Simon had warned me that though tickets were free, they were still required. I followed his instructions and picked up my ticket from the will-call window near the entrance. Once inside the building I dragged my rolling suitcase down the concourse, clattering in and out of the streams of people. I’d never been to a religious event in a place like this. I was surprised that the vendor kiosks, with the notable exception of liquor stations, were open for business. The warm smell of popcorn drew me toward a skinny vendor in a White Sox cap. I checked my watch. I was already a half hour behind schedule. There was no time to eat. I tacked back out into traffic.
As I made my way through the concourse, I scanned the crowd. It was a much younger group than I had expected. I even passed a fair number of tattoos and body piercings. After I’d walked a quarter of the way around the building, I spotted the roped-off door that Simon had described to me over the phone. Above it was a red sign with white letters: Private—No Admittance. Two Chicago policemen sat on folding chairs just inside the ropes. As my suitcase and I rattled up to the rope, the taller of the two—a pale, skinny guy about my age—stood and held up his hand. “Sorry, this entrance is for the Mason team.”
“I’m Taylor Pasbury. Reverend Mason invited me. He said he would leave my name with security.”
“We don’t have any names, ma’am,” the shorter one said. “You’ll have to turn around and head back that way.” He pointed toward the concourse.
“Is there anyone you can check with? I’m a security consultant, here to work with Reverend Mason’s security team.”
The cops looked at each other and smiled. “Security, huh?” the short one said. “You look like you could be packing some heat. We may have to frisk you.” He poked an elbow in his buddy’s side.
“Hotter than either of you boys will ever get. Now, you’ve shown you’re clever. Would you mind going in and checking with Mr. Mason? Your boss isn’t going to like it if the Tribune reports that two Chicago cops were harassing one of Simon Mason’s people—and a woman at that.” Though I knew he’d only been joking, my Sig Sauer .357 semi-automatic really was in my luggage. I was hoping they wouldn’t check.
“Hey, we were just having some fun,” the skinny one said. “No need to get worked up about it. I’ll go check.” He ducked inside the door.
That left the short one and me trying to look at anything but each other. He pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and studied some handwriting on the first page.
“Are you a Simon Mason fan?” I preferred verbal awkwardness to silent awkwardness.
“I’m Catholic—” he scribbled something—“we don’t go for this show biz stuff. I wouldn’t be here at all, but my wife’s been on me to work more overtime to pay off the Christmas bills.”
The door opened and the skinny officer walked out. He unhooked the rope. “You can go in.” He didn’t even look at me, as if to drive home the point that he had already moved on to more important things.
“Oh, so they were expecting me. Thank you for your hospitality, gentlemen.”
As I pulled my suitcase through the entrance, the short one muttered, “Mason will regret that hire.”
On the other side of the door, a dimly lit hallway led to a flight of stairs that ended at another door. I picked up my suitcase and carried it down the steps. Several light bulbs were out, and I had the creepy sensation of descending into the belly of the building. When I reached the bottom, I opened the door and stepped into a huge, brightly lit staging area. I stopped until I could blink the sparklers from my eyes.
In front of me people scurried in all directions, some pulling handcarts loaded with everything from folding chairs to pianos. To my right a high school choir, the girls in plaid skirts and the boys in crisp slacks, stood in two rows in front of a concrete wall. They sang a vibrant gospel song, swaying and tapping their hands against their thighs. Their round, bald conductor rapped his wand against a book in his hand. The singing stopped abruptly, save for a few voices that straggled. The conductor barked out some commands. The rapping began again, this time rhythmically, and the choir sprang into motion, curving and dipping like a giant centipede before launching into another chorus.
To my left, a petite woman, her head wrapped in tight blonde curls, spoke into a headset. She pulled a phone from the pocket of her tan wool pants and tapped out something on its keyboard. When she finished, she slid the phone back into the pocket. I judged her to be a few years older than I was, but she had the sort of perky, turned-up nose that camouflages age, so I couldn’t be sure. When I touched her on the shoulder, she jumped and spun around.
“Oh! You startled me.” She pushed a curl off her forehead. It fell right back where it had started. “I guess I was concentrating so hard that I lost track of where I was.”
“I’m looking for Simon Mason. Do you know where he is?”
“I’m his executive assistant. May I help you?”
“I’m Taylor Pasbury. I just got in from Dallas. Simon is expecting me.”
She looked me up and down. “You’re the security person?”
“That’s me.” I gave her what I thought was an engaging smile. She did not appear to be engaged.
“Right about now, he’ll be practicing his Bible talk. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s doing that.”
I collapsed the telescoping handle of my suitcase. “How long does it usually take?”
“That’s hard to say. Sometimes he goes through it once and he’s fine. Sometimes he tweaks it right up until he goes on stage. He gets nervous before he speaks.”
I laughed. “C’mon. Simon Mason gets nervous about speaking? I have a difficult time believing that.”
She narrowed her eyebrows. “I’ve worked with him for five years. I think I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound as if I were questioning you. It’s just surprising that a man with his experience speaking all over the world would still get nervous about it. I recall, though, once hearing that Bob Hope always got nervous before going on. That was pretty amazing too.”
“Well, I can tell you for sure that Simon is terrified right about now.”
“If it bothers him so much, why does he do it?”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “He was called to do it. He has no choice.”
“Of course.” I looked away. I had no doubt that some people were called to God’s work: Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul II, for example. I had lots of doubt, though, about whether a single televangelist anywhere fit with that company. I had a strong suspicion that they were called more by their wallets.
“Why are you in the security business?”
“My first choice was pool-sitting, but there wasn’t enough money in it.” I chuckled.
She just stared at me.
I cleared my throat. “Actually, I used to be a Secret Service agent. Opening a security business seemed the logical thing to do.”
She looked me over again. “I suppose it would. You mean that you protected a president? Which one?”
“United States, for the most part. I helped with a few foreign ones when they came to visit.”
She sighed. “I meant which United States president.”
I began to hope really hard that she had no vote in the decision to hire me. Fortunately, before I could do any more damage, Simon Mason walked up. I recognized him immediately, although he was taller and more athletic than I recalled from television. He was almost completely bald except for a ring of tightly cropped sandy hair. His scalp glistened in the backstage lighting, and I realized he was sweating. I was surprised at his casual dress: a suede barn jacket over corduroy pants and a denim shirt.
“Taylor?” he said.
“That’s me.” I offered my hand.
He took it firmly and looked me in the eye. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I think you can get a feel this evening for where we are from a security standpoint. Tomorrow morning we can get
together for breakfast at the hotel and talk about what you think you can do for us. Did you check in before you came over?”
“I came straight from the airport. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Reverend Mason.”
“Simon. We’re all on a first-name basis around here.” He looked over my suit. “And we’re casual too.”
I must have blushed because he was quick to add, “You look very nice—professional. I should have warned you about the way we dress.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got years of experience at dressing inappropriately.”
He laughed and his blue eyes brightened. “You should fit right in.”
“Who’s in charge of security?”
He looked at his assistant, whose expression made it clear she wasn’t thrilled at our exchange. “We really haven’t had to provide much in the way of our own security before now. Elise, here, is pretty much in charge of everything. You two have met, haven’t you?”
“I hadn’t caught your name.” I held out my hand to her.
She didn’t take it. “Elise Hovden.” She took a step to her right, placing herself partially between Simon and me.
It didn’t take a body language expert to conclude that she viewed Simon as something more than just her preacher. I wondered whether he viewed her as more than just his executive assistant. That determination was not on the critical path for the evening, though. I pointed toward the stage. “How do you screen the people who have access to this area back here?”
“Most are with our touring group or are volunteers from local churches,” she said. “Some are provided by the arena or the Chicago police.”
“I understand. But how do you screen them?”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “We don’t formally screen them. We haven’t thought that was necessary to this point. We do keep our eyes open for anyone who looks suspicious. Obviously, it may be time to reevaluate that part of our program.”
“How many are provided by the arena?”
“How many what are provided by the arena?”
“People. How many of these people milling around back here are provided by the arena?”
“I couldn’t really say. Maybe thirty. Some of them aren’t technically provided by the arena. They’re with local providers of things like pianos, refreshments, that sort of thing.”
I nodded toward a guy who was pulling a cart with speakers on it. “Has anyone checked any of this stuff?”
“The speakers?”
“Yes, and the pianos you just mentioned, the podiums, the backdrops.”
“No, but the arena provided us a list of suggested vendors for many of the things. I hardly think the Mid America Center is recommending terrorist organizations.”
It was becoming obvious that prayer was likely to be our best defense for the evening. That was Simon’s department. I would have to do what I could on the earthly side of things, and that wouldn’t be much tonight. “At a minimum, can we get someone to check out anything that’s being taken onto the stage and anything that’s being left back here during the show?”
She folded her arms. “It’s not a show. We call it a celebration, because we’re celebrating God’s Word. It begins in less than an hour. These people all have jobs to do to get Simon on stage on time. We can’t divert them now.”
“Okay, but do you mind if I snoop around before the show, um, celebration?”
She glared at me. I sensed we were not likely to become Bunco buddies.
“That would be fine,” Simon said. “If anyone asks, just tell them they can check with Elise or me. In the meantime I’m going to have to excuse myself. I still have some rehearsing to do.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.
As he turned to walk away, a young woman walked up behind him. She was tall and lean, and her chestnut hair fell easily over her shoulders. She strongly resembled Simon, particularly in the energetic glow of her high cheekbones. “Dad, the limo is here.” She pulled a hair clip out of the purse slung over her shoulder. In one motion she reached back and fastened her hair into a ponytail. “Cheryl and I are leaving for the airport.”
“Okay, but I want you to meet someone first. Taylor Pasbury, this is my daughter, Kacey.”
“Hi, Ms. Pasbury.” She extended her hand and smiled. It was her dad’s smile—an open smile that seemed to flip on a switch behind her hazel eyes. I had been prepared not to like her since she was almost certain to be a spoiled child-of-celebrity. I put that judgment on hold.
“Nice to meet you, Kacey. You can call me Taylor.” I looked at Simon. “She’s not riding to the airport alone, is she?”
He shook his head. “One of our graduate-student interns, Cheryl Granger, is riding with her. She’ll make sure Kacey gets on her plane. My sister, Meg, is meeting her at the airport in Dallas.”
I didn’t like the arrangement, but I would have to address Kacey’s security later. Right now I had my hands full with Simon and the “celebration.”
“Are you the one who used to be a Secret Service agent?” Kacey said.
I smiled. “That’s me.”
“That is so cool. I wish we could talk sometime when you’re not too busy. I’ll bet you’ve got some great stories.”
“I’d love to talk sometime.”
Simon put his hand on her shoulder. “Kacey has always been a bit of a tomboy. She played basketball and soccer in high school.”
She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t the word tomboy go out about twenty years ago?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I played sports in high school— basketball and softball. My dad used to call me a tomboy too. It bugged me to death.”
Elise stepped toward Kacey and raised her hand. “I was a pom-pom girl in high school.”
Kacey just looked at her. Simon lowered his eyes and studied the worn cover of the Bible he was holding. I wouldn’t have wished that moment of silence on my worst enemy.
“Pom-pomming requires skills I’ve always admired,” I said. Sheesh! ‘Skills I’ve always admired.’ And was there even such a word as ‘pom-pomming’?
The base of Elise’s neck reddened. “Well, I’ve got a lot of work to do.” The color spread into her cheeks as she spoke. “If you’ll excuse me.” She walked over to Kacey, put her arm around her and squeezed. “Have fun back at school. Maybe you and I can have a girl talk when we get back to Dallas.”
Kacey stood stiffly but smiled. “Sure thing. See you, Elise.”
Elise straightened her headset and strode away.
“Let me walk you to the limo, Kace,” Simon said. “Taylor, I’ll see you after the show.” I noted that he used Elise’s forbidden word to refer to the event.
Being dropped into someone else’s mess is a difficult thing, and the security situation for this event was definitely a mess. It occurred to me that no one had even officially told me I was hired. Nevertheless, I decided to do what I could before Simon took the stage.
If I had known what the next twenty-four hours would be like, I probably would never have stayed. Or maybe I would have been more determined to stay. I suppose it doesn’t matter, because I did stay. One thing was clear: Simon Mason needed me.
What I didn’t know yet was that I needed him even more.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
SINCE ALL OF THE action would be on the stage, I started there and worked from the bottom up. Although the stage was huge, the underbelly was not complex. A stage for a rock concert needs all kinds of hidden bells and whistles. But Simon was not going to rise through a trap door in a cloud of orange smoke. Beneath this stage was nothing but a labyrinth of metal supports. It only took ten minutes to check out the whole thing.
The stage itself was more of a challenge for the simple reason that there were so many things on it: two pianos; an electronic keyboard; a drum set; speakers and amplifiers; two sets of bleachers on which the choirs would stand; a glass pulpit; and twenty or so microphones, some standing, some dangling. The worst
part, though, was the landscaping. There must have been a hundred potted trees and plants, and an artificial river wound across the stage. The place looked like Costa Rica.
The musical instruments and bleachers were easy to check. It was the speakers and plants that gave me heartburn. Since I couldn’t dump all of the potting soil out on the stage or tear apart a gazillion dollars worth of speakers, I tried to get comfortable with the people who brought them. One of them happened to be pulling two eight-foot palms onto the stage on a cart as I inspected the back of a giant amplifier. He was young and red and doughy—an Irish potato with acne scars. Dried mud flaked off his tennis shoes as he walked. A rusty trowel jutted from his back pocket.
I tapped him on the shoulder. “You work for the Mid America Center?”
“No. O’Reilly’s Interior Landscape.” His breath smelled of onions and cigarettes. I turned my head away. He didn’t seem to notice.
I had to force myself to look back at him. “Did O’Reilly’s provide all of the plants?”
Fortunately for my nostrils, he was not about to stop for me. He dragged the cart across the stage, and I trotted after him. A trail of dirt clumps marked the cart’s path like a brown vapor trail. “Far as I know.” He stopped, pulled on a pair of leather garden gloves, and wrestled one of the palms onto the stage.
“Is your boss Mr. O’Reilly?”
“Mrs. O’Reilly. Dad’s been gone for ten years.”
“I’m sorry.” I had no idea whether I should be sorry, because I had no idea why Mr. O’Reilly was gone, but I supposed it didn’t matter for my purposes. “So Mrs. O’Reilly is your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Is she here?”
He chuckled. “The nursing home doesn’t let her deliver plants.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask whether “I’m sorry” was going to be my response to everything he said. He pulled the trowel out of his pocket, bent over, and dug into the potted palm. “It’s okay,” he said over his shoulder. “She’s still sharp as a tack. Just can’t get around anymore.” The conversation smelled better with his face over the planter.
Forsaken Page 5