Covenant (19 page)

            “They’re handing down valuable life lessons.  Shop till you drop—literally.”

            In the electronics area, they selected a basic, prepaid cell phone and three calling cards, each with a hundred minutes. 

            The main benefits of the phone were that they could activate it without giving a credit card number or name to the cellular provider, and they could purchase additional minutes as they needed them.  Their use of the phone should be invisible to the zealots.

            As they walked to the bank of cash registers, Lisa tugged his arm.

            “Hold on, I want to look at something,” she said.

            She led him into the Books department.  The shelves were arrayed with popular fiction and non-fiction titles, including, he noted, several copies of his most recent novel in mass market paperback.  In his current state of mind, it felt as though he were looking at a book written by someone else.

            “What’re you looking for?” he asked.  “Something to pass the time while we’re on the lam?”

            “This.”  She pointed to a flashy floor display for a hardcover book entitled
The Keys to the Kingdom:  Open the Doors to the Life You Want
.  It was written by a Bishop Emmanuel Prince.

            The front cover included a color photograph of the author standing in an oak-paneled office.  He was a lean, fair-skinned black man perhaps in his early fifties, clean shaven, with short hair, grey eyes, and the balanced, handsome features of a Hollywood A-Lister.  He was impeccably attired in a dark two-piece suit, and he had a confident smile that displayed perfect, capped teeth. 

            Although it was hard to gauge his height from the picture, the length of his slender torso made him appear to be very tall, well over six feet.

            As Anthony studied the photo, his stomach tightened.

            “Who is this guy?” he asked.  “I feel as if I’ve seen him before.”

            “I’m quite sure you have.  He’s all over the place.  Books, DVDs, TV, radio, conferences, the works.”

            “I never paid any attention to him, or any other preacher.  Why’d you want to look at this?”

            “Check out the publishing company.”  She fished the Bible out of her purse and turned to the copyright page.  The book had been printed by New Kingdom Publishing, Inc., which had an address in Austell, Georgia, a suburb west of Atlanta.

            “I noticed it a little while ago,” she said.  “I wasn’t sure it meant anything, but thought I’d point it out to you.”

            He shrugged.  “I’ve never heard of them.”

            “The publishing company is owned by Bishop Prince’s church—New Kingdom Church International.” 

            A chill skipped down his spine. 

            “Seriously?” he asked.

            “It could be only a coincidence,” she said.  “His church might print and distribute millions of these Bibles, and Bob happened to pass this one on to you.  It probably doesn’t mean anything.”

            Anthony glanced at the bishop’s photo again, and once more felt that coiled knot of tension in his gut.           

            “What do you know about the church?” he asked.            

            “They’re in Austell, near Six Flags.  It’s a non-denominational church.  And let me tell you, it’s gigantic.  Huge.  The biggest church I’ve ever visited, by far.”

            “You’ve been there?”

            “I went there for a wedding, maybe five years ago.  The place is literally a self-contained city.  One of my girlfriends is a member, and she loves it.”

“But you didn’t?”

“It’s much too big for me.  I prefer our small church, where you can actually

speak to the pastor.  At New Kingdom, I hear they treat Bishop Prince like a movie star.”

            “He sure looks like one.” 

            He picked up the bishop’s book.  He traced the man’s chiseled face with his finger. 

            Something about that face unsettled him.  But he couldn’t put his impression into words.  It was only that, a deeply troubling feeling—like smelling something burning and being unable to determine the source.

            He opened the book and skimmed the summary on the inside flap of the dust jacket. 

Bishop
Emmanuel Prince reaches one of the largest audiences in the U.S. and across the world—over 280,000 people attend his churches every week, and millions more tune in by television, radio, and Internet to hear his lessons of inspiration and wisdom.  His fourteen books have sold over thirty million copies and are available across the world in forty-one languages. 

In his new book, Bishop Prince lays out ten simple action steps that will help readers open the doors to the life they are born for . . . greater fulfillment in their finances, relationships, health, and spirituality.  Incorporating key biblical fundamentals, personal testimony, and devotions in the easygoing, charming manner that has made him a beloved figure worldwide, Prince’s message will encourage, educate, and inspire readers from all walks of life.  

            “He’s sold a truckload of books,” Anthony said.  “Funny that I’ve never heard of him until now.  I need to get out more.”

            “He was on the cover of
Time
,” she said.

            “So was Osama bin Laden, if I recall.”

            She scratched her head.  “I don’t know, Tony.  It’s hard to imagine that his church would be involved in murders and conspiracies.  I’ve seen Bishop Prince on TV—he’s really charismatic, smooth, comes across as a nice, family guy.”

            “Hitler was a charmer, too.” Anthony put the book under his arm.  “Let’s go.”

            “You’re buying it?”

            “I’m intrigued.”

            Before leaving the department, he plucked an Atlanta metro map off a rack, as he’d realized that he had no idea how to reach Mike’s rental in Roswell.  In the past, he would have consulted his GPS-enabled cell for such information.

            Technology made life more convenient, but it was also a crutch.

            At the cash register, he paid for their items with cash.  Although he usually used his debit card for most everything, he didn’t want to take a risk on the zealots hacking into his bank account, finding out where and when he’d used his card, and using the information to track him. Going forward, they had to operate on a cash-only basis.  It might have been a paranoid measure, but it made him feel better.

            “That’s an awesome book,” the cashier said.  She was a young, freckle-faced woman who seemed hyper-alert at that late hour.  “I love Bishop Prince.  He’s anointed.”

            “Anointed?” Anthony asked.

            Her eyes shone earnestly.  “God speaks through him.”

            “Is that so?  Then I guess I better read this right away.”

            She grinned.  “It’ll be a blessing on your life.”

            “I could use a blessing or two.”

            Walking across the parking lot, Anthony said to Lisa, “The preacher man has a lot of fans.”

            “In the age of the megachurch celebrity pastor, he’s as big as they come.”

            In the SUV, while she reclined her seat and got comfortable, he slipped the book out of the plastic bag and once again examined the bishop’s handsome countenance.

            She yawned.  “Can we go, please?  I’m starting to crash again.”

            He twisted the key in the ignition and pulled away from the store, his gaze straying, over and over again, to the picture.     

30

            Mike’s property in Roswell was located in a neighborhood of modest Colonials and split-level homes on small lots, the street flanked with tall elms and oaks dripping with rain.  At two-fifty in the morning, lights burned in only a couple of the residences, the glow of television sets flickering through the windows.

            Anthony pulled into the asphalt driveway.  Built perhaps twenty-some years ago, the house was a split-level in good condition, with white siding, dark shutters, and a detached two-bay garage.  A row of holly ferns lined the front of the house, and a live oak anchored the trimmed yard.

            He left the engine on and remained sitting behind the wheel, brow furrowed in thought.  A classic Stevie Wonder song played at low volume on the satellite radio system: “Superstition.” Which summed up his state of mind.  That night, he was believing in plenty of things he didn’t understand.

            He’d received no revelations about the bishop’s photo, and had returned the book to the bag for later consideration.  Driving, he’d been alert for a tail, and had detected none, either. 

            But he continued to feel on edge, as if the dark sky were slowly lowering to the earth like a hydraulic press, threatening to crush him beneath its weight.  That sense of impending violence had once been routine to him, but years of sedentary civilian living had reduced his threshold for extreme stress.  Until that day, about the most pressing decision he’d faced on a regular basis was where he and Lisa would go out for dinner. 

            He had to man up.  Keep it together.  Be the rock that Lisa considered him to be.  Get to the truth behind his father’s death.  This was it.  No slacking off.  No excuses.     

            Beside him, Lisa surfaced from a brief slumber, stretched, yawned.

            “Is this the place?” she asked in a scratchy voice.

            He nodded.

            “Then let’s go in.  What’re we waiting for?”  She reached for the door handle.

            He touched her arm.  “Wait.”

            “Why?  Is something wrong?”

            “I’ll be right back.  Sit tight.”

            Brandishing the Beretta, he let himself into the house.  As Mike had promised, it was furnished—Spartan furniture much like that in Mike’s own home—and tidy.  A flip of the light switch and a turn of the kitchen faucet confirmed that the utilities worked. 

            He swept around the first level.  All clear.  On the upper level, he checked to ensure that the three bedrooms were empty, and returned to the master bedroom. 

            One of the windows faced the street.  He turned on the bedside lamp and moved it closer to the glass, which was veiled with plastic Venetian blinds.

            Then he walked out of the house and locked the door behind him.  He climbed inside the Jeep. 

            “All clear?” Lisa asked.  “Can we go in now?”

            “We’re not staying here.”  He pointed to the bedroom window, where the lamp glowed warmly behind the blinds.  “But I wanted it to look like we are.”

            “You’re worried that those people might track us here?”

            “Let’s not underestimate them.  They might’ve determined that we were staying at Mike’s place in Duluth, pulled him up on their super database network or whatever they’re using, and got a listing of all his properties.  It’s reasonable for them to assume that Mike might let us hide out at one of his rentals.”

            “But he has something like ten places that he rents out.  How would they figure out it’s this one?”

            “Process of elimination.”  He reversed out of the driveway.  “We don’t know how many people they’ve got searching for us.  They could have a team of a dozen operatives combing the city.”

            “You think?”  She gnawed her bottom lip. 

            “I happen to think we’re dealing mainly with the nutty guy and his female partner,” he said.  “But if we’re going to stay ahead of them, we have to outfox them.”

            “Where are we going to stay then?  A hotel?”

            “Right here.”

            He swung into the driveway of a ranch with brick exterior and a “For Sale--Under Contract,” sign in the yard.  It was across the street and a few doors down from Mike’s split-level.  The place was dark, several plastic-wrapped newspapers were scattered across the sidewalk, and a lockbox was secured to the doorknob of the front door.

            She was nodding.  “Ah, Mike recently put a contract on this house.  He mentioned something about getting a good deal on a place near the rental.”

            “Since he hasn’t officially closed on it yet, this property shouldn’t show up in the cult’s super computer, either.”

            “I also thought he said the owner’s already moved to Florida.  It should be empty.”   

            “Compliment me on my brilliance later.  Meantime, scoot behind the wheel and get ready to pull into the garage when I wave you in.  I’m going to go around back and open the door.”

            “You mean you’re going to break in.”

            “That’s such a crude way to put it.”

            He fished his flashlight out of his duffel and found a crowbar in the cargo area.  Before heading to the back, he pulled the “For Sale” sign out of the grass.  If neighbors happened to spy them inside the home and noted the sign in the yard, they might suspect a break-in and contact police.    

            He walked around the back of the house, feet swishing through the damp Bermuda grass.  The houses on either side had tall wooden privacy fences around the perimeters of their yards, shielding him from prying eyes.

            He panned the flashlight across the back of the house.  Plastic lawn furniture on the concrete slab patio.  Back door with a simple lockset, no deadbolt.

            The crowbar was unnecessary.  He used a video rental store card to disengage the lock, set the real estate sign against the doorframe, and entered into a kitchen.

            The house was furnished with basic, economical pieces, was clean, and appeared to have been painted recently, in soft neutral colors.  Evidently the owner had made an effort at staging the home to appeal to prospective buyers.