The Surrogate

by Henry Wall Judith

  Marcia headed back up the toll road and found a pop-music station on the radio to end the stifling silence that hung over the interior of the car. She took the George Bush to I-35, and twenty minutes later, following Joe’s unspoken directions, she took the second Denton exit. She pulled into the drive-through lane of a Mexican restaurant and ordered two meals and two large iced teas. Then she drove until she saw a school playground and pulled into the parking lot.

  She grabbed one of the food sacks and an iced tea and headed for a bench near the swings. “Are you crazy?” she demanded as Joe approached.

  “Maybe,” he said with a shrug.

  They sat on a bench. “You care if I eat something before we talk?” he asked.

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  She watched him practically inhale a burrito and decided that she was hungry herself. They ate in silence. Finally Joe said, “My grandparents lived in Mesquite while I was growing up. I spent a lot of time there…”

  Marcia listened while Joe explained the special feelings he’d always had for an orphaned little girl named Jamie who lived with her grandmother in a house just over the back fence from his grandparents’ house. As Jamie got older he could never quite decide how to classify his feelings for her.

  At first Marcia listened through veils of anger. If she’d known that she had competition, maybe she wouldn’t have let herself fall in love with the guy. But as his story got ever more intriguing, she felt her reporter’s instincts kick in. It was like listening to the plot line of a far-fetched movie with shadowy government agents tracking down innocent people who knew too much. She came to understand his paranoia and wondered if indeed her phones and office and car might be bugged because she was Joe’s former girlfriend.

  But as she listened to Joe relate what he wanted her to do and explain what little hard information he had on Gus Hartmann, she wondered if she really wanted to know more. “I’m sorry that you and your lady are in someone’s crosshairs,” she told Joe, “but I don’t want to join you there.”

  “All I want for you to do is cover the event just as you normally would,” Joe said.

  “A religious service is not a news event,” she protested. “You need to talk to someone from the Christian channel.”

  “It is a political event, Marcia. Amanda Hartmann’s organization raises many millions of dollars to assist candidates who supposedly support their worldview but also just happen to be pro big business, especially the energy business.”

  Gus couldn’t sleep. He took a midnight walk then went upstairs to make an unprecedented middle-of-the-night visit to see Buck. Randi’s mother was flustered at first but then realized that he wasn’t checking up on her, he was just looking for solace. She disappeared into the sitting room, leaving him to gaze down at Buck’s innocent sleeping face and gently touch his achingly beautiful and exquisitely soft cheeks.

  More and more he wished that he could simply end the quest for Sonny’s baby. He could be satisfied for the rest of his life with little Buck. But things had gone too far. There was no way to back out of the chase. Too many laws had been broken. Jamie Long and her boyfriend had to be silenced. And Amanda would have the baby she wanted.

  Not that he expected his sister to be a great mother. She would swoop in and out of the boy’s life as she had with Sonny, as Mary Millicent had with them. Gus closed his eyes, remembering how he had lived for those times with his mother. When they were together, she couldn’t hug and kiss him enough and would question him about every facet of his life and listen attentively to his answers. When Mary Millicent was with her children, especially at the ranch, she belonged just to them, but those times were separated by long, lonely weeks and sometimes by months. She would call on the phone, of course, but she always seemed to be giving instructions to her secretary or some other subordinate while she talked to him.

  And that was the way Amanda had been with Sonny, overwhelming him with love when she was with him but leaving him to be raised by his uncle Gus or Ann Montgomery or the staff of some boarding school the rest of the time.

  Jamie Long was a wonderful mother who had given up all of her dreams and any semblance of a normal life to be with her baby. Gus admired her for that. Admired her and Joe Brammer for their cleverness and their dedication to each other. They were two worthy young people who might have had a wonderful future together, who would have made sound, normal, loving parents for Sonny’s baby and provided him with sisters and brothers and a good home. But that was not to be.

  The die had been cast.

  It had been impossible to maintain surveillance of all of Joe Brammer’s former classmates and friends, but they had all been investigated and certain associates of these individuals—such as secretaries, receptionists, doormen, neighbors—had been put on alert. They were led to believe that they would be doing their nation a great service if they reported seeing anyone who remotely resembled Joe Brammer. Such efforts had finally paid off.

  At first Gus had been inclined to eliminate Brammer’s former girlfriend from the list until he found out that she was a newscaster with a Dallas television station. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Marcia Kimball might be the key.

  And now his instincts had paid off. The receptionist at the television station had reported that a nice-looking man with a shaved head had shown up at the television station asking to see Marcia Kimball. He would not give his name but mentioned a Harley as a means of identifying himself to Miss Kimball.

  According to the receptionist, the young man had stayed less than ten minutes.

  A bug had been planted in Marcia Kimball’s vehicle, and from the time she left the building at 4:47 that afternoon, she had been under surveillance. She picked up Brammer in front of a hotel and they hadn’t said a word as they drove to Denton, where they bought food at a drive-in and drove to a school playground. They stayed at the playground for several hours, sitting on a bench. Nothing was known about their conversation, but Gus had no trouble imagining what was discussed. On the return trip, Marcia Kimball wound her way through a parking lot surrounding a shopping mall. Apparently Brammer exited the vehicle during this maneuver. He was not in the car when she returned to her apartment building.

  He wanted to call Amanda and tell her about what was going on, but he feared that she might give something away. It was best just to let things play themselves out. And he looked forward to seeing the surprised look on her face when he finally was able to put the baby in her arms. She would be overjoyed. After all, it was Sonny’s baby.

  Chapter Forty

  SHE INTRODUCED HERSELF as Sister Lola. A tiny woman, she wore a floral, tentlike garment that fell from her narrow shoulders to a pair of childlike feet ensconced in blue rubber sandals. Her long gray hair was plaited into two thick braids.

  “Larry Carter,” Joe said, extending his hand. “I spoke with you yesterday on the phone.” Hanging from his neck on a lanyard was what he considered to be an authentic-looking press pass that he had designed, printed, and laminated the night before at an all-night copy shop. He also had designed and printed business cards that identified him as a reporter for The Religious Times, a publication that—according to the card—was published in Gayleth, New York. Of course, neither the publication nor the town actually existed, but he thought their names sounded quite legitimate.

  “Yes, Mr. Carter,” Sister Lola said amicably. “You’re here in Dallas covering the Amanda Hartmann Crusade.”

  Joe nodded. “I need to get some background on the Temple of Praise, and I’d like to take a tour of the facility.”

  Already Joe was impressed by the church’s size, if indeed it was correct to refer to a structure that looked like a sports arena as a church. Perhaps “house of worship” might be more correct.

  Sister Lola spoke to someone on the phone and shortly a young man appeared wearing a bright gold knit shirt bearing the church name and its three-cross logo over his heart. Sister Lola explained that Freddie was one of t
heir summer interns and would be taking him around. She would be delighted to answer any questions Joe might have at the end of his tour—or if he would like—she could schedule an appointment for him with Dr. Lawrence Goodpasture, founder and senior pastor of the Temple of Praise.

  As they headed toward the sanctuary, Freddie told Joe that he was a student at a Free Will Baptist college in Oklahoma and planned to dedicate his life to serving Jesus. “Dr. Goodpasture is such an inspiration to me,” Freddie said. “Have you heard him preach?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve seen his Sunday morning show on television,” Joe fibbed as they walked through a broad hallway whose walls were decorated with murals depicting scenes from the Bible. “But actually I’m in town to cover the Amanda Hartmann Crusade.”

  Freddie stopped in his tracks and clasped both hands to his heart. “She is the most inspiring woman of our times,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Without a doubt,” Joe said.

  “Sister Lola told me that it was quite a coup that Amanda Hartmann decided to forgo one of the usual downtown venues and hold the Dallas segment of her crusade here at the temple,” Freddie continued. “I’m sure it’s because our acoustics and sound system are considered to be among the finest in the world.”

  Freddie stopped in front of a pair of massive wooden doors offering Bible scenes carved in bas-relief. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Joe nodded. He was ready.

  Freddie pulled open one of the doors and stepped aside, allowing Joe to enter first. The sanctuary was even larger than he had expected—a vast cavern of a room with a deep balcony on three sides and main-floor seating that sloped down to a huge stage and was divided by two wide aisles with narrower ones along each wall. The stage curtain was open, revealing tiered seating on both sides for choir members and a huge gilded pulpit under an enormous wooden crucifix that seemed to float above the stage. Freddie explained that the choir lofts, pulpit, and crucifix could all be lifted into the rafters, leaving the stage free for lavish theatrical productions—the annual Passion Play and musical and dramatic productions celebrating Christian living—for which the temple had become internationally known. The pulpit also could be projected out over the audience, and a metallic scrim curtain—the largest such curtain in the world—could be lowered in front of the choir during the preaching. Retractable flooring in front of the stage covered an orchestra pit. Under the stage was a large baptismal pool that could be raised to stage level. State-of-the-art lighting and sound systems offered a variety of special effects including sunrise, sunset, night sky, the northern lights, thunderstorm, volcanic eruption, and even Armageddon.

  As Freddie explained the wonders offered by the Temple of Praise, Joe carefully limited himself to nonblasphemous expletives such as “wow” and “gee whiz.” He wanted to ask what the price tag was on a place like this and what sort of financial support was expected of church members but didn’t go there. Nor did he ask what Armageddon sounded like.

  He did ask a number of questions about the choir—how large a group would perform during the Amanda Hartmann revival, where the choir members would practice, what robes they would wear. Just as Joe suspected from the research he had done online, Freddie explained that at Miss Hartmann’s request, the choir assembled for the three revival services would include choir members from evangelical Christian churches all over the metro. And yes, the visiting choir members would bring their own robes to wear. “Sister Hartmann prefers traditional Christian music,” Freddie pointed out as he showed Joe the large practice hall where both the Temple of Praise and visiting choir members would assemble. The practice hall had its own outside door and restroom facilities.

  At the end of the tour, Freddie returned Joe to the amicable Sister Lola, who told Joe more than he really wanted to know about Dr. Goodpasture. Joe made a show of taking notes while the woman talked, and he asked a number of questions. When the other people in the office began pulling out sack lunches and heading for what was apparently the break room, Joe thanked Sister Lola and told her how impressed he was by everything he had seen and heard. “Would it be possible for me to attend choir practice this evening?” he asked. “And I would like to spend a half hour or so of personal meditation time in the sanctuary.”

  Joe headed first for the restroom then wandered the halls for a time and revisited the choir room before making his way back to the sanctuary. He sat in the back row of the main floor and studied the room, getting things straight in his head. He even thought about saying a prayer but decided he would save his prayers for a more holy setting. Someplace where he was surrounded by nature with the sky overhead.

  Marcia and her cameraman showed their ID badges to a uniformed security guard before being admitted into the suite on the top floor of the stately old hotel in downtown Dallas. The spacious suite looked as though it had been furnished with visiting royalty in mind with ornate rococo furniture, luxurious Oriental rugs spread over hardwood floors, and huge arrangements of fresh flowers on the tables and sideboards. They were greeted by a sleek gray-haired woman in a designer suit who introduced herself as the public relations director for the Alliance of Christian Voters.

  “I watched your noon broadcast,” the woman told Marcia.

  Marcia expected some comment to follow as to whether or not the PR director enjoyed the program. Instead the woman asked, “Can you assure me that Miss Hartmann’s interview will be aired on this evening’s news broadcast as well as on your own show tomorrow?”

  “Barring a major fast-breaking news event, that is correct,” Marcia said, adding that the station’s reporters usually did not interview evangelists, but with Miss Hartmann’s Texas roots, her tremendous name recognition here in the state, and her position with the Alliance of Christian Voters, her visit to Dallas was considered newsworthy.

  Marcia had anticipated resistance from the station’s news director when she pitched her idea to him, but he hadn’t given her any flack at all. “Stress the political angle,” he said, “and if your story turns out well, we’ll send it along to the network.”

  Network was the magic word. Marcia had stayed late at the station viewing archived footage of Amanda Tutt Hartmann and checking old files for information about her parents and brother. She discovered that Mary Millicent Tutt’s father had been an evangelist before her and that Jason Hartmann’s father had founded the family oil company. She’d found nothing on Gus Hartmann.

  The PR director asked them to have a seat. “I’ll let Miss Hartmann know that you have arrived,” she said.

  Marcia sat. The cameraman prowled around the room deciding where he wanted Marcia and Amanda to sit. Then he adjusted the brocade draperies and existing lights and set up his camera and the portable lighting that he’d brought along. That done, he joined Marcia on the sofa, and they waited. For almost an hour they waited.

  When Amanda Hartmann finally entered the room, Marcia’s first thought was how lovely she was. And how gracefully she walked across the room. Marcia’s irritation at having been kept waiting dissipated somewhat, and her pulse began to race just a bit in anticipation. After all, Amanda Hartmann was one of the most famous people she had ever interviewed.

  Amanda was wearing a cream-colored pants suit and a matching silk blouse with a softly draped neckline. Her blond hair was in a soft upsweep, her complexion lustrous, and her makeup flawless. And beyond her looks, Amanda had a calm, regal presence about her as she extended her hand and offered a greeting. Marcia felt a bit tongue-tied as she thanked her for agreeing to the interview and showed her where to sit and attached a tiny microphone to her lapel.

  Marcia took her own seat across from Amanda and explained that her lead-in would be done during the broadcast, at which time she would explain about Amanda’s Texas roots and her illustrious parents. And she would announce that Amanda was holding a revival in Dallas that would begin tomorrow evening and would run for three nights.

  Then Marcia nodded at the cameraman.

  “When d
id you first know that you would follow in your mother’s footsteps?” she asked Amanda.

  “I always knew,” Amanda said, her hands resting gracefully on the arms of the wing chair. “God has been in my life ever since I can remember, but I formally gave my life to Jesus when I was four years old. We had already moved to Washington, D.C., following my father’s election to Congress, and my mother no longer conducted regular Sunday services in her Glory Temple over on Taylor Street right here in downtown Dallas. But once or twice a year, she would hold weeklong revivals there. The building was torn down to make way for the Central Expressway, but I remember how beautiful it was. My father had brought me to the services that day as a surprise for Mother. When she looked down and saw her own little daughter kneeling in front of her, she cried out and lifted me in her arms and asked if I felt the love of our Savior the Lord Jesus Christ filling my heart. And I did,” Amanda said, touching her heart. “I still feel that love, and I have spent my life helping others to open their hearts to God’s love and saving grace.”

  Marcia realized that this was a story Amanda had related countless times before, but she told it well. With that bit of background out of the way, Marcia moved on to her next question.

  “Your mother is not only remembered as an evangelist but as the founder of a political action group, the Alliance of Christian Voters, which supports evangelical Christian candidates running for political office. And you apparently have no qualms about asking your followers to support these candidates and using the money donated to the Alliance to run political ads. How do you justify this practice in light of the constitutional dictum of separation of church and state?”

  “The Alliance does not tell people whom they should vote for,” Amanda said, her voice even but firm. “We ask only that voters consider what is in a candidate’s heart before they support him or her with their prayers and their money and their votes. And if they choose to make a donation to the Alliance, we use that money to encourage voters to vote for evangelical Christians, but the Alliance does not support specific candidates.”