“Rosario’s concerts are selling well on the West Coast, but her eastern gig’s aren’t.” Philip Ede said, scratching a bump on his balding head. He paused, but John remained silent, so he continued. “We could really use another top ten.”
As they did every Tuesday afternoon, he, John and Brendan were slouched around a large pine table in the Ministry’s main boardroom in the lodge, discussing Passion Sound’s weekly business. The room offered two views: a spectacular panoramic vista of the trees and fields below, and a close-up of a rich, lichen-trimmed grove of firs.
In the center of the table a single purple candle burned as John’s symbolic gesture to the divine light within him. For business inspiration, above them on the violet walls hung Billboard award certificates, copies of John’s and other Sound musicians’ gold and platinum albums.
Usually, John enjoyed their discussions, especially when his “baby bands” succeeded. Lately, however, Passion Sound had lost ground, and he knew his moneyman was worried and would pressure him to tour. Ruby Tunes, three women whom many in the music industry had immediately dubbed Wilson Phillips 2 for their remarkable harmonies, were Brendan’s latest find.
But just as the group was gaining a significant following, they’d split up, despite John’s personal involvement. Each now pursued a solo career, still under Passion Sound, and were in the public eye more than ever, as the tabloid press kept digging for the dirt on their break-up. John understood that bad press isn’t always a bad thing.
But the company took a major hit financially, since the Tunes’s next album was incomplete and had to be scrapped. Now Brendan worked overtime juggling the creative demands and abilities of each of the talented divas, as solo careers required a different marketing approach.
Younger and taller than the others, Brendan Shewchuck had been the producer of Passion Sound for two and a half years. Since his arrival, the twenty-six-year-old worked miracles with the Sound’s stable of artists. But these remarkable accomplishments were almost overshadowed by his fake English accent, brashness and mixed-bag appearance. Sporting a dark, pencil-thin moustache and goatee, he usually wore a thick gold chain, a steel pin in the shape of a cross, and silver rings on both hands. His taste in clothes ranged from rumpled punk to street heavy.
John knew his stable of bands was doing well, but globally, their CD sales were in free fall due to computer and mobile phone downloading. Of course, Passion Sound wasn’t alone. All the record giants were scrambling to adjust to the new digital reality.
The situation was becoming critical, but John couldn’t face going out on the road. The thought of another tour made him nauseous. Philip was an excellent financial manager, and a good friend, but the tension between them had been growing for several months. Philip desperately wanted the company to cut expenses and increase revenue by expanding the use of the Passion label beyond music. John steadfastly refused. Only the music and his message would bear his name, no tacky T-shirts or bumper stickers.
To an outsider, Phil seemed emotionless, no mistakes, no surprises. When the subject was finance, his demeanor, whether before princes, paupers or the IRS, was always cool and assured. John knew that this facade was forged by non-stop effort, meticulous planning and insatiable double-checking. Underneath remained the small, angular-faced boy from Bangor, the youngest son of a tight-lipped doctor and a meek mother.
Today though, John’s mind wandered from his financial woes, consumed by the malevolent corruption of the message in his songs by immoral persons unknown. While Phil rattled on he fidgeted, distracted by the muffled sounds of footsteps and voices from beyond the heavy doors, and let his eyes wander often toward the phone. He had arranged the call, but what would he say? What could he say? John gritted his teeth against the anxiety coiling in his belly. Praying for control, he focused on Brendan’s words.
“How ‘bout we watch Rosario’s interview, Big Guy? Think you’ll be pleased.”
John nodded, grateful for the distraction.
“Fun interview,” said John as Brendan flicked off the television. “Good for Rosario.” He smiled at Brendan. “Excellent prep, Brendan, as usual. Thank you.”
The young man beamed and tossed Phil a triumphant look. Phil sighed.
John frowned, thoughts slipping away, wondering how the Manuel family was coping. He glanced at the telephone. Surely the call would come soon. His stomach lurched at the thought of the doctor’s now fatherless children. He wasn’t to blame. So why did he feel so guilty?
Phil took a sip of water, then cleared his throat. “Last month we mulled over acquisition options. I’ve researched a couple of small publishing companies that have some good material, but lousy cash flows. I think we could get at least one of them for a song.” He chuckled to himself.
The Apostle nodded, extending his open hand in an invitation to continue.
“This would be a good fit if we want to become—”
Once again, John felt his thoughts spiral away from business. His eyes fell on the watchful row of firs immediately outside, particularly on a jagged, mossy stump. Oddly, he experienced no solace from the scene; instead, he immediately imagined that the tiny woods represented the grieving Manuel family and the savagely hacked-off stump of the murdered physician. The dread returned.
Phil was still talking. “Timing couldn’t be better with...financing.”
John lurched in his chair, twisting his head to face Philip. “Pardon?” he exclaimed, apprehension spiraling into fury. “Did you say financing?”
Brendan smirked.
Phil attacked his scalp and hurried on. “This new vision could lead us into natural extensions like inspirational books and TV specials about other Christian artists, maybe even an animated series for kids. You’ve already written lullabies for Jimmy.”
He eyed John as a grimace blackened the Apostle’s face. “Come on, John!” Phil pleaded. “You’re always talking about how we teach the Word to the next generation. This way we do it all.”
John breathed deeply and forced himself to drink before responding. He swallowed painfully, the liquid scratching his throat.
Watching closely, Phil dropped into his chair, a single vein throbbing along his forehead.
“I can see you’ve done your research as usual,” John replied, jaw aching. “And given this a lot of thought.”
Phil nodded.
“I thank you for it. I know you’ve got the Ministry’s best interests at heart.” John wearily shrugged his shoulders. “But you know my position on borrowing. No bank’s going to own a piece of Passion. Ever.”
John dropped his head into his hands. It was getting harder to concentrate. The anxiety was spreading throughout his body again. “I’m tired, so tired. Can’t you see?”
Phil frowned, taken aback. “Sure, John, I know it’s been tough lately, with the concert hoopla and Jimmy’s health, but...” He paused.
Voice breaking, John said, “There’s an enormous personal cost in the making of this fortune.” He shook his head as a wave of panic spilled free, coursing through his body. Along with it came a soothing realization. It’s over, he thought. I just can’t do this anymore.
Phil froze.
Brendan hesitated, then jumped into the uneasy hush. “Hey,” he said, fingers drumming the table excitedly. “Got a great idea.”
Phil interrupted, his tone condescending, “Brendan, I believe we’re finished for today.”
An ugly red stain splashed over Brendan’s narrow face. “Don’t be such a jerk!” he snapped.
“Enough!” John roared, shoving back his chair and standing. Startled, the other two men gaped. “It’s a waste of time,” John continued, regaining control. “There isn’t anything left.”
Phil cocked his head. “Huh?” Brendan asked.
“Told you I’m tired. I need a break.” John slid back into his chair, amazed at how good it felt to say the words, to feel the weight lifted.
“What?” both men exclaimed simultaneously.
“Maybe permanently,” the Apostle replied, barely hearing their reaction. “I’m burned out and I’m being used.” He thrust forward to lay his palms flat onto the table and was surprised to see them still trembling.
Eyeing the stained bandages on his wrists, John continued. “No one’s ever going to misconstrue my words again. No one!” Warming to the idea, the words began to tumble. “I refuse to be vulnerable, or a poster boy for a bunch of deranged cowards! No one’s going to kill and claim sanctuary under my name. Never again.”
Philip and Brendan stared at him, speechless. Philip found his tongue first. “But...but John, those murders aren’t your fault. No one blames you.” Brendan nodded.
The Apostle thrust his right palm directly over the candle flame, then pushed until the yellow tongue twisted against his flesh, staining the skin charcoal. Just then, a sunbeam slid across the window frame, casting a dark shadow across his face. A tiny hiss escaped as John’s sweat evaporated.
Brendan’s jaw dropped and Phil quickly reached across to stop him. John brushed Phil’s hand away; the flame continued to lick his flesh.
“D’you think this is without a price? God commands me to do His will, but He doesn’t demand that I sing it!” He played his hand up and down along the flame, marveling at how little heat he felt and at how encouraged he was.
Phil glanced at Brendan, then quietly said, “You’re sure that’s not why God blessed you with the talent.”
John removed his hand from the candle and turned up his palm. A ring of black soot, still smoking, covered the center. “Blessed?” he responded, voice thick with disbelief. He barely noticed the shock blanketing Brendan’s face. “Being responsible for writing songs of inspiration for millions of people, only to have them subjected to the most venal, twisted interpretation…sounds more like being damned.”
He shoved his palm back onto the flame. “Is it my fault when I write ‘love one another’ and a pedophile uses that as his divine signal to abuse a child?”
“Now, John,” Phil jumped in quickly, furiously clawing his scalp. “I think you’re over-exaggerating. Nobody’s—”
The phone rang. John silenced the others with a glare. He reached for the phone with his smoking hand, breathed deeply and recovered his poise. “Yes? Oh, yes, thank you.”
He waved the others quiet and tightly gripped the receiver. “Put her on. Mrs. Manuel? Yes, hello?” He spoke slowly, his voice filled with concern. He was in complete control. “Mrs. Manuel, this is John Jacobs calling—” He frowned, listening.
“The man they call the Apostle?” Mrs. Manuel interrupted. Her voice was high and slightly hoarse. “You’ve got a nerve—”
“They do,” he cut in smoothly, “call me the Apostle. I’m sorry to trouble you at this difficult time, Mrs. Manuel, but I wanted to call on behalf of myself and my Ministry to express our deepest sympathies for your tragic loss.”
Philip jumped up and began waving violently at John. He ignored him, concentrating on the raw voice at the end of the line.
“Your sympathies!” it was shrieking. “You who set them to it. It’s your fault. You call yourself a Christian, but you’re nothing but evil! You and your despicable music and mission, telling people lies, encouraging them to—” she sobbed, then finished with a squeak. “Murder.”
John remained calm though his breathing quickened.
Phil was gesturing wildly, running his index finger across his throat. “Don’t admit responsibility,” he whispered.
“Hang up!” Brendan hissed. “Please, hang up.”
“No!” John replied into phone, ignoring his men. “No…wait! Please, Mrs. Manuel, I had nothing, nothing to do with your poor husband’s death.”
“Liar!” she snapped then anguished sobs filled his ear.
“I resent that!” he retorted immediately, initially missing her sobs. He took a breath. “Look, I’m so sorry,” he continued, pushing down his swelling anger. “I didn’t call to upset you. Perhaps I should call later.”
The clock’s mechanism whirred, then slowly rang four times, its heavy notes bonging heavily in the silent room.
“See what I mean?” John bellowed, then threw the phone across the room where it smashed against a framed gold album. Pieces of glass and bits of electronics collapsed to the carpet. “And you think I’m over-exaggerating?” he shouted, pitching his body across the table toward his staff.
Philip and Brendan froze.
“That woman blames me for her husband’s murder.” He reared back, jabbing his chest with a soot-stained hand. “Me, the blessed one.” His hands jerked at his hair then he spun on his heel. “It’s over. Finished! And, you know what? I thank the Almighty.”
