board of directors of the Hour of Grace Foundation.

Chapter 29

ily heard the telephone ring when Nick called. She had been lying awake since dawn. The breeze that cooled Georgetown overnight did not reach Falls Church, and Lily had tossed on the living-room sofa or paced around the room, trying to ignore the heat that weighed her down like a heavy blanket. But at four-thirty, as she stood at the window, gazing at the motionless sumacs in the first pale light that washed the sky, she knew it was not just the heat that kept her awake. It was what lay ahead of her. This was the day she would betray Sybille.

In a way, she already had betrayed her. She had called the Foundation office and gotten from the secretary the home address of Bob Targus, the Hour of Grace pilot who had worked for the Foundation until two weeks ago, when the jet was sold. She had been prepared to lie—her first lie ever—if the secretary had asked why she needed the address. The secretary hadn't asked, but that only meant Lily was lucky, not that she was a good person who didn't tell hes.

Something is happening to me, Lily thought. She stood at the window, her thoughts slow and bewildered. She didn't know who she was

anymore, or what she could do widi her life. All she knew for sure was diat she loved Valerie more than anyone in the world. She'd always had so much love inside her, but she'd never found anyone to give it to in a way that made her happy. Rudy Dominus had faded from her life, Quentin Enderby had died, and Sybille... well, nothing about Sybille

seemed right anymore. And then there was But she couldn't say his

name. She would never say it. He was evil, he had made sex ugly and hateful, and she couldn't even think of him without shaking with revulsion.

But still she spent much of her time thinking about what had happened to her with him. Somehow he had known how worried she was becoming at being a symbol to people, but not a person to herself. She hadn't known she was worried about that, though she was beginning to think about it, but why else would she have leaped at the first man who treated her like a real woman? I wanted to be real, and I didn't know how, Lily thought. I wonder how I'll learn that.

Valerie could teach her. It was Valerie whom Lily loved, Valerie who made her happy. And now Valerie needed her help. That was why Lily had gotten Bob Targus's address, and that was why she was going along this afternoon: because Bob knew her and had always liked her, and would more likely be open with her than with Valerie or Nick.

She was sure she was doing the right thing, because of her love for Valerie, and because Valerie and Nick would never do anything evil, but, still, when she greeted Bob Targus that afternoon, she felt a stab of guilt at the broad smile on his face, because she could not be honest with him. "Reverend Lily!" he said, taking her hands in his. "I thought I'd have to come to your church to see you again!" Then he saw Valerie and Nick. "I didn't know you were bringing people."

"These are my friends," Lily said. '^Valerie Sterling and Nick Field-ing."

Targus shook Nick's hand and then Valerie's. "I'd ask you in but, you know, the place's a mess; we just got back from vacation and we're moving. I'm working for Nabisco now, would you believe it.> From God to crackers. Thaf s what the wife said; made me laugh. So if you don't mind, we can sit here..."

Lily saw how nervous he was and felt guilty again. "This is very nice," she said as he pulled garden chairs close together in the shade of a horsechestnut tree. She asked him about his new job, and the town where he and his wife would be living, and the house they had bought. She knew she was purposely making him relax so she could draw him out, and the dishonesty of that made her even more uncom-