The King
Page 89
“Why did you make me number eight?” Kingsley had asked Søren when he’d been given his official “uniform.”
“In Biblical mysticism, the eight symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings and Christ’s resurrections.”
“That’s why I’m an eight?” Kingsley had been touched by the thoughtfulness.
“Actually, it was the only number between one and twenty we weren’t using.”
“I know seventy-two different ways to kill a man,” Kingsley had said to Søren. “Three of them involve deploying T-shirts as weapons.”
Kingsley finished dressing and pulled his hair back in a ponytail. He didn’t need hair in his face when running on a field. He headed for the door of his bedroom but stopped when he heard his private phone line ringing. Five people alone had that number—Søren, Blaise, his lawyer, Sam and a “friend” on the police force—and none of them ever called him on that number for no good reason. Except Søren.
But it wasn’t Søren on the line or any of his other private five.
“Mr. Edge?”
“Who is this?” Kingsley asked, instantly alert.
“This is Reverend James Fuller.”
Kingsley stiffened, his grip on the phone tightening.
“How did you get this number?” Kingsley asked.
“Doesn’t matter. I have it. And I’m using it to invite you to my office today. I think we should talk.”
“I’m busy today,” Kingsley said.
“Oh, yes, soccer game.”
“Football,” Kingsley said evenly, not letting his tone betray his surprise that Fuller knew so much about him. “I’m French. It’s football.”
“You’re in America now, Mr. Edge. We do things differently here. When men have a dispute, they look each other in the eyes and talk about it.”
“Well, I am half American. I can look you halfway in the eyes.”
“Good. I’m in my office now. I’m sure you have the address in Stamford. Come see me. I won’t take up much of your time. You won’t even be late for your game.”
Fuller hung up before Kingsley could answer. Good thing Stamford was on the way to Wakefield.
* * *
When he arrived, Kingsley walked through a side door and up the emergency exit stairs. He wanted to avoid being seen by secretaries and security guards alike. He quickly found Fuller’s corner office. The door was open, but the room was empty. Kingsley took a moment to look around. Fuller’s office was easily twice the size of Kingsley’s. A CEO would have been comfortable in a room like this. Leather sofas, leather desk chair, desk the size of a boat. A wall of windows, awards on display, framed letters of praise and gratitude to “Reverend Fuller and Mrs. Fuller.” And in the corner of the office, golf clubs. Of course.
Kingsley looked at the books on the shelves and noted their tight bindings and polished covers. The leather volumes were more likely for show than reading or research. He studied the framed photographs on the wall. Even they had brass plates captioning Fuller’s triumphs. One picture showed him leading a revival in 1990 before a crowd of ten thousand. Another picture captured him praying reverently at the Tomb on the Unknown Soldier in Washington, DC. A lovely well-staged photo op. In one other photograph he and his wife stood with two dozen teenagers—“James and Lucy Fuller at the First WTL Church, Hartford 1983.” Everyone in the photograph, teenage and adult, had a Bible clutched to their chests and wide smiles on their faces. Their eyes were fixed on the camera, giving the whole proceeding a look of eerie sameness. Lucy Fuller had her arm around the shoulder of the pretty dark-haired girl next to her. James Fuller had his arm around the shoulder of the boy next to him. The very picture of Christian love.
Kingsley tore his gaze from the photographs on the wall and focused his attention on Fuller’s desk. At first he found nothing of interest—a calendar, a mug full of cold coffee, stationery and a few sermon notes. But under the coffee mug he found an unbound sheaf of paper. Printed on the front page were the words Straight and Narrow—Bringing Homosexual Children Home to God. The book was, unsurprisingly, authored by Lucy Fuller, who had apparently exhausted all other topics of Christian life. Curious, Kingsley leafed through it. One paragraph jumped out at him.
Homosexual teenagers are being influenced by demonic forces. If enforcing a regime of constant prayer and fasting on your child doesn’t soften his or her heart, you might consider taking him or her to a pastor to have the demons cast out. This is not exorcism in the Catholic sense but is rooted in traditional biblical practices as found in the Gospels. Do not be deceived by your child when she tells you she was “born gay” or has felt homosexual urges all her life. These are lies from the Devil and only the vigilance of loving and firm Christian parents can save these children from the fires of Hell.
“Glad you could make it, Mr. Edge,” came a voice from the doorway. Kingsley looked up from the book and smiled.
“Your wife is quite the writer,” Kingsley said, dropping the book back on to the desk. “I didn’t think women in your denomination were allowed to speak in church.”
“We’re a nondenominational congregation. We let our women speak and teach.”
“Too bad,” Kingsley said. “If my wife were spouting bullshit like this, I wouldn’t let her talk, either. Let me know if you need to borrow a ball gag.”
Fuller gave Kingsley a hard smile.
“In Biblical mysticism, the eight symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings and Christ’s resurrections.”
“That’s why I’m an eight?” Kingsley had been touched by the thoughtfulness.
“Actually, it was the only number between one and twenty we weren’t using.”
“I know seventy-two different ways to kill a man,” Kingsley had said to Søren. “Three of them involve deploying T-shirts as weapons.”
Kingsley finished dressing and pulled his hair back in a ponytail. He didn’t need hair in his face when running on a field. He headed for the door of his bedroom but stopped when he heard his private phone line ringing. Five people alone had that number—Søren, Blaise, his lawyer, Sam and a “friend” on the police force—and none of them ever called him on that number for no good reason. Except Søren.
But it wasn’t Søren on the line or any of his other private five.
“Mr. Edge?”
“Who is this?” Kingsley asked, instantly alert.
“This is Reverend James Fuller.”
Kingsley stiffened, his grip on the phone tightening.
“How did you get this number?” Kingsley asked.
“Doesn’t matter. I have it. And I’m using it to invite you to my office today. I think we should talk.”
“I’m busy today,” Kingsley said.
“Oh, yes, soccer game.”
“Football,” Kingsley said evenly, not letting his tone betray his surprise that Fuller knew so much about him. “I’m French. It’s football.”
“You’re in America now, Mr. Edge. We do things differently here. When men have a dispute, they look each other in the eyes and talk about it.”
“Well, I am half American. I can look you halfway in the eyes.”
“Good. I’m in my office now. I’m sure you have the address in Stamford. Come see me. I won’t take up much of your time. You won’t even be late for your game.”
Fuller hung up before Kingsley could answer. Good thing Stamford was on the way to Wakefield.
* * *
When he arrived, Kingsley walked through a side door and up the emergency exit stairs. He wanted to avoid being seen by secretaries and security guards alike. He quickly found Fuller’s corner office. The door was open, but the room was empty. Kingsley took a moment to look around. Fuller’s office was easily twice the size of Kingsley’s. A CEO would have been comfortable in a room like this. Leather sofas, leather desk chair, desk the size of a boat. A wall of windows, awards on display, framed letters of praise and gratitude to “Reverend Fuller and Mrs. Fuller.” And in the corner of the office, golf clubs. Of course.
Kingsley looked at the books on the shelves and noted their tight bindings and polished covers. The leather volumes were more likely for show than reading or research. He studied the framed photographs on the wall. Even they had brass plates captioning Fuller’s triumphs. One picture showed him leading a revival in 1990 before a crowd of ten thousand. Another picture captured him praying reverently at the Tomb on the Unknown Soldier in Washington, DC. A lovely well-staged photo op. In one other photograph he and his wife stood with two dozen teenagers—“James and Lucy Fuller at the First WTL Church, Hartford 1983.” Everyone in the photograph, teenage and adult, had a Bible clutched to their chests and wide smiles on their faces. Their eyes were fixed on the camera, giving the whole proceeding a look of eerie sameness. Lucy Fuller had her arm around the shoulder of the pretty dark-haired girl next to her. James Fuller had his arm around the shoulder of the boy next to him. The very picture of Christian love.
Kingsley tore his gaze from the photographs on the wall and focused his attention on Fuller’s desk. At first he found nothing of interest—a calendar, a mug full of cold coffee, stationery and a few sermon notes. But under the coffee mug he found an unbound sheaf of paper. Printed on the front page were the words Straight and Narrow—Bringing Homosexual Children Home to God. The book was, unsurprisingly, authored by Lucy Fuller, who had apparently exhausted all other topics of Christian life. Curious, Kingsley leafed through it. One paragraph jumped out at him.
Homosexual teenagers are being influenced by demonic forces. If enforcing a regime of constant prayer and fasting on your child doesn’t soften his or her heart, you might consider taking him or her to a pastor to have the demons cast out. This is not exorcism in the Catholic sense but is rooted in traditional biblical practices as found in the Gospels. Do not be deceived by your child when she tells you she was “born gay” or has felt homosexual urges all her life. These are lies from the Devil and only the vigilance of loving and firm Christian parents can save these children from the fires of Hell.
“Glad you could make it, Mr. Edge,” came a voice from the doorway. Kingsley looked up from the book and smiled.
“Your wife is quite the writer,” Kingsley said, dropping the book back on to the desk. “I didn’t think women in your denomination were allowed to speak in church.”
“We’re a nondenominational congregation. We let our women speak and teach.”
“Too bad,” Kingsley said. “If my wife were spouting bullshit like this, I wouldn’t let her talk, either. Let me know if you need to borrow a ball gag.”
Fuller gave Kingsley a hard smile.
