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Persona Non Grata — Prequel (Conclusion)

Chapter 3

Terror in the Park

Jace Packard blinked his eyes and began to unfold from the floor and front seat as the immediate pain of the accident subsided.  His leg continued to ache where he had collided with the steering wheel.  But when he flexed it he realized nothing was broken.  Sitting up in the driver’s seat he glanced at the open passenger door and tightened his jaw in anger.  She was gone.  But she couldn’t go far.

What had happened? Flipping on the headlights and peering forward, he could see nothing but the blank expanse of the California sky.  He opened the driver’s door and stepped out of the car, only to stumble, collapsing to the ground.  Twisting on the gravel, he looked up at the Jaguar, perched above him a foot in the air.  Slowly standing he stumbled to the front of the car and squinted underneath.  There, on top of one of the small boulders, his vintage Jaguar had come to a rest.  The collision had popped his left front tire, destroyed the wire wheel and crumpled the left fender, leaving the front corner of the car perched in the air on top of the stone.  Jace let out a stream of profanity without the least consideration that the big rock had stopped a descent that would have only ended at the bottom of the canyon.

Stumbling awkwardly back to the rear of the car Jace wrenched open the hood.  He rummaged through the compartment, threw the jack out onto the ground and emerged with a tire iron in one hand.  He shook his head and blinked his eyes again in an attempt to see straight and then tripped over the jack on the ground as he returned to the front of the car.  Only then did he seem to realize the futility of his efforts to repair the car or even change the tire.  “Victoria, you wretch,” he screamed, swinging the tire iron into wire wheel.  “Look what you’ve done to my car.”

Peering into the darkness of the park, he staggered over to the driver’s side and reached in to open the glove box.  Retrieving a flashlight he snapped it on and followed its beam — in search of Victoria Grant.


Paladin knew the way to Irvine Hills, but he also knew that it took a good fifteen minutes to get there from south Santa Ana.  He was hoping that if he broke the speed limit and ran every yellow and red light, he might make it there in ten. That was about the best time he could make in a Honda Civic.

Irvine Hills Park!  That was all the information Victoria had been able to give him before her phone went dead. When it did he didn’t waste an instant, running to his car and peeling away to the rescue.  “To the rescue!”  It sounded ridiculous.  As he sprinted out his front door, he’d considered for a split second calling the police.  That seemed the logical course of action.  But as soon as he thought it, something told him not to.  The police might not believe him.  They might ask stupid questions.  They might delay.  He didn’t know.  All he knew was that he was racing into a life or death situation he knew nothing about.

He was off the freeway now speeding through the sleepy suburbs of Irvine Hills.  He had never been to the little park that graced the community’s mountain backdrop. Still, he was acquainted with it.  It was obvious why Jace Packard had taken her up here.  Predictable behavior from a self-centered, ego-driven rich kid who owned almost anything he wanted – and thought he owned all the rest.

At once Paladin found himself climbing the small mountain, weaving his way up the road to the park.  His hands were sweating.  He’d better consider how to proceed.  Should he barrel into the park like the cavalry, horn blaring and lights flashing.  That might frighten away a burglar, but it was perhaps not the approach to take with a rapist, capable of forcing a young woman into violent silence while. . .

No, he decided as he pulled his car to the side of the road at the park’s entrance and shut off the engine.  He’d go on foot the rest of the way.  Hurrying past the sign at the gateway he stopped abruptly and took in the picture some 300 feet away.  A sports car was poised askew at the edge of the sloped parking area, its headlights pointing skyward into the gathering fog of the winter night.  Suddenly, out of the silence, its engine whined startlingly to life.


As her cell phone went dead, a wave of terror swept over Victoria.  She was suddenly completely alone.  She had no more time than to tell Paladin where she was – if he had heard that.  She looked back to the Jaguar in the distance.  Its headlights blazed garishly into the night sky.  Then suddenly she heard Jace bellowing her name from the darkness and momentarily a dull beam of a flashlight flickered alive and began to sweep over the grass, coming in her direction.

Dropping the useless phone, she struggled to her feet and looked around her at the unfamiliar park – looking for a place to hide.

The park was outlined against the mountain with a long arc of trees and shrubs. Running for the sanctuary of their protection she took refuge in a clump of hawthorn bushes.

“Victoria!” she heard his voice out of the darkness a moment later. “I found your purse — and your cell phone.  Oh,” he wailed in mock sympathy, “too bad your phone is out of power.  Looks like it’s just you and me.  There’s nowhere to hide.”

That wasn’t exactly true.  But hiding was going to be a challenge.  Her orange dress offered inadequate camouflage in the chaparral foliage.  In her favor, Jace’s flashlight provided her a constant bead on his location.  And her objective was to maintain as much space as possible between herself and that beam of light. But she had no idea how long she could play this savage game. If she could only move around to the entrance gate, she might get away.  Or maybe, with time, he would give up and stumble downhill himself.  Yet, Jace showed no sign of defeat, as the beam of light continued to move in her direction.

In this challenge between pursuer and pursued, Victoria had a bare advantage.  But that advantage required stealth.  She had to move quietly.  The snap of a twig could give her away. The flashlight beam was now about 25 feet away, meandering its way toward her like the nose of a blood hound.  Then the light began to veer away from her.  Was he losing the scent?  Breathlessly, she watched the ball of incandescence suddenly flickered off.

Whether Jace was attempting to adjust his eyes to the darkness or whether the flashlight had died, Victoria didn’t care.  She took a split second to decide.  Emerging from the bushes, she took one last look at where the light had been as she sprinted towards the entryway to the park.

Turning, she almost immediately plunged into a pair of grasping hands in the darkness as a rasping voice whispered to her.  “Victoria.” One of the hands released her as the yellow ray of the flashlight illuminated the cruel face of Jace Packard.  “It’s been so long.”  Victoria twisted herself free in terror and turned again to run, but in an instant, her assailant tackled her to the ground, as his flashlight rolled crazily in front of her.

“I told you can’t run from me, Victoria,” he laughed. “And there’s no one else here to run to.”

Crouching on all fours, Jace rolled Victoria onto her back.  All the while, her arms flailed on the ground in search of anything she could use to defend herself.  When her fingers fell upon the flashlight, she clutched it and swung upward with all her strength, smashing Jace in the side of the head.

He toppled to the ground with a cry of pain as Victoria struggled up and quickly looked around.  Jace would not be down for long and she knew she couldn’t outrun him.  Then her eyes fell on the headlights of the Jaguar, still point into the sky at the edge of the parking area.  Limping, she ran towards the lights, and her only hope of salvation.

When she arrived breathlessly at the wreck, she took one glance at the bent right front wheel and shook her head.  It might be functional.  It might not.  She pulled the front door open and literally climbed up into the driver’s seat to find out.  Leaning over to the console she turned the key and pumped the gas pedal.  As the car erupted to life she instantly yanked it into reverse and slammed on the gas.  The Jaguar lurched backward with the grating of metal on rock and crashed noisily to the ground.  The squeal of rubber under the hood let her know that something was seriously wrong, but still she gunned the gas as the Jaguar rocked another few feet in reverse.

Turning the steering wheel sharply and grinding the car into first gear she again shoved the pedal to the floor.  It limped a foot or two and then crumpled to the ground atop the twisted wheel, unable to move another inch.  The headlights squinted into the gathering fog, skewed at an angle across the pavement and up onto the grass of the park.  Victoria continued to frantically stamp on the gas pedal, whimpering helplessly as the crippled car rocked back and forth on the sloping ground.

At that instant the door sprung open again. Victoria screamed as Jace lunged at her and grabbed her by the throat as he pushed her back on the front seat.  He smiled, a line of blood trickling down his face from a cut above his eye.  “Seems like this is where all this began, little girl.  So, let’s finish what we started.”  He began to climb on top of her.

Suddenly a pair of hands reached into the car, seizing Jace by both shoulders and yanking him from the front seat.  He fell backward, and lost his footing.  Tumbling sideways, he steadied himself against the flank of the car.  Gripping onto the rear fender he regained his balance and righted himself as he looked angrily into the face of Paladin Smith.


Paladin was filled with instant rage as he jerked Jace from the front seat and shoved him aside like a drunken rag doll.  His fingers balled into involuntary fists as he followed Jace’s path – only waiting for the staggering boy to come to a rest before he laid at least one solid punch into the face of the teenage rapist. But as Jace looked up dully at him, Paladin’s reason finally came into focus. Victoria!

Turning his attention from Jace, Paladin turned toward the front of the car.  But before he had taken one step the young man leaped upon him with a maniacal scream.  Twisting, the two of them fell against the back of the car before tumbling to the ground in a contest of deadly mastery.  They strugggled on the ground behind the Jaguar, rolling dangerously close to the edge of the pavement.  Paladin felt soft shoulder of the mountain beneath them when suddenly he struck his head on one of the large rocks bordering the parking area.  Momentarily dazed he rolled onto one side as Jace stood quickly up, grabbed a fist-sized stone and swayed above him in the darkness.

“I’ll kill you,” he sneered.  He took one uncertain step forward, and then sidestepped, losing his balance, and tripped over the same bolder at Paladin’s head.  Without a groan or cry of alarm he disappeared over the edge, and all was silent but for the whining idle of the Jaguar in the night.  Paladin struggled to his feet and shuddered as he looked out into the blackness.  Walking with uncertain steps, he rounded the car to the open front door where he found Victoria, still coughing and choking on the front seat.

“Victoria,” he said, reaching out to lift her up.  His touch elicited a violent recoil and a gasp of terror. “Victoria,” he soothed, “it’s me.  It’s Brother Smith.”  Opening her eyes she sat up and hugged him with tears in her eyes.  As she did so, he reached in and turned off the ignition.  Breaking the embrace he looked her quickly over. “Are you all right.  Did he do anything to you?  I mean. . . “

She sighed with relief and shook her head.  “No, I’m fine.  Where’s Jace?” she looked around with renewed fear.

Paladin glanced away then back at her.  “He was pretty drunk.  He lost his balance and went over the edge.  He won’t bother you anymore.”

Victoria said nothing but only stared at Paladin with a peaceful smile.  But in a split second her eyes looked past him and widened in pure horror.  “Brother Smith!”  With all of her strength she grabbed Paladin by the shirt collar and pulled him towards her as she fell again to the seat.

Paladin tumbled into the car, just as something ruffled through his hair, missing the back of his skull by microns.  Almost instantaneously he heard the pop of exploding glass and a stream of garbled cursing.  Instant and complete incomprehension engulfed Paladin as he twisted awkwardly to try to make sense this new terror.  What he saw was chillingly surreal.

Jace Packard, scratched and disheveled, but by no means dead, struggled like an enraged animal to wrench a tire iron from the hole in the shatterproof glass of his driver’s window.  (That the cobwebbed window had not been Jace’s primary target was immediately obvious.)  Paladin didn’t hesitate.  His first concern was Victoria. Pulling her from the car, he led her in front of him, in a harried effort to get her away from the boy.

But they had retreated no more than a few steps when Jace finally yanked the iron free with a frenzied scream.  Paladin whirled instantly and backed with Victoria, into the beam of the headlights as Jace advanced murderously towards them.

“Jace,” Paladin tried to coax him, “don’t take this any further.  Just stop and force yourself to think.  And put that thing down.”

Jace Packard shouted like a lunatic. “I’ll put it down all right.  Who do you think you are. . . either of you?  Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Paladin paused deliberately.  “But I know who she is?”

With a shriek of unleashed rage, Jace lifted the tire iron over his head and charged headlong at Paladin, swinging at him with a distorted grunt.  Victoria screamed as Paladin backpedaled awkwardly, eluding the blow by bare inches.  Losing his footing at the edge of the grass, he stumbled over a park trash can and tumbled to the ground.

He hadn’t a second to waste. Groping to right himself amidst the garbage, his fingers brushed across the lid of the toppled can.  Struggling up, he hefted the aluminum shield in front of him with both hands, just as Jace came hacking down with a crushing blow that bent the lid nearly in half.

Jace was on a murderous offensive now.  Advancing with full swing of his outstretched arms he dealt Paladin another merciless blow.  Only the crushed shield prevented the tire iron from ripping him in two.  The predator felt his prey weakening before this relentless attack. Gritting his teeth into an evil grin he swung again.  The backhand practically knocked the lid from Paladin’s grasp.

The power of the strike threw them both off balance.  Paladin almost stumbled to the ground as he turned a complete circle.  But as he righted himself he quickly saw that Jace had staggered awkwardly down to one knee.  This was his chance.  With the full momentum of his spin Paladin swung the lid downward onto Jaces outstretched arm.  He thought he heard a crack as the Jace’s forearm bent into a right angle and the tire iron fell from his grasp.  He screamed in agony, but only for a moment, before he looked up at Paladin with a maniacal fury and rent the air with a shower of obscenity.  He grabbed the fallen crow bar with his left hand and began to rise.  Paladin was still stooped in a backhand crouch with the trash can lid in hand.  It was time to end this.  With all of his strength he swiped upward, belting Jace full in the jaw.  The boy flew backward over the garbage can and fell motionless to the grassy earth.  The tire iron landed on the lawn behind him with an audible thud.

Paladin stood panting with his arms hanging at his side as he dropped the crushed aluminum lid to the ground at his feet.  He became aware of his own heart pounding, and swallowed to realize his mouth had turned to cotton.  “I think I just lost my job.”

An instant later Victoria ran to embrace him, almost knocking him off his feet.  With effort he tore his attention from the boy on the ground to the girl embracing him.  “Victoria,” he said numbly.  The name brought him to reality again, like a splash of fresh water.  “Victoria, are. . . are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”  She clung to him and took a deep breath of the winter air.  Then a smile crept across her face and tears filled her eyes.  “I’m fine.”

She changed the position of her hands, but had no intention of letting go.  He hugged her in return and gently patted her back.  “OK.  It’s OK.  You’re safe now.”

Closing her eyes she nodded.  And then after another intake and exhale of the breath of life, Victoria looked up into Paladin’s face.  He smiled and stroked her hair as she continued to gaze up at him with those beautiful tear-filled eyes.


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Persona Non Grata — Prequel (continued)

Chapter 2

Night of Decision

Jace Packard had arrived to pick up Victoria at the Chase mansion earlier that evening about five o’clock.  Good-looking, athletic, and average in height, the boy sported an open collared shirt and a blazer with a tiny USC embroidered on the lapel. But more than the clothes and beyond his appearance, Jace wore an attitude of entitlement and unspoken confidence that was inbred and difficult not to acknowledge.

When he was led into the house, Philip Chase emerged from his study to greet him and visit for a moment or two before Victoria came down.  Not to suggest that Philip Chase regularly greeted and passed the time with Victoria’s dates.  But Jace Packard was the son of Chase’s biggest client.  And that entitled the boy to the sycophantic treatment worthy of royalty.

“So, how are you doing, Jace?” his smile beamed as he shook Jace’s hand.

“Fine,” Jace answered and glanced up the stairs.  “Is Victoria ready?” For Jace, small talk, even with his father’s attorney, was a waste of time.

“Oh, she’ll be right down,” Chase laughed with slight discomfort.  “You know how the girls are.” Uncle Phil craned his head and called up the stairs.  “Victoria, Jace is here!”  There followed a long pause.  “Come on in and sit down.”  He led the young man to the parlor.

But Jace himself was single minded.  “Nah, I’ll just wait here.”

He didn’t have long to wait.  As if on cue, Victoria came down the stairs.  She wore a trim, orange, knee-length dress and carried a light jacket with a small purse.  Her shoulder length hair was pinned back giving a full view of her pretty face accented by those dazzling eyes.  She smiled as Jace came into view.  “Hi, Jace.”

Jace said nothing as he took her all in from the bottom of the stairs.  His gaze surveyed her hungrily as he studied her from head to foot.  Then he looked at her and half smiled. “Hi.”  He held out his hand and took her by the arm as she came to the bottom of the stairs.  Then he deftly moved his hand around her waist.  “We’d better get going if we’re going to get to the movie.”  He was speaking exclusively to his date.  Phillip Chase might just as well have not been there.

It was Victoria who acknowledged her guardian.  “Uncle Phil, we’ll be going to a movie and then out to eat, right Jace.”

Common courtesy alone coerced Jace to acknowledge the third individual in the room. “Yeah.”

“So,” Victoria continued, “We shouldn’t be back too late.”

Chase stepped over to the front door to open it. “Oh, don’t worry about it.  Just bring her back at a decent hour.”

The Packard boy smiled again and looked at Victoria.  “A decent hour.  Yeah, that’s easy.  See you later.”  Without more than a side glance at Philip Chase, Jace walked out the front door with his hand still around her Victoria’s waist.

“Good bye, Uncle Phil,” Victoria looked back and smiled.

Chase smiled awkwardly and watched, as the couple sauntered down the walkway and climbed into the waiting carmen red Jaguar and sped away.


Jace twisted the vintage sports car through the turns of the exclusive community until they came to the entry gates which swung open automatically before them.  Peeling rubber on the cobbled bricks, the Jaguar shot past the entrance onto the tree-lined streets beyond.  Jace cranked up the volume on the stereo as the breeze from the open windows blew through their hair. Victoria closed her eyes and breathed in the exhilaration.  Power, wealth, adventure of youth, and the unbridled pleasure of the moment — these were all part of Jace and his world.  He represented the future of opulent privilege in Orange County – and he knew it.  He was fun, and Victoria enjoyed his company along with all that perks that came with it.  And obviously, Jace was interested in her.  With Jace, she could forget that life had visited her with unpleasant surprises.  With Jace, she could be happy.

When they arrived at the movies Jace chose the R-rated feature for the evening.  “I know you don’t care for a lot of sex,” he explained as he paid the admission.  “So this was the only good movie left.  It’s a little bit gory and terrifying, but that’s why everybody says it’s awesome.”  Victoria assented without complaint.  That was Jace.  He was older and liked to be in control.  That was OK – most of the time.

True to the hype, the movie was violent — and forgettable.  But as soon as the lights dimmed, it became obvious that Jace was far more interested in Victoria than the opening credits – which was perhaps understandable.  His own overtures in the darkness quickly escalated from casual to intimate, even before the last strains of the main title were through. Victoria found Jace’s affections more than slightly intrusive – particularly in a crowded theater.  He usually wasn’t this physical, at least in public.  When her lack of responsiveness failed to cool his ardor she began to grow concerned.

However with the initial car crash and the first few explosions, the R-rated feature began to draw Jace’s interest away from her. By the time several people had been brutally murdered, Victoria’s date was totally engrossed in the film. There was enough senseless violence from then on to hold his attention for the remainder of the evening.  And that was enough for Victoria to give the movie four stars.

Victoria was famished by the time the movie let out.  But when Jace drove past restaurant after restaurant, she began to wonder if dinner was included with the show. “I’d be happy with a hamburger and some onion rings tonight,” she hinted.  “Maybe a chocolate malt.

Jace simply smiled as he turned onto Pacific Coast Highway.  “Oh, we can do better than that.  Tonight’s a special night.”

Jace’s choice of words —  ‘a special night’ — were packed with a strange mixture of charm and portent – which made Victoria slightly anxious as well as hungry.  But when he pulled the Jaguar into the valet parking of the Atlantis Club in Newport Beach, any suspicion absolutely vanished.  “The Atlantis,” Victoria melted.  “We’re eating here?”

“I told you.  Tonight’s special.”

Exclusive and expensive, the Atlantis boasted the most lavish and exquisite cuisine in Orange County, complete with plush surroundings, soft music, and a spectacular view of the Pacific coast.  In the ambiance of such elegant and romantic opulence, any misgiving about the evening was forgotten.  This was the Jace she enjoyed going out with.  He was rich, fun and unpredictable.  And the night was young.

They were led to their reserved table in a corner of the room overlooking the ocean waves crashing on the shore.  A waiter appeared out of nowhere and handed them each a menu –without prices.

“Jace, this is wonderful,” Victoria looked around the restaurant, then at the priceless menu. “But I don’t know what to choose.”  She was frankly uncomfortable ordering from a bill of fare she knew would be exorbitant.

Jace folded his menu with a smug condescension.   “Victoria, tonight, at a place like this, expense is no object.” Then he took charge. “Tell you what.  You let me order for you.”

“But I,” she began to protest.

“Trust me,” he cut her off.  “I’ll take care of you.”  He opened his menu again.

Victoria was uncertain, but relented.  “OK.”

Jace looked at the waiter who had patiently waited through this exchange.  ”All right,” he cleared his throat. “The lady will have the prime rib.”

“And how would the lady like it cooked?” asked the waiter.

“Ah, medium rare.  She would also like a house salad, with. . .” Jace looked at her expectantly.

“Blue cheese dressing,” Victoria answered.

“Good. I’ll have the New York steak, rare, and a salad.  Same.”

The waiter took the menus and asked one other question.  “And to drink?”

Jace smiled again, only differently this time.  “Bring us a bottle of your best cabernet –and two wine glasses.”

Victoria was taken by surprise, but she responded quickly.  “And a tall glass of ice water with lemon.”

Jace nodded at the waiter who bowed slightly and vanished like a ghost.  His eyes wandered around the room for a moment until he finally focused on Victoria.  Smiling he cocked his head expectantly and winked.


Conversation lagged as they waited for their dinner.  The wine arrived within a few minutes, as ordered, with two goblets, which the waiter placed on the table.  But instead of having the waiter pour the cabernet, Jace took the opened bottle and dispensed it himself – pouring a few ounces Victoria’s glass, and then his own.

“Go ahead.  Taste it,” invited Jace as he took a swallow from his goblet.  “It’s one of the finest red wines in California. Over 80 dollars a bottle.”

Victoria shifted uncomfortably in her chair.  Reaching out, she pushed the base of her goblet away from her, if only a fraction of an inch.  “Maybe, when my meal arrives.’

Jace shrugged and emptied his glass.  “Victoria, relax.”  Filling his goblet, he toasted her and smiled.  “Enjoy yourself.”

“I am.”  But she wasn’t.

“Um, hmm,” Jace gave a knowing grin and took another drink.

The salads soon arrived, followed by the main courses.  Jace made every effort to impress Victoria with his sophistication, as he drank like a legionnaire stranded in the Sahara. Still Victoria’s glass went untouched.  “You’re not going to waste that are you?” he challenged jokingly when her prime rib arrived.  “There are starving people in Africa who would love to have a glass of Napa Cabernet, 2007.”  He laughed at his own cleverness and ordered another bottle.

“Should you be drinking so much,” Victoria contributed.  “We could send that next bottle to Zimbabwe.”

“Ha,” very good.  “But what a waste that would be.  They’d be just as happy with water.  Frankly, I’m not so sure you’re sincerely worried about the drought-stricken natives of Central Africa.  You’re worried that I can’t hold my liquor.”  He smiled as the waiter filled his goblet halfway from a new bottle.  “Believe me, I can drink enough for two of us.  And I may have to,” he gestured to her untouched glass.

“I don’t really drink,” she excused herself.

“I do,” Jace answered without the least apology.  “But I hate to drink alone.”  Reaching over he nudged Victoria’s goblet an inch closet to her.  But hate it or not, he managed to imbibe alone throughout the meal, and quite handily at that.  In fact he drank more than he ate.  That, of course, was his right — and he was of age.  However, Victoria was not, although he continued to encourage her to join him.

Why Victoria did not partake was even a bit curious for her.  Sure, she was a minor, and sure, she was a Mormon.  But the roller coaster of her life this year and her relationship with Jace had shaken a resolve based on any of the standard rules.  She was young, and full of life, and for the first time in a long time, she was enjoying herself with someone who was interested in her.  And it certainly wasn’t as though she had made a promise to her Uncle that she would stay dry tonight.  She knew he didn’t care.  If fact, under the circumstances, Uncle Phil  probably wouldn’t have minded at all if she had been a more gracious dinner companion to Jace Packard.  No, it was no commitment to her Uncle that checked her behavior.  Rather it was the unspoken influence and expectations of Paladin Smith that kept her stone cold sober that evening.

Every time Jace invited her to drink with him she had thought, Why not?  It’s just one little drink.  What would it hurt?  But each question was countered with Brother Smith’s parting words that morning.  “His standards aren’t the same as yours.”  So what if they aren’t?  What right did Brother Smith have to be Jace’s judge and jury?  And so what if Jace was different?  There was something exciting about Jace.  That’s what she liked about him. Although she wasn’t so sure she liked this side of him.  In fact, the more he drank, the less exciting he got.  But that wasn’t the point.  It wasn’t Paladin Smith’s place to cast a self-righteous verdict on Jace Packard.  And even more disturbing, it wasn’t his place to be peering into her soul – pretending to understand her.

Her answer to Brother Smith this morning had been glib and cutting.  It was meant to be.  But it was just a violent reaction of self-defense.  Brother Smith may or may not have known her.  But he did believe in her.  And that made it difficult to look across the table at Jace and take the wine glass he had poured for her.  Victoria shook her head almost imperceptibly and sighed to herself.  It really was a dirty trick for anyone to have that kind of faith in you – and to spoil a perfectly self-centered evening of forbidden pleasures and physical gratification.

It was true that Jace made her feel like somebody — but that somebody wasn’t who she was.  And she herself was beginning to see and understand that now.

“Jace, would you take me home now?” she asked as dinner came to a close.

“Sure,” Jace responded dully.  Pulling his wallet from his pocket he leafed three one- hundred dollar bills onto the table and stepped over to Victoria, offering her his hand.  He led her from the restaurant to the entrance, where the valet brought him his Jaguar.  It hadn’t occurred to Victoria until now that Jace was in no condition to drive.  “Jace,” she suggested, “why don’t we call a taxi?”

Jace smiled blandly as he opened the passenger door for her, and then leaned forward to kiss her.  Pulling away, she fell into the front seat and looked up at him with concern.  Smiling smugly, Jace shrugged his shoulders and closed the door.  Walking with deliberate steps around the car, he reached into his pocket for another sizeable bill, and squeezed the tip into the valet’s hand.  He slid into the drivers’ seat, shifted the car into first gear and gunned the engine, propelling the car through the parking lot and out into traffic.

Jace continued to smile as he wove his car in and out of the lanes of traffic heading north toward Santa Ana. He pulled onto the Newport Freeway and accelerated to 90 miles per hour.  The speed suited the Jaguar but not capacities of the driver.  Victoria glanced over at him.  He still wore the unruffled smile.  “You like to go fast, Victoria?”

“Not this fast,” she tried to smile. “You’re going to get a ticket.”

“Maybe — but they won’t arrest me. The police know who I am. They know who my dad is. Besides Victoria, this is a vintage Jaguar XK 150.  No sense having it if you don’t use it.”

“You’re scaring me Jace.”

“You need to trust me, Victoria.  I can handle this car,” he said confidently.  “And I can handle a little bit of booze.  I’ve drunk more than this and been just fine.”

“Would you please slow down, Jace?”

Gunning the car another tem miles per hour he slowly took his eyes off the traffic in front of him and looked at her.  The smile was unchanged.

“Could you watch the road?  Please?”

He waited a long second before he returned his gaze to the freeway, swerving around a car in the fast lane as he passed on the left.  Up ahead, Victoria saw the approaching off-ramp for the high rent district of Santa Ana Heights.  Home, and the end of this sudden nightmare.  And then in an instant they raced past it.  “Jace, you missed my exit.  I want to go home.”

“I’m taking you home – the long way,” the boy drawled.

“Take me home, Jace,” she tried to make her voice firm.

“I will little girl.” The smile was gone.  “I promise.  I just want to show you something first.  It will only take a second.”

Victoria sat slowly back into her seat, filled with a sense of foreboding and fear.  She felt the anxiety of a caged animal.  She was completely at the mercy of a drunken stranger.  She bit her lip as Jace exited the freeway a mile later and turned east, driving away from  the lights of the city and past subdivisions of houses, up into the low hills covered with gnarled eucalyptus trees and scrub oak.  He slowed to 50 as he swerved around corners, clinging tenuously to the incline of a gravel road. She got a glimpse of a lighted sign that read, “Irvine Hills”, as they skidded past it and continued upwards.

“Have you ever been to Irvine Hills Park?” Jace broke the silence between them.  “Nobody knows it’s up here because it’s small and there are no lights.  But the view is beautiful.”

“Jace,” Victoria said quietly, “I don’t want to see the view.  I’m not feeling very well. Please take me home.”

“We’re almost there. You’ll feel better when you see it.  It’s spectacular.”  Jace spun his hands on the steering wheel to negotiate a button-hook switchback and then slowed as he neared the summit which gave way to a strip of sloping blacktop 200 or 300 feet long, bordered by a park on one side, and a guard way of small boulders on the other.  Jace backed the car on the uphill slope of the blacktop to the edge of the grass, knocking over a trash can at the top of the incline.  He hardly noticed.  Bringing the Jaguar to an abrupt stop, he put the car into neutral, pulled back on the parking break, flipped off the lights and shut off the engine.  All that remained was an eerie silence in the darkness.

“Now look,” Jace pointed beyond the perimeter of foot-tall boulders.  There, beyond the steep incline of the hill stretched a vast view of the inland cities of Orange County.  The entire panorama sparkled in the night, but it looked somehow unnatural as it hung beyond the gulf of darkness.  A low fog was just beginning to roll in from the ocean, giving a haunting appearance to the glittering lights.

“I told you to trust me.  What do you think?”

Victoria, however, was not charmed by the lights of the beach cities.  “Jace, please take me home.” She pleaded.

Jace moved closer to her.  Reaching out he put one arm around her shoulder.  The other reached out and took her by the right wrist in a powerful grip.  Suddenly she realized how helpless she was – here, alone, and with Jace Packard. “Sh, sh.” He soothed her.  “Don’t spoil it.  This is our moment.  Do you know what I like about this car.  The bench seats.  They make it convenient for us to sit close.”  Jace pulled her next to him.  Not until now did she realize how physically strong he was.

“Jace,” Victoria was suddenly terrified.

“Not like bucket seats.  Bucket seats get in the way.”

She smelled the stench of wine on his breath as he drew her close and kissed her gently on the lips. But the pretended tenderness was a contradiction to the iron embrace with which he held her.  Her right hand was locked in his grasp and her left arm was useless, pinned behind him. She might be able to wrench it free.  Yet something told her to stop fighting.  Still, resisting the impression, she struggled against him.  But it was all in vain as he continued to kiss her, now harder.  It hurt.

Panting heavily, he began to press her backward, reclining on the front seat as he leaned over her.  The angle of her body forced her legs across the floor onto the driver’s side beneath the center console.  She banged her knee painfully against the gear shift – no it was the hand brake.  The hand brake!  Her body was still stiff with resistance.  Relax. With every ounce of concentration she could muster, she forced herself to ease up.  As she did so, she felt his grip loosen. To him she was now a willing victim – a conquest of his romantic charm.  He released her wrist and moved his hand to embrace her fully.  In that second she flailed out her right hand until she felt it – the shaft of the parking brake. Sliding her fingers to the end, she pressed her thumb on the release and shoved the brake forward with all her might.  The car lurched as it slipped loose with an audible clank and began to move.

Jace was too enraptured in the seduction to realize the car was rolling forward.  Victoria, however was well aware that not only was the car moving, but it was on an ultimate collision course with the bottom of the canyon at Irvine Hills.  This wasn’t going to be pretty.  Twisting with all her might she grasped the seat belt behind her and hung on as the Jaguar gained speed and crunched over the gravel at the edge of the pavement.

Suddenly there was a grinding sound of metal and a loud pop as the front end of the car skewed to the right and pointed into the air, before it shuddered to a stop.  The terrific jolt thrust Jace into the steering wheel and the gear shift.  He doubled up in pain, hunched over the driver’s seat and the floor.

Victoria had landed hard on top of him, cushioning her from serious harm.  Even so, the collision has left her dazed and disoriented.  Shaking her head and taking a deep breath, she struggled to free herself from the jumble of his contorted limbs.  Pulling her legs from under him she sat up, shoved open the door and fell to the ground.  Beside her fell her purse, which she picked up as she stood shakily to her feet.

She steadied herself against the car which perched at the edge of the cliff.  She didn’t understand how.  She didn’t care.  Then she peered off in the other direction toward the shadows of Irvine Park.  Inside the Jaguar she heard Jace stirring with a moan. With one last glance at the car she ran with all her strength into the sanctuary of the darkness.

She was halfway across the small park when she heard Jace’s voice shouting a torrent of profanity into the night.  Still running, she turned to look back in the direction of the wreck and tripped, falling to her hands and knees onto the grass.  She remained there exhausted and in shock for a several seconds.  Think, Victoria. Where was she going? What was she going to do? Then her eyes focused on the small purse that had tumbled to the ground in front of her.

Grabbing it, she pulled out her cell phone and turned it on.  5% battery left.  Oh, why now?  There was perhaps power for one call.  Her fingers reached to dial 911.  No.  Where Jace Packard was concerned, she couldn’t trust the police.  She couldn’t trust her uncle.  No, for some reason there was only one person she could trust.  She’d entered the number this morning.  Why she knew he would come, she couldn’t explain.  She punched the number and waited breathlessly.  “Please,” she whispered.  “Come on. Come on.”

Closing her eyes, she began to cry.  “Please, God,” she pleaded.

“Hello,” came an uncertain voice over the phone.

Victoria grabbed at that voice like a drowning woman seizes a lifeline.  “Brother Smith!  This is Victoria!  Help me Brother Smith!  I’m in trouble!”


Final installment, tomorrow.


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Persona Non Grata — Prequel (Chapter 1)

[For those of you who have read Persona Non Grata, these few chapters serve as a brief prologue to the story of Paladin Smith and Victoria Grant – and how their relationship changed irrevocably “seven years ago, this Christmas.”]

Chapter 1

One Cold Morning in December

6:00 AM.  The alarm blared in the darkness.

Paladin rolled over, slapped the off button and strain to see the clock by his bead side as the fuzzy numbers came into focus.  There seemed to be a weird slow motion of awareness as the synapses in his brain passed the numbers down the line to his consciousness.  In reality the process — from perception to comprehension — took only a second or two, but the result upon arrival was instantaneous and explosive.


Paladin bolted upright and leaped out of bed in one violent motion. He grabbed the clock, blinked his eyes and squinted at it to make sure.  6:01!!!  “No,” he moaned.  “What happened?”  Had he hit the snooze button in his sleep?  Set it for the wrong time? Was his alarm broken? Frankly, it didn’t matter what had happened.  He had slept in – again.  Again!

Paladin dropped the alarm on his bed and hobbled through the darkness to the wall switch, stubbing his toe along the way.  He winced in pain, grabbing his toe and standing on one foot as he leaned against the door jamb.  Quick, think. Stumbling to the bathroom, he flipped on the basin light and looked himself over as he grabbed his razor. No, there wasn’t time. He could get away without shaving this morning.  He glanced again in the mirror. No, he couldn’t. Last night’s 5 o’clock shadow had grown another 13 hours, but it would have to do.  He snatched a comb and dragged it once through his hair.  He took in his reflection one last time.  Ugh.  Give it up.  Picking up his tooth brush, he squeezed a wad of Crest onto the bristles, gave his mouth one quick swath, and spit into the sink.  That was hygiene for the morning.

Dashing back into his bedroom, he hurriedly pulled a white shirt from the closet, along with a pair of slacks and a tie.  He hoped they matched.  Reaching into his dresser he clutched the first pair of socks he touched and tugged them onto his feet.  “I wonder what color they are,” he thought as he stood from the bed.  It was too late to care.  Shoving his feet into yesterday’s shoes, Paladin ran from the room without tying them.  His scriptures were in the car.  A blast of California December air struck him as he opened the he opened the front door and stepped outside.  Reaching back inside he snatched the single wool scarf that was hanging from the hat rack.  It was cold enough for this this morning.


Barreling around the corner of Zoetrope and Middleton, Paladin screeched the Honda Civic to a stop in front of the church and leaped from the driver’ seat, scriptures in hand.  He rounded the car on a dead run and suddenly stopped short.  There, standing along the walkway that led to the foyer entry stood fifteen teenagers, like sentinels in the darkness, forming an intimidating gauntlet on either side.

Illuminated only by the street lamp, Paladin froze in place before the stares of that human corridor.  They said nothing.  Taking a deep breath he smiled in the darkness, and took a step toward the two lines of students.  He nodded as he walked between them.  “Hi, Max, Cali.  Hey, Brandon.  Good morning, Ryan, Meghan, Brittany.  You too Sandra, Anna.  Nice pajamas, Jillian.  Ben, you look a little tired this morning.  Michelle, you’ve done something to your hair.  I like it.  JT, how are you doing?  Coop.  Hey there, Enrique.”

The group stood in place like statues.  None of them shifted from position, but the long stare was unrelenting.  Paladin continued, “Well, looks like practically everybody’s here.”

“Except a teacher,” said a girl at the head of the gauntlet.  The rest of the students began to snicker.

Rolling his eyes, Paladin took the church keys from his pocket.  “One little mistake!” he groaned, as he unlocked the door and stepped aside, holding it open for his students.

Once they were all inside, he followed them to the multi-purpose room where the good natured group were all finding seats.  They didn’t wait for him to make his way to the front of the class.  “Brother Smith?”

“Yes, Max.”

“Doesn’t the Church – you know, the Salt Lake City Church – don’t they expect the teacher to be on time for seminary?”

“Well, in some less progressive circles, I suppose so,” answered Paladin with a very serious face.  “But you are all part of a pilot program to see if students can occasionally teach themselves, without an instructor interrupting all the time – which is why I was late this morning.”

“Oh, so this was planned!”

“Yes, Jillian, and very carefully too.”

“Like the other four times this year,” said JT.

Paladin paused and winced.  “Four times.  That many, huh?”  He took another deep breath.  “I’m sorry you guys.  I wish I were more of a morning person.”

“You need to get more sleep,” said Sandra thoughtfully.

We need to get more sleep,” said Coop.  His comment had an edge to it.

“Perhaps, but the Lord will bless you for your attendance – and your patience with a loser of a teacher.  Who are we missing today?”

“The Nelson girls are out of town,” reported Michelle. “I don’t know where Darby is.”

“And Mike Foster’s got brohchitis,” said Cali.

“Too bad,” sympathized Paladin.  “That leaves Tom and Preston Blue Lake.”

“And they never come,” observed Enrique.

“Hope springs eternal,” said Paladin.  “Keep inviting them.”  Paladin looked around and his brows furrowed.  “Where’s Victoria?”

Through the back door of the room entered a pretty girl, carrying a rectangular box.  “I went to get donuts,” she announced.

“Yeah,” said Ryan.  “When you didn’t show, we decided to throw a party.”

“Great idea, huh, Brother Smith,” said the pretty girl who was now walking across the front row with an open donut box.  She was alert and vibrant, even at 6:20.  Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pinned back, framing a perfect complexion, a dazzling smile and a pair of eyes that lighted up the room.

Paladin watched on helplessly.  “I can tell I’ve lost all control and it’s my own fault.  Why don’t I just turn the class over to you, Victoria.”

“Oh not on your life.  Besides you’ve got – 15 to 20 minutes to teach us something. We’ll just eat while you do.”

Paladin knew enough to admit that that idea would never work.  No, he’d lost the day.  But at least he was here, they were here, and they were a class that cared about each other and could have fun together.  Reaching out, he took a donut from the box in Victoria’s hands.  She looked up at him and smiled in satisfaction.  Her eyes simply danced.

“I tell you what we will do,” Paladin began to explain as he took a chunk out of his buttermilk donut.  “If you could all open your scriptures without getting frosting, glaze or powdered sugar on them, I’d like each of us to share what we learned in our personal reading last night.  If we all share at least something, it won’t be a bad morning.”

“In the meantime, while you’re finishing your ‘breakfast’, I have a proposal for you.”  Paladin dug into his pocket and retrieved a fist full of quarters.  Without a word, he walked around the class and placed one in front of every student.  Within a minute, in spite of the donuts, he had their rapt attention as he stepped to the front of the room again.

“Brothers and Sisters, once again I apologize that I have let you down.  I mean, what kind of a seminary teacher is late five times in one semester?  Why, if word got out, I’d probably be excommunicated.”

One of the students, Ben, held up his quarter.  “So this is a bribe to get us to keep our mouths shut?”

“No, not quite,” corrected Paladin. Taking a piece of chalk from the front desk, he turned to the board and wrote a telephone number in very large letters.

He faced the class again and smiled.  “This is my telephone number.  I want you all to write it down and keep it safe.  This quarter is enough change for you to call me from the phone booth outside the chapel.  If any of you ever arrive at seminary before I do, give me a call, wake me up, and – to coin a phrase — get me to the church on time.”

Max spoke up.  “We don’t need your money, Brother Smith.  Most of us have cell phones.”

“I don’t,” said Enrique, as he pocketed the quarter.

Paladin looked around in the silence.  “Then for the rest of you,” he paused, “consider it a bribe after all.”  The students laughed as they got out pencils to copy the number.  “You guys deserve a better teacher.  I’m not perfect, but I promise to give you the best I’ve got.  Because I love you, and I know your Heavenly Father does too.”

Victoria smiled, second seat from the front.  But Paladin seemed to sense that the luster had gone.  Dutifully she entered his number in her cell phone.


Considering that seminary had begun as a train wreck, class had ended on a good note.  It had actually been a nice day.

Paladin shook hands with the teenagers one by one as they left. They were all anxious to get to school.  But one student seemed to linger. She was the last student out of the room.

“Thanks for the donuts, Victoria,” said Paladin as he shook her hand.  “We managed to salvage that morning together, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, it went pretty well,” she answered.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No.  I’ll see you tonight — at your concert, right?”

She was just past the door when she turned and smiled sheepishly.  “Well, I don’t think I’m going to be playing tonight.”

“What!” Paladin said in surprise.  “Were you dethroned as first chair or did you break your violin.”

“Neither,” she spoke without apology.  “I’ve got a date.”

“Ah, the Prince of Orange County!” Paladin turned and walked back into the classroom.

“You don’t like Jace Packard, do you?” she asked frankly, following him.

“Oh, I like Jace fine,” reasoned Paladin.  “I just don’t think he’s the right guy for you. . . for a few reasons.

“Um hmm,” she said with a grin. “So you don’t like him.  Is it just that he’s rich or is it because he’s the son of your boss?”

Paladin paused.  Sometimes he resented the fish bowl he lived in.  It wasn’t really necessary for every student to know that he wrote advertising for one of the wealthiest men in Orange County.  “Neither, he sighed.  “I just think you ought to be dating somebody your own age, not some college kid.  Besides, won’t you get into trouble for ditching the concert?”

“No, my Uncle Phil will fix it.”

“Are you sure?  Maybe your influential guardian would want you to be where you’re supposed to be.”

“No, he doesn’t care.  And he doesn’t make a big deal about Jace either.”

“Whether he does or not, Jace is still too old for you – and he’s not your type.

“He’s only nineteen,” Victoria defended, “and how do you know what my type is?”

“You deserve better, Victoria.”

“And who are you to say who I deserve. Jace is a nice guy.”

“Victoria,” Paladin stood his ground, “I’ve heard a little bit about Jace Packard.”  He turned towards the front of the classroom again.

“So, do you believe everything you hear?” Victoria baited him with an expectant smile.

“Of course not,” Paladin admitted.  “In the case of that guy I only need to believe a little.  That’s enough.”

Victoria was growing slightly heated. “It’s not Christian to judge people, Brother Smith,”

Paladin didn’t hesitate but took this bait instantly. “Oh, yes it is,” he turned to her. “It’s called good judgment.” He cocked his head and grinned.

“No, it’s not,” she countered in genuine irritation.  “It’s closed minded and it’s mean.  Admit it.  You just disapprove of Jace because he’s not a member of the church.”

“Wrong,” he answered.  “I disapprove because his standards aren’t the same as yours.  That ought to be a big deal for you and your uncle.”

“Oh, Judas Priest!” Victoria rolled her eyes. “Brother Smith, it’s just a date for heaven’s sake.”  She was angry now.  Spinning on her heels she was into the hallway before Paladin realized he had pushed her too far.

Running, he caught up with her in the foyer. “Victoria,” he caught her by the arm.  “Listen, I’m. . . I’m sorry.”  She stopped, but was still seething.  “If I’ve been unfair to Jace Packard, I apologize.  He may be a nice guy.  I hope he is.  Because you certainly deserve the best.”

She seemed to be cooling off, but only by a degree or two.  “I’ve got to go, Brother Smith.”

“Yeah, I know,” he stepped aside.  “Just remember something would you,” he soothed.  “You’re different from Jace Packard, Victoria.  Nice guy or not, he doesn’t value the same things that you do.  And he doesn’t understand the things you do.  You’ve been tremendously blessed, Victoria.  You know who you are — and so do I.  Never forget that.”

Victoria smiled at Paladin blandly and slowly shook her head. “I’ll tell you what I know, Brother Smith.  Last summer my parents were killed in a car accident.  Some superior court judge awarded me to an uncle I never knew who doesn’t care about me.  I haven’t got a real home or any real friends.  So sometimes I don’t feel very blessed.  And I’ll tell you something else.  I don’t know who I am.  But Jace Packard makes me feel like somebody.  And that’s enough for me.”

Turning away from him, Victoria pushed open the chapel doors and was gone.


Paladin took a deep sigh as he continued to drive home through the evening fog.  It had been a long day at Packard Advertising and he had been distracted from his work. Not that he had much responsibility.  As an entry level copywriter, fresh out of college, he was pretty much a grunt on the treadmill of Merlin Packard’s financial empire.  He wished he could work on the larger accounts.  Still, he’d never work on any accounts – he might not even have a job — if he had many more days as unproductive as today.

He was glad when five o’clock rolled around.  On the way home he stopped for a burger, but he really wasn’t very hungry.  He took a long drive around town and out to the beach.  But he was still restless and uncomfortable.  He needed to forget for a while.  And he knew what he needed to fight off his agitation.

He arrived at Santa Ana Park as the sun was going down.  Quickly, he threw on a t-shirt and pulled his bat and mitt out of the trunk.  It was never very hard to find a team that was looking for another player. For the next two hours he immersed himself in baseball and managed to think of little else than shagging fly balls in the outfield or connecting with a pitcher’s hanging curves on the edge of the strike zone.  It wasn’t until the field lights begin to flick off at nine o’clock that he returned to the world again.

But as he drive home in the gathering fog, the memories of his morning confrontation with Victoria Grant returned in sharp focus.  He closed his eyes briefly as if to expunge the recollection from his mind.  But the haunting remembrance of it was as inescapable as the December mist which closed around on the road.  At length he pulled over to the curb outside of his apartment.  He turned off the engine and sat, staring into the darkness for a long time. “What business have I telling somebody who they are or who they might be.”  Paladin’s own identity was a mystery to himself.

At length he stepped from his ca rand trudged across the walkway and up the stairs to his empty apartment.  Closing the front door behind him he stood silently in the darkness.  He had no desire to turn on the lights.  The gloom provided him the illusion of sanctuary from the frustrating aimlessness of his life, and the helpless inability to offer direction to anyone else.

He shook his head again in the dark.  “My life is pretty worthless,” he thought to himself.  Seemed like it always s would be.

RRRING! RRRING! The chime of the telephone cut crossways into his musings. Looking up he stared into the shadows at the illuminated clock on the oven.  It was after ten!  Making his way to the wall phone across the room he yanked the receiver from its cradle.  “Hello.”

For a moment he heard nothing but labored breathing.  But then a panicked voice whispered over the wires, instantly turning his blood to ice.  “Brother Smith!  This is Victoria!  Help me Brother Smith!  I’m in trouble!”


Next installment,

Chapter 2 – Night of Decision

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The Brave New World — The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius

Having attempted to raise the level of dialogue on gay marriage to an educated level, I would like to make a comment on the emergence of the Brave New World – which we will discover is neither brave nor new, but which is destined to alter the fabric of our society.  Because, make no mistake about it, the Age of Aquarius, dawned in the 60’s and 70’s, has fully arrived — and those with the power to check its advent have been either impotent to stop it or disinclined to do so.

Again, the Brave New World is finally here — and we may live to regret its arrival.  Oh, don’t worry.  I don’t intend to talk at length about cultural trends, the meaning of the family, or the morality of eternity — though such issues are significant.  No, I want to address a measure that is much more fundamental: good and bad.

For thousands of years our world has operated on basic grounding principles that have served as a foundation for societies and individuals.  I speak of principles based upon truth, by which we anchor ourselves, across cultures, to the real world.  And “for better or worse” — to coin a phrase — marriage, family and morality are among those time honored, foundational principles – until recently.  It is our 20th century rejection of these values that is a bad idea.  And the reason may surprise you.

Psychologically, the human animal needs a foundation – something solid to build upon, to give stability to our lives in an existence otherwise built upon shifting sands.  These anchors or laws might take the shape of customs, traditions, and behaviors which provide us strength and safety.  You might debate that life is much happier and freer without the restraints of confining social mores – but history and the observation of societies in decline would argue against you.  The fact is, there are eternal laws of the universe that cannot be disregarded or altered by legislation, executive decree, or majority vote, no matter how much we, like spoiled children, want to make it so.  Still, “modernity” has seen us abandon these anchors of the past as we have cut ourselves from them in the name of liberation – and gratification without guilt.

This abandonment began over 100 years ago with the evolution of the “new morality” – which was nothing more than the reimplementation of the “old immorality.”  (Still, “new morality” makes us sound so progressive.)  In our struggle for this air of sophistication, we have failed to recognize how barbaric we, as a people, have become.  Standards held inviolate 50, even 25 years ago are no longer considered benchmarks today.  This may not seem like a big deal to members of generation XYZ.  But remember, as human beings we, by nature, cherish some form of stability in this life – a stability that cannot be answered in the echoed shouts “peace, love, or kumbaya.”

Relative moralities and situational ethics – anchors that move with the wind — have become the watchwords of the emerging Brave New World.  And this is important.  The stated final objectives of these cultural shifts is to weaken the grip of the family on society and to eliminate the influence of religion and God in the world. These consequences of modern engineering have not been accidental and they should come as no surprise.  These have long been the prime targets of the progressive think tanks in an environment where loyalty to entities such as country, family and God stand as obstacles to the “greater good.”

Over the past half century our “enlightened” society has accelerated its departure from the shackles of the past.  Seldom in history has a people departed with such wholesale reckless enthusiasm from its traditional moorings.  And never has global civilization faced the future with such anxiety as we do now.  Welcome to the “Brave New World.”

In our lives, all that was once rock solid – institutions of culture, moral belief systems, and the simple faith in a living God – has been swept away.  We now live in a world so “advanced” that not even our identity as a man or a woman is set in stone.  (Thank you Ms. Jenner.)  Consider.  Without an eternal perspective anchored in God — all that remains is a short and shallow life.  Very little of our old reality is founded in bedrock.  And in fact, with the dismissal of our time-worn moorings, very little is left at all.

We have cut ourselves adrift.  And that is not a smart thing to do.  As a people living in a fantasy land where anything goes – we are destined to ultimate confusion where nothing really fits. And you and I shall continue to live in an increasingly dysfunctional world – a world of frustration, apprehension, and aimlessness.

May we, as a society, come to ourselves and reestablish the foundations upon which peace and happiness may truly be built.


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Gay Marriage and American Society — It’s Not Really All About Love or Hate

Well, time to get on the bandwagon. I’ve been reading a lot about “love” and “hate” lately though I don’t much care to join in the cacophony of that debate.  Those two terms are literally being worn to a frazzle in the public arena – by myriads of people without knowledge enough to adequately label hate, and by hosts of others without experience enough to do justice to love.

That’s why I find the discussion disturbing.  Because the issues of abortion, or morality, or same-sex marriage may or may not have anything to do with love or hate – though they are constantly identified by such hashtags.  For example, all nice people are obviously in favor of love and of same-sex marriage – because they’re nice.  It’s just that simple.  (And I emphasize the word simple.) And that’s all there is to it.  So don’t argue!

On the other hand, anyone who opposes same-sex marriage, must oppose it because they are hateful – and are therefore very, very bad people.  (These deluded persons may also be “homophobic”, another of our favorite new words.)  But it doesn’t get more complicated than that.  There can be no other explanation for their beliefs and the commitment they have to those beliefs.  They are either hateful or they are scared.  “Simple.”  (Get a dictionary. Look it up.)

These are the basic arguments of right and wrong in the issue, and they should worry us because of their childish over-simplicity.  Because not everyone who opposes same-sex marriage (or even a fraction by my experience) is hateful or phobic.  They just don’t believe same-sex marriage is a good idea.  And by the same token, not everyone in favor of same-sex marriage is a proponent for the welfare of the gay-lesbian community.  In fact I’m convinced most of them don’t give a hoot — at least specifically.  They take their cue from the freedom-loving crowd which rose to cult popularity in the 1960s.  Their leadership stands unyieldingly against war, and poverty, and social injustice, and animal cruelty, and the burning of the rain forests – you know, all those things the rest of us really like.  And for decades they’ve made it no secret that they are sick and tired of society telling them what they should and shouldn’t do – and they are anxious to open the gates and usher in the Brave New World.  Peace, Love, Kumbaya!

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that.  Everybody should have a right to believe as they wish and to speak their mind – well, until lately, that is.  But please, let’s just drop this knee-jerk drivel that the entire argument is about either love or hatefulness.  It is not.  And to suggest naively that it is, is an insult to real examples of life-changing love in our society as well as a careless nod to ugly illustrations of true uncompromising hatred and evil that do infest our world.

One more thing.  The misuse and misapplication of the English language (particularly “love” and “hate’) in the name of sensationalism also does a genuine and heartless disservice to friends of mine — good people — who do happen to be gay, who are being politicized and pandered to by self-serving public figures and the manipulative mass media who fawn over them.

And yes, I guess I do hate that.



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Well, Happy Father’s Day! I’ve been hearing that greeting from quite a few people today.  And it is a happy day.  But to all those who are remarking lately how fortunate my family is to have such a great dad (and that, of course, would be me) I thought I would set the record straight as to where the luck is distributed.

We are a passionate group of people – the Stirlings, that is.  We have plenty of dreams and a lot of ambition.  And we have been immensely blessed to have laid hold of some of our fondest wishes.

As some of you know, I have a daughter who has followed her passion, fine-tuned her abilities, worked like a maniac, and accomplished great things.   Since she was a teenager she has always wanted to be — a writer.  Simon and Shuster is publishing her first book (The Only Pirate at the Party) in January.  That’s pretty huge!  Her name is Brooke.

All right.  I know what you’re thinking.  I do have another artistic daughter who has followed her passion.  She has a very unique style and many people have seen her work – and seem to like what she does.  She is — a painter.  She has just begun to sell her artwork at auction and the response is exciting.  Her name is Marina.

Ok, ok.  Yes, I do have a particularly talented daughter.  She is a creative musician who both writes and performs before thousands.  She plays the trumpet and holds a position with the East Valley Millennial Orchestra.  Nothing seems to stop her from achieving her goals.  She is 5’3”, 115 lbs., and now wants to become a firefighter to support her family.  And she’ll do it too.  Her name is Jennifer.

I also have a son who is going to jail.  At least that’s what the letter we got from the State of Texas said.  If anybody ever sees Vladimir, tell him that he might avoid the warrant, even now, if he’ll pay the speeding ticket.  (Vladimir has become rather reclusive again, so I don’t hear from him much.  But he is a sweet soul – with a good heart)  Also, ask him to call his Dad, just so I can tell him I love him.

Oh, very well!  I do have a daughter named Lindsey who has achieved a modest kind of success in following her passion.  That passion – to be a dancing violinist – has driven her through defeat after defeat after defeat to ultimate achievement.  She knows what it is like to fail.  And she knows what it is like to succeed.  And she is an example to anyone that our dreams are worth the effort and struggle – and can come true.

Incidentally, these five people have all been blessed with a great mother who has taught them to reach for the stars and given them an example of quiet greatness to follow.  I follow that example too.  She has generously shared her life with me.  Her name is Diane.

As for me, I teach seminary and I write.  Those have been two of my greatest aspirations in life.  And I’ve accomplished a lot of my dreams so far.  I’ve published my second book, a novel, Persona Non Grata, last July.  There are still a few remaining items on my bucket list – like publishing Persona Non Grata II, III, IV, and V.  (Ambitious!)  There’s time for that.  But no fulfilled dream of life has given me such satisfaction as my relationship with a loving wife, five fine children, and a Father in Heaven who has been so good to me.

From one who has been so favored, to all who may be fathers – or who have one, I wish a Happy Father’s Day.  May none of us forget how ultimately lucky and bounteously blessed we are.


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An Exercise in Self-Revelation

There has been a great deal of wind gusting in the wake of last week’s “Adventure of the Billboard Dress”.   The conversation has been largely about modesty, and appropriateness, and high fashion in the music industry.  Those topics have been pretty much exhausted in the hot air of moral debate.

However, when all was said and done, those points were not as important as were our individual, personal reactions to the event. The flurry of approvals and disapprovals regarding Lindsey Stirling’s wardrobe at the Billboard awards has given us all a rare opportunity to demonstrate who we are.  And it has been an interesting exercise of self-revelation.  I hope we were all paying close attention to what we thought and what we said.  Some found expression in a disappointing display of snap judgment and criticism.  Others rose above the level of the mob and sparkled in a demonstration of charity and understanding that touched Lindsey’s heart in a dark time. That kind of love will one day change the world.  At least that was the Savior’s point of view – a teaching he demonstrated, time and time again, by example.

But aside from the sneers and the cheers, I would like to emphasize one point has not been made forcefully enough.  So as a father I will make it.  We all know who Lindsey Stirling is.  It is difficult not to see who she is, day in, day out.  Seldom has there been so sincere, so straightforward, and so genuine an individual in today’s culture of entertainment.  She is ‘right up front’ in her expressions and appreciative of the people who love her and her music.  She wears her religion on her sleeve and is perfectly willing to let the world know why.  She has a testimony of the goodness of God and is not afraid to share it.  And in word and deed she does so daily in more ways than most of us make the effort to do in a month of Sundays.

And I’m not hard pressed to say that there is probably not one in a thousand of us who could bear up under the pressure of the public eye and the influence of the world with as much grace and optimism and courage as Lindsey does – interview after interview, concert after concert, and yes, award show after award show.

Do yourself a favor.  Take a look at that picture everyone’s talking about.  Now, forget the dress and look at those eyes.  That’s  Lindsey!  There is no bitterness, or arrogance, or stain of the world in those eyes.  Those eyes tell the real story of Lindsey Stirling.  There is someone who loves the Lord – and along with millions of adoring fans, he loves her back.

Finally, to Lindsey I have a gem of truth, of which you will need to be reminded again and again, because in many ways you live in a fish bowl and you belong to the world.  It is a thought from philosopher Elbert Hubbard. “To be misunderstood is the penalty for greatness.  But it is no proof of greatness.  The final proof of greatness lies in being able to endure criticism [and misunderstanding] without resentment.”

May you ever continue to be great.

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The Christmas Warrior, Part 3 – Concluded by Stephen J. Stirling

Klaus stood, transfixed, gazing into the face of the tiny angel in his arms, the words of promise still echoing in his mind.  As he stared in wonder he felt the hands of the young woman reach up to his face and gently stroke his beard.  He forced himself to glance away from the child into the eyes of the teenage mother who looked intently up at him, smiling, with tears in her eyes.  Momentarily, her young husband stood beside her, holding her with one arm and clasping Klaus’ burly bicep with the other.  Not a word was spoken.

Gradually Klaus loosened his hold on the swaddled child as the mother took the babe in her loving arms.  He watched mother and child in their personal reunion and then turned away, leaving them to their moment.  He straightened to his full enormous height and took in a full breath of the fresh, desert air.  He suddenly felt more alive than he had ever felt in his life.

Striding to his bag on the ground he reached inside for his pouch of denari.  Counting out one hundred of them he turned to the young father and handed them to him.  He spoke no Aramaic, but did his best to impress upon him to hurry in his departure, and use the money to advantage.  Herod and the Romans would be in pursuit soon enough, but there was time now.

Gathering up the family’s few scattered belongings, Klaus packed them onto the donkey and readied the couple to go.  When he finally turned to them for his farewells, the young mother looked up at him again and, handing the baby to her husband, raised a hand to his beard.  As gently as she could, she slowly pulled his face down to hers and kissed him sweetly on the cheek, before letting him go with a smile.

Klaus pulled back in surprise.  With the single exception of his mother, no woman had ever kissed him.  And that had been a long, long time ago.  A deep laughter slowly rumbled irresistibly within his huge chest and suddenly burst from his red cheeks, resounding into the night.   He wrapped the young father and mother – and the child – once more in his muscular arms and released them.  There was a tear in his eye.

Turning, he tossed his bag over his back and went on his way, through the night, rejoicing.  He marched until morning and on through the day.  He rested the next night, but never really seemed to get tired.  He continued over the weeks to walk north through Syria, and then west through Cappadocia, Galatia, and Asia.  He spent very little of his remaining denari on his own needs, but instead bought food, and clothing, and care for those who needed it.

As he journeyed, he found himself drawn to children and they were drawn to him, his happy nature and his booming laughter.  He shared stories with them, spent time with them and carved gifts for them.  And wherever he went, the little ones remembered him.

He traveled on through Thracia, Macedonia, Dalmatia, and Germania – from town to town and country to country — fulfilling the promises of the child of Judea – giving generously until his money was gone.  But still he continued to give of himself and his heart.

The weeks stretched into months, and the months into years.   Over those years and miles Klaus grew older, his beard turned in time from red to grey to white.  But in a real sense Klaus never seemed to age.  He was forever vigorous and hearty, always kind, endlessly good, and forever sharing his gifts, as well as the message of the holy child who had sent him.  And finally, in the passage of time, Klaus ventured from his homeland to the countless nations beyond, where children awaited him, year after year, for the gifts which he brought them and spirit he bore.

And it was ever said of him that his laughter gave joy, his great heart shared kindness, his   good nature warmed the troubled soul, and his generosity imparted glad tidings.  He has never been forgotten in the memory of mankind, and he has lived to this day in the hearts of children everywhere, and will forever.

He came to be known as Santa Klaus.

The End

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The Christmas Warrior, Part 2 — continued by Stephen J. Stirling

Klaus’s powerful legs catapulted him to the top as if he were in combat.  Arriving at the summit, he swung his head around, surveying the situation instantly in the moonlight.  A young man in his twenties and a young woman, no, a girl, no more than a teenager, were being accosted in the night by three Roman soldiers. A donkey, startled by the brawl trotted fifty feet away.  A glance told Klaus that these soldiers were no mere thugs of the Empire.  Rather they were mercenaries in Herod’s employ.  But to Klaus, there was virtually no difference.  A suppressed anger he hadn’t known for years flared in his heart.  He reacted instantly.  The two soldiers beating the young man were closest to him as he charged over the hill.  Dropping his own gear he was upon them in one massive step.

The soldier within reach had just knocked the young man on the ground, fallen upon him, and was about to strike him in the face.  Snatching the soldier by his outstretched fist, Klaus yanked him from the spot with one powerful jerk, practically pulling his arm from its socket.  The startled soldier pivoted like a swinging gate, until his face came into sudden contact with the gladiator’s enormous fist, which sent him sprawling to the ground unconscious.

Klaus instinctively knew he did not have a second to lose.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other soldier turning his attention from his brutality to lunge quickly at him.  The big gladiator avoided a dagger thrust by only inches, but inches were all he needed.  Lashing out with a speed and strength that terrified the Roman mercenary, Klaus grabbed his dagger hand, twisted the knife from his grasp and then quickly snapped his wrist with an audible crack.

He didn’t wait to survey his work as the man screamed and stumbled down the hill.  (Klaus knew he wouldn’t be interested in either fighting or holding a dagger for a while.)

He turned immediately to the final, large soldier who was manhandling the young woman, struggling with her over a small bundle in her arms.  Klaus’ legs churned into the sand with superhuman strength, but the hulking soldier and his victim were several paces away.  He felt himself moving in agonizing slow motion as the Roman brut finally shoved the girl to the ground with a cruel slap.  The bundle fell to the ground beside her, and then Klaus heard a sound that chilled his heart – the cry of a baby piercing the night.  The soldier did not stoop to examine the infant or pick it up.  Instead, Klaus watched helplessly as the trained murderer unsheathed his sword and took dead aim to kill the child.  Yet as the blade thrust downward, Klaus stretched out his hand with all his effort, catching the hilt and stopping its descent in mid air.

Klaus held the sword there with a strength that not even he knew he had as he brought his second hand to the hilt and his eyes level with those of the huge Roman.  The man’s face was hard and cruel.  He grit his teeth, glaring with hatred at this red-bearded intruder while his eyes burned with a will to follow through with his execution.  Klaus stared back intently into those fiery eyes – eyes whose depth and meaning and earnestness he knew from the arena.  This man was determined to kill!  Klaus only had seconds to respond.

Unloosing one of his hands from the quavering sword hilt, and concentrating with all his might to hold the deadly blade in place with one hand, Klaus reached to his belt where his own dagger hung.  As he did so the sword inched toward the baby.  The Roman grinned.  Now was the moment.  Klaus felt his fingers on the hilt of his knife, but even as he grasped it and drew it forth to strike, a voice whispered to him in a command he could not ignore.  No more killing.  Responding impulsively like the gladiator he was, he rotated the dagger in his fingers and with all of his strength smashed the Roman in the temple of his head with the hilt of the weapon.  The sword fell to the sand on its side and the soldier crumpled to the ground beside it without a groan.  He lay motionless.

Klaus stood, straddling his vanquished foe, breathless and exhausted.  But momentarily he gathered his thoughts, glancing up at the young man, righting himself a few yards away, and the girl, who was stirring just within reach.  He was about to turn to her when he was diverted by the cooing of the baby at his feet.  Feeling drawn to the child, to the exclusion of all else, he stooped down and lifted the bundle from the cool sand, cradling it in his massive arms.  Strange.  He had never held a baby before, but it felt so natural – so comfortable.

He shielded the infant from the night breeze with his immense body and looked into its eyes.  Reaching out with its tiny arms the baby looked up at him and smiled, and then the smile vanished, but the eyes – innocent, bright and brown — continued to study him.  He paused, captivated in the gaze of those eyes that seemed to be peering into his very soul.  And then to his astonishment, he heard a voice — a peaceful, still, small, yet clear and powerful voice – speaking to the very center of his heart.

Klaus, for the service you have done me this night you shall be blessed uniquely among men – for the life which you have saved shall give life to the world.  In immortality, you shall likewise give.  Your laughter shall give joy.  Your great heart shall share kindness.  Your good nature shall warm the troubled spirit.  And your generosity shall impart glad tidings in all nations. You shall never be forgotten in the memory of mankind, and you will live in the hearts of children everywhere forever. 

(concluded tomorrow)

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The Christmas Warrior, Part 1 — retold by Stephen J. Stirling

A million stars illuminated the heavens as they moved slowly across the Judean night – cold, crisp, silent.  The light of a waning moon bathed the earth and sky in a quiet brilliance that seemed to extend forever.  Only a light breeze interrupted the perfect stillness that filled the air.  Klaus sat on the brow of a hill overlooking a tiny shepherd village of the desert and breathed in the freedom.  For the first time in over ten years, his life was his own.

Klaus had only been 15 when the Roman soldiers had swarmed over his little Germanic town, far to the north.  The masters of the world attacked his people without warning – killing, pillaging and burning every hut to the ground.  He was carving wood that day in his father’s shop.  He remembered trying to fight back.  But what did he know of fighting?  He was woefully unprepared as a youth to give battle to the butchers of the Roman Empire.  However, time would change all that.

Amidst their scoffs and jeers they took him prisoner — the lone survivor of his hamlet — and carried him back to Rome.  What an amusing prize he was – this red-headed novelty of the north countries — as they sold him into slavery.  He was purchased at auction by an agent of Herod the Great and transported in chains another thousand miles to Jerusalem in Judea, where the merciless monarch had established his ‘kingdom’.

Had Klaus been purchased as a mere slave his story may have ended there.  But Herod’s servants had selected this husky, wild-eyed youth to be trained as one of the king’s gladiators, to fight in the arena as a spectacle for the entertainment of his guests.  And indeed, Klaus proved an able student, driven by anger and defiance of the Romans who had made a slave of him.  Within three years, he not only mastered every weapon in Herod’s arsenal, but built his body into the perfect tool to wield them.  His frame became a seamless network of muscles from his head to his foot, accented by a thick, red beard that made him the most fearsome warrior in the school of gladiators.

From the moment Klaus first stepped into the arena, he became a favorite – a fighting machine of such skill, agility, speed and shrewd intelligence that he bewildered and overpowered his rivals as much as he delighted the spectators.  But surprisingly none of this brought any satisfaction to the young gladiator.  Perhaps because none of the rage of his training accompanied him into the arena.  His only motivation in the heat of combat was a burning desire to survive, together with a knowledge, deep within his soul, that there was more to his life and destiny than this – something worth living for.

With that conviction sustaining him, Klaus fought on, and lived on.  He left the anger behind and developed a deep, booming laugh that was infectious and encouraging to his fellows.  He grew big-hearted and good-natured.  And he survived.  The life expectancy of the typical gladiator was one or two years.  Klaus endured for three, then four.  And he fought on – for five, six, and finally seven years.  Until, even the cruel Herod the Great was persuaded to grant this prize gladiator his freedom – with a reward of a thousand denari.  And now, Klaus was going home.

And none too soon.  It was rumored in Herod’s palace that one of these villages was to be the victim of his royal brutality.  As early as tomorrow the king intended to kill all the children of a single town out of an insane fear that one of them threatened him as a rival.  Klaus understood none of it.  It was enough that Herod could commit such lunacy.  Klaus was one in a million to have survived Herod’s madness.  He was leaving Judea forever.  He was going home away from this insanity.

Klaus inhaled a huge breath of the Judean night air and stretched his massive arms as he took one last look at the tiny village enveloped in darkness below him.  What was its name?  Bethlehem.  He hoped it wasn’t the town that was to be the target of Herod’s wrath.  Standing from the sand and picking up his traveling bag, he flung it across his shoulder.  He had a long journey before him.  It was time to go home.

He had only taken a few steps when a sound reached his ears – the sound of a scuffle, followed by the shouts of men, muffled by the wind in the night.  He froze in his tracks to determine the direction of the struggle.  But then he heard a noise that alarmed him, sending his head upright like a sentinel.  It was the cry of a woman.  Klaus sprang without hesitation, turning and sprinting to the brow of the sandy hill behind him.

 (continued tomorrow)

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