CHAPTER 11

Pastor Mark Jefferies tossed his black leather jacket onto the back of one the two tan leather chairs in front of his cherry wood desk and checked his black hair in the mirror to the left of his office door. Not bad. Spike it up a little more. He massaged it with his fingers till it looked perfectly disheveled. Nice. He spun and strode to his desk.

Thirty-seven wasn’t too old to go for the emo look. Besides, not only did he pull it off, YouTube hits had rocketed up 17 percent per week after he adopted the new style. Plus people said it made him look thirty. Had to carry the image to carry the crowd.

And the church crowd in La Jolla loved him. Along with the five satellite churches spread through the rest of the greater San Diego area.

Rent a building, give ’em lightning in a Bible every Sunday morning and Sunday evening, and church growth was inevitable.

After he plopped into the chair in front of his desk, picked up his Bible, and kissed it, he pulled up his Facebook fan page. Sweet. Three hundred and seventy-two more followers since yesterday. Probably time to put up another post on how he loved taking his wife out on dates.

Always got strong responses to those types of posts. Then follow up with a post about boys becoming men, men becoming leaders, leaders becoming kings, kings expanding their kingdoms.

Talk about strong men, men who knew where they were going and why. It was true. They needed that kind of inspiration. Don’t tickle their ears, drown them in a Super Bowl Gatorade bucket of truth.

It wasn’t like he didn’t believe in what he served up for worldwide consumption. He did enjoy taking his wife out. And he believed what he preached. It was right and it was true. But all the better if it endeared him to his legion of fans. All the better if it ticked some people off, especially those far-left whackos who wanted to turn the world over to the democrats and love gurus. Because that gave him press and press gave him attention. People wanted a figurehead to rally around. And he was the figurehead who would lead them back to God. Maybe America was going to hell in a handbasket of intolerant tolerance, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to reweave the thing on the way down.

He shook his head. It was only six years ago when he had been preaching in his living room to his wife and three other couples. And now thousands and thousands hung on every word, every YouTube video.

Did a part of him long for those early days when the pressure of being an icon wasn’t squeezing him like when he did his scuba diving thing at 120 feet below the Pacific? Absolutely.

Had he been ready for the church to explode as fast as it had? Probably not.

But someone had to be the point of the wedge.

And if he had to become a star to accomplish what needed to be done, so be it. The end most assuredly justified the means.

A rap on his door frame startled him and his head snapped back. “What?” He looked up to see Ben Raney standing in his doorway, a stack of papers in his hands.

“Are you ready to meet?”

“It’s time already?” Mark glanced at his watch and scowled. Time was always sprinting too fast and too far ahead of him, and lately it seemed time had lengthened its lead.

“Yep.” Ben tapped his watch with his pinky finger.

Why did the kid do that? Made him look so metro.

“Three p.m. on the button.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

Ben turned to go.

“Wait, why are you smiling?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. You’re going to love it.”

“Tell me now.” Mark slid out of his chair, sauntered around the end of his desk, and leaned back against it.

“It can wait. I’ll be back in ten.”

“I’m ready now.”

Ben smirked, so slightly Mark almost missed it.

“Have you studied the local news feeds from around the country yet?” Ben pushed his dark red hair off his forehead, which flopped back down a moment later.

“No, I pay you to look at it for me.” Mark folded his arms.

“Ah yes, that’s right. I’ll be back in three minutes. I might have missed a story or two.”

Passive-aggressive little snot. He hated passive-aggressive behavior. Straight aggressive worked faster and kept people in their places more effectively. When he shot people, at least he had the courage to shoot them in the chest.

“Ben, what do you think you’re doing? Do you think God condones that attitude?”

“What attitude?”

“Cut it. We both know you’re pitching me nonsense and it won’t fly. If you want to be sitting where I am someday, you have to submit to my authority. Got it? Not just your actions—your attitude. Are we clear, or do you need to start looking for another job right now?”

“I’m sorry, Mark. You’re right. I totally get it. Forgive me.”

Grace. He needed it himself. So he needed to give it. Even when his emotions screamed to do the opposite. Breathe deep. Offer grace, c’mon.

“Done. It’s over, forgiven, forgotten.” Mark clasped his hands behind his head. “Now talk. Tell me about this story.”

Ben set a printout of a news story onto Mark’s desk. It featured a picture of a young blond boy with what must be his parents on either side. The headline read, Boy Cured of Asthma. Family Says Miracle.

“So what?” Mark pushed the paper back at Ben. “God still heals people these days.”

“I believe He does as well. But when the healing comes from involvement with a certain type of inanimate object I believe you have an absorbing fascination with, it makes the whole scenario much more interesting.”

Mark’s pulse spiked. “If you’re grinding my gears—”

“I’m not.” Ben shook his head and tapped the paper. “I’m betting the chair that kid sat in before he got healed was a chair you’re extremely familiar with.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.” Ben tapped the article again. “It was an antiques store.”

Mark leaned forward and read the entire article, raked his fingers through his hair, and said more to himself than Ben, “So this mom and her son wander into an antiques store, the boy had an asthma attack, the kid sits in a chair, and four hours later he’s healed.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Where is the store?”

“The article didn’t give the name of the store.”

“Yes, I know.” Mark smacked the article with the back of his hand. “I can read. But the article is out of Colorado Springs, right?”

“So you want me to—?”

“Get on a plane tonight. Fly out there and find the store. Then charm the owner and find out everything you can about this chair.”

“And you’d like me to do it yesterday.”

“Precisely.”

Ben turned to go. “Anything else?”

“Nope.” Mark rubbed his mouth. “Wait.” He went to his desk and slid open the top drawer. “I’m booked tomorrow night, so I can’t use these.” He handed Ben two tickets to the OneRepublic concert.

“Are you serious?” Ben’s face spread into a grin. “I love these guys.”

“I know.” Mark patted him on the shoulder. “Enjoy.”

Mark stood at his office window and stared at the unsightly souls trudging up and down the sidewalk in front of his building. Most of them had no awareness of the eternal. No realization that immortality was all around them. That certain inanimate objects could set them free.

If it really was the chair, he’d need to move fast.

Yes, the legend was obscure. The odds of the store owner knowing what he had, if it truly was the chair, had to be close to zero. But might be others fascinated enough to watch the tabloids and the news and would be ready to move almost as fast as he was.

He smiled. With any luck, Ben should be able to grab the thing for a few hundred bucks and have the chair sitting in his office by tomorrow afternoon.

This could be it. With the chair he could finally slay the beast forever.