The Chair (7 page)

Go!

An instant later he was airborne, wind racing past him like a hurricane, the river and the shore below rushing up to meet him like a giant silver snake ready to strike.

One thousand one.

On thousand two.

He should pull.

No, half a second longer.

Pull!
His mind screamed.

A little longer.

What are you doing!

Corin stared at the ground streaking toward him at warp speed, a surge of panic ripping through his body and he released his chute. Too close. He’d waited too long. Why wasn’t his chute opening?

C’mon!

A second later his chute opened with a familiar
thwap
, sounding like a muffled shotgun blast arresting his free fall.

Twenty feet till impact. He would hit the ground hard. Fifteen. He gritted his teeth and pulled hard on his side cords to give himself as much lift as possible.

“Uhhh!”

He landed hard in a tiny grass clearing fifty yards from the edge of the river and rolled to lessen the impact.

It didn’t help much.

That hurt.

He rolled to his left like a slug and stared at a row of rocks three feet to his left. That would have hurt even more. A lot more.

He stood, stepped out of his chute, and squinted up at the others floating down.

“Whooooohooooooo!” Tori’s scream echoed off the canyon walls. Then Krystal’s, then the rest of them.

Corin grinned. Another good time enjoyed by the crazies he called friends.

TORI’S FOLDED ARMS and scowl complemented her silence nicely, but after half an hour of it Corin was through. “I’m tired of getting a blast of freezing air from your left shoulder. Do you mind turning up the heat?”

“Very clever.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re ticked off about?”

Tori pulled her feet off the dashboard of Corin’s truck and turned in her seat, keeping her arms locked to her chest. “I know we’ve only been dating for three months, but I’ve grown to like you a lot in that time.”

“Me too. What’s your point?”

“You almost killed yourself today.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Do you want me to call the other six witnesses to the stand who let out a collective gasp as they watched you this morning?”

“They actually gasped?” Corin grinned. “Cool.”

“It’s not funny, Corin.”

“I think you’re overreacting.” He flicked on his headlights for safety and pulled on his right ear. “I was fine.”

“What is it with you?” Tori turned back and stared out the passenger window. “You want to kill yourself? Do you have some death wish you haven’t told me about?”

“No.”

“Then what were you doing out there?”

What could he tell her? There was always the truth. Might as well.

“I honestly don’t know.” He gripped the steering wheel hard.

But I need to find out.

C
orin pulled up the Internet early on Monday morning to get his local news fix as he chowed on a sausage-egg-and-cheese English-muffin sandwich. The weather would be decent for the next few days. Nice. And the Broncos won again. Amazing. The temperature in hell must be dropping.

He was about to click to a new page when a headline made his finger freeze.

Boy Cured of Asthma. Family Says Miracle.

That’s what his new pal Brittan could use. Corin clicked on the story, took a sip of his chai green tea, and started reading.

Colorado Springs—A young boy in our city has lived with severe asthma every day for nearly seven years. No more. His parents say something extraordinary happened to him four days ago. They claim it is nothing less than divine intervention. Last Thursday evening, when they went to give their son his daily asthma medicine, young Brittan Gibson . . .

“What?” Corin lurched forward splashing green tea on his table and his English muffin. He snatched a napkin and dabbed at the spill and kept reading.

. . . said he didn’t need it, that his asthma was gone. At first they didn’t believe him, but after he insisted he show them what he meant, they gave in and allowed him to give a convincing demonstration.

The story was cut in two by a still of a video. Corin clicked on the Play button, and a few seconds later he was watching video of the front yard of a middle-class home with a freshly cut lawn and a white minivan in the driveway.

The next shot was of a young boy.

Corin leaned in and stared at his computer screen. No question. It was the kid from his store.

“Just like he did for our cameras, Brittan Gibson ran the length of his yard back and forth for his parents. He was winded, yes, but nothing more than what any healthy young boy would experience after sprinting around his front yard.”

Corin rested the side of his face in the palm of his hand and glanced at a picture of the chair he’d tacked to the bulletin board in his kitchen.

The reporter said, “His doctor confirms Brittan did indeed have severe asthma and is at a loss to explain how or why the asthma vanished.”

The video cut to the doctor.

“Sometimes asthma will slowly leave children in their late teens or early twenties. I’ve never seen a case like this, but I suppose it’s possible for it to leave this rapidly. There’s always a first time. The Gibsons aren’t calling it outgrowing the disease; they’re calling it a miracle.”

The video cut to Brittan’s mom and a reporter.

“Did you do anything unusual earlier that day?”

“We went shopping. Brittan had an attack inside an antiques store. He took a short nap sitting in a chair inside the store while I bought him some baseball memorabilia, and we went home. That’s it. Four hours later his asthma was gone.”

Corin slumped back in his seat and gazed at the photo of the chair again, arms folded.

The kid sits in the chair. Boom, a few hours later he’s healed.

It was beyond odd. It was fascinating. An amazing coincidence.

But somehow he knew it was more than chance.

P
astor Mark Jefferies tossed his black leather jacket onto the back of one the two tan leather chairs in front of his cherry wood desk and checked his black hair in the mirror to the left of his office door. Not bad. Spike it up a little more. He massaged it with his fingers till it looked perfectly disheveled. Nice. He spun and strode to his desk.

Thirty-seven wasn’t too old to go for the emo look. Besides, not only did he pull it off, YouTube hits had rocketed up 17 percent per week after he adopted the new style. Plus people said it made him look thirty. Had to carry the image to carry the crowd.

And the church crowd in La Jolla loved him. Along with the five satellite churches spread through the rest of the greater San Diego area.

Rent a building, give ’em lightning in a Bible every Sunday morning and Sunday evening, and church growth was inevitable.

After he plopped into the chair in front of his desk, picked up his Bible, and kissed it, he pulled up his Facebook fan page. Sweet. Three hundred and seventy-two more followers since yesterday. Probably time to put up another post on how he loved taking his wife out on dates.

Always got strong responses to those types of posts. Then follow up with a post about boys becoming men, men becoming leaders, leaders becoming kings, kings expanding their kingdoms.

Talk about strong men, men who knew where they were going and why. It was true. They needed that kind of inspiration. Don’t tickle their ears, drown them in a Super Bowl Gatorade bucket of truth.

It wasn’t like he didn’t believe in what he served up for worldwide consumption. He did enjoy taking his wife out. And he believed what he preached. It was right and it was true. But all the better if it endeared him to his legion of fans. All the better if it ticked some people off, especially those far-left whackos who wanted to turn the world over to the democrats and love gurus. Because that gave him press and press gave him attention. People wanted a figurehead to rally around. And he was the figurehead who would lead them back to God. Maybe America was going to hell in a handbasket of intolerant tolerance, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to reweave the thing on the way down.

He shook his head. It was only six years ago when he had been preaching in his living room to his wife and three other couples. And now thousands and thousands hung on every word, every YouTube video.

Did a part of him long for those early days when the pressure of being an icon wasn’t squeezing him like when he did his scuba diving thing at 120 feet below the Pacific? Absolutely.

Had he been ready for the church to explode as fast as it had? Probably not.

But someone had to be the point of the wedge.

And if he had to become a star to accomplish what needed to be done, so be it. The end most assuredly justified the means.

A rap on his door frame startled him and his head snapped back. “What?” He looked up to see Ben Raney standing in his doorway, a stack of papers in his hands.

“Are you ready to meet?”

“It’s time already?” Mark glanced at his watch and scowled. Time was always sprinting too fast and too far ahead of him, and lately it seemed time had lengthened its lead.

“Yep.” Ben tapped his watch with his pinky finger.

Why did the kid do that? Made him look so metro.

“Three p.m. on the button.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

Ben turned to go.

“Wait, why are you smiling?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. You’re going to love it.”

“Tell me now.” Mark slid out of his chair, sauntered around the end of his desk, and leaned back against it.

“It can wait. I’ll be back in ten.”

“I’m ready now.”

Ben smirked, so slightly Mark almost missed it.

“Have you studied the local news feeds from around the country yet?” Ben pushed his dark red hair off his forehead, which flopped back down a moment later.

“No, I pay you to look at it for me.” Mark folded his arms.

“Ah yes, that’s right. I’ll be back in three minutes. I might have missed a story or two.”

Passive-aggressive little snot. He hated passive-aggressive behavior. Straight aggressive worked faster and kept people in their places more effectively. When he shot people, at least he had the courage to shoot them in the chest.

“Ben, what do you think you’re doing? Do you think God condones that attitude?”

“What attitude?”

“Cut it. We both know you’re pitching me nonsense and it won’t fly. If you want to be sitting where I am someday, you have to submit to my authority. Got it? Not just your actions—your attitude. Are we clear, or do you need to start looking for another job right now?”

“I’m sorry, Mark. You’re right. I totally get it. Forgive me.”

Grace. He needed it himself. So he needed to give it. Even when his emotions screamed to do the opposite.
Breathe deep. Offer grace, c’mon.

“Done. It’s over, forgiven, forgotten.” Mark clasped his hands behind his head. “Now talk. Tell me about this story.”

Ben set a printout of a news story onto Mark’s desk. It featured a picture of a young blond boy with what must be his parents on either side. The headline read,
Boy Cured of Asthma. Family Says Miracle.

“So what?” Mark pushed the paper back at Ben. “God still heals people these days.”

“I believe He does as well. But when the healing comes from involvement with a certain type of inanimate object I believe you have an absorbing fascination with, it makes the whole scenario much more interesting.”

Mark’s pulse spiked. “If you’re grinding my gears—”

“I’m not.” Ben shook his head and tapped the paper. “I’m betting the chair that kid sat in before he got healed was a chair you’re extremely familiar with.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.” Ben tapped the article again. “It was an antiques store.”

Mark leaned forward and read the entire article, raked his fingers through his hair, and said more to himself than Ben, “So this mom and her son wander into an antiques store, the boy had an asthma attack, the kid sits in a chair, and four hours later he’s healed.”