Power and Purpose
“Karyn?”
She didn’t answer. Synthesizer music and a mass choir sang from her television speakers; it had to be her fiftieth time seeing the ad, but it still entranced her just like the first.
“Karyn, you in here?” She heard heavy footfalls in the hallway. Reggie—her best friend—had a key to her place and no problem letting himself in. “I’m coming into your bedroom. I hope you’re not naked. Well, I kind of hope you are, but it’s awkward saying it out loud.”
He stuck his head in.
“Pajamas,” he said, “Damn. So much for nakedne—” His attention shifted to the screen. “Is this it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where—”
Karyn pointed to the right of the screen as the video cut to a group of four. Three men, one woman. “That’s her in blue.”
“You two look alike.”
She glared. “You need to work on your flattery.”
“Get naked and I’ll retract the statement.”
She groaned and raised the volume with her remote control.
“—come be enlightened at this four-day celebration and conference at the grand opening of the new Heavenly Duty Worship Center. Bishop Horace Sinclair invites you to change your life for now and forever—”
Bishop Horace Sinclair, spiritual leader to thousands, perhaps millions when you counted his television ministry. That’s who the ad campaign was really for.
Sinclair’s Power and Purpose Conference had been in the works for the last two years, set to coincide with the grand opening of his new worship hall, Heavenly Duty. It was a fifty-million-dollar megachurch designed to hold a congregation of thirty thousand. In the spiritual community it was the biggest of big deals. All of the celebrities of gospel, ministry, and evangelism would be in attendance, plus a crowd of eager worshippers that could rival a Super Bowl audience.
And Karyn’s mother would be in the midst of it all, utterly enraptured.
Her mom had been a loyal follower of the good bishop for most of Karyn’s life. From his original services in high school gyms, to his first church in the suburbs of Portside, Virginia, to now, Jessica Manning was a servant to God first and Horace Sinclair second.
Over the years she’d established a place in the good bishop’s inner circle, thus her prominent appearance in the Power and Purpose ads. Her access to church resources—and The Bishop himself—had many of the other church members, particularly the women, dipping into the Envy bucket of the Seven Deadlies.
All despite having a daughter like Karyn.
The ad ended with ticket and contact information, though Karyn was willing to wager there were no more tickets. It was long rumored the conference would sell out. And it wasn’t like there was much time left. It started tomorrow.
She clicked the television off and turned to Reggie.
“Well?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “Well what?”
“Are you going?”
Her gaze flitted to the two tickets wedged into the molding over her mirror—front row seats, a gift from Mom. She shrugged.
“I think you should,” he said.
“I know what you think. It’s easy for you to think that. You didn’t grow up with her . . .” She searched for a word powerful enough to construe the years of degradation she suffered at her mother’s hands. “Rants. She threw more scriptures in my face than those crazy apocalypse guys on the corners downtown.”
“But it’s been a while. Things could be different now. I’ve seen Bishop Sinclair on TV and he focuses strongly on forgiveness. Maybe your mom—”
“Has forgiven me?” Her voice was hot venom. “And what exactly is she forgiving me for, Reggie?”
He raised his hands—one palm out, the other grasping a large, padded manila envelope. “It will never be said that Reggie the Wise does not know when to shut up.”
Karyn, angry at Reggie for going where she didn’t want to go, but equally mad at herself for being angry at Reggie, hopped off the bed and disappeared into her walk-in closet. It was easier to cool off when she couldn’t see anyone, when she couldn’t feel the waves of emotion wafting off them.
She tugged the day’s clothes off hangers. “What’s that envelope you’re holding?”
“Don’t know. I grabbed your mail on the way up.”
“Open it.”
As she sifted through her denim, she heard the envelope rip. Then, “Speak of the Dev—” Reggie caught himself, and then finished, “It’s from your mom.”
What now?
She poked her head out and saw him holding a leather-bound Bible and a sheet of paper. “Her note says ‘God told me to send you this.’ ”
Figures.
He opened the Bible’s cover, chuckled.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s autographed by Horace Sinclair.”
Karyn’s face twisted. The guy autographed Bibles? The cynic in her nearly overloaded; she left that one alone. “Let me see.”
Reggie tossed it to her.
Her day immediately took a turn for the worst. She caught it and felt the warmth immediately. The heat spread from her hands, up her arms, hit her chest, and went supernova through the rest of her body. Reggie and her bedroom blinked away. There were—
—people. Too many people. The aisles are choked, some rush the exits, and others rush the stage. There is already a crowd there, though. They huddle over someone she cannot see.
But she can see the blood.
It drips over the stage’s edge.
Crying. So much crying.
In the huddle, she sees her own face. Crow’s-feet clutch the corners of her eyes and her mascara is smeared. Karyn doesn’t wear makeup and she’s yet to develop her first wrinkle. This is her mother’s face, horrified.
Behind Mom, a banner of ten-foot-tall letters reads, POWER AND PURPOSE. A sloppy, bright red splatter fills the o in Power, like a child who hasn’t learned to color inside the lines.
All becomes quiet. The crowd at the stage, including her mother, turn to her, and stare with pleading eyes. But she looks past them, to what they concealed before.
A man with a ragged hole in his chest lies motionless, gone from this world.
Horace Sinclair.
The Bible smacked the floor. Karyn leapt backward, banging her head against the closet door. She became limp and slid to her butt. Her legs felt like cooked spaghetti and her breathing was ragged.
Reggie knelt over her but did not touch her. Not yet. “What did you see?”
“Someone’s going to . . .” The images were still fresh in her mind, still shocking. “Someone’s going to kill Horace Sinclair.”
“What?”
Adrenaline flowed through her. She sprang to her feet and sprinted around Reggie in search of her cell. Had to call Mom.
In her wake she heard Reggie say, “Why is it never the winning Lotto numbers?”
The first time it happened, she was eleven years old.
They’d been visiting her grandparents in Stepton, a small, close-knit community where most folks—at least on the black side of town—knew Jessica Manning and her daughter, Karyn. It happened in the market when Jessica bumped into an old friend from high school and began to chew the man’s ear about her church, Heavenly Duty. Karyn saw his eyes gloss over before he politely excused himself, claiming a forgotten appointment.
Hastily he said, “It was good to see you again, Jessica.” He shook Mom’s hand, and then turned to Karyn. “And you, too, Little Bear.” He patted her head, and she cringed. Not from the odd nickname, but from the pictures flashing suddenly through her mind.
She saw the man on a ladder, trimming branches on a tree. An electrical line was tightroped through the foliage. He did not notice the wire until his trimmers bit into it, and then it was too late.
The man quick-stepped to the checkout line, leaving Karyn nearly in tears.
“Mom, he’s in trouble.”
Mom’s attention was on a leafy head of lettuce. “You got that right, you can tell he don’t know Jesus.”
“No.” And she told her mother what she instinctively knew to be the man’s fate if no one interceded on his behalf.
Jessica Manning heard her daughter out, her expression unchanging. When Karyn was done, Jessica nodded. Karyn thought her mother would stop the man before he got away.
Instead she said, “I won’t have you making up any more stories.”
“No. I’m not making it up. I saw—”
“Only God can see the future, little girl. Now stop this nonsense.”
Karyn panicked. She didn’t want the man to get hurt and she also knew what her mother said wasn’t true. She’d learned otherwise in Sunday school. “What about prophets, Mom? They can—”
Her mother’s palm cut off the words like a severed limb. The slap echoed in the aisles. “Don’t you ever try to turn the teachings of the Lord to support lies. Do you hear me?”
Karyn nodded, tears rimming her eyes. She didn’t say another word.
The next day, it was her grandpa Tom who gave them the news of Darren Telfair’s electrocution while trimming branches off his sycamore tree.
Karyn ran from the breakfast table sobbing, leaving her grandparents perplexed.
Jessica came to her room, a sullen look on her face. Karyn felt horrible for her mother, the guilt she must’ve felt for not warning Mr. Telfair.
The sympathy for her mother dried up quickly, though.
“See what you’ve done?” Mom asked.
Karyn’s sobs receded.
“We can sometimes speak things into being,” Mom said. “That’s why it is of the utmost importance to keep our minds focused on God and positivity, just like Bishop Sinclair says. I don’t know what made you tell that story yesterday, but . . . ” She trailed off, perhaps realizing the lunacy in her logic. “I don’t want you to blame yourself. It must have been Darren’s time. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
It got no better over the years. As she and her mother grew further apart, the visions grew stronger, clearer.
As an adult, she had more control over her ability. A mere touch wouldn’t trigger the visions, not unless the premonition was so horrible her learned defenses could not fend it off. Like now.
She tried to call her mother, but got her voice mail.
“Today is a day that the Lord has made. You have reached the voice mail of Jessica Manning. I’m unable to take your call right now, but if you—”
Karyn clicked End, redialed the number, and let it ring three times. Voice mail, again.
“Damn it.”
Reggie hovered over her. She often found comfort in his presence. His bulky girth and fuzzy beard always reminded her of Baloo the Bear from The Jungle Book. It was what she loved most about him. But today, there was no comfort to be found.
He fumbled for words. “Are you sure about what you saw?”
Her eyes narrowed, and he dropped his gaze. They’d known each other long enough—been through enough—for him to know her visions were never wrong.
She paced the length of the apartment, unsure of what to do next. She’d learned long ago the police weren’t an option. She’d be written off as a nut, and if the shooting went down her advance knowledge would propel her to the top of the suspect list. If she could just get a hold of her mother . . . despite their differences Jessica Manning, like Reggie, knew her daughter’s visions were always on point.
Mom would make sure Bishop Sinclair was out of harm’s way. She valued his life over her own.
Probably even over mine, she thought bitterly.
She shook it off and tried Mom’s phone again. No luck.
“Reggie, do you have a suit?”
“Unfortunately. Why?”
“Because, if I can’t get my Mom on the phone tonight, we have to figure out a way to save Horace Sinclair.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, again. Suit? Why?”
“You’re going to be my date to the Power and Purpose Conference.”
The next eighteen hours were a blur of brainstorming, caffeine, and anxiety. Karyn kept touching the autographed Bible, unsure of what she hoped to see. There were no more visions. As far as her extraordinary gifts were concerned, Horace Sinclair would still die before his congregation if she did not act.
It was eight in the morning before she gave in to the inevitable. “Go home and change, Reggie.”
By nine-thirty, Reggie was wedged in the passenger seat of her Toyota Prius, looking like a clown-car passenger. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I don’t know exactly. Talk to security, try to use my mother’s name for leverage.”
“Sounds like a long shot.”
“Maybe not.” She turned onto Northwest Boulevard; it would bring them up on the tail end of the new Heavenly Duty Building. “It’s early. The conference doesn’t start until eleven. Maybe we can make them listen if they’re not too concerned with a crowd yet.”
“Maybe.”
As the blocks and the buildings sailed past them, Karyn couldn’t help but notice how dead Portside was this early on a Sunday. All was still; the only movement was the wind through the branches of cypress trees planted in the sidewalk. In a way it was ominous. As if she was already too late, and instead of having the death of Horace Sinclair on her conscience, the demise of the world would be.
Karyn, you will get this right. You’re here. There’s no crowd. You’ll get to a guard and everything will be all right.
As they crested the last block of squat buildings, the gray shale and regal blue dome of the Heavenly Duty Worship Center floated into view. It was modern architecture at its finest, a bald giant among square trolls. The air-conditioning units alone were the size of Karyn’s apartment.
A sigh escaped her. “This is going to work,” she whispered.
Then they passed the Heavenly Duty Worship Center and got a look at the front plaza.
“Ho-lee shit.” Reggie twisted in his seat and Karyn felt her heart sink as she eased her car to a halt.
There were hundreds—possibly thousands—of worshippers crowding the plaza, bustling and conversing, raising their arms in praise of the Lord. They were joyful, an emotion Karyn could not share.
These people—this crowd—would slow her down, possibly prevent her from doing her job. And, somewhere among them, was a killer who would not be deterred.
“Find a place to park,” she said. “I’m going to wade through this, see if I can find someone with security.”
Reggie glanced toward the throngs of people. “Are you sure about this?”
She tried to look sure. “I’ll be fine.”
He was wedged behind the wheel of the tiny car, looking even more awkward than he did in the passenger seat. “How will I find you?”
Karyn held up her cell. “You’ve got the number.”
She rounded the car and sank into the growing crowd of parishioners who looked regal in the morning light. Karyn blended in well. Her enthusiasm for dress-up was only slightly better than Reggie’s, but attendance here required a little more than casual attire.
She’d donned her tan linen pantsuit with a white blouse beneath, one of the outfits she kept on reserve for special occasions. Preventing homicide wasn’t on her list of possible affairs when she purchased it, but good fashion was prepared for anything, even when people aren’t.
Her outfit—and looks in general—was on her mind mainly because it was on the mind of the people—men—she passed in an effort to find security. She wasn’t a mind reader, not by a long shot. She supposed the ability fell into the empath category, but even that was more glamorous than the reality of it.
Every woman knew when she was being ogled. It was an instinct developed around the same time the body began to mature, making a woman a target for the scrupulous and unscrupulous alike.
For Karyn, it was a million times worse.
With her talent, every unwelcome pair of eyes felt like a featherlight hand pawing her flesh. She was subconsciously aware of every part of her body being assessed as she passed even the subtlest voyeur. Her face, eyes, breasts, stomach, hips, butt, and, more often than she cared to consider, feet (she didn’t even own a pair of open-toed shoes) were under review.
She’d learned long ago, when her abilities were in their infancy, that this type of visual molestation was the nature of man. For that reason, she usually avoided crowds. Something else she learned long ago . . . it was rarely any better at church.
With her skin crawling, she forced her way through, suppressing the urge to scream. There were times in the past when she hadn’t been so successful. But an outburst here could ruin her chances. Stay cool, girl.
Thirty yards ahead, she spotted what she was looking for. He was tall and lithe in a navy-blue blazer with the Heavenly Duty crest on his sleeve. A wire coiled out of his collar to a bud in his ear, Secret Service–style. As she approached, she felt her mind slip into a prayer, her first one in a long time. Please, God, let this work.
He caught her in his periphery and faced her. Immediately, she felt him undressing her with his eyes. She ignored the discomfort and went into her spiel. “Excuse me, sir.” She eyed the name tag on his left lapel. “Dale?”
He smiled. “What can I help you with, miss?”
“Do you know Jessica Manning?”
“Of course. She’s a senior pastor here.”
“Good. I’m her daughter. Karyn Manning.”
His eyes flickered away, then back to her. She didn’t need psychic abilities to read the expression. He was skeptical. “Well, she would’ve left your tickets at the Will Call table. The doors will open in an hour and you can—”
She dug into her handbag and produced her ticket to prove she wasn’t trying to con her way into the conference. “No. I already have my ticket. I just need to know if my mother is here yet. I need to tell her something.”
His skepticism shifted to downright suspicion. “I wouldn’t have any way to confirm senior staff ’s arrival. That’s not part of my detail. But I do know Miss Manning has a cell phone. I’m sure her daughter would have the number.”
She felt him shut down, the tunnel of cooperation contracted to a pinhole. The indirect approach wasn’t going to work.
“Excuse me.” He turned away.
“Wait.”
Dale raised an eyebrow. His expression said, What now?
“I’m going to tell you something. I’m not crazy and here.” She raised her ticket and tore it in half. “I’m not even going in, so don’t think I’m the one who’s going to give you trouble. But you’re security, and if you choose not to act the consequences will be on you.”
“Miss, you’re not making any sense.”
She leaned close, unwilling to let anyone else hear. “Someone’s going to shoot Horace Sinclair. They’re going to do it when he goes onstage to open the conference. You have to warn him.”
Dale took a step back. His expression was stone. “Please.” Karyn felt the tears coming. “You have to believe me.”
“Don’t move.”
The guard turned away and spoke into a communicator attached to his cuff. Karyn could not hear what was said, but when he faced her, he nodded. “Come with me.”
It was her turn for skepticism. “Why? Where are we going?”
“Someone wants to speak to you.”
“My mother?”
He shook his head; his face glowed with eerie reverence. “Bishop Sinclair.”
Dale ushered her inside Heavenly Duty through the front door. Some onlookers rushed the entrance and were halted by more guards. Curious shouting turned to angry screams. Karyn barely noticed.
She craned her neck, looking around. This place . . . marble-tiled ceilings fifty feet high, gold light fixtures with crystal ornaments, a glass wall overlooking a sunken sanctuary, concession stands, a bookstore, credit union, employment office, full-service restaurant, day care, and, over the entrance to the worship hall, a gargantuan portrait of the good bishop. It was like the Sistine Chapel and Staples Center thrown in a blender.
In Reggie’s words, ho-lee shit.
“This way, miss.” Dale motioned to an unmarked corridor. She shook off her awe and followed his directions.
The hallway took them to a steel door marked PRIVATE. Dale unclipped his ID badge and passed it over an electronic lock mounted in the wall. It buzzed and a bolt retracted in the frame. The door swung outward, revealing a brightly lit stairway.
Karyn looked to the guard, uncertain.
“It’s all right,” he said.
They ascended to Heavenly Duty’s second floor.
This new level was less religious regal and more like a corporate call center. Gray carpet led through a bay of unmanned cubicles. On the far wall, a series of locked doors barred them from darkened offices. But one office was open and well lit.
“Wait here.” Dale entered the office and closed the door.
Karyn was anxious, but relieved. She’d never expected someone to actually listen and take action. Cooperation was so rare when it concerned things yet to pass. To coin her mother’s favorite phrase, God was looking out for her.
The door opened. Dale motioned her in as he left, casting furtive glances over his shoulder.
This office resembled the royal décor of the Heavenly Duty’s first level. Rich carpet, high ceilings, oil paintings . . . and the patriarch himself. Bishop Sinclair sat staring out of his window, troubled.
He swiveled to face her. Though it had been years since she’d been in his presence, she believed time had taken a greater toll on her than him. He had to be near the half-century mark, but didn’t look a day over thirty-five. He wore gold-framed spectacles over hazel eyes, and only a few renegade strands of gray could be seen in his goatee.
He smiled; it was strained. “When he told me Jessica Manning’s daughter wanted to see me, I was a bit startled. I hope I don’t offend you by saying this, but it’s been so long since I last saw you. I’d forgotten about you.”
Embarrassed heat seared her cheeks; she hoped her complexion hid her blush. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”
“You’ve grown into a very beautiful woman. The spitting image of your mother.” It was an honest compliment, nothing implied there. It was flattering; and with that, Karyn got a glimpse of how a woman could become enraptured by the compliments of such a powerful man. Somehow, she couldn’t convince herself he ever took advantage of the affections of the women in his flock. He was one of the good ones.
And she was going to save his life.
“As happy as I am to see you, Dale gave me some troubling information. He says it came from you.”
She swallowed. “Yes. Someone—I think someone—is going to—”
He held up a hand. “Not here.” He motioned to the window, and for the first time she noticed the people on the rooftops of a building in the distance. The people and their cameras.
Bishop Sinclair rose and closed the blinds. “It’s funny, there was a time when only movie stars had to worry about paparazzi. Our country is so consumed with celebrity. The saying should be ‘In Tabloids We Trust.’ ”
“Bishop—”
He stopped her again. “There was a newspaper article a few years back, during the time Mayor Peppers was running for his second term. I spoke openly against his policies, so he attempted to discredit me. Things I said in private appeared in the article, out of context. At first, I thought someone in my senior staff was leaking information. We later found out my office had been bugged.
“That was taken into consideration when we designed this building.”
The bishop moved to what she assumed was a bare wall. He pressed on the plaster. Some sort of locking mechanism clicked, and a crevice appeared.
It was a door to a hidden room.
“Come,” he said. “It’s safe to talk in here.”
She stepped inside, a little awed by the level of intrigue the bishop’s type of celebrity demanded. The room was a scaled-down version of the main office. There was a desk, a small bookshelf, a console of security monitors, and a worktable littered with circuits and tools that smelled of oil. It was an odd setup—the worktable more than the rest—but she supposed it served its purpose. Especially today.
As soon as he closed the door, she vomited the words: “Don’t ask me how I know what I’m about to say, but you have to believe there’s going to be an attempt on your life. Someone’s going to shoot you in front of your congregation if you don’t do something.”
“Dear Lord.” He kneaded his face with stiff fingers. “That’s what Dale said. I prayed he’d gotten mixed up.”
“It’s true. I swear.”
He looked at her, sighed, and nodded. “I believe you, child.”
At his desk, he scooped up the phone and thumbed a red button on its face. “Mr. Markham, come to the back room, please. Bring Jimmy with you.” He placed the receiver back in the cradle.
“Who did you call?”
“Our chief of security.”
His statement could’ve been an introduction, for as soon as he said it, the lock disengaged. A linebacker-sized, blue-eyed behemoth entered the room. His hair was long, platinum and slicked back, a stark contrast to the bishop and the mostly black Heavenly Duty congregation. He looked Nordic—like Thor without the hammer. Mr. Markham, she presumed.
A shorter, frailer blond—the bottle variety—tailed him. Once they were all in, the room felt too tight . . . and hot. Karyn found it difficult to breathe, as if these men didn’t just inhale the air, but absorbed it.
The sensation wasn’t physical. This was part of her gift. A warning. Something was wrong here.
Mr. Markham sealed the door behind his little buddy, and then focused his gaze on Karyn. “What appears to be the problem, Bishop?”
She glanced at Sinclair. He couldn’t even look her in the eye. “She knows, Mr. Markham. I don’t know how, but she knows about our plan.”
The world tilted. Sinclair’s words and her heightened sensitivity to the present danger were almost too much to bear.
She backpedaled, collided with the wall, and used it for support while she forced her breathing to regulate. A fine sheen of sweat plastered her blouse to her chest and back.
Why was it so hot?
Markham spoke: “She does, does she?” His voice was high, squeaky. It made him no less intimidating. He shot the other blond—Jimmy—a look. “Now, how did that happen?”
Jimmy shook his head frantically. “Nuh-uh, wasn’t me. Wasn’t Jimmy.”
Karyn didn’t need her powers to realize Jimmy was mentally challenged. What the hell was going on here?
“We should call it off,” Sinclair told Markham. “If there’s a leak, we shouldn’t go through with this.”
Markham gave him an easy smile. “Our objective hasn’t changed. Think of the good this will do. It’s worth the risk.”
Karyn found her voice. “What are you talking about? Objectives? The good?”
“Karyn.” The bishop’s eyes begged her to understand. “You’ve got it all wrong. No one’s going to kill me. The bullet’s not even real.”
“What?”
“It’s supposed to be a blank and a . . .”
“A squib,” Markham chimed in. “It’s what they use in the movies to make gunshots look real.” He moved to the worktable and picked up a harness and a bag of what looked like hospital blood. “It’s a low-charge explosive and a packet of red corn syrup. Bishop Sinclair’s in no danger whatsoever.”
Karyn shook her head. What she saw in her vision wasn’t corn syrup. In the future place she could smell the copper stench. It was blood and it was real.
“Why?” she asked. “Why this?”
“Forgiveness, Karyn,” Sinclair said. “It’s all about His message. Our congregation is at its peak. And we’re going to only rise higher. But somewhere along the way, His message got lost. It became about being in the ‘cool church,’ about getting your Heavenly Duty license plate holder. It’s about being the Heavenly Duty choir director, or chief financial officer. People have started to look at our church like a country club. The in-crowd belongs to Heavenly Duty, and we don’t cotton to nobodies around here.”
Sinclair’s eyes glistened. “It never should’ve come to this.”
“So you’re going to fake an assassination?” she asked. “It’s come to that?”
Markham spoke up. “It’s not the assassination that makes this special. It’s the assassin.”
Before she could question him, Jimmy began to bounce up and down like a hyper child. “Point and shoot. Bam!”
Karyn could’ve burned a hole through Sinclair with her gaze. “No. Tell me you don’t intend to involve him in this.”
Sinclair spoke with his voice and hands, channeling the energy that made him a world-famous speaker. “If you’ll let me explain, you’ll see why it could only be him.”
He continued. “People threaten my life all the time. Most recently, members of the Church of King Christ.”
He let that hang and she bit. “That’s the Aryan church. It’s been in the news a lot lately.”
“Right. The officialdom of the church claims no knowledge of the threats, of course. But it’s all semantics, now, isn’t it? The lines have been drawn. There have been talks of riots, even among my people.”
She began to understand Jimmy’s bottle-blond locks. If Sinclair wanted it to look like the shooter was connected to an Aryan church, Jimmy needed to look Aryan. She got that, but not what Sinclair hoped to accomplish.
“When we do this, there will be horror and panic . . . Old Testament terror,” he said. “The true Christians will be separated from the vengeful charlatans. We’ll finally know who’s been listening.”
Now Karyn was clear, on one thing anyway: Sinclair was insane.
“You’re doing this because you want to weed out the lukewarms?” she asked.
“No. So I can save them.”
“I thought only Christ saved. Or is that just semantics, too?”
Sinclair’s eyes flickered. He concealed the anger quickly. “When I ‘survive,’ and I forgive Jimmy for what he’s done, my message will be stronger than ever. My followers will be stronger for it. Don’t you see?”
“It won’t work,” she bluffed. She knew more than any of them it was going to work better than they’d dreamed. “You’ll be seen by medics and cops. They’ll find the squib.”
“You’d be surprised how many of our members are in law enforcement and medicine,” he countered.
“What about Jimmy? He’s supposed to be ostracized, maybe go to jail, for your ego trip?”
Markham spoke up. “True followers make sacrifices to spread God’s Word. Besides, we have strong ties to the legal community, too. Someone in Jimmy’s condition will never see trial. This will work, miss.”
She shook her head, her resolve hardened. “No. It won’t. Because I won’t let it.” She made for the door, but was halted by Markham’s manacle-like grip.
The heat in the room went nuclear.
This is not the future. It’s the past, gray and grainy like old news footage. Markham’s here, talking to men who look like him. They nod, laugh, and over their heads a crucifix hangs and the Lord looks over their deeds with anguished eyes.
Markham shakes the hand of another. In the web between the thumb and forefinger of this other man’s hand, there’s a swastika.
Fast-forward. Markham tinkers with a rifle. He removes one set of rounds—the blanks—and replaces them with black casings that look like missiles.
Skip. The future’s now. While the masses huddle over a dead bishop, Markham watches from a balcony with Jimmy murdered at his feet and a smile on his lips.
Karyn blinked to get her bearings. How long was she out? Seconds? Minutes?
“Is she all right?” Sinclair asked.
Markham watched her carefully. “She’s fine now.”
“Wait.” She went to move and felt her arm snatched backward. A silver cuff chained her to the heavy worktable. The table was bolted to the floor and would not be moved.
To Markham, she said, “What are you—?”
Her eyes drifted past him, to the fifth figure in the room.
She bit back a scream.
A black mass of living shadow hulked over Markham. The heat from before—it came off the mass in waves. She saw it radiating from the . . . thing. In all her years—all of her visions—she’d never seen anything like it.
Somewhere in the distance, she heard the voice of Luther Vandross, and then realized it was her cell’s ring tone.
Markham came closer, as did the blackness. She cringed.
“He’s not going to hurt you, Karyn,” the bishop assured her. The sad thing was, he actually believed it.
Still, it wasn’t Markham she was concerned with. Not anymore.
The murderous Nordic reached into her bag and confiscated her phone, slipping it in his jacket pocket. “I’ll deal with you later.” Then, to Sinclair: “We need to go.” He gathered up the squib harness. Jimmy led the way out, followed by the bishop.
“We’ll work something out,” Sinclair said.
No, Karyn thought, you won’t.
He left. Then went the Nordic, and, thank goodness, that shadow.
Before the door closed, trapping her, the shadow twisted in snakelike fashion. The mound at the top—the head—faced her, shooting that unnatural heat her way. Then a horizontal crescent moon appeared, perfectly white pointed teeth flashed. The damned thing was grinning.
Then they were gone.
Reggie hung up his phone. “Where are you, Karyn? Damn it.”
“Can I help you, sir?”
He turned, embarrassed. “Um, darn it. This darn phone.”
The man he faced was massive. Reggie was no small guy; at six feet two, two hundred and eighty pounds, he dwarfed most people he met. Now he knew how those folks felt.
This security guard was Shaq-sized. His skin was tanned bronze, his hair light brown, with eyes like olives. Reggie could honestly say he was the strangest-looking man he’d ever seen.
“You seem lost, sir. Can I help you with something?”
People milled around, on beelines for Heavenly Duty’s open doors. Reggie scanned their faces. “I’m not the one that’s lost. I’m looking for my friend, Karyn.”
“Karyn Manning?”
“Yeah, how—”
He tapped his earpiece. “I heard her name over the radio. I think she was taken to meet Bishop Sinclair.”
A sigh slipped out of Reggie. “Good. That’s good.”
“I should take you to her,” the guard said.
Then something in Reggie flicked on, a sudden need to get to Karyn and get to Karyn now. “Can you do that?”
The guard nodded. “Just stick close.”
They began to move through the crowd with odd ease. People stopped short or sped up to clear a direct path for them, yet no one even glanced their way.
They entered the foyer, detoured down a long corridor.
“Hey, I’m Reggie, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”
The guard turned, and gave him the warmest smile he’d seen in a long time. “Just call me Michael.”
Moments later, they were on a deserted floor. Reggie knew when he was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. “Don’t you think they’re in the sanctuary by now?”
Michael did not respond, but opened a door at the end of the floor. Reggie followed and realized this was the bishop’s office.
“Mike, no one’s here, man.”
Again, no response. Instead, the guard approached a bare wall and pressed his hand, fingers splayed, against the plaster. He turned to Reggie and placed a small metal trinket in his palm. “You’ll need this.”
“What?” He looked past Michael and saw there was a door concealed in the wall. A step closer and there was a familiar voice. “Sinclair, is that you?”
Reggie ran into the hidden room and saw Karyn tugging on a cuff that trapped her wrist to a table. He looked down to the tiny metal in his hand, and understood what it was. A cuff key.
“Karyn.” He rushed forward.
“I had another vision, Reggie.”
He stopped just shy of her. “Just now?”
“No. It’s been a while. You’re fine.”
Still, he was hesitant. Early on in their relationship, before he understood the nature of her abilities, he’d touched her while she was in the midst of a powerful, ugly vision. That day, they both found out that not only could Karyn see visions of the past and future, but she became a cipher of the visions, for a time.
When Reggie touched her, he saw what she saw.
And his mind couldn’t take it.
It was three days before he woke up again, in a hospital with an IV snaking to his arm.
Warily, his hand hovered toward her wrist like she was a hot oven and he was afraid of getting burned. He touched her, snatched his hand back like she was hot, and then touched her again. Nothing. Good. He unlocked her cuff while she filled him in on what was what in Heavenly Duty.
Listening to her tale of Bishop Sinclair’s Aryan security chief planning to turn his harebrained scheme against him, he was again reminded of her burden and was secretly glad the ability was hers and not his.
She rubbed her raw wrist. “How did you find me?”
“This guard, Mic—” He turned to introduce his ally and found the entrance to the room empty. He stepped to the door and peered into the equally empty office. “He was right here.”
Karyn pushed past him, checked the wall clock. “Sinclair’s going on soon.”
“What do we need to do?”
“Give me your cell phone.”
He handed it over. She said, “Use the desk phone to call the cops.”
“And tell them what?”
“I don’t know. Tell them you saw a black man with a gun chase a white girl into the church . . . that might get the whole police department plus SWAT down here.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Reggie, I’ve got a date with a rifleman.”
He stiffened. “I’m going with you.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Look what rolling solo has done for you so far. Should I go ahead and keep the cuff key in case we need it later?”
She touched his hand. “You can’t come with me, Reggie. I know what I have to do and you don’t want to be there when I do it.”
He didn’t want to, but they’d been down this road before—if she had a plan, he had to trust her. Before he could relent, she was out the door.
It took twenty minutes to find the entrance to the balcony she’d seen in her vision. She ran into no resistance from security. No surprise there. Markham was the boss on these matters, and since he was the only legitimate threat to Bishop Sinclair, of course he’d want the guards out of the way.
Which leaves me, she thought, a rodent of fear scurrying along her intestines.
She’d told Reggie she knew what she had to do. It was a lie.
The truth: Reggie was her only friend, and she didn’t want to risk him in this business. The image of that smiling darkness was fresh in her mind. It was real, as real as any vision she’d ever had. The forces at work here were sinister, indeed. And they were her load to carry.
Creeping through Heavenly Duty’s upper level, she kept low and peered across the length of the balcony. It ringed the sanctuary—what some would call nosebleed seats—currently unfinished and unused.
Moving to the safety rail, she peeked at the illuminated pulpit below. The crowd murmured while a live band accompanied the low voices of a mass choir. Ahead of them all was the banner and the words from the vision that led her here: POWER AND PURPOSE.
There was movement to her left.
She crouched and backed behind a row of new stadium seats still wrapped in plastic and not yet bolted to the floor.
Jimmy approached the railing with a long duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Karyn didn’t need to guess what was in it.
He unloaded the rifle, snapping pieces into place, attaching a scope, and testing the trigger, all while grinning and humming along with the choir. Whatever his disability was, assembling a rifle was not part of it.
Karyn leaned out for another look at the stage. Sinclair wasn’t out yet. There was still time.
She pulled out Reggie’s cell and dialed the number to the phone Markham took from her. It began to ring and she lowered it from her ear to seek another sound.
Faintly, she picked up the sounds of Luther in the distance.
Jimmy turned from his task to peer in the shadows. “Mr. Markham?”
The Nordic stepped out, one hand digging in his jacket pocket to silence the cell.
“I didn’t know you was coming up here,” Jimmy said, actually gleeful to see the secret puppet master.
Markham grasped Jimmy’s shoulder. “Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Right as rain. Ready to do the Lord’s work.” Karyn watched, trying to figure her next move. Unfortunately, it wasn’t hers to figure.
Behind Markham, the shadows swirled and solidified into a hulking man-shape; it was the thing she’d seen in Sinclair’s office. It drifted toward her quickly; she had no time to react. There, before her, it hovered, still radiating heat like a furnace. Then it reversed its direction, returning to Markham until the two nearly touched. A second later, it faded like smoke.
As if tapped on the shoulder, Markham turned in her direction. There was no way he could actually see her, but she also knew he was aware of her presence, thanks to his Dark Friend.
“Stay here, Jimmy.” Markham approached, his hand snaking inside his jacket. He reappeared with a large saw-toothed knife, just out of Jimmy’s line of sight.
She stood. She couldn’t outrun him and there was no point in hiding.
“Is your name really Markham?” she said, trying to buy time. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer. “Are you a member of the Aryan church, or did they just hire you to kill Bishop Sinclair?”
Markham tensed at her knowledge.
“Hey, lady,” Jimmy said, his voice cheery. “That’s just a game. The bishop ain’t going to die. God wouldn’t let him.”
“God doesn’t have anything to do with this, Jimmy. Right, Mr. Markham?”
He closed the gap between them and his blade seemed to grow. Karyn rounded the seats she’d used for cover, keeping them between her and him.
“I don’t know who you are, lady, but you picked the wrong Sunday to show up in church,” Markham said.
She kept probing her mind for some sort of saving grace. She could scream, but she doubted it would even register over the noise of the increasingly crowded sanctuary. Her only defense at the moment was her mouth. “You’ll be gone when it’s over. When the bishop’s dead, when Jimmy’s dead. They’ll look for Markham and find out he doesn’t exist. Wicked, but smart, I’ll give you that.”
“I don’t know who tipped you, but you’re not going to stop this,” Markham said. “Three bodies are just as simple as two.”
With one hand, he grabbed the corner of the loose seats and tossed them aside, removing the barrier between them. He feinted and she scrambled back several steps, her back to Jimmy.
“Mr. Markham? Why you got that knife?” Jimmy asked.
Markham looked over Karyn’s shoulder. “Shut your mouth.”
“You think he’s still going to shoot for you?” Karyn kept backing up, an idea in mind.
“Doesn’t matter if he shoots or not. That gun’s a Beretta M107. I chose it because it’s one of my favorites. I’ll do fine without the dummy’s assistance.”
“Why’d you call me that, Mr. Markham?” Jimmy asked. “I ain’t dumb.”
“No,” Karyn confirmed, sensing his hurt. “You aren’t, Jimmy.”
“Enough of—”
Markham was cut off by volcanic applause from below.
“Welcome to the First Annual Power and Purpose conference here at Heavenly Duty.”
Karyn was startled, not from the whooping and hollering, but by the speaker’s voice. She spared a glance over the rail and caught a glimpse of her mother behind the podium.
“The man I’m about to introduce—” Jessica Manning continued, but Karyn’s attention shifted.
“Well, it’s showtime, lady. Time to exit, stage left.”
Markham’s mouth became a thin line. He advanced, ready to gut them.
“I ain’t no dummy!” Jimmy screamed, almost at random, it seemed.
And Karyn got an idea.
“Jimmy, hold my hand,” she said, realizing if this gambit did not work, she’d have no time to regret her error.
Jimmy was obedient and grasped her palm.
For the first time that day, she took control. Instead of a spontaneous vision, she summoned her ability willingly and peered into Jimmy’s past. He—
—is an idiot. Stupid son of a bitch. A fucking retard.
Boys surround him after school. This is the past, but it’s bright and clear. It’s remembered well. Their fists fall, but their words hurt more.
The years shift. The setting changes. The attackers change, but the violence and the taunts remain. And filtered through a troubled mind like Jimmy’s, these boys and men are hungry monsters, their sustenance is his anguish. And—
Karyn blinked. That was her gift. The ability to be in both places—the present and Jimmy’s mind—at the same time. Markham moved toward them, his knife leading, but his movements were slow, to her anyway.
The blade came at her; she sidestepped easily. Her free hand struck out and grasped Markham’s wrist. In that instant she became a circuit, the transmitter of Jimmy’s vision.
Markham screamed.
All of Jimmy’s torment became part of Markham through her. The visions weren’t meant for him, were too much for his mind to grasp. He tried to snatch away, but Karyn held strong. In this manner, she was the mightier one.
“It’s my pleasure,” Karyn heard her mother say through it all, “to bring you a true man of God. Rise to your feet and welcome Bishop Horace Sinclair.”
Applause rose.
Karyn continued pumping her visions into Markham.
His knife clattered as it hit the floor; his free hand flew to his head and tore at his platinum hair, as if to snatch the images out of his skull.
Karyn let him go. Markham writhed and spun, screaming, “I am me. I am me. I ain’t no dummy.”
He spun over the balcony rail.
There was a mighty racket as his body fell into the bandstands, destroying a set of drums. Karyn peered over the rail at the broken, twisted form that used to be Markham. The applause for Sinclair ceased. Someone screamed.
“Be calm,” Sinclair demanded, then, to the television crew: “Kill the cameras.”
The red lights atop the cameras did not go off.
“Kill the—”
Sinclair’s chest exploded.
Karyn’s mother ran to him, shrieking. Sinclair staggered, his expression shocked and numb, viewing the wound over his heart like there was an odd bug on his shirt and not his blood. He looked that way because it wasn’t his blood.
The squib had gone off.
Her mother, frantic, touched the blood seeping from the bishop’s shirt, rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, then touched the redness to her tongue. She backed away from the bishop, uncertainly.
Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. Sinclair glared into the balcony, as did his congregation and cameras.
Karyn kept a softly weeping Jimmy behind her, while she glared back, knowing in her heart that she’d done the right thing, saving the bishop’s life, even at the possible cost of killing his church.
Police and media filled the Heavenly Duty plaza on separate sides of yellow crime-scene tape. The authorities searched for facts and statements to piece together the crazed events, while reporters were willing to take what they could get from anyone willing to speculate.
Karyn spent four hours answering questions and, by the end of it all, knew she’d be answering questions for weeks to follow.
Finally free to go, she met Reggie in the plaza, wanting nothing more than to see her apartment and bed. Before she got that wish, there was one more piece of business.
Her mother stood in the wash of bright lights with microphones shoved in front of her. Karyn could not hear her statement, but when she turned away from the media piranhas, she was clearly distraught.
“Stay here, Reggie.” She left her friend for her mother.
Jessica Manning didn’t notice her right away, her gaze focused on the Heavenly Duty Building.
“Mom.”
She blinked as if awakened from a trance. “Karyn?”
She opened her arms to hug her mother. Mom stepped back. “Do you hate me that much, Karyn?”
Karyn’s arms fell. “I don’t—”
“They’re saying he’s ruined. You know that, don’t you? They’re saying all sorts of things.”
“They? They who? Mom, I saved him.”
“When I saw you in the balcony, I knew.” Her voice became high; her eyes were spotlights. “I knew it was some of your deviltry that brought this blight on us. You’ve destroyed a great man today, and you’ve lost us a lot of souls.”
Mom shook her head, disgusted. “I’m sorry I gave birth to you.” She spun and disappeared into the crowd.
Karyn couldn’t move. Stunned was not a strong enough word.
A heavy hand fell on her shoulder: Reggie. “Did you hear that?” she asked.
He nodded.
“She’s completely lost her—” And the rest of the words wouldn’t come. The sobs wouldn’t let them.
He held her amidst the chaos while she wondered if all heroes cried like this.
On top of the Heavenly Duty dome, two hundred feet in the air, a hulking being with dark, sharp eyes and a security blazer watched the two embrace. Even from that distance, he could see the tears on Karyn’s cheeks. He longed to comfort her, but knew this was part of her trials.
An equally huge shadow materialized next to him to view the show. He fought a wave of disgust and prepared to be cordial. Those were the rules after all.
A toothy smile split the shadow’s face. “Some day, huh, Michael?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
The darkness of the being swirled and receded as it changed into another form. The previously indistinguishable shape formed a long black coat, matching untucked shirt, spit-shined shoes, and coal-colored hair slicked back. Its skin was bronze, its nose hawk-like. It could’ve been Michael’s twin, with one exception. It had no eyes.
“I have to say, it was a master stroke getting the mother to send the prophet that signed Bible. Good work. Tell Him I said so.”
“He already knows. I will not be delivering messages from you, Lu.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t. I will say, I was surprised to see you working behind the scenes here. I’d have thought this type of mission beneath you.”
“I could say the same.” Michael glared at his fallen brother, the Morning Star. He never stopped feeling sorrow for the vile creature.
“It’s always good to get out and do a little of the old ‘go ahead, take a bite.’ Besides, it gives the minions a break. They get disgruntled, too.”
Michael’s eyebrows arched. “Like you once did?”
Lucifer did not answer, and said instead: “I still won. I’d say the outcome here was better than my original plan.”
“Of course you would. You’re shortsighted.”
“This church is destroyed. Without a leader the people will scatter, fall back into their old ways. My ways.”
Michael shook his head, and actually chuckled. “Some will, yes. The rest will be strengthened by the pain and loss. They will learn that their faith was misplaced. They shouldn’t believe in another man, they should believe in the teachings of Him. As for Sinclair, he was misled, he’s human. But his faith is genuine. His students will return, in even greater numbers. And he’ll be a better teacher for this. You’ll see.”
Lucifer nodded and patted Michael on the back with a hot hand. “You have it all figured out, don’t you? There’s one problem, though. . . .”
“And that is?”
He smiled, and a noticeable hiss escaped his throat. “Sinclair was only a secondary target.” His gazed shifted to the courtyard. “I want the prophet.”
With that, Lucifer disappeared in an explosion of flame.
Taken aback, a rare thing for him, Michael cast a furtive glance to the tearful woman blessed with The Sight, then unfolded his wings and shot toward the heavens to report the news, praying to the Almighty that it was not too late to protect her.