Eli (17 page)

Conrad turned back toward the window. His stomach tightened as he saw that Eli had risen to his feet and was walking to the front of the stage. The floor director scrambled over to intercept him. Conrad watched as they spoke.

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“What’s going on?” Kristi Burke’s nervous voice demanded from the back of the room. “What’s he saying?”

The director shouted back into his headset,
“What do you
mean he’s leaving?”

Conrad watched numbly as Eli patted the floor director on the shoulder, then started down the steps toward the audience.

“Get him back up there!” the director shouted. “We’re on in thirty!”

Once again the floor director scurried to Eli’s side and once again they spoke.

“Larry? Larry!” The director turned to the sound technician and barked, “Open up the guest’s mike, I want to hear what they’re saying!”

But the conversation had already finished. Eli had already turned and started up the aisle toward the exit.

“What’s he doing? Bring him back! Bring him back!”

But Eli was not coming back. Instead, he continued moving up the aisle.

“Where’s he going?”

Eli traveled some twenty-five paces before he finally came to a stop. Then he began motioning to specific people in the audience. They were directly below Conrad, and he had to press his face against the glass to look down. Now he could see. They were the homeless people, the ones who had been relocated to the back. Eli was motioning for them to stand. He was directing them to come out into the aisle and join him.

“What is he doing?” the director shouted. Turning to Conrad, he practically roared. “Tell me what is going on!”

And then, through the audio monitor, Eli’s voice was heard—gentle but full of authority. “Come with me,” he said, as he began ushering the group toward the exit. “That’s right, there we go. Come with me.”

“What’s he doing? What’s he saying?”

The sound man increased the volume.

“Come with me. Let’s go someplace where we all belong.”

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C H A P T E R

S I X

CONRAD LOOKED UP FROM THE LAPTOP AND REMOVED HIS GLASSES.

He rubbed his eyes and surveyed the passing countryside of southeastern Montana. The “Big Open,” they called it. And for good reason. As far as he could see, there was only grass and wind and sky. At first the scenery had intimidated him.

He was a man who felt far more at home surrounded by buildings and people and frenzied activity. But out here, with a ratio of one person for every three square miles, where the only drama was the way the beige earth collided with the sap-phire blue sky, and where the only activity was the undulat-ing waves of blowing grass . . . well, Conrad was slowly gaining a new perspective. Here he could breathe. Here he could appreciate the grandness of eternity versus the—well, versus the futility of man. He wasn’t willing to believe in God yet, at least not as Eli defined him. But he was beginning to believe in something.

Then there was the silence. Often when the caravan stopped, he found himself strolling away from the group just to listen to the absolute stillness . . . and the occasional mead-owlark whose sharp, melodic song so startled him the first time he heard it, that it literally took his breath away.

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In a place like this it was easy for perspectives to shift, for belief to begin. It was even easy to toy with the idea of walking away from the harried world of TV news altogether, from the very thing that had been his life for twenty-five years. But Conrad knew it was more than just the landscape. It was also Eli. And all his talk about the Kingdom of God and its upside-down principles.

Just yesterday, at lunch, he had called them together and reviewed the major points in what the guys had jokingly called, “The Sermon at Denny’s.” “If you want to receive,” he had said, “then you have to give. Whether it’s time, money, mercy, or whatever the case may be, the more you give of anything in life, the more of life you receive.” It was a strange paradox, but also a truth that resonated deep inside Conrad’s heart—one that he recognized from his own successes and failures.

Other points were equally as strange . . . and true. The idea that if you really want to be the ruler of men, then you need to become their servant . . . or that in matters of the spirit, the poor were far more rich than the wealthy . . . or that you’re blessed if people attack you for doing good . . . or that if you cling to your life, you’ll lose it.

They were unusual contradictions, their logic entirely backwards from the way the world operated. And yet, they had a logic that rang with such clarity and truth that Conrad frequently found himself making mental notes—not as a reporter, but as a person. And, on more than one late evening or quiet afternoon, he found himself pausing to consider the depth of what he’d heard.

They’d been on the road just over three weeks now. Nearly two months had passed since he’d first dropped into Eli’s world up in Eastern Washington and later in Oregon. Two months since he’d left his old world of automobile accidents and hospitalization (if there really had been such a world).

Memories of the glitch, which is all it really felt like, were rapidly dulling, fading. This was his world now. Identical to hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 125

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the old one. Well—it was and it wasn’t. Because almost daily, Eli turned it upside down just a little bit more. And, almost daily, Conrad was amazed at how startlingly clear everything looked from this new perspective.

But new perspective or not, there were still some facts that could not be ignored. He sighed heavily, replaced his glasses, and turned back to the computer. Once again, Eli had placed himself in jeopardy, and once again Conrad appeared to be the only one who could bail him out. At the moment he was composing an e-mail, a press release he planned to send to all of the major news organizations and producers—a pre-emptive strike that he hoped to get out before the press and cameras caught Eli’s arrival at the Liberty Compound of America in less than—he glanced at his watch—in less than three hours. Because the news crews would all be waiting for this one. CBN, MSNBC, most definitely EBN. Not to mention the local affiliates of the majors. Yes sir, as many as could be there would be there. It was too good a story to pass up.

“You okay?” Suzanne asked, scooting on the bench seat beside him.

He glanced at her and smiled. He couldn’t help it. Even in times like these, her warmth and concern had that effect upon him. Their friendship had grown. Over the past weeks, it had become more genuine than at any time he could remember during their marriage. He supposed part of it was because they were the oldest in the group, the designated chaperones on this grown-up field trip. On more than one occasion, they found themselves becoming the voice of reason in putting out petty disputes. You couldn’t throw this many people together with this many backgrounds and not expect some turbulence. There were the expected tensions like those between Leon, the black porn producer, and Will, a member of the Aryan Brotherhood. But there were also a dozen smaller fires to be put out on a daily basis. In fact, just this morning there had been a huge blowup regarding Scott and Brent’s mom pressuring Eli into making her boys his right-hand men.

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But Conrad and Suzanne’s friendship was based on more than being peacekeepers. The truth is, they’d never really stopped liking each other, even during the fights, even during the tears, even during divorce. Then, of course, there was the other bond they shared: Julia. The fact that she’d not spoken to her father in nearly five years meant there was plenty Suzanne could tell him about his daughter. How she was doing with her new job in Atlanta, how she was adjusting to the separation from Ken, and finally little Cody, the grandson he had never seen. The list was endless, though bittersweet in that he had to learn it all secondhand.

There was, however, one more factor in their friendship, at least for Conrad. And it was stronger than all the others combined. He had fallen for her. Again. And no amount of rationalization or common sense could change that. He’d tried. He’d taken the long solitary walks, he’d gone the sleepless nights, he’d beaten himself up every way he could think of. He’d even tried praying. But nothing worked. He could not get her out of his head . . . or his heart.

It was love. But a different type of love. A love he’d never experienced before. It wasn’t the sexually charged, worship-me-the-conqueror-of-the-world love of his twenties and thirties. Nor was it the old-shoe-comfortable love of his forties.

No, this was different. This had nothing to do with sex, or conquering, or habit. Instead, it had everything to do with giving—with simply wanting to make her happy, with wanting to protect her, and to help her smile that smile of hers . . . at any cost.

Even if that cost meant keeping those feelings to himself.

Even if it meant simply being a friend when she needed one.

That was the most painful of all. That’s what brought the warmth to his chest whenever they were together, and the empty yearning whenever they were apart. But she must never know. He’d taken every precaution to make sure she wouldn’t. He’d even gone out of his way to pretend to ignore her, to be irritated with her, to flirt with other women. No, she hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 127

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would never know. But he wasn’t so certain of Eli. On more than one occasion Eli had caught him staring after her, and at least once he had flashed Conrad that knowing smile of his.

Well, if Eli knew, there was nothing Conrad could do about it.

But it would stay their secret. Conrad would make sure of that much. Suzanne deserved that much.

“What’s wrong?” Suzanne repeated.

He shrugged and continued staring at the computer.

“You’re still worried about this meeting?” she asked.

Again he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know why he won’t listen.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

Conrad shook his head. “Not with this guy.” He pointed at the screen. “He’s a walking booby trap, a political land mine. For crying out loud, the U.S. government has warrants out on him!”

She said nothing.

“He’s a racist, Suzanne. A hate monger. There isn’t a thinking soul in this country who doesn’t despise him or at least think he’s psycho. Neil Ralston is the role model for every paramilitary, neo-Nazi survivalist in North America.”

“He’s also the father of a very sick little girl.”

Conrad sighed in exasperation and sat back in his seat. He looked across the rattling RV to sleeping Will Patton, the tattooed follower through whom Ralston had made the request two days earlier. A request that had forced Conrad to cancel and rework much of their itinerary. A request that, if fulfilled, would bring them directly to the headquarters of Liberty America, the largest and most outspoken separatist cult in the United States. Located just forty miles east of Ashland and nestled within a 340-acre valley, the Liberty Compound of America had once been a prosperous horse ranch. Now it had become a mecca for every white-power fanatic and separatist in the country.

“I just don’t know what he’s thinking,” Conrad said, sadly shaking his head.

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“Maybe you don’t have to,” Suzanne offered.

He tried hiding his irritation. “Do you have any inkling how this is going to look to the rest of the nation?”

“That one person with no respect for creed or philosophy has come to help another.”

Conrad shook his head. “No, that’s just it. By going there he’ll be endorsing those philosophies. Ralston is hated by every rational individual in our country. And by appearing to be his friend, Eli will also be hated. It’s as simple as that.

And once that happens, no amount of spinning or damage control on my part will help. He’s already alienated a sizable portion of the religious establishment. Is his next step to antagonize the rest of the country?”

“Connie . . .” It was Suzanne’s turn to let out a heavy sigh.

“What?”

“Maybe—I don’t know.”

“What? Tell me.”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe you should just let go. Maybe, instead of all this spinning and damage control . . . maybe you should just let him be who he is.”

“But they’ll kill him. They’ll eat him alive.”

Suzanne looked at him a long moment. And then, ever so slowly, she began to nod. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe they will.”

v

“Daddy!”
Five-year-old Julia cried,
“Daddy, I’m scared.”

She reached out to the wall, groping her way through the darkness. She could smell the magnolias again. Out in the yard. Up ahead in the shadows loomed the immense walnut door to her father’s study.

“Daddy . . .”

There were the muffled voices. Then the laughter. She continued forward, running her hand along the cold, paneled wall.

“Please . . .”

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She could barely see the door through the darkness, much less through her tears.

There was more laughter. Louder.

Her heart pounded. Her chest heaved in frightened sobs but she would not let them escape. A moment later she was standing in front of the door, feeling its presence more than seeing it. She took her hand from the paneled wall and with trembling fingers reached toward the brass knob. It felt cold, like ice. She began turning it until there was a loud
click
. It had unlatched.

“Daddy . . .”
Her voice was a breathless whisper.

There was no answer.

Cautiously, she pushed the heavy door, afraid of what she would see, knowing from past dreams what waited inside.

The end of a towering bookshelf came into view. A dim light caught the reds, the browns, the blacks of a thousand books. “Keys to life’s mysteries,” he had told her. “The ones who read are the ones who hold the knowledge.”