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Authors: J. G. SANDOM
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called herself Blue, perhaps for the makeup she favored. Her skin shimmered with sweat and, for the first time, he noticed her nose stud. Her hair was done up in tight cornrows. “To know Jesus,” she said. “To get ready. And…”
“And what?” he replied.
“When He comes, He'll bring a reward.”
“That's right, Blue. I'm so proud of you.” He reached over to the nightstand next to his bed and picked up his crocodile wallet. “The apostles knew a great secret, a divine secret. When King Jesus returns, the reward He will bring will relate to the lifestyle you've lived. So, here,” he continued, “you'd better take this.” He handed her another hundred-dollar bill. Then he swung himself round, off the bed. He tilted his head to the side, stretching his neck, until it resounded with an audible
crack
. He walked to the window.
From this imposing vantage point in the Hollywood hills, beyond his swimming pool and tennis courts, beyond the cabaña and greenhouse, he could see the entire expanse of the smog-shrouded sprawl of Los Angeles. The highway looked packed. If he didn't leave soon, he'd be late for his sermon. And that, he considered with a sigh, would not sit well with Dad. Then he smiled. Oh, well. No time for a shower.
* * *
The Prayer Palace had once been the Mother of Angels Hospital, located on just under ten acres, two miles or so west of Los Angeles and two miles from Hollywood. The 360,000-square-foot facility featured more than one thousand rooms in nine buildings on the WCC campus, and the impressive fourteen-story main building, where the Prayer Palace was housed, was seen by an average of two and a half million motorists every week.
Michael's father, the great Thaddeus Rose, had purchased the property three years earlier. The elder Rose had been the Senior Pastor of the fastest-growing church in the history of the United States, based in Arizona—the Worldwide Church of Christ of Phoenix. With an average weekly attendance of more than fifteen thousand, the Phoenix megachurch had hosted outdoor events with more than twenty-five thousand worshipers, and from Palm to Easter Sunday the congregation swelled to more than one hundred fifty thousand. Rose had been responsible for launching the Heart of the Family radio show, plus the Heart of the Family Research Council, a Washington-based lobbying group—arguably the most powerful Christian Right organization in the country. As a reward for his remarkable success, Thaddeus Rose had been invited by the WCC chapter of Southern California to start the Prayer Palace in L.A. And in only three years, it already boasted more than twelve thousand parishioners. It put that Crystal megachurch monstrosity in Orange County to shame.
But all this success, Michael thought, as he pulled his pearl gray Infiniti into the parking lot, all of the glory heaped upon his father, the praise and adulation, all the money and fame had only transpired due to
him—
from the sweat of the son's brow. To this day, Thaddeus couldbarely surf the Internet. It was Michael who had expanded the radio show. It was Michael who had produced the first WCC TV broadcast, now available to more than ninety percent of American households, and in more than twenty-six nations overseas—albeit hosted by Thaddeus. It was Michael who had pushed for the Web site. He'd nurtured their successful e-mail campaigns, their keyword buys, the systems that supported their more than four hundred outreach ministries. It was Michael who had interfaced with the RNC through the Heart of the Family Policy Councils, and who had worked so tirelessly and relentlessly for the GOP during the last presidential campaign. And yet, try as he might, no matter what he did, Michael would always remain Thaddeus Junior. The son.
Michael pressed the button on his car key and the Infiniti beeped.
The follower.
He lifted the key to his face and sniffed at his hand. He could still smell Blue on his fingers.
Chapter
“And what?” he replied.
“When He comes, He'll bring a reward.”
“That's right, Blue. I'm so proud of you.” He reached over to the nightstand next to his bed and picked up his crocodile wallet. “The apostles knew a great secret, a divine secret. When King Jesus returns, the reward He will bring will relate to the lifestyle you've lived. So, here,” he continued, “you'd better take this.” He handed her another hundred-dollar bill. Then he swung himself round, off the bed. He tilted his head to the side, stretching his neck, until it resounded with an audible
crack
. He walked to the window.
From this imposing vantage point in the Hollywood hills, beyond his swimming pool and tennis courts, beyond the cabaña and greenhouse, he could see the entire expanse of the smog-shrouded sprawl of Los Angeles. The highway looked packed. If he didn't leave soon, he'd be late for his sermon. And that, he considered with a sigh, would not sit well with Dad. Then he smiled. Oh, well. No time for a shower.
* * *
The Prayer Palace had once been the Mother of Angels Hospital, located on just under ten acres, two miles or so west of Los Angeles and two miles from Hollywood. The 360,000-square-foot facility featured more than one thousand rooms in nine buildings on the WCC campus, and the impressive fourteen-story main building, where the Prayer Palace was housed, was seen by an average of two and a half million motorists every week.
Michael's father, the great Thaddeus Rose, had purchased the property three years earlier. The elder Rose had been the Senior Pastor of the fastest-growing church in the history of the United States, based in Arizona—the Worldwide Church of Christ of Phoenix. With an average weekly attendance of more than fifteen thousand, the Phoenix megachurch had hosted outdoor events with more than twenty-five thousand worshipers, and from Palm to Easter Sunday the congregation swelled to more than one hundred fifty thousand. Rose had been responsible for launching the Heart of the Family radio show, plus the Heart of the Family Research Council, a Washington-based lobbying group—arguably the most powerful Christian Right organization in the country. As a reward for his remarkable success, Thaddeus Rose had been invited by the WCC chapter of Southern California to start the Prayer Palace in L.A. And in only three years, it already boasted more than twelve thousand parishioners. It put that Crystal megachurch monstrosity in Orange County to shame.
But all this success, Michael thought, as he pulled his pearl gray Infiniti into the parking lot, all of the glory heaped upon his father, the praise and adulation, all the money and fame had only transpired due to
him—
from the sweat of the son's brow. To this day, Thaddeus couldbarely surf the Internet. It was Michael who had expanded the radio show. It was Michael who had produced the first WCC TV broadcast, now available to more than ninety percent of American households, and in more than twenty-six nations overseas—albeit hosted by Thaddeus. It was Michael who had pushed for the Web site. He'd nurtured their successful e-mail campaigns, their keyword buys, the systems that supported their more than four hundred outreach ministries. It was Michael who had interfaced with the RNC through the Heart of the Family Policy Councils, and who had worked so tirelessly and relentlessly for the GOP during the last presidential campaign. And yet, try as he might, no matter what he did, Michael would always remain Thaddeus Junior. The son.
Michael pressed the button on his car key and the Infiniti beeped.
The follower.
He lifted the key to his face and sniffed at his hand. He could still smell Blue on his fingers.
Chapter
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