Blessed Child (46 page)

Through it all, they had all but forgotten that short of this kingdom there waited a world ready to string them up. That a fledgling bird was about to grow into a monster. But now as the day faded, Jason was remembering.

“How long do you think our eyes will see this?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Caleb said. “Until he's finished showing us what he wants to show us.”

“It would be nice if he could show us what to do.”

Leiah looked at him. “Maybe that's it.”

“You think?”

“Why not? Couldn't he show us what to do, Caleb?”

“He could show us whatever he wants to show us.”

“But we should ask him, shouldn't we?”

“Yes, we should.”

They sat still. Wisps of red and yellow floated through the air all around them. They were growing used to the wonderful new world.

Jason folded his hands, put his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin on his fists. He spoke, hardly thinking. “Dear God, give us wisdom.”

The sky flashed, and a single bolt the diameter of a man's thigh fell into Jason's head and then vanished.

Jason jerked upright.

All around them the blue air sputtered once, then twice, and then shut off.

The blue air was gone. The colored wisps had vanished. A sun turned orange by smog was setting on the western horizon. The world had become normal again.

Jason leapt to his feet and whirled to face them. “That's it! What's soft and round and says more than it should?”

They both looked at him dumbly.

“Father Matthew's riddle. The hem of a tunic. Caleb's tunic!”

“The riddle he gave you just before we escaped. Caleb doesn't wear a tunic anymore.”

“But he did then. We have to find that tunic!”

Caleb stood. “God told you this?”

“No. Yes! I don't know. I just remembered your father's words. And I think I know what we should do.”

“What?”

Banks had made three trips to the car during the day, once for food, and twice to stretch his legs. He had reported in to Roberts, who was still in D.C. with the big man. Evidently the world was hanging in the balance over the kid, although Banks didn't really see what the big deal was. Sure the boy could do some strange stuff, but he was just a kid, who would soon be dead.

Truth be told, he could probably wrestle a full million out of Roberts for the hit. Especially now that the rifle had been found. There was a panic in the air and as long as the boy was alive, the threat he posed to Crandal was alive. The only real way to terminate that threat was to snuff the kid. And while the world went nuts speculating on what might have happened to the boy, he had them pinned up a lone country road with no escape.

Banks smiled and lifted his field glasses to his eyes. The light was failing fast, but he was in no hurry. He would have to pull the car into the intersection again once darkness hit; couldn't have the foxes sneak past in the middle of the night. The road hadn't been used during the day, which was odd. You'd think a sportsman or a hunter . . .

Banks froze. A low rumble carried through the thin air.

He swung the glasses up the first fork. But it lay empty and brown like it had all day. Somewhere a car was driving, though. He could hear the rush of tires on gravel.

He jerked the binoculars to the second fork. A white Bronco filled the view.

Banks's heart hit the roof of his throat. He grabbed the rifle, popped off the scope cover, and swung it in line with the onrushing vehicle. The Bronco was blitzing over the road, spewing billows of dust from the rear wheels. They were in a rush.

But the rush would end in a head-on with a bullet.
Smack!

The car was still a good four hundred yards off, and Banks clicked the scope up to full power. The windshield shimmied in his view. The driver sat with both hands on the wheel. He had the same red shirt he'd worn at the meeting.
What's wrong, buckwheat? No shower in the woods?

The seat beside Jason was empty. And behind him . . .

The low sun splashed light across an empty rear seat. Where were the other two, then? The kid. A finger of panic rode Banks's spine. He had to kill the kid first! He was the primary target. He'd taken out a secondary first in Nicaragua once and lost the primary because of it. Things changed once there was a killing. Just like they were changing now back in the city because someone had found the gun.

The blazing Bronco was within a hundred yards now, and Banks backed the power off on the scope. Jason was coming out alone. For supplies maybe. He couldn't shoot.

The white vehicle approached the fork and then roared by. Banks caught a glimpse of the floorboards as it passed. No low-lying bodies. He pulled up the gun and watched the Bronco disappear in a cloud of dust.

His pulse thumped in his ears. “Gotcha,” he muttered.

He rose, gathered up his binoculars, and returned to the car. His wait on the rock was over. The game had just changed. He would have to wait for the Bronco's return, sure. And the Bronco would return, because up there in those cold hills waited the kid and the woman. Jason wouldn't be leaving without them, unless he intended on returning.

But in leaving, he had inadvertently tipped his hand. He had removed a chunk of ambiguity. He had eliminated one of the forks. The kid was somewhere up the fork to the left.

Which meant that as soon as the Bronco sped back by, Banks would go on a little hunt.

He chuckled and bit into a day-old sandwich.

A night hunt.

It was a good day to be alive.

Jason approached the Texaco and eased the Bronco to a roll. There was one other car at the pumps: a yellow Volkswagen Bug. The trick here was going to be getting out without being recognized. The fewer people that saw him the better.

He parked the Bronco on the side by a large white cooler that read ICE. His mind still buzzed from the day's exhilarating experience. It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago he'd been spinning through the grass, arms locked with Leiah, who kept commenting on the fact that her skin was smooth. For a tidbit that had hardly seemed important to either of them several hours earlier, the healing had taken on symbolic importance that tied a bow around the whole experience. One day that bow would come in handy.

Yes, it did happen, Junior. And see Mommy's skin? That proves it happened.

Now there was a thought.

Jason looked in the mirror and pulled his hair forward toward his eyes. The blond curls were short, but long enough to manipulate a little. The day's growth on his chin would've been better if it was black stubble, and he thought about taking some dirt to it. But then, a dirty face might be something that attracted attention more than dispelled it.

His plan was simple. He would walk in with his head turned from the clerk, make for the hatrack, put a cap on his head, grab a few groceries, and make his purchase at the register without removing the hat. He'd discarded the impulse to do the same with dark glasses as the light faded. Sunglasses at night might raise an eyebrow.

“Father, help me,” he breathed and stepped from the car. The telephone booth stood at the edge of the lot. He would end his trip there.

Jason got halfway to the front door before stopping midstride, frozen by the stack of newspapers in a white rack labeled
Los Angeles Times
. It was the red shirt that caught his attention.
His
red shirt. The same one he had on right now!

The picture sported him running offstage with Caleb draped in his arms. The headline told the story.
Kidnapped!

Jason jerked to the window. A large Marlboro sign blocked the view to the store. Thank goodness. He spun back for the car. The yellow Volkswagen gunned its engine and peeled out of the driveway.

A thought spun through his mind: How much of what was happening at this moment was at the behest of swirling colored lights? His seeing that newspaper, for example—if his eyes were still opened to the other world, would he have seen a bolt from heaven turning his head? How much of the mundane was really crowded with the mystical? More than most could imagine, he suspected.

Jason clambered into the Bronco's rear seat and slammed the door shut. He had to get on with this before the clerk came out to see who was slamming doors and wandering around the white Bronco. That would be the end.

He peeled off the red shirt and foraged around the back for the white T-shirt he used on occasion when he messed with the car. He found it rolled up in the corner and pulled it on. A black KNAC ROCKS logo ran diagonally across his chest. It smelled of mildew and it was wrinkled. But none of this mattered. Not unless he wanted to walk into the store bare-chested.

He climbed from the car and straightened the shirt. On last thought, he ran his fingers around the rim of the wheel well and rubbed a couple streaks of grease along his cheekbones. He might as well look the part of his shirt. Just an ordinary guy who'd just finished changing a tire.

Jason exhaled and strode into the store.

The clerk wasn't in sight. He hurried down the aisle and grabbed a loaf of bread and some peanut butter. The hatrack loomed, and he slid a green John Deere hat over his head. So far so good.

Cash! Did he have cash? He couldn't use a credit card! A tremble took to his hands.
Dear Father, please help me.
It was amazing how frail he felt back in this skin.

He approached the counter, slid his rations on the glass, grabbed a two-liter jug of root beer from a side rack, and fished for his wallet. A single twenty sat neatly in the folds. Thank God.

The clerk emerged from the back, wiping her hands. “I'm sorry. Doing inventory. That it tonight?”

“Uh-huh.”

She glanced at him. “Hat too?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“No prob.” She rung the groceries up, took the twenty, and handed him eight dollars and change.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“Drive safe.” She turned and walked toward the back.

The minute Jason hit the sidewalk, he bolted for the car. No other cars had pulled in. He started the Bronco, drove it away from the lights, shoved it into park, and hurried for the telephone booth. So far so good. The worst of this mission was behind him. Just beyond his eyesight the air was swimming with colored lights, he was sure of it.

He pulled Donna's business card out of his wallet. Leiah had raised an eyebrow when she'd learned he still had it, but she hadn't argued. He punched the number for her cell phone and waited.

“Hello.”

Jason adjusted the receiver. “Donna? That you?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“It's Jason.”

“Jason! What are you doing?”

“I'm calling an old friend for some help.”

“Hold on.”

The line went dead for a few seconds. “Sorry. I was in a bar. Where are you?”

“Never mind that. Listen, I need you to help me. I don't know what you think's going on, but it isn't what it looks like.”

“They found a gun, Jason.”

He blinked. “They did, huh? Figures. Who did it?”

“Is Caleb okay?”

“This is all off the record, Donna. You'll understand when I tell you. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“He's fine. The bullet grazed him. Who did it?”

“Maybe one of the antichrist gang. A black-hooded man was seen walking toward the upper seats a few minutes before the boy fell. They sure had the motivation. Everyone's saying that he was shot and that you took advantage of the confusion to steal him away. Nikolous is climbing the walls. You've got to come out, Jason. It's not looking good.”

“It was Crandal.” He paused and she didn't object. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think we can put our hands on some solid evidence that might tell us who Crandal really is.”

“Please. Crandal may have a problem with a boy who walks around telling the world that he's a bad guy, but that doesn't make him a killer.”

“It's more than that. He's . . .” How do you tell someone like Donna that the man about to become the president of the United States is really a monster in waiting? “He's not what he seems. Something happened back in Ethiopia, something that would destroy him, and he's bent on keeping it out of the news. Even if it means killing Caleb.”

“Did what in Ethiopia? You can't just throw out accusations like that. Right now it's you who has some explaining to do, not Crandal.”

“You know it's not beyond him. Tell me you at least suspect that much.”

She paused, thinking. “Maybe.”

“So if I could produce some evidence that showed motivation for his threat to Caleb, you would be willing to play along?”

“Depends on what I'm playing along with.”

“I want to go public. I want a worldwide exclusive with as much coverage as you can manage. I mean I want every person within reach of a television to be tuned in. I'll bring Caleb out with Leiah. And I want you to guarantee me ten minutes in front of the cameras without obstruction. The cops can haul me off and lock me up when I've said what I need to say.”

“I can probably arrange that.” An edge had come to her voice.

“And I want Crandal there.”

“What!? Come on. Now you're going over the top.”

“Am I?”

“Even if I agreed, how do you propose I get him here? He's in D.C. now. When would you want this?”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. If I'm right, he'll come. You ever blackmail someone, Donna?”

“Please.”

“You ever tell someone that unless they do so-and-so, you'll go public with a story? You must have. You're a reporter.”

“That's not exactly blackmail,” she said.

“Call it whatever you like. You interested?”

“I'm all ears.”

Jason blew some air out and stretched his neck. “Go to my house. 2445 Hollister. You'll find a key under the planter at the back door. Go in and find the laundry room on your left. In the corner there's a basket, and in that basket you'll find a tunic.”