Blessed Child (30 page)

She shifted her eyes to the window and thought about that. “Nothing like being optimistic,” she said. Her tone had resumed the bite he had come to expect from her. So maybe the blasting wasn't a thing of the past after all.

“And you are?” he asked.

“No. I've known from the minute Nikolous gained custody that Caleb would probably be ruined. That they would strip his innocence away and destroy his spirit. And now you want me to believe that someone still wants to kill him as well?”

“I'm just asking questions, Leiah.” He crossed his legs so that he faced her. “Seriously, what if the only reason Caleb's still alive now is because of all”—he motioned to the TV—“this?”

“I don't know, Jason. What if? If you knew that to be the case, what would you do? How far will you go to keep your word to him?”

“I'll go as far as I can; you know that. And I've gone as far as I can already.”

“You have? I don't see you standing outside on his street with an Uzi, waiting for the big bad guys to come and try. I don't see you taking a two-by-four into Nikolous's office to knock some sense into him.”

“Come on! I'm just telling you that I'm concerned here. Not so you can tell me to strap a nuke to my chest and threaten detonation if they don't fork him over!”

She took a swig of coffee and looked absently at the television. “I'm sorry.”

“No. You can be downright obstinate at times. Anyone ever told you that?”

She didn't answer.

“You walk around with a chip the size of the Empire State Building on your shoulder, and not only do you refuse to let anyone help you with it, you want to make sure anyone near you carries one just as large, is that it?”

Leiah's jaw muscles flexed.

“Well, I've got news for you, Leiah. I care about Caleb, maybe as much as you do. And I care about you. Not because you're some victim either.”

He looked away.
And why do you care for her, Jason?

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm sorry. Really.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I'm sorry. I don't have the right to talk that way. It's just . . .” He faced her again, and now she was looking at him with her blue eyes. “I do care for you.”

“I know you do, Jason.” She looked at the floor. “And it scares me.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes while the panel went back and forth about the boy. Jason suddenly wanted to reach over and touch her. Just lay his hand on her feet or something. Her feet were right there on the couch, inches from his left hand. But in truth the thought terrified him as well. He wasn't even sure why it terrified him; it just did.

So he didn't.

At least not for a good five minutes.

And then he did, on an impulse that made him swallow. He just moved his hand five inches or so and laid it gently on her white-socked feet. She didn't even look at him. Neither did she move her feet.

“Maybe you're right,” he said, fighting for normalcy. “Maybe there is more I can do for him.”

She faced him. “Like what?”

“I don't know. Torch the Orthodox church?”

She chuckled.

“Okay, maybe not. The two-by-four sounded like an idea, though.”

This time she laughed, and it was good to hear her laugh. It was very good. She still didn't move her feet.

22

W
HILE
J
ASON AND
L
EIAH SAT
and tried to make sense of themselves, Blane Roberts was cracking his neck and running through his options while he waited for Crandal's plane to land. The man had insisted he stay in Los Angeles while he made a three-day swing through the Northeast. They had already canceled a dozen campaign stops through the Southwest, but New York, of all places, was lagging in the polls. They'd pulled ahead in California—a welcome sign after two solid weeks marching all over the West. And there was good indication that their momentum was building. If Crandal took both California and New York, they might very well win the election by the largest margin in history.

The DC-9 they'd called home for the past six months was on final approach.

Crandal was growing impatient. The plastic faces forced upon him by the campaign were stretching his limits. That was the only way Roberts knew to make sense of the foul mood that had descended upon the man over the last two weeks.

In a democracy, politics and power always went hand in hand, although not always naturally. Great politicians always got the power, but those made for great power were not always great politicians. Crandal was an exception, a great politician, destined for great power. But as of late, the politician in him was growing thin.

Roberts stood by the black limousine and watched the jet glide over the runway like a hawk settling over its nest. The words “Power to the People” ran down the fuselage above the windows. The slogan had done its job.

Roberts spoke into his radio. “Touchdown. Clear the exit, Barney. Remember, no news vans within a mile. They can ask all the questions they want after the dinner.”

Barney's voice crackled in his earphone. “You got it.”

There was this little problem of Caleb, of course. The simple fact that the boy wasn't dead. It wasn't helping to ease Crandal's nerves.

Any man who had ingested as much poison as the woman swore she'd fed the boy would be dead by now. Of course, if and when they did get around to an autopsy, the traces of Clostridium they'd laced the rat poison's standard arsenic with would fool them into thinking common food poisoning had done the kid in. It was an old trick rarely used.

But the boy wasn't even showing signs of weakness. The only explanation that made any sense at all was that the wench wasn't administering the poison as he'd prescribed. He'd met with her an hour earlier and she'd nearly bitten his head off in the wake of his accusations. She'd given the kid exactly what he'd prescribed, she insisted. Every night, without fail. And he had better not shake his finger at her or she might think about telling Nikolous.

It took exactly thirty seconds to convince her that if she whispered one word to the Greek, she wouldn't live out the day.

She wouldn't talk. But that still didn't help them with the kid.

The jet whined to a stop, and Crandal followed a small entourage of bodyguards off the plane. He looked at Roberts only when he was within three strides of the limousine. Roberts opened the door.

“Welcome back, sir.”

The large man dipped into the cab without acknowledging him. Roberts shut the door, rounded the car, and slid in beside Crandal.

They'd been sealed into silence for maybe three seconds before the candidate spoke. “Why isn't he dead?”

“I don't know. He should be.”

“She's giving it to him?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe?”

“Short of feeding it to him ourselves, we can't know for sure, can we? But I spoke to her this afternoon, and I have no reason to think differently.”

“You should watch your tone.” Crandal paused. “And if she is giving it to him, then why is he still breathing?”

Roberts didn't have a good answer, so he didn't give one. Crandal had always respected his right to question aggressively. It's what kept them sharp he'd said once. Now he was demanding a respectful tone?

“I swear, Roberts, if this kid says anything . . .” He didn't finish.

“He
hasn't
said anything. And there's no evidence that he even knows what you did. It was ten years ago. But I won't bore you with probabilities. I deal in certainties as much as you do. I know we need him dead, but we're clearly dealing with a different animal than we first thought. He's a national hero, for heaven's sake!”

“Exactly! Which is
why
we need him dead.”

Roberts looked out the window and said what had been gnawing at his mind for three days now. “Have you considered the possibility that the kid's unaffected by the poison because of this . . . this power of his?”

“We're not living in a comic book full of superheroes. Trust me, the kid will bleed as well as any kid.”

“Maybe. But he's not bleeding yet.”

“Then forget the poison and use Banks. Their cover should be set by now. Take him out.”

Roberts shook his head. “I talked to him this morning, and he thinks it's too soon. If you want this to go down without the media coming unglued, we have to set it up right. Another week. Any sooner and you could blow this open.”

The large man breathed deeply and slowly closed his eyes. “I don't like it.”

“It's a fine line, but we've walked it before.”

They rode in silence for a few blocks. Crandal reached a huge hand up and rubbed it over his bald head. “One week?”

“One week,” Roberts said.

“Then double his dose. Give him enough to kill an elephant, if you need to. I'm not sure we have a week.”

“I already have.”

“I really don't care how much you hate religion or how afraid you are of disappointing Peter!” Barbara Long said. “Do you think he's not disappointed with life already?”

“He's learning not to be,” Stewart returned.

“They're all healed, Stew! Every one of them! They go into those meetings in wheelchairs and on hospital beds, and they come out on their own two feet. I know this is something that you've decided is impossible—I knew the same thing just a couple weeks ago. But now there are a few thousand people who know differently, and every one of them came from a wheelchair!”

Stewart nodded absently. She was right, of course. The lame were flocking to the Old Theater, and they were leaving changed. But that was them and this was Peter, and for some inexplicable reason, the prospect of taking his son to a meeting terrified him.

“How much are they charging now?” he asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

“Who cares what they're charging! If a fifty-thousand-dollar operation held out hope to put Peter back on his feet, would you do it?”

“Of course.”

“Exactly. Come on, Stew. I know this makes no sense. But what if Caleb really does have the power in his mind to heal? Listen to me . . . he
does!
We know he does; we just don't know why or how. So let the scientists grapple with that one all they want. All I want is to give Peter a chance to be normal again.”

“And you think I don't?”

Movement to his right caught Stewart's attention, and he turned to see the back of his son's blue wheelchair disappear into the hall. He closed his eyes and bit back his frustration. Barbara was right; he had no right to allow his hatred for religion to deprive Peter of the chance to be made normal again. His son had refused to talk about Caleb, but he had watched him at every opportunity, and that was enough for Barbara. Peter still spoke in his riddles, but not so often, and when he did he said very little. He mostly surfed the channels, looking for news about Caleb.

Suddenly Stewart knew that they would go. Of course, they had to go, didn't they? No matter what the cost—no matter what he had to do to get tickets—they would take Peter.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” And then he turned and walked out to his cruiser.

The boy was changing. Jason and Leiah saw it the next day, and it stopped them both by the door. His hair was dirty, his face looked haggard, and there were circles under his eyes. He smiled, but it looked apologetic. He began to chew on his right index fingernail, and they'd never seen him do that. Martha glared at them from her corner post, and even she looked somehow different to Jason.

They spent ten minutes with him, and Caleb seemed distracted. He picked up a
Good Housekeeping
magazine, probably one Martha had left on the table, and glanced at it for a few seconds before softly closing its cover. It was the way his eyes shifted around that bothered Jason the most.

Jason finally stood, announced that he was going to see Nikolous, and left Leiah with the boy.

The Greek met him in his office, grumpy as usual, but not belligerent. He watched Jason sit in the guest chair without comment.

“Have you seen the boy today?” Jason asked.

“No. He's not working tonight. He has a busy weekend coming up.”

“Busy? You plan on working him to death, is that it?”

“No. As a matter of fact, you may be pleased to know that I am changing the format for the boy's meetings. There will only be three thousand admitted to the meeting on Friday night.”

“Three? In the theater?”

The Greek smiled. “Does that surprise you? I'm not a man beyond reason. In fact, we will soon be moving to even smaller, more exclusive meetings. We have our first one-on-one session on Saturday.”

Jason knew immediately what the Greek was up to. “You're after the wealthy, one-on-one now. Who is it?”

“Some people have . . . greater capacity than others. This man is well known. A Paul Thompson. Have you heard of him?”

“Maybe. Sounds familiar. What are you charging him?”

Nikolous chuckled. “Nothing. Not everything is about money, my friend. Dr. Thompson's practically an evangelical icon with an enormous amount of goodwill. There are few names as well known as his in religious circles. He's also terminally ill. I'm not even sure he knows the boy's coming. A group of his friends have made this request. If it goes well, I'm sure others will follow.”

“And of course those won't come cheap. I don't suppose you're raising the ticket price for Friday's meeting.”

“Smart boy, Jason. It's a simple matter of supply and demand.”

“How much?”

“A thousand dollars. A pittance for another crack at life, wouldn't you say?”

Jason shook his head. “It's extortion. And you're not going to stop there, are you? Maybe you ought to hire a few salesmen to sell the sessions to the highest bidders. For that matter, why not charge a hundred thousand a head?”