Covenant (9 page)

            Growing up, he hadn’t been allowed to consume fast food of any kind.  His family had lived on a communal farm in south Georgia.  They had cultivated their own fruits, vegetables, and grains, raised chickens, and fished in a nearby lake.  As a teenager, he’d once eaten a McDonald’s hamburger, and had suffered an upset stomach for two days. 

            “Look at these heathens, Valdez, defiling their temples,” Cutty said.  “Doesn’t it disgust you?”

            “
Si
,” Valdez said, scowling with displeasure.

            “Burgers, fries, hot dogs, shakes.  All crap that destroys the temple.  And they’re allowing their children to eat this garbage, too.  No wonder our nation’s kids are fatter than ever.”

            She bobbed her lovely head in agreement.  He raked his gaze across her body, which was concealed, frustratingly, by her loose-fitting clothing.

            “Do you ever allow crap like that into your temple?” he asked.

            “Ah, no,” she said, and made a gagging sound.

            He smiled.  “I bet you don’t.  I bet your temple is in fantastic condition.”

            She only looked at him.     

            “Do you like my temple?” he asked.  “I work out six days a week, perform lots of weightlifting and cardio, and I eat well, too, only wholesome organic food, no garbage like they serve here.”

            She appeared bewildered.  Somewhere, he’d lost her.

            “Never mind,” he said.  “Let’s find somewhere to park in this grease pit.”

            After a minute of cruising, he found a spot on the ground level of the double-deck parking structure, in a corner not far from an exit.

            Intelligence had indicated that the Judas was due to rendezvous with an individual who might be assisting him in his treachery.  Cutty’s first priority was to identify the man’s accomplice.  Then, to detain the Judas for questioning, by force, if necessary. 

            Cutty secretly hoped that the use of force
would
be necessary.  He had not asked his superior about the nature of the Judas’ betrayal, hadn’t inquired how the man schemed to damage their organization.  The details were irrelevant.  Unrepentant disobedience to God’s authority was a sin, and harsh punishment was an appropriate response. 

The wages of sin is death.
  That was Romans, chapter six, verse twenty-three.  Sin was not a game.  God meant business.

            He retrieved a large duffel bag from the back seat.  Among other things, it contained a lightweight gray jacket, baseball cap, and tinted eyeglasses, elements of a rudimentary disguise. 

            There was little possibility that the Judas would identify him.  The traitor had left their division prior to Cutty’s recruitment, and as agent in the most covert unit, Cutty’s identity was known only to his superior and the few others who had served alongside him.  To all others, he was only a voice on the telephone, a username on the network. 

            But he had advanced as far as he had because he believed in taking extra precautions.  He found the zipper along the seam of the black tracksuit pants, yanked it down, and snatched the bottoms away to reveal the blue jeans he wore underneath.  He swapped the tracksuit jacket for the gray one, and donned the cap and the eyewear. 

            He lifted his arms.  The jacket adequately concealed the bulge of the pistol that lay holstered against his ribs. 

            “I’m going to check out the scene inside, see if I can locate our guy,” he said.  “Sit tight.  I’ll radio you with further instructions.”

            A tiny, flesh-colored earpiece was wedged in his ear, as well as in Valdez’s, and miniature microphone transmitters were affixed to the collars of their shirts.  The communications system enabled them to stay in contact when separated by up to a thousand yards.     

            He opened the door, paused.  “Want me to grab a burger for you while I’m inside?”

            She frowned.  “Ah . . . no.”

            “That was a joke,” he said.

            “Ah!  Funny, very funny.”  She laughed, but it was one of those obligatory laughs that people offered out of courtesy, not out of genuine amusement.

            He did not understand women under most circumstances, and this Valdez was a total enigma.  Perhaps, if they could enjoy a long, productive partnership, they could establish a rapport . . . and perhaps that rapport could lead to something more.      

            The thought gave him a warm jolt of pleasure.

            On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, an elderly panhandler in a wheelchair beseeched passerby for money.  He was a pathetic sight: rheumy eyes, cracked lips, wooly gray hair and beard that desperately needed trimming.  He wore torn, soiled clothes that looked salvaged from a trash heap.       

            Although Cutty had urgent business inside, he approached the man.

            “God loves you,” Cutty said. 

            The man squinted.  “Huh?”

            Cutty opened his wallet, found a twenty-dollar bill, and offered it to the beggar.  The man opened his mouth in a grin that showed diseased-darkened gums and rotted teeth.

            “God loves you,” Cutty said again, “and so do I.”  

            “Oh, God bless you!” the man said. 

            “May God bless you as well, my friend.”  Cutty removed a card from his wallet and pressed it into the man’s grime-covered fingers.  “The gates of the Kingdom are open.  Those are the times and locations of our Sunday services, and you may also view our programs on television or listen in on the radio.”

            “I’ll do that, brother.  I sure will.”     

            Cutty smiled and gave the man’s frail shoulder a friendly touch.  One should never overlook an opportunity to minister to the downtrodden. 
For he that is least among you all, the same shall be great.
 

            His smile fading, he headed inside. 

11

I think they’ve followed me here—and if they have, your life is now in danger, too.

            Standing beside Bob, Anthony could not resist the urge to turn and stare at him.

            “You’re serious about this,” Anthony said.  “I mean, really.”

            Bob did not look at him, but his thin lips were drawn into a solemn line.  He either was gravely serious, or had the best poker face Anthony had ever seen.

            Swiveling back to the window, Anthony picked up his chili dog and took a bite.  Although he and Lisa had brainstormed questions that he’d memorized during his drive to the diner, his mind had gone blank.

            “I chose this location for our meeting because the security is tight, and it’s noisy enough in here to drown out our conversation,” Bob said.  “Keep your voice down a notch or two and keep looking out the window, and we’ll be fine.”

            Chewing, Anthony nodded.

            “Have you told anyone what I’ve shared with you thus far?” Bob asked.

            Anthony shook his head. 

            In the window’s reflection, Anthony saw a smile touch Bob’s face.  “Come now, Anthony.  You’re a married man, happily so, from what I’ve researched.  You’ve told your wife.”

            Anthony swallowed, sipped his Coke.  “Maybe.”

            “She would eventually find out, anyway.  Wives have a sixth sense for knowing when their husbands are hiding something from them.  I was married once, seventeen years.”

            “My wife thinks you’re a scam artist.”

            “Savvy lady.  What do you think?”  

            He stared at Anthony’s reflection.  Anthony stared back. 

            “I think you might have some useful information,” Anthony said.

            “Some useful information?”  Bob dabbed at his lips with a napkin, smiled as if amused at a mild joke.  “I do indeed have some useful information.  But I offer it freely.  Money can’t purchase redemption, in spite of those who would like us to believe otherwise.”

            “Is that why you’ve decided to help me find out why happened to my dad?  For your redemption?”

            “Yes.”  Bob’s reflected gaze didn’t waver.  “After doing the kind of work I’ve done for the past twenty years, let’s just say this is my best shot at doing the right thing for a change.”

            “What kind of work have you done?  Killing innocent people?”

            “I might be wrong, but I’m thinking you could use a little redemption, too,” Bob said, brushing off the questions.  “Fifteen long years of blaming yourself for never getting justice, writing those violent vigilante books full of your outrage with the system . . . feeling as if you’ve failed your old man.”

            “Hey, you don’t know me, all right?” Anthony struggled to keep himself from spinning around to face the guy.  “You might’ve looked me up in Google, done your Internet research or whatever, but you don’t
know
me.”

            “I know that you’re here talking to me, in spite of what your better half advised.”

            “Why come to me with this today?  Why not a year ago?  Or, how about fifteen years ago?”

            “Or how about fifteen years from today?  Does my timing matter?  You’ve come here because you want answers, and you believe I can help you find them.”

            “Can you?”

            “How far are you willing to go to get to the truth?”

            “All the way.  Whatever it takes.”

            “If you start this journey, you can’t turn back.  This is the point of no return, friend.  If you want to fold your cards and forget all of this, now’s the time.  Or you can go all in with me.”  He sipped his drink, studied Anthony’s reflection. 

            Anthony looked around.  He looked at the customers at the tables, eating and drinking and talking and laughing, living their happy and carefree lives, unaware that death always lurked behind you and waited until you least expected it to strike and take everything away in a heartbeat . . . .  He’d not lived in their blissful world for fifteen years.

            “I’m all in,” Anthony said.  “I’ve always been all in.”

            Bob placed his beverage on the tray beside the small Bible.  He laid his long fingers across the book’s cover, as if taking an oath.

            “Imagine an organization, Anthony.  They claim to represent the kingdom of truth and righteousness, and they’ve presented evidence to support their claim.  They do many positive works in the community.  They’ve given substantial amounts of money to charities.  They’ve given hope to the hopeless, homes to the once homeless.  They present a wonderful façade to the world, but deep inside, the core of this organization is as evil and bent on securing ultimate power as the worst totalitarian movement in history.”

            “Who are they?”

            Bob continued as if he hadn’t posed the question.  He spoke in a soft tone, but his voice was threaded with energy and passion. 

            “They have members and sympathizers at every level of society, from your garbage man to university presidents, from the waiter at Waffle House to the judge in federal court, from the elementary school teacher to the news anchor you watch on television every evening.  They’re everywhere.  Some of them are probably here right now, in fact, but they’re invisible, because they look like you and me.

            “They’ve committed every crime imaginable in the name of their cause,” Bob said.  “Assault.  Murder.  Rape.  Robbery.  Blackmail.  Embezzlement.  Fraud.  They have divisions of highly trained personnel so overzealous they make the CIA, NSA, and FBI look like bleeding-heart pacifists.  Unlike those agencies, which at least are supposed to obey the laws of our country, these people have no regard whatsoever for the laws of man.  They claim to answer to only a higher authority.”

            “Is this some kind of religious group?” Anthony asked.  “Like a cult?”

            The question brought a bitter smile to Bob’s lips.  “This organization has developed a technology division so advanced they can tap into public and private databases that allow them to access and manipulate any data you can imagine—and some that you probably can’t.  Does that sound like a sect of fundamentalists living in log cabins in the wilderness?” 

            “Now that you’ve put it like that . . . no.”

            “We live in interesting times, Anthony.  Technology and commercialism have taken over our society.  You can communicate on Twitter in real time with a thousand social contacts via your Blackberry, find your favorite Starbucks double-latte damn near anywhere you go, meet your future spouse online, buy anything under the sun at Wal-Mart for half price, capture video of a crime on your cell phone that winds up as the lead story on the nightly news.

            “In spite of all these great advancements and conveniences, folks feel more isolated than ever.  Emptier.  More depressed.  Wondering if this, this technologically-driven, commercial marvel of a world we’ve created, is all there is to life.  Is it?”

            He looked directly at Anthony for the first time.  Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes were troubled, and Anthony realized that he was asking
him
what Anthony had assumed was a rhetorical question.

            “Hey, I . . . I don’t know, man,” Anthony said. 

            “An honest answer.”  Moving back to the window, Bob chuckled, but it was a grim sound.   “I don’t know, either, friend.  All I have is a bit of faith, and that comforts me.”

Good for you,
Anthony thought, but he kept quiet. 

            “But these people,” Bob said, “oh,
they
know, all right, and they, and those like them, have leveraged their alleged knowledge to the tune of billions of dollars in profits and unprecedented influence.  They will assure you that this world around us, your iPod and fuel-efficient hybrid vehicle, your Facebook friend list and your admin job in a cubicle farm at a multinational corporation, is
not
all there is to life, oh no.  There is a glorious heaven where the faithful believers go.  There is an eternity in hell for that sinner who cut you off in traffic.  There is a God who loves you and has a greater purpose for you.  But to gain access to heaven and this loving, just God . . . there’s a price.”