Chosen (10 page)

The two women watched a rented DVD. At least Frannie watched. Mariah alternated between staring into space and staring unseeingly at the movie.

“Okay, what gives?” Frannie said, hitting the pause button.

Mariah hesitated for a second then turned to face her friend. “Frannie, there’s something else I have to share with you, as if what’s been going on isn’t enough.” She cleared her throat and slipped into story-telling mode in an attempt to keep this intellectual rather than emotional. “I’ve got arthritis in my spine from previous surgeries, and there’s always been pain in my left leg depending on what I do. After the first
Finding
, the pain was completely gone.” Puzzled by the slight smile on Frannie’s face, Mariah said, “I repeat; the pain is gone. Totally. Not even a twinge.”

Frannie’s grin widened and Mariah’s frowned. “When I told Michael about this ... this
Healing
a month or so later, he told me the bursitis in his shoulder disappeared a few days after the
Finding
of Amanda.”

Frannie leaned forward. Mariah scowled at her and said, “And
Finding
Joseph Armstrong healed a pretty deep knife wound I’d given myself. Gone, the skin pink and healthy.”

Frannie’s face lit with encouragement and excitement. Mariah shook her head and continued. “Kevin’s gift was the removal of all the surgical scars on my body, all thirteen of them.” Nearly to herself she concluded, “So, to add to the
Findings
and
Joinings
, we now have
Healings
.”

Mariah’s eyes widened. With a complete reversal of the black mood in which she’d been wallowing, she burst out laughing, tears glistening in her eyes. Falling over sideways in her chair, she barely was able to gasp, “
Sounds like three new Motown groups
!”

Both of them howled till their faces hurt as they played out an old Sunday night television variety program broadcasted in the late 1960s called
The Ed Sullivan Show
. Here was the master of ceremonies himself: “And now, on our show, live and in person,
The Findings
!
”
as the camera panned to the polyester-suited R&B group moving in syncopated rhythm.

It was just what Mariah needed ... a good healthy belly laugh to restore her sense of humor. Catching her breath on a hiccup she asked, “Did anything like what I’ve described happen to you?”

With tears of laughter shimmering in her eyes, Frannie said, “I wouldn’t broadcast this little extra show stopper if I were you, my friend, but yes, something on the scale of a miracle happened to me also.”

Unconsciously rubbing her left leg, Frannie said, “The burn scars which disfigured my leg when I was fifteen are gone. I got them over-balancing a cast-iron skillet and spilling hot oil on myself. I noticed their disappearance two days after you found Joseph. My brain told me that you had to be responsible.”

This ability to heal not only herself but those who participated in the
Findings
was an unwanted addition to her already outlandish psychic abilities. Mariah slipped back into a sense of doom as she flashed on another scene: swarms of people crushing her in an effort to touch her so they could be healed. Once more, fear and anxiety enfolded her in its appalling embrace. The almond M&M’s were not having their usual narcotic effect.

Again, faith would have to suffice—for now. But Mariah Adele Carpenter was fast reaching the point where she would demand answers. She had spent a lifetime hiding from the world because of her talents which resulted in a loss of control over her life. However, this time she was determined to remain in command of the situation. She stiffened her resolve and vowed to whomever was listening (be it devil, deity, or alien) that the time would come when she would be able to control her heart palpitations enough to cease these
Findings
until she got some answers.

Mariah recounted all her other
Healings
to Frannie. Timothy Saginotu’s
Finding
cured the degenerative nerve pain in her little fingers; three days after finding Dianne Cormier, she discovered a few little signs of aging—like gray hairs, fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and a few emerging varicose veins—were gone.

Zaphiel Engel’s
Finding
... well, that was not so easily defined. She felt more energetic and her hearing and vision seemed slightly better. She even thought she experienced a heightened sense of taste and smell. Nothing obvious, like an old scar erased or an old pain gone, just an overall sense of increased health.

Not until sometime in the future would she learn that the
Healing
done to her body on Thanksgiving Day had far more supernatural implications than just improving her physical well-being.

Frannie gave Mariah a copy of the translation by Alistair Poindexter and kept her promise by relaying his wish to meet her. A waste of his time, Mariah said, without a
Finding
she knew as much about the Hebrew/Aramaic language as she did about quantum physics. The words seemed to be relevant to what was happening in her life, but she felt no connection to them.

Who—or what—was she becoming? Where had all these incredible talents come from? A thought tried to form in Mariah’s mind but she frantically fought it. Even though she hungered for an explanation, what tried to surface was so much more horrific than the unknown that she instantly filled her mind with more immediate problems; filming the next
Finding
.

Mariah knew she had little choice, so she agreed. The logistics would be tricky: there would have to be special lighting, a professional cameraman, better quality sound than Frannie’s little tape recorder, etcetera. Since it could not be set up quickly enough in the sanctuary, Mariah agreed to ask Michael about a room where they could lock up the equipment permanently.

She called Michael the following day. “I’ve got the perfect room in the building across from the sanctuary,” he said. “It’s used mainly for church board meetings that are only held quarterly.”

When she voiced her apprehension about her participation in the choir on Sundays, he said, “I share your concern for your personal safety and that of your family’s; however, I insist you continue singing. Together we will weather this storm. Maybe we’ll issue passes to members to explain that ‘certain occurrences’ in the future might make the church especially crowded. The passes will guarantee a parking place and a seat inside. We already have a policeman who directs traffic: we’ll just add one or two more to control the overflow.”

The “certain occurrences” would be people who saw the
Finding
on television and tried to get into the church just to get a look at Mariah Carpenter. Ever practical, Michael anticipated that when the film hit the fan (so to speak) the current members of the church should have some rights over those who attended for the sole purpose of ogling her. It went against his belief to turn people away from church no matter the reason; nonetheless, when her identity became public, and it was known that Mariah Carpenter was a member of the choir at Chelsea Heights Community Church ...
enough of that, Michael Jenkins. We have issues to deal with in the present without dwelling on catastrophes in the future.

But what about the truly converted?
a little voice niggled in his head. What would happen to churches all over the world when people began to believe in the miracles of God and demand a place in a house of worship? He did not tell her about the headache that began to form behind his eyes.
We will find a way with God’s help
, he prayed fervently.

“Excellent,” said Frannie when Mariah relayed Michael’s information on the availability of the room. “I have some pretty good news myself. The Bureau just happens to have one Thomas James Raphael on their list of videographers. He became disenchanted with shooting movies in Hollywood so he moved back to San José, his birthplace. He’s got his own freelance business now; filming local sporting events, wedding videos, portfolios for aspiring models, and the more and more frequent—and lucrative—jobs for the FBI.”

Frannie’s intentions were simple: film the
Finding
and pass the DVD over to the bureau’s public relations department. It would advance her career as nothing else would. While it might look like she was betraying Mariah, Frannie rationalized that her friend’s anonymity had been forfeited from the first
Finding
. Better the exposure be controlled and orchestrated by professionals.

“This guy is considered one of the best, and he’s not only willing but excited to do the shoot. I told him it would be different, but never mentioned exactly what this “different” would be. I promised him he wouldn’t be disappointed. And he lives in the garden district in downtown San José, no more than a ten minute drive to the church, fifteen tops using the back streets during rush hour.” Frannie couldn’t wipe off the wide grin, delighted that everything was coming together so nicely.

Two days later, Frannie accompanied Thomas to the church to introduce him to Mariah, and to let him take a look at the room Michael offered. After introductions and handshakes in the parking lot, Mariah guided them to the building where Michael waited.

She found herself acutely aware of Thomas’ exotic looks. Radiating confidence and charm, he was about six feet tall, his two hundred pounds of sculpted muscles spread over a medium bone structure. It was his slightly long dark hair, high chiseled cheekbones, and nearly black eyes that gave him a faintly piratical look. His was the kind of face and body seen on the covers of historical romance novels.

He had the typical unconscious swagger of a man who knew he was good-looking. Mariah stiffened: she’d met his type before; men who had swimsuit or lingerie models draped over their arms, more interested in what other men thought of their “trophies.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him stealing furtive glances at her. She knew that the undisguised interest was, of course, unabashed curiosity.

Her face flushed and she picked up the pace. Mariah’s encounters with men had been sporadic and dismal. If they showed more than a passing interest, she deliberately sabotaged the relationship, fearful that she would accidentally use her psychic abilities and then see the revulsion in their eyes. This time it would be different ... this man would see her in action, leaving no doubt about her abnormality.

Michael was waiting for them at the entrance to the room and introductions were made. Thomas walked the room’s perimeter, his eyes taking in the utilitarian table and hard wooden chairs.

“It’ll do, providing you’re not planning on inviting too many people,” he said, his voice deep and melodious.

“No problem. It’s going to be a very limited audience,” Frannie replied. “Basically just the people here now, maybe one or two more, tops.”

Thomas went back to his truck to get his equipment. While he positioned one of the digital video cameras on a tripod and set up the key and soft lights, he stole glances in Mariah’s direction as she conversed in low tones with Frannie and Michael.
Manzetti never told me Mariah Carpenter was a babe
, he mused.
This might be a whole lot more interesting than I thought
. Although he didn’t need to, he asked Mariah to stand in the area where the main event would take place, ostensibly to test the lighting and camera angles. It was a subtle ploy: he just wanted to get a really good look at her.

When he was through, they all bid good-bye to Michael and headed for their vehicles. Thomas swept Mariah a deep bow from the waist. With a lingering look and a slow, sexy grin, he got inside his truck, waiting for the women to say their farewells.

Frannie reached for the handle of the passenger door and murmured to Mariah, “You’ve made another conquest. What in the hell do you
do
to them?”

Mariah stared hard at Frannie and realized her friend wasn’t making fun of her. Frannie actually thought Thomas was interested in her? Shrugging, she said, “I’m just a femme fatale, I guess. It works until they get to know me for the independent, opinionated broad that I am.”

Frannie chuckled and got in Thomas’ truck. Both occupants waved to Mariah as they left. It was December 10.

Gregory Braeden Sinclair stretched out on his living room sofa, hands behind his head, eyes closed. He was exhausted. So satisfying to be home after four months. So pleasurable to get reacquainted with his possessions.

His body, cradled by the suede sofa pillows, traded tension for relaxation. He heard the grandfather clock in the foyer faintly tinkling
Memories
before it proclaimed the new hour with twelve rich tones.

Ah, blessed peace. A universe apart from his odious job. He remembered a time when he thought his previous occupation was abhorrent: all those mind-numbing conferences, guest lectures, laboratory appearances to assist the less knowledgeable in their experiments ... and, of course, the deafening airplanes, substandard rental cars, filthy hotel rooms, and fat-laded, salty, and tasteless cuisine in over-crowded, noisy restaurants. However, he could look back on his former life as paradise in comparison to what it was like now.

As Gregory slid into the state between awake and asleep, a vision appeared behind his eyelids. He stood in his entranceway, the floor made of Jerusalem stone, the walls covered in Italian tapestry paper. The massive oak front door was closed behind him.

Twenty feet down the hallway stood a tall, slender woman with long blonde hair, dressed in a riding habit complete with crop. Her features were in shadows, but he knew her—Annabelle, his humorous, intelligent, and charming wife.

The woman turned her head to the right, her eyes following the ascent of the mahogany staircase that led to the second floor. His eyes followed hers. On the mid-landing were his two children, nearly translucent, totally inanimate, but beautiful just the same.

They were gone now. His dutiful wife, his obedient children. Gone from the mansion he inhabited, first with his parents and siblings, then with his own family. It was a shame that it stood empty most of the time, especially now since he traveled a regrettable amount of time. His sigh trembled as he succumbed to sleep.

The nightmare began, as usual. It happened several times each week, never varying by one iota.

First, the high-pitched screams that were, no doubt, his terrified children. Then a
bapbapbapbapbap
!
he at first could not identify until a picture popped into his head: a machine gun. Then a vicious and calculated silence, so profound it made his ears pop. In total darkness he reached out, blindly pawing the air, sobbing wildly as he made contact with nothing. The silence was abruptly punctured by the wail of sirens that nearly pierced his eardrums. He heard the babble of voices as the wail of the sirens continued.

A new scream arose. Not the children: this time, it was an adult. But not him. He tried to make contact with the voices, calling to them, pleading to be heard, fighting the thickening darkness that threatened to suffocate him. But he was ignored as if he didn’t exist. Pain and confusion filled his heart. And then a voice (his?) kept repeating one word over and over again: No, no, no, no...

Gregory perceived something unspeakable that lay hidden beneath his level of awareness. So incredibly heinous, so brutal. He always woke at this point, his face buried in a pillow that muffled his own screams.