and his ankles crossed. He expected the wait to be relatively long. They would be looking up his name on the Internet. That's what Jim would have done, and Kern seemed like a bright man too.
They'd get plenty of hits, at least. Reverend Jim was a flashy preacher. Of course, they wouldn't be able to tell that all the search engine hits had been planted by some of the FBIs best computer geeks. A few even had photos of Jim preaching to groups. He smirked. Gotta love Photoshop. A couple of pictures of Jim against a green screen with different attire, and his team had created an evangelical empire.
After almost thirty minutes, a door behind the podium opened and a tall man entered. Jim recognized him from his photos, although he'd changed his hair to a darker color and had a touch of gray at the temple, presumably to lend distinction. Instinct pressed him to stand and be on guard, but he fought it, holding onto his relaxed pose for several long seconds after Kern had stopped a short distance beyond Jim's crossed feet. Damned if he was going to show any fear or concede any power to this man.
Kern's presence filled the room, making the six men who flanked him insignificant. His cold, dark eyes fixed on Jim. 'You have succeeded in piquing our curiosity. A revival, you say? What do you plan to do at this meeting?'
Jim planted his feet on the floor and straightened in the chair. 'Are you the one who runs this Guild?'
Kern smiled and clasped his hands loosely in front of him. 'Who I am isn't important. I have been given the authority in this matter. '
Jim pretended to think the matter over as he stood and began pacing. 'I don't know. I was kind of hoping to talk to the man in charge-the one who tested Taylor the first time. That was a stroke of pure genius.'
The only reaction from Kern was a lift of his eyebrow.
'See, here's the thing. I don't know how y'all did it. How you were able to draw me to the ceremony that night?
Real confusion flashed across Kern's face before he was able to mask it, but Jim pushed his advantage. 'It was incredible! There I was, just mindin' my own business, sleeping, and next thing I know, I'm sucked into the warehouse like a spirit or something.'
'Excuse me?'
Jim nodded, hoping his enthusiastic reaction wouldn't displace the hairpiece. 'I was right there, man! All those prayers and the Hail Mary right at the end-it was inspiring, let me tell you.'
Shock and disbelief warred on Kern's features, replaced an instant later with anger. He grabbed Jim by the front of his shirt. 'Who have you been speaking to? If one of the members of the Guild has leaked anything, they'll have to be dealt with.'
It was all Jim could to do not to shrug off Kern's hands and lay him out, but he stayed in his role. 'I'm tellin' ya, I saw it with my own two eyes. I think Mark Taylor pulled me there with his prayers.'
Eyes narrowed, Kern released him. 'Prove it.'
'Satanus, non sum dignus… sed tantum dic verbo.' Jim plucked Kern's hands from his shirt. 'Yer followers, they couldn't hear you whisper it over the fire, but I could. I was right there and I saw your doubt.' Jim used his fingertips to push Kern away as he said in a low, mocking voice, ' Satan, I am not worthy, but only say the word .'
Kern stepped back, his arms dropping to his sides in surprise.
Jim smirked. 'Yep. I'm the only one who heard you voice your fears, and it just so happens I know just enough Latin to understand the phrase.' He'd kept Kern's utterance a secret, not even telling Taylor, holding it back as an ace in the hole if he ever needed it.
He rubbed his hands together and paced in front of Kern. 'So, at the little shindig I'm holding, I am planning on recounting the whole thing, but of course,' he paused his pacing, and held a hand on his chest, 'I can omit that last bit…if you co-operate.'
With a stiff nod, Kern said, 'I'll pass along my recommendation to our leader, but I can't promise anything.'
'Here's the deal. I want lots of folks at the meeting so I need your help to spread the word. I plan to collect boatloads of money from the people who turn up. I've already printed up hundreds of flyers, t-shirts and even-get this-we have small crosses that we can sell for a fortune after Taylor blesses them.' Jim grinned.
'Where does the Guild of the Rose come into this picture?'
'I want your people at the revival. They are experienced at this sort of thing. They are disciplined. My people, well, they get to shouting and feeling the spirit. They aren't much good for what I have in mind.'
Kern regarded him with hooded eyes, having regained control of his emotions and giving nothing away. 'And what do you have in mind?'
'I thought the crucifixion was outstanding. Just outsanding, and wish I could re-enact it, but I don't think we'd get away with it. So, what I want is to force Taylor to reveal his magic. There must be a way to persuade him. I'm not any good at that kind of thing. Hell, look at me? I can't carry it off like you could.' Jim chuckled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Adrian studied the flyer. Tomorrow night. It wasn't much time to plan something, but he couldn't let a golden opportunity like this pass. Taylor could identify him and despite the aliases, he didn't intend to spend the time in prison, or worse, hiding. With Taylor dead, there would be no witness. No one in his guild would dare point a finger at him, he was sure of that.
He sat on the edge of his desk and stared out the window, absently missing the inspiring view from his previous office. Why did things have to be so difficult? So messy. Why did it take so much effort to achieve what he deserved? Half way down the street was a shabby church that had seen better days. It reminded him of the one where his father used to preach. When he was a child, he'd watch his father give his sermon to his small congregation. Part of him had been awed how the church members had hung on every word his father said. Like his father was God. The other part of him would look around at the hundred or so people and wonder why they wasted their time with a loser like his dad.
Couldn't they see that his father had nothing? The house provided for the pastor and his family was one step up from a shack. Adrian once asked why they didn't get a nice house. Didn't he deserve it for running around town helping all the church members every time one of them had a problem? Why did they have to bring meals every time someone was sick, died or had a baby? Nobody brought meals to them when his mom had yet another child. Adrian never understood the answer his father had given him- that the reward wasn't money or a fine house. It was the satisfaction of helping someone.
As far as Adrian could tell, there was no satisfaction to be had in helping anyone. All helping ever achieved was the helper got burned. Adrian remembered the time his dad had made him shovel snow for old Mr. Timmons. It wasn't Adrian's fault if the guy had later slipped on the ice coating the sidewalk. Timmon's could have tossed salt on the pavement as easily as he after the shoveling was done.
His father saw it differently, and had grounded him for a month and made him help Timmons after the old man had come home from the hospital. His dad said it would teach Adrian compassion.
Adrian scowled at the photo of Taylor on the flyer. He was a sucker just like Adrian's father. A do-gooder who probably thought he would be rewarded. Ha! Only a fool believed that nonsense. In fact, wasn't it said that God helped those who helped themselves?
He clenched the flyer, wanting to crumple Taylor's face in his fist and watch him burn in the garbage can, but he took a deep breath and flattened the flyer on his desk. As much as he wanted to crush the man, he could wait one more day and then do it in person.
What would be the best way? Another crucifixion would have sent a powerful message, but there wasn't time for something so elaborate. Still, it should be memorable. An assassination might be fitting. It would be quick and clean. Adrian stood and paced the small room. He wanted some time to talk to Taylor first though – to see the fear in the other man's eyes again. This time, he would discover Taylor's secret. Then he would kill the man.
Taylor cared about other people. That was his weakness. Adrian circled his desk and settled into the chair. How could he take advantage of this weakness? He closed his eyes in concentration. Medea might be the key.
He tilted the chair back, sinking into the fragrant leather.
