The Lights of Tenth Street (32 page)

He stepped out of his car and hurried into the sprawling building, his mind warring between self-justification and despair.

The credits rolled against a black screen, and another edgy song with indecipherable, wailing lyrics began to blast over the loudspeakers.

Eric waited until his friend stood and stretched, then joined him, merging with throngs of people shuffling past the darkened rows toward a weak exit sign.

The feeling of emptiness, of hopelessness in that place was almost palpable.
Eric’s heart hurt. These people needed Jesus so much. God would fill their void with life and hope. But what chance was there if the pulpit they chose was the sort of movie he had just watched, the songs he had just heard? It would not surprise him, once he got to heaven, to learn that Satan himself had had a hand in crafting those.

They stepped out into the midnight breeze, and Eric’s friend gestured toward the next-door coffee shop. Eric nodded and prayed that he would have the right words to say.

An hour later, his friend thanked him for his time and left, saying he had a big audition in the morning. Eric wished him well, and went up to the counter for another coffee. It was way too late, and he had a bit of a drive to get back home.

Doug looked at his watch, yawning, as he stepped outside the club and pulled his coat up by his ears. There was a bustling coffee shop across the way, and he had to get some or he’d fall asleep at the wheel.

He hopped in his car and parked right out front of the little coffee bar, hurrying in with his head bent under his fishing cap, pushing against the sharp night wind. He took one step toward the counter where a man waited for his order, and froze.

Eric turned, the warm cup cradled in his hands, and brushed past a customer standing still in the doorway. He put a hand on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed again, harder, and could feel his tiredness and irritation starting to rise. They must have locked the door while he was sitting there with his friend.

No … That other man had just come in. He turned, glancing at the new customer’s profile. Suddenly, the oddest sensation crawled up his spine. A sense of certainty that made no sense. A feeling that the Lord was nudging him forward, to take the risky step. He took another look at the man, now standing rigidly at the counter, giving his order in a hoarse voice.

Eric took a step back toward the counter. “Doug?”

The man made busy about paying the cashier and didn’t move.

Eric took another step, his voice stronger, more certain. “Doug.”

The customer turned, his frame rigid, his mouth a thin pressed line under an unfamiliar mustache. Eric took in the strange disguise on his friend’s face, and suddenly he knew.

Doug sighed and pulled off the hat. “Hi, Eric.”

Eric gave him a long, searching look. Then he pulled a chair out from a nearby table. “I think we should sit down.”

“Uh, no … no.” Doug shook his head. “I need to get home. Sherry will be wondering …”

Eric pointed at the chair. “Sit down, Doug.”

“So what is the status of the infrastructure strategy?”

Tyson listened with half an ear, weary of Mr. Mohammed’s questions. Tyson had been working eighteen-hour days and was ready to crash for the night, but it was bright morning at Mohammed’s command center and he was only halfway through his list.

“Did I lose you?”

Tyson jerked back to attention. “No, no, I’m here. I was just looking at some data sheets with that information.” He’d slip up if he wasn’t careful. And Mohammed would notice. He stood, his secure phone in hand, hoping to get the blood moving. “The infrastructure project looks promising, though not certain. We have compromised a satellite system that will allow us to input false signals without detection—at least for a time. So when the primary plan is triggered, we may also have a window for disruption of emergency responders. It’s a good avenue for your backers to pursue.”

“And other areas?”

“The other areas are all just possibilities at this point.”

The cultured voice was intense. “My backers want
systemic
disruption.”

“I understand, sir, but remember the terms of our agreement.” Tyson clenched the phone tighter. “Until they commit to half the cost of that project, we are unable to move forward.”

Tyson heard a long pause on the other end of the line. Despite his fatigue, he grinned to himself. Mr. Mohammed’s backers were probably already putting pressure on him to get more for their money. They were used to dealing with people who shared their ideology, who were willing to chip in for the cause. Well, too bad. They had their ideology; he had his. And his had to do with money—lots of it.

The coffee shop was emptying. Eric’s coffee was half-drunk, but Doug’s was barely touched.

Eric’s mind was whirling. If Doug was telling the truth about the COO at his office, this was an even bigger thing than a Christian husband fighting sexual temptation. But that was still the first thing that had to be addressed.

“So that’s the reason for the disguise,” Doug said. “I can’t seem to stop it, but I
couldn’t bear to give them more ammunition. I figured a disguise would solve the problem.”

Eric gave a short laugh. “It worked, too. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Doug shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking at his watch. “I should get home.”

“Have you told Sherry?”

“No! It would kill her. I can’t tell her.”

There was a long pause, then Eric looked Doug in the eye. “In a way, you’ve broken the covenant with your wife. You must tell her, and you must make it right.”

Doug’s face crumbled, and Eric thought he was going to cry.

“I can’t, Eric, I can’t. She’ll be so hurt. She’s been struggling so much with her self-image ever since the kids were born … it would kill her … I can’t. I
can’t!
”

“I’m sure there are a lot of things to consider, Doug—consequences you’ll have to deal with. But it’s not just Sherry that I’m thinking of. I’m thinking of
you
. You have a problem that you’ve kept hidden for many years, and you need to get it out into the light and deal with it.”

“I’ll stop. I’ll stop right now and never go back. Maybe running into you was just the kick in the pants I needed. I promise you, before God—”

“Doug.” Eric’s voice was stern. “That’s not going to work. Oh, I have no doubt that you mean it now, and may even be able to stay pure for another couple of years. But what about the rest of your life? What about three years from now, the next time something happens to trigger it? You need to figure out what drives you toward this addiction and deal with it, so it holds no power over you, ever again.”

“Hold on a second!” Doug pushed his chair back and pointed his finger at Eric. “I’m not addicted to sex. I’ve
never
been unfaithful to Sherry, and never will be!”

“I know you mean that. But I bet you would’ve sworn, years ago, that you’d never be wearing a disguise, going into a strip club, either.”

Doug was shaking with indignation, but he settled back into his chair.

“It’s not the same thing. Not the same thing at all.”

“Let me give you an example of an addict,” Eric said. “A drug addict usually starts off small—something like marijuana to get high. It takes his mind off things, lets him blow off steam. Then one day he finds that the same amount doesn’t do so much for him anymore, and he has to take more, and then more to get the same kick. Eventually, marijuana isn’t enough, and he goes for the harder stuff. Crack, maybe, or a club drug. He escalates. These, too, work well for a while, but he again needs more and more. He starts arranging his life around the ability to indulge in his addiction, starts lying to those he loves, to arrange cover stories. He doesn’t
want
to stop anymore.

“If he has a conscience—say, perhaps, he’s a Christian—he feels bad about this and shame every time he indulges. In church on Sunday, he cries and asks God for forgiveness. He promises the Lord he’ll never, ever do it again. And maybe he stays clean for a while; maybe even a few years. But whatever it is in him that led him to go for the drugs in the first place—a hole in his heart, a need for excitement, adventure, whatever—hasn’t gone away. He needs to be healed, to be delivered from his bondage.”

Doug stared at him, unspeaking.

Finally, Eric cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“I never—” Doug cleared a hoarse throat. “I never thought of it like other addictions.”

“Well, it can be. I don’t know if your case is a true addiction or not; I’m no expert. But at the very least, from what you’ve told me, it sounds like you’ve been unsuccessful at changing on your own. You are, to use the Bible’s term, ‘a slave to sin.’ We need to address this.” Eric looked at his watch and winced. “But this is not the time or the place. Tell you what. I’m in town this week. Why don’t you meet me for lunch tomorrow?” He named a place and a time. “I’ve got a couple of hours I can squeeze in.”

Doug looked down at the table. “I don’t know.…”

“We have to talk, Doug. You need to do this. For Sherry’s sake and yours.”

Doug slowly stood to his feet and gave a brief nod. “Okay.”

“Good.” Eric reached over and clasped his friend’s arm. “And don’t forget to take off that silly mustache. You’ll scare Sherry half to death if she sees you crawl into bed like that.”

D
espite a sleepless night, Doug was up and ready for work before Sherry or the kids woke, kissing her sleeping head on his way out of the bedroom. He didn’t want to answer any questions, didn’t think he could stand to watch her sleepy eyes search his soul.

His heart hurt as he drove toward the office, the roads swift in the early-morning darkness. He loved Sherry so much. What was he doing to her? What kind of man was he? He parked his car in the secure lot and rode the elevator to the executive floor.

He passed the COO’s office, and waves of shame rose like bile in his throat. It was all his fault. Everything that haunted him was caused by his weakness, his sin, his spinelessness. He was nothing, was less than a man. He’d always known it, and now he’d been found out.

He approached the wide windows at the end of the hall by his office, and suddenly he saw himself wrenching them open and flinging himself into the blackness. What hope was there? He could never change. They would find out what manner of man he was. All his years of desperate pretense; trying, pretending to be a good husband, good father, good businessman, good Christian. He would be revealed as the imposter he was. He’d be put out of the church, would be ostracized from everyone he loved. And Sherry would leave him. And he’d never see his kids again.

He headed toward the window, picturing the long fall, the peace of death. It would be over so quickly. So quickly.

O God
 …

Another picture rose in his mind: his wife in his arms, giving herself to him willingly, gleefully. Tears sprang to his eyes. Her hair, her soft skin, her touch demonstrating that she loved him,
desired
him.

Doug veered into his office and closed the door, falling on his hands and knees on the carpet.

“But I’ve failed her, Lord.” He was sobbing aloud and his tears wet the carpet. “I’ve broken our covenant. And I can’t stop. O God, help me stop. Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me.”

Distantly, he heard his phone ring, a surreal sound at six in the morning.

Answer it, Doug
.

He looked up, almost expecting to see someone in the room, so clear had been the message. He reached toward the phone, dashing tears away, trying to sound seminormal.

“Hello?”

“Doug?” It was Sherry, her voice high with worry. “Doug, what are you doing? Are you okay? I just had the most horrible dream, and I woke up and you weren’t here! What are you doing at the office? Are you okay?”

Doug felt great tears leaking from his eyes, and his voice came out very small. “I’m so glad you called, Sherry. I’m so glad you called.”

“What’s wrong?” She sounded near panic. “I had a dream of you falling from a window!”

Doug closed his eyes, thanking God for His mysterious ways. “Sweetheart …” He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak quickly. “Something
is
wrong, but I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Tonight can you maybe get a sitter so we can go out on a date to talk?”

There was a strained silence, and Doug could tell his wife was struggling not to ask, not to jump in with question after question.

“I would come home and talk about it now, but there are things I have to do first. I know it’s hard to ask you to wait so long, but … will you do it? For me?”

“Okay.” Sherry’s voice was stretched, strange. “I’ll wait until tonight. Just promise me, Doug … promise me …” He heard her crying on the other end of the line, heard the desperate love in her voice. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”

“I won’t, I promise you. I never will. I love you, honey. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Okay.” The small voice again. “I love you.”

When she had gone, Doug sat on the floor for a long time, his mind turning.

An hour later, he heard the first sounds of the office coming to life. Secretaries bustled outside, phones started ringing. A normal Monday morning. For everyone except him.

O God, let this be the day of deliverance
 …

Doug left a message for Mary that he would be in and out of the office all day, had some important things to do, and did not want to be disturbed—no phone calls, no meetings. He asked her to cancel all his appointments and give the excuse that he wasn’t feeling well.

That, at least, is the truth
 …

When the clock hit seven-thirty, he picked up the phone and dialed.

“Eric Elliott.”

“Eric … it’s Doug. You’re in early.”

“I don’t know why. I just woke up earlier than normal and decided to get a head start on the day. What’s up?”

“Can we … can we meet earlier than lunch?”

“We can meet whenever you want. This is actually a pretty light day for me, and … wait … Looks like one of my main clients cancelled a meeting this morning. I guess the Lord had other plans. When do you want to get together?”