To escape the whirlpool on his own, he would have to execute a technique he’d only read about: the elevator maneuver. He recalled that the hydraulic’s current was strongest on the surface; even the best swimmer was no match for its power. Underwater, however, once the initial undertow subsided, an opportunity existed to push through the whirlpool. The key to the maneuver lay in allowing the whirlpool to suck him under, like pressing the down button on an express elevator, and then at the deepest and weakest spot, to swim out of the water column. If successful, he would pop out ten or fifteen meters downstream.
Moments later the whirlpool jerked him under again. Rather than resisting, Grant curled into a fetal position as he shot downward. This time he felt no fear, his mind strangely clear but for the immediate task before him. The moment he felt his momentum slow, Grant kicked as hard as his numb legs would allow while pulling with his arms. He made progress, but tired quickly. Then, his foot struck something solid—the underwater boulder causing the hydraulic.
A thought occurred. Why not use the rock to push myself out?
It was the wrong idea.
Planting his right foot on the rock for leverage, he pushed with the last of his energy, but instead of launching himself downriver, his foot slipped on the polished surface of the rock and wedged itself deep between the boulder and another rock beside it. Grant didn’t have time to register what he’d done. A rush of current twisted his body. He couldn’t possibly hear the cracking of his shin over the muffled roar of the water in his ears, but he experienced the splitting of his lower leg as a white light that flashed through him, as if he’d been struck by lightning.
Grant realized he was going to drown.
A cold blackness closed in around him. After the initial flash of agony, he no longer felt the pain in his leg, nor did he experience the burning in his lungs. Even the roar of the water faded into the darkness. Grant’s body went limp. Enveloped in a cool cocoon, he slipped into peaceful dream. He dreamed of flowing like the river, as if he and the water had become part of the same substance.
CHAPTER 2
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
A GUITAR RIFF RIPPED THROUGH the bank of speakers suspended over the stage. Each of the five thousand audience members stood, some on their tiptoes for a better view, most with arms in the air, and all bathed in the colorful stage lights that washed over them. Tears rolled out of the closed eyes of more than a few women in the front rows.
Brian Brady grinned at the crowd, enjoying the frenzy he’d created. Sweat ran from his silver-streaked hair down the sides of his tanned face. God, he loved this. Twenty years, and he never tired of the rush of the crowd’s adulation.
In synch with the drummer punctuating the end of the song, Brady raised both arms, embracing his people. He called out hoarsely through the wireless microphone attached behind his ear, “Let me hear you one more time!”
In unison the congregation responded, “Praise Jesus!”
“Who’s down with JC?”
“We are!” they screamed.
“If you are on the Lord’s team, what are you?”
“Saved!”
“If you are out of Christ, what are you?”
“Condemned!”
“We, the Army of the Righteous, shall bring light to the darkness,” Reverend Brady proclaimed in his smooth southern baritone, punching his fist in the air to the cheers of the congregation.
He lowered his arms palms down. Then he grinned at the crowd, showcasing his newly bleached teeth. “Can we chat?” He took a folding chair from a techie who rushed from backstage to meet him.
“You go, Reverend,” a voice called out from the middle of the congregation. A chorus of laughter sprinkled through the church.
Brady settled his two-hundred-pound frame into the chair, alone in the center of the stage. He straightened the lapel on his Armani suit, black with a fine blue pinstripe. The band Rapture stood behind him stage right; opposite them the thirty-member choir stood on risers, their crimson robes blowing from the powerful fans hidden offstage. Surveying the audience as they anticipated the topic of this Sunday’s sermon, Reverend Brady spoke in the disarming tone he used to connect with his people, as if he were sharing iced tea with each of them alone in their living rooms.
“I am troubled, my friends. I’m troubled with the corruption of our once great nation.” He paused, allowing the thought to sink in. When he spoke, he did so deliberately, enunciating each syllable so that the echo in the cavernous New Hope Church of God wouldn’t muffle his words.
“Corruption in our country takes many forms: the eradication of religion from our schools, our children’s fascination with the occult in the Harry Potter and Twilight books, sex and violence in our television shows, politicians who care more about saving their elections than saving their constituents.”
Leaning forward on the edge of his seat, he continued, “But today, we will talk about Satan’s more subtle temptations. My friends, I’m here to warn you that sin targets not just the unfaithful. It targets you as well.”
Murmurs spread through the congregation. Brady immediately noticed the man in the front row who sat ramrod straight, perched on his seat like a cobra waiting to strike. His crew cut was sprinkled with signs of premature gray, the deep crease between his eyes adding to the illusion of age beyond his years. The stage lights brought out the worst of the man’s eczema: the top layer of skin on his face was flaking away, exposing the red flesh underneath. Brady paused to give thanks to the Lord for his own flawless complexion.
“Now, I don’t wish to cast stones at anyone ...”
Brady rose from his chair, descended the marble steps to the front row, and placed a hand on the shoulder of a midthirties blonde in a pastel cotton dress that complemented her athletic physique. Brady scanned the aisle to see where his camera guy was kneeling and turned his body to block any shot of the eczema man sitting two seats away. He was always conscious of who was being projected onto the giant screen suspended over the stage.
“But last Thursday evening, when I was picking up some groceries, I noticed Barbara Howell here coming out of the yoga studio in the shopping center off Montevallo Road.”
Barbara gazed up at the reverend as a child might look at a parent, knowing she was in trouble but unsure of the nature of her infraction. Brady smiled at her indulgently. “First Corinthians instructs us that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. By exercising, we honor God, who created us in his image. Now, I know Barbara strives to live according to the ways of our Savior, but”—he paused, holding his index finger in the air—“even well-intentioned activities can be fraught with sinfulness, if we are not vigilant.”
At the word sinfulness Barbara’s expression grew more concerned. The entire congregation watched her, as Brady knew they would. “You may think that yoga, with its stretching and breathing techniques, is a peaceful way to exercise and relax after a hard day’s work. But don’t be fooled. Yoga is not Christian. Yoga is Hindu in origin and practice. Of course, these teachers won’t portray it as religious at first, but one day you’re touching your toes, and then before you know it, you’re chanting in Sanskrit, trying to find God within yourself.”
Reverend Brady’s grip tightened on Barbara’s shoulder. He looked from her to the vaulted ceiling forty feet above them, increasing the volume of his voice. “God, our Father almighty, creator of the universe, and judge over all mankind: these so-called yogis would have you believe that the supreme