Sojourner, A Journey Past the End

By Terry L. Craig

SOJOURNER examines the question: What if all the popular predictions about the fate of the world are wrong?

THE UNRAVELING

A "must read" for those who enjoy adventure, high stakes, and intelligent fiction. The intrigue of SOJOURNER is found first in its captivating characters, and then in an unfolding epic of unbalanced power, destruction, and victory. It is an intricate tale of the lives of ordinary people whose characters are propelled to spectacular ends. Nearly jumping from the pages to become part of the reader's daily thoughts, the character's lives intersect in unusual ways as they attempt to navigate shifting paths through a changed world . . . and the only requirement is to blindly accept the way things are.

Humanity is gripped by the inescapable awareness that political conflict, the increasing invasion of technology, acts of biological terrorism, and the deterioration of the environment are careening toward a catastrophic collision with life itself. Most People fear they may not live long enough to grow old, and strive solely to carve out their own slice of happiness before the end comes. A few individuals are actually looking forward to a global collapse, claiming it will result in the universal validation of their faith.

But what happens when the inevitable collision doesn't bring the promised end? After failing to produce the expected results in the old world, what place will science, government, and faith be given in a new one? In SOJOURNER, President Cole, Sara Reisling, Tony Bensen, and the Ruiz family seek to navigate a treacherous world where all lines defining the human experience are being aggressively blurred. The characters, whose stories began in GATEKEEPER, will discover the value of truth--and the reality that freedom is never truly lost.

Having entered the office of President of the United States with great hopes for becoming a significant force for change, Donald Larson Cole encounters one obstacle after another. America's economy is struggling, and her decaying infra-structure is crumbling. Two suitcase nukes are still missing. Tensions between US and Russian personnel on the failing space station have come to blows—mirroring the sentiments of their respective governments on the planet below. The corrupt administration of the previous president allowed a powerful businessman to make behind-the-scene guarantees that the U.S. would abandon its support of Israel . . . and now, her enemies want to collect on those promises. Commitments around the world have drained U.S. troop strength and weaponry to perilously low levels as China threatens to flex its substantial military muscle against Japan and a nuclear conflict between India and Pakistan seems virtually unavoidable.

After President Cole is assured that his faithful steps have made a difference and that he will be able to stand in an appointed place, a traumatic event signals the beginning of rapid-fire calamities that will force America to her knees and forever remove the opulent lifestyle and freedom her citizens have too long taken for granted.

As ominous news gathers like a tidal wave, many of America's Christians are increasingly convinced that "the rapture" is imminent. Their admonitions to a world in moral free-fall rise to an unprecedented pitch amidst an increasing hatred in the world for any value system that smacks an "absolute." Soon believer and scoffer alike, will have the opportunity to sojourn through a valley that will determine upon what or whom their security rests.

SOJOURNER is Book 2 in the Fellowship of the Mystery trilogy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wild Flower Press, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9780961885281

Terry L. Craig

Born in the Southwest, I have lived all over the US and spent many years in the Caribbean. I'm a people-watcher and a comparative thinker who is fascinated with words, art, and ideas.I have a passion to share spiritual life in a way that allows the reader to weigh the values of different ideologies from a non-threatening perspective (a favorite reading chair). My heart is best expressed in the article Science Fiction . . . and our Brokenness .My new series -- Scions of the Aegean C -- is written in the "steampunk" genre (a sub-genre of Scifi) and book one is available right here on Smashwords.

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Copyright

SOJOURNER

Published by Wild Flower Press, Inc. at Smashwords

P O Box 2532

Leland, NC 28451

Wild Flower Press, Inc.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for purchasing and downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase and download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Copyright laws.

Copyright © 2003 by Terry L. Craig

All rights reserved

The characters and business entities portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people or business entities, of the past or present, is coincidental.

Ebook version

ISBN 13: 978-0-9618852-8-1

DEDICATION

To the men who have influenced my life the most:

Bill, whose love, strength, and steadfastness still amaze me

Matt and Dan, who taught me the great joys (and terrors!) of being a mom

My daddy, who taught me the value of a well-told story

Scott, who taught me that I could love other people’s children as much as I love my own

My grandpa, who first taught me about the love of God

Frank Cebollero who taught me about integrity—by living it every day

To Michael Tyrrell, who taught me to worship like a child again

And, most of all, Jesus Christ who brought me to life

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Laurels to Matt Craig–your talents helped me in every phase!

I can’t thank my sister, Jo Ann, and my mother enough for their tireless efforts in editing all my books.

Many thanks go to Stephanie Bennett for her wisdom, help, and encouragement.

I’m grateful to Jack and Dede Holcomb, who graciously let me stay on their island, Leaf Cay, several times during the writing of this book.

I thank Rebeccah Barker for her friendship and assistance through the years.

CONTENTS

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue—Messages in a Canyon

Chapter 1—Experiment in Regeneration

Chapter 2—Philadelphia, Event Coordinator Zac

Chapter 3—Washington DC

Chapter 4—President Cole

Chapter 5—Oklahoma, Single Sara

Chapter 6—Oklahoma, Ricky's Boots

Chapter 7—Philly, Michael the intermediary

Chapter 8—The President's Mom

Chapter 9—Linda, A Reporter with Ambition

Chapter 10—Michael, Ben, & Zac

Chapter 11—Lawrence, The VP with Cold Feet

Chapter 12—Zac

Chapter 13—President Cole

Chapter 14—Zac, the Lord Remembers

Chapter 15—Oklahoma, Brandon & Cassidy

Chapter 16—Failed Experiment

Chapter 17—Rosa's Midnight Snack

Chapter 18—Camp David, The Vision

Chapter 19—Dr. Mendholson, The Parting of Ways

Chapter 20—A Bad Day to be Ricky

Chapter 21—Planning the World Conference on Spirituality

Chapter 22—Ricky vs. the Zenith Corps

Chapter 23—Regarding the China Issue

Chapter 24—Linda's Big Break

Chapter 25—Ricky and the Fight that Wasn't

Chapter 26—The Conference Begins

Chapter 27—Biological Terror

Chapter 28—Ben, Zac, & Michael

Chapter 29—A Media Circus

Chapter 30—A Last Goodbye

Chapter 31—Linda's Next Story

Chapter 32—Meanwhile back at the Ranch

Chapter 33—Linda

Chapter 34—Myra's Ultimatum

Chapter 35—This Could Mean War

Chapter 36—Don Cole, Finding the Place to Stand

Chapter 37—A Plea for Restraint, Reasoning and Justice

Chapter 38—Filling the Void

Chapter 39—Zac's Guilt

Chapter 40—Philadelphia, Ground Zero

Chapter 41—The Disasters

Chapter 42—Oklahoma, Whatever Shall We Do?

Chapter 43—Michael, A Chance to Leave Quarantine

Chapter 44—The Long Walk South

Chapter 45—Michael and Linda

Chapter 46—Ricky and Rosa at the Encampment

Chapter 47—Delay of Departure

Chapter 48—Montgomery, Strawberries and Tickets to Texas

Chapter 49—Edith Todd's Comfort

Chapter 50—A Reunion of Brothers

Chapter 51—In Need of a Miracle

Chapter 52—New Requirements

Chapter 53—Compliance

Chapter 54—Final Offer

Chapter 55—Into the Fire

Chapter 56—Back from the Dead?

About the Author

Other Books by Terry L. Craig

PROLOGUE

Although it wasn’t safe to travel solo, Jeff Dashe came the last two hundred miles alone, walking silently on a seemingly endless trek. He continued day after day, but not because the military ordered it. His search for Ana drove him ever southward into the hilly terrain of eastern Oklahoma.

Standing on the floor of a brown, stone canyon, he pressed dry, shredded lips together and stared at the first proof of other human life he’d encountered in days. Someone had painted words in olive green paint directly on the face of a large boulder which rested on the right side of the canyon’s mouth.

SOJOURNER’S ROCK

May all who pass here remember

they are but sojourners on this earth.

1 Peter 1:16-21

April 29

Beside the words, a huge green hand print, missing the top part of the middle finger, loomed on the surface of the rock. Next to this message, a wooden sign had been staked into the ground. It read:

ALL PERSONS MUST PASS THROUGH QUARANTINE

BEFORE PROCEEDING SOUTH

VIOLATORS WILL BE IMPRISONED

Follow signs to quarantine

Jeff pulled his lower lip into his mouth and tried to resist biting off the dried hunks of skin as he considered the signs. Next, his gaze then swept out over hundreds of inscriptions scrawled on the lower portion of the canyon walls, mostly in green paint– some of them ten feet or more off the ground where people had climbed to make their statements. He looked at one nearby.

Gabby and Brenda Stevenson of Lincoln, Nebraska.

May 1. Headed for San Angelo

Beside the words were two hand prints–a bigger and a smaller one. Next to this message, another with small, neat lettering said:

Hal, Barbara, Tom, and Kim Lethgart of Topeka.

Passed here in April. Lost baby Kelly to a fever.

Going to Tyler, TX

Underneath the words were four hand prints ranging in size from large to small.

Jeff stepped further into the canyon and realized all these messages had been painted by people wanting to leave a record of their passage south, hoping separated loved ones would see they still lived, and know where to look for them. Some messages were memorials to those who had died. Others, within the space of a few words, communicated volumes of grief, uncertainty, and longing. One said,

Carly Wilson, 15 years old. May 11th

Bobby: Mom and Dad are dead.

I’m going to try to make it to El Paso

and see if I can find Aunt Dot.

Please come when you can.

Perhaps, Jeff thought, Ana passed by this place. Would she have left any sort of message?

The disasters had come. No matter how much better it got from this time on, the losses from these catastrophes had affected every person living and would be remembered as long as history continued to be recorded. No one would have to ask, What disasters?

This story begins a year and a half before Jeff Dashe stood at Sojourner’s Rock.

CHAPTER 1

PHILADELPHIA — January 5th

Heather Poole parked her late-model burgundy Buick outside the Attlebury Geriatric Clinic of Philadelphia. She kept the heater on while she made a last-minute addition to her list, hoping no one would accost her for leaving the motor running.

Not wanting to know lurid details about medical procedures, Heather had a tendency to avoid asking questions when she had the chance. This time, however, Heather had a carefully-prepared list of questions and planned to methodically go over each one during her consultation with the doctor.

Today would be her first opportunity to see her father since he’d entered the three-story, brown brick clinic to participate in the experiment. She’d been leery about her father being used as a guinea pig, but after viewing the glowing documercials on Regeneration Therapy, Heather, too, held the hope her father could have his vitality restored.

Would he have changed yet? Would he be changed at all? What if he was in the group getting the placebo treatments? Oh, I hope not. His heart is so set on being one of the pioneers of Regeneration.

She took comfort in the fact that, even if her father wasn’t receiving the actual therapy now, his participation in the clinical trials had secured the promise of the real deal when the government approved Regeneration Therapy.

A picture of her mother in a total-care nursing facility came to mind and she frowned. Who knows? Maybe, if this works, they could try it on mom.

No more stalling. She shut off the engine and got out of her car. Walking to the door of the clinic, Heather told herself not to get her hopes too high. It was probably too soon to tell. She slowed her pace, giving the electric door time to respond to her presence.

Once inside, Heather stepped into the lobby and toward the desk at the far end. Questions from her list so preoccupied her, she didn’t notice the man walking in her direction.

Heather, he called to her. I’m right here.

Her eyes focused on the man. Dad! she exclaimed, and hurried to close the remaining distance between them.

They briefly embraced before he led her through a set of french doors into a lovely glass-enclosed courtyard. When they were seated in the dappled shade of indoor trees, she spoke again.

You look great! How do you feel?

He laughed. "I feel wonderful."

She’d been warned: Even those taking the placebo might feel better for a while, simply because they wanted to feel better. It would probably take a few months to ascertain whether or not any real gains had been made, but she wanted to remain positive.

Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s sure put a sparkle in your eye.

He leaned close to her. More than that, Heather, he said, putting his hands on his chest, "It’s putting life inside me."

You think you’re getting . . . ‘it?’ she whispered.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. I’m sure of it. I can’t tell you how good it feels to not be so . . . old. When he looked at her again, she could see his eyes were moist.

Her own eyes began to well up and she squeezed his hand. Keep going, Dad. Keep getting better and better.

After their little meeting in the courtyard, Heather left her dad for a few minutes to meet with Dr. Mehndolson in his office. As soon as she felt she had the doctor’s attention, she got the list out of her purse.

Are you monitoring my father’s other medications? If he improves, how would you know to reduce or stop it?

Mehndolson wanted to sound professional, but caring. We track every single patient every day. We run samples every five days. You needn’t worry about that.

She forgot her list for a moment. Although it might be premature, she couldn’t help asking, Just how far can this therapy go? Will his hair revert back to brown? Will he lose his wrinkles or will he just feel a lot younger?

Mehndolson removed his reading glasses and looked at her. Why are most people so driven by wishful thinking? he wondered. Why can’t they wait for facts and then make intelligent decisions? He cleared his throat. You must have seen the ads put out by Global-kem and Roller Genetic Labs. The truth is, Ms. Poole, those were advertisements, not documented cases. We don’t know ‘how far’ the therapy will go. That’s why we’re doing these experiments.

But weren’t tests done over in Europe and Japan?

Europe and China, he corrected.

Whatever. The point is, the experiments were done. Why is it we have to re-do what’s already been done? If that stupid President Cole hadn’t created this delay, the whole thing would have been over and done with a couple of years ago. Regeneration would have been approved and all these people would be young again.

Thousands of elderly baby boomers in the US—who fought aging tooth and nail—had seen ads regarding Regeneration Therapy and inundated doctors with requests for it. While a few scientists said the testing in other countries hadn’t met scientific criteria, others accused the US government of being overcautious in restricting the use of a treatment already proven elsewhere. Siding with those who wanted more testing, President Cole made quite an issue of the attempt to put approval of the treatment on a fast track. Regeneration proponents insisted Cole and other politicians were acting as pawns of certain pharmaceutical and cosmetic industries, who made billions from an aging populace. Where was the truth in the midst of all this?

I’m not a politician, Dr. Mehndolson said, or a man with a product to sell. I’m a scientist. I don’t base my work on the fears or the claims of others. I deal in hard facts. If Regeneration Therapy works, these tests will prove it. If it doesn’t, we’ll have protected people from a scam.

Heather shifted around in her chair, then looked at her list again. If my father needs new or different medications, how will we know this?

Dr. Mehndolson wagged his finger at her in a slightly scolding manner. Both the literature and the viewing disk we gave you cover all this. We will see he gets the best of care.

I just want to be sure.

The doctor smiled. I understand. But remember, it’s in everybody’s best interest for us to watch our patients very carefully and document every aspect of their care. The eyes of the world will be upon us, and we want to be without reproach.

CHAPTER 2

PHILADELPHIA — January 11th

Zachary Gordon sat in his Philadelphia Arena office, quite amused. Both his telephone and the arena’s walkie talkie scanner were currently jacked into his computer. A small band of color across the top of his screen displayed a graph pattern of each voice coming through the speakers and identified the employee to whom it belonged. But Zac ignored both the chitchat between workers in the building and the happy music of a phone line on hold. While he waited to speak to an actual person on the phone, he accessed an online magazine and started using an art program to put a mustache and glasses on a woman in a deodorant ad.

He stopped to sip the hot mocha-mint whip from his favorite mug. In addition to everything else, the latest news continuously crawled across the bottom of his screen. He briefly scanned the few headlines:

Spirit of cooperation plummets as tempers soar over the costs of repairs in the international space station, COSMOS >>>> House Speaker Shane Moffit calls for override of communication bill veto >>>> Millions more may die in the continuing famines of Asia and Africa >>>> E. E. Kressman’s 'NEPTUNE' Project in Gulf of Mexico opens for business and is first system in the world to run entirely on Fibertronics >>>> Christian groups pool resources to fund the ‘HE is coming soon’ campaign >>>> 'Envisionary Faith' teacher Cliff Edison paroled from prison in D.U.I. manslaughter case >>>>

Zac took his stylus and tapped the last headline on his screen. The article sprung open on his monitor and he began to read it.

Envisionary Faith teacher Dr. Cliff Edison was released from prison early this morning and taken to an undisclosed location after making brief comments to the press. In a high-profile case four years ago, Edison pleaded guilty to D.U.I. manslaughter and leaving the scene of a fatal accident. A pastor, author, and lecturer, Edison was internationally known for motivational teachings which he claimed would guide others to wealth and health. At the time of his arrest, he also admitted to marital infidelity and financial misdeeds. His last confessions led to a federal investigation and forced closure of his ministry. Now claiming to have come through ‘godly sorrow to true repentance,’ Edison . . .

A disgusted grunt escaped Zac’s mouth before he zipped the article off his screen. He took another sip from his cup and went back to doodling on the deodorant ad. Suddenly, the music coming over his speakers stopped and an actual person came on the phone line.

Executive Offices, this is Glenna, how may I direct your call?a woman’s soft voice asked.

Zac quickly touched the button reconnecting the earpiece and microphone he wore. Good morning, Glenna, he said while jotting down her name and the time with the stylus on his computer pad. He watched as what he’d just scrawled appeared on his screen. This is Zac Gordon in the Events Office, he said, and I was told to contact the supervisor’s office.

Please hold one moment, he heard before the boring music returned.

His shoulders slumped. He hated being on hold. He kept the headset connection but resumed doodling.

Mr. Gordon?

He straightened up. Yes?

Glenna again. Ms. Butterfield would like to meet with you.

Oh? That would be fine. When?

She has an opening in thirty minutes or one at four o’clock. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. I’ll take the one in thirty minutes.

Fine. I’ll inform her. See you in thirty minutes, Mr. Gordon.

Will do. His eyes darted to the spot on the screen where he’d scrawled her name. Thank you, Glenna. Goodbye. He immediately switched over to the intercom line.

It rang once before his secretary answered.

Barbara, he said, could you come in here for a moment?

Sure.

He hung up the phone, took out his earpiece, and leaned back in his chair. Within moments, Barbara, a silver-haired woman in a dove-gray business suit entered the office and took a seat in front of his desk. She’d been assigned to him for over a year and they had a good working relationship. He tended to need things in urgent spurts, but she was a dependable, efficient secretary, who didn’t panic when things got in a crunch.

I just called upstairs, Gordon began, and the new supervisor wants to see me in thirty minutes. Any idea what it’s about?

She shrugged Well, you can hope it’s nothing more than a ‘get acquainted’ meeting.

He had become convinced there was nothing about the inner workings of the company that Barbara didn’t know. She didn’t gossip, but she was a great observer. She could analyze people and events and then just know how things would flow out from them.

Why? he asked. You know something?

Ms. Annette Glad-Butterfield. With a hyphen, Barbara said, as if she were reading off an imaginary page. Contrary to the line the company has put out, she isn’t here to fill in just because old Donovan kicked the bucket. She was handpicked by the big guys at TIXMAX.

While she spoke, Gordon found a rubber band on his desk and started to play with it. Accustomed to his constant fiddling, Barbara ignored it and continued. They think she’s the greatest thing to come along since liquid connectors. Her last job was at the New Orleans Arena/Complex where she ‘streamlined’ the operations and took their ink from deep red to black in less than eighteen months.

Mr. Gordon shot the rubber band into the corner. It bounced off the targeted spot on the wall then landed on a pile of at least fifty other rubber bands. He stopped, looked at her, and whistled. Less than eighteen months?"

Uh huh. I’ll bet what’s left of my retirement that if she does well here, they’ll eventually send her to all of TIXMAX’s arenas and convention centers to make sure they’re getting the optimum return for their investments. Word has it she could fire a single mother of three for misuse of paper and walk away humming a happy tune.

Gordon smiled. Then I guess I’d better pick up those office supplies in the corner before Ms. Annette Glad-with-a-hyphen-Butterfield sees ’em, eh?

Although he was a bit of a scoundrel, Barbara couldn’t bring herself to dislike him. She had studied the boyish face, and the distracted facade. Very good at slight-of-hand illusions, Zac liked practical jokes, and would say or do almost anything to impress a pretty woman. After she’d worked for him a while, she realized he was actually a man of great intelligence, who just didn’t want to be an adult on any given day unless he absolutely had to be.

Mr. Gordon could sit in a meeting and appear as if he didn’t hear a single word, yet later recall entire conversations almost verbatim—often with very amusing accents or voices. He’d goof off for days, and then put together a brilliant plan just hours before a deadline. Even if his methods were a bit unorthodox, she had to admit he got things done. In the final analysis, she had no idea what made Zachary Gordon tick, but she’d be content to leave that mystery to the endless gaggle of females he attracted.

Barbara wanted merely to do her job during the day and go home to her cats and a quiet dinner at night. She wanted to do this for a few more years until her retirement. Thus far, Mr. Gordon had never asked her to lie to anyone, or to fix his sometimes stormy social life. He was kind to her, and, she had to admit in spite of herself, sometimes very amusing.

She looked in the corner and then back at him. A slight smile came to her face. I’ll pick up the rubber bands. You’d better see if you’ve got a decent tie. If you’re gonna store it in your pocket with your planner, don’t put it on a till you’re ready to work. That one is not only creased, it’s got catsup or something on it.

He looked down. Ha! Right on both counts! You gonna open a detective agency when you retire? I had catsup on my hash browns this morning. He opened a few drawers before producing another tie. How ‘bout this? Got it from the promo guy for the Freedom Party thing that was here last week. He held up a red, white and blue clip-on.

It’ll make a better first impression than catsup.

Thanks, he said, plucking off the old tie and pushing the new one into place.

A half-hour later, Zac Gordon exited the elevator on the penthouse floor. He found Glenna, an attractive woman with a pile of blond hair on her head, and announced his arrival for his appointment.

I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, she said. But she’s running a few minutes late. I tried to call your office, but your secretary said you’d already left. If you’ll just have a seat and wait, it shouldn’t be long.

You’re new here, aren’t you? he said, flashing his most dazzling smile.

She started to respond but her phone rang.

Zac waited a few moments, but when it appeared she would remain on the phone, he decided to sit down. He’d just found a sports magazine he hadn’t read when the door to the supervisor’s office opened and a man emerged. Harry Ulrich from Marketing. Ulrich looked like a whipped dog.

Not good, Zac said to himself as he watched poor old Harry skulk to the elevator. At this point, Zac took a few moments to give himself a good talking to. He knew how prone to silliness or sarcasm he got in stressful situations, and this had all the earmarks of a lynching.

Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Whatever you do, don’t try to be clever. You know how you hate yourself when you get clever at the wrong time. Remember, you’re a man with a great apartment. A new car. Huge bills . . .

The phone rang again, and Glenna summoned Zac. You can go in now.

Thanks, he said, rising and walking to the door.

When he entered the office, a dark-haired woman in a tan suit stood. About five foot six, she had what Zac would refer to as a very chunky figure. As he got closer, he tried not to stare. There was a new makeup trend in fashion circles. It was called the RetroGeisha look—almost white makeup, lines for eyebrows, and a very small mouth. Multitudes of women had shaved off their eyebrows, stayed out of the sun (for that naturally pale look), and, regardless of the actual size of their lips, painted a tiny red mouth, resembling pursed lips, on top of their own. Zac thought it looked ridiculous even on younger women, but seeing it on Ms. Butterfield gave a whole new meaning to the word ridiculous.

Before sitting, he shook her hand. Zachary Gordon.

She sat down and folded her hands on the desk.

He tried to find something—anything—to look at besides her mouth. Man! Just look at that mouth! Suppose she knows she looks like a snowman who’s been shot with a paintball gun? He bit his lower lip to keep from smiling. You’re gonna go down in flames if you don’t watch it! His eyes lit on the engraved marble name plate on her desk. It read, A. Glad-Butterfield. The letters swirled around in Gordon’s head. As they re-arranged themselves in dozens of patterns, her voice interrupted his thoughts.

Of course, in regular conversation you can just call me Ms. Butterfield, but on all documents and, of course, when introducing me, I prefer you use Glad-Butterfield.

Yes Ma’am, he responded, hoping he looked like the essence of a responsible executive.

She looked at him for a moment before continuing. Now to get to the reason I asked to speak with you, she began. As the manager of the Events Office, you are responsible for many things. She stopped speaking and motioned to a small, flat screen on his side of the desk.

He leaned forward and took the 8–by–11 inch piece of thin plexiglass, called a clip screen, in his hand. Yes? he asked.

Hmmmm, she said, searching for a way to begin. Let’s see. As Event Coordinator, you are responsible for many things. For communication with clients, quality control, maintenance. You are like the traffic manager of a large intersection. You make sure that everyone gets a chance to use the intersection in a timely and efficient manner. You maintain the intersection. You clear out one event, you bring in another. . . .

He realized his eyes had locked onto her lips again. Not the mouth, Zac, not the mouth! The screen he held remained blank, so he forced his gaze to the sweeping motion she made with her hands.

. . . And you, Mr. Gordon, must do this in the most cost-efficient manner possible, she said, folding her hands on top of the desk again.

Yes ma’am. He chanced a look into her eyes.

Well, then, let’s have a look, shall we? she said, picking up her stylus and touching her own screen. Her computer sent a signal to the screen Zac held, and she highlighted the portion she wanted him to read with a bright yellow color.

He leaned forward a bit in his chair and scanned through the lines she indicated. Yes ma’am. That’s when the equipment broke down on the day of the hockey game and the ice wasn’t happening.

Do you realize that the cost of this repair was almost twice what it should have been?

Yes. He leaned back and smoothed down his tie. I remember this one well. Our regular company couldn’t fix it in time for the game. I had estimates from three other companies. These people, he said, pointing to the screen, "were the most expensive, but the most reliable. I had less than eight hours till game time, and I had to go with the company I knew could make some ice. It’s not called slush hockey for a reason, you know." He stopped talking and rubbed his right temple. I can’t believe you said that! What did I tell you about getting clever?

She stiffened in her chair, but then went to other highlighted items. And what about all these meals on the expense account?

Yes, Ms. Butterfield. Like you said, I manage all the events that go in and out of here. Today, I’m clearing out a Princes Di memorabilia show. Tomorrow, the Women of Power group is renting half of the facility. Friday, we have hockey again. Saturday is a sold-out concert. He shrugged, then chanced a glance at the white face. I have to meet with many of the organizers of these events and, sometimes, I have to smooth ruffled feathers. Eating with the clients is part of it. We may be the most popular arena in Philly, but we can’t just assume this will always be so. And the Harvey Center will be open again in another month. We have to shmooze a little now and then. He smiled.

She did not smile back. He fixed his eyes on her desktop as words found a way out of the little red dot on her face. Well, Mr. Gordon, despite your thoughts on entertaining half of the businessmen in Philadelphia, the cost-effectiveness of your policy has not been proven. She pushed her chair back a few inches from the desk. You’re right. We’re the most popular arena in Philly. Let’s use this to our advantage. Let’s pursue only the cream of the potential clientele. Let the Harvey Center people ‘shmooze’ the low-budget people. She leaned back slightly before continuing. It’s not only cost-effective, it’s the intelligent way to do business. You see what I’m saying?

Conscious of his need to keep his words at a minimum, Zac shifted around in his seat. Yes.

Have you finished your reports for last month yet?

No. They’re not due until Friday. Would you like them sooner?

Friday will do. Then, next week, we’ll go over the list of the clients you currently entertain and cut it down to the cream. I can see you need some mentoring in this area.

Up until now, she noticed he’d been a bit too distracted. He’d avoided looking at her much. But now she had his full attention.

You’re kidding, he said.

Obviously she’d gotten through. No, she said, I’m not. I will consider it an investment of my time for the benefit of the company. She turned off his clip screen and it became blank once again. Just be sure your reports are on time and marked to my attention.

Apparently the meeting had ended, so Zac stood. "Right. To Ms. Glad-Butterfield,’ he said, making the hyphen in the air with his finger.

Just one more thing, she said as he turned to leave.

Yes?

I’m the kind of person that cuts to the chase. From what I hear about you, you’re a playboy. I’m not impressed with that type, so you’d better plan on working for your money. Got that Mr. Gordon?

He started to say something and then changed his mind. Instead he just nodded and left the room.

CHAPTER 3

WASHINGTON D. C. Suburb — February 5th

Trina Watson looked in the mirror as she finished putting on her makeup. Should she wear her hair up or down for the day? Did it really matter? Would she even see him today? She got out a brush and quickly pulled it through her light brown hair several times before bundling all of it in the back and putting it in a ponytail.

Nope, she said after reconsideration, and pulled out the band in her hair, letting it fall back onto her shoulders.

She turned her head from side to side a few times, then drew her hair back into a ponytail. When she looked at her watch, she realized she needed to get out the door and start the long commute to work. She sighed and gave a little shrug to the woman in the mirror before gathering her things and leaving her apartment. Even though she’d spend nearly an hour en route, she liked having time on the train to prepare notes, read, or just think.

Once Trina got on the train to D.C. and saw the beautiful morning dawning outside the windows, she decided to sit and relax rather than go through the things in her briefcase. She looked out the window and watched people walking their dogs, jogging, or sitting in cars on their way to work.

She let her head rest against the window pane. . . . Two and a half years ago, she had little hope of working this job. Yet, here she sat . . . commuting to the White House! Almost everything she ever wanted was hers.

Warm sunlight streamed through the window onto her face as she remembered how it all happened. . . . Three years ago, as an assistant press secretary to presidential candidate, Donald Larson Cole, she’d gone to New York with a team of fellow workers to see if they could pick up the pieces from a large setback to the campaign.

Cole had just flown in from Colorado where he’d been released after spending more than two weeks in the quarantined area around Denver. While there, it looked as if his run for the presidency was all but over. He made angry remarks regarding President Todd’s handling of disaster relief, and the search for the terrorists believed to have been responsible for the quake. Don told the media that Todd’s response seemed bent on fostering paranoia. He also made sharp statements about slanted press coverage. Without a doubt he’d made powerful enemies in the government and the press. Everyone on his staff wondered if the quest for office could go on, considering the damage several news networks sought to inflict on him.

Despite near-fatal blows to the campaign, though, Don’s confidence rallied and he emerged from the crisis stronger than ever. Rather than knocking him out of the race for president, the decisions he made following the incidents in Denver propelled him into the White House.

Cole had been a strong, intelligent, moral sort of person as long as she’d known him—in general, a viable candidate for a Presidential run. He had a good political record, was reasonably handsome, and had an excellent grasp of how government should function. He just didn’t have that extra something needed to connect him with large numbers of voters. But in the days following Denver, he changed.

Peering out the window at passing scenery, Trina’s eyes momentarily focused on a church as the train continued to glide down the rails toward Washington. That was the extra something.

Her eyes now focused beyond the landscape. She pictured herself arriving at the New York penthouse where the core of campaign leaders had gathered to meet with Don and to watch his first post Denver quake interview. That was when she first noticed the difference.

As if it were frozen in time, she recalled it: The whole crew sitting and watching the televised interview together. While Don conveyed his thoughts to viewers, he connected with America. When he spoke of his experiences in Denver, his courage, compassion, and intelligence were unmistakable. The trial of what he’d experienced crystallized all his best qualities and strengthened him.

Just when Trina figured nothing could soften jaded American voters, Don allowed himself to be transparent. It was like the shock of seeing the turquoise waters of the Caribbean when you’ve spent your whole life near a muddy brown lake.

At a time when religious issues could be the kiss-of-death to a campaign, Don revealed that he’d become more spiritual. To Trina’s amazement, rather than making him look wimpy, it added to his appeal. Even she, who hadn’t been a very spiritual person in the past, had to admit she’d been touched by his description of a need to relate to God in the midst of deep trials.

So many people she’d known over the years had gotten religion. Some did it because they were scared the world was coming to an end, others possibly because they needed something to save them. Often, they seemed to turn into loud marshmallows—all noise, no substance . . . saying they forgave, or that they loved people when, actually, they had little power to do anything else.

Don was different. Something, indeed, had happened inside him—something giving him the strength to change, to act, to do. He had the demeanor of a man who could stand toe to toe with an enemy and not back down. When he was gracious, it wasn’t because this was his only option.

I suppose it was then that you knew how you felt, she thought as the train clattered along.

From that time on, Trina had to force herself to keep her eyes and her energies harnessed solely on her job. There was a campaign to run and she needed to do what everyone else was doing: plow into her work and ignore everything else.

When election day came however, she knew both a victory and a defeat of sorts. Trina remembered how he’d kindly thanked her for all the work she’d done and said that if she didn’t want to stay on as an employee, he’d give her his highest recommendation. Obviously, he’d had some clue about how she felt. She recalled the words he chose, and how he said them. She picked up his unspoken message: Although he valued her work, he was quite willing to release her. As far as he was concerned, the door to a relationship was closed. She managed to hide her devastation for the eternal hour she remained in his presence, then gone back to her hotel room alone.

For weeks, Trina struggled with different emotions and even applied for positions which would take her far away from him. In the end, though, she turned down all offers, realizing she couldn’t leave. She loved the work she did for Don Cole, and secretly, she still hoped he’d be open to a relationship at a later time.

She’d been serving as an executive assistant to the president, in charge of research and information for two years now. There were few things she liked better than the challenge of digging through tons of data with a short deadline. Sometimes her searches resulted in finding gems of hidden information they could use against the opposition. Other times she found ticking time-bombs needing to be addressed. Either way, both the search and the find were quite satisfying to her in more ways than one. And, her efforts had paid off. More than once, Trina had been able to deliver information that had been a bargaining chip in negotiations or the key to uncovering hidden motives of adversaries.

A look of satisfaction graced her face for a moment as she thought of a recent checkmate against the Speaker of the House and his cohorts. Shane Moffit probably wants my head almost as bad as he wants Cole’s! As far as she was concerned, Moffit operated as a puppet of darkness; and any day she could help thwart his enterprises she considered a day well spent.

The train came to a stop at her station. Trina stood and reminded herself, Almost everything you’ve ever wanted is yours.

# # #

A few hours later, in a congressional hearing room, Speaker of the House Shane Moffit squirmed in his chair. The testimonies had been going on forever it seemed, and most of the witnesses were about as interesting as rusty hinges. He tried to look as if he were marking a passage in the written notes he’d been handed.

I hope Vonita orders those special salads for lunch again, he thought. His mind lingered on the creamy salad dressing he liked so much and he hoped she’d remembered to order an extra container of it.

He realized the witness, a gray-haired man who represented one of the technology companies that would be affected by the legislation, had stopped speaking and was searching for a particular statistic.

Moffit looked at the other congressmen at the table, I think now might be a good time to take a lunch break.

Most of the others seemed to be in agreement.

It’s settled then, he quickly added. We’ll adjourn for lunch and be back at . . . he looked at his watch, one forty-five. He smacked his gavel down with an air of finality.

Moffit made his way out of the room and quickly walked to his office, slowing only long enough to wave or shout quick greetings at various friends and acquaintances. As soon as he got through the door to the reception area, he closed it.

Please tell me, he said, giving his secretary a pleading look, that you ordered me a salad with extra dressing.

She winced. Well. No. I didn’t know when you’d be back and . . . there’s someone on the phone.

The look of frustration on the senator’s face was obvious. Call for a salad with extra dressing now, and bring it into me when it arrives. He pointed to the phone on her desk. So who’s on the line?

Yosef.

The pace of his pulse increased as he moved to his office.

He picked up his phone and tried to sound surprised.

Yosef, it’s been ages, he said, picturing the stocky man at the other end of the line–the tailored suit, the gold wristwatch, the huge ring.

Shane, Yosef said. So glad I caught you in your office. I hope I didn’t call at an inconvenient time.

No, no, Moffit lied. Just as long as it’s quick. . . . I’m on a lunch break.

Not a problem. I only wanted a few minutes of your time.

Moffit’s blood pressure continued to inch upward. He started to get up and close his office door, but thought better of it. He couldn’t afford to look guilty–especially while hearings were in progress. Not a problem. What do you want? he said. Certainly Yosef had been around long enough to know what could and could not be said over the phone.

It’s no secret the changes here in Washington are cause for deep concern.

Recent elections had revised the rosters in both houses of congress and shaved the narrow margin Moffit’s party held. As usual, lobbyists were scurrying to educate those new to office, and it was a stressful time when coalitions (and loyalties) could be realigned.

Moffit didn’t respond, so Yosef continued. Cole will veto your bill today, Shane.

Which bill? The new communications bill?

Yes.

How do you know this? Has he done it already? Moffit got up and closed his door, then lowered his voice a notch. How do you know he’s gonna veto it?

My sources tell me he will. Perhaps it’s part of a strategy to see just how strong you are now.

The congressman’s free hand formed into a fist. I have the support of my constituents.

Yes, Shane, you do, Yosef responded. And you’re more than just a congressman representing your constituents, aren’t you? You’re the Speaker of the House . . . but the winds of change might blow everywhere. If just two congressmen decide to switch party affiliation . . . you might be replaced by someone more friendly to Mr. Cole’s views.

That would be Lyle Tagger. Moffit bristled at the thought. The man was one of his bitterest enemies in Washington.

Meanwhile, Yosef continued, "the president has a