The Turning (20 page)

Trent asked, “Help me with what?”

“Whatever you desire, Mr. Cooper. Among the Mundrose Group’s upper echelon, ‘whatever it takes’ carries particular importance.”

Trent felt a flutter of fear. “As in, last chance.”

“It’s so good to know I am dealing with someone who sees life as it is.”

“So you are whatever it takes.”

“I am nothing, Mr. Cooper. I am no one. Mr. Mundrose sent me to offer what small word of counsel I can, and then vanish into the ether. I do both well, may I say.” Dermott McAllister glanced around the windowless cubicle and sniffed. “This is the best space Colin Tomlin had to offer?”

“I asked for it,” Trent replied. “I wanted a desk as close to his as possible. You take the one he assigned to me.”

“I beg pardon?”

“There’s a spare cubicle in the central bullpen. I assume you’ll need the privacy more than me.”

“Very well, Mr. Cooper, I accept.” He gestured to each side of the room. “Now tell me what it is I’m seeing here.”

Trent had taped long strips of white paper along both walls. “This first holds what I know about our opposition. I’ve asked my agency for more complete workups. They should be here any time now.”

“And the other?”

Trent turned to the opposite wall. “This is our frontal assault. That’s my term. The ads, the online campaign, films, interviews, printed stories, so on.”

Dermott McAllister revealed a slight limp as he moved to examine first one and then the other. Trent assumed the man had survived some horrific accident, and for some reason Trent found himself more comfortable as a result. He knew the man was deadly. But their lives were linked now. By far more than what he had scrawled on those paper scrolls.

As if in confirmation, the little man spoke without taking his eye off the sheets. “Now tell me what you really want, Mr. Cooper.”

“I—excuse me?”

“These plans of yours, they’re all fine as far as they go. But are they enough? That’s the question, isn’t it. Do they accomplish what is required?”

Trent scanned the two long sheets. When his team had been assembled, he had imagined the events like cannons primed and waiting to be fired. But now doubts rose up and gnawed at him. He confessed, “I never thought we would need any of this. But now—”

A voice spoke from the doorway. “Oh, Mr. McAllister.”

“How very nice to see you, Gayle. You look fresh and lovely as ever.”

Gayle seemed unwilling to enter his office. She hovered just beyond the entrance, her expression tinted with a fear strong as dread. “I was not aware that you had been … summoned.”

“And yet here I am.”

Trent told her, “I’m expecting new intel from the agency. Could you please go online, download what they’ve sent, and print out four copies. Keep one for yourself, give one to Colin, and bring us the other two.”

“Certainly.” She fled.

Trent walked over and shut the door. Gayle’s response to the narrow man only heightened his own sense of confronting a monumental event. Dermott McAllister had not merely asked him a question. He was issuing a challenge. How much did Trent want it? How far was Trent willing to take this? He was being offered a choice. He could accept the invitation, and be granted the power to wreak havoc on those who dared oppose him. Or …

Trent turned from the door to discover that Dermott McAllister had gone back to studying the strips of paper with the handwritten notes. In a sudden jarring flash, Trent saw himself in ten years’ time. Standing in some grand office, staring at a different plan of action but with the same flat gaze. The soft speech. Drawing the same sense of dread from those seated across from him.

Trent walked over to stand beside the man. He could feel the barely disguised energy emanating from McAllister, like the acrid heat that presaged a tornado’s arrival. But the force fit the moment. Because the truth was, he had always known it would come to this. Committing himself totally. Claiming the power to wreak havoc on his enemies.

Again he felt that shuddering impact of unwanted insight. He saw what had happened to Dermott McAllister’s voice. The acid of old rage had eaten down to where all he could manage was a dry, husky murmur.

Trent gave a mental shrug. Barry Mundrose had said it all. He echoed the words out loud. “Whatever it takes.”

“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Cooper.”

Trent moved in closer still. “I want them dead and buried. I want everyone who has even shaken their hands to be singed in the process.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Up close the man’s surgical scars were much clearer, red tracings along the hairline and forehead and above the right eye. “That is my area of expertise, as it happens.”

Trent went on, “I want their campaign destroyed. I want them to rue the moment they decided to take on the Mundrose Group.”

The little man faced Trent. “You want to win.”

“No, Mr. McAllister. I want the world to know that I am someone to fear. So the next time, they won’t even
think
about opposing me. I want them beaten before the next battle starts.”

“A man after my own heart.” He turned back to the wall. “Give me a few minutes to settle in, and then we’ll get to work.”

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

T
hroughout that morning, John watched helplessly as the secrets he had guarded nearly his entire life began to appear on national display. Two of the morning news programs led with his appearance, speaking for a church-led protest movement against the Mundrose empire. The overview of his background was very thorough, and their smirks said it all. Here was a convicted felon, an assistant manager for a truck depot, who dared criticize a renowned entertainment empire for merely another film, another ad campaign.

Over his second cup of coffee, John watched his wife talk on the phone with their two children. They both knew about their father’s past because John had told them. Several times, in fact. His son took the current news in stride. He was busy, he had two young ones of his own and a small business to run. John often thought of his son as living the American dream for them both. But he had never said it, because John did not want to add to the pressure that already surrounded the young man. He had not yet heard about the public smear campaign and didn’t see what the fuss was about. That particular conversation lasted all of three minutes, which was typical for a call during his son’s long workday.

His daughter, though, was a different story. He could see it in the way Heather’s answers grew as taut as her face. Sally had come ten years after her brother, when he and Heather thought they would have no more children. Sally was a joy and a trial, both in equal measure. She had made a lifetime commitment to playing the victim, fiercely determined to remain the center of her universe.

Finally John asked, “Would you like me to speak with her?”

Heather covered the receiver. “I’m trying to spare you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not, John.”

“Heather, I’m the one—”

“Don’t make me argue with you too.” She turned her back to him and returned to the conversation.

John knew exactly what Sally was saying. Why hadn’t he known this would come out and stopped it before now. John sighed his way out of the porch rocker and went inside. He felt like he was running away. But Heather was right. He didn’t need this. Not now.

Ruth was seated in the kitchen, the cane leaning against the table beside her chair. She thanked the young woman who set down a saucer holding three pills, then told John, “Kevin just called from the studio. They’re ready to shoot the next clip.”

“Are you all right?”

She revealed an impish smile. “It would be terrible to lie under the circumstances, wouldn’t it?”

“Awful,” John agreed with mock solemnity.

“Then don’t ask.” She pointed him down the hall to the study. “Go choose yourself a different suit. Charcoal gray would be nice this time. And don’t keep those young folks waiting.”

As he knotted the tie that Heather had selected for him, John found himself struck by an idea. He found it oddly remarkable how he could be making plans in the midst of what he had expected to be his most shameful hour. And yet there was no denying the fact that the divine hand was at work. He had come to this realization late in the night, when his sweat had dampened the sheets, and he had wondered if he would have the strength to rise with the dawn. He had no control over the outside world. He could only accept that he was not alone, and he was doing what had been asked of him.

When John emerged from the house, Yussuf and Aaron were standing there with Heather. “I asked them to join us,” she told him.

“I’m glad you did.” They walked down the lane skirting the low hill toward the main complex. John took his time explaining what had come to him. “It’s just the glimmer of an idea. So if you don’t want to do this thing—”

Yussuf didn’t let him finish. “How can we refuse?”

“It is a good idea,” Aaron agreed.

“I think so too,” Heather said.

“Though the very thought fills me with dread,” Aaron added.

“Join the club,” John said.

There was an uncommon hush to the day, with high clouds held aloft by the still air. The heat caused the road ahead to shimmer. John slipped off the suit coat and slung it over one shoulder. To either side of the lane, tiny wildflowers carpeted the meadow with flecks of brilliant color. When the main buildings came into view, he took a long breath and hoped he was doing the right thing.

When the four entered the studio, they were greeted with a silence that mirrored the stillness beyond the portal. John knew they had all seen the disastrous news programs. They probably felt his own shame, doubted his worth. And they were right to do so. He doubted himself.

The young woman with her fishing tackle box of cosmetics patted his face with powder as the technician did a quick check of his microphone. John explained to the producer what he had in mind, and swiftly two more chairs were drawn around and a mock conference table set up on the raised dais. They used portable tables with folding legs and quickly covered the surface with green felt. They miked Yussuf and Aaron and seated them to John’s left. Then they were ready, and the producer counted them down, and it was too late to wonder if he was right to do this thing, too late to do anything but speak.

“A lot has been said about me today,” John began. “And most of it is true. First I will give you my take on the events that have shaped my life. Then I’ll tell you what I really think is going on here.”

The tawdry tale of youthful arrogance, too much alcohol, and out-of-control violence tasted like sawdust in his mouth.

“I didn’t ever really see the guys who finally took us up on our challenge,” John went on. “I was too full of my own power. I was addicted to the red veil of fury that came with the certainty that I was invincible. The next thing I knew, I stood over a man I had reduced to a bloody pulp. Then the cops slammed my face down into a puddle of spilled beer and cuffed me. The steel ratcheted tight, and I knew my life was over. I still have nightmares of that sound, cutting off the future that I had just tossed away.”

He felt the perspiration slick his face, and he heard his voice crack. But he knew his decision was right. There was a power that came with the deed, enough to see him through. “My shame was worse than the jail and the trial and the six months in prison. The disgrace and the guilt became a tattoo on my heart. I could never hide from what I had done. My life was reduced to a series of dead-end jobs. For years I humped garbage pans and cleared tables and cooked fries and stocked shelves. I was just one paycheck away from being on the street. I was constantly afraid and utterly helpless. I paid for my mistake. And paid and paid. And the guilt never went away.”

He punctuated the end of that sorry tale with a moment’s silence. He resisted the urge to swipe at his face. Then he went on, “My only hope came from Jesus as shown through my beloved wife. In Heather’s loving gaze I came as close as I possibly could to knowing God’s forgiving power. Until that day in church, two Sundays ago, when God spoke to me and started me down the path to this place.

“The question is, why would God choose someone like me? There are a million believers who could do a better job. There is but one answer that makes any sense. God wanted someone who represented the power of hope. Someone whose entire life was a wasted mess, except for this one thing. This one truth. The eternal message of
hope
. And that is what gives me the strength to speak honestly to you today. This isn’t about me, no matter what all these other people tell you. This is about the eternal message. Hope is alive. Hope is real. Hope is here and hope is now. Jesus is waiting for you to discover this for yourself.”

John turned to the two men seated beside him. “Now I’d like to ask these two friends, my new brothers in faith, to tell you what the eternal message of hope means to them.”

Both men gave their own stories of lives reshaped by a hope most people prefer to ignore. John wondered if his own voice had sounded that shaky, and decided that it did not matter.

Then the two men were finished, and the cameras panned back to his face. John realized they wanted him to offer a final word. He said the first thing that came to mind. “When the world of entertainment starts shouting their grim chant that hope is dead, they’re nothing more than vultures circling around the dying. But they can’t rob you of life unless you want them to. It’s still your choice.

“We’re asking you to join us in taking a stand. The only thing that matters to these wannabe trendsetters is their bottom line. So to stop them, we have to impact their profit margins. Don’t go see a single film released from the Mundrose Group. Don’t buy any of their games. Don’t purchase anything made by one of their sponsors. On your screen is a website listing their sponsors and products. Turn away from them. Do it now. Your voice will be heard loud and clear.”