Fallen Masters (44 page)

“I know what you mean,” Dave said. “However, I think that there are many people in the world who are atheists and who are good, decent people. Forgive me, Your Holiness, but I truly believe that you don’t necessarily have to be a person of faith to have a good heart. But then there are those who have wrapped themselves in the cloak of atheism and are actively trying not to advocate a discussion of reason but to destroy the faith of others. Theirs is a world of hate and fear. The question is, what are we to do about it?”

“You have made a beginning, my son. Your television program reaches millions, and those millions tell millions more. As Christians, we must take up the cross of Jesus, but this battle transcends Christianity. It is the classic battle of good against evil, and in order to win, we will require the combined efforts of not just those of faith but all men of goodwill, whether they agree with my conception of the Creator or not.”

“You seem to be more open to the validity of other religions than your predecessors were. May I ask you—?”

“Holy Father,” Cardinal Morricone said, stepping into the room at that moment. “You have a full schedule today.”

“Please forgive me if I’ve taken too much of your time,” Dave said.

“Any time we are doing God’s work is time well spent,” Pope Genaro said. He smiled at the interviewer, indicating without words that he had heard Dave Hampton’s question.

South Junction, Jamaica

On her first visit, a decade earlier, Willi Steenberg had been a tourist looking for a fun, relaxing time at a Jamaican resort in the coastal parish of Saint Elizabeth. But after five days of nonstop sun and rum drinks, she asked the hotel concierge for a car and directions to a “real” town where she could meet some “real” people.

The young Dutch woman drove about forty miles inland and a few hundred feet up in elevation to South Junction, which was little more than just that—a meeting of two main roads, with shops and a petrol station, a bank and a bus stop. Within the immediate vicinity were a few hundred homes surrounded on all sides by farmland and woodland, just a mile from a little river that flowed into the Caribbean Sea below.

Willi had been born and raised in the countryside, then attended university in Utrecht, and moved there to live and work for the rest of her adult life. So she was used to city and country life both. She loved the look of the bustling little outpost of civilization and stopped to eat and refuel her rental car.

A gaggle of primary schoolchildren caught her eye. They were on lunch break and came into the café to buy some patties and cola drinks before returning to classes. She asked one of them where they went to school.

“In the town hall basement,” the girl with golden brown skin and night-black hair told her.

“Oh? You don’t have a schoolhouse?”

“Our school was blown down by the hurricane last year,” another youngster said. “No more schoolhouse for us.”

Willi asked around town and found out that, indeed, the five-grade school, which had been little more than a tin warehouse in the first place, had blown away. So, when she went back home after that first trip, she thought about what she could do to help the kids. She priced some inexpensive but sturdy buildings that could be built in the area and researched labor costs and local politics. Her conclusion: She could build a new school with her own savings, some gifts and loans from friends, and credit card equity. It really didn’t cost all that much, all things considered.

Now, ten years later, she had returned to South Junction. The schoolhouse she had financed had been in use for three full school years. All the kids she had originally met in the café had long since graduated and moved on, but when she returned to the little eatery for a bite before visiting the building, a dozen or so students came in at midday, just like the first time, and ordered their patties and soft drinks for a quick lunch.

Willi Steenberg walked from the café to the South Junction primary school in the early afternoon with tears in her eyes.

CHAPTER

79

Melbourne, Australia

As Dawson sat with his cell phone on the edge of his bed talking to his friend, Bobby Anderson, again, he saw President John F. Kennedy.

Kennedy reached up to brush a fall of hair back from his forehead, and he smiled at Dawson. “That’s all right, finish your call,” Kennedy said to him. “We’ll talk later.”

Dawson wondered how he could be seeing a long-dead president—and hearing him. Kennedy folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the desk. Then the image morphed into that of an animal—a majestic, fearsome king of animals. Dawson saw before him the same lion he had seen when he was in the car on the way to the radio station this morning. As before, the lion was animated, with human characteristics.

“Do you see that lion?” Dawson asked President Kennedy.

In fact, he hadn’t actually spoken, as he was still engaged in conversation with Bob Anderson. In some weird way, he was able to think of these words and images and not lose his focus on the conversation with Bob. He realized that he was multi-thinking and reacting.

“Of course I see the lion,” Kennedy answered. Now the two images—lion and human—were separate. The handsome president pointed to it. “It’s right there in front of us. How could I not see it?”

The balding, chubby-cheeked man who had appeared at the foot of his bed half an hour earlier now appeared alongside Kennedy. He picked up the newspaper that Dawson had been looking at earlier, and turned it so that Dawson could see the front page. Though he was too far away and the type too small for Dawson to be able to read the individual articles, he saw again, as he had seen in the car, disconnected words that grew in font size and became boldfaced, and then floated off the page to hang in the air in front of him.

JOY … CANCER … BELFAST … MERE … CHRISTIANITY … NOVEMBER

“Perelandra,” the balding visitor said. Kennedy nodded as if he understood completely what it meant.

Dawson’s fingers started tingling and shaking. His dizziness came and went, and he began getting a weird clarity about his thoughts.

“Dawson, are you still there, buddy?” Anderson asked.

“I’m here.”

“Good. I thought for a moment I had a dropped call.”

“Bob, what is Perry Landra?”

“What?” Anderson’s response was sharp, almost annoyed that Dawson had suddenly changed the direction of the call with such an unrelated, and totally meaningless question.

“What is Perry Landra, or maybe it is Perry Landers. It might be one word, like pere landra, or perrylandra? Does that mean anything to you? I keep hearing in my head.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about? Dude … that has nothing to do with what I am saying to you. Are you listening? Have you heard anything I have said to you?”

“Yes, I’ve heard everything,” Dawson said. “All the bodies that have been found in Belfast have one thing in common, markings and cuts on the body that were done postmortem. And they aren’t just slashes and disfigurements. They are numbers or letters, sometimes both, always in the same place. And just inside the left thigh are the words
Viva Domingo
carved on every one of them.”

“So you have been listening.”

“Yes, I’ve been listening. Bob, I have to go now, I have to do an interview. I’ll call you back, and if you need any more help from me, call me.

“Any more help? Yeah, I’ll do that, if I need—any more—help.” Anderson set the phrase “any more” apart from the rest of the sentence to emphasize the fact that he didn’t feel as if he had gotten much help in the first place.

Dawson caught the inference. “I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t that much help, was I? Let me think about it. If I come up with any ideas, I’ll call you back, I promise.”

“That’s all right,” Anderson said. “And thanks, Dawson. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

The room phone rang almost as soon as he punched off the cell phone call.

“Mr. Rask, this is Jack.”

“Who?”

“Jack, your driver, sir. You have another interview in one hour. I’m downstairs.”

“Oh. Thank you, I’ll be right down.”

Dawson hung up the phone and looked around the room: President Kennedy, the same little man, and the lion had all gone away. Dawson idly wondered if he was going insane. He also wondered about continuing his tour given the events happening back home, but it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it.

CHAPTER

80

Dawson was at another radio interview, and as his publicist explained, this one would air during drive time and reach the entire country, so it would be good for sales.

He was met by Tony Gordon, a smiling man with white hair and beard, wearing glasses that reflected so much that most of the time his eyes were hidden.

“I heard about your show with Jim Mayer,” Gordon said. He laughed. “The entire country has heard about it.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me this morning.”

“Oh, please don’t apologize,” Gordon said. “As far as I’m concerned, that pompous ass got just what he deserved. I promise you, our interview will be on the friendliest possible terms.”

“Thank you.”

The host escorted Dawson into the broadcast booth. There was a newscast on at the moment, which gave Dawson time to settle into his chair and wait for the interview to begin.

“My guest today is the well-known and most accomplished American author Dawson Rask. Mr. Rask, welcome to the
Gordon Hour
.”

“Thank you.”

“Has anyone ever compared your work to that of C. S. Lewis?” Gordon asked.

“C. S. Lewis? No, I don’t believe so. Though to be honest with you, I’m not that familiar with the works of C. S. Lewis, other than
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
. And I must confess that I have never even read that.” Startled by the reference to his visions, he wondered where this was going.…

“Well, I say that because in your book
The Moses Mosaic,
there is battle between good and evil, your protagonist fights what one could call demons as he travels toward the ultimate goal. Some of these demons are only in his head, in that he is following false leads, and some are real, but it is up to the reader to discern which are real and which are in his imagination. And in the final denouement, we learn that there is an unseen order, and we must adjust ourselves harmoniously with that order. Would you say that is a fairly accurate interpretation of your book?”

As Dawson listened to Gordon’s question, which was more of a dissertation than a question, he saw a handsome young man with strong jawlines and a squared chin. He was wearing the uniform of a World War I soldier, complete with the pie-pan helmet worn then. He was smiling at Dawson and nodding in agreement with everything Gordon was saying.

“I must confess that no one has ever made that comparison to me,” Dawson said. “And I had never looked at it in quite that way. But now that you tell me your take on it, I can see why the comparison would be valid. And, I hasten to add, I am extremely flattered to have my work compared to that of C. S. Lewis—or even to be mentioned in the same breath, as far as that goes.”

“Of course, when you consider that Screwtape is a devil, and not just any devil, but head of one of the chambers of hell, you get a much better perspective. He is someone who understands human weakness very well,” Gordon said.

“What? I’m sorry, what did you say?” Dawson touched his headset as if to indicate that it had cut out on him.

“I said that when you consider all the obstacles your character must surmount, that he goes through a veritable hell, you have a better understanding of his human strengths and weaknesses,” Gordon repeated.

“Uh, yes, that’s true,” Dawson fumbled, then tried to refocus.

As the interview continued, the World War I soldier disappeared. Neither his appearance nor disappearance shocked Dawson, nor did the disjointed words Dawson was now hearing—words such as
cancer, Belfast, Bernagh,
and
Warney.

“How long will you
Belfast
be with us here in Australia?”

“I’ll be heading back to the States tomorrow,” Dawson replied.

“I do
Bernagh
hope you have enjoyed your stay with us. Of course, the unpleasant episode with Jim Mayer being the
Warney
.”

“It has been most productive and pleasant—for the most part,” Dawson said with a grin.

The interview continued for the entire hour, during which time they spoke of writing, and of his experiences and how they helped his writing.

“I feel that experiences are to a writer what automobiles are to a car dealer. A car dealer who has no automobiles on his lot cannot stay in business. A writer who does not have a backlog of experiences cannot write.”

“Interesting concept,” Gordon said. “My guest today has been Dawson Rask. Mr. Rask, it has been a rare privilege,” he said. “Please, if you are in Australia again, stop by and do the show with me again.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your insight and this opportunity,” Dawson replied with the slightest bit of distraction between what he heard and what he thought he heard.

Dawson was escorted back to the lobby where Jack, his driver, was waiting for him.

“Did you hear the interview?” he asked.

“Yes, they had it on the speaker,” Jack answered.

Dawson wanted to ask if Jack thought his performance was a bit off and if he thought it odd that Gordon did not make even one mention of the assassination of the President of the United States.

CHAPTER

81

Returning to his hotel room, Dawson opened his laptop, thankful for wi-fi, and checked into his gmail account. His box had ninety-three emails. At first, the emails pertained to his book and PR tour.

To: DARbook

From: Willoughby

Caught you on the radio. Loved the way you told Mayer what he could do with himself. I served with Americans in Vietnam. Like I’ve told all my friends, you Yanks do have a way with words, even if you do have a strange accent.