Marcus turned and drilled Calen with his gaze. “As our guest, I’d be honored if you would do us the favor of going first.” The air seemed to freeze and no one spoke.
“Why are you doing this, Dad?”
Marcus looked at Abbie and narrowed his eyes. “I need you to be silent for a bit, Abbs. And I need you to trust me.”
“Marcus?” Kat laid her hand on his arm and squeezed hard. “Do you really want to create a scene at this moment?”
“It’s a good question, Mr. Amber,” Calen said. “Why are you doing this? I think your saying a short word of grace should suffice for the meal, but anything more will likely make your entire family as well as me quite uncomfortable.”
“I appreciate your opinion, Calen. But tonight that will not suffice.” Marcus turned to Kat. “Trust me that this is true.” He turned back to Calen. “We need to hear our guest tell us Jesus Christ has come in the flesh and that he is God. It’s not a difficult request for one who has surrendered to the Nazarene.”
Calen’s eyes went dark and his breathing grew shallow. He gripped the table and his fingers turned white. “I choose to respectfully decline.”
Marcus raised himself up to his full height, sitting in the chair ramrod straight. “I insist.”
He glanced at Abbie, whose eyes pleaded for him to stop, and then at Kat, who looked like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of gravel. He gave a slight nod to each of them, and the look in his eyes must have been like steel because they both dropped their gazes to the table and stayed silent.
Calen pulled his hands off the table and laughed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Amber. I realize it’s not my place to say this, but I think you’re embarrassing your family and you’re making me feel a little awkward as well.” He motioned toward Kat. “Your beautiful wife has cooked a wonderful meal and it’s getting cold. And if I’m being totally candid, I’ve never been good at saying grace, and on top of that, I’ve forgotten the words you wanted me to say. Can you just say a word of thanks so we all can eat?”
“Please, Dad? Please?”
“Calen, humor me and take part in our new tradition. I’m not asking you to say grace. And there are no words for you to memorize. Simply in your own words tell us Jesus is the Son of God, and that he is God come in the flesh.”
Marcus waited a moment, then leaped to his feet, and as his chair smashed into the china hutch behind him, he shouted, “I command you by the blood of Jesus Christ to confess that Jesus is Lord.”
A shudder went across Calen’s shoulders and saliva bubbled onto his lips. His eyes narrowed and he leaned toward Marcus. “You don’t want to do this.”
Marcus stepped around the corner of the table. “By the blood of Jesus Christ, the power of his resurrection, and the power of his ascension, I command you to tell us who you are and what your true name is. I bind you with the blood of the Lamb. I command you to do this by the authority of Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Calen snarled and grabbed the table with both hands. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. You’re in so far over your head, you’re looking up from the bottom of the seabed.”
“Tell us, Calen. I command you by the blood of the Lamb. Tell us who you are.”
The demon’s face distorted into that of an elderly woman, then to a middle-aged man, then back to the face of Calen. “You have no power over me.” His breathing came in gasps now and his hands slid across the table into the mashed potatoes, which slid between Kat and Jayla over the edge and smashed onto the floor.
“Tell us!” Marcus thundered.
“I am . . . I am . . . Zennon.” Calen stood, stumbled back, knocked over his chair, and pointed at Marcus. “You cannot stop us. I’m one of millions and we are not going to destroy you at some point in the future—we already have. And you don’t even know it.”
Marcus stood. “Get out! In the name of Jesus! Go!”
The demon spun and flung his hands at the mirror on the wall. The glass shattered and rained down on them like hail.
“Daddy!”
Calen staggered out of the dining room and came to a halt at the front door. He turned and stared at Marcus. “You’re going to lose this battle, Professor. You’ve already lost it. Just wait till you see what we’ve cooked up just for you. I worked on it personally. It’ll have you wishing you’d never gotten near the hornet’s nest. We’re coming for you. And for the others. And it won’t end till you’re dead.” He waved his finger at Abbie and Jayla. “And then they will join you.”
“One more thing.” Zennon opened the door and pointed at Kat. “If you don’t tell her soon, we will. And she’ll know what you did to him. She’ll know the catastrophic secret you’ve kept hidden from her forever.”
Marcus screamed and sprinted toward the front door, but before he could reach Zennon, the door slammed shut and Marcus thumped against it hard. Adrenaline pumped through him and the back of his shirt was damp with perspiration.
After three deep breaths with his eyes closed he opened them and turned to his family. Abbie sat on the floor curled up in a ball in a corner of the dining room, her body shaking. Jayla was still at the table, eyes wide, face the color of copy paper. Kat’s arms were spread wide, one in the direction of each girl, and her head darted back and forth as if she couldn’t decide which of their daughters to go to first.
Marcus strode back into the dining room, slid down beside Abbie, and motioned Kat and Jayla to join them.
“It’s okay. We won. He’s gone. He’s gone.” Marcus prayed, stopped after a few minutes, then prayed again. Three or four minutes went by and he prayed a third time.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Abbie squeezed Marcus’s hand. “I . . . I kissed him, Daddy.”
“I’m so sorry, Abbs.” He pulled her tighter into his chest. “I should have seen it. I should have warned you.”
“You did. And I wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s okay.”
The four of them sat in silence for what seemed like a half hour. He finally looked at Kat, who stroked Jayla’s hair in between kissing the top of her head. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes but also peace.
“You’re right, Marcus. It’s not going to be easy. But it’s going to be okay.”
Marcus lay in bed that night pretending he didn’t know the secret Zennon had spoken of. Of Layne’s death. Of how Marcus could have prevented their son from dying.
Marcus turned over, his back to Kat, and tried to push the memory from his mind. If she knew the truth it could destroy everything. It was a door he thought he’d successfully locked and bolted shut. But if Zennon had his way it would be flung wide open and Kat would be standing there when it was.
TWENTY-TWO
AS BRANDON CLIPPED TOWARD THE STAGE IN OREGON on Sunday evening he popped three cherry-flavored throat lozenges into his mouth and prayed they would get him through the concert. In the back of his mind he knew he had more than a sore throat going on.
His voice strength had been waning for the past three weeks and he’d never had a sore throat hang on this long. But with everything going on at Well Spring and with Warriors Riding, plus a concert schedule that never seemed to slow down, there was little time to think about it, let alone get to a doctor. And if he told anyone about it they’d force him to go see someone, which would be a waste of time.
His voice was just tired. It needed a little rest. So did he. Another month and he’d get some. His last concert before a two-week break would be in his backyard, at Marymoor Park in Redmond, Washington. It was a prime spot to end the tour, in front of friends and family.
Brandon stepped onto the stage and the lights fired up and bathed the band and him in their brilliant yellows, reds, and blues. “Hello, Portland! Do you want to live with freedom?”
The crowd roared their answer and Brandon grinned, then turned to the band. “Slight change in the song order. I want to kick things off with ‘Final Race,’ okay?”
The band ran through their first set as tig
ht as they’d ever been. God was there and the Spirit moved through the music to bring people into deep worship.
As Brandon started into their second set and reached to hit his falsetto on the chorus, a sliver of pain shot down his throat. Then another and his voice faded. He glanced at Anthony, his bass player, who gave a questioning look. Brandon tapped his throat and shook his head, then mouthed the words, Voice is gone. He pointed at Anthony, then his microphone. Anthony picked up the hint and finished the song.
“Sorry, folks,” Brandon rasped out. “I’ve been fighting a sore throat lately and it looks like it just won. My voice is shot as you can hear, so Anthony is going to carry this concert the rest of the way home.”
Anthony’s solid voice boomed through the speakers out over the crowd and the concert ended strong. Afterward Brandon went out into the crowd and tried to greet the people, but he couldn’t speak in more than a whisper.
When he reached his dressing room, his manager, Kevin Kaison, was standing outside of it, arms pulled tight across his lean frame. “You’ve been keeping this from me, haven’t you?”
Brandon shrugged and sighed.
“How long?”
“Three weeks,” Brandon rasped out.
“Not good, pal.”
“I know.”
He did know. Depending on what he’d done, he could be out anywhere from a few days to forever. He didn’t mean to get dramatic, but if it was nodules on his throat and he’d pushed it too far, he might never sing again like he once did.
First Reece with his eyes and now Brandon’s voice. It seemed his premonition might be right. What was next? The professor would sprain his mind? Dana would lose her ability to lead? He needed to talk to Reece about it. Get the Warriors to pray for him. Get healed fast.
Brandon scowled at the floor, then glanced at Kevin. “It’s no surprise. The enemy is trying to take me out. Reece said this would happen.”
“Uh, maybe it’s not the enemy.” Kevin cocked his head. “Maybe it’s just you being stupid.”
“Wow, thanks for the sympathy.”
Kevin tapped his foot in double time as he rubbed his brown hair. “Sorry to be harsh, but it’s easy to blame the enemy on something you should have taken care of. You had to know it was more than a sore throat, but you kept it to yourself and kept pushing your voice till it snapped. Couldn’t it be as simple as that?”
Brandon shrugged.
“I’d find out quick. I’m getting an appointment for you in the next day or two.”
Brandon nodded.
He sat in his hotel room that night trying not to swallow and trying to figure out if Kevin was right. He hadn’t taken care of his throat. So was it the enemy who did this to him, or just Brandon’s neglect? But regardless of the cause, he had a feeling there was a deeper plan in the works that would make the sore throat a blip on the screen in comparison.
On Tuesday afternoon, the doctor slid the images of Brandon’s throat onto his table and grimaced.
“I don’t like the look in your eyes, Doc.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t either.” He poked at the shots with a mechanical pencil. “But it’s really not that bad.”
“Define ‘not that bad.’” Brandon rubbed the edge of his chair and braced himself. To him, not that bad would mean go home, drink some tea with honey, and not sing for a few days. Anything else would be a disaster.
“The good news is, I think you’ll be fine. This happens to singers more often than people hear about.” The doctor nodded at the statement. “The bad is, you won’t be belting out the hits for at least five weeks. And that’s after the surgery.”
“Surgery?” Brandon shook his head. “Not an option.”
“You’ve been mightily unkind to your vocal cords. You could take care of this with six months of no singing—that’s what Celine Dion did, but it sounds like you don’t want to take that long. Plus, in your case I’d recommend the surgery anyway.”
“I need to be singing faster than that.”
“Nope. Sorry.” The doctor leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
“I have a concert out in Redmond at Marymoor Park in three weeks.”
“You’ll be recovering from surgery three weeks from now, so unless you want to lip-synch—”
“Can I put off the surgery till the first part of September?”
“Sure.” The doctor leaned forward and gathered the photos into a stack. “You can put off the surgery forever. But if you want to sing again, I’d recommend having the procedure done sooner than later.”
“How soon is sooner?”
“Since I like your music, you could persuade me to do the surgery tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have to get prepped for something like this?”
“When Kevin called and set up the appointment, he persuaded me to act fast. I did. Plus I’d like to see you up and singing, maybe not as fast as you do, but pretty close. So are you in?”
TWENTY-THREE
“OUTSTANDING WORK YOUR FIRST TEN DAYS IN THE NEW role, Dana.” Robert popped his head into Dana’s office on Wednesday mid-morning and grinned. “You made me look like a hero when you were a general sales manager and you’re already making me look that way as GM.”
“Already?”
“Yes. I’ve noticed the restructuring you’ve been doing.”
“Thanks for pushing for my promotion.”
He waved his hands. “Nope, I won’t take any credit. The only thing I did was say yes when they asked if I thought you’d do a good job as general manager of the station.”
“I appreciate it anyway.”
“Listen, are you and Perry still on for joining my wife and me a week from tomorrow for dinner?”
“I’m not really seeing him anymore.”
“Oh, is that right?”
She nodded, then waited for the invitation to be withdrawn. As a couple she was desirable. Single? Not so much. Dana knew how the game was played.
“So you’re coming solo? That will still work if you’re okay with it. We’ll have a great time.”
“I thought—” She stopped, not knowing how to put her thoughts into words.
“You thought we were just doing the polite couples thing?” Robert spread his arms wide, placed his palms on Dana’s desk, and leaned forward. “We like you for you, Dana. Period. You don’t have to have a date to be around us.” He straightened up. “But if you want me to try to fix you up with someone . . .”
“No. I’m okay.”
“Great.”
Dana smiled as Robert whapped the door frame of her office and strode away. She’d always liked him, but before the promotion she wouldn’t have described their relationship as a friendship. A good working acquaintance? Yes. But hanging out together and possibly becoming friends with Robert’s wife? She hadn’t ever considered it.
But even though it had only been ten days since her promotion, she already felt as if she’d been given membership in an exclusive club where there was no official card to get in, but there was a card nonetheless.
Her cell phone chimed and she glanced at the reminder. Oops. Ten minutes before the staff meeting and half an hour of work to do before she got there. She’d never worked harder during the past week and never loved it more. Everyone in the station had responded positively to her promotion and a significant amount of revenue had been booked in the past week. Huge blessing.
A knock came on her door frame. Rebecca. “Your buddy Reece on line one.”
“Thanks.” She picked up the phone while reading an e-mail regarding a TV spot they were developing to promote their summer jam concert.
“Reece, hi.”
“How are you?”
“Good, but busy. No time to talk.”
“I’ll be brief. Just confirming you’re still coming to Well Spring next week to help train our next batch of recruits. We leave next Thursday at noon, back Sunday night late as usual.”
> Dana rubbed her eyes and moaned inside. “Didn’t you get my e-mail?”
The line went silent for a few seconds. “E-mail isn’t the most effective way to communicate with me these days.”
“I thought you were going to set up computer reading software for your e-mails.”
“I don’t see much need when I’m sensing the Spirit is going to heal me soon. What did your e-mail say?”
“I can’t go, Reece. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I have another commitment.” Dinner with her boss and his wife was a commitment? Yes, it was. She’d earned it. She needed it. She wanted it.
“The mission of training these people is critical, Dana.”
“I’d love to hear of one mission over the past year that hasn’t been critical.”
“None, but that doesn’t change the importance of the time and the fact the entire team needs to be there.”
“Point taken, but that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t make it.”
“Why can’t you?”
Heat rose to her face. “I don’t have time to get into it right now.”
“I think you should make the time.”
She glanced at her watch. Eight minutes till the meeting. “I’d love to be able to make time, create it out of nothing, and add it to the twenty-four hours I get every day, but I can’t. Twenty-four is all there is and all there ever will be.”
After she hung up, Dana glared at her phone and shoved it across her desk where it teetered on the edge, then dropped off and thumped onto the carpet. She was mad at Reece, mad at herself, mad at the emotional energy the Warriors and always fighting the enemy took, and mad that her excuse for not going to Well Spring would melt under any kind of honest scrutiny.
Was it so wrong that she finally felt like she belonged at the station and wasn’t alone in her job? That a group of people she liked didn’t center around activities that exhausted every fiber of her? That she might get a social life going where she could enjoy simple pleasures like going to dinner or a play and maybe even at some point going on a blind date with one of Robert’s friends?
Memory's Door (A Well Spring Novel) Page 14