by Glenn Kleier
Ariel was aware. The Church put huge pressure on the community to conform to its values. Those falling short suffered ostracism. And apparently, worse.
Tia said, “It seems many ‘sexually dysfunctional’ teens were gay. And for Neuhoffer, that was a sin, a choice, and curable.”
Ariel knew of gay-conversion therapy, if unaware of its practice at the Institute. Cruel, dangerous, and long-discredited by the American Psychiatric Association and other authorities.
“…He called his method Sexual Identity Reorientation. Pure bullshit. A mix of pseudo-psychology, behavior modification, bible study, and prayer. To him, homosexuality was rooted in childhood, the result of abuse by someone of the opposite sex. His remedy was to ‘reorient’ the afflicted to the pleasures of natural sex ‘in the manner God intended.’ He treated some girls personally—the pretty ones. And when I say personally…’
Ariel felt nauseous.
“A miserable failure,” Tia said. “Kids sent to his clinic were already fragile, and he made them worse. Not a single cure. Self-mutilations and suicides spiked. And the more desperate the situation, the more extreme his methods.”
“Was Reverend Thornton aware of what was going on?” Ariel couldn’t imagine it.
“Hard to say. From what I gathered, Neuhoffer concealed his activities from all but handpicked staff. And not even they knew what he did in his private sessions.”
Tia took Ariel’s hand. “I’m sorry, but your stepfather is a sick son of a bitch. And we need to do something about it.”
It would destroy Mom, yet the truth couldn’t come as a complete shock. She had to know, somewhere deep down.
Ariel nodded. “What do we do?”
“There’s enough in his files to put him away for life, but I need your help. I need you to add those files to your journal so they’re transferred to the rabbit’s foot for safekeeping. Once all this is over, we’ll get them to the authorities.”
“Not the photos he took! Child pornography on my computer?”
“No-no, I left those out. There is one video, an underage girl he abused, but I edited and pixilated it where necessary. That, along with his notes, is plenty to convict him.”
Ariel shivered. More of a monster than she’d ever imagined. To think she’d lived in the same house, and her mother lived with him still. Ariel resolved to try contacting Mom once more, though she knew what the outcome would be.
She asked, “Did you happen to see a patient in his files named Nicole LeClair?”
Tia stared at her, blinking. “Christ. That’s the girl in the video.”
Chapter 76
Wednesday, October 22, 7:59 pm, Queens
Scotty stood outside Kassandra’s door, rolling a bottle of rosé in sweaty palms. Ivy was against him doing this. She didn’t like Kassandra.
“You think she’d give a flip about you if it weren’t for your fame?” she’d clamored at him.
No, but wasn’t that a perk of fame? As the guru said,
Step #43: Embrace the rewards you’ve earned.
It wasn’t like the Lord’s tasks had been a cakewalk. And now that Scotty’s strange ordeal was ending, he drew some satisfaction from the good he’d accomplished—along with a spot more self-confidence. So his flash in the pan had netted him a date. At least he’d come away from all this with something. Once he reported back to Ariel tomorrow, his Mission would be over, and his celebrity would fade. And unlike Ivy, he’d no faith a golden parachute awaited.
When he’d left for his date, Ivy had gone to Mrs. Steiner’s for dinner and the debate, bearing Scotty’s regrets. Scotty knew Mrs. Steiner would forgive him, she was in his corner on this.
Smoothing back his hair, he inhaled and knocked.
The light in the peephole darkened, and the door opened. On a vision. Kassandra looked stunning. Her bobbed hair was now flipped, chic, her big brown eyes magnified by mascara and eyeliner, brows penciled into perfect arches. Lips crimson to match her blouse, which opened three full buttons to hint at flawless breasts. The prettiest woman he’d ever met—angels aside.
“I love a man who’s punctual,” she said, smiling, showing him in.
An aroma of oregano filled his head. He loved Italian.
The apartment was laid out the inverse of his. Living room smaller, no window, starkly furnished, architectural salvage stuff. A few minimalist paintings. Cool. A treadmill with one of those attachments for a laptop so you could work while you jogged. How did people do that?
He handed her the wine, something he’d dug out of his cupboard from who-knew-when.
“How sweet,” she said, squinting at the label. Thanking him, she set it aside and directed him to a white, faux-leather sectional. It faced a flat-screen TV, switched off. In between stood a glass coffee table with two place settings side by side, a decanter of red wine, and two glasses.
“A drink?” she asked as he took a seat.
“Sure.”
She leaned into him to pour from the decanter, and Scotty inhaled the scent of lavender.
“To good neighbors,” she said, raising her glass.
Concealing his mouth, he grinned, clinked, and sipped.
Dry. He didn’t especially like wine.
“Care for another tart?” Kassandra asked. Her cheeks were weary from smiling.
“Oh yes, please,” Scott said.
His third. The man had no regard for nutrition. Rising, she took their plates to the sink and dumped her desert in the garbage along with her pre-conceived notions about this guy. All that clamor on TV today? Those fanatics raving about his wise, prophetic abilities? Hype. As she’d learned over dinner, Scott Butterfield was neither sage nor seer. After only one glass of wine, he’d admitted he was simply a messenger boy. Two glasses, he divulged the surprising source of his revelations, an “angel of the Lord.” He’d said it with straight face, and swearing Kassandra to secrecy, added, “We meet on the Internet.”
She’d nearly choked on her garlic roll.
Returning with another pastry, she asked, “So what’s this angel look like?”
His eyes turned inward, dreamy. “You can’t imagine how beautiful, Kassandra. The most perfect being imaginable. A goddess. Otherworldly.”
It didn’t take a PR degree to see what was going on. The fool had fallen victim to a scam. After which, the media stumbled across him and his carnie show, and whipped the public into a frenzy over a few coincidences. News stations had no scruples about pushing bullshit these days, not with 24/7 airtime to fill.
What did surprise Kassandra was that Butterfield hadn’t figured it out by now. The guy wasn’t stupid. Nerdy, shy, trusting, yes. But well-informed, well-spoken. And yet, from all she could gather peppering him with questions, he was as duped as the zealots who followed him. The stooge of some online charlatan.
Which put a kink in her plan tonight. Had he proved the con artist she’d thought, the evening would have been cut and dried. A simple business transaction. She’d have bribed him to go back on TV and make another pronouncement: the Lord’s pick in the election, Ellen Shackleton.
Money would have been no object. The DNC would cough up whatever it took. What price an endorsement from God? Swing states be damned, Christians everywhere would drop Filby like a graven image and switch sides, turning a tight race into a debacle. Shackleton would sweep into office with a mandate, Butterfield would go quietly away a wealthy man, and Kassandra’s coup would establish her as a PR wunderkind, ensuring her career at EP&M.
Win-win-win.
But of all the luck, this nebbish with confectioner’s sugar in his beard had turned out the type of man Kassandra had no experience with. Honest. Offering him a bribe might well offend him and blow her chances. Her best hope now seemed to hinge on how much control Butterfield’s online master had over him, and if Kassandra could somehow pry away his allegiance.
She had one advantage, at least. The guy had a crush on her. He’d been eating out of her hand all night, Stouffer’s not-withs
tanding. It seemed he had no girlfriend. That elf in his apartment was his sister. In fact, when Kassandra stopped by earlier to invite him to dinner, the girl was in an Honest Ellen T-shirt. With luck, Butterfield was a supporter, too.
The night was growing long, and if the wine, food, and flirtations had done their job, the man was sufficiently softened. She took her seat next to him, closer, touching, handing him his éclair.
“So, Scott,” she said sweetly, “who do you like in the election?”
She held her breath, watching him shrug.
“Neither.”
Could have been worse. “You favor one party over the other?”
“I don’t see the point, they’re both owned by lobbyists.”
Kassandra couldn’t help herself. “Shackleton supports the working class, you know. Education, healthcare, job growth.”
“Till elected. Then government goes back to gridlock. Nothing ever changes.”
The guy wasn’t so much naïve as cynical. Figuring she’d little to lose, she laid it out there.
“I don’t know if I told you,” she said, “but I work at EP&M.”
He frowned, and she clarified, “Biggest PR firm in the world. Ellen Shackleton’s a client. It’s been an amazing experience. I’ve gotten to observe her up close. See her when the cameras aren’t on, see how she treats us ‘little people.’ I have to tell you, she’s not who you think. She’s warm, caring, and kind. Someone you’d admire and respect—if ever you met her.”
Scooting closer, she placed a hand on his knee, feeling him stiffen.
“Can I ask a favor?” she said, paying him a coy look. He blinked. “Would you consider having coffee with her? Just the two of you, one-on-one. Get to know her, see what she’s like?”
If she could just get them together, shaking hands, tête-à-tête-ing, Lady JFK would work her famous charm. A killer photo op. An implied endorsement. Kassandra’s heart pounded. Whatever it took, she had to get him to agree.
He appeared vulnerable, and she pressed, “I’d be so grateful.” She squeezed his leg again.
Chapter 77
Thursday, October 23, 12:15 pm, City of God
Reverend Thornton landed at the City of God airport shortly before midnight. He remained in his seat well after the plane taxied to the tarmac and parked, eyes closed. He felt the pilot tap him on the shoulder, and Thornton gathered himself to deplane.
His driver stowed his bags in the car and asked, “Home, sir?”
“I know it’s late, Mark, but could we stop by the chapel?”
“Of course.”
In the wake of this grueling day, Thornton needed a shot of faith. His debacle with the Council; the Prophet’s dire diagnosis; the debate—Filby’s performance was no better than before. Nevertheless, the reverend’s concern at the moment wasn’t politics. The thought of losing Alice had rattled him to the soul. Immediately after his appearance with the Prophet, he’d rushed to call her, hoping to reach her before the news. But Hawk had been promoting the event, and apparently the entire City had watched. Unfortunately, during the broadcast, Thornton’s lapel mike had picked up the Prophet’s whispered words, and the station was quick to make hay of it.
When finally Thornton had gotten through to Alice, he’d found her calm and composed as ever. “To think God would bless me with a warning,” she’d told him.
Thornton feared it was no blessing, but kept that to himself. In his heart, he believed her illness was the last installment on an old debt, the reason God had singled him out for the Prophet’s message. A final toll for the grievous sin he’d committed long ago. And now, despite his steadfast efforts at atonement, God was foreclosing on the love of his life.
But Thornton was a master at concealing his emotions. He’d assured Alice on the phone that all would be fine, and jumped off to call the hospital that bore his name, arranging to have her seen by the head oncologist first thing tomorrow, promised answers sometime that afternoon.
His car rolled to a stop at the summit of Chapel Hill, and he exited telling Mark, “A half-hour should do.” He departed down the path into the trees, paused tearfully over his family’s graves, and went inside the church. This time he made certain he was alone, taking a back pew.
“Oh merciful God,” he cried, burying his face in his hands, “I beg You. I’ve worked loyally in Your service all these years, and I pray once more for Your absolution. Please, spare her life.”
He broke down, and his mind flew back decades to the accursed sin that brought him to this moment of reckoning…
Alice Willoughby had come to Thornton’s attention during the period his ministry was undergoing its first growth spurt. He needed administrative assistance, and she’d applied fresh out of college, daughter of a respected elder. A wonderful addition. Bright, enthusiastic. Thornton had come to rely on her, and she assumed the duties of his personal secretary.
At the time, Thornton had been married to Doris for eight years. A solid marriage. Doris was a good woman. Intelligent, devoted, devout. A bit formal and plain, perhaps. Quiet, shy. But honorable and a loving mother. She’d raised Paul and Sarah to the highest standards. A God-fearing family the community looked up to.
Thornton had no excuse to stray, and no notion to do so. All the same, he couldn’t help but notice Alice’s admirable qualities. She was quite pretty. Wavy brown hair, large green eyes. And working together, often late, they grew close. Unlike Doris, who shunned complex topics, Alice was someone Thornton could share his thoughts with. He ran sermons past her, bounced ideas off her. She was insightful, she inspired him, challenged him, elevated his game.
He grew increasingly fond of her, yet remained blind to—or perhaps in denial of—his incubating affections. But slowly, he came to realize he’d never known true love before. What bound him to Doris was respect, common values, his children. And his sacred wedding vows.
Then one beautiful autumn evening not unlike tonight, Thornton was in his office past hours, working on a script for an important televangelical broadcast. Alice was out at her desk assisting with edits, and Thornton hit an impasse. Needing a break, he lay on his couch for a moment to clear his head. Next he knew, he opened his eyes to someone hovering over him, lights soft. Alice, covering him with a blanket. He looked up into her sweet face, their eyes met, and mindlessly, helplessly, they melded into each other.
Immediately after, they felt frightened and an enormous guilt. They prayed together, begged God’s forgiveness, vowed to avoid a recurrence. Even so, they were weak. The late-night liaisons continued, and it seemed their only recourse was for Alice to resign. Yet neither was willing to throw away their successful collaboration. The situation dragged into winter, and finally came an evening that would never end. That dreadful night God’s patience wore out.
Once again, Thornton was in Alice’s arms on his couch after hours, lights dim. Abruptly the door opened, the lights flashed on, and Thornton turned to see Doris, Paul, and Sarah gaping in horror. Doris held her fist to her heart, uttering the most anguished sound Thornton ever heard. She grabbed the children’s hands and fled, footsteps and sobs echoing down the hallway.
Thornton threw on his clothes and rushed after, out to the parking lot. But they were already in their car, speeding off. It was sleeting, and he raced to his car to give chase, pleading with God to forgive him, to somehow heal this ghastly wound. But as he drew close to her car, she sped up, and fearing to push her on the slick roads, he backed off. Soon he lost sight of her.
He knew before he saw. Deep in his soul, he knew. As he rounded a curve, there on the side of the road lay shapeless metal wrapped smoldering around a tree.
After the funeral, Thornton went into seclusion, too mortified to admit his sin, insisting Alice take over his administrative duties. A full year later he emerged at last, heart still crushed, determined to earn the Lord’s forgiveness. And re-consecrating himself, Thornton hefted his burden and resumed his duties, thereafter living in self-imposed chastisement, a hard
working, righteous and celibate man to this day. Yet his love for Alice Willoughby never waned.
Chapter 78
Thursday, October 23, 10:15 am
Endicott, Percy & Moore Communications
Kassandra was shaking. For the third time, she approached the door to the conference room, seeing through its glass to the bigwigs inside. Gathered at the table were EP&M’s top officers, including Franklin Percy, a dozen DNC heavies, another dozen Shackleton campaign directors, and Shackleton’s chairperson. Kassandra could hear them still arguing.
Franklin Percy was saying, “…split-screen comparison TV spots—clips of Shakleton’s best moments in the debate contrasted with Filby’s fumbling.”
A DNC official countered, “Yes, she bitch-slaps him in the debates. But it’s not resonating. The swing-state polls barely budged. We need separation. We need to peel off some of those damned bible-thumpers.”
The Shackleton chairman piled on. “He’s right, Frank. Where’s your answer to the Crusade? Now I see Thornton’s chummy with that prophet the country’s nuts over.” He tossed his pen on the table. “We don’t need new TV spots for godssakes, we need an endorsement from the pope!”
Seeing the entrée she was looking for, Kassandra opened the door and barged in, moving fast to conceal her trembling. The meeting came to a standstill, and Shonda Gonzalez sputtered, “Excuse me. This is a closed meeting.”
Kassandra headed to the front of the room, taken off stride to see Bobby Driscoll seated behind an EP&M principle. She faced the table as everyone stared, and in the most confident tone she could muster, declared, “You want Christian support? I can get it for you.” She looked the campaign director in the eye. “What would you say to a meeting between Shackleton and the Prophet of Queens?”
The man looked surprised, and Shonda cried, “We’ve no time for this! We’ve tried reaching the Prophet. No one gets through, he’s property of Hawk News, and they’re sure as hell not letting him out to meet a Democrat. Please leave. Now.”
Kassandra held her ground. “His name’s Scott Butterfield, and we’re friends. We had dinner together last night.”