“You’re an angel,” she said. “And I almost believe it.”
“As well you should.”
“But I don’t see any reason why.”
Nick sighed. “Truth is not contingent upon your belief, but as you mortals are so fond of saying: It is what it is. A most annoying phrase, if you ask me.”
“All right, then. If you’re an angel…” She put both hands on his shoulders. “Prove it.”
41
THE SOUND OF MUTED SNIFFLING and whimpers woke Jon. At first, he was disoriented. Golden light blinded him as he sat up and opened his eyes. He blinked a couple of times before realizing he was on the sofa at home in the study.
Elaine, sitting in his desk chair, was staring at him with eyes reddened by tears.
“Well?” she said.
Jon groaned and rubbed his stiff neck.
“Well, what?”
She looked angry and at the same time, wounded.
Compassion urged him to go comfort her. Anger urged him to do no such thing—his own wounds were still fresh.
“What do you want, a detailed log of my every step?” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Aren’t you already tracking me with the built-in GPS?”
“What?” She looked bewildered. “Jon, what’s happened to you?”
He got up. Thought about the mess he’d made. What if someone saw him last night walking into the hotel with Maria or going into her room? What if someone snapped photos with an iPhone? They might go viral all over the internet, preceding the inevitable media fallout. What was he going to do? He hadn’t slept with the girl, but who would believe him?
He felt unbearably vulnerable.
Flight or fight.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
“Mine?” Elaine blinked several times in rapid succession. “What did I do to deserve you running out in the middle of the night and staying out until after midnight? Oh my God, Jon. I was so worried!”
“I’ll bet you were.” He swiped his jacket from the arm of the sofa and headed for the door. “You started to worry about who would pay for your Italian shoes, your designer wardrobe—”
“No! Jon, I really was worried about you!”
When he reached the door he turned, saw the despair on her face, and walked back to her.
“Oh, Jon…”
He came so close he could smell the scotch on her breath—occasionally, she drank when stressed out. And he’d caused her plenty of stress last night.
He reached straight over her, took the laptop from his desk, and walked out the door. But not before saying something he knew he’d regret.
“You’re a bad liar, Elaine.”
Back in his office, Jon shut the door and left instructions for Carla: No calls, no messages, nothing. He sat at his desk with a cup of Starbucks that had grown cold about an hour ago and gazed vacuously at his laptop screen.
Click, click, stare…
Click, click, stare…
And so it went, for the entire morning. He Googled twice for those damming pictures, but they hadn’t shown up. Yet. He thought about getting on his knees and repenting but his heart was still infested with bitterness—he’d just pray that he and his family would be spared the humiliation of a disgraced televangelist. What good would another one of those do for the kingdom of heaven? And what kind of prayer was that, treating God like…
If—when—the scandalous pictures came out, Elaine would own the high moral ground. I may not have been the best wife but I never shacked up in a hotel with some young buck!
His chest constricted. His lungs refused to fully inflate. Jon stood up, yanked loose his necktie, and fumbled with the top button of his shirt until he gave up and ripped the collar open so he could breathe.
He went to the window and slid it open.
In came a cool gust.
He sucked in air and tried to will his chest to expand sufficiently to inhale. In the years of his ministry he’d faced protesters, death threats, media criticism, and general discouragement, but nothing robbed him of his joy like his negative feelings for Elaine. How could one woman cause so much pain, weaken him to such an extent?
// YOU WANT A DIVORCE… YOU NEED TO DO IT //
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words whispered in his head, but he’d always pushed them away. Today, as he stood staring out at the Pacific, the seagulls flying free in the clear skies, Jon said it out loud.
“I need to do this.”
His phone buzzed—a new text-message.
Maria: Are you all right?
He didn’t particularly feel like answering it, but if he didn’t she might keep texting him—something he wouldn’t mind in another reality but had to discourage in this one.
Jon: I’m okay. How about you?
Maria: I’m so sorry about last night.
Jon: My fault entirely. Will you forgive me?
Maria: LOL. You’re a good man. Hope things work out.
Jon: What are you going to do next?
Maria: I don’t know. But we should forget about last night…about
everything, okay?
Jon: Thanks for understanding.
Maria: NP. Take care, Jon.
He gazed at the screen for a long moment, took a deep breath, and with his thumb pressed the DELETE THREAD button on his display. For all intents and purposes, Maria Guzman never existed.
He was still holding the phone when it buzzed again. The image of Elaine’s smiling face—a picture taken from their honeymoon in Maui—was on the screen. For a moment he wanted desperately to answer, to apologize, say anything that might restore them to…to what? How many years had it been since they’d truly been happy together?
No.
He couldn’t deal with Elaine.
Not now.
Not with an important speech to prepare. Next week, he’d be at Cabrillo Stadium in San Diego before tens of thousands and millions more on television. He hit a button, and Elaine’s face vanished.
42
YURI GOT PAST THE MEXICAN BORDER without a problem—his client obviously had friends in high enough places that he could pull important strings. Through tinted windows he watched all the cars at Tijuana’s border checkpoint, marveling at how he’d gone from a potential enemy combatant to a VIP of the CIA, his cover that of a covert operative in unaccounted-for cold war nuclear devices.
The driver let him off at the designated spot when the black Mercedes pulled up—the parking deck of the Wyndham Hotel near Mission Bay. Yuri pulled the suitcase out from the trunk and walked directly into the backseat of the Mercedes, where a lethally beautiful brunette (code-named Raven) sat puffing on a cigarette. She crossed her long black-leather-clad legs and eyed him with the warmth of a glacier. She looked exactly like she did in the photo the client had texted him, so he didn’t hesitate to enter even though she seemed beautiful but deadly, the kind who’d kiss you then stab you in the back.
Yuri shut the door, sat with the suitcase on his lap.
The car sped off.
“It’s about time, Yuri.”
His ears grew hot. She was so hot he couldn’t help but stare.
“So, you are Raven?”
“I am. Seems you ran into some trouble.” She flicked a lock of hair away from her face, re-crossed her legs, blew a cloud of smoke into Yuri’s face, and pointed to the suitcase. “Is the package intact?”
43
PROVE IT. HAD SHE REALLY just asked him to do that? Oh, well—in for a penny…