The Turning (24 page)

When he finished, the newscaster said, “Do I understand that
all
of you have either lost your jobs or have your positions threatened in some way?”

“Yes.”

“And your son’s business is faced with bankruptcy?”

“Correct.”

“You’ve had power outages, your access roads blocked, your phone service cut off. Do you blame the Mundrose Group for these attacks?”

“They haven’t said. So neither can I. But it’s hard to put all this down to coincidence.”

“We’ve been flooded with emails and phone calls all day. Our viewers ask one thing above all else. What can they do to help?”

“They sure can pray.”

“I assure you, John, they are already doing that.”

“Not for us,” John said. “I mean for the Mundrose people.”

The newscaster’s aplomb slipped. “I’m sorry. What?”

“We are called to pray for our adversaries. I have no idea whether their attacks are over. But the truth is, we’re doing our best to follow God’s will. How can we expect
not
to be brought into conflict with this world?”

“But—what about your jobs? What about your
son
?”

He felt the burning fury carve its way through his entire being. The helplessness gnawed at him as it had for forty years. But John simply waited it out. When he was certain his words would not be dominated by the old pain and the new worry, he replied, “Of course I’m concerned. But none of this changes what we’re called to do. Which is, look beyond where we are and search out God’s will. That’s why I’m asking your audience to pray for everyone involved in the Mundrose campaign. Pray for a change of heart. For a willingness to make room for God’s love and wisdom.”

The woman’s gaze opened slightly. The careful on-air demeanor, like enamel developed over years, was temporarily erased. “John, I personally commit to doing this on a daily basis.” She turned back to the viewers. “I believe you will too.”

LOS ANGELES TO WESTCHESTER COUNTY

T
he plane began its journey across three time zones, robbing Trent of his morning. He fell asleep and woke to discover Gayle sleeping across the aisle. He glanced at his watch, but he could not make sense of the hour. He couldn’t remember whether he had set it forward to East Coast time. He was still exhausted, and yet he felt the same drumbeat of tension and excitement that had filled most waking hours since originally entering the Mundrose boardroom. Trent swung his feet onto the carpet, rubbed his face, then looked down at Gayle.

The jet’s seats folded down to form well-padded beds. She had pulled one of the blankets over her, so all he could see was her stockinged feet and her face. Her face was relaxed in a childlike pose, her lower lip slightly extended, as though a dream was causing her to pout. Or perhaps it was their unspoken argument that made her wistful. He watched one hand emerge from the coverlet and stroke away a strand of hair from her face. His heart was filled with a restless hunger. He wanted to reach out, slip his arms around her, tell her…

The jet jolted slightly. Trent saw her eyelids flutter, and he jerked his face away, as though he had almost been caught doing something wrong. The shuddering plane forced him to grip the seat backs as he made his way aft. He entered the lavatory, washed his face, tucked in his shirt, combed his hair, and told himself to get a grip.

Gayle rose from her seat as he settled back into his. The turbulence worsened as the plane descended into a gloomy murk. When she returned, her face looked pale enough for him to ask, “Doing all right?”

She seemed uncertain how to respond. The pilot stepped through the cockpit door and announced, “The weather has shifted unexpectedly, folks. Rain’s set in. We’re getting word of some severe updrafts. You’ll need to buckle up for our arrival.”

Gayle stammered out, “Is—is everything all right?”

“Oh, sure.” But his smile seemed forced to Trent. “Just be ready for a few bumps before we land in Yonkers.”

He was gone so swiftly, Gayle directed her question to Trent. “We’re landing in Yonkers?”

“I need to—” And a fist gripped their plane.

That was how it seemed to Trent. The motions were unlike anything he had ever known. The plane seemed to fight against some unseen force that wanted to pluck it from the sky and send it hurtling to the earth. They wobbled and they slowed and the jet’s engines shrieked in protest. The nose tilted up, then down, then up again. It was similar to the experience Trent had read about from earthquake survivors, when all sense of stability was stripped away, and they were brought face-to-face with death. Because suddenly that was a very real prospect. As the nose shifted down and the shudders became more violent still, Trent knew with utter certainty that they only had a few moments left to live.

Wind shrieked outside the windows as they left the clouds and hurtled toward the ground. From the cockpit came the frantic sound of two pilots shouting against the blare of an alarm buzzer and some robotic voice telling them to level off.

“Trent!”

If he had not been so frightened, he might have laughed with delight at finally hearing her say his name again. But all he could manage just then was to reach across the narrow aisle to clutch her hand.

They were close enough to see the rain-slick roofs when the plane was abruptly released from whatever force pummeled them. One moment they were spiraling toward their doom, the next, and all was calm. They leveled off and descended and landed, the touchdown smooth as silk.

The pilot’s expression still held tension when he stepped through the portal and asked, “Everybody all right?”

Only then did Gayle release her vise-grip on his fingers. Trent asked, “What was that?”

As the copilot braked and the engines powered down to a stop, the pilot hit the switch to release the portal stairs. “I have no idea.”

Trent walked Gayle toward the waiting limo, holding an umbrella over her. She declared one more time, “This is as senseless as it is dangerous.”

“I’m sorry, Gayle, but you’re wrong this time,” Trent replied. “It is absolutely necessary.”

“You’re putting your life in danger. For what? You think anyone on the executive floor even cares?”

“I do. Yes.”

“You’re wrong, Trent! I’ve worked with them for almost five years. And I’m telling you they only care about one thing. Results.”

“Can I say something?”

“It won’t change how I feel about this needless risk.”

“I don’t want to be just another mid-level executive at Mundrose. I want to
be in charge
. I want to be a part of the inner circle. I need to show them I understand Barry’s last message,
Whatever it takes
.” He swiped angrily at the rain beading on his face. “I can’t
tell
them I’ll do whatever is necessary to succeed. I have to show them. That’s why I’m going.”

She stared at him, defeated. “Nothing I say will make any difference, will it.”

“No, not this time.” Trent knew a bitter disappointment that Gayle wouldn’t back his play. Or see how vital this step might someday prove. He pointed to where the driver stood waiting by the limo’s open rear door. “I’ll see you back at the offices.”

Gayle slipped into the limo’s rear seat, touched the rain-streaked glass between them, then was gone.

Trent took a taxi into town. Yonkers was not a pretty place to begin with. The heavy rain washed away all remaining color and turned the street scene grim and dismal. The traffic was as snarled and surly as the taxi driver. The cab pulled into an unsightly strip mall and halted before an army surplus store. Trent bought camouflage pants, lace-up black boots, an army-green sweatshirt, and rain slicker, and changed in the rear warehouse. He stowed his suit and tie and shoes in a cheap backpack and returned to his ride.

The taxi deposited Trent in front of a bar whose half-broken sign spit angrily in the rain. A heavy rock bass pounded through the bar’s closed door. A long line of Harley hogs warned away all strangers.

Inside, all was shadows and danger. Trent stood by the door, looking for Dermott McAllister, hoping this was indeed the bar where the strange little man had told him to come.

Instead, a dark-haired woman in biker leather walked up and said, “You might as well just hang a sign around your neck that says, Free lunch.”

“I’m looking for a guy.”

“Yeah, well, the guy isn’t here. I’m Della.”

“You’re Dermott’s contact?”

“I’m the one who’s gonna keep you alive and get the job done. That’s all you need to know.” She spoke with the harsh rasp of someone whose voice box had been on the receiving end of severe damage. “I’m still not clear on what you’re doing here.”

“I’m coming. Like you said, that’s all you need to know.”

“These guys are my friends. But they’re not good at taking orders, especially from someone they don’t know. You try to tell them what to do, they’ll pound you into a greasy stain in the road.”

“I don’t need to direct. Matter of fact, I don’t need to speak. But I do need to be there.”

“Whatever.” She plucked a black leather jacket from a chair. “Let’s ride.”

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

A
lisha spent the day working alongside the others in their team.  She knew they could sense that something was troubling her. But Alisha did not confide easily. Especially when she felt ashamed of what she was thinking. Like now.

The truth was, Alisha wished she could stop time and just step off. She knew it was wrong. But her thoughts were fashioned on the iron-hot forge of years. And no matter how fine it all might seem to them—following God and doing the right thing for the right reason—she spent all that morning and much of the afternoon feeling like God was distant and silent both. And no matter how hard she worked, or how many calls she fielded, or whose hands she held and prayed with, still she felt a shadow looming on the horizon, felt consumed by the same lancing pain that had been attacking her on and off for two days.
She had lost her job
.

Nobody who hadn’t lived through what she’d known throughout her childhood and teen years could understand the impact of those five dreaded words. She had not gone to university because she had been too busy raising her sister. She had none of the special training that the business world valued so highly. She had proven herself the hard way, climbing the corporate ladder rung by desperate rung. She was not just good at her job. She was the best. She had arrived at a position of trust and freedom and responsibility. She loved her work. She lived for it and for her church choir. They gave her the sense of identity that most women found in a husband and children. These two things were all she’d had in those dark hours when missing her sister had almost consumed her.

And now she had lost them both. The job was gone. The choir was Celeste’s in all but name.

She sat in the room filled with ringing telephones, answering calls from churches all over the globe. Surrounded by folks doing their best to be part of God’s design. But the dark truth was, her heart was obsessed by the dismal prospect of loss and woe.

Alisha was about ready to take another call and speak words she wished she could feel more fully when her cellphone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, checked the readout, and saw it was her church. Alisha moved out of the noisy room, stepped into the admin building’s foyer, and hit the connection.

The pastor’s wife said in greeting, “This is probably a terrible time.”

“Celeste? What is it? Is something the matter?”

“I’ve been watching that man on the television, and I just had to call.” The woman sounded out of breath, like she had run a hard mile, or fought a hard battle with herself. “I didn’t want to. But I…You know what Terry told me at lunch today?”

Alisha stepped through the building’s exit. Beyond the glass doors stretched the broad front veranda, giving the warehouse-styled structure its homey feel. Rain fell in a constant sibilant stream, the air cooled by the damp. “You’ve been talking with the pastor about me?”

“What do you think, with everything that’s going on? Girl, you are being talked about by everybody.” Celeste sighed noisily. “Terry says I need to treat you like the sister you are. Even though it might be hard. Which it is.”

Alisha liked how the conversation drew her away from her own distress. If only for a moment. “Why is that?”

For a time, the rain was the only sound. Then the Celeste said softly, “I’m so jealous.”

“Of me? Are you serious?”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“Just exactly what are you jealous of, woman? Of how I just got fired? Or how I don’t have a family to speak of? Or how I’m the one about to lose my choir—”

“You’re not about to lose anything.”

“Oh, please.”

“Can you truly be blind to how much attention you’re getting? How you showed up at the Kennedy Center with
Ruth Barrett
, how you saved the day, how it’s your face I’m seeing
everywhere
?”

“Sister, I’m hearing you. But your words, they just don’t make sense.”

“You’ve got yourself a national forum! You’re gonna come out of this a star!”

Alisha opened her mouth and breathed in the damp air. She wanted to correct the lady, remind her that she had to pay the bills, had to find some way of restoring herself professionally. But the pain in Celeste’s voice mirrored what Alisha felt in her own heart.

Celeste went on, “You don’t have any idea what it’s like being a pastor’s wife in a big church. Far as I’m concerned, nothing’s changed since the day Terry and I walked up to the pulpit four years ago.”

Actually, it had been closer to five. Alisha vividly remembered the day. How Celeste had stepped onto the stage in her choir robes and been introduced by her husband. How Celeste had given the congregation a grand old smile, then proceeded to stick her voice out in front of all the others. Alisha had not said anything that day. But she remembered. Oh, my yes, she did.