by Davis Bunn
The three network evening news programs had given the Times Square mob extensive coverage, calling it the largest such gathering in recent memory. The owners of the signs around Times Square all sang the same tune, which was, their electronic boards had all been hacked. They had to give some excuse, since they were all under exclusive contract. Which was why it had cost Trent so much to put on the show.
Stone watched with a singular intensity. When the last clip ended, he took out the plugs and asked, “This was your idea?”
Gayle was the one who replied. “Mr. Cooper actually manufactured the entire event. The board was agog.”
“I bet. ‘Hope Is Dead.’ Classy. Packs a punch.” Denning rubbed the stubble on his chin. “They had some incredible frontline footage. How did they get it?”
“I planted roving camera teams all over the square.”
“You own the raw tape?”
“Every inch. There’s some random amateur stuff out there. But this was my own arrangement. The pros didn’t have time to show up. Can I show you one thing more?”
He could tell Stone Denning wanted to dismiss him. But the lure of national news coverage on all stations was too great. “Go for it.”
“I’ve just come from a meeting with Colin Tomlin. His team has roughed out a basic concept for our lead advert.” Trent hit “play” and leaned back.
Colin Tomlin had personally overseen the making of this mock trailer, remaining on hand for the entire two hours. His top art director and videographer and their teams were on hyperdrive with their boss in attendance. The result was a staggeringly powerful montage. All three news shows were patched in, along with intensely professional images from the mob itself. Connecting it all was a theme Trent had come up with on the flight. It still was rough work, but for a preliminary concept it carried remarkable force, or so he thought. Straight up to the climactic moment, when the electronic screens of Times Square all went blank, then flamed on with the same three words. Hope Is Dead. The words then melded into the poster for Stone Denning’s new film. The words were whispered by the female voice-over one final time. Hope Is Dead.
Stone leaned back in his seat. Trent saw the argument forming in Stone Denning’s eyes. The dark gaze went brooding, then tightened, crinkling the entire face. An expression made to battle the world. Trent felt his gut go cold. The director was going to turn him down. Which meant moving to plan B. Only Trent did not have one.
But all Denning said was, “For me to take this on, it’s got to be my idea.”
Trent felt a relief so strong his voice went reedy. “No problem.”
The man was so ready to fight for this, he could not stop. “I’ve got to work this up as my plan, my theme, my idea. People need to think I convinced you.”
“I can see that,” Trent said. “Ten years from now, when Hope Is Dead has become the decade’s theme, people will think of you.”
Stone Denning cocked his head. “You don’t mind giving up the rights to your idea?”
“Why should I? I was never going to be on point. That’s your job. That’s why Barry is willing to pay you ten million dollars. To be the face. It makes all the sense in the world for you to be the one who originated it.”
“That’s right. It does.”
Trent took that as his invitation, and laid it all out. The need for all the Mundrose divisions to unite and build a corporate brand that lasted a full season.
Stone saw where this was headed. “You want me to build this into all my projects.”
“You have a pilot in production for a new television series. You also have a film that just wrapped. We want both to become components of this new package.”
“The film has wrapped. The cast is gone. We’re editing.”
“They are available for another few days shooting.”
“All of them?”
“All the stars. If you started tomorrow.”
Stone crossed his arms. “You checked.”
“Thoroughly.”
“Who pays?”
“Their time would be covered by your production budget.” Trent then offered the kicker. “Your television pilot will also be approved.”
“Nobody’s seen it yet.”
“The offer is firm, Mr. Denning,” Gayle confirmed.
“Full season run,” Trent finished.
He looked from one to the other. “You guys make quite a team.”
Trent kept his gaze on the director. “We want you to select whichever of the two you think would best support an electronic game. We want our new e-game division to start work tonight. We will roll out the game in time for the launch of your project.”
Stone Denning laughed out loud. “Four months? You’re nuts.”
“The first week of September will mark the release of the film and the pilot and the game,” Trent repeated. “The full series can follow in the new year. All three will carry the banner Stone Denning Presents. The tagline for everything is the same. Hope Is Dead.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Barry Mundrose didn’t say.” He shot an uncertain glance at Gayle. “But I can guess.”
“Tell me.”
“I think he feels we’ve got a winner. I think he wants to move before anyone else can steal it from us.”
Stone Denning studied the remaining amber liquid in his glass, then tossed off the drink and rose to his feet. “I don’t think either of us will be sleeping much between now and Labor Day.”
Trent could scarcely believe he had heard correctly. “You’re in?”
“My agent will scream. But 15 percent of ten mil should shut him up.” He offered Trent his hand. “You’re steering this boat?”
“I—”
“This is Mr. Cooper’s project for the duration,” Gayle replied.
Stone Denning crossed to the door, glanced back, nodded once, and was gone.
Trent was grateful the chair was there to catch him.
Gayle studied him for a moment, her gaze carefully assessing. “Just breathe. In and out. It passes.”
He said weakly, “I need to get back to the ad agency. But first I think I’ll have that drink.”
“I’ll see to it.” She rose to her feet, patted his shoulder, and said, “Welcome to the majors, Trent.”
13
“… whoever stands firm …”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
John slept poorly and woke feeling as though he was not welcome in his own skin. He showered and dressed and joined the others for breakfast. But he remained a man apart.
The morning sky was china-blue, the air crisp. Two young women from the campus set out meals in the vast kitchen-dining area. They were silent and efficient, and departed as John filled his plate with eggs and corn muffins and fruit. Watching the two depart in the Barrett Ministries van heightened his sense of not belonging. These people had spent their entire lives rising up within the ministry, while he had spent his days working hard and getting nowhere. John ate his breakfast and brooded over the possibility that perhaps God had made a mistake.
After breakfast, Ruth asked Aaron if he would lead them in a devotional. Aaron slipped the silken yarmulke from his pocket and fitted it over his head, then opened his Bible. “Ever since Yussuf first told me of his experience, I have found myself reflecting on the prophet Isaiah. His life, his personal ambitions, his literary abilities, everything was transformed in the most unexpected of manners. Of course, the death of his king Uzziah was not a surprise, as Israel’s leader had been ill for quite some time. So they buried one ruler and prepared to anoint another. As we know from our own times of transition, the people and their priests were no doubt worried over what was to come. Israel was beset by problems, and faced the very real threat of war with the Northern Kingdom. Isaiah was a young man at the time. We can assume this from the number of kings he served. We know he was intelligent and gifted. I personally see him as someone who is also quite ambitious. He has every reason to toe the line, especially in such a period of unc
ertainty and change.
“Instead, what happens?” Aaron paused and looked at each face in the little group. “Everyone around Isaiah was taking part in one of the most vital and intimate components of the temple ceremony. As the incense was lit and the smoke filled the temple’s innermost chamber, it seemed to him as though the very walls of the temple dissolved. One moment he stood in the holy chamber, the next he was confronted with true holiness. He stood before the heavenly throne, and about it moved fiery figures in an act of constant worship. They called out the words that are known nowadays as the Kaddosh, repeating over and over the one word that most describes the Lord of all. Holy. And there upon the throne resided the one true and eternal God. Isaiah was drawn to his divine magnificence, and he was blinded by it. He was filled with awestruck joy, yet he also knew a soul-shattering dread. For he was, by his own trembling declaration, unclean. He could not be where he was. He did not deserve such a gift. He was the most unworthy of men.”
John watched the morning light gradually strengthen, casting the room in a glow of sunlit amber. The kitchen-dining chamber, a full forty feet across, was divided by the long serving counter. The tables and the kitchen surfaces were all fashioned from the same wood. John suspected it was maple. Where the sunlight touched, the wood shone like polished gold.
Aaron continued, “The fruits of the Spirit require us to grow beyond our comfort zone. Like Isaiah, we are the most unworthy of believers. And yet God has called us. Each and every one of the family of Jesus. We are all invited to move beyond the failures and limitations that confine us.”
John grew increasingly convinced that he should not be there. With these people. Listening to words about the fruits of the Spirit. He managed truckers for a living. He was about to rise and stalk from the room when Ruth turned to him and said, “I feel you should be our spokesman.”
John felt as though this gentle woman had reached across the table and punched him in the soul. “You don’t know what you are saying.”
Ruth met his protest with a calm, “It’s not important what I say. It’s important that we heed God, if indeed this is what he wants.”
“It should be you.”
She nodded slowly. “Logically, perhaps. Mine is certainly the better-known face.”
“That’s not it. You’re—”
“A reluctant servant who has failed far more often than I’ve succeeded,” she replied. “I know.”
“No, that’s not …” John felt he was fighting for breath. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
But Ruth did not budge. “Pray on it. That’s all I ask. And if you feel God’s hand upon this, remember that he realizes you are the right one precisely because you must rely on his strength.”
John walked around the fields separating the streambed from the hills. He kicked at rocks and he argued with the weeds. Heather had wanted to come with him, and now he was glad that he had said he wanted to be alone. There was no reason to taint her day as well.
Ruth’s suggestion that John was to play some role out front had drawn his unsettled feeling into sharp focus. The very concept was just about enough to send him crashing. He kicked at another stone, and wished the earth would just open up and swallow him whole.
He had spent his life in the background. Where he belonged. John lifted his gaze to the sky, and heaved a silent plea, begging in a panic far beyond words for the Lord to ask somebody else. But the day remained still, the wind absent. The air was tight, but he knew the compression was of his own making. He dropped his head, defeated by the silence.
He turned back and looked at the house. Far in the distance, traffic hummed and hustled along unseen highways. This place was held in a sanctity all its own.
He saw himself crossing the distance. Climbing the stairs. Walking down the porch to where Ruth Barrett sat in her padded rocker, waiting patiently for the Lord to call on her again. His wife would be there too. A woman strong enough in her faith that she did not need God’s voice to know what should be done. John saw himself standing over the two ladies and Yussuf and Aaron and Jenny’s mother. And confessing the awful truth that had kept him chained his entire adult life.
He studied the people seated back there on the porch and knew all of them or any of them would be better at the job of spokesperson. None of them carried anything like this burden. And they needed to hear this before …
Then it happened.
John was gripped by the sensation that the air around him gathered together. The atmosphere grew so dense it was like breathing underwater. Everything he saw seemed to hold an illumination from within. Every blade of grass was a unique and glorious creation. A butterfly fluttered past, and he could have wept from the glory of sunlight and wings. John remained as anchored as he ever had been to the present moment, to the field and the surroundings. And yet he felt himself drawn far beyond himself, up into a realm that embraced earthly life with abounding and endless love.
The whole world drew one long breath. And then the silent voice spoke, a thunder so powerful it shook him like a human gong.
Now.
14
“… create in me …”
LOS ANGELES
Trent stood in the Mundrose LA offices, surrounded by the power of technology. The windowless chamber contained both the editing and transmission stations. The opposite wall held a massive flat-screen, fully fifteen feet wide and nine feet high. The resolution was unbelievable. He watched basketball players like giants go thundering past. The ref’s whistle blasted from two dozen speakers. Beside him, Gayle winced at the piercing detonation, or perhaps it was the sight of the two men slamming into the bleachers. Trent just grinned. He had not stopped smiling for hours.
Colin Tomlin returned to stand beside him. “The deal is concluded.”
Trent forced himself to turn from the screen. “Congratulations.”
Colin studied the younger man. “Rather a heady mix, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Unbelievable.” Trent turned back to the screen. “Here it comes.”
Colin actually smiled. “How many times have you seen it?”
Gayle replied for him. “Dozens.”
“I like how it’s been planted in the critical moments,” Trent said.
“We control the entire game’s advertising,” Colin said. “It’s part of the package. It should be. Barry paid half a billion dollars for the rights.”
They stopped and watched as the advertisement ran once more. The effect on this screen was incredible. Trent felt the excitement ripple through his entire being. His first taste of wielding entertainment power was the most exhilarating thing he had ever experienced. Seeing it up here on the screen made it all real. Not just plans any more. His future.
The ghouls and vampires and zombies who dominated Times Square shouted in rising crescendo the words that seemed framed by blue flame, shining down from every direction. Hope Is Dead.
When the game resumed, Colin asked, “How much longer are you staying in LA?”
“I’ll know soon enough,” Trent replied.
Gayle explained, “My associate tells me Barry wants to speak with Trent about what is happening here.”
“The online activity should spice his evening,” Colin said. When Trent’s phone chimed, he added, “Give him my thanks regarding the acquisition, would you?”
“You want to tell him yourself?”
“He asked for you, old chum.”
Trent answered his phone. “Mr. Mundrose?”
“Give me the stats.”
“We’ve registered six million hits and climbing.”
“So the public is swallowing our package.” Barry Mundrose actually chuckled. “It’s like hooking a fish big as the globe itself.”
“It’s awesome,” Trent agreed. “Colin says to tell you the deal is done, and he sends you his thanks.”
“So it’s Colin now, is it. Is Gayle there?”
“Here beside me.”
“Give her the phone. And Trent.”
“Well done.”
He handed the phone to Gayle, stared at the screen, and wondered if it could ever get better than this.
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
John had no chance to share his experience with the others. As he returned to the porch, one of the kitchen assistants rushed out with the news that calls were coming in regarding an advertisement being repeatedly played during a playoff game. They followed her inside and waited as she logged onto YouTube, then told them that over five million people had already done the same thing.
John’s mind remained filled with images from the advertisement long after they returned to the porch. The impact was so powerful he almost missed hearing Ruth Barrett say that they were called to respond. And John Jacobs was the man to do it.
To his astonishment and dismay, all the others agreed that John should be the front man. None of his protests made any difference. He felt himself drawn closer and closer to the point where he would be forced to reveal the secret he had carried for over thirty years.
Jenny interrupted his thoughts. “Why don’t you let me write out your words for you?”
“What an excellent idea,” Heather said. “Don’t you think so, John?”
“I haven’t agreed to do this,” John protested.
“I’ve just agreed for you,” Heather announced, with that steely glint in her eyes.
“Just speak from the heart,” Jenny Linn told him. “Whatever you feel is important. I’ll help give it structure. But as far as possible, I’ll keep this in your own words.”
“She’s a great writer,” her father said. “Has been since she was a child.”
The blush darkened her golden skin. She told John, “Don’t try to edit yourself. Just let it flow out. Whatever comes to mind. I’m ready,” she added, paper and pen in hand.
But her words only seemed to tighten John Jacobs further, until he was seated with his arms wrapped around his chest and his face creased from forehead to collar. “I can’t see beyond my own failings.”