Blessed Child (26 page)

All the advisors on Crandal's payroll were saying the same thing: “Just don't rock the boat, Charles. Sit tight and play out the clock. Don't go for any fourth-quarter theatrics.”

Made sense. Their opponent, James Murdock, looked like a wounded puppy already. Crandal had made his statement, and the American people had bought it. No need to risk another attack only to lose the battle. They had cut their schedule in half and convinced Crandal to stay away from anything that even smelled controversial.

Roberts had sat by and watched three interviews from CNN and two of the majors, but none of those would pose any risks. They were practically on staff. Crandal had answered their questions with the ease of a slick salesman without sounding like one. That was his gift. It was the appearance of power that earned it, Crandal had told him once, and over these last three months Roberts had come to believe it wholesale. In reality Roberts had run the NSA as much as Crandal, but he didn't have the gift. His boss had the gift.

It was this interview with Donna Blair that they had prepared for. If the question came, it would be tonight and it would come from her.

Donna had asked all the basic annoying questions about policy and issues, and Crandal had beat them to death in a gentle sort of way—another one of his gifts. She paused and glanced at her sheet. It would come now, Roberts thought.

And it did.

“As you know, sir, there was an event at the Old Theater in Los Angeles six days ago. I'm sure you're familiar with it. It seems to have captured the country's imagination. But I think the American people would like to know what the man who may very well be their next president makes of such a boy.”

“Well, if this boy is all they make him out to be, I'm thinking he should have a spot in my cabinet.”

She laughed along with several close by who heard the exchange. Crandal had taken the question and swallowed it whole. Roberts felt his heart surge for the man. Behind closed doors he had called the kid a freak, and in reality they both knew the kid was a freak. But not in front of the camera he wasn't.

“Do you believe he's capable of doing what they say he can do?”

“You were there, Donna. Maybe you could answer that question better than I. All I know is that if he can, then we have a whole lot more to learn about the mind. Which is precisely why my plan to pour 150 billion dollars into developing sciences is so important to the future of our country. I say power to the people, but understanding the source of our power is something we can't afford to forget.”

She smiled. “I hadn't thought of it that way. You've seen this boy yourself once, haven't you?”

There it was. Crandal expressed no reservation. He calmly waved at a passing journalist and answered as though slightly distracted.

“I think I would remember it. He seems like quite a striking young fellow.”

“You have actually. At your press conference at Frazier Park in Los Angeles. He was there and wandered up to the crowd. I believe he spoke to you. Do you remember?”

“
This
boy? You're sure?”

“I was right beside him.”

“And what did he say?”

Roberts held his breath. He was following their script to the letter.

“He said . . . that you would bring a tempest,” the reporter said.

“Well, then the boy knows his stuff,” Crandal answered with an amused smile. Man, he was good.

“I think I've already brought a tempest to this country, at least I think my opponent would think so. As I'm sure you know all too well, Donna, we politicians are careful to choose the right words. We can't very well scream revolution from the tops of buildings inciting the people. But I think I've made it clear that in more ways than not my presidency will represent a revolution. A tempest if you must, tearing down the strongholds that suck the life out of the American people. Power's good for one thing, and that is freeing the people. And if someone wants to call that a tempest, I'm with them all the way.”

Roberts let out a long slow, easy breath. It was brilliant. He should know—he'd written it. All except the part about power freeing the people; that had been Crandal's two bits. He was obsessed with this “giving power to the people” thing. In reality giving power to the people was the farthest thing from his mind.

Donna smiled and nodded. “So you take it as an endorsement?”

“Take if for what you will, Donna. I don't even remember the comment, but I'll take all the help I can get.”

And that was that. She moved on to his plans for the military. They could not have hoped for a better resolution to the matter.

Of course the very fact that Tempest had now become a public word did have its consequences.

In a sardonic way the boy's statement actually
could
bring a kind of endorsement, although Roberts wasn't sure how much good an endorsement from a ten-year-old would do. Then again, this was clearly no ordinary ten-year-old.

On a more practical note, the exposure of the statement to the public now sealed the boy's fate. Another nail in the coffin, so to speak.

Not that Roberts thought they needed any more nails; the plan was running without a hitch. In fact, smoother than he could have dreamed. Martha had settled for fifty thousand dollars, and in reality he thought she would've done it for twenty. Her apparent dislike for the boy had been a gift from God himself.

He had set a second plan in motion, of course. A redundant plan that had no dependence whatsoever on the first. Both were on the move. The only question that remained was which would reach the boy first.

Roberts caught Crandal's eye, and the latter didn't show more than the casual glance of someone disinterested.

He was a gifted man, Roberts thought. A man who deserved the power they were about to give him.

19

Day 17

I
T WAS ON A
T
UESDAY NIGHT
, exactly one week from the first meeting and just over two weeks from the day Caleb first set foot on American soil that the second meeting took place. The Old Theater held ten thousand seats, and an eager public lined up for ten city blocks for the first-come-first-served tickets. At twenty-five bucks a pop they were a bargain. They had all seen the replay a hundred times of that small child's legs straightening; this was the real thing.

The LAPD had stationed itself at all the intersections and relegated itself to traffic control for most of the day. It wasn't an unruly crowd waiting for a chance to see the boy; if anything it was a subdued, introspective crowd—a far cry from the jostling, snorting, beer-drinking types waiting for a crack at Ozzy Osbourne or the Nine Inch Nails or some other rock band, which was normal fare for a ten-block line.

To walk down the line without knowing of the event, you might think it a convention for the fringe of society. The foreign, the handicapped, the nerds, and the like.

Perhaps a full third were of foreign origin, mostly from the Middle East or Asia. Quite a few had come in traditional clothing: head wraps and white cotton robes or sarongs. Some stood in groups, all dressed identically, like monks or sheiks. Others stood in black robes, unmoving. Still others stood with clear markings on their foreheads or arms that identified their affiliation with a particular sect.

The religious community had come out in all stripes and large numbers to see the boy. Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, and a scattering of smaller groups—Moonies, and the like. Which made sense. They had all had a week to fester over the boy's power, and now they wanted to know for themselves. The earliest suggestions that the power had somehow been faked had been easily refuted by the media itself. So then the only real question which remained was the source of the boy's power.

It was God, of course. Ah, but was it?

The Eastern religious elite weren't so sure. It could well be psychic, a human's unique connection with the universe that allowed him such power. But even so, what kind of human could connect so purely with the universe? A very great teacher indeed. A god perhaps.

And if the boy's power did come from God, which God? The God of Mohammed? Perhaps Mohammed himself, sent by God?

The Christian community was no more united. Clearly if the boy's power was genuine, and it seemed to be, then it came from either the Holy Spirit, as sent by Jesus Christ, or from Satan. He was either a prophet from God or an antichrist. Some had already decided on the latter, and they identified themselves with placards or picket signs with long verses from the book of Revelation.

Most of the Western world heeded the rhetoric of the parapsychologists, however, and many who waited were everyday folk who'd come to see a psychic with extraordinary powers. Or be healed by him.

Thousands who'd come leaned on crutches or sat in wheelchairs or in a few cases lay on wheeled beds. There was no telling how many others suffered from invisible ailments, but surely thousands.

They opened the doors at five, two full hours before the event was scheduled to begin, and it took all of that to ease the first ten thousand into the auditorium. Three thousand were turned away.

Jason stood on the stage behind the huge purple curtains; they'd lowered them this time, evidently for theatrical impact. It wasn't the only change. The stage itself had been covered in a rich purple carpet. Tall palms, more than twenty of them, ran in a semicircle behind where Caleb was supposed to stand. Tall Greek pillars that looked as if they might have been ripped off from the Parthenon stood on either side. The set reminded Jason of a picture from the
Jesus
movie, or a passion play he'd seen once.

Organ music rumbled in low tones and colored lights cast an atmospheric red hue over the whole stage. Two black boxes—fog machines—sat just behind the curtain. Jason had beat the drums in a rock band during his college days, and they'd played exactly one gig. It was the only other time he'd seen a fog machine close up. The outfit Nikolous had hired to create the set was going Hollywood.

Jason parted the curtain and looked at the crowd. The entire floor section had been set aside for those who might find negotiating the stairs difficult, and by all appearances it wasn't enough room. The media waited in taped sections, their cameras peering at the stage from all angles: CBS, ABC, FOX, CNN, NBC, of course, and a slew he hardly recognized. At least thirty cameras in all.

Every seat in the house was filled, and the quiet, speculative talk created a dull roar that gave the general impression a train was rolling through the station. The air conditioners were having a hard time keeping up with the mass of flesh.

Jason scanned the midtier orange seats. It was mind-boggling to think that just over two weeks ago Caleb had been hidden from the world in a monastery in northern Ethiopia, and here people were coming in droves to see him. Like a rare treasure unearthed in an archeological dig—the Holy Grail with the power of everlasting youth or something. Thinking of it in those terms, this all made sense.

What didn't make sense was why the boy's life had been threatened in the first place. Why had they been chased in Ethiopia? Why had the monastery been leveled? And more to the point here at home, why had the NSA been so eager to have him deported? They had saved Caleb for the moment, but to what end? The NSA didn't do things haphazardly. And for that matter, although the boy's burgeoning popularity may have stalled the threat, the popularity itself seemed to be getting out of control.

Caleb was a lost child, not some holy relic with magical powers. It was the impression that lingered the longest these days. Maybe Leiah's motherly love was rubbing off on him.

His eyes suddenly met with those of a man to the near right not thirty yards away on the midtier balcony. He stood in a hooded black robe beside five other men, all Caucasian and all dressed alike. To a man, they were staring at him from behind their hoods.

Jason started and pulled the curtain closed. And what was that? A cult of reapers holding signs instead of sickles?

He parted the curtain again, barely this time. Several had shifted their attention to the crowd below, but the leader and two others still drilled the stage with their dark stares. They held pickets with the words, “Beware the Antichrist who comes as a wolf in sheep's clothing,” scrawled in red on black boards. He blinked. Maniacs like these could be a problem. They could pose a threat, couldn't they? How far would a disciple go to kill the Antichrist?

“It is full?”

Jason jerked back. It was Nikolous.

“Yes. The whole world is out there.”

“Good.” The Greek pulled on his lapels and rose to his toes once.

“You're pulling out all the stops on this, aren't you?” Jason asked.

“Of course. Anything less would be a disgrace.”

“Not to mention a whole lot less money.”

“Not everything is about money. There is far more at stake here than a few dollars. To reduce such an appointed time in history to complaints over who is making money would be to miss the point.”

“Smooth. That's part of the spiel you plan on feeding the cameras? You actually think they'll believe that you have no interest in the money? You're talking what, $250,000 here, less maybe fifty for expenses? To buy the boy shoes, right?”

“Say what you like.” Nikolous glanced at his watch. “The show starts in five minutes.”

“The show, huh? And what about you, Nikolous? You're a religious man who believes in the deity of Christ, aren't you? Where do you think the boy's power comes from?”

The Father peered at him over the dark bags under his eyes. “This is not about any particular religious dogma. It's about the power of the mind, which was indeed created by God, though we don't necessarily know how. We have evolved far, and now we have a crowning example of God's accomplishment at our fingertips. And it is appropriate that he's in the hands of God's church. He's God's gift to the church.”