3:23 p.m. Passion Ministry

“Rosario’s gigs are selling well out west, but not in east,” Phil said. He rubbed his head. Waited. As they did every Tuesday afternoon, he, John and Brendan were slouched around a boardroom table, discussing Passion Sound.

John remained silent, focused on lighting a candle.

“We could really use another top ten.”

To an outsider, the Ministry’s moneyman appeared cool and assured. But John knew that though Phil hid his reaction to the enormous stress of handling the Passion Ministry’s finances, it festered below.

It was almost visible now since Brendan’s latest find, a ‘girl group’ named RubyTunes, had split up just as they were gaining a following.

Passion Sound had to scrap their album, suffering a major financial hit. Now, Brendan worked overtime, juggling the creative demands and abilities of the three divas, as each launched a solo career.

John knew CD sales were in free fall due to computer and mobile phone downloading. Of course, his company wasn’t alone. All the record giants were scrambling to adjust to the new digital reality. The situation was becoming critical, but John couldn’t face going out on the road, even though that’s where the money was.

His eyes slid often toward the phone. He had arranged the call, but what would he say? What could he say? Belly coiled with anxiety, John concentrated on Brendan’s words.

“How ‘bout we watch Rosario’s interview, Big Guy? Think you’ll be pleased.”

John nodded, grateful for the distraction.

“Fun interview,” said John, as Brendan flicked off the TV. “Good for Rosario.” He smiled. “Excellent prep, Brendan, as usual. Thank you.”

The young man tossed Phil a triumphant look.

John frowned, thoughts skidding away again. Surely the call would come soon. His fingers tensed at the thought of the now fatherless Manuel children. He wasn’t to blame. Why did he feel so guilty?

Phil was speaking, “…timing couldn’t be better with financing.”

John lurched forward. “Pardon? Did you say financing?”

Brendan smirked.

Phil attacked his scalp and hurried on. “This new vision could lead us into natural extensions like books and TV specials, maybe even an animated series for kids. You’ve already written songs for Jimmy.”

He eyed his boss. “Come on, John! You’re always talking about how we teach the Word to the next generation. This way we do it all.”

“You’ve obviously done your research,” John replied. “And I know you’ve got the Ministry’s best interests at heart. But no bank’s going to own a piece of Passion. Ever.” He squeezed his temples. “I’m so tired. Can’t you see?”

Phil frowned. “Sure, John. Know it’s been tough lately, with the concert hoopla and Jimmy’s health, but...”

“There’s an enormous personal cost in the making of this fortune,” John said, voice breaking. He paused. A wave of panic spilled over him, followed immediately by a soothing realization. It’s over.

Brendan jumped into the uneasy hush. “Hey!” he began excitedly, faux accent increasing. “Got a great idea. Why—”

“Later, kid,” Phil said.

“Don’t interrupt me!”

“Enough!” John shoved back his chair. Stood. The others gaped. “It’s a waste of time. There isn’t going to be anything else to sell.”

Phil cocked his head. “Huh?” asked Brendan.

“Told you I’m tired. I need a break.” John slid back into his chair, amazed at how good it felt to say the words, to feel the weight lifted. “Maybe permanently.” He thrust forward to lay his fingers flat onto the table and was surprised to see them trembling. “The tongue can no man tame,” he whispered. “It is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.”

“What?” Phil stared at John.

“My enemies mock me. Lunatics misconstrue my lyrics, killing innocent doctors and claiming sanctity under my name.” Now, John’s temper rose with every word. “I’m a poster boy for a bunch of murderers! It must stop. If I walk away, maybe it will.”

Brendan and Phil just stood, their faces blank with shock. “Bbbut John,” Phil finally stammered, “those murders aren’t your fault. No one blames you.”

“I refuse to be vulnerable,” shouted John, driving to his feet again. He thrust his palm over the lit candle on the table. Pushed until the yellow tongue twisted against his flesh.

The others watched, gaping in disbelief.

“We can live anywhere if I give up the Ministry and the business,” continued John, his words rushing out. “Jimmy’s my legacy and I can keep him safer if I take him away from all this.” Just then, a sunbeam slid across the window frame, casting a dark shadow across his face. A tiny hiss escaped as John’s sweat evaporated.

“Please John,” Phil pleaded.

John stopped his friend with a look. “You think this’s without a price?” Again, his hand played over the burning wick. Then, he turned up his palm to reveal a ring of black soot. “They say I’m blessed. All these years of writing songs of inspiration for millions of people, only to have them subjected to the most venal, twisted interpretation…sounds more like being damned.”

“Now, John,” Phil began again, “nobody’s—”

John wasn’t listening; instead, he stared at his palm. “A fire goeth before him, and burneth up his enemies.” He shuddered.

The phone rang.

For a moment, the three men froze, then John grabbed the receiver with his blackened hand. “Yes? Oh, yes, thank you.”

He waved the others quiet. “Put her on. Mrs. Manuel? Yes, hello?” He spoke slowly, voice filled with concern. “Mrs. Manuel, this is John Jacobs calling—” He grimaced, listening.