Bill Rhodes watched as Francis Dawkins slid from the driver’s seat of the church van and walked across the gravel toward him. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his black denim jeans and smiled a cold smile. Few people could pull off the clandestine nature of Francis working as a youth pastor at some mega-church while recruiting ripe teens seeking a real master to serve.
Rorschach patterns made of sweat had formed on his light blue linen shirt. After spending the night aboard the overly air-conditioned tour bus, he relished the heat of the sun as it thawed him out. Looking up, he could almost detect the line of brown smog over the city of San Francisco as it battled with the El Niño currents.
“Frankie, my man,” he said. He let his eyes wander over the crowd of teenagers piling out
