by Lee Strobel
“No, we can still do that. He wants to connect at 8:30, so we’ve got time.”
Gina knew Strider well enough to detect a tentative tone in his voice. “You sound a little hesitant.”
“He told me to bring the package that he had given me.”
“So?”
“Well, he never gave me any package.”
III
When Gina was a child, her mom and dad — tin ears, both — would marvel that their daughter was so instinctively musical. When she would be eating in her high chair as a toddler, she would hum — incessantly, as if to some disjointed internal tune — even while she was chewing her food. When she got older and would be vacuuming the den or washing the dishes, she would be quietly singing to herself.
As a teenager, she gravitated toward the oldies on the radio — the Beatles, Carole King, James Taylor — rather than the harder–edged music that many of her friends preferred. When she would be sitting on the couch and Strider would stroll into the room, he’d often find her singing softly or humming a melody as she absent–mindedly flipped through a magazine.
She had an easy, mellifluous voice that could carry a tune, though she would never pretend it was any better than that. Which was fine with her. She didn’t sing for anyone else; she only sang for herself — and, more lately, for God.
So when she started Strider’s three–year–old Chevy Malibu in his driveway, she recoiled at the announcer on the news station whose basso profundo voice came blaring from the stereo. She quickly spun the tuner to a Christian station, where she found Darlene Zschech, a worship leader from Australia, singing, And That My Soul Knows Very Well.
Gina smiled as she sang the familiar words: “When mountains fall, I’ll stand … By the power of Your hand …”
Driving down Strider’s block, she didn’t notice that Emma Wash–burn, wearing old clothes and with her gray hair pulled back, was on her hands and knees as she tended the marigolds, pansies, and petunias that ringed the evergreens next to her townhouse. Gina didn’t pay attention to the garbage bins that were parked at the end of every driveway; they wouldn’t be emptied until 11:00 a.m. at the earliest.
“And in Your heart of hearts I’ll dwell … And that my soul knows very well …”
And, of course, Gina had no way of knowing that inside the bin at the end of Emma’s driveway was a discarded transmitter from a radio–controlled model airplane, tightly wrapped by duct tape so that its “on” button was being continually depressed.
When Strider’s pale blue Chevy came within precisely fifty feet of the bin, the transmitter’s FM signal reached the two–pound device that had been attached by magnets to the undercarriage of Strider’s car.
Instantly, a foot–long tongue of flame shot out from beneath the driver’s side of the car; Gina felt a jolt, her eyes reflexively darting to the rearview mirror. She never screamed; there was no time. A split–second later came the concussion of an explosion that Emma Wash–burn would later describe as being like a napalm bomb going off.
The 3,400–pound car was lifted nearly two feet off the ground as a bright orange fireball engulfed the Chevy, sending fire and thick, sooty smoke curling twenty feet into the air. As the blazing car bounced heavily on its wheels, there came a second blast that shot ragged shards of flame even higher. Cinder and bits of glass rained down on the street and adjoining lawns.
The car’s interior was a roaring inferno, filled completely to the brim with luminous orange. As the firestorm hit nearly 1,300 degrees, the plastic dashboard and steering wheel began to liquefy. Flames darted out the side windows, along the doors, and out the shattered rear glass, lapping five feet over the top of the blackened roof. The roadside grass was ablaze in a semi–circle around the car.
Emma sprang to her feet, dropping her clippers and covering her ears as she let out a loud and hysterical scream. Her husband Lenny flung open the front door and gasped.
“Oh, my God!” he declared, rushing down the front steps to embrace his weeping spouse. He buried her head in his shoulder to shield her eyes.
Sitting at his computer a few houses away, Strider cocked his head at the sound of the blast, which sounded eerily like the car bombs he heard exploding in the distance during his brief trip to cover the war in Iraq. But here — in Chicago? In this neighborhood? What the—
He grabbed his notebook and dashed for the door.
IV
Sometimes Art Bullock would run a mile, maybe two, and occasionally even three, depending on how heavy his morning calendar was booked. But one thing seldom varied: each weekday he would emerge from his house at precisely 6:30 a.m., wearing running shoes, gym shorts, and a T–shirt — in the winter, sweat pants, a sweatshirt, and a Chicago Bears stocking cap — and jog over to the asphalt ribbon that meanders through the pine and maple trees of his semi–rural neighborhood just outside of Diamond Point.
For him, the exercise was invigorating, but it was really the solitude of the daily run that fed his soul.
On this Friday morning, a nondescript white delivery van — its windshield tinted, its back windows painted over — was parked at the curb between Art’s colonial–style house and the running trail.
Inside, a figure dressed in all black was cursing under his breath, his eyes riveted on Bullock’s front door. He had been parked there for seven minutes already; he could only afford a few more before someone might become suspicious.
“C’mon … c’mon,” he was muttering. “Let’s get this over with.”
He checked his watch: 6:32 a.m.
V
As he ran down the street, Garry Strider could see what looked like a bonfire straddling the curb up ahead; with most of its paint charred off, he didn’t recognize it as his own car. He was about thirty yards away when the realization hit him; now with panic surging, he dropped his notebook and sprinted toward the conflagration.
“Gina!” he shouted. “Gina!”
From his vantage point he could see what Emma and Lenny had been unable to spot from their front yard: a figure sprawled on the pavement and extending away from the driver’s side of the car. Gina had been flung from the Chevy and was stretched out on her back, her right foot caught by the deformed metal of the door. The searing heat was starting to melt her tennis shoe onto her foot.
Strider couldn’t believe that this was the woman in his townhouse only moments ago. She lay motionless on the ground, her face battered and bloodied, her eyes swollen shut, much of her hair burned away, her clothes in charred tatters, her arms and legs blackened, a ragged bone protruding from the middle of her right arm, and her leg helplessly anchored to the car. Strider tried to quickly yank on the door to free her foot but recoiled, his hand scorched.
“Here, use this!” someone called from behind as a broom was thrust into Strider’s hands. Fighting against the intensity of the heat, Strider used the pole to pry the twisted metal of the door, giving the neighbor just enough time to grab Gina under her arms and drag her free.
Lugging a fire extinguisher from his kitchen, Lenny rushed to the car and tried spraying the flames, but there was no effect on the fire.
“No, over here,” Strider called.
Lenny dropped the extinguisher and ran over to the other side of the car, bending down to help Strider and the neighbor lift Gina as gingerly as they could.
“Easy, easy,” Strider urged.
They carried her to the opposite side of the street, laying her down on the cool grass of the lawn. Overcome by the sight of her, Strider, sobbing, sunk to his knees and cradled her head, gently stroking the tufts of hair that remained. In the distance, a siren wailed.
Emma came around the back of the car and shrieked when she saw the scene. “Is she alive? Is she alive?” she asked, trembling as she covered her mouth with her hands.
The neighbor, a burly electrician, knelt and felt for a pulse on Gina’s left wrist; he shook his head. “I don’t feel anything,” he said, his voice choking. “I can’t find a pulse.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
I
Art Bullock, a garment bag slung over his shoulder, marched up the stairwell toward the third floor of Diamond Point Fellowship. If he wasn’t going to get the chance to go jogging today, he figured that he might as well get a little exercise by skipping the elevator.
It was Friday morning, a few minutes after seven.
Art was deep in thought as he trudged upward toward his office. The pressure of the last couple of days had been building to the point where it was sapping his appetite and making sleep elusive. He was haunted by the dire warning from the two detectives in the auditorium; though he didn’t put a lot of stock in their conspiracy theory, the encounter was disconcerting nevertheless.
In fact, it was troubling enough for him to have consulted with Ron Tillman, a retired police lieutenant who volunteers to oversee security at the church. While Art couldn’t go into specifics, he did tell him about his concerns for his well–being. At Tillman’s suggestion, Art sent his wife and kids to stay at her sister’s house while he spent the night at a friend’s condominium — temporary safeguards, Art told himself, until he found out how Reese McKelvie was going to respond to his ultimatum. It was probably an overreaction, but still …
Now there were only hours left before the end–of–Friday deadline that Art had imposed on McKelvie to withdraw from the Senate race. Art hadn’t heard anything from him since their meeting in his chambers; he was starting to fret over how he should proceed if the judge simply chose to ignore his demands.
Added to this was the stress of the Elders Prayer meeting set for 7:00 that evening. Given the anticipated size of the crowd and the unpredictability of the event, the elders asked Art to preside over the service, and he naturally agreed. This should have been something he was eagerly anticipating — after all, who knows what might happen in their midst tonight? He regretted that his mind was being tugged elsewhere.
Art reached the third floor landing, pulling open the heavy door and walking down the corridor toward his office. Before he did anything else, there was something urgent he needed to handle.
Ever since his meeting with McKelvie, he regretted his bluff that he had given the incriminating tape to Garry Strider for safekeeping. He hadn’t planned in advance to make that claim, but in the heat of the moment — when he was feeling scared and threatened and vulnerable — it seemed like a reasonably good way to hedge his bets. Though he had avoided uttering Strider’s name, in retrospect he had made it obvious who he had been talking about. The words had barely been out of his mouth before he had sent a silent prayer heavenward for forgiveness.
But now he decided this was exactly what he needed to do — make a copy of the recording, keep the original in the church’s safe, and send the duplicate to Strider with instructions not to open the package unless he gave him permission.
Based on how he’d handled things so far, he trusted Strider as a professional. He felt confident that he wouldn’t open the envelope if instructed not to. The chief investigative reporter for the state’s second largest newspaper would certainly be accustomed to intrigue like this; someone like him would know exactly how to keep the envelope — and himself — safe.
Art would disclose there might be some danger involved — though, he reasoned, only a negligible amount. He doubted Strider would be deterred. The potential for a major scoop down the road would be sufficient incentive to help him out.
At this point, Art still hadn’t decided if he would ever disclose the contents of the recording. He clearly remembered O’Sullivan’s admonition to keep it confidential, and that weighed heavy on him. But until he made up his mind what to do, sending the tape to a professional like Garry Strider just seemed prudent. It would give Art options: with just one phone call, he could ask for Strider to return the package unopened, or he could tell him to listen to the tape and inform the world about it. He would make that choice when the time was right.
Entering his office and flipping on the lights — his assistant wouldn’t arrive for another hour — Art folded the garment bag over the back of a chair; the suit inside was intended for the prayer service in the evening. He strode over to the massive bookcase that occupied the entire north wall and pulled a concealed lever, causing a section of the bookcase to swing open and reveal the formidable wall safe beneath.
Diamond Point installed the vault after burglars broke into another church in the area a few years earlier and pilfered the Sunday morning collection before it could be deposited in the bank. Though most of the offering was in the form of checks, there was still quite a bit of cash — in the case of Diamond Point, there was tens of thousands of dollars in small and large bills every weekend.
The church got advice from several security experts before undergoing the considerable expense of installing the safe. Uniformed police would guard Art’s office on Sunday morning while the receipts were being counted and recounted by volunteers, and then the offering was stored in the safe until the armored car would come for it the next day.
Art twirled the dial to the left, to the right, back to the left, and back to the right, and then he gave the heavy brass handle a firm twist. There was a clunk, and he pulled open the reinforced steel door.
He peered inside the large velvet–lined vault and thrust his right hand into the recessed enclosure.
Nothing.
The safe was empty.
II
Debra Wyatt got the news quickly. An old friend heard the radio bulletin about the bombing of Garry Strider’s car, and knowing about her one–time relationship with the reporter, she promptly called Wyatt to fill her in. Details were sketchy but grim.
“The woman’s in critical condition,” Wyatt told Eric Snow after rushing into his office to give him a briefing. “It doesn’t look like she’s going to make it.”
“This is tragic,” said Snow, who was seated at his desk. “Was Strider injured too?”
“She was alone in his car. And my friend said she attends Diamond Point. I called over to the church to see whether or not she’s a member.”
“You mean Strider’s girlfriend goes to the church? And he’s been investigating us, looking for a scandal? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either. Maybe he was using her to infiltrate some of our ministries. It would be a good way to get inside information without people’s guard being up.”
“That’s possible. Or he got mad that she’s going to the church and that’s why he’s been trying to discredit us. He’s a pretty adamant skeptic, as far as I can tell. I doubt if he would be very happy about his girlfriend being part of an evangelical congregation.”
Wyatt contemplated the possibility. “Knowing Strider, that makes a lot of sense — and it would be a colossal conflict of interest. When I was a prosecutor, I would have gotten crucified in the press if I had a personal motivation for one of the investigations I did. Now, granted, Strider’s not a public official, but still — there are some journalistic standards.”
“You think his boss is aware of this?”
“No way to know. But it might provide us with some leverage. If Strider looks like he’s going to blast us, we might be able to hold this over his head. Might be the kind of tidbit we could threaten to leak to the Tribune. They’d love to skewer Strider in their gossip column.”
Snow’s thoughts were pulled back to the bombing. “Who do you think would try to kill him?”
“No telling. He’s been doing investigative reporting for a long time; the list of suspects will be a mile long. On the surface, a bombing like this sounds like organized crime — or it could be someone who wants the cops to think it’s the mob. One positive thing is that this will take Strider out of commission for a while. He’ll be too occupied to write anything more about Diamond Point.”
Snow looked at her askance. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“What?”
“That there’s a positive side to this. This woman is dying! You s
aid there was a fire, that she was burned. I mean, this is a terrible tragedy.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. It’s my pragmatic side coming out. Of course I feel bad for her and Strider.”
Snow rose to his feet. “What hospital is she in? I’m going over there to pray for her and hopefully see Strider.”
“Wait — let’s think about that.” Debra stepped over to block his exit. “Strider is out to get us. He’ll destroy you if given half a chance. There’s no upside in your going to see him.”
“No upside? This woman goes to our church; it seems like the right thing to do.”
“I guess it could be a good PR move.”
“Debra, listen to yourself!” he raised his voice. “This is not a PR move. It’s a gesture of compassion — to minister to them. That’s what any Christian would do. It’s what any pastor would do. And once a pastor, always a pastor.”
“No — once a pastor, now a Senator. You’ve got to stop seeing yourself as The People’s Pastor and start seeing your role as political. Let me delegate this to another pastor. Or I could go; I’ve known Strider for years. But we’re in the final stretch with the Senate appointment; there’s no need to jeopardize things. Who knows — one wrong word from you could make Strider redouble his efforts to trash us. It’s not worth the risk, however small.”
“Debra, I’ve been smothering my pastoral instincts for a long time and I don’t like how it feels. Here’s a spiritually confused guy whose girlfriend’s life is hanging by a thread. Every impulse inside of me says I should go see if I can help. He may be open to God for the first time in his life. I’m drawn to that like a magnet. That’s what I’ve done for more than fifteen years: help people find God.”
Wyatt still didn’t like the idea, but she could see there would be no changing his mind. “Then you should go,” she said. Snow stepped around her and grabbed his coat from the chair where he had tossed it earlier.
Still, Wyatt’s mind hadn’t stopped processing the situation. “But for just a minute, let me be pragmatic again.”