by Andrew Huff
The hours drifted by until daybreak softened the blackness of night.
Rays of sunlight kissed the rich stained-glass windows adorning the walls on either side of the small sanctuary. Cross knelt at the altar, his head hanging low and his hands clasped. Sleepless nights meant more time for him to be alone in the building before the service, a time Cross spent in deep contemplative prayer. It kept him sane.
Refusing to let the sun disturb him, he prayed until Gary Osborne, the head deacon and song leader, arrived in his bright-red pickup. Like a game of reverse dominos, the arrival of one would prompt the arrival of another. Gary first, followed by the pianist, Kim Young, then various choir members in sequential order. Though small and often stubborn, the congregation proved to be faithful.
Cross, aware of his antisocial tendencies, forced himself to speak to members as they arrived. “Good morning, Gary,” he said first, his hand outstretched. “Any new adventures in homeowners insurance this week?” He struggled initiating social interaction, but found sustaining a conversation easy. The one skill from his days in the CIA he discovered useful to his new role as a pastor was his uncanny ability to absorb information.
“Every week is an adventure when it comes to insuring one’s property,” Gary replied. His dry delivery hid a playful spirit hard to detect until you knew him. “I can at least guarantee it’s more exciting than the world of small town ministry.”
“That’s what you think. I’ve had my share of adventure.” Cross grinned. “Prayers of blessing over pregnant cattle can be harrowing.” Though he’d never admit to Jerry Walter his true feelings on the effectiveness of laying hands directly on the cow.
Gary flashed a squinty smile, a rare demonstration of glee, and proceeded to busy himself in preparation for the morning. Kim entered the sanctuary, next in line for greeting. Cross recalled an earlier conversation about her annoyance with a certain boisterous student and used the details to greet her in warm dialogue. He studied her eyes to see if she detected any hint of the makeup cocktail he’d mixed and used to cover the nicks and bruises on his face and hands. Yet another handy skill.
As each person arrived, Cross accessed his mental database of details and worked through fresh facts on Mrs. Templeton’s medical scare and Shea’s new job opportunity. He stored all the new information and asked for more. His other ministry skills were young, but listening to and remembering every detail of each individual’s personal life bought him the most credibility with the church.
At least, that was what Gary had said over and over again at the business meeting late one Sunday night when Cross found his name listed as the committee’s recommendation for the job. Despite his limited ministry education, they hadn’t let him refuse.
The faith those people had shown in that short meeting weighed heavily on Cross as he’d begun his new journey into church ministry. He took the position seriously and wanted to prove his worth every week.
As Gary and the choir began the first song for that morning’s service, Cross felt a lump form in his throat. Images of places he’d been and things he’d done in his former life flashed across his mind and reminded him why he’d said yes.
Redemption.
For Cross, being the pastor of a church had less to do with a calling and more to do with proving he wasn’t that man anymore. The images faded as they sang hymns and read Scripture aloud. Gary left the stage sooner than Cross liked. He always did. If they could only keep singing and reading into eternity.
Cross stepped up to the pulpit and spread his notebook and Bible open. He allowed himself to be nervous. Confidence tended to dull the senses. Another skill that survived his conversion.
“Open your Bibles to the book of Philippians,” he instructed the congregation. “We’ll be reading this morning from chapter two.” He paused as pages rustled. When it became quiet again, he started to read, his consistent and proven method of surviving a half hour of public speaking: read, then regurgitate what smarter men had said about what he’d just read. And it worked. He rarely made eye contact, as heads hung low over notebooks and wide-margin Bibles, pens scribbling furiously.
At least the first few rows. The heads in the back probably hung low for a different reason.
His sermon lasted twenty-eight minutes on the dot, just as he’d rehearsed it. The useful skill sets he’d perfected in the field were piling up. He closed in prayer and released the church for the day. He breathed for the first time since opening his Bible, and he stepped to the floor to take his customary position at the front of the room.
Gary shook his hand and nodded in affirmation before mingling with a group of older men huddled near the piano. A beaming young couple brought their newborn baby by to show off. Right behind the couple waddled Barbara Templeton, her puffy white hair refusing to move despite the sway in her step.
“Wonderful sermon, Pastor Cross,” she said as she planted a kiss on Cross’s check.
“Please, Mrs. Templeton, it’s John.” He grinned wide.
“Oh dear, you’re our pastor now, so you’d better just get used to the respect.” Mrs. Templeton pulled John close and lowered her voice. “I had a whole dish of green bean casserole left over from the ladies’ knitting group last night. I took the liberty of sticking it in your fridge before service. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I eat it all in one sitting.”
Mrs. Templeton chuckled. “Just let me know if you do, dear, and I’ll whip another one up for you tomorrow.”
“If we were Catholic, I’d nominate you for sainthood.”
“Oh, I don’t think being Catholic matters none about that. Besides, I’m pretty sure I have to be dead first.” She chuckled again and squeezed his bicep before walking back down the center aisle.
Lori Johnson took Mrs. Templeton’s spot in line, her hands balled firmly against her hips. If Mrs. Templeton was a saint, Lori was the Virgin Mary. Cross wouldn’t say no if Lori ever offered to officially adopt him. He stepped forward and wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders.
“How are you, Ms. Johnson? We missed you last week. I hope the sinus infection is long gone.”
“It’ll take something more serious than an infection to keep me away for more than a week,” she replied as she returned the embrace.
At her age, an infection was nothing to be flippant about. Her health occupied the top spot of Cross’s prayer list.
“I’d be lying if I said I would’ve preferred you stay home and rest.”
“Lying wouldn’t be too becoming of our new young pastor, now would it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You look rested, son”—he liked it when she called him that—“and that makes me feel even better.”
His smile broadened. “I should add miracle worker to my résumé.”
“I know what else you need to add to that résumé of yours.” Here it came. A glint brighter than the sunlight through the stained glass appeared in her eye. “Married with two kids.”
Cross laughed, as he always did when they had “the talk.”
“I’m serious, John. You’ve got to go find Mrs. Cross and get her in here with you. Then this place will be perfect.”
“I tell you what, Lori. If you see Mrs. Cross, you give her my number.”
“Actually …”
Cross’s smile faded. Usually “the talk” was fun and flighty and ended with Lori vowing to hunt down the right woman even if she had to travel all the way to the capital. Today the conversation took a different turn.
“Now that you mention it, I was talking to Kathleen down at the parlor. She has a niece who just graduated from college and is in the running for an internship at a big company in Richmond. Gorgeous girl. Kathleen had pictures.”
“Lori, you didn’t give Kathleen my number, did you?”
“John Cross, would I do that without consulting you first?”
Cross caught the sigh of relief before it could leave his lips.
“I pro
mised Kathleen I would talk to you first. But I really think you should call this girl when she moves in. You need a nice girl, and Kathleen spoke very highly of her.”
“Well, I’m glad I know now.”
Lori’s brow wrinkled even more than it already was. “Know now what?”
“That when you say you’re going to do something, you really mean you’re going to do it!”
Lori feigned offense and adjusted the strap of her purse. “Don’t ever say I didn’t help you, John Cross.”
Cross laughed and squeezed her shoulder again. “You’re the best, Ms. Lori Johnson. Don’t ever change.”
“I don’t have enough time left for that—don’t worry. I’m going to run by the pharmacy for my refill and then go read in bed. If I feel up to it later this week, I’ll drop some fresh apple pie by.”
“I would love it. Thank you.”
Lori patted Cross on the back, flashed him a smile, and walked out with the last remaining congregants. Cross stood alone in the center of the sanctuary, the hard pews and wooden columns basking in vibrant hues of blue, purple, and green.
And then, for some reason, he thought of Christine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHRISTINE RODE THE elevator to the fifty-seventh floor of the American Electric Building in New York City and marveled at the fact a week had already passed since that morning in Amman. The more time passed, the more her experience seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. The military emergency care had been top notch, and she was well enough to reunite with her family within days. Even Philip, her transient stepbrother, called from whatever new place he called home. She let them cry over her, yes even Philip, for an appropriate amount of time before she hopped the train back to NYC.
“Always moving,” her mother said about her, true even in her infancy. Christine couldn’t sit still, and she argued the network was anxious to send her on a circuit of interviews and appearances. “NABC Reporter Rescued in Jordan.” Not the most dramatic headline, but the story already reeked of drama. They’d use the term “hero,” self-indulgent as always. She’d bet money on it.
Whenever she thought of Jordan, she also thought of John. The real hero of the story. She planned to use her triumphant return to the news-room and the subsequent media circus as a smoke screen to gain access. Access to network resources. Access to inside sources. The biggest story of her career wasn’t going to be the firsthand account of a kidnapped reporter. She’d get the scoop on the man who single-handedly pulled her from the depths of hell and delivered her back into the land of the living.
As she pictured his face, the man called “Shepherd,” she tried to imagine him in his environment. He sounded American, so maybe a penthouse in Georgetown or Arlington. But he could be anywhere, which made the hunt even more enticing. She’d track him down. But she wouldn’t tell his story, not at first. First, she’d do what she couldn’t do in Amman: thank him.
If she survived the party, that was. Steven Jacobs, her assignment editor, confirmed the worst over the phone. On the other side of the elevator doors would be more attention than anyone would wish upon herself. He said there would be champagne, hadn’t he? Ridiculous.
It really wasn’t a celebration for her return, but for the ratings boost the network was sure to experience in the wake of the countless interviews and special reports. She grew weary thinking about how she would tell her story, then retell it, then elaborate, then expound, then speculate, then just flat out start making up something new. She would be interviewed about Amman, about AIM, about being taken, about the military operation, about public perception of the terror response, about her feelings, more about her feelings, and even more about her feelings. Every new angle the network could take, they would, not all of them 100 percent accurate.
Jacobs didn’t tell her any of that, of course, but he didn’t have to. Christine lived and breathed the fifty-seventh floor of the AE building and would demand the same if she were the news director. Welcome to the reality of modern news programming, ladies and gentlemen. Higher ratings meant more cash, so the more sensational, the better. It didn’t always have to be true.
Christine sighed. Except this one was true. Somehow, she was in the middle of the most true-to-life sensational story she had ever worked on. But the worst part was, she couldn’t tell the story in its entirety. At least, not yet.
Every single time she’d asked about John on her way home, she got the same response. “A United States Army Ranger unit out of Saudi Arabia conducted the operation in conjunction with information provided by America’s finest information-gathering agencies. We cannot comment to the identities of the men and women who risked their lives to bring you home. It’s a question of national security. I’m sure you understand.”
Oh, she understood all right. Shepherd was a covert operative, and his existence was going to be denied at all but the deepest levels. That was where she needed to go. And before she found him, her story would be missing major details.
There were only three people she would tell the truth to. Her parents and—
The elevator doors slid open, and a loud shriek of joy invaded the cramped space. She groaned. When she’d used her keycard downstairs, it had alerted the party planners to her arrival. Her chance to slip in discreetly slipped by without her.
“Christine!” She heard Janeen’s voice over the cheering. Not a surprise considering Janeen’s voice was the loudest sound in the known universe. As Christine stepped out of the elevator, she spotted Janeen’s head towering over other colleagues gathered in a semicircle to greet Christine. Janeen’s red hair flowed in perfect formation around her face and down to her shoulders. It refused to move from place as she elbowed her way through the mass.
“Thank you,” Christine shouted over the applause. Janeen tripped over her own feet but caught herself and stopped short of taking out a pimpled copywriter. Her jaw dropped open, not to speak but in concern over the fate of the tall paper cup in her hand. Satisfied nothing had spilled, the dazzling white smile returned and Janeen bounced into Christine’s personal space.
“Here!” she said too loud as the applause died down. “Your first latte since you left!”
Christine took the cup and laughed. “Girl, we already went over this: they called my order in before the plane even landed.” Besides her mom and stepfather, Janeen was the only other phone call Christine had elected to make on her arrival.
“But this is your first real latte, not that airport junk.” Janeen pretended to preen as a reception line formed, and the two of them started the slow procession into the newsroom.
Christine couldn’t think of anything else to say other than “thank you” to all the employees of NABC shaking her hand, hugging her, and patting her back. She didn’t know half their names and wasn’t on speaking terms with half of the other half. Those she didn’t know picked spots at the front of the line, a good way to show company loyalty, then escape back to the appearance of work. Deeper into the newsroom, closer to her desk and Jacobs’s office, stood the coworkers she labeled “friends and acquaintances.”
Janeen beamed the entire way down the line like a mother showing off a newborn. In between hugs and handshakes, she offered her own commentary on the proceedings. “See why I work in sales? Less likely to get kidnapped.”
Christine snorted. “Think it’s a little too soon for wisecracks?”
“If you’re still dealing with your emotions, you can come with me to see Kendra next Thursday.”
“I still say not to trust a therapist named Kendra.” The banter did its job stalling the tears of joy at seeing her friend. She expected a cry fest to break out in the middle of the newsroom at any moment.
As they passed, the receiving line dwindled. Janeen leaned in close and spoke in a soft tone. “Thank God you’re back. I was dying without you. ‘Cra-neen’ together at last, just like it should be.”
Christine cringed at the celebrity-couple nickname the other staff had bestowed on their friends
hip. She preferred the alternative “Jantine.” Slipping an arm around Janeen’s waist, she smiled and replied, “I promise as soon as we’re done here, the two of us will play hooky and grab a greasy street hot dog.”
“Ew, gross.” Janeen pantomimed a bout of nausea, and they shared a laugh.
Steven Jacobs stood at the end of the line, holding his arms open wide. On instinct Christine fell into his embrace and immediately regretted it. She made it a point not to make physical contact with any members of the opposite sex, a residual habit of her upbringing, and especially with Jacobs. He made no secret of his affection toward her.
He pressed his scruffy cheek against her ear and said, “Welcome home, Chris.”
No one called her Chris.
“Thank you,” she said as she pulled herself away.
Jacobs kept a hand on her shoulder as she shook hands with writers and assistants gathered around them. Janeen, her guardian angel, brushed Jacobs’s fingers away and wrapped an arm around Christine’s waist.
“Steve wanted to give your desk away.” She sneered. “But I fought him off.”
“She knows I wouldn’t never do that, Jan.”
Why did he always have to shorten a name?
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Christine said. It felt like too sweet of a sentiment, so she added, “Otherwise I would’ve had to sue.”
“Maybe we still should,” Janeen added with a flick of her tongue toward Jacobs.
Christine scanned the rest of the newsroom and flashed a frown. “Where’s Mike?” Mike Murray, her cameraman in Jordan, was on her short list of people she wanted to hug. He hadn’t been taken with her, and it proved difficult to find out what had happened to him since.
“It’s OK,” Janeen assured her. “Mike’s fine. He got out after you were taken. He wanted to be here today, but he’s on assignment in Spain.”