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around his leg. I pulled it tight, but the blood was everywhere and I couldn’t see where or how to stop it.
    I was scared he was going to die. And when I’m scared, I talk. So I talked while I worked on his leg the best that I could. “I wasn’t afraid of them. It happened so fast, I just couldn’t think. I made the wrong choice.”
    “You made the right choice. Leave the leg alone. It’s too late.” He touched his side, which was soaked in blood. “There’s no patching me out here. Come closer.”
    I looked at his leg. The blood still spurted, and I knew he was right. I couldn’t stop it. His lips were tinting blue. I moved over and pulled his head close to my chest. “Why did you do it, Dad? You could have lived. You can’t leave me. I don’t have anyone else.”
    “There are things more important than living. You’re one of them.” He gasped and pulled one arm to his side. I wanted so badly to stop the pain, but I didn’t know how.
    “You’re strong—stronger than you think. I’ve always known that.” He coughed and blood came from his mouth again. His voice faded to a whisper. “You’ve made me happy. I’m happy now. You’re alive, and that’s what matters. I love you.” He tilted his head up, and I pressed my cheek against his.
    His head sagged. When I looked in his eyes, they were fixed at the stars.
    I don’t know how long I sat with my father’s cheek pressed against mine, my tears smudging the dirt on his face. I do know that I moved only when I heard a groan behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Chad was dragging himself slowly away from me with his one good arm, trying to reach the brush at the edge of the campsite. I started to jump up, but I could see there was no rush.
    I unrolled one of the sleeping bags, folded the end of it over, and placed it beneath Dad’s head. Then I stood, picked up the pistol, and walked over to Chad. He was so weak I could have stopped his progress by placing my foot in front of him. But I didn’t even have to do that. He curled himself into a ball and covered his head with his arm.
    “We weren’t going to kill you!” His voice was so high-pitched that it nearly squeaked. His legs worked back and forth in the dirt, and I had the strange thought of a child making a snow angel. “For the love of God, have mercy! Please don’t kill me!”
    I watched him for a moment, then looked out across the lake. For the first time that evening I noticedcrickets chirping. In the distance a red light blinked on and off—a radio or television tower, I supposed. The night had swallowed the mesas that jutted so insistently into the horizon at sunset. Now it seemed everything twinkled, everything was a star or was brightened by starlight. I sucked in a long breath and let it out, and noticed that the air had turned crisp.
    It seemed forever since I had felt cool.
    When I turned back to Chad, he had quieted down, but one leg continued to work back and forth in the dirt. Although his arm still covered his head, there was an open spot near the crook of his elbow where I could see his hair just above his good ear. I leaned over and pointed the pistol just there.
    Then I squeezed the trigger.

CHAPTER

FIVE
     
    ELEVEN YEARS AFTER DAD was murdered, Simon Mason hired me. At first blush, it would be difficult to imagine an employer and employee less suited to one another. In little more than a decade, the plain-spoken son of a Dallas electrician had risen to become the world’s most recognized Christian evangelist.
    Even though we both lived in Dallas and he had an incredibly high profile, I hardly gave a thought to the man until the moment he called me on the telephone. What slight thought I had given him tended toward a caricature of television evangelists.
    In other words, I assumed he was a greasy-suited charlatan.
    That view had been reinforced only weeks before I met him when The Times ran a Sunday feature labeling him “The Best-Known Christian on the Planet.” In