Chapter 1

Sunday, March 21, 11:34 a.m. Passion Ministry, Washington State

“When did the softness leave your touch, I don’t recall, don’t recall. Are we still in love or not so much…” John paused, then continued to softly sing, hesitantly plunking piano keys. He was alone in his music room, part of his private quarters within the Passion Ministry compound. Sunlight streamed across the Steinway’s lid, burnishing its mahogany surface to a startling peacock blue.

Though originally shaped by the craggy landscape of Scotland—its Highland accent still colored his voice—John felt at one in his forested Washington State home. It was there, under the protective sheath of dappled light two decades earlier, that he had finally dared mine the courage to exhume his soul and ask why. Why had he, a singer/songwriter better known for his movie-star looks and furious temper, been chosen for the divine burden? The Lord’s blessing or Christ’s curse?

Today, though exhausted and in pain, he felt doubly blessed. After an absence of months—during which he had prayed, fasted and, a first for him, abstained from sex—the stigmata had reappeared six weeks ago. John was closer to Christ than ever; each visitation of the marks, each hallucinatory experience in that ancient Constantinople church, convinced him of His presence within.

Years of suffering and enlightenment had persuaded him that he was the embodiment of Jesus Christ. With an effort, he transformed his agony to authority. A heavenly muse was creating his music and his messages; all he had to do was deliver.

Taking a deep breath, he stretched his neck. With the arrival of the stigmata, first came pain and joy then eventually, a new vitality sparked and sputtered into his brain cells. It was as though his perception sharpened, giving him a sixth sense, especially where Jimmy was concerned. More confirmation that God’s favor was linked directly with his ten-year-old.
A cool ripple wafted across the back of his neck, arousing his apprehension. Something, some current of life had changed, deformed. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, he perceived danger. He’d have to be more vigilant. Allowing Jimmy to attend lessons outside the compound was folly. No, not folly, perilous. He shouldn’t have let Maggie convince him. From now on, the boy’s independence would be severely restricted. Soothed by that decision, he returned to writing.

A noise outside interrupted him. He grinned. Swung round as his son bounded in, accompanied by his dog, Darby.

“Hi, Father,” said the boy, plopping down on the piano bench. “Got an idea for Maggie’s birthday.”

“Great!” John shifted, making room. “I’m all ears.”

Jimmy plunked out a few notes. “How ‘bout a song from you and me?”

“Fantastic idea! Got a theme? A style?” John played a few bars of rap, with dramatic intensity. Darby barked excitedly. “How ‘bout that?”

Jimmy slid off the bench and dropped to the carpet. “Naaah,” he replied, tickling the little dog. “Maggie hates rap, you know that.”

John grinned. “Always said she was a woman of impeccable taste. So, Jimbo…what’re you thinking?”

“Something different. Distinctive.” He paused for a moment, fiddling with his glasses. “With trumpets, you know, military like.”

John cocked his head. “Military…for Maggie?”

Jimmy’s face fell.

John winced. He reached out to tousle his son’s hair but drew back just in time. “Trumpets’re a perfect choice, Jimbo. We could do a mix of brass and drums, something simple but haunting. Maggie’ll love it.”

Jimmy grinned and began wrestling with Darby.

John leaned back against the piano and laughed. So good to see you healthy and having fun. Suddenly, he was stung by a prick of guilt for planning to restrict his son’s movements beyond the compound.

What was the right thing to do? He wished he knew.