Judgment Day (20 page)

CHAPTER 37 JAIL

Remember those in prison as if you were their fellow prisoners, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.

—HEBREWS 13:3

I
ra said to tell you the advance on the TV special put us back on track,"

Stephen O'Malley said in his deep voice. "Actually, he won't admit it, but Shelly tells me he's well ahead of schedule."

Stephen was sitting by Mark's bed, a legal pad in his lap. He wore a neatly pressed three-piece suit, silk tie, and gold cuff links. His shoes were freshly shined, still smelling of shoe polish. Until recently, Mark could only write his responses, but yesterday they had removed the wires keeping his jaw shut. Still, Mark restricted himself to nodding, since the smallest motion made his jaw ache.

"We've booked all those we can find willing to pay a million dollars for a trip into space," Stephen continued. "After we've exhausted the pool we'll drop the price to five hundred thousand dollars. We might even offer half-day trips for one hundred thousand dollars when this market is tapped out."

"Good work," Mark whispered.

"Sally wants to raise the lease rates for the transponders. We low-balled the price to get the business originally and she's bothered that the networks are pocketing the savings."

Mark was tempted. Communications was the cornerstone of their business, accounting for sixty percent of income. Even a slight raise in rates would significantly increase revenues.

"We promised we wouldn't raise the rates," Mark said softly.

"There was nothing beyond the three-year commitment," Stephen said.

"No," Mark said.

Stephen nodded.

After another look at his legal pad, Stephen said, "We've begun the burial in space program—five customers are on their way into deep space right now. We're off to a slow start. Disposal of bodies is heavily regulated by the states and the funeral industry didn't appreciate us cutting into their business. The profit margin is huge and the liability risks minimal—their clients are already dead.

"I know you're concerned about getting a reputation of catering to the rich, so we have developed an option for lower-income people. They can have their relatives cremated and then we pack the jars of ashes into one of our star chambers—that's what we call the coffins we launch them in. We can get thirty containers into one chamber and at five thousand dollars a container it's very profitable. We also market other low-cost options—sharing chambers, or sending only body parts—usually just the head."

Mark's mouth opened with surprise, pain streaking through his healing jaw.

"You behead people and shoot them into space?" Mark asked in a raspy voice.

"The customers arrange for the decapitation. We do the packing and shipping."

Stephen studied Mark's face.

"It was a way of making the Eternal Flight program more accessible."

Mark spoke slowly and carefully, his jaw aching.

"I suppose it's all right," he said, uncomfortable with the images in his head.

Stephen noticed Mark grimacing with pain and waited until his face relaxed.

"Donations are up significantly since reopening the membership but the retention rate looks poor. Once the new members find out they aren't going to be flying around in spaceships they tend to drop out. We're up thirteen percent in the last quarter although Sally says we can't count on it continuing at that level."

"Don't proselytize," Mark said softly.

"We don't. They come to us and we try to screen them. We're attracting a lot of New Age types, some claim they've traveled in space before and are offering to be guides."

Stephen paused, looking at his yellow pad. Mark knew he had saved the most difficult for last.

"They finally released Daniel and Ruth from the Children's Center. They were placed in foster homes. Floyd and Evelyn are very upset."

"Can't you get them home?"

"I've tried, Mark, but their social worker claims to have evidence of sexual abuse."

"Impossible," Mark said, collapsing back into the bed.

"Daniel and Ruth claim you molested them."

"What?"

Mark was stunned. How could they remember something that hadn't happened?

"But I never did anything to them."

"I know, Mark," Stephen said quickly. "At trial we'll bring in experts on false memory syndrome and try to show that those memories were created."

"Stephen, we must help Daniel and Ruth and the other children. If you need more money, we can let the schedule slip."

"It's not a question of money, Mark. I won't give up, but filing motions on behalf of the children could slow the progress of your case."

"I've been in custody for six weeks, Stephen. How much longer can it take?"

Stephen frowned.

"Normally, we could demand a speedy trial, but the evidence against you and the others is coming from children the prosecutors claim have been traumatized. The judge is giving the state time to let the therapist work with the children. Psychotherapy takes time."

"So does brainwashing," Mark said.

"I feel the same way, but child sexual abuse cases are the only cases where the victim gets more consideration than the defendant."

"Can't I get released on bail?"

"You're still being held because you are painted as the ringleader, as well as that you have the means of fleeing jurisdiction. I'll get a hearing as soon as I can to force the state to present evidence. If they can't, they will have to let you go."

"How soon?"

"Two weeks, maybe a month."

Mark ground his teeth, the motion making his jaw ache. He was worried about his sanity. Was it possible he had molested children and repressed the memories? But if he couldn't trust his memories, then could he trust his vision? And if the vision was false, then what had he done to the thousands who followed him?

"One thing more," Stephen said, "Christy Maitland wants to see you."

Mark's heart suddenly raced. Mark thought often of Christy, worrying what she must think of him. The papers were filled with false accusations and the TV tabloids broadcast every lurid story they could entice someone to tell.

"George Proctor wants to see you too," Stephen said. "I advise against it. You don't need that kind of association right now."

Mark understood Stephen's concern. The media would use George Proctor's criminal history to finish shredding Mark's reputation. Still, Mark had thought a lot about Proctor while he was in the hospital. He was part of what was happening, a piece of the puzzle just as much as Ira and he were.

"I'd like to see them both," Mark said.

"The media will have a field day with this," Stephen said, shaking his head. "The Fellowship will be linked with the militia movement and the NRA."

"We can't let worry over what the world will think paralyze us," Mark argued.

"It's not the world I'm worried about," Stephen said. "It's the judge and jury."

After Mark was returned to jail, Stephen arranged for Mark to meet Christy in the interview room used by lawyers. She would have to be searched by a matron, but the alternative was to see her through a Plexiglas screen. When she entered he stood, embarrassed to be wearing his prison blues. To his surprise she crossed the room and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"I didn't do what they say, Christy," he whispered.

"I know," she said, tracing the scar on his jaw with her finger. "They almost killed you."

"It wasn't that bad."

"Liar."

She pulled him over to the chairs and they sat knee to knee, holding hands. Mark was pleased by her familiarity, but also frightened. He had been alone in his vision.

"Can I ask a favor, Christy?" Mark asked.

"Of course."

"The Remple's children have been placed in foster care. They are very worried about them."

"I'm sure they are, but the state is very careful about selecting foster parents."

"But the Remples are Christian," Mark explained.

"Many foster parents are Christian," Christy said.

"Conservative Christians?"

"I know it's unlikely the foster parents will share all of the Remples' beliefs, but Ruth and Daniel won't be in foster care for long."

"Daniel's five and Ruth only three. They are separated from their parents for the first time in their lives. They'll be vulnerable."

"They will be looking for substitute attachment figures," Christy conceded.

Now Christy looked away and frowned. Her hands loosened in his and he thought she would let go. Then she squeezed his hands tighter and looked him in the eye, her smile returning.

"Would you like me to check on the children?" she offered.

"Would they let you?"

"They might. I've mediated custody cases before."

"Thanks," Mark said.

They talked about trivial things then, everyday things like the weather, sports, favorite foods, and Mark found it comforting. It seemed like only a minute had passed when the guard banged on the door. Christy hugged him good-bye, then kissed him again. They took him back to his cell then, but for the first time since being arrested he didn't mind being alone.

Three days later, George Proctor visited—unlike Christy's visit, they whispered through slits in a Plexiglas screen. Proctor's well-toned body and tanned face reminded Mark of how long it had been since he had felt the sun.

"Hello, George. You're looking well," Mark said.

"You look terrible, Mark," Proctor said bluntly. "You need to get out of this place. I can arrange it."

Mark stared, incredulous, knowing Proctor was serious.

"It would make me look guilty."

"You've already been convicted by the media. When they convict you in a court of law Satan will have a complete victory."

"I know it looks bleak, but breaking out of jail will only make it worse."

Proctor looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin.

"After your conviction you will be transferred to prison," Proctor said, his bright blue eyes staring intently. "The transfer is the weakest link in the custody chain. They'll keep the day and time a secret but I'll know when it happens. That will be our best opportunity. Once you're in prison it's much more difficult."

It was unreal, sitting in prison and talking of escape. How had Mark gotten to this point? He wanted to be free again, to make his own choices—what to wear, what to eat, when to shower. Proctor's offer was tempting.

"George, I appreciate what you've done for the Fellowship."

Proctor shrugged.

"I feel you have a special role in this, but I don't think breaking me out of jail is what God had in mind."

Proctor smiled.

"Let me ask you this, what is heaviest on your heart right now?" Proctor asked.

"The Remple children," Mark answered immediately. "They have been placed in foster homes."

Proctor bristled, deep furrows appearing in his brow. Mark suddenly feared for the lives of the foster parents.

"I don't want anything to happen to their foster parents," Mark said.

"I may not be able to sit on this one, Mark," Proctor said in a tone so low it was almost a growl.

"Promise me that no harm will come to them?" Mark asked.

"I could rescue the children," Proctor said. "It would be easy."

"No. I've asked Reverend Maitland to look in on them. Promise me you won't do anything?"

"I will wait and see what Reverend Maitland can do."

Quickly Mark searched his mind, looking for some way to occupy Proctor, to keep him from violence.

"There is something you can do for me," Mark said. "Faith and Daniel, and some of the other children, are seeing a therapist by the name of Rosa Quigly. She has the children remembering things that never happened."

"It's brainwashing," Proctor said flatly.

"I'm suspicious too," Mark said, "but how can she get away with it? The sessions are all recorded and reviewed. Stephen has transcripts of the sessions and his experts say she stays within therapeutic boundaries."

"What would you like me to do?"

"Nothing violent," Mark said, afraid of Proctor's reputation. "Can you investigate? Find out why the children are making these claims?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, George. It would mean a lot to the Remples."

"Remember, the transfer is the weak link," Proctor said.

"I'll remember," Mark promised.

Mark slept little that night, thinking of soaring over mountains, white clouds, and the joy of flying a sphere. Toward morning he found himself wondering if George Proctor really could break him out of prison.

CHAPTER 38 HOME VISIT

the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God . . .

— I CORINTHIANS 6:9

T
he neighborhood was filled with late summer activity. Winding its way through the narrow streets, Christy's car scattered knots of children playing ball games in the street on nearly every block. Christy liked the neighborhood. It was a rich multicultural brew, the kind of place where people of different races and beliefs could live side by side and out of that common experience would come harmony and tolerance. While Christy could see the social potential of such a neighborhood, she also understood it wasn't perfect—there were two obvious flaws.

The first flaw could be seen in the occasional pockets of young men she passed, standing in yards or around muscle-cars, red handkerchiefs dangling from their back pockets. Christy studiously avoided their eyes as they shouted and whistled at her. Still in their teens, these young men were already aware of the racial prejudice that would keep them from reaching their dreams. Shattered dreams leave an emptiness inside that is akin to loneliness and loneliness can be cured by the company of others just as lonely and just as angry.

The other flaw in the rainbow neighborhood was related to the first. The young aggressive men were willing to impregnate but not be daddies. Christy knew that most of the homes she passed were fatherless, seventy percent of the children born to single mothers. Even when the fathers married the mothers of their children, the young families seldom remained intact for more than a couple of years, the pain of knowing they could never provide more than a mediocre living for their wives and children just too much for the proud young men.

She nearly missed the small yellow house squeezed between two large unkempt homes. Edward Stafford answered the door, his manner accommodating, cool. He wore jeans and a blue short-sleeved cotton shirt. His brown hair was cut above the ears and brushed back along the sides. His arms were thick, his hands large. He looked like a carpenter but worked in the City Planner's office.

Edward welcomed Christy, shaking her hand firmly, inviting her in. The living room was neat, the furniture color-coordinated with the blues of the draperies and rug. The furniture was overstuffed and comfortable-looking. Decorations were sparse, giving the room a stark look. Christy preferred a richer environment of personal mementos, still the room showed the personal touches that meant it was a home. A slight smell of pine-scented household cleaner permeated the room, probably undetectable to the Staffords. Most foster parents cleaned when they knew they were going to be visited.

Carin Stafford was sitting on the couch, Ruth at her side wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt decorated with yellow daisies. Carin wore white shorts and a matching daisy T-shirt. Carin smiled in greeting. Ruth watched Christy with no expression. After introductions, Christy was invited to sit down. Carin was friendly, Edward merely polite.

"It's nice to meet you, Ms. Maitland," Carin began. "I've read about your reconciliation work."

"Call me Christy, please."

"We don't need any reconciliation," Edward said. "We get along fine."

Edward meant it to be a joke but his words had an edge to them.

Embarrassed, Carin quickly said, "That's right, we're a very happy family."

"I came to see how Ruth is getting along," Christy said, looking at Ruth.

"She's a doll," Carin said. "You couldn't ask for a sweeter little girl."

Christy smiled at Carin who exuded genuine warmth. Christy leaned toward Ruth and asked, "How are you today, Ruth?"

Ruth shrugged.

"Do you remember me?" Christy asked.

Another shrug of the little girl's shoulders.

"I went to church with you once," Christy reminded her.

Ruth snuggled close to Carin, hiding half of her face.

"Ruth is shy," Carin explained as if she had known Ruth all her life.

"Does she play with other children?" Christy asked.

"She stays in most of the time. We make cookies, I read her stories, we watch
Sesame Street
together."

"That sounds nice for you," Christy said.

"What do you mean by that?" Edward snapped.

Ignoring Edward, Christy turned to Ruth.

"Can I see your room, Ruth?"

Only after Carin nodded yes did Ruth get up.

"We'll be right back," Christy said so Carin and Edward wouldn't follow.

Ruth led Christy past a bathroom with old-fashioned fixtures and came to two bedrooms. Ruth walked into a room decorated in blue and white. The bedspread was white clouds on a sky-blue background and the theme was carried to the walls and ceiling that were sponge-painted with more clouds. Christy paused, peering into the other bedroom. A queen-size bed dominated the small room. Two dressers and a chair left little walking room in the Staffords' bedroom. Green dominated the room, the rug sea foam-colored, the floral bedspread accented with the same color.

Head down, staring at her feet, Ruth sat on the cloud bedspread waiting. Christy sat next to her and pushed the bangs out of Ruth's eyes—she didn't seem to notice the touch.

"Are you happy here, Ruth?"

Ruth shrugged.

"Why won't you talk to me?"

"Rosa said I didn't have to talk to you."

"Did she tell you not to talk to me?" Christy asked.

"Not exactly."

"Then why not talk to me?"

"' Cause if I don't do what Rosa says I won't ever go home."

"Did she tell you that?"

Ruth shrugged.

Christy didn't know what to think about Ruth's comments. Three-year-olds' verbal abilities often fooled adults into thinking they understand more than they really do. Christy knew Rosa Quigly's reputation and couldn't imagine why she would tell Ruth not to talk to her. Christy concluded Ruth had misunderstood.

"Ruth, everyone wants you to
go
home as soon as you can."

"Today? Can I go home with you today?"

Tears dripped from the corners of Ruth's eyes, running down her cheeks. Christy pulled her close, stroking her head.

"I'm sorry, but not today, Ruth."

They rocked together gently for a minute, Ruth crying softly.

"Do you like Carin and Edward?" Christy asked.

After a sniffle, "Carin is nice, I guess."

"What about Edward?"

Ruth shrugged and said no more. Christy thought it a good assessment since she didn't know what to think of Edward either. Then Christy asked Ruth about things in her room and the little girl perked up a bit, showing off her new toys and clothes—Carin liked to shop. Then Christy left Ruth to play and rejoined Carin who hadn't moved from the couch. Edward was pacing the room.

Ignoring Edward's glare, Christy sat near Carin.

"She thinks you're nice," Christy said.

Carin beamed.

"You like Ruth a lot, don't you, Carin?"

Carin nodded, her smile fading slightly. Edward moved closer now.

"Remember, she's not your daughter," Christy said gently.

"I know she's not mine." Then with sadness and resignation she added, "I have children but they live in Texas and I don't get to see them often. I gave them up when I divorced. My husband was . . . difficult."

Edward came to her defense.

"When he found out about our relationship he threw Carin out of the house in front of their children—in her nightgown. I wanted to beat him in court and get the children but Carin didn't want to put her children through it."

Carin was sad, but not crying.

"It was for the best," Carin said. "Heather and Nate weren't ready to accept Edward. The divorce was hard enough on them."

"Do your children come to visit?" Christy asked.

"No," Carin said. "They're both teenagers now and aren't comfortable here." Carin looked nervously at Edward. "I visit them when I can."

"Carin, don't get too attached to Ruth. She will go home someday."

Edward and Carin exchanged looks.

"How could they put her back in that home, after all those terrible things they did to her?" Carin asked.

"They are only allegations," Christy said.

"They did it! There's no doubt," Edward said angrily.

"Edward was abused by his father," Carin explained. "He was a pastor."

Christy nodded, concerned that Edward's hatred of religion could be passed on to Ruth.

"Do you take Ruth to church?" Christy asked.

"What for?" Edward snapped.

"We believe that children aren't ready to be exposed to religion," Carin quickly explained. "When she's older she can decide for herself."

Christy hid her frown. By not taking Ruth to church, the Staffords were already deciding for Ruth.

Christy chatted a few more minutes about activities the Staffords had included Ruth in—trips to the zoo, a county fair, and many shopping trips with Carin. Most foster homes lacked the resources of the Staffords, many homes taking foster children for the additional income they brought. Carin's motive was different. Ruth was a substitute child for Carin, who was grieving the loss of her biological children. Edward's motive for taking a foster child was even simpler. He was trying to please Carin. Ultimately, the Staffords' motives didn't matter. Ruth was getting good care, better care than most foster children.

Daniel's foster home was a two-story frame house on a well-shaded street. The house looked newly remodeled, the paint fresh, the windows new. There was a little yard in front, the grass as well maintained as a putting green.

Josh Thrower was Daniel's foster parent. Josh's good looks struck Christy immediately. His carefully trimmed Elizabethan beard was perfect for his thin face and his thick black hair was carefully cut and combed. He was six feet tall, with a medium build and fit body. Josh wore casual slacks

and a short-sleeved shirt and was well manicured to the point of being called pretty instead of handsome. Shaking her hand warmly, Josh welcomed her.

Josh led Christy into the living room where Daniel waited. Daniel was dressed in khaki shorts and a polo shirt. The living room was furnished in Scandinavian blond woods and light fabrics, all very modern. The house was impeccably clean and ordered, like Josh.

"Do you remember me, Daniel?" Christy asked.

"Yes."

"Would you like a cup of tea," Josh offered.

She thanked him and he disappeared into the kitchen. An uncomfortable silence followed, Daniel standing, staring at his shoes and fidgeting.

"How are things going for you, Daniel?" Christy probed.

"Fine."

"Have you made any friends in the neighborhood?"

"No," Daniel said.

Josh came back with tea on a tray, including a cup for Daniel who flavored his tea with two heaping teaspoons of sugar. Then he held it like Josh and Christy, waiting for it to cool.

"Have you always liked tea, Daniel?" Christy asked.

Daniel shook his head no.

"I've introduced Daniel to quite a few new things," Josh explained. "He'd never had sushi before, had you, Daniel?"

Another shake of the little boy's head.

"It's bad," Daniel said. "I didn't eat it."

Josh laughed. "I think so too, but the point is to try. You'll never know what you like if you don't try everything at least once."

Josh's words were about food but the lesson was about his philosophy of life.

"Daniel has tried curry, cajun, swordfish, kiwis, oysters—lots of things,"

Josh said. "What's your favorite, Daniel?"

"Pizza," he said.

Christy and Josh laughed.

"But he tried them all and that's what's important," Josh said.

"Is there anything you wouldn't try, Daniel?" Christy asked.

Daniel shrugged his shoulders.

Josh's lips tightened slightly, but he kept his smile.

"There's nothing I haven't tried," Josh said. "Sometimes you have to try something several times before you get to like it."

Again Christy knew they weren't talking about food.

"It's unusual for a single man to be a foster parent," Christy said. "Who watches Daniel when you are at work?"

"I work at home," Josh explained. "I'm a Web-site designer. If my clients wouldn't insist on seeing me face-to-face on occasion, I wouldn't ever have to leave home."

"I wonder if I could see your bedroom, Daniel?" Christy asked.

Josh read between the lines and let Daniel take her upstairs.

Every room they passed was neat as a pin. One of the upstairs bedrooms had been converted to an office: three computers were spaced around the room along with a scanner, two printers, and other equipment Christy couldn't identify. Daniel's room was as neat as the others and decorated much like the living room. The blond woods were there, the light fabrics in off-white, matched to the drapes. There was a matching desk, bookshelves, and a chest of drawers. The books on the shelves were children's books—
The Chronicles of Narnia, Where the Sidewalk Ends, The Giving Tree, Slobbering Sam and the Devil Cat
. The books were ordered by size and color, held in place by animal bookends—elephants on one shelf, dogs on another, dragons on the third. A combination television and DVD player sat on a small stand. There was a row of movies on the lowest bookshelf—Disney, animal adventures, film versions of some of the children's novels on the shelf above. No dirty clothes littered the floor, no toys were left out of place, no picture books sat next to the bed.

"Did you clean your room just for me?" Christy asked.

"Josh cleans it every day."

"Do you help?"

"He doesn't like me to. I used to make the bed like they taught us in that other place, but he always redid it, so I quit."

Josh sounded anal retentive to Christy but her own home could use a little of that kind of pathology.