Story code: ST-000799
Part 2: The Tunnel
The bold black text of the pharmacy label seemed to warp under the harsh vanity lights. David stared at the patient name printed across the top: *Julian Price*. He blinked, a cold numbness spreading from his fingertips up through his forearms. Julian was not just any teenager. He was the eldest son of Marcus Price, the billionaire real estate developer who had single-handedly underwritten the ten-million-dollar youth arena they were standing beneath. David’s eyes dropped to the medication: *Promethazine-Codeine Oral Solution – 473ml*. And below that, the final, devastating detail: *Prescribing Physician: Dr. Alan Aris*. Alan was the head of David’s own much-publicized, church-funded youth addiction clinic.
“Pastor David?” Sarah, the stage manager, stepped halfway into the green room, her clipboard pressed to her chest. “Forty-five seconds. The broadcast goes live at the top of the hour. We have to move.”
David turned his back to the door, shielding the coffee table from Sarah’s line of sight. He shoved the freezing, condensation-slicked plastic bottle into the inner pocket of his custom-tailored suit jacket. It was far too bulky. The weight of it immediately pulled the lapel down, resting heavily against his ribs.
“I’m coming,” David called out, forcing the warm, resonant timbre of his preaching voice.
He spun back around to face his son. Leo had finally moved. The teenager was on his feet, his gray hoodie pushed back, revealing a face drained of all color. His eyes were wide, darting from the empty pharmacy bag on the table to the unnatural bulge in David’s jacket. Leo lunged forward, his hands trembling as he reached out.
“Give it back,” Leo whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, panicked edge David had never heard before. “Dad, you don’t understand. Please.”
David caught Leo by the wrists, his grip unyielding. “What is Julian Price’s prescription doing wrapped in a frozen towel in your bag?” David hissed, keeping his volume barely above a breath so Sarah wouldn’t hear.
“I have to take it to the north loading dock,” Leo begged, struggling weakly against his father’s grip. “Julian’s security guys are waiting in a black SUV. If I don’t give it to them before you finish the opening prayer, they’re going to release the videos.”
The arena bass drum kicked above them, a rhythmic, booming shockwave that rattled the recessed lighting fixtures in the ceiling. “What videos?” David demanded, his heart hammering against the freezing plastic in his pocket.
“From the summer retreat,” Leo choked out, tears finally spilling over his lower lashes. “The week I came home early. Julian recorded me. Dad, it will destroy everything. Your books, the church, this whole arena. Julian said his dad would pull all the funding if it gets out. I just have to drop the bag and walk away. Please, let me go.”
“Pastor!” Sarah’s voice cracked like a whip. “Thirty seconds! The VIP donors are waiting for you in the tunnel.”
David didn’t have time to process the confession. The machinery of the empire he had built was moving, dragging him along with its unstoppable momentum. He shifted his grip from Leo’s wrists to his upper arm, digging his fingers firmly into the thick cotton of the hoodie. “You are coming with me,” David said.
He dragged Leo out of the green room and into the stark, cinderblock hallway. The roar of the five thousand teenagers above them bled through the concrete, a deafening, chaotic ocean of sound. Volunteers in matching bright blue lanyards lined the walls, offering polite claps and reverent smiles as David passed. David locked his face into his signature pastoral smile, nodding at the volunteers while he practically frog-marched his terrified son toward the backstage tunnel.
The moisture from the bottle was already seeping through the silk lining of his jacket. The icy wetness clung to his ribs, a sharp, physical reminder of the poison he was carrying. If he walked onto that stage, he would be delivering his triumphant sermon while his own clinic was being used as a pill mill for the billionaire’s son. But if he stopped, if he pulled Leo aside and called the police, the arena would shutter before the ribbon was even cut. The scandal would obliterate a decade of work.
They rounded the final corner into the holding tunnel. The lighting here was dim, illuminated only by the red glow of exit signs and the flashing blue strobes spilling from the main stage. Standing perfectly silhouetted at the end of the tunnel, right where the stage stairs began, was Marcus Price. The billionaire was wearing a flawless black tuxedo, flanked by two men in dark suits with coiled earpieces.
Marcus turned as David approached, a massive, predatory smile stretching across his face. He extended a hand. “David, my friend! The board is in the front row. The governor just took his seat. We are ready to hand you the keys to the entire network.”
David shifted his grip on Leo, forcing his right hand free to shake Marcus’s hand. The billionaire’s palm was warm and dry. “Thank you, Marcus. We couldn’t have built this sanctuary without you.” The lie tasted like ash in his mouth.
Marcus clapped his other hand over David’s shoulder, stepping in close. The smell of expensive cologne and scotch washed over David. Then, Marcus looked down at Leo, who was staring at the concrete floor, violently shivering. “And Leo,” Marcus boomed, his voice carrying over the worship band’s crescendo. “Julian is saving a seat for you right next to him. Make sure you get out there. He’s been looking for you all night.”
The billionaire gave Leo a heavy, lingering pat on the shoulder that looked entirely too much like a warning. Marcus then turned and swept up the side stairs toward the VIP boxes, his security detail trailing closely behind.
“Ten seconds to live broadcast,” Sarah announced over the backstage PA system, standing at the base of the stairs. She handed David his wireless clicker. “Stand by on the stairs, Pastor.”
Leo leaned into David’s side, his breath hot and ragged against David’s neck. “Dad, they’re going to ruin us,” he sobbed, his resistance entirely broken. “If I don’t go out the back doors right now, it’s over.”
The house lights dropped to pitch black, drawing a deafening, unified scream from the five thousand teenagers in the arena. The heavy velvet curtain parted just enough to reveal the blinding white beam of the center-stage spotlight, illuminating the first three steps of the riser.
“Go, Pastor,” Sarah urged, giving him a gentle, practiced push between the shoulder blades. “You’re up.”
David looked at the blinding light of the stage, then down at his trembling son, the freezing weight of the bottle pressing against his heart.