The Apostle. J. Kerley A.
reckon that’s a good ass, Andrew?”
Delmont looked stricken. “Pardon me, Mr Winkler?”
“You think Vanessa’s ass is a nice one? Speak up, son.”
Delmont colored with embarrassment and forced a smile to his face. “I … uh … don’t believe I should be the judge of—”
“Closing in on fifty,” Winkler continued, “and she wears pants tighter than wallpaper. How much it cost to keep that butt so high up, Nessa?”
“I’m not listening, Eliot.”
“Nessa could buy her own gym, Andy boy – hell, a hundred of ’em – and keep that machinery tuned up in private, but instead she goes to some sweaty club. Why, you ask. Cuz Nessa loves showing off for the young bucks. Now and then she brings one home and drains him dry.”
Vanessa Winkler remained expressionless. “You’re reaching new levels of disgusting, Eliot.”
A bell bonged and the door slid open. Eliot Winkler rolled out into a hallway, followed by his sister and Delmont. “Where you got him hid?” Winkler said, looking both directions.
“To the left, Mr Winkler. Toward the front.”
Winkler passed through a set of wispy curtains, pushing them aside and finding a small room holding a half-dozen mismatched chairs.
“He ain’t here.”
“That’s the visitor’s waiting room, sir. Keep going.”
A door on the far side was open and Winkler’s chair rolled into a large, high-ceilinged room, his sister in his wake. Just inside the room was a desk with a computer monitor and several files. Dr Roland Uttleman, the preacher’s private physician, was at the desk. A slender, sixtyish man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and round silver-framed glasses, he stood and nodded at the incoming trio.
“Hello, folks. How’re you, Eliot?”
“What’s this set-up?” Winkler said, pointing at the desk. “Checkpoint Charlie?”
“It’s my medical station, Eliot,” Dr Roland Uttleman said, coming around the desk with outstretched hand. Winkler ignored the gesture, rolling past, the chair’s rubber tires hissing over the polished wood flooring.
The room was cavernous enough to echo, nearly as long as the house was wide. One entire wall, door to sitting area, was lost behind flowers, some thrusting from vases, others foam crosses abloom with buds. Inscriptions ran from Get Well Soon, to Our Prayers Are with You to simply Love. Two folding tables had been brought in, pots of bloom atop and below. At the far end a sitting area was in place: couch, low table, a pair of large, soft chairs, a fifty-inch flat-screen television on the wall. The window behind the area was closed with a heavy drape.
Centering the long room was a king-sized mechanical bed flanked by medical monitors, and centering the bed was the long form of Amos Schrum, his robe thick and dark and running from his shoulders to his calves, the white bouffant of hair like a soft snowdrift over a pitted crag of flint.
Winkler rolled to the bed where Schrum appeared to be asleep, though when his eyes blinked open they were strangely bright, and focused immediately on Winkler.
“Hello, Eliot,” Schrum rasped, elevating the top third of the bed to sitting position. “How’s my old friend?”
Winkler reached out and took Schrum’s hand. “I got a lot on my mind, Amos. How you doing?”
“The good Lord granted me another sunrise. I’ll take it.”
“He does it because He loves you, Amos. You’ve carried His sword into great battles.”
Schrum coughed and Uttleman appeared with iced water. Schrum sipped and cleared his throat. “His … full glory will soon be … mine to behold, Eliot.”
Winkler’s chair spun to the others in the room. “How ’bout you people leave us be? Go get coffee, or food, or maybe Nessa will show you her butt. Me and Amos need some alone time.”
Delmont almost ran to the elevator. Uttleman looked unhappy, but followed. Instead of departing, Vanessa Winkler strode forty feet to the balcony window and yanked open the drapes. Light poured inside, and with it the low murmur of prayers and hymns from the street below.
Winkler glared at his sister, shook his head, and turned to Schrum. “You’ve come back from these heart things before, Amos. He needed you here and He touched you with healing.”
“That was years ago, Eliot. Perhaps my miracles are all used up.”
Winkler leaned forward. “I pray that’s not true. But you have one miracle yet to grant: My miracle.”
Schrum’s wide shoulders drooped. “Eliot …”
“I’ve done many great things for you, Amos. All I ask is one great thing for me.”
“I think about it all the time, Eliot. It’s just, just …” Schrum seemed overcome by the effort and his head fell back to the pillow, eyes closed. Breath rattled in his throat and his head drooped to the side.
“Amos!” Winkler screeched, grabbing at Schrum’s hand. “AMOS!”
Schrum’s eyes batted open. “I’m fine, Eliot. I’m just … so tired.”
Eliot Winkler’s face, a visage that cowed Titans of industry, crumbled into that of a child lost in the dark. His hands tugged at Schrum’s robe. “Amos … you promised. It was your idea that day when I was in … when I realized my soul was in jeopardy. You said, you promised, that you had a way, that there was a way …”
“I’ve been working on it, Eliot. But I …”
“You promised you’d do it. Please …” Eliot Winkler started weeping.
Vanessa Winkler turned from the window to her brother. “Jesus, Eliot. Don’t embarrass yourself.”
Winkler’s head spun to his sister, eyes bright with tears and anger. “I’m trying to save my soul. I’d save yours, too, if it didn’t already reside in the Pit.”
Vanessa Winkler rolled her eyes. Her brother turned back to Schrum. “Amos, I need you. I’ve never needed anyone more.”
Schrum’s hand found Winkler’s. “Finish the project on your own, Eliot. It’s nothing to someone with your resources.”
“I CAN’T, AMOS! Without your blessed presence, it’s unsanctified. You told me that the event is stuck in time, waiting only to be released. Its release has to be engineered by a man of God.”
“I can’t even stand up, Eliot.”
“The project doesn’t need you to stand, Amos. You just have to be there to make it real. YOU HAVE TO DO IT, AMOS. IT WILL CHANGE THE WORLD!”
“Oh, for shit sakes,” Vanessa Winkler muttered.
Schrum started to lift his head, but it fell back into the pillow. “The daily stress of the project … it’s not something I can manage, Eliot. Not on a daily basis … All I have is the power of my faith in God.”
“He listens to you, Amos!” Winkler beseeched. “Beg Him for strength.”
Schrum coughed and his eyes fell closed. Uttleman appeared, his face dark. “You have to leave, Eliot. The stress will kill Amos.”
Tears staining his cheeks, Eliot Winkler whirred reluctantly to the elevator. Vanessa followed, high heels ticking the floor like tack hammers. Uttleman saw the pair to the first floor, riding down in silence.
“Andy,” Uttleman said to the singer, sitting at the kitchen table and arranging sheet music, “would you escort our guests across the yard?”
Delmont scurried to catch the Winklers, now exiting the back door. When it closed, Uttleman