Rising Phoenix Page 2

  The moment didn’t last. As he turned to make a grab for the front door, someone started shooting at random through the wall that separated them. The rate of fire suggested some kind of fully automatic machine gun. Tek dove onto the floor and shot back through the wall. Behind him, pieces of the front door began tumbling through the air as ’Twan fired relentlessly at the lock.

  In front of him, the wall was becoming so riddled with bullet holes that he was beginning to be able to make out movement on the other side. The realization that he wasn’t going to survive another fifteen seconds struck him without warning. The feeling of immortality that seemed to go hand in hand with youth drained from him. For the first time, he could picture his own death.

  It was getting hard to breathe and progressively harder to see. The lamp that had stood in the corner hadn’t survived DC’s first volley. Gun smoke and particles of shattered drywall floated lazily in the air, choking him and burning his eyes. Tek dropped the empty pistol and rolled onto his stomach. The smell of mold in the carpet mingled with the overpowering smell of gunpowder.

  It was time to get out. The boarded-up window in front of him emanated a few small beams of natural light that were quickly swallowed up by the thick air. Holding his breath, he jumped to his feet and ran crouching through bullets and flying debris, throwing himself headfirst at the window. He fully expected either to be shot in midair or to hit the boards covering the window and bounce back into the gauntlet. To his surprise, the combination of dry rot and gunfire had weakened the boards to the point that they offered no more resistance than glass.

  He landed hard in the garbage-strewn side yard of the house, but managed to struggle to his feet and begin limping around to the front. As he came around the corner he saw ’Twan standing in the now open doorway, holding his Uzi sideways in front of him, spraying bullets wildly into the room and shouting obscene insults at no one in particular.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Tek shouted over the crackling gunfire.

  Miraculously, his friend heard him, and they began running, side by side, back the way they’d come. Tek grabbed his friend’s gun and began firing blindly behind them as they ran, hoping to discourage pursuit.

  In a house two doors down from the one the two young men were fleeing, Katerina Joy Washington was sleeping on a couch in her cluttered living room. Gunfire was no more unusual to her than the sound of laughter or car engines, and she barely stirred. Yesterday had been her third birthday, and she was still clutching the doll her mother had given her. It hadn’t been out of her hands all day.

  If someone had been standing next to the sofa, looking into her serene face, they probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual. Her head jerked slightly as though she had sneezed. Or maybe it was a bad dream. Then she lay perfectly still, a crimson stain spreading out behind her head like a halo.

  2

  Greenbelt, Maryland,

  October 15

  The Reverend Simon Blake felt the sweat trickling down his back as he paced back and forth under the glaring stage lights. He stopped short, wiping his brow with an exaggerated flick of his hand.

  “I have something important I want to talk to you about. It’s something that threatens our families, our country—threatens Christ himself,” he confided to the five thousand eager faces looking up at him. Continuing his pacing, he pulled the microphone close to his mouth.

  “It’s Satan’s greatest weapon. His greatest curse—drugs.”

  Blake was near the end of his weekly service. In addition to his sermons, the two hours were filled with inspirational music, interviews with public figures, and Christian news stories. The show was translated into three languages and broadcast to seven different countries. An eighth would be added next week, if his attorneys were earning their exorbitant salaries.

  The walls of his church soared above him but somehow didn’t have the effect of making the preacher look small. On the contrary, he seemed to be one with the vast complex, woven into the fabric of the concrete and glass. Part of his congregation’s growing excitement.

  As his voice echoed through the church, amplified by its state-of-the-art PA system, the pitch of the crowd changed perceptibly. Sex and drugs were always surefire attention grabbers.

  Fifteen years ago, his sermons had been full of God’s love and salvation. He had thought that he could change the world from his little chapel in western Maryland with a simple message of hope. How naive.

  The years had changed his message. Selections from the Bible had been replaced by quotes from prominent politicians. The concept of universal love and peace had succumbed to an ultra-conservative political agenda.

  The cathedral had been completed nearly ten years ago and had cost almost ten million dollars. As his message evolved, he had outgrown the small chapel and loyal congregation that had been so important to him in his youth. He’d gladly given up recognizing the faces looking up at him for the opportunity to command the souls of an entire world.

  “The Lord has told me over and over again to save the children—that they’re the future.” His congregation shouted its agreement.

  “He’s told me that Satan wants us all, but mostly he wants the little ones. Evil is always plotting, always looking ahead.”

  He paused, holding himself completely still, scanning the crowd. He stood there for almost a minute, mouth moving in silent prayer. It was one of his favorite dramatic devices, giving the impression that God himself was sending a confidential message—right then and there. The audience responded, as they always did, and their shouts flowed through the cavernous interior of the church, building power, until they hit him like a tidal wave. Blake stood, arms outstretched, feeling the hearts and minds of his congregation open to him, waiting to be filled with his wisdom. The wisdom of God.

  “Do you know what his weapon is?” Blake said quietly into the microphone. The congregation went silent so quickly that it seemed as if a transparent wall had been suddenly dropped in front of the stage. He repeated himself for the benefit of those who hadn’t been able to hear him over the din.

  “Do you know what Satan’s weapon is?” He answered his own question. “Drugs.”

  Once again, the crowd shouted its agreement.

  Years ago, the growing use of narcotics—especially by the young—had alarmed him. Now it consumed him. Users were everywhere—even in his church. He could feel them. Weekend Warriors, he called them. The men and women who joined his congregation to be entertained and to relieve their guilt. When they left, though, they went home and forgot about God until Sunday once again rolled around. At home, they fornicated, drank, and smoked marijuana. Or worse. These hypocrites would pay for their weakness and burn in the fires of hell for all eternity, he knew, but not before they corrupted others. And the Lord had charged him with putting a stop to it.

  Blake marched to his podium, picking up a well-worn Bible that had been given to him years before by his father. He held it over his head.

  “The Bible warns us about the evils of strong drink,” he continued angrily. “But Satan didn’t stop at alcohol. No, he invented more seductive things to enslave mankind. Now we have heroin. We have cocaine. We have marijuana. And don’t kid yourselves that it’s not in your neighborhood, not in your children’s schools. It’s everywhere!”

  He was shouting into the microphone now. Sweat and spit flew as he ran up and down the stage.

  “And don’t bother looking to the government to protect you from this plague. The liberals like to say that they are on the side of the working man, but I know the truth.” He motioned to the crowd. “We know the truth!”

  Blake put the Bible back and waved his free hand in the air frantically.

  “They just want to make sure that they don’t offend any of the drug pushers.” He effected an outrageously deep voice and spoke to an imaginary woman next to him. “Sorry if you got mugged yesterday, Mrs. Smith, but we wouldn’t want to punish anyone—that might violate their civil rights.”
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  Blake chuckled into the microphone, shaking his head. The crowd laughed with him. He had always thought of his sermons as a roller coaster ride. Intensity had to be matched occasionally with humor and informality to have maximum effect. Otherwise you just exhausted the poor creatures.

  He returned to his confidential tone. “I have something I need to tell you all.” He shook his head sadly. “I just need a moment to pull myself together first.”

  He sat down and once again looked out over the crowd. Through the glare of the lights, he could make out the concerned faces worn by the people in the first few rows. He motioned to the director of the choir, who turned and began “The Old Rugged Cross.” As the rest of the choir joined in, Blake allowed a sad smile to cross his lips. It was a song he found particularly inspirational.

  When he sat in his chair listening to the choir and surveying his church, he always felt a pang of regret. There was no disputing that the space was functional. It seated thousands, was acoustically perfect, had sufficient parking, and hid television and sound equipment with ruthless efficiency. It was the feel of the structure that bothered him. He had hoped for a more gothic look, a church full of interesting stone work and stained glass. What he had ended up with was a stark tribute to mankind’s intellect and not the monument to the human spirit that he’d expected. The harsh angles and blank walls spoke of mathematics, not of soul.

  The architects, whom he was still suing, argued that they had shown him the drawings every step of the way and that he had approved them all. But what did he know of blueprints and construction? He was a man of God.

  The completion of his cathedral had marked the beginning of Blake’s dominance in the highly competitive TV evangelism game. His ministry had expanded quickly, as he knew it would, and his fame had been bolstered by an endless procession of ghostwritten books, a small university in Tennessee, and an ever-growing group of powerful political allies. Blake had discovered early in his career that if the Lord wouldn’t provide, there were probably any number of congressmen who would. To ensure his good standing with the men in power, he continually donated substantial funds to various campaigns and gave his allies ringing endorsements through his complex and constantly expanding network.

  Of course, these allies were as godless as any man on death row. Hedonistic men who cared only about maximizing their own power and influence. Whores. But the Lord had taught him that it was just those flaws that made these men so painfully simple to manipulate. He ignored the darkness and lust that they nurtured in their black hearts. Their intentions were irrelevant—they were tools. And through him they had unwittingly become God’s tools.

  As the final stanzas of “The Old Rugged Cross” filled the church, Blake walked back to his podium, head bent forward in defeat. He took a long deep breath that echoed through the church.

  “I don’t know how to say this, it grieves me so,” he began. “One of our congregation’s children was murdered last week.”

  Cries of “No!” and “Lord save us!” floated up and seemed to hang in the still air. Blake held up his hand, calling for silence.

  “Bobby McEntyre was sixteen. He was on his high school’s varsity football team. He was a good student, and was active in his church.” Blake’s eyes began to mist, and a tear dripped down his cheek. He ran the sleeve of his dark suit across his face, wiping it away. His congregation shouted its support.

  “Bobby and a couple of his friends were driving to a Safeway in East Baltimore.” Blake shrugged dramatically. “It was just another Wednesday night—not late—about eight o’clock. It took a few moments for Bobby’s friends to grasp what had happened after the windshield shattered.” He paused. “The police say that a couple of drug pushers got into an argument, and these good Christian boys were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Blake turned and looked up at the large sculpture of Jesus crucified in front of the organ pipes at the back of the stage. “The wrong place at the wrong time,” he repeated to the Savior. His voice cracked.

  His wavering tone was the cue for the technicians in the booth to cut to a video of a laughing Bobby McEntyre tossing a football-with his younger brother. When this appeared on the monitors in the church, as well as on the TVs of millions of viewers, a woman in the audience began to cry. He walked to the end of the stage, squinting against the lights.

  “Mr. and Mrs. McEntyre, please come up here.” He held his hand out to help a heavyset woman in her early forties onto the stage. Her husband followed close behind. Both had tears in their eyes. Blake hugged them and turned them to face the crowd and cameras.

  “I wanted to bring the McEntyres up here so that we could all express our sympathy and to tell them that they will be in our prayers.” The congregation mumbled its agreement. “I also wanted to tell them that I’m beginning a scholarship to Lord’s Baptist University in Bobby’s name.”

  The McEntyres hugged Blake again, tearfully expressing their gratitude and telling him how happy the scholarship would have made their son. A few people in the crowd clapped at the gesture. Blake watched the McEntyres as they were ushered back to their front row seats.

  “I know that Bobby is in Paradise now, but he must feel great sadness in his heart at leaving such a wonderful family.”

  A man at the edge of the stage signaled that there were only five minutes left in the broadcast. Catching him out of the corner of his eye, Blake nodded imperceptibly and walked back to his pulpit. It was important not to let the realities of television interfere with the electricity of the Lord’s presence.

  “I want everyone in this church and everyone watching from home to join the Lord’s mortal battle with drugs. Write your congressman! Write your senator! Write the President! Tell them that we have had enough!” Blake pounded his fist on the podium, creating an exploding sound over the PA system.

  “Don’t wait until tomorrow—write today,” Blake insisted. “We can take back America from the pushers, but it’s got to start with us! I don’t want any other parents in my congregation to suffer like the McEntyres have.”

  He pushed himself away from the podium and walked to center stage. He stood there with his arms straight up in the air.

  “God bless all of you,” he shouted without the aid of his microphone. Thanks to the near-perfect acoustics of the building, his voice made it to all corners of the structure. It was his signature end to the service.

  The choir began their final song as Blake disappeared through an inconspicuous door at the back of the stage.

  As he walked toward the rear of the church, his chauffeur fell into step next to him. “Straight back to the office, Reverend?”

  “Yes. Can we make it there by one-thirty?”

  Carl looked at his watch and frowned. “I’ll do my best, but it depends on traffic.”

  Despite its considerable bulk, the black limousine slipped effortlessly through the light afternoon traffic, a tribute to the man behind the wheel. Blake sat in the back sipping a Coke and flipping through the Washington Post. The New York Times and LA Times sat untouched next to him on the soft leather seat.

  The front page of the Post was dominated by a picture of a young black boy. It was unmistakably a reproduction of a school photo. The boy mugged uncomfortably, hair and collar neater than they had a right to be on a child that age. The accompanying article caught Blake’s eye. He grimaced as he scanned through the first few paragraphs.

  They told a story of a young boy living in downtown Washington who had repeatedly refused to get involved with drugs, despite escalating peer pressure. His abstention had irritated the local pushers sufficiently to inspire them to douse him with gasoline and set him alight. Blake flipped the page, finding another picture of the boy. This time he was lying in a hospital wrapped in bandages. The only skin visible was a small patch on his right shoulder. His eyes were covered with large round pads that looked like something used to wax a car. Clear plastic tubes ran from his nose to a complex machine by the bed.

  Disgus
ted, Blake tore out the article and stuffed it into his briefcase. Too bad the boy wasn’t white—a story like that could break collection records.

  Blake scooted into the corner of the back seat so that he could see his driver’s face. “Did you read about the boy in Washington who was set on fire?”

  “I sure did, Reverend. Breaks your heart, don’t it?”

  “Why is this happening? What can we do to keep these kids away from drugs?”

  Carl was one of the few black people that Blake knew well. He was under the impression that the black community was completely homogeneous and that his chauffeur was its spokesman.

  “Don’t know, Reverend. Most of the kids I see don’t have much of a home life. And even if they did, it wouldn’t do any good. The pressure to be cool, do drugs, you know—all that stuff—it’s pretty strong. Comes a time when kids don’t want to listen to their folks anymore. It’s the same old problem, really. Kids want to feel grown up. They want to feel important.”

  Blake smirked. Carl had a God-given talent for understatement. “I remember being a kid—how important it was to fit in,” Blake agreed. “But I don’t remember the unpopular kids being set on fire.” He scooted back to the middle of the seat and flipped on a small television, signaling that the conversation was over.

  The traffic thickened as the highway melded into a two-lane Baltimore city street. Carl continued north, past the new Camden Yards baseball stadium, and took an indirect route to the parking garage under the building that housed the church’s main offices. Blake jumped from the car, almost forgetting his briefcase, and walked quickly through the gloom to the elevator. His watch read 1:35, and he knew that John Hobart would have been waiting for precisely five minutes. Tardiness was not one of Hobart’s failings.

  Blake’s organization took up the entire fourteenth floor of a hundred-thousand-square-foot office building that passed for a skyscraper in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Anyone accidentally getting off on the floor occupied by the church would probably mistake it for a large law firm. The space was tastefully decorated with plush beige carpet and thick wood paneling. Crystal vases filled with dried flowers sat on antique mahogany tables. Walls were sparsely covered with original artwork, and employees were dressed in dark suits or well-pressed skirts and blouses. Only the light religious music playing over invisible speakers hinted at the true nature of the tenant.