The Warning (6 page)

He made a fist, wishing he could grind those bureaucrats into dust. Federal regulations on banking practices hung like a noose around his neck. “How are the pension funds?”

Larry Fleiss cleared his throat. “I'm not sure we should go that route again.”

“Don't tell me the obvious.” Turner kept his tone casual. “I want to know their status.”

“Stable. No alarms raised.”

“Good.” Those pension funds were why he had acquired the Valenti Bank in the first place. Valenti was repository for seven of the largest corporate pension funds in the east. Like the big insurance groups, pension funds tended to spread their capital among a select group of investors. They were restricted to blue-chip investments and were left more or less alone. Pension funds sought security, not explosive growth. As long as the quarterly balance report showed steady returns, expectations were satisfied.

He had milked the pension funds for the cash required to buy the hotels. Strictly illegal, but that only mattered if he was caught. It was a temporary switch, or should have been.

Fleiss had come up with the plan of actually taking out
twice
what had been required. Half to pay the 50 percent down payment for the hotels. The other half for what should have been a surefire investment in futures options. Japanese yen, Fleiss's pro-tégé had urged, it was time for a major upswing. A quick in and out, 100 percent profit in ten days was the prediction. Enough to slip the entire amount back into the pension fund and have the hotels added to his real estate portfolio. Everybody wins. Or they should have.

Turner walked back over and seated himself. He could not keep the sigh from escaping. “Whoever would have thought that the yen would do such a nosedive.”

“If it's any consolation,” Fleiss offered, “you've got the best of company. Word is that people took a bath up and down the Street.”

“I didn't get where I am today being part of the herd,” he snapped. “All right. Here's what I want you to do. Take out the same again.”

Fleiss could not hide his astonishment. “Another three hundred million?”

“You hid it once, you can do it again.” Masking his nervousness with customary harshness. “Only this time, you're going to find me a sure thing.”

“Right.” Fleiss resumed his customary stillness, watching and listening. “Whatever you say.”

“What I
say
is this,” Turner snarled, leaning across the desk. “You had better not let me down a second time. Do I make myself perfectly clear on that point?”

–|
|
SEVEN
|
|–

Thirty-Eight Days . . .

Saturday morning, when Buddy told Molly that he wanted to spend his day in prayer and fasting, she did not object. Even so, he felt a need to explain. “I feel that the Lord has been close by. I know that may sound strange, what with the strain of the past couple of weeks. But that's how it feels. Now, anyway.”

“I don't think it sounds strange.” She was going to Bible study, dressed in her navy blouse with the high, frilly collar and her grandmother's cameo fastened at the neck. A light dusting of powder covered the worst of her scar not hidden beneath the blouse. “I'm glad you're doing it.”

“You are?”

“It is a good thing to draw near to the Lord in confusing times. I'm glad to hear you say you feel like he's been close by. You need him right now.”

He nodded agreement. “It's more than a feeling, Molly.”

She did not ask what he meant; she did not pry. It was not her way. She simply said, “I'm glad.”

When she was off and the house was quiet, he shut himself in the den. There was no need to ask to be left undisturbed. A closed door to the den meant he was to be left alone.

The den was a long room that ran the length of the house next to the garage. Elm wainscoting ran around three walls, a Christmas gift from his father. There was a big picture window looking out over the backyard. Buddy's desk was situated so that he could sit and watch birds flit from the feeder to the birdbath. It was where he did his morning Bible readings.

But today, when he sat down and picked up his Bible, the chair did not seem right, not fitting, in a strange sort of way, as though it had grown uncomfortable.

Buddy thought he understood. He slid down to his knees, and instantly the discomfort vanished. He pulled over the Bible, propped it on the seat of the chair, and read whatever caught his attention. He shut his eyes, prayed a little, but there was no sense of having much to say. He did not feel that he was there to talk to God. Rather, he felt that he was there to listen.

He settled on the Psalms and found a rhythm in reading a passage then shutting his eyes and letting the words sink in deep. Whenever his knees grew tired he stood up and walked around, carrying the Bible with him, stopping whenever he felt it was time to turn back to the Lord.

The hours passed. The outdoor Saturday noises dimmed, the birdsong and the dogs and the children and the lawn mowers. Now and then the phone rang, but Buddy felt no need to answer it.

Around midday his attention began to wane. He was down on his knees at the time, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to stretch out on the rug and let the drowsiness sweep up and over him.

When he awoke the shadows were beginning to lengthen across the backyard. He felt mildly hungry, especially since he hadn't fasted in years, but not too uncomfortable. He went back to his knees, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and reached over to reopen his Bible.

An authority seemed to descend upon him and the room and the day and the world. One that had been waiting just beyond his field of awareness, waiting for him to open his eyes and return to the position of prayer. One that was so strong the afternoon sunlight dimmed to insignificance.

The power was absolute, so strong that it could move with complete gentleness, speak in utter silence, and still dominate his being. In fact, had the power not been silent, Buddy knew with utter certainty that it would have shattered his mind.

He did not know how it was possible for silence to communicate in words. Nor did it matter. There was no room for objective questions. In that moment the silence spoke to him, and he heard with faultless clarity.

It is coming
.

Buddy could not control his reaction. Sobs wrenched his body. Every dark shadow was illuminated, every failing, every mistake, every sin. All that he had not done, all that he had done for any motive but the purest. His whole life, his entire being, was revealed with perfect clarity. He was shamed to weeping submission.

At the same time, the power of Christ's sacrifice was incandescent. So far had his sins been separated from his eternal forgiveness that the Spirit saw them not. As far as the east is from the west, that was the distance separating his imperfections from the perfect One.

It is coming
.

The sobs wrenched him still. He could not help it. The communication was planted within his mind and soul along with an absolute sadness. An immutable determination. Buddy had no doubt that the horror he had seen in his dream was indeed coming. He was totally convinced. It was indeed coming.

He raised his tear-streaked face to the unseen ceiling, and whispered, “When?”

Thirty-eight days
.

He moaned aloud. The pronouncement was as powerful as the pounding of a funeral bell. Hardly more than a month. It was no time at all. “How long will it last?”

Seven years
.

He clutched his chest, not in pain, but terror. Seven years of famine. Seven years of devastation. Seven years of need.

You must warn them
.

“Who?” He could only manage a croaking sound, but he had no doubt that he was heard. He was not speaking aloud for the Spirit, but rather because the pressure required release. “Whom do I tell?”

All who will listen
.

He almost cried the words, “What do I say?”

But there was no reply. Not this time. Instead the Presence began to recede, and with it the sense of overburdening sorrow. Buddy was instantly on his feet, aching with the absence of what was now disappearing. He raised his voice and shouted out the back window, “But why
me
?”

The response was a whisper, certain and steady and commanding.

All who will listen
.

–|
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EIGHT
|
|–

Thirty-Seven Days . . .

As usual, Buddy arrived at church a half hour before the first Sunday service. He was both deacon and usher, and the group liked to gather for a little prayer time before the day began. Afterward he accepted his sheaf of bulletins and stationed himself by the side doors. This was as public a profession of faith as Buddy had ever cared to make—smiling and greeting the people, trying to make them feel welcome, having a friendly word for every newcomer.

Only today his smile was a little strained, his greeting not as heartfelt as usual. Each passing face seemed a silent accusation. Should he tell this one? And if so, how? Surely God hadn't chosen a man as shy and reserved as he was to stand up in front of the entire congregation.

“Buddy, how are you this morning?”

“Hello, Clarke. Fine, fine.” Clarke Owen was the church's assistant pastor and a friend. When the old preacher had retired, they had passed over Clarke and offered the pastorship to a dynamic young man. Attendance and membership had rocketed as a result, but Buddy still preferred the quieter ways of the older man.

“No, you're not and don't fib on a Sunday.” Molly stepped lightly up the stairs, halting next to Clarke. “Good morning, Pastor Owen.”

“You look pretty as a picture this morning, Molly.”

Molly blushed crimson. One hand reached up to hide the scar rising from her high starched-crinoline collar. But she forced her hand back down and clenched her purse. She turned to Buddy. “You need to talk with him.”

Clarke stepped aside to allow people through the doors, then returned to say, “Why don't you come by my office after the service, Buddy? We'll have us a little chat.”

Even before Buddy had settled in his seat, Clarke Owen asked, “Now what's this I hear from Molly about nightmares?”

“I've sure been having them.” The church office on a Sunday after services was a good place for sharing confidences. Outside Clarke's closed door were the sounds of people hurrying off, sounds gradually replaced by the stillness of a big empty place. “Every night for more than two weeks.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Clarke was the perfect man to discuss this with, and Molly was a gem for having paved the way. He was a graying man in his early sixties, far too mild-mannered to have ever made a dynamic sermonizer. Yet he was adored by the parishioners, the one they always turned to in times of stress and strain. Clarke was a steady listener who knew the value of an open heart.

Even so, Buddy did not answer him directly. “What would you say if I told you I thought maybe God was giving me a message?”

Clarke leaned back and eyed him over steepled fingers. “Is that what you think?”

“I don't know.” The calm was a comfort to his soul. Here he could be honest, and honesty was what was called for. “Well, yes. Yes, I think He is.”

“Buddy, I've known you for how long, thirty years? You've been a deacon for most of that time. You've seen us through two building programs, loaned us the money, looked after our accounts, done just about anything we've asked you to. You never look for thanks; you never ask for the limelight. You are one of the most selfless servants I have ever had the honor of knowing.”

Buddy looked askance at the pastor. This was the last thing he had expected to hear. “Clarke—”

“Hang on a second. You should know by now never to stop a pastor in mid-sermon. Now then. I know you to be a good husband and father. You are also known throughout the town as someone to approach with a financial problem. Half the houses in these parts are owned through mortgages you have personally written. You have the ability to help people see what they can and can't afford, and you do it without offending them or making them feel that you're prying or trying to take advantage. You're the only banker I've ever met who counsels people
away
from debt if they can possibly help it.” Clarke allowed a small smile to break through. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“I feel like you've been talking about somebody else,” Buddy replied. “Somebody I just wish I was.”

“Natural modesty is a fine trait, so long as it doesn't keep you from being all you can be.” Pastor Owen paused a moment and then finished, “Or all the Lord wants you to be.”

Buddy stared at his old friend. “Does that mean you believe me?”

“I haven't heard what you think you've heard. But I have to admit that my natural inclination would be to say yes. If Buddy Korda tells me that the Lord has given him a message, and if the message stands up to scriptural inspection, I'd be inclined to accept it as truth.”

Buddy found the same question welling up that had remained unanswered the day before in his den. “But why
me
?”

“Why
not
you?”

“Because I don't like people noticing me.” The mere thought of it was enough to make his hands damp. He wiped his palms down the legs of his trousers and went on. “I'm a nobody, Clarke. I'm a second-rate bank clerk in a small town midway to nowhere. I don't know the first thing about talking to people.”

“Ah. Now we're getting somewhere.” Pastor Owen reached to the desk for his Bible. “We're really facing two parts to your question. The first part is why would the Lord choose you to receive a message from on high. The second is why would He want you to pass it on.”

“I guess that's it.” Relief was so strong it made his eyes burn. Not only was he dealing with a solid man of the church who believed him, or at least was willing to, but here was also someone who had the ability to put things into perspective. “That's it exactly.”