Watch You Fall (Decision Chronicles #1)

“I’m dying.”

          The whisper slipped from Michael’s lips, floating up through darkness and disappearing into the dry-rotted rafters of the empty church. He shifted on his sore knees, wooden floorboards squeaking beneath him. The metal folding chair wobbled beneath his clasped hands. His fingers had numbed from cold as afternoon dissolved into evening, the little church chilling with each passing minute.

I hate this place, he thought. He hated the rusty furnace that broke down every winter. Hated the rattling air conditioner that gave out every summer. Hated the hissing water pipes, drafty windows, flickering lights.

          But most of all, he hated that it was dying. And it’s taking me with it.  

          Three years. Three years he’d pastored this church. And what did he have to show for it? A church body smaller now than when he’d started. Even smaller after today. He thought back to his conversation with Doug Phillips, the latest parishioner to call it quits— “Nothing personal, Mike. Just not a good fit for us anymore.”

          Michael sighed, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “What am I doing wrong, Lord?” he muttered. “Why does it feel like I’m dying?”

          Why sugarcoat it? He was dying. Little by little. Didn’t matter where he went—the IV connecting him to the church always stretched the distance. Bleeding more and more life from him every day. Even in court—standing there in his cheap public defender’s suit, trying to supplement his tiny pastoral stipend cutting plea deals for shoplifters and public urinators—he felt the church riding on his shoulders, crushing him further and further toward the center of the earth.

          What am I doing here? He’d gone into ministry to save souls. Not referee marital squabbles and potluck problems. “I’m in a wilderness, Lord,” he whispered, running a hand through his prematurely thinning hair. “And I don’t know the way out.”

          “How tall is this building?” called a voice behind him.

          Michael’s heart skipped a beat. He turned, squinting across the darkened church to the source of the voice. A man sat in the back, concealed in shadow. “How tall is this building?” he repeated. “Roof to the ground? Eighteen, twenty feet?”

          Michael struggled to his feet. “Not sure. Something like that.” He walked across the rickety church, shaking the pins and needles from his legs. That voice—familiar and strange at the same time. Like a voice from the radio—known, but not personally.

          Michael stopped a few feet from the man who sat in the last row, leaning forward over a chair back. Moonlight streamed through the side window across his folded hands. Michael blinked—those hands. The most perfect hands he’d ever seen. Smooth, but strong. Skin flawless—not the smallest nick or tiniest freckle. Nails trimmed to millimeter precision. Ornate silver watch encircling his left wrist. A gold ring glinting on his pinky, inset with a stone so deeply, blazingly red that Michael wondered if it was formed from pure blood.  

          “Caught your sermon today.” That voice. Flawless as the hands. Rich and smooth, like soft-serve ice cream—and with the same hint of chill. The man chuckled. “’Heroes of Faith’. Amusing.”

          Amusing. Michael felt a prick of annoyance. Glad you were so tickled, buddy. But to be honest, the sermon wasn’t exactly a barn-burner, was it? He’d hoped it would be—he’d been excited for this one. More excited than he’d felt in a dozen Sundays. Finally thought I had something. Finally, a splash of water in a season of interminable dryness. But the message fizzed out like flat Coke. What did I miss? Why did it feel like a partial sermon? An opening statement with no closing argument?

          He stared at the stranger’s perfect hands. How did I miss this guy, anyway? He hadn’t noticed any strangers during the service. And given the dwindling numbers, wouldn’t he have spotted a newcomer? He offered his hand. “Michael.”

          “Callidus.”

          Callidus? A surname, surely. Rather than shake, Callidus handed Michael a business card. Perhaps he feared shaking would mar his perfect hands.

          The card was heavier than Michael expected. Thicker. Jet black with the single name etched in scrolling gold letters—Callidus. He checked the back, searching for a business name or other information. Nothing. Just the name. He stared at the card, mesmerized by the shiny lettering—glimmering as if on fire. Is that actual gold?

          Michael still couldn’t make out the stranger’s face. Only a dark silhouette and two perfect hands protruding from the black sleeves of an expensive-looking suit jacket. What’s he doing here? He said he caught the sermon, but that was hours ago. Why return at night? Michael tucked the card in his breast pocket. Felt the weight of it against his chest. “What can I do for you, Mr. Callidus?”

          Callidus sighed. The rush of air chilled the room. “Would you jump off the roof for a thousand dollars?”

          Michael blinked. “I’m sorry?”

          A perfect finger pointed upwards. “This roof. Would you jump off for a thousand dollars?”

          What? Michael grappled for words. Couldn’t find any.

Callidus laughed. Playful notes dancing through darkness. “Only kidding with you, pastor. A meaningless joke.”

          Michael was used to dealing with odd characters—never knew who you’d encounter as a public defender. Yet he sensed in Callidus something different. A deeper oddity, surpassing mere eccentricity. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Callidus?”

          “Actually, I’ve come to help you.”

          “How so?”

          Callidus shifted in his chair, as if scanning the room. “You speak well, Michael.”

          “Thank you.”

          “Very well.” Callidus sighed again. Another chilly rush of air. “It’s a gift. Speaking well. An intricate dance of cadence. Syntax. Diction.” He waved his finger like a conductor guiding an orchestra. “It’s not about what you say. It’s how you say it.”

          Michael frowned. Didn’t know if he agreed with that.

          “These people don’t appreciate you, Michael. They don’t recognize all the effort you’re wasting on them.”

          Michael opened his mouth to disagree…but couldn’t. A fire smoldered in his belly, a fire he managed to smother most days. But there were times. Moments. Moments of weakness. Of cold and lonely frustration. Moments of tiredness and loneliness and discouragement. That’s when the fire sprang to life. A fire that snapped and crackled, hissing the words they don’t appreciate you. He didn’t expect a parade. But a thank-you, a word of encouragement—even a well-timed smile would be something. Some indication that he wasn’t fighting the wind.

          Life as a public defender wasn’t any easier. Spending all day with clients who lied and complained and screamed in his face. Who fled court appearances and plied him for cash and threw up on his shoes. Then home to relieve a frazzled wife juggling two children—both under three—with another on the way.

          He could handle it all—he really could—if he knew really knew he was making a difference. But right now…

          “Have you ever thought about private legal practice?” Callidus asked.

          How does he know I’m a lawyer? “That was the original idea. After I passed the bar. Work at a practice a few years, then start my own. But then I was called to ministry.” Why am I telling him this? Was he trying to justify his life to the stranger? Or to himself?  

          “Called.” Callidus uttered the word like a curse. “Calledto upstate New York? I’m sure you’re a godsend to the mountain lions and mosquitos. Why fritter your talents here? The best firms are in the City.”

          “This is where my congregation is. I can’t leave them.”

          “Even when they’re leaving you?”

          Michael’s temper rose. Who is this guy? How does he know these things? “Look, who are you?”

          “I’m opportunity, Michael. Your opportunity. Think of me as…” Callidus paused. “An answer to prayer.” He folded his arms atop the seat back. Shadow still obscured his face. “These people don’t appreciate your talents, Michael. But I do. That’s why I’m here. I know all about you. Know you graduated at the top of your class. Know you aced the bar exam.” His perfect fingers tightened on his forearms. “Know you’re wasting your life here.”

          Again, Michael opened his mouth to argue. Again, he couldn’t. How could he? It took evidence to refute a claim. And what evidence did he have? A stagnate church body worshipping in a leaky building?

          “I want you to work for me, Michael,” Callidus said. “I have an advertising firm in the City. Want you to join our legal department.” Michael heard a smile in his voice. “Nothing is more valuable to me than a man with a golden tongue.”

          “Like I said, I can’t—”

          “Imagine a number, Michael. A bloated, obscene number. Whatever you’re picturing, I guarantee you I’m offering more.” He spread his hands. “I’m the best at what I do. Because I know what people want. And even more, I know what I want. I want you, Michael. And I’m willing to pay.”

          Michael’s mind began to buzz. What was happening? Why was he finding it so difficult to think clearly? Exhaustion? Undoubtedly. But was it more than that? The more Callidus talked, the deeper Michael fell into a haze—the same haze that overcame him when he took the man’s card. Mesmerizing. That was how it felt talking to Callidus—like entering a hypnotic trance.

          Trance or not, he knew his answer.

          “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass.”

          He expected kickback, but Callidus merely sniffed. The chill in the building grew more oppressive and Michael rubbed his arms. Callidus appeared unaffected by the cold. Just stroked a velvety suit sleeve with his thumb.

“If I offered you ten thousand dollars,” he asked quietly, “would you jump off the roof?” He raised a hand. “Purely hypothetical, mind you.”

          This again. What was this fixation with jumping off the roof?

          “You’re still a young man, right?” Callidus said. “Thirty-five, thirty-six? What’s the worst that could happen? Sprained ankle? Bruised knee? Small price to pay for ten thousand dollars.”

          Ten thousand dollars. The amount slowly sank in. What a miracle ten thousand dollars would be right now. For the church, certainly.

But also, for himself.

He could replace his battered car, limping on vehicular life-support for months now. Or he could beat back the fanged monstrosity of bills which hovered just outside the door, waiting for a single missed payment to swoop in and plunge Michael and his family into financial ruin.

          Would I jump for ten thousand dollars? A ridiculous question. But if the money was sitting right in front of him—a hundred green Ben Franklins stacked one atop the other—wouldn’t he at least be tempted? This is stupid. He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear the fog thickening in his mind.

          “Are you familiar with Le Oasis?” Callidus asked.

          “The restaurant?” He’d heard stories of the decadent four-star eatery just outside the City. One of the deacons had a niece or cousin who worked there, right? A favorite haunt of celebrities and politicians. He recalled stories of deserts topped with gold, dinner bills in the tens of thousands, and delicacies most kings would never enjoy.

          “There’s a room they keep reserved just for me. My own private corner of the oasis.” Callidus fingered his ring. “Come with me. I’ll call and have my table ready for the moment we arrive. And you’ll know for the rest of your life what it means to eat like a king.”

          Michael hesitated. Knew what he should do. Knew the dinner invite was just an excuse to talk about the job. But one word stuck in his mind:

          Spaghetti.

          How many times that week had he eaten spaghetti? Not just at the dinner table, but out of a Cool Whip container at the public defender’s office? Cold spaghetti with lumpy sauce that left brownish-red crust around the bottom of the container. Just the thought of real food made his stomach growl.    

          “Imagine a steaming filet mignon,” Callidus said. “Thick as a phone book, but cuts with a fork. Red like an African sunset. And the aroma, oh. A smell that drives the sanest men mad. That first bite…” Callidus sighed. “It’s a religious experience, Michael. You’re never the same. Realize in an instant that this is how meat is meant to be. Caramelized outer crust caving way to a tender, inner meat that melts on the tongue. An explosion of raw, ferocious goodness that permanently rewires the mind. One bite”—he snapped his fingers—“and you’re changed. All other delicacies shrink back in the shadows. Shamefully renouncing their claim as food. Bowing before the only one truly worthy—the Le Oasis filet mignon.”

          Michael didn’t dare open his mouth for fear of drooling. Steak. Had he ever enjoyed the delicacy—not a bargain-bin chuck blackened on a grill, but a real steak? He pressed a hand to his stomach, trying to suppress the rumblings. Maybe there’s no harm. After all, what was so wrong with just hearing the guy out? He could at least extend the courtesy, right? Be polite. Let Callidus make his pitch.

          And it’s not just the food, is it?

          Wasn’t there the tiniest part of him—a selfish, egotistical part—that wanted to be plied with a fancy dinner? Callidus was clearly a man of means—didn’t his persistence speak to Michael’s worth? Eccentric and mysterious, sure. But he saw value in Michael. Something the church’s apathetic congregants couldn’t say.

          “So how about it, Michael?” The folding chair creaked as Callidus leaned closer. “Do you want to truly live?”

          Michael thought about the steaming steak. Dripping with juices and grease and sweet, caramelized fat.

But he knew his answer.

“Sounds delicious,” he said with a sigh. “But man doesn’t live by bread alone.”

          Callidus snorted. “Deuteronomy.”

          The response surprised Michael—he knows scripture?

Callidus stood, chair sliding back with a slow screech. Even in darkness, his height was evident—six-two or six-three. He propped a foot on the folding chair. Moonlight danced on a gleaming black shoe. Highest quality—just like everything else with Callidus. The type of leather you could check your teeth in. He slowly tapped his toe. “What are you doing here, Michael? Who’s it really for?”

          What AM I doing here? Hadn’t he asked himself that very question? He wished he had a clever answer. A powerful, profound, resounding answer, pulsating with divine conviction. But all he had was the truth. And the further he pressed in ministry, the more he discovered that truth is often quiet. Truth is often simple. Michael folded his arms. “I’m where God’s called me to be.”

          “Are you?” Tap, tap, tap. Callidus’ polished shoe ticked like a metronome. “Where’s the evidence, Michael? The confirmation of this calling? Shouldn’t there be some proof? Some laurels of success?”

          Wham! An arrow to the heart. Where was the confirmation?

          “At what point does it stop being faithfulness and start becoming stubbornness?” Callidus asked. “Is that what you are, Michael? Too stubborn to acknowledge the truth? Too stubborn to admit you were wrong?”

          Michael opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to argue. Wanted to refute Callidus. But how could he? His livelihood as a lawyer hinged on facts. Evidence. The provable vs the improvable.

          Where was the proof in his life? The evidence of God’s favor? He’d felt it when he began his ministry—strong and surging, like a wild river. But where was that river when he needed it most? Here in this wilderness? Here in this dark, drafty church?

          “This opportunity I’m offering…you grossly misunderstand it. I’m not a slavedriver. Far from it. I like my workers fat, rich, and well rested. Keeps them away from competitors.” Tap, tap, tap. His shoe ticked up and down.“I’m not asking you to abandon your dream, Michael. Sundays will be yours to worship to your heart’s content. Just without the nuisance of the bill collector hovering at the door.”

          Michael closed his eyes. Allowed himself—for just an instant—a peek into the life Callidus offered. What he saw took his breath away.

          A life free of worry.

          Free of struggle. Free of penny-pinching.

          Free of cold spaghetti from a Cool Whip container.

          Saw his wife and children living in a nice house with nice clothes. Saw a church—a growing, thriving church in a new building where the toilets never backed up and the pipes didn’t freeze.

And he saw himself. Well-rested and stress free. Delivering sermons with an energy that comes from not worrying how the mortgage gets paid or if the car will start.

          “You don’t have to give up the calling,” Callidus said, voice soft. Almost gentle. “Just tweak it by one degree.”

          One degree.

          Such a simple compromise. Such a subtle alteration. He looked down at his hand. Imagined a compass in his palm. He could use a compass right about now. Here in the thick of the wilderness.  

          He imagined orienting himself with the compass—setting his bearings for true north. Then altering that bearing by one degree. One tick off true north. A minute change. A fractional adjustment. Barely noticeable.

           Michael heard a scribbling sound. The rip of paper. Callidus’ perfect hand dipped into the moonlight, arm resting across his knee. He held a check. “Would you jump of the roof of this church,” he murmured, “for twenty-five thousand dollars?”

          Michael stared at the check. Read and reread the amount written in bold black ink.

          Twenty-five thousand dollars.

          “The trouble with hypotheticals,” Callidus said, “is that it’s impossible to know what you’d really do. No way to know unless you’re actually faced with the situation.” He tapped the check. “Unless the money is actually in front of you.”

          “You can’t be serious,” Michael whispered.

          “I’m always serious when there’s a check in my hand. You can’t put a price on discovering what’s inside a man. What’s pocket change to me could be life-changing for you. Your family. This church.”

          Michael rubbed a hand over his mouth. He’s crazy. That much was obvious, right? So why didn’t he seem crazy? Why was there a strange sort of sense in his paying twenty-five thousand dollars to watch Michael jump off a roof?  

This is wrong. It had to be. This is WRONG. But for the life of him, Michael couldn’t put his finger on exactly why.

          He rubbed the back of his head. If only this infernal fog would clear his mind so he could think. He had no precedent for this. No life experience to fall back on. Twenty-five thousand dollars to jump off a church roof? Not a situation he’d ever planned for. He only knew it felt wrong. Bizarre. Even perverted—jumping off a roof because a stranger paid him to.

          But is that enough? Did that justify refusal? It feels wrong?

          Callidus held out the check and Michael took it. Ran his fingers over it. Didn’t feel like a check. Too smooth. Too delicious to the touch.

          What if this has nothing to do with morals? What if it’s just pride? Was that it? Refusing because he didn’t want to look foolish? Didn’t want to play trained monkey to a rich stranger?

          This doesn’t just affect me, does it? How much good he could do with twenty-five thousand dollars. Not just for his family—like Callidus said—but for the church. Should I just bite the bullet? Swallow the humiliation and take the cash?

          A breeze swept around him, nipping at the corner of the check. He frowned. Where did that come from? Was there a—

          He looked up from the check. Gaped.

          I’m on the roof.

          The church parking lot lay twenty feet below, the cracked, uneven pavement stopping just short of a forest that stretched for miles, merging with a horizon of cold stars. Moonlight painted everything in the misty sepia tones of a deep dream. A heavy aroma surrounded him—wet earth and dewy grass. The smell of night.

          How did I get up here? He turned, carefully straddling the angled roof. A metal ladder leaned against the gable a few feet away. Memory drifted back—following Callidus out of the church. Around the side. Up the ladder. Why was it all so hazy? Like returning to his body after briefly detouring somewhere else?

          A towering maple tree loomed at the edge of the property, casting its shadow over the church. Callidus stood in the shadowed section of roof, visible only in a beam of moonlight slashing from his left shoulder to his right foot.

          Michael studied the check. Had he agreed to jump? Surely not. Yet here he was. On the roof.  

          What if it’s just fear?

          Was that it? Was he really just afraid? Afraid to take the leap? Risk snapping an ankle? A leg? Wouldn’t he gladly accept those sufferings if he knew it would improve the lives of those around him?

          Tap, tap, tap.

          Callidus’ gleaming black shoe ticked against the shingles.

Michael judged the distance to the ground. Twenty feet at least. He wouldn’t jump toward the parking lot, obviously. A half-acre strip ran from the back of the church to the woods. Mostly rocky earth, patched here and there with scrubby grass and thistles. If he tucked into a roll as he landed…

Wait. Am I really considering this?

What was the most likely outcome? Bruised shin? Wrenched knee? Maybe he came away without a scratch.

But maybe he broke his back.

Or his neck.

“Two-thirds of a second,” Callidus said. He pointed to the silver watch on his left wrist. “A twenty-foot fall lasts two-thirds of a second.” He shrugged. “Not a lot to ask for twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Michael stared down at the amount. Twenty-five thousand. Such beautiful penmanship. A calligrapher couldn’t have done better. He rubbed his thumb over the velvety smooth check. More silk than paper. So much good. So much good he could do with this money. But amidst all his hazy thoughts, one stood out from the rest. Clear and unshakable.   

          It’s wrong.

          “Sorry, Mr. Callidus.” Michael crumpled the check. “My answer is ‘no’.”

Callidus’ fingers began to curl. “You’re a man of God, aren’t you? Surely, He can protect you from such a minor fall.”

          “He can,” Michael replied. “But my answer is still—”

          “Is your faith really so weak?” Callidus’ fingers continued curling. No longer smooth and perfect as before. Now they looked sharp. Pointed. “You expect God to trust you with the souls in this place”—he stamped his foot on the roof—“and you don’t even trust Him with your ankles?”

          A bitter gust of wind whipped around Michael’s shoulders, tugging him toward the edge of the roof.

          Callidus stepped closer, feet twitching in agitation. “You so love quoting scriptures. Doesn’t the Bible say He will command His angels concerning you so you will not strike your foot against a rock?”

          Michael dropped the crumpled check to the roof, letting the wind carry it away into the night. A fire smoldered in his chest. A fire he hadn’t felt since the day he was first called to ministry. “It also says, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”

          Callidus scoffed. “So comfortable in your piety. Look out there!”

          Michael followed his finger to the horizon.

          “Do you know how many people are out there?” Callidus said. “How much suffering?”

          In an instant, Michael saw them—the kingdoms of the world. Saw men and women suffering beneath the lash of slavery. Saw the pinched faces of starving children. Saw a million lost souls, crying out in anguish.

          “You could reach them, Michael. All of them. But do you know what you need? Funding.”

          Michael’s heart beat faster. He couldn’t tear himself from the vision of the world’s suffering.

          “Five years. That’s all it takes, Michael. Five years working for me. And you’ll make more than three lifetimes at the PD’s office. Enough to start an organization that reaches everyone. Don’t you understand what I’m offering, Michael? I can give you the world!”

          Blood boomed in Michael’s temples. So much good. So much good. All waiting on the other side of a five-year commitment to Callidus’ legal department. Just five years doing something he was good at.

          One degree. That’s what Callidus had said. Just alter your vision by one degree. He thought about the compass—just one degree off of true north. Such a minute change. Barely noticeable…at first.

But what if he followed that bearing for a mile, two miles, ten miles? How far would he wander from true north? From the true destination of his calling?

How far would he stray from the people entrusted to his care?

And in a flash, the vision changed—the faces of the nations replaced with the faces of his congregation. A sharp pang ripped his heart. The stab of a flaming knife. Because for the first time in a long time he saw them for who they truly were—not just people. His people.

A people that he loved.

          Michael set his jaw. “I can’t leave them, Callidus. I won’t abandon my flock.”

          Callidus cursed—a hot, violent curse that rippled off the shingles. He stabbed his hand into his breast pocket. Ripped out a wallet. “So self-righteous,” he muttered. “So content to let everyone burn. Because you won’t acknowledge what makes the world turn.” Callidus tore something from his wallet. Held it out in the moonlight—a one dollar bill.

          “You’ll never go anywhere, never do anything, never save anyone until you learn to honor this. You want to save the world, Michael? Meet your Master.” The bill shook in his trembling hand. “Bow in reverence to the almighty dollar.”

          Like clouds passing the moon, the fog cleared from Michael’s mind. For the first time since meeting Callidus, he could think. See. “The Word says, ‘Worship the Lord your God. Serve Him only.’”

     Callidus clenched the dollar in a tight, shaking fist. “Fifty thousand,” he growled. “Jump off the roof.”

          “No.”  

“Fool,” Callidus hissed. “Fool!” He gnashed his teeth with grating, bone-on-bone clicks. “I’ve paid so many. So many like you to jump off the roof. All limping around their fancy churches. Pockets lined with my money. Bones shattered and disjointed.”

          “Why?” Michael demanded. “Why do it? Why pay them to jump off the roof?”

          “Because I want to watch you fall!”

          The voice screeched through the night with something Michael had never experienced face-to-face—pure malignant hate. A hate so bitterly cold that it didn’t freeze but burned.

          “You…you people!” Callidus spat. “Walking around in your dress shirts and clip on ties. Boasting of dying for your faith, then crying ‘persecution’ when you get a case of the sniffles.” He spat on the roof, spittle glistening on the shingles. “A broken reality. A world where stars and angels fall, but people like you believe they can rise.” Callidus moved closer. The tree’s shadow seemed to move with him, darkness clinging to his form. “I’m fixing reality. Making sure men like you do what they were destined to do—fall.”

          Michael stared at the dark figure on the roof, recognizing for the first time who he was. What he was. The sermon he’d delivered earlier—Heroes of Faith. The one that felt so incomplete. He knew now what it was missing.

Heroes don’t just appear, do they? They rise up to face a threat. A villain. The rise of evil demanding the rise of good. A Goliath demanding a David. Michael pulled Callidus’ business card from his breast pocket. Flicked it to the ground. “We’re done here, Callidus.”  

          Callidus slowly back away. Disappearing in the shadow of the maple tree. Only his voice remained.

          “This isn’t over, Michael. I’ll be back. When the time is right.”

          Michael squared his shoulders. “I’ll be here.”