Rising Phoenix (3 page)

Blake chuckled into the microphone, shaking his head. The crowd laughed with him. He had always thought of his sermons as a roller coaster ride. Intensity had to be matched occasionally with humor and informality to have maximum effect. Otherwise you just exhausted the poor creatures.

He returned to his confidential tone. “I have something
I need to tell you all.” He shook his head sadly. “I just need a moment to pull myself together first.”

He sat down and once again looked out over the crowd. Through the glare of the lights, he could make out the concerned faces worn by the people in the first few rows. He motioned to the director of the choir, who turned and began “The Old Rugged Cross.” As the rest of the choir joined in, Blake allowed a sad smile to cross his lips. It was a song he found particularly inspirational.

When he sat in his chair listening to the choir and surveying his church, he always felt a pang of regret. There was no disputing that the space was functional. It seated thousands, was acoustically perfect, had sufficient parking, and hid television and sound equipment with ruthless efficiency. It was the feel of the structure that bothered him. He had hoped for a more gothic look, a church full of interesting stone work and stained glass. What he had ended up with was a stark tribute to mankind’s intellect and not the monument to the human spirit that he’d expected. The harsh angles and blank walls spoke of mathematics, not of soul.

The architects, whom he was still suing, argued that they had shown him the drawings every step of the way and that he had approved them all. But what did he know of blueprints and construction? He was a man of God.

The completion of his cathedral had marked the beginning of Blake’s dominance in the highly competitive TV evangelism game. His ministry had expanded quickly, as he knew it would, and his fame had been bolstered by an endless procession of ghostwritten
books, a small university in Tennessee, and an ever-growing group of powerful political allies. Blake had discovered early in his career that if the Lord wouldn’t provide, there were probably any number of congressmen who would. To ensure his good standing with the men in power, he continually donated substantial funds to various campaigns and gave his allies ringing endorsements through his complex and constantly expanding network.

Of course, these allies were as godless as any man on death row. Hedonistic men who cared only about maximizing their own power and influence. Whores. But the Lord had taught him that it was just those flaws that made these men so painfully simple to manipulate. He ignored the darkness and lust that they nurtured in their black hearts. Their intentions were irrelevant—they were tools. And through him they had unwittingly become God’s tools.

As the final stanzas of “The Old Rugged Cross” filled the church, Blake walked back to his podium, head bent forward in defeat. He took a long deep breath that echoed through the church.

“I don’t know how to say this, it grieves me so,” he began. “One of our congregation’s children was murdered last week.”

Cries of “No!” and “Lord save us!” floated up and seemed to hang in the still air. Blake held up his hand, calling for silence.

“Bobby McEntyre was sixteen. He was on his high school’s varsity football team. He was a good student, and was active in his church.” Blake’s eyes began to mist, and a tear dripped down his cheek. He ran the
sleeve of his dark suit across his face, wiping it away. His congregation shouted its support.

“Bobby and a couple of his friends were driving to a Safeway in East Baltimore.” Blake shrugged dramatically. “It was just another Wednesday night—not late—about eight o’clock. It took a few moments for Bobby’s friends to grasp what had happened after the windshield shattered.” He paused. “The police say that a couple of drug pushers got into an argument, and these good Christian boys were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Blake turned and looked up at the large sculpture of Jesus crucified in front of the organ pipes at the back of the stage. “The wrong place at the wrong time,” he repeated to the Savior. His voice cracked.

His wavering tone was the cue for the technicians in the booth to cut to a video of a laughing Bobby McEntyre tossing a football-with his younger brother. When this appeared on the monitors in the church, as well as on the TVs of millions of viewers, a woman in the audience began to cry. He walked to the end of the stage, squinting against the lights.

“Mr. and Mrs. McEntyre, please come up here.” He held his hand out to help a heavyset woman in her early forties onto the stage. Her husband followed close behind. Both had tears in their eyes. Blake hugged them and turned them to face the crowd and cameras.

“I wanted to bring the McEntyres up here so that we could all express our sympathy and to tell them that they will be in our prayers.” The congregation mumbled its agreement. “I also wanted to tell them that I’m
beginning a scholarship to Lord’s Baptist University in Bobby’s name.”

The McEntyres hugged Blake again, tearfully expressing their gratitude and telling him how happy the scholarship would have made their son. A few people in the crowd clapped at the gesture. Blake watched the McEntyres as they were ushered back to their front row seats.

“I know that Bobby is in Paradise now, but he must feel great sadness in his heart at leaving such a wonderful family.”

A man at the edge of the stage signaled that there were only five minutes left in the broadcast. Catching him out of the corner of his eye, Blake nodded imperceptibly and walked back to his pulpit. It was important not to let the realities of television interfere with the electricity of the Lord’s presence.

“I want everyone in this church and everyone watching from home to join the Lord’s mortal battle with drugs. Write your congressman! Write your senator! Write the President! Tell them that we have had enough!” Blake pounded his fist on the podium, creating an exploding sound over the PA system.

“Don’t wait until tomorrow—write today,” Blake insisted. “We can take back America from the pushers, but it’s got to start with us! I don’t want any other parents in my congregation to suffer like the McEntyres have.”

He pushed himself away from the podium and walked to center stage. He stood there with his arms straight up in the air.

“God bless all of you,” he shouted without the aid of
his microphone. Thanks to the near-perfect acoustics of the building, his voice made it to all corners of the structure. It was his signature end to the service.

The choir began their final song as Blake disappeared through an inconspicuous door at the back of the stage.

As he walked toward the rear of the church, his chauffeur fell into step next to him. “Straight back to the office, Reverend?”

“Yes. Can we make it there by one-thirty?”

Carl looked at his watch and frowned. “I’ll do my best, but it depends on traffic.”

Despite its considerable bulk, the black limousine slipped effortlessly through the light afternoon traffic, a tribute to the man behind the wheel. Blake sat in the back sipping a Coke and flipping through the
Washington Post. The New York Times
and
LA Times
sat untouched next to him on the soft leather seat.

The front page of the
Post
was dominated by a picture of a young black boy. It was unmistakably a reproduction of a school photo. The boy mugged uncomfortably, hair and collar neater than they had a right to be on a child that age. The accompanying article caught Blake’s eye. He grimaced as he scanned through the first few paragraphs.

They told a story of a young boy living in downtown Washington who had repeatedly refused to get involved with drugs, despite escalating peer pressure. His abstention had irritated the local pushers sufficiently to inspire them to douse him with gasoline
and set him alight. Blake flipped the page, finding another picture of the boy. This time he was lying in a hospital wrapped in bandages. The only skin visible was a small patch on his right shoulder. His eyes were covered with large round pads that looked like something used to wax a car. Clear plastic tubes ran from his nose to a complex machine by the bed.

Disgusted, Blake tore out the article and stuffed it into his briefcase. Too bad the boy wasn’t white—a story like that could break collection records.

Blake scooted into the corner of the back seat so that he could see his driver’s face. “Did you read about the boy in Washington who was set on fire?”

“I sure did, Reverend. Breaks your heart, don’t it?”

“Why is this happening? What can we do to keep these kids away from drugs?”

Carl was one of the few black people that Blake knew well. He was under the impression that the black community was completely homogeneous and that his chauffeur was its spokesman.

“Don’t know, Reverend. Most of the kids I see don’t have much of a home life. And even if they did, it wouldn’t do any good. The pressure to be cool, do drugs, you know—all that stuff—it’s pretty strong. Comes a time when kids don’t want to listen to their folks anymore. It’s the same old problem, really. Kids want to feel grown up. They want to feel important.”

Blake smirked. Carl had a God-given talent for understatement. “I remember being a kid—how important it was to fit in,” Blake agreed. “But I don’t remember the unpopular kids being set on fire.” He scooted back
to the middle of the seat and flipped on a small television, signaling that the conversation was over.

The traffic thickened as the highway melded into a two-lane Baltimore city street. Carl continued north, past the new Camden Yards baseball stadium, and took an indirect route to the parking garage under the building that housed the church’s main offices. Blake jumped from the car, almost forgetting his briefcase, and walked quickly through the gloom to the elevator. His watch read 1:35, and he knew that John Hobart would have been waiting for precisely five minutes. Tardiness was not one of Hobart’s failings.

Blake’s organization took up the entire fourteenth floor of a hundred-thousand-square-foot office building that passed for a skyscraper in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Anyone accidentally getting off on the floor occupied by the church would probably mistake it for a large law firm. The space was tastefully decorated with plush beige carpet and thick wood paneling. Crystal vases filled with dried flowers sat on antique mahogany tables. Walls were sparsely covered with original artwork, and employees were dressed in dark suits or well-pressed skirts and blouses. Only the light religious music playing over invisible speakers hinted at the true nature of the tenant.

Blake strode purposefully past the reception area near the elevator doors, not returning the greeting of the young woman sitting behind the desk. As he walked into his office suite, his secretary motioned toward his office, indicating that his appointment was
waiting. Blake threw his coat on the sofa and walked though the open door of his office.

“Afternoon, John, sorry I’m late.”

“No problem, Reverend, I just got here myself,” John Hobart replied, looking up from the yellow legal pad resting in his lap.

Blake sat down across from him and pulled a pen from his pocket. He could feel Hobart watching him as he dated the first page of the pad. He didn’t immediately meet his gaze. Hobart had a lifeless stare. His eyes had a way of eliciting a nervous laugh from all but the most powerful of men. They seemed to be able to see things that people didn’t want seen.

Blake had hired him five years ago as head of church security, a move prompted by his growth into a full-fledged public figure. He hadn’t liked Hobart when they’d first met, but the man’s qualifications had been undeniable. Hobart had spent two tours of duty in Vietnam attached to a special forces unit, and had been highly decorated. Upon his return, he had gone to work for an accounting firm, getting his CPA less than a year later. Despite his success there, he had joined the Drug Enforcement Administration in the late seventies. He had explained to Blake that the boredom and irrelevance of the accounting business had finally worn him down.

Blake’s initial dislike for Hobart—his son would probably say that John gave him the creeps—had prompted him to continue his search for a security manager. He had spent weeks weeding through steroid-enhanced bodyguards, sleazy private investigators, and classless ex-cops. After all of the interviews
were finished, he found himself rereading Hobart’s résumé. Despite the fact that a polite rejection letter had already been sent, he called Hobart back for a second interview. It hadn’t changed his opinion of the man; and in fact, his feelings about Hobart still hadn’t changed. In the end though, Hobart had seemed to be the smart choice.

There had been no cause to regret his decision. Hobart had created a security force that the Mossad would respect. His less than sunny personality and ambiguous religious leanings were no great hardship when Blake weighed them against his own personal safety and the safety of his family.

In addition to his security expertise, Hobart’s accounting knowledge had become indispensable in handling the church’s less-than-above-board transactions. While the Reverend liked to see himself as an honest man, he had grown accustomed to the finer things in life. He had also become increasingly addicted to political power, which had a price. His donations to various government officials didn’t always meet the current definition of legality, and could be extremely embarrassing to a great number of people if they were to become public. Hobart seemed to have a special genius for setting up shell corporations and foreign accounts that looked completely legitimate, even under heavy scrutiny.

Blake’s secretary poked her head into the office. “Sorry to bother you, Reverend, but Senator Haskins is on line one.”

Blake stood and marched over to his desk. “Thanks, Terry.”

Hobart went silently back to the legal pad sitting in his lap. He spun his chair so that his back was to his boss, and suppressed a smile.

The family-values senator and the family-values preacher.

Blake had spent the last five years throwing money at “return to family values” campaigns. A shameful waste of resources, as far as Hobart was concerned. The Reverend came from a nice, white, middle-class family in western Maryland. Dad was a preacher, and Mom stayed home making pies and taking care of her 2.5 children. Blake seemed to think that people who wavered from that cosmic norm did so by choice. He thought that he could simply convince them of the superiority of a wholesome and fulfilling home life, and when convinced, they would come around instantly.