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Excerpt from ROOT OF ALL EVIL? A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL by Ray Keating

On the Church calendar, August 24 marks the day we celebrate St. Bartholomew, the Apostle. In the Pastor Stephen Grant thrillers and mysteries, Father Tom Stone is the rector at St. Bartholomew’s Anglican Church on Long Island. For good measure, as the days pass in August and we head into September, we hear more about schools and education. The following chapter is an excerpt from ROOT OF ALL EVIL? A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL. The reader gets a feel for Father Stone, a bit about St. Bart’s, and we are introduced to Mike Vanacore and how education works into the story. Oh, yeah, and surfing.

Enjoy, and read the entire book by getting the paperback or Kindle edition at Amazon.com, or order a signed book. Thanks!

Chapter 22

Part of Mike Vanacore’s story seemed to be a replay of others’ in the computer, digital, broadband economy.

The thirty-two-year-old billionaire fell in love with electronics and computers while growing up in Hawthorne, California, which happened to be the Beach Boys’ hometown. Vanacore’s hard-working parents supported his interests and talents as best they could, and rejoiced when his excellent grades in high school, particularly in math and science, earned him a full ride to the School of Engineering at Stanford University.

Since they were intense gamers, Vanacore and two college friends decided to do more than complain about the shortcomings of various video games. By their sophomore year, they were consumed by creating their own video games, and managed to generate some buzz. Vanacore’s buddies, however, moved on under parental pressure when grades slipped badly.

But Vanacore had little trouble maintaining high marks, while at the same time creating a video game business.

He found a couple of angel investors to provide start-up capital, and by his senior year, Corevana Entertainment had grown to more than 100 employees, and $30 million in sales.

But rather than dropping out to focus exclusively on his firm, as other young tech turks had done, Vanacore finished his degree. After graduation, Corevana’s growth only accelerated, and its initial public offering made Mike Vanacore a billionaire at the age of 26.

Along the way, Vanacore became known in various circles for maintaining his Christian faith taught to him growing up. Compared to some of his fellow tech nerds, who earned reputations for power trips and/or wild parties that came with newfound wealth, Vanacore was highlighted now and then in the business media for being, well, Christian. 

As the U.S. Episcopal Church wandered away from the traditional Episcopal parish of his childhood, Vanacore actually spoke out. Some in the Episcopal Church took notice given his wealth and youth, but he was quickly discounted as just another “conservative” who refused to change with the culture. Some noted the irony of such criticisms given how he made his fortune.

When Vanacore decided to buy a home across the country on Long Island as an occasional escape from his California-based business, he stumbled upon St. Bart’s one Sunday. He apparently fell in love with the beautiful, castle-like stone church set on four lakeside acres in Eastport, and most importantly, with what was being taught and preached in the building. When the parish decided to leave the Episcopal Church, eventually joining the Anglican Church in North America, it was Vanacore who ponied up a majority of the funds needed to purchase St. Bart’s property from the local Episcopal diocese.

Vanacore was now expanding his charitable giving into primary and secondary education. His plan was to use his wealth to make substantive changes in individual local public schools, that is, in the kind of school he attended.

But his parish priest, Father Tom Stone, was about to ask Vanacore to listen to an alternative.

On the way out of Mass on Saturday night, Stone asked Vanacore if he had a little time to talk.

Ten minutes later, they were seated in Stone’s office, talking across the priest’s unique redwood, surfboard-shaped desk. A friend and parishioner had the desk specially made as a gift, given Stone’s off-duty love of wearing Hawaiian shirts, and his high school and college years spent living and surfing in southern California.

In fact, though about 20 years apart, Stone and Vanacore shared more than a common faith, but also a southern California connection.

Vanacore ran his right hand along the front of the desk. “As I said before, you have the best desk ever. A surfboard. Love it.”

“It was a gift from Clint Gullett. Handmade. It’s a great reminder of my California days. I’m sure he’d be glad to let you know who makes them,” replied Stone.

“I’ll ask him. So, when was the last time you hit the surf?”

Stone laughed. “It’s been at least, what, 25 years.”

Vanacore slipped into a mock surfer voice, and declared, “Dude, we have to remedy that.”

With his thin, tall frame, topped off by thick blond hair, and Clark Kent glasses, it was easy to see Vanacore moving comfortably in either the video gaming or surfing communities.

The young billionaire continued, “But I’m sure you didn’t ask me to stop by to talk about surfing.”

Stone replied, “No. Ever since you told me about the education foundation you’re starting up, something has been nagging at me. But I was not sure if it was my place to say anything, and then I got a call this morning.”

“Tom, you know I’m open to hearing your ideas and thoughts on anything, and considering that you’re a priest, and therefore, you teach people, I’d love to hear what’s on your mind.”

“I appreciate that. I know your focus is on targeting and helping select public schools.”

“Right.”

“Have you thought about supporting parochial schools instead, or as well?’

Vanacore paused. “Well, not really. I went to public schools growing up, and that’s kind of guided my thinking on this.”

“I can understand that. But given what you’ve told me about your childhood and your parents, do you think they would have sent you to a Christian school if they could have afforded it?”

“Actually, I have no doubt about that. I remember overhearing them talking about it late into the night at the kitchen table, and regretting they couldn’t afford it.”

“Today, it’s even tougher. Most families simply can’t take on the added cost of a religious education for their kids.”

“Like my parents. I understand that. But does it matter? I went to public school, and it was my parents, our priest and parish that kept me in the faith.”

“I’d say you were very lucky then. Given the state of our culture, it’s not easy to keep kids strong and active in the faith. Listen, Maggie and I have sent all our children to parochial school, and they obviously have gotten an up-close-and-personal church experience growing up as well. But when you consider the impact that schools have on children, just given the time spent in school and what’s being taught, there is that possibility of what’s being taught at home getting undermined in school. We only saw the upside in sending the kids to parochial school.”

“Yeah, that used to drive my parents nuts. My father complained about having to undo what was being done in school at times.”

“Now think about how many parents don’t even know what’s going on and being taught in school, or when they do know, not having the confidence to take it on, like your father did.”

Vanacore took his glasses off, and chewed on one of its arms. After a few seconds, he put the glasses back on his face. “Okay, Tom, you make a good case. What more were you thinking? What was the call about that stirred you to set up this little meeting?”

“As you know, the school that Maggie and I sent the kids to, and still send one, is St. Luke’s Catholic School. It’s been a tremendous blessing. And by the way, make no mistake, you can send your children to what you think is a faithful, traditional Christian school, and even then it unfortunately can turn out to be something different. But that most certainly has not been the case with St. Luke’s.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Absolutely. However, there is a lot of uncertainty about the school’s future, given recent closings of Catholic schools. I’m not asking this because of my family’s link, but because St. Luke’s is a great place and it’s in the midst of planning how to grow and secure its future. I thought it would be an ideal opportunity for you to talk to the people who run a quality parochial school, see what the school offers, and consider the challenges it faces.” Stone paused. “I can set up a meeting or meetings with Father Burns and Father McDermott, the principal, Mrs. Fleming, staff, parents, whatever. What do you think?”

“I would love to meet with the people at St. Luke’s.”

“That’s great. Shall I set it up?”

Vanacore smiled. “Yes, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Before the end of the year, you have to promise to come out to my place in California and go surfing. The entire family is invited, and you’ll fly on my jet.”

“Mike, that’s really nice, but I …”

“No ‘buts,’ Tom. Either you promise to get back on the board at my place, or no deal on meeting with St. Luke’s.”

It was Stone’s turn to smile. “You drive a hard bargain, Mike. Take a free trip to surf in California, or else? What can I say, but yes, and thanks?”

“It’ll be sick.”

After Mike left, Tom called a friend for a little guidance on the economics of education.

Book Excerpt: Prologue from "Warrior Monk: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel" by Ray Keating

Prologue

A few years after the fall of the Soviet Union

      A suppressor never threw off his aim.  But it served as a distraction while the gun rested in his shoulder holster.

     He felt like the target could spot the weapon more easily. Objectively, he understood this wasn’t the case below a suit jacket and trench coat.  Still, it didn’t feel right.

    The two Americans drove on a narrow country road about an hour outside of Paris. Rain was in the forecast, and the dark gray clouds appeared ready to burst. But not a drop had fallen yet. 

Sunflowers populated field after field along the way.  He wondered how the tall, top-heavy plants could stand so erect.

His partner on this particular assignment dropped him off around the corner from an old church, a small wood and stone structure at the center of a bucolic village.  If all ran on schedule, the target, Vladimir Chenko, would be waiting in a pew.

     Chenko not only had been a veteran military officer for the Soviet Union and then Russia, but also was a CIA asset. The Russian reported on the communists for years, and more recently, tried to spot any nuclear materials wandering off.  Or, at least, that was his assignment from the CIA.  

The nugget was money and an eventual life of capitalist leisure.  Chenko retired, and was ready to be united with a bank account packed with U.S. dollars. The Russian sought a safe, preferably tropical location with America’s help.

     But Chenko played both sides, and it had resulted in several deaths.  

One happened to be the American’s mentor and friend.

     By sheer luck, the agency stumbled upon evidence that Chenko had passed on information over the years from loose-lipped field operators who got too trusting, too comfortable and, therefore, sloppy.  That information cost the lives of two U.S. operatives and perhaps as many as ten Russian assets who worked to undermine Soviet communism.  

     With the Cold War over, Chenko apparently thought no one in the West would care enough to unearth his duplicity, or that his tracks were well covered.

    Chenko was wrong on each count. The Americans found out and were quite displeased.

    The American entered the tiny stone church, and stepped into the rear of the nave.  He could smell the age and decay of the place.  Like so many others in Europe, this church appeared empty – but for his target.  It increasingly seemed that if you wanted to arrange a discreet meeting, a church in Europe was ideal. 

He noted the side exit was open, only steps from where a man sat in the third pew, staring at the altar.

     Is the bastard praying?

He paused briefly, taking another look around, then moved forward and sat in front of Chenko.  The pew creaked.  From the sound on the stone outside the doorway, he knew the rain had started to fall. His gaze remained straight ahead, while giving the pre-determined phrase in fluent French. “This church has seen much over the centuries.”

      Chenko responded in Russian, “Yes, and it, no doubt, will see more.”

      He turned halfway around in the pew, and the Russian smiled broadly. 

      Chenko switched to English, “I am ready, my American friend.”

      Friend?

    He didn’t expect the Russian to be armed. After all, this was to be a happy occasion. Nonetheless, he looked Chenko over carefully.

     “My wife is on one floor of a Paris hotel, and my mistress on another.” Chenko laughed in delight as some do when they relish getting away with something. “Both await new lives.  How are we to proceed?”

     Without a word in response or to declare judgment, the American rotated back toward the altar, and reached his right hand inside his jacket for the Glock. 

    The fat, gray-haired Russian double agent moved with surprising quickness and strength. Chenko whipped a cord around his neck, cutting into his skin and cutting off his air.  

  He fumbled the gun as his hands reacted instinctively trying to pull away the cord. He was being hoisted back over the pew via this line of strangulation, feet just off the ground, seemingly helpless to fight back. 

        “I spotted the gun, comrade. Silencers make pistols so bulky,” Chenko spewed into his ear.

        Shit, I knew it.

      Darkness and death were not far off. He snapped his left wrist back hard, allowing the tactical knife strapped low on his forearm to slip forward. He grabbed it, pressed the thumb stud to open the 3.1-inch serrated-edge steel blade, swung it around, and plunged it into Chenko’s left calf.

         The Russian screamed a curse in his native language, but Chenko’s grip on the wire did not falter.

         Son of a bitch!

        Summoning the last bits of his faltering strength, he began pulling the knife up, slicing through skin and muscle, scraping against bone. 

         The double agent screamed.  Chenko’s left hand flinched and loosened ever so slightly. 

   Finally, he had his opportunity, jamming his right hand under the wire, and spinning his body away from Chenko and onto the floor, with the bloody knife still in his left hand.

       Struggling for air, he staggered to his feet. Chenko was pulling up his right pant leg, and grabbing a small revolver strapped above his ankle. 

         Crap!

         The Russian was straightening up to fire.

   One chance existed. He flipped the knife into his right hand, looked at Chenko’s chest, and threw it. The knife struck home.  The Russian dropped the gun. There was a strange, disturbing look of fear on Chenko’s face as he turned and looked around the church briefly, and then toppled to the floor dead.

   That’s the first of two.

        He picked up and holstered the gun; pulled the knife from the dead Russian, closed it and shoved it into his pocket; and took steps toward the side exit. 

    A voice from the back of the church asked in French, “Why, my son?”

         He did exactly what he was trained not to do. 

   He stopped and turned slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure in the shadows at the back of the church. A glimmering gold cross hung from a chain around the shadow’s neck, the only clear feature in the dim light.

    For some reason, he answered, “It had to be done. Justice.”  He walked out into the hard rain.

   Less than a minute later, he was picked up at the designated location.  Other than an exchange on how the mission was completed, they drove in silence.  

    In the heavy rain, the sunflowers growing in the roadside fields drooped their heads ever so slightly.

   Two hours later, he was on a commercial flight heading back to the United States.  

  But he felt different this time.  It wasn’t guilt, nor regret.  There was no satisfaction, which surprised him.  He felt empty.  

   Why risk answering that priest?

  He always saw his work as having meaning and purpose.  His head continued to recognize this.  However, a gnawing for something more had been growing deeper inside.  

   The vision of the priest and that light-gathering cross kept creeping back into his thoughts during the flight.  He tried to read or watch the in-flight movie, but to no avail.

    What did that priest think today?   Was Chenko praying?  Do I care?

   On that flight from Paris to New York, he realized that he did care.