Blessed Child (31 page)

“Not a bad idea. Radiation therapy is nearly as expensive and not half as effective.” The Greek was grinning and Jason wanted to yell at him.

“You're going to wake up one day and find that this whole scam of yours has crashed around your ears,” he said. “Doesn't the Orthodox Church have anything to say about this?”

Nikolous frowned. “As a matter of fact, my change in strategy is in part a response to the bishop. Evidently the San Francisco diocese isn't seeing eye to eye with my progressive nature. To be honest, I think the archbishop sides with them. They will apply more pressure as time goes by, but it is I, not them, who runs this parish. I have more autonomy than you might think. All the more reason to maximize the boy's value now.”

“You're dealing with a child's life here!” Jason forced himself to ease up. “What makes you think Caleb will continue to perform for you?”

“He hasn't complained yet.”

“That's because he's too innocent to know that you're abusing him. He's too trusting to know that you're his worst enemy.”

“What? You've not told him that Uncle Nikolous is a beast?”

“Of course we've told him. And he tells us that you're just a sorry sad sack who needs sympathy. Imagine that! You need sympathy.”

“He calls me a sad sack, does he?” Nikolous seemed amused.

“Close enough.” Jason sat back and breathed deliberately. “He's changing, Nikolous. He's losing his innocence.”

A fire lit the Greek's eyes. “Nonsense! He's isolated for good reason!”

“Sure he is. But you can't isolate him from the crowds at the meetings, can you? Look at him. He's tired.”

“You're right, but I can reduce his exposure to the crowds, and I am doing that by eliminating the poor.”

“Listen to you! You're a priest and you're shutting out the poor so that you can line your own pockets! You're a fraud.”

What good grace Nikolous had maintained until then fell away. He slammed his fist on his desk and stood abruptly. Jason started.

“I am
managing
him!” the Greek thundered. “I am a steward of God's gift, and I will manage that gift as I see fit! Now get out, before I have you thrown out.”

Jason stood. “Thrown out? By who, the butler?” He walked for the door, hot from the exchange. “Caleb isn't a gift,” he said, turning. “He's a child. You don't manage him like an investment. And if you believe in God, you return him to God and let God use him as he sees fit. But silly me, I'd forgotten: you're one of those priests who don't really believe in God, aren't you?”

“And you do?”

Jason blinked and stared the man down. But an intelligent response was not coming. He stepped out, slammed the door, and stormed down the hall.

23

Day 27

I
T WAS NIGHTTIME WHEN
C
ALEB WOKE UP
with the gut-ache. It had to be nighttime, or at the very least early Friday morning, because he had just eaten and gone to bed a few hours ago, it seemed. The bitter taste of the gross gunk the nasty witch was forcing down his throat still lingered on his tongue.

He rolled over and rubbed his eyes, thinking that his mind was being more creative these days. He was discovering this new life, and it was opening up some doors in his mind.

It was also making him sick in his heart.

He sat up and put a hand on his stomach. The pain felt like gas pain or something, only it throbbed. A gurgling sound rumbled through his belly. Across the room the television blinked its pictures noiselessly. He'd figured out how to turn the sound down, but the box stayed on all the time. And he was watching it more than he should. Maybe quite a bit more.

He plopped back on the pillow and sighed heavily. A shaft of pain swept through his heart, but it wasn't from his gut. He rolled away from the TV and curled up.

“Dadda, what is happening to me?”

The night answered him with silence.

For the first time in a very long time Caleb felt confusion. Not the kind that wonders what this is or why that happens. But the kind that sits in your heart, makes you feel nothing, and refuses to budge. When you finally do feel, it's only pain. He wasn't really confused about why he felt confusion; that much he knew. He felt confusion because the kingdom was growing fuzzy. And the kingdom was growing fuzzy because the light had dimmed. And the light had dimmed because he was drinking in this other light. Which was really darkness and not light, wasn't it?

Dadda always used to say that the human heart only has the capacity for so much. He once put a large glass vase on the hearth before a crackling fire. He handed Caleb a bottle of olive oil.

“Pour it into the vase, Caleb. To the very top.” When he did, Dadda asked him what he saw.

“I see the firelight coming through the oil. It's like . . . gold,” Caleb had answered.

His father produced a glass of black water, and Caleb didn't know what it was except that it smelled sour, like brine maybe. “If I want to put some of this into the vase, what must I do?” Dadda asked.

“The vase is full.”

“Yes, it is. So what must I do?”

“Pour some of the olive oil out.”

“Then do that for me.”

Caleb had poured some of the oil back into its bottle, spilling a little on his hand. They had a little chuckle about that. Then Dadda handed him the black brine water and told him to fill up the vase again. He did.

“What do you see?”

Together they knelt and looked at the glass. Caleb would never forget the image. The firelight still glowed in the olive oil, but now fingers of black brine reached down into the vase. The two did not mix; they just swirled around each other.

“Your heart is like this vase, Caleb,” his father said. “It can only hold so much. You will have to decide what goes in it—the oil of the Spirit or the blackness of evil. But make no mistake; one will displace the other. They do not mix.”

That was three years ago, maybe. A tear came to Caleb's eye as he lay there on the bed. He swallowed and prayed. “Oh God, I am falling into a darkness and it frightens me. Father, do you hear me? I am feeling sick in my heart. What should I do? What should I do to make this end?”

Usually he would hear that small faint voice answer him, but right now it didn't. He knew the answer already.

He blinked. Dadda had once told him that those close to God can hear his still small voice, like a son can hear and understand a father's whisper. God always answers, and he never answers with silence. He is eager for us to hear. But many people cannot hear because their hearts are too far away. Then sometimes God will shout, or use a prophet, for the weak.

But Caleb didn't really need a prophet now, because he already knew the answer to his question. It was very simple, of course. He should not be allowing the blackness into his heart. Into his eyes.

Actually, he already knew that from before. Nikolous had taken him to four large meetings now, and on the last one, something had changed a little. The light wasn't there, and it had confused him and terrified him. He had dropped to his knees and begged to see and then he'd lain down and cried on the stage. Only then did the brightness of day come. An earthquake came as well, but in his mind it was God's voice reassuring him, whispering words of love that shook his body. He had vowed then, lying on the stage, to never look at the glass box again, because he knew it was not for him.

The next day he had looked again. Just a peek, for maybe ten seconds. And then it had stretched into an hour, and he found it fascinating.

Caleb fell into a fitful sleep, trying very hard to ignore the pain. He dreamed of a blue tiger chasing a little boy. They ran for a long time. When the tiger caught the boy, it ate him.

Caleb bolted up in bed, breathing hard. He stared at the television screen. It had colored stripes on it. No pictures.

He'd never seen it without pictures before. A twinge of panic tickled his spine. Maybe it would change. But he watched it for thirty seconds and it didn't change.

On impulse Caleb scrambled from the bed, bounded to the set, and dropped to his knees. He started to push the little buttons, suddenly frantic. Nothing happened. The witch had removed one of the buttons, and Caleb found himself very angry with her.

Suddenly the picture lit up with something new. A full picture, but it wasn't a drawing. Caleb jumped back to the bed. The picture was of a real man, talking from the tube. And it wasn't just any man.

Caleb caught his breath. The man was very large and he had a bald head on top. This was the man from the park. Crandal.
Tempest!

A light ignited in Caleb's mind. He was watching the man smile and talk, but he did not see smiling and talking. He saw a string of frightening images that made no sense. Women crying and babies dying. Fields burning and gray skies. A picture of a monastery standing alone with smoke rising from its entry. From the monastery a woman walked, slowly. He knew her!

He knew the woman!

But then he didn't know her. Only that he knew her, but not who she was.

Caleb closed his eyes and sat on the bed, but the image didn't stop. His heart beat heavily in his chest. The woman was looking at him with wide eyes. Suddenly a very large bird swooped from the sky toward the woman. Fire blasted from its beak and its mouth gaped wide. It was going to eat the woman!

The room suddenly went dark and Caleb sat dumbfounded. He opened his eyes. Crandal was gone from the screen. A picture of a flag waved, and he watched it for a minute before it too vanished and colored lines ran across the television.

He rose unsteadily and climbed under his covers. What the images meant he didn't really know, only that the man was a very bad man. He had killed many babies and women and burned many fields and made the sky gray. He knew that without question. But the image of the bird and the woman did not mean anything to him.

Pain swelled in his gut again and he burped. The bitter taste of the nasty food the witch made him eat filled his mouth and for a moment he felt like throwing up. But it passed.

An idea flashed through his mind. Martha had told him that Nikolous wanted him at another meeting the coming night. Friday night. He would tell the people that this Crandal man was a bad man.

Yes, he should do that. Of course he would. And he would stop watching the television.

Yes, he should really do that.

Roberts received the call at eleven o'clock Friday night. He was alone at Calypso's Bar and Grill, trying to settle his stomach with a thick New York strip when his cell phone changed all that. It was Banks. There was a problem.

He listened to the whole spiel without speaking. When he did speak, his voice sounded unnatural. “I'll get back to you.”

He snapped the phone shut and glanced around. No one was looking his way. He abandoned the half-eaten steak and a full glass of white zinfandel and eased out of the booth. He left through the front door and made his way to the alley behind the restaurant, ignoring the faint ring in his skull. For ten years he'd walked a tightrope in this business, and every other day it felt like a fall. But the safety net had been there. Every time. You got used to it. But even after so many years, the rush of adrenaline that came when you suddenly realized your feet were no longer on the rope was enough to make your pulse pound.

His pulse was pounding now. Because he was clearly falling now.

He jabbed Crandal's private cell line. The man answered after three rings, and he was laughing, at someone's joke by the background noise.

“Yes.”

“We've got a problem.”

The laugh faded. Silence. “Hold on.” He was excusing himself.

Roberts never smoked. Unless he was falling. He fished a pack of menthols from his coat pocket, dug for a book of matches, and lit up a cigarette.

“This better be good, Roberts. I'm in the middle of—”

“The boy talked.”

That shut the big man up. Roberts took a long draw on the cigarette and flicked it into the alley.

“The boy talked,” Crandal said. “And what did he say?”

“Not too much, but enough. He said that you were a bad man, and he thought you hurt a lot of people in his country.”

The phone went silent for a moment.

“Where did he say this?” Crandal asked calmly.

“At a meeting in the Old Theater. Over thirty cameras filmed the statement.”

“What else did he say?”

“I haven't seen any footage, but according to Banks, that was it.”

“Banks was there?”

“Banks is always there.”

Crandal paused for a second, spinning through the information. “Okay, Roberts. I want that kid popped, you understand me? Go with whatever cover Banks has and kill the kid.”

“We can control this,” Roberts said. “If that's all he said, we have a plausible cover.” Crandal didn't object, so he pushed on.

“We did support the Ethiopian Liberation Army in its fight against communism in '91. The whole world knows that. A lot of people got killed in that conflict. Regrettably. For the sake of freedom, of course. So in a very plausible way the boy's right, and it's understandable that he'd say what he said after hearing locals talk about the conflict. As far as him not liking you—”

“Fine. Spin it. But only God knows what he'll say the next time. This is getting out of control, Roberts!” Crandal's jowls were shaking with his frustration— Roberts could see the man in his mind's eye. “Just kill him. I don't care if Banks wants another week to lay his cover; do it now. Our future's at stake here.”

“The next meeting's Tuesday.”

“Then I want him dead Tuesday night.”

“She said he was complaining of a gut-ache today. The poison may be kicking in.”

The phone just clicked in his ear.

Roberts grunted, snapped it shut, and turned for the street. Crandal knew as well as he that poison would be much safer. And they both knew that the lack of patience was the single greatest cause for failure in any covert operation. President-to-be or not, Crandal needed to lighten up. They'd been here before.