“It doesn’t have to get to that,” Buscema said. “Think of it more in terms of man’s sinful desires that have led him astray. He needs to see the road to salvation. And it’s your job to hold his hand and show him the way.” Buscema studied him, then leaned in for emphasis. “Unless I’ve got the wrong end of the stick here, you’re pro-life, right?” He teased him by letting the question hang for a beat, always perplexed—and pained—by how pro-lifers applied their zeal to the smallest cluster of cells, no matter how tragically disabled or conceived, but not to any other living species or to the habitat we all shared. “That’s what saving the planet’s all about, isn’t it? Life?”
Darby breathed out heavily, clearly not liking this, and steepled his hands, buttressing his chin with his thumbs.
“Why aren’t any of those bozos in Washington saying anything?”
“They will,” Buscema said, his expression leading Darby to assume he knew more than he was saying.
Darby bought it. “What have you heard?”
“He’s the real deal, Nelson. They know it. They’re just mapping out how best to handle it.”
Darby frowned. Small crinkles overpowered the Botox and broke through around his eyes. “They’re worried about the same thing I am.” He waved his arms expansively. “You build all this, you get to the top of the heap, king of your castle . . . then someone shows up and wants you to call him massa.”
“It’s happened, Nelson. We can’t change that. And he’s out there. I just don’t want you to miss the boat, that’s all.”
Darby asked, “What do you think I should do?”
Buscema thought about it for a beat, then said, “Grab him. While you can.”
“You want me to endorse him?”
Buscema nodded. “Others are thinking about doing it.”
“Who?”
Buscema held his gaze for a beat, then confided, “Schaeffer. Scofield. And many others.” He knew mentioning the names of two of Darby’s biggest competitors in the soul-saving sweepstakes would generate a reaction. One of them even had the affront to have his megachurch in the same city as Darby.
Judging by Darby’s expression, the names hit the sweet spot he was aiming for.
“You sure of that?” the pastor asked.
Buscema nodded enigmatically.
I should know, he thought. I spoke to them before coming here to see you.
“The man’s a friggin’ Catholic, Roy,” Darby grumbled, a flutter of panic in his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” Buscema answered flatly. “You’ve got to endorse him and endorse him big. Big and loud. Look, you’re already lagging on this front. The others, your fellow church leaders who signed up for the global warming initiative two years ago . . . they’re on board.” Buscema was referring to the eighty-six Christian leaders who, despite strong opposition from many of their evangelical brethren, had signed up for what became known as the “Evangelical Climate Initiative.” Some of the most prominent church leaders, however, such as the president of the National Association of Evangelicals, had resisted publicly supporting the movement, even if they privately backed it. “This is your chance to leapfrog over them and take control.”
Darby frowned. “But what about that sign that keeps popping up? What is it? If it was a cross or something clearly Christian, then fine . . . but it’s not.”
“It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that it’s there. It’s up there and everyone’s looking at it and wanting to be part of it.” Buscema leaned in and fixed Darby with unflinching resolve. “You’re missing the point here, Nelson. Catholic, Protestant, Baptist, Presbyterian, Quaker, or Amish—or even Mormon, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, or Scientologist for that matter. None of it matters now. You’re right that it’s not a cross up there. But it’s not a Star of David or a crescent or anything linked to any of the other major religions either. It’s a game-changer. An entirely new paradigm. It could be the start of something bigger than anything we’ve seen before, something new, something global. And as we’ve seen throughout history, when these things happen, they spawn big organizations. Right now, there isn’t one. There’s nothing. There’s just a man and a sign in the sky. But people are coming to him in droves. And you need to decide whether or not you want to be part of it. Right now, you can get a jump on the others by hitching your wagon to him before the rest of them. Things can change . . . in the twinkling of an eye.” He just couldn’t resist throwing that one in. “Because even if it isn’t specifically, obviously Christian,” he pressed on, “if you haven’t embraced it while everyone else has, you just might find yourself with a whole bunch of empty pews. And that wouldn’t be a good thing, would it?” He winced, trying to stop himself from taking another dig using an End of Times catchphrase, but he couldn’t resist, and he kept his voice as even as he could and added, “You don’t want to be left behind, now, do you?”
“DID HE BUY IT?” Drucker asked Buscema.
“Please,” the journalist said mockingly, the sound of rushing air coming through his car phone. “He’s so into it it’s almost painful to watch.”
“You gonna see Schaeffer again?”
“He’s left me two messages since I last spoke to him,” he confirmed. “Same with Scofield. I’ll let them sweat it out a little bit before calling them back.”
Good man, Drucker thought. It sounded like they’d already reeled in one major marlin. With a bit of luck, they’d be bringing in a record haul.
Chapter 46
Boston, Massachusetts
Matt and Jabba were in the bloodstained Camry, parked outside a modern, six-floor office block in the Seaport district.
Matt’s face was screened by the shadow of his baseball cap and the upturned collar of his coat. He sat in the passenger seat and eyed the building with quiet fury. It was a bland, architecturally bankrupt tile-and-glass box with a large parking area out front. There was no corporate signage by its front entrance; instead, various tenants probably leased suites there, moving in and out in accordance with the ebb and flow of their earnings. A thin blanket of snow from an early-morning flurry covered the asphalt and trimmed the bare branches of the trees that dotted the lot.
They’d been parked there for half an hour, and had seen only one person walk into the building. There had been no sign of the hard case.
The painkillers had taken the sting out of Matt’s wound, but it still hurt every time he moved. He still felt a bit light-headed, which he attributed to the loss of blood. His body was pleading with him to give it time to heal, but the pleas were falling on deaf ears. He could walk, and right now, that would have to do.
“I’m going to have a look,” he told Jabba. He reached for the door handle, grimacing with discomfort as he pulled on it.
Jabba reached out to stop him. “Not a good idea, dude. You shouldn’t even be here. Look at you.”
“Just a look,” Matt repeated; only as he pushed the door open, Jabba put a hand on his shoulder and stayed him.
“I’ll go,” Jabba said.