Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “Or it could be more complex,” Xavier said. “There could be two different agendas at play simultaneously—one public, one private. Where the two intersect is the disturbing part. I see in our killer a man who would desperately want the Crown of Marbella for obvious reasons, and would do anything to get his hands on it.”

  “But could that be Damien?” It didn’t quite add up for Parker.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Father Michael said.

  SEVENTEEN

  PARKER ATE DINNER AT THE CLEAR WATER GRILLE, ONE OF HIS favorite restaurants. He ordered cedar-plank salmon and a peasant salad, hoping to distract himself from the increasing backlog of questions swirling in his mind. As the hostess walked him past the bar, he overheard the word destiny from a herd of college boys, who laughed and went bottoms-up to Parker’s health.

  The food was exquisite, but it did nothing to distract him from thoughts of cuneiform writing, stolen church artifacts, and Damien Bane seeking out the rite of exorcism again and again in order to increase his demonic prowess.

  He pulled up a Bible program on his smartphone and reread Luke’s account of the Gadarenes demoniac over some herbal tea. It made him shudder. Damien was a rather slight man, physically speaking, but Parker found himself wondering if he could break chains and snap leg irons. Then he felt silly for wondering.

  When he’d finished his dinner, Parker made the short drive to the Rivers of Life Worship Center, a megachurch on the north side of town. As he neared the church, his anxiety over seeing Paige again so dwarfed his other concerns that he was almost thankful for it. Paige could hold a grudge with a single-minded commitment that few possessed. But Parker had taken her for granted and said just the wrong thing before and had always been able to recover using a combination of charm and contrition.

  The building reminded Parker of a giant cinnamon roll, every entrance designed to keep the crowds moving, funneling worshipers clockwise into the enormous auditorium. He entered a hall behind the stage door and found Bishop Jackson sitting in front of a sprawling mirror while a scowling middle-aged woman teased and sprayed his thinning hair.

  “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong room,” Parker said. “I thought this was a church office, not a beauty parlor.” He did not like Wayne and found that he could best disguise his genuine distaste in the form of lighthearted jabs.

  “Parker,” the man called, standing abruptly, “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “I said I’d be here.”

  “That book done yet?”

  “Yeah, it’s in galleys. Should hit the shelves in early spring.”

  “Get a blurb from Joshua Holton?”

  “Of course,” Parker said, not sure if he was lying or not. He was well aware that Bishop Jackson was using—or attempting to use—him as a means of getting in with Joshua Holton and his scads of viewers. Parker resented that, but it also gave him a bit of a rush to be in such demand.

  “Well, you can build anticipation tonight,” he said, handing Parker a printed schedule. “We’ll have you up at the beginning of Act Two. We’ll pick a few people from the audience for you to pray with. Feel free to use the opportunity to plug the book. We’re on Tri-State Christian Network tonight. It’s no Joshua Holton program, but we’re looking at a potential viewing audience of two hundred thousand.”

  “Sounds good, Wayne. I’ll go for ten minutes. That sound about right?”

  “I have you scheduled for eight, but we might end up ahead of schedule. Any extra time is yours. We’ll give you the standard thirty-second warning, naturally. By the way, your girl’s already in your dressing room, 116.”

  “My girl?”

  “Yeah, the redhead. I told her she looked nice. You know what she said to me?”

  “Drop dead?”

  “More or less.”

  “That’s because you’re a slimeball, Wayne. I’ll see you onstage.” Parker walked slowly down the hall, collecting his wits and pre-chewing his pride so it would go down easy. Pausing outside room 116, he thought about how most pastors would probably pray before walking into such a touchy situation.

  He found Paige curled up on a large plush chair, engrossed in her cell phone. She glanced up at Parker for a fraction of a second before returning her attention to the device in her hands.

  “Hello, Paige.”

  “Hello,” she said, her voice covered in frost. She continued clacking at the tiny buttons of her phone.

  “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “That depends. Have you learned now how to talk to a woman?”

  “I’m sorry. Can I lead off with that? I’m incredibly sorry.”

  The clicking stopped. She set the phone down and folded her arms over her chest.

  “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way,” he said. “I hadn’t slept—still haven’t, not much. But that’s not an excuse. I was lashing out at you just because you were there, when you’re the one person in my life right now who doesn’t deserve it.”

  She unfolded her arms, her face softening a bit.

  “I was disrespectful and inappropriate,” he continued. “Can you forgive me?”

  Paige reached behind her chair and produced a paper cup with a plastic lid. “I got you some chai tea,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Parker smiled. If only everyone on earth were as forgiving and kind as Paige Carmichael.

  “I brought you two different suits,” she continued, pointing to a garment rack against the wall. “I think the pinstripe will look better against the set. Have you seen the set?”

  “I’m just going to wear this.”

  “You’re right. It’s probably not worth changing. This is kind of small profile. Next time, tell Bishop Jackson’s people to call me, and I’ll let him down softly.”

  Parker plopped down on a velvety sofa opposite his assistant. He did not want to be here. The thought of having his name dropped on religious TV, of parading up onstage so that he and Bishop Wayne Jackson could slap each other on the back a few times and plug his book, turned Parker’s stomach. He didn’t think he could handle the carnival atmosphere—not in his present state.

  “How did your call with Holton go?” Paige asked.

  Parker wheezed. The last thing he wanted was to break their peace within ten words of restoring it.

  “Things aren’t great, Paige.”

  “I can tell you’re stressed out. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Before he could even have a say in the matter, Parker was crying. Sobbing like a child. Paige slid onto the couch next to him, rubbing his back and comforting him in a soft tone.

  “What’s the matter, Parker? You can tell me.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

  “I understand. It’s not fair. I’ll have Mark Walsh call the prosecutor’s office tomorrow. It’s blackmail. They’re holding your whole life hostage.”

  “I’m not talking about the police work. I’m talking about the TV ministry, the self-promotion, the dodgy interview answers. I don’t recognize what I do for a living anymore. It’s not what my father did, and it’s sure not what my grandfather did.”

  Paige pulled a few tissues from her purse and offered them to Parker, who dried his face, blew his nose, and quickly regained his composure.

  “Is this about tonight?” she asked. “Because we can cancel this. It’s small potatoes.”

  “It’s that. Exactly that. Treating ministry like some sort of show business.”

  “You’re the one who calls it a show, Parker.”

  “I know. And I hate myself for it. When did that become my MO?”

  “Your what?”

  “Modus operandi.” He chuckled. “I guess I’ve been hanging around those detectives too much.”

  “Do they really talk like that?”

  “Oh yeah, all the time.”

  “Well, let’s bang out a new modus operandi for you. When this legal mess is behind us, we’ll block off some time and update your
mission statement for the website. It’s overdue anyway.”

  “Some tweaks to the website aren’t going to fix this. It feels like everything is moving in the wrong direction.”

  Paige narrowed her eyes. “Have you been reading those blogs again?”

  He shook his head. “I met a woman a couple days ago who watches Speak It into Reality every week. Never misses a program. Her son was one of the kids who got murdered. She said I let her down. She needed to hear some words of hope from the Scriptures, and I was talking about embracing ‘moments of majesty.’ And she’s right. I dropped the ball.”

  “Parker, that sermon helped a lot of people. I’ve got folders full of e-mail, almost all of it positive.”

  “You know, my grandfather only gave me one piece of advice about preaching: when you’ve finished your second draft, read it over and ask the question: Could this sermon make sense without a crucified and risen Savior? If the answer is yes, throw it out, because it’s not a Christian sermon. It’s advice, life coaching, pep talks, whatever you call it, but it’s not a Christian sermon. I honestly don’t think one of my sermons in the past two years could meet that criterion.”

  Paige touched him softly on the arm. “Do you remember what you told me you were going to do when you hired me? You said you were going to save Jesus from his followers, from all those grumpy, miserable, Puritan types. God bless your grandfather, but you reach people he could never have reached, Parker. That’s something to be proud of.”

  “But what am I reaching them with? I’m going to need some time, Paige. When the investigation is over and the Brynn thing is laid to rest, I want to take a month or two to study and pray and figure this all out.”

  “What about the book?”

  “Letting it sit for a couple months won’t kill anyone. I’ll promote it when I get my head together. Besides, you said yourself—without Holton’s endorsement, it’s dead in the water.”

  Paige stood. “Will you do me a favor and put off this decision until you’ve caught up on your sleep?”

  “That’s probably a good idea.” He looked at his watch. “They’re going to want to wire me up pretty soon. There’s no reason you have to stay for this circus. Why don’t you head home?”

  “Okay. Thanks.” She bent down and hugged him around the neck. “I’m worried about you. Don’t do anything rash without me.”

  “I promise,” he said.

  She looked back and gave him a little wave over her shoulder. He missed her the moment he heard the door click shut.

  “My next guest needs no introduction, but I’ll give him one anyway, because I like talking about him.” Bishop Jackson loved riffing more than anyone Parker had ever met. The man was sweating profusely, but his composure was cool. “You’ve seen him on Joshua Holton’s program. You’ve seen him on his own show, Speak It into Reality, casting vision, sharing the Word, growing his own congregation at Abundance Now Ministries. Now he’s got a new book coming out in just a few months, which we’re all looking forward to. You know what to say as Parker Saint takes the stage, folks. God is awesome . . .”

  “And so am I!” roared six thousand people. A wall of applause met Parker as he strode out onto the stage, his practiced white grin catching the spotlights.

  He shook Wayne’s hand enthusiastically, as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.

  “It’s so good to be here, Wayne,” he said. “I always say your church is the place to be if you want to feel the waves of the Spirit pulling us out into the divine, into a life of victory and blessedness.” Parker found himself trying, unsuccessfully, to decipher what he had just said.

  “We’d all like to hear a little more about this book of yours,” Wayne said to another wave of applause, “but first, would you do me a favor and pray for a few of the blessed souls here tonight?”

  “I’d love to.” I can’t.

  An usher led a pudgy, middle-aged woman onto the stage.

  “This is Leigh Ann,” Bishop Jackson said, slyly referencing an index card. “She’s been struggling with her work life. She knows that God has plans to prosper her—Amen—but she’s having a hard time embracing them and calling them her own. Would you pray for her, Pastor Saint?”

  “Absolutely,” Parker said. He clamped his eyes shut, placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder, and began a prayer full of buzzwords and clichés. As he prayed more or less automatically, his mind drifted. He thought of Meredith Ludema and her emotionless eyes as she told Parker, I really needed something from God this morning. You let me down. He thought of Evert Carlson and Geoff Graham, two very different men risking their relationships with Parker to try and warn him that something was very wrong in his life and ministry.

  Parker suddenly realized that his prayer had gone rogue. “And we thank you, Lord, that you’ve paid for our sins through the blood of your Son Jesus,” he was saying. It was the kind of prayer his grandfather would have prayed—not exactly the vague spirituality that had expanded his influence and success. But he decided to go with it.

  “We thank you that you’ve not only taken our sin from us by the death of your Son Jesus on the cross, but that you’ve given us his righteousness in exchange.” The words felt right, as if he were doing penance for his countless public prayers full of doublespeak and nonsense. “Lord, we pray for poverty of spirit.”

  He could hear Wayne issuing whispered orders, initiating some sort of emergency backup plan. An usher was bringing out the next volunteer for prayer, and the band was beginning to play, softly at first, but slowly swelling.

  “Amen and amen!” Bishop Jackson shouted when Parker took a breath. “Powerful stuff, Pastor Saint. Powerful! Our next guest on the stage this evening would like prayer for his destiny to become reality. He says he’s being unfairly targeted by some of his adversaries. We know that’s the enemy at work, don’t we, folks? Parker, could you do us a favor and pray specifically for this man’s destiny this evening?” He stepped back, revealing the man for whom Parker was to pray.

  Damien Bane knelt on the stage, his long black hair partially obscuring his eyes. At the sight of Parker, his lips curled up wickedly.

  Parker froze, his mouth clamped shut. He feared he might vomit on regional religious television in front of a potential audience of two hundred thousand. After two seconds of silence, Bishop Jackson began to panic, thumping Parker metrically on the back in an increasingly less friendly gesture. Damien was baring his teeth, his eyes wild, a quiet laugh pulsing in his throat.

  Leaning up to Wayne’s ear, Parker muttered something about not feeling well and quickly exited stage left.

  It was only nine thirty when Parker slumped through his front door. He may have been humiliated and well on his way to alienating himself from his peers and colleagues, but at least he would get a good night’s sleep. And that was as important as anything.

  He was lugging in Ketcham’s file box full of photos and statements relating to the church vandalism cases. Nothing sounded better than heading directly to bed, but Parker was not willing to walk into the police station empty-handed the next morning. He would have some notes, some clues, some insights, something.

  A little cold water applied to his face brought him back around. He put in some teeth-whitening strips and settled in at the couch. Much to his delight, the box was two-thirds empty. One look at the handwritten incident reports and dense witness statements, and Parker knew this evening would be graphics only. Pulling each photo from the box, he surveyed it with some care before setting it down on the coffee table. The graffiti images were all similar, apparently drawing from a common source of inspiration.

  Without a bit of police training, Parker immediately agreed with Ketcham’s assessment. The symbols on the churches were not much different from ones he’d seen hundreds of times before, spray-painted on overpasses and railroad cars. The few objects that could be interpreted as religious or occult symbols were vague and could also be interpreted a hundred other ways.


  Before long the entire coffee table and a large portion of the floor around it were tiled with photos—multiple angles of seven different incidents, some inside the churches, some outside, some both. The artwork on each was complex and interconnected, composed of many symbols and pictures woven into one another, making the task of examining each individually a pedantic one.

  An hour into his review, Parker had nothing. He squished the heels of his palms over his eyes and rubbed vigorously. He was fading fast and on the verge of giving up when he saw it. As his vision came back into focus, all at once a pattern became plain. The importance of the photos was not in each individual element of the defiling artwork, he realized. It was under the surface in the white space.

  When viewed at a distance with eyes relaxed, each and every picture bore an unmistakable image of the dingir. In order to spot it in some of the photos, Parker had to hold them at arm’s length and let his eyes go blurry; as the image came back into focus, the dingir leapt out at him. It reminded him of the computerized posters one could buy in mall kiosks in the Nineties—the kind that required you to blur your vision and let the hidden picture rise to the surface.

  Whom to tell first? The priests would be at his house in two minutes if he called them, but what did that gain him except more lost sleep? He toyed with phoning Ketcham right then, just to show how seriously he was taking this assignment. But how would he explain the significance of the dingir? He wasn’t supposed to have seen the photo of Isabella Escalanté’s neck.

  He could reference the image on Melanie Candor’s foot, but that was a bit thin. After all, he had kept his distance, to say the least. Maybe it was better to try and gain legitimate access to the crime scene photos first, and pretend to make the discovery tomorrow. He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at it, waiting for the decision to make itself. It didn’t. He sank back into the cushions for a moment of rest.

  At one thirty Parker awoke on the couch. His phone was vibrating in his hand. He cleared his throat forcefully.