Dowland downs another drink.
“What if you can help end some of the hate that has so divided this country, that continues to erode the underbelly of our democracy?” Those were the words they used.
“And how can I do that?”
They show him a report on a man, a prominent businessman, who is leading a double life. Running an underground Christian ministry for men that’s popped up in more than thirty states. Then they tell him why the men are meeting.
“We want him gone. Without a trace.”
Just like that. And before he can say a word, they remind him. “The world doesn’t need another Brock Hardy, does it?”
His father. The man of devout faith. The pillar of the community. The advocate and helper and philanthropist.
The fraud. The man who sang “It Is Well with My Soul” as loud as he could in the pew next to him, but Dowland knew the truth. His father had no soul.
“I’ll do it.” That’s what he said. Years ago. Without needing anything more. And when it happened, when he strangled the man and disposed of his body, he didn’t feel guilt. Not then. So why now?
Dowland looks at the old clock on the wall and knows his flight is taking off soon. He’s not sure if what he’s been feeling lately is guilt. Perhaps it’s that everything is escalating. The price tag, the players, the predicament of finding the Reckoner…Everything.
He has to believe what Costa said—that no one else knows about Burne’s daughter and the guy she’s traveling with. So for now he can use their ignorance to his advantage.
“Russo-Baltique 2027,” he says, turning on his SYNAPSYS.
The password to turn it on was taken from some ridiculously expensive vodka he was given by a billionaire who was enraptured by Kamaria and invited them to stay at his resort in Dubai. Whether something happened with the wealthy Arab, Dowland doesn’t know and didn’t care at the time. That night in Dubai in 2027 enjoying that Russo-Baltique bottle could never be topped.
With the SYNAPSYS on, he checks all the incoming messages and notifications. Nothing as earthshaking as what he found in Tulsa this morning.
“Call Margaux,” Dowland says.
As expected, he doesn’t hear a voice answer at the other end. He has to leave a message. “It’s Dowland. I need your help. You know me…I don’t like asking for it. But right now I need a colleague who does what I do. I’m flying back to Chicago. Call me.”
There’s time for one more drink as the names roll around in his head. The main target, the Reckoner. Now Jamil C. Taylor, aka License. Cheyenne Burne. And Keith Burne.
He looks at the clear glass, empty once again. Perhaps the answer has been staring him in the face all this time. Perhaps it’s been crystal clear.
Maybe Keith Burne is the Reckoner.
THIRTEEN
Our Daily Bread
1.
“You have to pick up Shaye from school and take her to the doctor. Her readings dropped, and an ear infection was detected.”
Will watched the message from Amy. He had been searching for job listings in the Grand Rapids area. He had actually looked at a position at a library in the town of Grandville, Michigan, a job more suited for someone retired who wanted to fill time and didn’t really care about the pay. It wasn’t full time, so there was no need even to look at it, but it involved books, one of his loves. After seeing no leads, Will began looking at houses for sale, which was foolish since there was no way they would be able to buy another house. Not with their dismal credit rating.
“I’m going now,” Will said in a message that would be sent to Amy. He grabbed his coat and keys and quickly left the house. Once again the familiar sting of anger began to pollute his spirit. He never handled it well when anybody, including himself, got sick. The older he had become, Will found himself growing more and more impatient. With everything. It used to be the stress of work and lack of time he had, but now it was his lack of work making him stressed. So when someone in the family got sick, he was the opposite of a caretaker. He became cantankerous. And this past week after all of them had caught the nasty flu bug going around, Will found himself downright miserable to be around.
As he drove to the girls’ school, he realized he was gritting his teeth, a bad habit he’d gotten into.
“You are driving twenty miles over the speed limit,” Tolkien told him.
“Shut up. I know.”
This time Tolkien remained quiet, perhaps able to monitor Will’s levels and to assess that he would only be more incensed by further discussion.
Everything lately had felt so out of control. It hadn’t started with closing the shop; the problems had come long before that. Years ago, in fact, when life became a chore, when the worries began to mount every day, and when all he could do was work and try a little harder. Try to get out of debt. Try to be a better father. Try to be more than a terrible husband. Try to be better.
All while trying to forget the family I came from.
Will cursed. He had worked so hard to remove himself from any ties to his father and brothers, and he had been successful, even though he’d paid a price. But was God now telling him to reach out to his father? For what reason? If Hutchence had been the only one suggesting this, Will would have said “Absolutely not.” But after seeing Pastor Brian, he found himself considering the unthinkable.
What if Jackson Heyford’s minions simply keep me out? What then?
Maybe he was losing his mind. Maybe the world had worn him down and there was nothing left. He’d let his SYNAPSYS take over. Maybe in the future people would be able to program patience and love and goodness into their systems. “For just a few more bucks, you can have the Ultracare package, which makes you a sensitive husband, a devoted father, and a devout believer! All for the cost of twenty thousand dollars!”
Maybe money did indeed buy happiness. Or maybe it just made happiness a little easier to reach. Perhaps money helped keep out the misery.
You know that’s a big fat turd of a lie, you idiot.
“You’re going thirty miles over the speed limit,” Tolkien said. “A scanner is going to fine you, and currently you have only fifteen dollars—”
“Shut up!” he yelled. “Please stop. I don’t want to hear your voice.”
The voice wasn’t the thing bothering him. As Will slowed down, knowing they couldn’t afford a three-hundred-dollar speeding ticket, he realized he’d been speeding because he was freaking out inside. He couldn’t control anything in his life, but at least he could control the speed of his car. There were bills he couldn’t pay and illnesses he couldn’t heal and arguments he couldn’t win. And then there was this whole matter of Chicago as they knew it coming to an end soon.
Perhaps when he took Shaye to the doctor, he would ask to see a shrink for himself.
2.
“You still sick, huh?”
She nodded, looking out the car window.
“I thought you were feeling better.”
“I felt terrible this morning,” Shaye said.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I didn’t want you and Mom arguing.”
Will looked at Shaye. He tried to think of a proper response, but a fog hovered over him, making it impossible to find the right words. Sometimes the only right response was an honest one.
“I know things have been stressful,” Will said. “I think that’s why all of us have gotten sick. Our immune systems are down.”
Shaye nodded, still looking out the window, still not herself.
He didn’t want to wake up one day and realize the silence and the space between them had grown from simply a crack to a hole and then to a canyon. But Will also knew he couldn’t force things, nor could he simply repair the pothole between them right now.
“It’s been hard to figure out things with the bookstore closing,”
Will said. “I know I haven’t been the nicest person lately. I’m sorry.”
She glanced at him, giving a sweet and sympathetic smile, the kind a mother would give to her son.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” she said.
Shaye was too young to be so smart and so responsive. Her age did allow for grace and forgiveness, however. The kind the world drained out of you daily until it finally sucked you dry, turning you into a bitter and angry person. If you allowed it to.
Please, God…I don’t want to be that sort of person.
That’s where everything started and where Will should have started. With God. Asking God to help him. But that meant giving God the keys not only to his car but also to his life. To every single aspect of his life.
God, help me figure out how I can do that.
3.
It didn’t take much to find out what his father was up to. For Will all it took was a simple click on the news. Jackson Heyford was in the headlines nearly every day in some form. Even though it had been more than eleven years since they last talked in person, Will still heard his father’s hollow voice and saw his father’s soulless eyes through various forms of media even when he didn’t want to. His father was a living ghost, haunting him day and night.
On the night after picking Shaye up from school, Will decided to do something he never did in the sanctuary of his office. He had spent the last hour trying to make sense of the family’s financial status, and all it had done was motivate him to polish off a bottle of cheap red wine. This wasn’t the rare occurrence, however. It was finally succumbing to the occasional curiosity he had but never acted on.
“Hey, Tolkien. Show me the latest news on my father.”
“Is this a genuine request, or are you being sardonic?” the voice immediately asked him.
“Sardonic? I’m not trying to be a word I never use.”
“According to the Oxford English Dictionary, sardonic is an alteration of sardanios, which was used by Homer to describe bitter or scornful laughter.”
“Did you hear me laughing?” Will said.
“Deep down you were.”
This prompted Will to genuinely laugh out loud. “That is freaky, Tolkien.”
“That time I was using an expression of yours,” the proper British accent stated.
“I know, but still. Can you look up the latest news on him? And I’m not trying to be sardonic.”
One large virtual screen popped up on the wall in front of him while all the other screens he had open disappeared. Just like that, Jackson Heyford was in front of him, smiling and talking and looking like a trillionaire at a press event. He was at a hospital doing some noble, benevolent act guaranteed to make the world love him a little more.
“Jackson, Mississippi, has always been one of my favorite places to visit, and it’s not because we share the same name,” Jackson joked with authority and clarity behind the podium while surrounded on both sides by a group of men and women. “I remember how moved I was by the Civil Rights Museum when I was only eight years old. Of course, the Blues Extravaganza’s annual growth makes me proud to have started it.”
To his right stood a statuesque blonde thirty-three years his junior, grinning and looking on like a proud daughter might. Tiffany Shaw was a former Miss Mississippi, and her current occupation was being Jackson Heyford’s second trophy wife and the third woman he’d married. This particular tie to the Magnolia State was perhaps the biggest reason he was there right now.
The only reason.
“On behalf of the Acatour Foundation, Tiffany and I are proud to announce the opening of the Jackson Children’s Hospital and Research Center. As the largest and most technologically advanced children’s hospital in the world, the $2.4 billion that have been spent still seems like a drop in the bucket in efforts to eradicate cancer and other diseases affecting our precious sons and daughters.”
The old feelings and emotions enveloped him like the smell of a dumpster full of spoiled meat. He told Tolkien to shut off the video, then gave a cutting laugh that almost hurt.
“Such a philanthropist,” Will said as the footage disappeared. “ ‘Precious sons and daughters.’ If people only knew what he was like as a father.”
“Never laugh at live dragons.”
“What?”
“A quote from The Hobbit. ‘Never laugh at live dragons, Bilbo you fool!’ ”
“Ah, a quote you wrote. Very clever. So are you calling me a fool, Tolkien?”
“I would never say that out loud. Would you like to see other recent news?” Tolkien asked.
“Yes. But can you just read them to me?”
“Of course. ‘The revenue growth at Acatour continues to be impressive, with shares valued at $3,549.82. Heyford recently said he doesn’t see splitting the stock anytime soon, though he says he wants to avoid the Amazon financial earthquake that happened after shares grew too big back in the 2020s. The growth of the SYNAPSYS line has more than tripled in the last year, producing another new wave of models coming in the fall of 2038. The Acatour-owned Magellan Space Station will have $40 billion worth of renovations in the coming year, most coming from the corporation—’ ”
“Okay, got it!” Will called out in a loud voice he hoped didn’t wake everybody else in the house. “Do you have any news that isn’t related to money?”
“Some minor news buried but noteworthy for you is that the PASK division lost its top architect after she resigned, reportedly due to the controversy over her father being labeled a religious fanatic and being investigated by the FBI. One recent headline read ‘Former Fortune 500 Exec Turns Rogue.’ ”
“Seriously? Do you have any pictures?”
Several photographs popped up of a businessman who might as well have been one of his father’s coworkers.
“This is Keith Burne, the supposed ‘religious fanatic’ who was a VP for Corpus Investments Group. There are no pictures of his daughter, Cheyenne.”
Will rubbed his eyes, the glow of the photos straining his eyes.
“Enough news,” he said. “Can you put back up all the screens I had showing?”
“Can I give you a bit of advice?” Tolkien asked.
“Can I say no?”
“I suggest you don’t continue to evaluate the state of your finances after checking on Jackson Heyford’s status.”
“Just put them back up,” Will said.
Images surrounded him on all sides again, as if he were stuck in the middle of a meteor shower. Thirty-seven bills appeared from a variety of sources, such as websites, messages, a few phone calls, and a handful of digital assistants leaving messages.
There was his Comcast bill for $1,348.37. The latest monthly bill and last month’s overdue balance. The typical monthly charges were around $600, and the late charges equaled almost $150. He could remember twenty years ago—during their double-income, no-kids days—when the monthly bill started to reach $200 simply for cable and internet. Inflation had almost tripled since then, but money no longer held any value to him. Not anymore. The numbers and the figures meant nothing. None of them felt real.
The Comcast bill was critical to pay because the company would turn off their link to the network, eliminating everything—from connecting with others to watching shows and movies to using their SYNAPSYSes. But there was also the water bill. And electricity. And gas.
And, oh yeah, how about the mortgage that’s three months past due. He needed $18,470.09 to pay for that.
The credit cards, all five of them, were maxed out to the last cent. They were all over their credit lines, of course, and each missing payment meant a hefty late charge.
One by one Will tapped off the screens. He had only wanted to survey the plane crash, to see the carnage spilling out over everything. There would be no paying bills tonight or tomorrow night. They would have to wait until Am
y got paid next, and then that little pebble would be thrown into the giant lake.
Paying off every single cent of our debt would be an even tinier pebble to my father. That wasn’t an option. That would never be an option. Not anymore.
The latest bill from today hovered directly in front of him. It was $845 for the simple walk-in to the medical clinic to make sure Shaye was okay. This made Will think of the grandfather Shaye and the girls had never known, the man they wouldn’t ever know. At least not as long as Will was alive. The last time he had seen his father had been for that very reason. Jackson Heyford had wanted to meet his first grandchild, but Will had refused. Jackson now had plenty of grandchildren, so his legacy and pride were fine without having Will’s girls in his life.
Will took some pride in knowing that he still had something worth more than all of Jackson Heyford’s trillions. Something Heyford could never have.
4.
Heavenly Father, I know I’ve been silent. Forgive me, God. And I know I’ve been trying to do it on my own and I can’t. But I keep trying.
You control everything. I know this. And yet I keep trying and doing and failing. I worry so much. Lord, please forgive my doubt.
Whatever You have planned tomorrow when the sun comes up, help me to see it. To know it.
And whatever is supposed to happen with Hutchence and with my father, let me know what Your will is. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand my life now.
Take my fears from me. Take away all this bad, evil junk inside me, and let me feel Your Spirit.
Give me this day our daily bread, as we should pray. Help me forgive others as You forgive me. Even my father. Somehow. Lead all of us away from temptation. And please, please, please, God—deliver us from evil.
American Omens Page 24