by Lee Strobel
VII
It wasn’t until after Gina’s parents arrived and Snow excused himself that Strider slipped, unnoticed and alone, into the small lavatory in the corner of Gina’s room.
He closed and latched the door, then sat on the cover of the toilet, head in hand, speaking in a whisper so soft that the words were barely audible. “You’re not there; I know it. You’re nothing more than a fairy tale — a prop for people like Eric Snow. If you were real, I’d despise you for what’s happened to Gina.”
And then he asked for just one thing from the God he didn’t believe in.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
I
This was a new perspective for Eric Snow: high above the Diamond Point auditorium, even higher than the balconies, he was sitting in a metal folding chair on a small landing that’s used by technicians when they operate the spotlights during concerts. Slipping up a back stairway, then climbing a short ladder to the HVAC room that hums with air conditioning and electrical equipment, Snow emerged on this perch without being noticed.
From this vantage point, he could see the whole panorama of the auditorium below him, yet he was shielded from everyone’s view. How ironic, he mused. I’ve gone from one end of the spotlight to the other. And if he were honest, it felt good for a change. After his encounter with Garry Strider, he wanted some solitude to think, and yet at the same time he felt inexorably drawn to the Elders Prayer service.
Frankly, he came with trepidation. He feared this much–anticipated event would become a circus, a presumptuous spectacle, with people sitting back in their comfortably padded chairs and smugly demanding that God entertain them with a dazzling show of miracles. From the beginning, though, the tenor of the event was quite the opposite.
As expected, the crowds were overwhelming. The parking lot was choked with cars, challenging the platoons of yellow–jacketed traffic volunteers to find nooks and crannies for all of them to fit. Soon there was hardly a square foot of unoccupied asphalt. Thousands of people flowed through the massive glass entryways and were efficiently funneled into the auditorium, where ushers guided them into seats, systematically filling the cavernous room from front to back.
Through it all, though, there was a calm sense of reverence among the attendees, an atmosphere of introspection and respect and quiet awe. The undercurrent of anticipation was unmistakable, and yet Snow couldn’t help but detect a serene, patient, and undemanding vibe.
The stage was bathed in a soft glow; the stringed music in the background was muted and contemplative. Snow, dressed in dark slacks and an open–collared pale blue shirt, folded his hands and tried to pray, but his mind was a jumble.
He glanced at his watch; the service was already seven minutes late in starting, something he never used to tolerate when he was in charge. No, he would be on a tirade by now; this would be a near–firing offense. He started tapping his foot impatiently — and then he caught himself.
He felt sheepish. Why, he wondered, had he spent so much of his energy relentlessly focusing on running a tighter and tighter ship rather than merely encouraging the breeze of God’s Spirit to fill the sails of the church?
The crowd’s murmur interrupted him. Art Bullock was striding to the center of the stage, where a simple lectern had been placed. Snow leaned forward and squinted to get a better look; Bullock was minuscule from this distance. The jumbo screens had been turned off to create a more intimate feeling.
Art scanned the room slowly, from one side to the other, as the auditorium quickly grew quiet. He exhaled deeply, his hands lightly holding each side of the podium. He had no notes. He wasn’t there to preach a sermon. He could never match the rhetorical flourishes of the great Eric Snow anyway — and he didn’t care. His tone was conversational and earnest.
“We’re here tonight because we share one thing in common — we need help,” he began. “We need help because we’ve been laid off from our job and our bank account is dwindling. We need help because we’re sick or injured or facing surgery and the truth is that we’re scared. We need help because we’re facing a big decision and don’t know which way to turn.
“We need help because our marriage is failing, or our children are in trouble, or we’ve tried to stop drinking or snorting coke or sleeping around or playing the horses and we just can’t do it on our own. We need help because our life is slipping away. We need help because our faith has dissipated and we’re not sure how to get it back. We need help because we don’t know how to quit being our own worst enemy.”
Art stopped, letting the words find their mark. And then his face grew visibly pained; those who were sitting close to the platform could see that his eyes were welling with tears.
“And some of us need help because we’ve hurt others through our own negligence, our own stupidity — even inadvertently,” he said, his voice quivering, “and we just cannot figure out how to make it right.”
Again, he paused. The room was still; the heavy breathing of the air conditioning system was the only sound.
“Of course, everyone needs help in one way or the other. But what makes us different is that we’re not ashamed to admit it. We’re here because we believe, as best we can, that God can offer the exact help we need. We’re here like the desperate father who told Jesus, ‘I believe; help my unbelief.’
“We’re here because we’ve heard that God has done some startling things in these services over the last several weeks. We’ve heard of sight being restored and crippled legs being healed. And we’re here because nobody else can meet our needs like God can — and we don’t care who knows it.
“I’ll be honest with you: I don’t know why God chose to instantly heal a little girl and a middle–aged man. I wish I did. He may choose to do the same thing with you — or he might not. But I don’t think that’s the issue. How God helps us isn’t as important as knowing he will ultimately do what’s best.
“For some that might mean a quick or perhaps a long–term recovery; for others, though we might not like it, he will use our suffering to shape our character and help us draw closer to him. God never healed the apostle Paul despite his prayers. And yet as Paul said, ‘Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.’ “
With that preface, Art segued into an overall prayer on behalf of those assembled — seemingly touching every category of need, covering the gamut of human pain and fears and longings. Toward the end of the ten–minute supplication, Art’s cadence unexpectedly slowed and the pauses between his sentences lengthened, as if he were half–listening to some distant whisper.
Then he concluded with the words, “And we pray for Eric Snow.” Snow’s head, bowed over his folded hands, popped up. “We love him and we miss him. Give him wisdom, please. Guide him to where you truly want him to be.” Art hesitated as if he were going to continue, but he left it at that.
In the far reaches of the auditorium, Snow uttered, “Amen.”
Art offered dismissal for those who felt his general prayer addressed their needs. A spattering of people got up and made their way toward the exits, but most stayed to see what was going to happen.
The elders took their stations in the aisles around the periphery of the auditorium, except for Debra Wyatt, who was nowhere to be found, and Dick Urban, whose flight back from a business trip had been delayed by a thunderstorm in Ohio.
For the next two hours, individuals and small clusters of people lined up at the elders, shared their burdens with them, and there was prayer and anointing with oil. The conversations created a low hum in the auditorium. For the most part, participants walked away feeling encouraged and supported, but there were no instantaneous and dramatic healings like with Hanna or Harold. Not this time.
Toward the end, Art took the platform again to thank people for coming. Eric Snow lingered at his perch, watching the remaining attendees file out below him. He decided to wait until the crowd fully dispersed and then catch Art before he drove home.
&nbs
p; He was curious: what prompted Art to single him out by name?
II
“Art! Wait up. I want to talk with you!”
Eric Snow raised his hand to signal Art Bullock, who was heading toward his car in a remote section of Diamond Point Fellowship’s vast parking lot. In order to model servant leadership, the church’s staff routinely parks in the least convenient area of the property, alongside some shoulder–high bushes.
The time was nearly 11:00 p.m., and the rest of the lot had already been emptied of visitors. A single overhead sodium–vapor light provided shadowy illumination. The only two vehicles in the vicinity were Art’s and Eric’s, parked perhaps thirty yards apart.
Surprised by the shout, Art turned his head toward Snow, who started walking briskly in his direction. Eric had taken half a dozen steps when suddenly rustling from the bushes yielded a black–clad figure aiming a handgun right at Bullock.
Art, startled, pivoted to face him directly — and the gunman, not eight feet away, raised his silenced revolver and snapped off two quick rounds. Art grunted, his feet slipping out from under him. He tumbled on his back. The shooter stepped toward him and hovered over the body; satisfied, he turned and disappeared through the thick foliage.
“Art!”
Now Snow was sprinting toward Bullock, falling on his knees next to him and lifting his head from the asphalt. Art’s eyes were closed, his body limp, his sport coat twisted around his torso.
“Art!” Eric pleaded, his eyes overflowing. “Art!”—now his voice was a command. Still no response. “Oh, God! Please, no. Not Art. Not him.”
The prospect of such loss overwhelmed him — the best friend he ever had, his partner in the whirlwind adventure of building the church, the one whose moral barometer never seemed to fail.
Snow cast his eyes toward the blackened sky. And with that, he called out in unedited anguish, the sound primal and guttural, part shriek and part words that tumbled uncontrolled out of his mouth.
He prayed then, feverishly. “Oh, God! Please save Art! Don’t let him die! Please!” At that moment, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to save his friend. Interminable moments passed; the only sound was Snow crying. And then he heard something — a low, drawn–out moan. Art’s eyes began to ease open. It took a few seconds for him to regain focus, and then he searched Snow’s astonished face.
“Oh, man,” Art muttered, trying to prop himself up on an elbow. He reached to the back of his head, withdrew his hand and studied the sticky blood on his fingers.
Snow’s eyes widened. “Art? Don’t move — where are you shot?”
Art struggled to sit up, and then he untangled his coat and pulled open his shirt, popping the buttons. “Bullet–proof vest,” he said.
“What in the—”
“Ron Tillman — the security guy — gave it to me when I told him I was concerned for my safety.”
Snow’s mouth fell open, and then he tilted his head back to let out a hearty laugh. “I — I thought this was another miracle, like Hanna or Harold.”
Art smiled. “Well … maybe, in a way.” He winced. “Man, I hit my head pretty bad.” As if to prove his point, he thrust his bloodied hand toward his friend.
Relieved, Snow was still grinning. “I’d like to think that God is giving us a second chance.”
III
Reese McKelvie glanced at the digital clock next to his recliner: it was 11:15 p.m. He reached over to pick up the ringing phone.
“All set for tomorrow night,” Buster said.
“Good. What did Dom say?”
“Not much.”
“Hmmm.”
“He didn’t seem happy.”
“What about his brother? Will he be there?”
“No promises.”
The judge grunted, then hung up the phone and retrieved his scotch and water, draining the last of it. An engraved plaque on the opposite wall caught his eye. It had been awarded to him by the Chicago Legal Association in recognition of his efforts to clean up the scandal–tainted court system, back in the days when he was an idealistic crusader for justice.
At least, that was his public image. He could barely remember when that label was true for him; more than anything, he wished he could recapture those times. Maybe someday. Maybe somehow. Maybe he’d find a way to do the right thing.
He shook his head slowly as he pondered his options. None of them were good. He couldn’t stomach the possibility of public exposure; he could never endure the humiliation and embarrassment. In a perverse sense, he mused, Tom O’Sullivan’s father had been lucky — he died before he had to face the indignity of a trial and the shame of prison.
One thing was certain: there was no way he was going to let the stupidity and ineptitude of the Bugattis put him behind bars. There had to be a way out — and now was his chance to seize the situation.
IV
Eric Snow used his cell phone to call 911, explaining where on the immense Diamond Point Fellowship property the paramedics could find an injured pastor with a gash on the back of his head.
“It hurts, but I think I’m gonna be okay,” Art was saying.
“You blacked out. You need to see a doctor. Can you still sit up?”
Art nodded. “Headache,” he said, rubbing his temples.
“I don’t understand something,” Snow said. “Why would someone try to kill you?”
Art cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts. “It’s a long story — and unfortunately, it’s confidential. It stems from a confession that someone made to me.”
“Who?”
“As I said, it’s confidential.”
“I’m a pastor, Art. You can share the confidence with me.”
“I can’t do that. The person made it clear that I could never tell anyone. Besides, there would be a conflict because it involves the Senate thing.”
“The Senate? What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Art, if this is serious enough that people want to kill you, then you need to get some guidance.”
“I was going to talk with Dick Urban after the service tonight; I thought I could stay vague enough to keep the confidence but specific enough to get his advice. But he got hung up at the airport. Anyway, I’m not sure he can help much now that the tape is gone.”
“Tape of what?”
“The guy who confessed gave me a tape for safekeeping. It’s the proof that he was telling the truth. Now the guy’s gone and so is the tape.”
“You mean they’ve vanished?”
“I’m sorry, Eric — I can’t say anything more. Leave it at that. He’s not around anymore and the tape has disappeared.”
“Where was it?”
“I locked it in the safe where we keep the offering. But when I checked today, there was nothing there. I can’t figure out how anyone could crack that vault. Who would even know the tape was in there?”
“Let me get this straight. Someone confesses something to you — something serious, something that has a bearing on the Senate race. Now he’s gone and the tape that confirms his story is missing.”
“I’ve already said too much.”
“But if I understand this correctly, you’ve become a liability to anyone who wants to keep his confession quiet.”
Art didn’t reply.
“Look, if you can’t confide in me, then I hope you’ll go ahead and get some help from Dick. He’s an attorney; he’s got a lot of wisdom. And you obviously need some protection — especially when whoever tried to kill you finds out you’re all right.”
“Well, he apparently thinks he shot me. So that could buy some time.”
“He did shoot you,” Eric said. “But you were protected.”
“Yeah. In more ways than one.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
I
Eric Snow took a step to the side and lowered his shoulder in order to allow the light from an overhead fixture to illuminate his hands.
Finally he managed to slip his key into the front–door lock of the small office building in downtown Diamond Point, with Debra Wyatt looking anxiously over his shoulder.
“I don’t get it,” she said, swatting at mosquitoes attracted by the lit entrance. “Why are we here in the middle of the night?”
Without replying, Snow motioned for her to follow him. They went up the stairway to his suite. Once inside, he unlocked the door to his office, flipping the light switch as he rushed inside, Wyatt trailing behind.
Snow went straight to a stack of papers and envelopes that were sitting on the edge of his desk. Picking them up, he shuffled through them until he extracted what he was looking for — an unlabeled manila envelope bearing something bulky inside. He ripped it open and pulled out a micro–recorder, holding it up for Debra as if it were a treasure.
“A volunteer from the church dropped this stuff off a few days ago,” he said. “He was putting the offering into the safe on Sunday and noticed a stack of papers in the back. Most had my name on them, so he grabbed the whole pile and brought it over here, since he knew I had left the church and moved my offices.”
“Yeah? So?”
“I didn’t pay any attention to it; I just let it sit here. It’s personal stuff I like to keep locked up for security, like my passport. But this,” he said, scrutinizing the recorder, “is something else. We need to listen to it.”
Snow sat behind his desk; Debra leaned forward, her hands planted on the desk’s edge. Snow rewound the tape to its beginning and hit “play.” Initially, there were just the muffled sounds of footsteps and hard–to–define movement. He fast–forwarded to where the conversation began.
I don’t have much time. I’m meeting you because I was a very close friend of your father’s. Why was it so pressing to meet in chambers?
Wyatt looked perplexed. “Who is that …?” she whispered.
I have something from Dom … Dom Bugatti … There’s 30K in there.
Eric stopped the tape; Debra’s mouth was agape. “Dominic Bugatti is one of the leaders of the Taylor Street mob. We were constantly investigating those guys when I was with the U.S. Attorney’s office.”