No Legal Grounds (13 page)

“Why is there so much of this going on?” Sam asked Don Lyle. He was seated in Lyle’s office at Solid Rock, which was the theological equivalent of a law office. Every available space on the bookshelf was filled, a testimony to a lifetime of learning.

Sam was glad to be here. The Monday afternoon sun cast burnt orange through the window.
“So much what, Sam?”
“People doing crazy things.”
“It does seem there’s been an increase in evil over the past forty years or so.”
“Yeah, but there’s always been evil, right? The Inquisition. The Holocaust.”
“Those things were caused by a few powerful men taking control of vast machineries to do their will. What I’m talking about is the evil done by your neighbor, the guy next door. We’ve seen an explosion of the most horrid things. Child sexual assault and pornography. Serial killings. You remember Charlie Starkweather?”
“The guy from the fifties, went on a killing spree.”
“Right. Shocked the nation. It was big news for months. How could that have happened in our own country, people wondered. It was seen as a horrible aberration. Now something like that seems to happen each week.”
“You have a theory on this? Why this is happening?”
“I do. I believe we’re in what the Bible calls the days of Noah. Jesus said his return would come at such a time that the world seemed to be reliving the days of Noah.”
“In what way?”
“Back in Genesis 6, before the flood, it says that God was grieved about making man, because he saw that the thoughts of his heart were wicked all the time, and that man’s wickedness was great. It had, in other words, grown worse and worse. Why? Well, there was no institutional religion to restrain him. We give a bad rap to organized religion, but it serves a purpose. Man didn’t have that, so he was left to his own nature. And man is ill equipped to deal with the devil on his own.”
“So the devil made them do it?”
“It was more like the devil gave them the full range of options. Now look at what’s happening today in the Christian West. The influence of the church is waning. Governments are eradicating Chris tian influence. The churches grow fat and lazy with popular spirituality. So people are not getting the instruction and protection they need from the church.”
“But most people don’t go to church.”
“Precisely. But the church, when it was part of culture, aided in holding back the worst sins of most men. Now that such influence is weak, man is left once again in the condition that was described in Genesis 6. It’s no wonder, then, that sociopaths and psychopaths would increase.”
“That’s a very scary proposition.”
“You bet it is.”
“So does that mean Jesus is coming soon?”
“Sooner than yesterday, for certain. But this is also the point of our greatest spiritual opportunity. To rely on nothing in ourselves, and throw ourselves on the mercy of God. That’s what he’s always wanted, in any age.”
“What do I do about this guy, then?”
“Can you think of any reason why he might be targeting you?”
“I’ve tried to think back, but I can’t.”
“What’s he said to you since then? Anything in any of his conversations with you?”
Sam thought a moment. “I did try to bring religion up once, and he seemed to get quite upset. Not in a shouting way, but in a derisive way. He brought up this thing about fear being the basis of religion.” “Sure, that was a popular theory once.”
“Man responded to the fear by creating manlike gods.” Don frowned. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Just a wild theory of my own, but I think the Bible backs me up. When men reject God, they end up trying, in their own way, to become tiny gods themselves. They do it in various ways, through power, pleasure, accomplishment. Sometimes crime. I wonder if your tormentor isn’t trying to use fear — yours — to make himself godlike.”
The thought clicked into place in Sam’s mind, finding a perfect slot. “That makes sense. I have a friend who’s an expert on sociopaths, and it would fit that profile.”
“Have you shared this information with the police?”
“No. He hasn’t done anything wrong, except a little minor harassment that doesn’t look that bad. I couldn’t get a restraining order on it. He’s pretty clever about what he says.”
“Then we need to pray for and against him.”
“Excuse me?”
Don smiled. “Jesus said love your enemies and pray for them. But we also know from the Psalms that it’s right to pray against further evil being done. We’re going to pray that God will stop him.”

Linda Trask had a little secret she didn’t share with the other ladies at church. In fact, she hadn’t shared it with her own husband. Not yet. And if she did now, she wondered if he might not seriously consider her a candidate for the mental ward.
The secret was that she sometimes wished she were Uma Thur

man in that movie where she is a sword-wielding fighter. Linda hadn’t seen it, only the previews, and she kept thinking it would be nice to be able to do that at certain, very specific times.

She’d have little daydreams about that, especially when she heard news accounts of some thug getting away with an obvious injustice. Or someone trying to bully people, like this guy trying to hurt her family.

She wondered just exactly what she would do if she ever again came face-to-face with Nicky Oberlin.
“Linda, would you mind opening us up?” Sandra Sykes said.
Linda snapped back to the moment, the women’s prayer meeting at Sandra’s. They’d been meeting here for three years, every Monday afternoon, a group of ten women from Solid Rock. An eclectic bunch, but all dedicated.
“I’m sorry,” Linda said. “I’m a little distracted. Maybe someone else?”
“Sure,” Sandra said. “But is there something going on? Something we can all pray for?”
“I don’t want to take the focus . . .”
“Tell us, Linda. Please. That’s what we’re here for.”
For some reason, Linda suddenly wasn’t so sure that’s what they were here for. She tried to purge the thought from her mind.
“Trust,” Dottie Harris said. Dottie was a widow, eighty-five, and still wore a hat. Today’s was wide-brimmed and had something like berries on it.
“Oh, I do,” Linda said.
“Voice your trust,” Dottie replied, her brown eyes sparkling. Dottie drank vegetable and fruit juices. Jack LaLanne was her heartthrob. “Take what’s in here — ” Dottie touched her head with her index finger — “and put it through here.” She touched her mouth. “That way, all of us can put it here.” She put her hand on her heart. “And send it there.” She pointed to the ceiling.
“Thanks, Dottie. I just would appreciate it if you would hold our family up. Our daughter is going through a rebellious stage — at least I hope it’s a stage — and there’s a guy my husband knew in college who has come around and is acting kind of bizarre. So we could use protection.”
“I like those prayers,” Dottie said. “Fighting prayers. Let’s do it.”

Walking through the door, Linda thought, Okay, it’s better now. Prayed up and ready for a turning point. The next two weeks can’t possibly be as bad as the last two.

Heather will come home.
Max won’t take things so hard.
This Nicky Oberlin fellow will dry up and blow away. And Sam will be fully mine again.
The house was empty. Max was at Todd’s house. She was glad,

actually, for some time alone. She’d make some lemonade and sit down with that Dallas Willard book she’d wanted to get to. Time was all she needed.
In the kitchen she noticed the flowers. A beautiful arrangement in a vase, on the kitchen table. Brilliant colors.
Sam. She almost burst out crying. In all of this he still thought of her, knew what she needed.
Thank you, God, for a husband like Sam. For this little bit of grace you’ve provided.
She mixed up the lemonade from the old family recipe. Grandma Trask handed it down to her personally when Linda married Sam. “Can’t have it lost to the world,” she’d said. The secret was in the rind, rubbing some of the oils into the pitcher.
Sam would love some when he got home. And then she’d slather him with a big, wet, lemony kiss.
Yes, all would be well.
Glass in hand, she took another look at the flowers, bent over to smell them. They smelled like love to her.
She saw a tiny envelope then, behind a white carnation. Her name on it.
She froze.
It was not Sam’s writing.
All the good feeling seeped away now, out through her trembling hands. She opened the envelope, took out the card. Written in a hand she did not recognize was,
To one hot lady.

Heather looked at Roz, who checked on the guys. They were smiling. Heather was sure Buck was high. But he could play guitar in any condition. This was going to be fun.

Charles “Scat” Lundquist sat in a control room, speaking to them through a mic. The little studio was off Santa Monica Boulevard, a rental place where Lundquist had recorded some of his best stuff, so he said.

“Let’s do this ish,” Roz said.
Ish
was Roz’s favorite euphemism for the stuff they did, which was make music.
They made music. It was insane. Buck was all over his ax. Roz made the skins cry for mercy.
And Heather sang. She knew she could do this. She knew she could make it, and this was her chance.
When they were finished, Lundquist came out looking pleased. “That was good, real good.” To Heather he said, “You got tubes, and that’s no lie.”
“Thanks.” Heather thought this was all part of the dream. She’d tell about this when their record went platinum, how she’d had her doubts but came through in the end.
“Dinner’s on me,” Lundquist announced. “We’re all going to a little place on Sunset and have ourselves a time.” He whispered, “The bartenders don’t ask for ID, if you’re with me.”
Roz said, “Yeah!”
Heather hesitated, but then thought about places on Sunset, and dreams. “Yeah,” she said.

“It has to be him!” Linda said.
Sam looked at the flowers and felt violated. Yes, it had to be
Nicky Oberlin. He’d been inside their house. Left a mocking
bouquet.
But how? What lock had he picked? Had anyone seen him?
Please, someone.

“I’m reporting this,” Linda said. “We’ve got to get the police involved.”
“Report it. But we need more.”
“What is going on, Sam? Why isn’t this stopping?”
“It’s going to. It will.”
As Linda was calling the police, Sam checked his email, half expecting to find something smarmy from Nicky. There was nothing.
And then Max was standing in the kitchen door. “Cool flowers, Dad. You get those for mom?”
“No.”
Max frowned.
“You have a good day at Todd’s?”
“I guess. He’s got XQued.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like the hottest game in the universe.”
Sam nodded. “Oh. Yeah.”
“But he kicks me all over. It gets boring.”
Max took a banana from the fruit bowl, sat on a stool, and began peeling. Sam went into the study to check on Linda’s phone call.
“On hold,” she said. “I’m still shaking.”
Sam put his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll get through this.” Linda took his hand and squeezed it.
“Get through what, Dad?” Max was standing in the doorway.

Lundquist was right about the place on Sunset. He even had them in a private room, where the lights were low and the music loud and they could have whatever they wanted.

Heather had a beer. She didn’t like beer much but thought it would be a good idea to try to like it.
Lundquist handed her a little glass. “Take this shot, chase it with the beer.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a very expensive Scotch whiskey. You’re supposed to sip it slow, but if you down it quick and pour suds after it, it’s a real gas.”
Gas.
That sounded funny to her for some reason, like something out of an old TV show. But Lundquist was, after all, a little older. And he knew things. Knew the way the world worked and the business. He was like a guide, a very cool one.
She took the Scotch and downed it like he said. Then took a big sip of beer. Times were good. She hoped her parents weren’t too worried. Her mom had called her twice and left messages. She’d get back to them. But not now.
Roz and the guys were doing a pinball machine, screaming. It was like a giant kids’ room in here, but for big kids like them.
“Having fun?” Lundquist asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s all up from here.”
“Cool.”
“So let me ask you something. You’re how old?”
She paused. “Eighteen.”
“You sure you’re not upping that just a little?”
Her head was starting to buzz. She laughed, harder than she expected. “Maybe a little.”
“How long before you become legal for real?”
“February.”
“Want to know where I was when I was eighteen?”
“Sure.” She giggled this time, then bit her lip.
Stop being a stupid little girl!
“I was in New York City trying to get anybody to listen to my songs. It was a wild time back then. Punk was just getting started. Patti Smith, the Velvet Underground, the New York Dolls. It did not bode well for music. I was looking at these people and going, What is up with this? When the Sex Pistols came along, I’m going, somebody’s gotta save rock, and that somebody’s me.”
“So you’re the guy, huh?”
“You’re lookin’ at him.” Lundquist smoothed the brim of his hat. It was a cool hat. “No, but I was writing songs that had something more to them than the world of punk, which is no world at all. And the music! Sorry, but that wasn’t music, that was auto-salvage machinery pumped up.”
Heather took another sip of beer, feeling adult indeed. Now he was talking about a history of which she knew so little. He was pouring knowledge into her head.
“The songs I was writing didn’t turn out to be genius. But they came from the gut, so when I got into producing, that’s what I was looking for. I’m still looking. I’m looking for guts and genius and somebody who can deliver it, sell it, somebody who can be the next big thing. The next Madonna.”
Madonna? She was so . . . old.
“We haven’t had another Madonna,” Lundquist said. “What have we had? Eye candy like Britney Spears? Christina Aguilera? Assorted Simpsons? Please. I want a superstar, a megastar, a new sun around which music will circle for decades. Elvis big.”
Elvis! She saw a biography of him once. He was a craze. She wondered if anybody would be that big again.
Lundquist looked over at Roz and the boys playing pinball. Then he leaned close. “You could be the one.”
What was that? The room was starting to spin a little, and his words were a little jumbled. She shook her head.
“You hear me?” Lundquist said.
“Elvis?”
“You.”
“With rock?”
“Elvis big.”
“Really?”
“You want it?”
“There’s no way. The music I do — ”
“It could be done. But I want you to promise me something.”
She wanted the room to stop spinning.
“Keep this between us right now,” Lundquist said. “When the time is right, we’ll take the next step.”
Next step! She wondered if she could even walk out of there. But he’d said it, hadn’t he? Elvis big. To her. Did he mean it? Was it a line? Or did she believe in herself? Was she going to go for it? The buzz was good. Forget about trying to stop the spin. Go with it.
She lifted her beer.
Lundquist lifted his. “To the King.”